Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Grigori Rozanov, Anya | Ilya Rozanov's Dog

Additional Tags:

Rivals to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Forbidden Love, Period-Typical Homophobia, Politics, Power Dynamics, Possessive Behavior, Dom/sub Undertones, Found Family, Domestic Fluff, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, The Author Regrets Nothing, Happy Ending

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-25 Completed: 2026-02-26 Words: 108,904 Chapters: 34/34

cold war

Summary

“I think you don’t hate me as much as you want to. I think you’re curious about me. I think-” Ilya leans in, voice dropping even lower. “I think you watch my highlights. Late at night, when no one is looking.”

Shane Hollander is bred for greatness: son of a future Prime Minister, Canada’s golden boy, first overall pick. Ilya Rozanov is Russia’s answer: the President’s son, cocky and brilliant, everything Shane is supposed to beat.

Their rivalry begins at seventeen with an overtime goal and a blown kiss. It evolves in hotel rooms and stolen hours between games they’re supposed to hate each other through. For seven years, they hide what they are while the world watches them compete, until one catastrophic hit forces Ilya to make an impossible choice in front of twenty thousand people.

What starts as Cold War propaganda becomes something neither of them can control. And when you’re in love with your rival, winning and losing stop meaning what they used to.

Notes

I think this fic might be the closest thing I have to a child. After way too many sleepless nights that I spent writing instead of resting, I’m proud that I can say “cold war” is fully completed (over 100k words), and updates will be posted every other day.

I truly poured by heart and soul into this, so I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it!

Chapter 1: the briefing

The December snow falls thick outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Hollander family’s home office, covering the manicured lawn in white. Shane sits in one of the leather chairs facing his father’s massive oak desk, his long legs stretched out in front of him, still gangly at seventeen. He’s wearing his Team Canada Under-18 hoodie, the one that’s already getting tight across his shoulders. Growth spurt number three, his mother says. 

His father stands by the window, hands clasped behind his back, watching the snow. David Hollander cuts an imposing figure even in casual Saturday clothes — dark slacks, a pressed shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Everything about him is controlled, measured. A man who’s built his political career on being unshakeable.

Shane’s mother sits on the edge of the desk, her tablet glowing in her hands. Yuna Hollander is smaller, sharper somehow, with dark eyes that miss nothing. She’s already in work mode despite it being barely nine in the morning.

“Shane, are you listening?” His mother asks.

“Yeah.” He sits up straighter. “Sorry. Just thinking about practice.”

“That’s exactly what we need to talk about,” his father says, turning from the window. “The International Prospect Cup starts in two weeks.”

“I know.” Shane grins. “I’m ready. Coach says I’m skating better than ever.”

“You are,” his mother agrees. “But being ready physically isn’t enough. You need to be prepared mentally. Strategically.” She taps her tablet. “Do you know who you’re up against?”

“Yeah, I mean the other top prospects. It’s the best seventeen and eighteen-year-olds from around the world.”

“Not just any prospects,” his father says, moving to sit behind the desk. “Your direct competition. The players who are going to determine where you get drafted next June.”

The weight of it settles on Shane’s chest the way it always does when they talk about the draft. First overall. That’s what everyone says he’s going to be. First pick, first overall, the next great Canadian hockey player. No pressure.

“Dad, I know-”

“Do you know who Ryan Kershaw is?” His mother interrupts.

“Yeah, of course. American forward. Fast as hell.”

“Language,” his father says mildly.

“Fast as heck,” Shane corrects, fighting an eye roll. “He’s good. Really good.”

His mother nods, scrolling on her tablet. “He’s been putting up exceptional numbers in the USHL. Very skilled, very intelligent on the ice. But he’s a winger, not a center. Not your direct competition for first overall.”

“Okay.”

“Aiden Brocker,” his father says. “Another Canadian center. Plays for Oshawa.”

“I know Aiden. We played together at summer camp when we were kids. He’s … he’s fine. Good, I mean. But not-” Shane stops himself.

“Not as good as you,” his mother finishes. “That’s right. Aiden’s projected to go in the first round, maybe top ten, but not first overall. The scouts all agree on that.”

Shane shifts in his chair. He doesn’t like talking about this stuff, ranking players like they’re horses at auction. But his parents have been doing this since he was twelve, since the moment scouts started showing up at his games with clipboards and serious faces.

“There’s really only one player who’s a legitimate threat to you going first overall,” his father says.

Something in his tone makes Shane look up sharply. His father’s expression has hardened, the same look he gets when he’s talking about political opponents on TV.

“Who?”

His mother turns the tablet around. On the screen is a photo of a guy their age — sharp cheekbones, light brown hair, light eyes that look almost green in the lighting. He’s wearing a Russian national team jersey, and he’s smiling, but there’s something intense about his expression. Something that makes Shane’s stomach twist.

“Ilya Rozanov,” his mother says.

The name sounds foreign in her mouth, the syllables careful and precise. Ee-lyah Roh-zah-nov.

“Russian?” Shane asks.

“Yes.” His father leans forward, elbows on the desk. “Russian center. Seventeen years old, born in Moscow. He’s been training in the Red Army academy system since he was six years old.”

“Red Army,” Shane repeats. “Like, the actual army?”

“It’s what they call their elite hockey development program,” his mother explains. “The best facilities, the best coaches, the best training money can buy. It produces world-class players.”

“Okay, so he’s good. But lots of Russian players are good.”

“Ilya Rozanov isn’t just good,” his father says, and there’s an edge to his voice now. “He’s exceptional. He’s putting up numbers that rival anything you’ve done. Some scouts think he’s the best prospect to come out of Russia in twenty years.”

Shane feels his jaw tighten. “Some scouts are wrong.”

“Maybe,” his mother says. “But you need to understand who you’re dealing with. This isn’t just about hockey, Shane. This is about politics. This is about what you represent versus what he represents.”

“I don’t understand.”

His parents exchange a look. It’s the kind of look they share before telling him something they think he won’t like, something they’ve already decided together.

“Ilya Rozanov,” his father says slowly, “is the son of Grigori Rozanov.”

The name hangs in the air. Shane knows it, of course he does. Everyone knows it.

“The President of Russia,” he says.

“Not just the President,” his mother says. “One of the most powerful men in the world. A dictator, essentially, though they don’t call it that. He’s been in power for years, and he’s not going anywhere.”

Shane looks back at the photo on the tablet. The smiling teenager suddenly seems different, more complicated. “So this guy’s dad is basically Russian Kim Jong Un.”

“His father,” David says, “is a man who has journalists killed. Who imprisons political opponents. Who’s been accused of war crimes. Who wants to rebuild the Soviet empire and sees the West as his enemy.”

“Okay, but what does that have to do with hockey?”

“Everything,” his mother says firmly. “Shane, you need to understand this. Ilya Rozanov isn’t just a hockey player. He’s a propaganda tool. He’s the golden son of Mother Russia, the perfect example of Russian superiority. They’ve been grooming him since birth to be the face of their regime.”

“He’s beloved there,” his father adds. “Absolutely beloved. They see him as the future — not just of Russian hockey, but of Russia itself. His father is grooming him to eventually take over politically.”

Shane blinks. “He’s seventeen.”

“So are you,” his mother says. “And you’re the son of a Member of Parliament who will very likely become Prime Minister one day.” She gestures between Shane and the photo. “This is bigger than hockey. When you face Ilya Rozanov on the ice, it’s Canada versus Russia. Democracy versus dictatorship. Everything we stand for versus everything they stand for.”

The room feels suddenly smaller. Shane looks at the photo again, at the smiling face of someone who’s supposed to be his enemy.

“I don’t-” he starts. “I mean, it’s just hockey, right? We’re just kids playing hockey.”

“No,” his father says, and his voice is harder than Shane’s ever heard it. “It’s never just hockey. Not at this level. Not for people like you and Ilya Rozanov. Every game you play against him will be watched by millions. Every time you’re on the ice together, it’s a statement. The free world versus tyranny.”

“Your father’s right,” his mother says, softer now. She reaches out and touches Shane’s hand. “I know this is a lot. I know it seems unfair. But this is the reality of your position. You’re not just Shane Hollander, talented hockey player. You’re Shane Hollander, son of David and Yuna Hollander. You represent something larger than yourself.”

Shane pulls his hand away, standing abruptly. He walks to the window, looking out at the snow. “What if I don’t want to represent anything? What if I just want to play hockey?”

“Then you picked the wrong career,” his father says, not unkindly. “And the wrong family.”

It’s true. Shane knows it’s true. He’s known it his whole life, really. His father’s political career has always been part of their identity as a family. The cameras, the reporters, the careful management of their public image. Shane’s been trained since childhood to smile for photos, to say the right things, to be the perfect son of the perfect family.

“Tell me about him,” Shane says quietly, still facing the window. “About Rozanov. As a player.”

He hears his mother’s tablet click. “He’s fast. Not quite as fast as you, but close. He has exceptional hands — his stickhandling is probably better than yours, if we’re being honest.”

Shane turns. “Really?”

“Really,” his father confirms. “But you’re stronger. More physical. Better in the defensive zone.”

“He scores,” his mother continues. “A lot. Forty-nine goals in forty-three games last season in the junior league over there. Twenty-six assists.”

“That’s …” Shane does the math. “That’s insane.”

“Yes.” His mother sets the tablet down. “He’s insane. And more than that, he’s cocky. Arrogant. The way he plays is so distinctly Russian. All flash and show. He celebrates every goal like he’s won the Stanley Cup. He talks trash on the ice. He wants everyone to know he’s the best.”

“Sounds like a dick,” Shane mutters.

His father doesn’t correct his language this time. “He’s your rival, Shane. Your greatest rival. For the next fifteen, twenty years — however long you both play — he’s the measuring stick. Everything you do will be compared to what he does.”

“And right now,” his mother says, “the comparison is close. Too close. Some scouts have you ranked first overall. Some have him. It’s going to come down to performance. Who shows up. Who proves they’re the best.”

Shane’s hands curl into fists at his sides. He feels something hot and competitive burning in his chest, the same feeling he gets in the last minute of a close game.

“I’m better,” he says.

“Then prove it,” his father says. “At the Prospect Cup. On the ice. When you’re playing against him.”

“Is he going to be there? At the Prospect Cup?”

“Yes,” his mother confirms. “Russia’s bringing their best. Rozanov will be their first-line center, probably their captain. You’ll face him directly. Center against center.”

The thought sends a thrill through Shane, part excitement, part something darker. He looks at the photo again, really studies it this time. The confident smile, the hazel eyes, the way he holds himself like he owns the world.

“What else?” Shane asks.

His mother picks up the tablet again. “He was born in Moscow, June 1991. Only child. His mother died when he was young. A car accident, officially, though there are rumors-”

“What kind of rumors?”

His parents exchange another look. “The kind that get people killed for repeating,” his father says. “The point is, he was raised primarily by his father and the state. Everything in his life has been controlled, managed, designed to make him into the perfect Russian icon.”

“He speaks English,” his mother adds. “Fluently. Also French and German. He’s been taking language lessons since childhood — they knew he’d play in the NHL eventually, so they prepared him for it.”

“Sounds like a robot,” Shane says.

“He’s not a robot,” his father says. “From what we understand, he’s charming. Charismatic. People love him. He knows how to work a room, how to say the right things. Just like you.”

The comparison makes Shane uncomfortable. “I’m nothing like him.”

“You’re exactly like him,” his mother says gently. “That’s what makes this so important. You’re both seventeen-year-old centers who’ve been groomed for greatness your whole lives. You’re both sons of powerful men. You’re both carrying the hopes of your countries on your shoulders. The difference is what you represent. He represents oppression, corruption, everything that’s wrong with authoritarian regimes. You represent freedom, democracy, the values that make Canada and the West great.”

Shane turns back to the window. The snow is falling harder now, blanketing everything. He thinks about summer hockey camps, about playing with Aiden Brocker and the other Canadian kids. How simple it was then. How fun.

“I’m supposed to hate him,” he says. “That’s what you want, right? You want me to hate him before I even meet him.”

Silence. Then his father speaks. “I want you to understand what’s at stake. I want you to be prepared. When you step on the ice against Ilya Rozanov, I want you to know that you’re not just playing for yourself. You’re playing for everyone who’s counting on you.”

“No pressure,” Shane says, trying for a joke. It falls flat.

His mother stands, walks over to him. She’s small enough that she has to look up to meet his eyes, but somehow she still seems larger than life. “You’re going to be great,” she says. “You’re going to go first overall. You’re going to have an incredible career. But it starts at the Prospect Cup. It starts with beating Ilya Rozanov.”

“What if I don’t?” The question slips out before Shane can stop it. “What if he’s better than me?”

“He’s not,” his father says firmly. “You’re a Hollander. We don’t lose to people like the Rozanovs.”

Shane wants to ask what that means — people like the Rozanovs. But he already knows. He’s known since he was old enough to understand what his father did, why there were always reporters outside their house, why they had to be so careful about everything they said and did.

“Can I see more?” He asks, nodding at the tablet. “Videos, stats, whatever you have.”

His mother smiles. “That’s my boy.” She pulls up a video, and suddenly the screen is filled with Rozanov on ice, skating with a fluid grace that makes Shane’s chest tighten. He’s wearing number eighty-one, and he moves like water, like the puck is part of his body.

Shane watches as Rozanov dekes around two defenders, cuts to the center, and roofs a shot top corner. The celebration that follows is exuberant — arms spread wide, head thrown back, skating in circles while his teammates mob him.

“See?” His mother says. “Cocky. Arrogant. That’s who you’re up against.”

But Shane barely hears her. He’s watching the way Rozanov moves, the way he reads the ice. It’s different from how Shane plays — more creative maybe, more unpredictable. But there’s something undeniably brilliant about it.

The video cuts to another goal, then another. Each one is spectacular in its own way. Rozanov between the legs, Rozanov on a breakaway, Rozanov threading a pass through three defenders for an assist.

“He’s good,” Shane admits.

“Yes,” his father says. “But you’re better. You have to be better.”

They watch more videos. His parents provide commentary, pointing out flaws in Rozanov’s game — he’s sometimes too fancy, too focused on making the pretty play instead of the smart one. He takes risks that don’t always pay off. He can be undisciplined, taking bad penalties when he’s frustrated.

“He’s emotional,” his mother says. “That’s his weakness. When things aren’t going his way, he gets in his head. That’s when you beat him — get under his skin, throw him off his game.”

Shane nods, filing the information away. He’s always been good at reading opponents, finding their weaknesses and exploiting them. If Rozanov is emotional, that’s something Shane can use.

They spend another hour going over the other Russian players, the team dynamics, strategies for the Prospect Cup. But Shane’s mind keeps drifting back to Rozanov. To that confident smile in the photo, to the fluid skating in the videos, to the celebrations that are so different from how Shane was taught to act.

“One more thing,” his father says as they’re wrapping up. “You can’t be friendly with him.”

Shane looks up. “What?”

“Ilya Rozanov,” his father says. “I know how it goes at these tournaments — players from different countries hang out together, become friends. You can’t do that with him. You need to keep your distance. Be professional, be respectful, but don’t be friendly. Don’t give him any ammunition.”

“Ammunition for what?”

“For making you look weak,” his mother says. “For making it seem like you’re sympathetic to what he represents. The media will be watching everything you do at this tournament. If they see you being buddy-buddy with the son of a Russian dictator, it will be all over the news. It will reflect poorly on your father, on our family, on Canada.”

“So I’m just supposed to ignore him?”

“No,” his father says. “Beat him. On the ice, where it matters. Show him and everyone else that Canada produces better players than Russia. That our system, our values, produce better results than theirs.”

Shane feels the weight of it settling over him like a heavy blanket. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, I understand.”

His mother touches his cheek. “I know this is hard. I know it seems like a lot for one tournament. But this is your life now, sweetheart. This is what it means to be who you are.”

After they dismiss him, Shane goes up to his room. He pulls up YouTube on his laptop and searches for “Ilya Rozanov highlights.” There are dozens of videos, some with millions of views. He clicks on the most recent one.

The video is set to Russian rock music, and it shows Rozanov doing impossible things with the puck. But what strikes Shane most is the joy on his face. Every goal, every assist, every good play — Rozanov looks like he’s having the time of his life. Like hockey is the most fun thing in the world.

Shane thinks about his own highlight videos, the ones his parents’ media team puts together. He looks serious in them, focused. Intense. Like hockey is a job, not a game.

He watches Rozanov score from an impossible angle, then turn to the crowd and spread his arms wide, soaking in their adoration. The Russian announcers are screaming his name, and his teammates are crushing him against the boards in celebration.

Shane closes the laptop.

He stands and looks at himself in the mirror above his dresser. He sees his father’s strong jawline, his mother’s dark eyes. He sees the Hollander family genetics written all over him — moderately tall for anyone who’s not a hockey player, broad-shouldered, handsome in that All-American way. Except he’s Canadian, and that’s different, his parents always remind him. Canadians are polite, humble, respectful. Canadians don’t showboat.

He thinks about his father’s words. People like the Rozanovs. Like they’re different somehow, like they’re less than.

But in those videos, Rozanov didn’t look less than anything. He looked free.

Shane shakes his head, dispelling the thought. His parents are right. They have to be right. Rozanov is the enemy, the rival, the measuring stick. The guy standing between Shane and everything he’s worked for his entire life.

First overall. That’s what matters. Proving he’s the best.

Proving he’s better than Ilya Rozanov.

The next two weeks pass in a blur of practices and training sessions. Shane’s coach at Team Canada knows about Rozanov too, of course. Everyone knows about Rozanov.

“He’s going to try to embarrass you,” Coach Morrow says during a video session. “He’s going to try to make you look slow, make you look stupid. Don’t take the bait. Play your game. Strong, smart, Canadian hockey. That’s how you beat the Russians.”

The other players on the team echo the sentiment. Aiden Brocker, who’s made the roster as a second-line center, pulls Shane aside after practice one day.

“I’ve heard about this Rozanov guy,” Aiden says. They’re in the locker room, most of the other players already gone. “Everyone’s saying he’s incredible.”

“He’s good,” Shane admits.

“You nervous?”

Shane considers lying, but this is Hunter. They’ve known each other since they were kids. “Yeah,” he admits. “A little.”

Aiden grins. “Good. Means you’re taking it seriously.” He claps Shane on the shoulder. “But you’re going to destroy him, man. You’re the best player I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot of players.”

“Thanks,” Shane says, but the words feel hollow.

That night, he can’t sleep. He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Rozanov. Wondering what he’s doing right now. If he’s nervous too. If he feels the weight of expectations the same way Shane does.

Probably not. From the videos, Rozanov seems fearless. Cocky, like his parents said. Arrogant.

Shane tries to cultivate anger, tries to make himself hate this person he’s never met. But all he feels is a gnawing anxiety in his stomach and a strange curiosity he can’t quite name.

The day before they leave for the tournament, Shane’s father takes him to lunch. Just the two of them, which is rare. They go to a quiet restaurant downtown, the kind of place where politicians have private conversations.

“I’m proud of you,” his father says over steak. “You’ve worked incredibly hard for this.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“And I want you to know — whatever happens at this tournament, you’re still my son. I’m still proud of you.”

It should be comforting, but something about the way he says it makes Shane’s chest tighten. “You think I’m going to lose.”

“No,” his father says firmly. “I think you’re going to win. But I need you to understand that this is bigger than winning or losing one tournament. This is about establishing dominance. Establishing that you’re the better player, the better person. Rozanov is going to have an entire country behind him. You need to have Canada behind you.”

“No pressure,” Shane says again, and this time his father cracks a small smile.

“You can handle pressure. You’ve been handling it your whole life.”

Shane cuts into his steak. It’s perfectly cooked, but he can barely taste it. “What if we actually meet? Like, off the ice? What do I do?”

His father considers this. “Be polite. Shake his hand if you have to. But don’t engage beyond that. Don’t give him anything he can use against you.”

“Use against me how?”

“Any way,” his father says. “These people … they’re very good at manipulation. At propaganda. If Rozanov can make himself look like the gracious competitor and you like the ugly Canadian, that’s a win for them. So be careful. Be smart.”

Shane nods, but inside he feels something rebellious stirring. The way his father talks about “these people” makes him uncomfortable, even though he can’t quite articulate why.

That night, his mother comes to his room to help him pack. She folds his clothes with precise movements, tucking everything neatly into his Team Canada duffel bag.

“I put extra layers in,” she says. “It’s going to be cold.”

“Mom, I’ll be fine.”

“I know.” She sits on his bed, and suddenly she looks tired. Older than her forty-three years. “I know you’ll be fine. You’re always fine.”

Shane sits next to her. “Are you okay?”

“I’m worried about you,” she admits. “This is so much pressure for someone your age. Sometimes I wonder if we’ve done the right thing, pushing you so hard.”

It’s the most doubt Shane’s ever heard from her. “You haven’t pushed me,” he says. “This is what I want.”

“Is it?” She looks at him with those dark, knowing eyes. “Or is it what we’ve taught you to want?”

The question hangs between them. Shane doesn’t have an answer.

“I do want this,” he finally says. “I want to be great. I want to make you and Dad proud.”

“You already make us proud,” she says softly. She touches his face, the way she used to when he was little. “Just remember at the end of the day, you’re my son first. Hockey player second. Don’t lose yourself in all of this.”

But Shane’s already lost, has been lost for years. He just doesn’t know it yet.

The morning they leave for the tournament, his father pulls him aside one last time. They’re in the garage, Shane’s bags already loaded in the car.

“One last thing,” his father says. “About Rozanov.”

“Dad, I know-”

“No, listen.” His father’s expression is grave. “I’ve heard things. About his father, about the regime. The boy himself might seem charming, might seem harmless. But he’s not. He’s been raised in that system, indoctrinated in that ideology. He might play hockey like it’s fun and games, but make no mistake — he knows exactly what he represents. He knows the power his father has. And he’ll use it if he needs to.”

“Use it how?”

“However he can,” his father says. “These people don’t play fair, Shane. They don’t have the same moral code we do. So you need to be better than him. Not just on the ice. In every way.”

Shane nods, feeling the familiar weight settle back over him. “I will be.”

“Good.” His father claps him on the shoulder. “Now go show the world what a Hollander can do.”

On the drive to the airport, Shane looks out the window at the passing city. Ottawa in December, gray and cold. He thinks about Rozanov in Moscow, probably making a similar journey to a similar airport.

He thinks about his mother’s question. Is it what you want, or is it what we’ve taught you to want?

He thinks about his father’s warnings. These people don’t play fair.

Mostly, he thinks about the videos he’s watched dozens of times now. Rozanov skating with that fluid grace, celebrating with that uninhibited joy, playing hockey like it’s the greatest privilege in the world.

Shane wants to hate him. His parents want him to hate him. Canada wants him to hate him.

But all Shane feels is a pull toward something he can’t name, a curiosity about the boy in the videos who seems so different from everything Shane has been taught to be.

It terrifies him.

At the airport, his mother hugs him tight. “Make us proud,” she whispers.

“I will,” Shane promises.

“Beat Rozanov,” his father says.

“I will,” Shane says again.

And he means it. He has to mean it. Because what else is there?

As the plane takes off, Shane looks out at the clouds and thinks In two days, I’m going to meet my enemy.

The thought should make him angry, should make him determined.

Instead, it just makes him feel incredibly, impossibly alone.

Chapter 2: the golden son

Ilya Rozanov wakes to the sound of his alarm at five in the morning, the darkness outside his window absolute. Moscow in December is dark until nearly nine, but he’s used to it. He’s been waking up at five for hockey practice since he was six years old.

He stretches in bed, feeling the pleasant ache in his muscles from yesterday’s training. His room is large but spartan — a queen bed, a desk covered in hockey magazines and textbooks, walls decorated with posters of Pavel Bure and Alexander Ovechkin. The only signs of luxury are the quality of the furniture and the view from his window: the Kremlin, lit up against the dark sky, its red stars glowing.

His phone buzzes with messages. Forty-three unread texts, and it’s only five in the morning.

Good luck today, Ilyusha!

Make Russia proud!

You are our greatest hope!

Destroy the Canadians!

He scrolls through them, grinning. Some are from friends, some from extended family, some from people he’s never met but who somehow have his number. Everyone wants a piece of him today.

Today. The day he leaves for the International Prospect Cup.

His door opens without a knock — it never locks, security won’t allow it — and Igor, one of his father’s aides, sticks his head in. “You’re awake. Good. Your father wants to see you before breakfast.”

Ilya sits up. “Now?”

“Now.”

He pulls on joggers and a hoodie and follows Igor through the halls of the residential section of the Kremlin. Most people don’t know the President actually lives here, but the Rozanovs do. Have for years. It’s easier this way, his father says. Safer.

Safer from what, Ilya stopped asking years ago.

His father’s office is already bright with lamplight. Grigori Rozanov sits behind his massive desk, reading something on his tablet. He looks up when Ilya enters, and his severe face softens slightly.

“Ilya. Sit.”

Ilya sits in one of the chairs facing the desk. His father is not a tall man, but he commands space in a way that makes size irrelevant. Everything about him is controlled, calculated. Even his smiles seem planned three moves ahead.

“Big day,” his father says.

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you ready?”

“I’m always ready.”

His father’s lips quirk. “Your confidence is good. But remember, confidence without discipline is just arrogance.”

“I’m disciplined,” Ilya says. “Coach Zhenkin says I’m the most disciplined player he’s ever trained.”

“Coach Zhenkin is paid to say nice things to you.” His father sets down the tablet. “I, however, am not. So I will tell you the truth. This tournament matters, Ilya. It matters more than any game you’ve ever played.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” His father leans forward. “This is not just about hockey. This is about Russia. When you step on that ice, you represent one hundred and forty million people. You represent thousands of years of history. You represent everything we are and everything we aspire to be.”

Ilya has heard versions of this speech his whole life, but it never gets old. It makes him sit straighter, makes his chest swell with pride. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t.” His father stands, walks around the desk. He puts a hand on Ilya’s shoulder. “You are my son. You are Russia’s son. You were born for this moment.”

“What about the Canadian?” Ilya asks. “Hollander. They say he’s good.”

His father’s expression darkens. “Shane Hollander is the son of a politician who would see Russia destroyed. His father votes for every sanction, every restriction against us. He speaks in parliament about how we are a threat to democracy, to freedom, to the Western way of life.” He squeezes Ilya’s shoulder. “When you beat Shane Hollander, you do not just beat a hockey player. You beat everything he represents.”

“Then I’ll beat him,” Ilya says simply. “I’ll beat him so badly, he’ll wish he never picked up a stick.”

His father laughs, a rare sound. “That’s my boy.” He releases Ilya’s shoulder and returns to his desk. “Now go. Breakfast, then the cathedral. You have a long day ahead.”

Breakfast is in the formal dining room, though it’s just Ilya and his grandmother. Babushka Lyudmila is eighty-three and tiny, but she rules the household staff with an iron fist. She’s already seated when Ilya arrives, tea steaming in front of her.

“Ilyusha!” She opens her arms and he bends to kiss both her cheeks. “My champion!”

“I haven’t won anything yet, Babushka.”

“Pfft.” She waves a dismissive hand. “You will. You always do. Sit, eat. You’re too skinny.”

He’s not skinny — he’s six feet and three inches tall and one hundred and eighty-five pounds of muscle — but he sits obediently as staff bring out plates of blini with caviar, smoked fish, boiled eggs, dark bread with butter. His grandmother watches him eat with satisfaction.

“Your mother would be so proud,” she says softly.

Ilya’s chest tightens. He barely remembers his mother — she died when he was four. Car accident, they said. But he remembers her smile, the way she smelled like vanilla, how she called him her little star.

“I hope so,” he says.

“I know so.” Babushka reaches across the table and pats his hand. “She always knew you were special. Even when you were a baby, she would say, ‘Lyuda, this one is going to change the world.’”

“I’m just playing hockey, Babushka.”

“Just hockey.” She laughs. “Nothing is ever just hockey with you, Ilyusha. Everything you do matters. The whole world is watching.”

After breakfast, he showers and dresses in the outfit that’s been laid out for him — a sharp black suit, a burgundy tie, polished shoes. He looks at himself in the mirror and barely recognizes the young man staring back. He looks older than seventeen. He looks like someone important.

Igor knocks at seven-thirty. “Car’s ready. Cathedral in thirty minutes.”

The drive through Moscow is surreal. Even at this early hour, there are people lining the streets. Someone must have leaked his route, because they’re holding signs and Russian flags, chanting his name as the motorcade passes.

“I-LYA! I-LYA! I-LYA!”

He waves from the car window, grinning. This is the part he loves — the connection with people, the energy, the pure joy on their faces. They believe in him. They think he can do anything.

He wants to prove them right.

The Cathedral of Christ the Saviour rises above them, golden domes gleaming even in the weak winter light. It’s the tallest Orthodox church in the world, rebuilt after Stalin tore down the original. Ilya has been here dozens of times for state functions, but today feels different. Special.

Inside, the cathedral is packed. Ilya spots government ministers, Olympic athletes, celebrities, journalists — everyone who’s anyone in Moscow. They part for him as he walks down the aisle, and he feels their eyes on him, their hopes and expectations like a physical weight.

His father is already seated in the front row, along with several other high-ranking officials. He nods as Ilya passes but doesn’t smile. Not here. Not in public.

Patriarch Kirill stands at the altar in his elaborate vestments, white beard flowing over his chest. He’s been the head of the Russian Orthodox Church for years, a close ally of Ilya’s father. When he sees Ilya, his face breaks into a warm smile.

“Come, child,” he says in his deep, resonant voice.

Ilya approaches the altar and kneels. The marble is cold even through his suit pants. The Patriarch places both hands on Ilya’s head.

“We are gathered here today,” the Patriarch begins, his voice carrying through the cathedral, “to ask God’s blessing on this young man, Ilya Grigorievich Rozanov, as he goes forth to represent our great nation.”

The service lasts forty-five minutes. Prayers in Old Church Slavonic that Ilya half-understands, incense thick in the air, the congregation responding in unison. When it’s time for Ilya to speak, he stands and faces the crowd.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice steady despite his nerves. “Thank you for your prayers, your support, your belief in me. I promise you I will make Russia proud. I will show the world what we are capable of. I will bring glory to our nation and honor to our people.”

The applause is thunderous. People are standing, cheering, some crying. His grandmother in the front row dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief.

The Patriarch embraces him, kisses both his cheeks. “Go with God, my son. And remember — you do not skate alone. All of Russia skates with you.”

After the service, there’s a brief reception in the cathedral’s hall. Ilya shakes hands with what feels like hundreds of people. Everyone wants to touch him, to wish him luck, to tell him they’ll be watching.

“You’re going to crush those Canadians,” says General Povorovsky, a bear of a man who runs the military academy where Ilya sometimes trains.

“I hope so, sir.”

“I know so. You’re a Russian warrior. You have the heart of a champion.”

A famous actress kisses his cheek and tells him he’s going to be a star. A billionaire oligarch presses an envelope into his hand — “A little something for good luck” — that Ilya immediately passes to Igor. He’s not allowed to accept gifts directly, everything has to be screened.

Finally, mercifully, they leave. But instead of heading to the airport, the motorcade takes a different route.

“Where are we going?” Ilya asks Igor.

“The Patriarch requested a procession,” Igor says, scrolling through his phone. “Your father agreed. The people want to see you.”

“A procession? Igor, we’re going to be late-”

“We’re not going to be late. Your father has arranged everything.”

The motorcade stops at Lubyanka Square, and when Ilya steps out of the car, the noise hits him like a physical force.

Thousands of people. Maybe tens of thousands. They line both sides of Tverskaya Street as far as he can see, held back by barriers and security forces. Russian flags wave everywhere, and signs bearing his name and number dot the crowd.

“ILYA! ILYA! ILYA!”

His father appears beside him, along with a full security detail. “Wave,” his father says quietly. “Smile. Give them what they came for.”

Ilya waves, and the crowd screams louder. He starts walking down the street, the motorcade crawling beside him at walking pace. People are crying, reaching out to touch him. Security keeps them back, but just barely.

A little girl, maybe seven years old, breaks through the barriers. Security moves to intercept her, but Ilya holds up a hand.

“It’s okay,” he says. He kneels down to the girl’s level. “Hi there.”

She’s clutching a small stuffed bear wearing a hockey jersey. Her eyes are huge, shining with tears. “I made this for you,” she whispers.

“For me?” Ilya takes the bear carefully. “This is amazing. Thank you so much.”

“Will you win?” She asks.

“I’m going to try my hardest.”

“My papa says you’re the best player in the world.”

Ilya grins. “Your papa is very smart.” He stands, still holding the bear. “What’s your name?”

“Yana.”

“Well, Yana, I’m going to keep this bear with me. And every time I play, I’ll think of you and all the people here cheering for me. Okay?”

She nods, speechless. Her mother is crying behind the barrier, mouthing “thank you” over and over.

The procession continues. Old women cross themselves as he passes. Young men chant his name. Teenagers hold up phones, recording every second. Ilya waves and smiles and waves some more, and his cheeks start to hurt but he doesn’t stop.

“This is insane,” he mutters to Igor at one point.

“This is Russia,” Igor corrects. “They love you.”

“They love what I represent.”

“Same thing.”

Is it? Ilya isn’t sure anymore. Sometimes he feels like there’s Ilya Rozanov the person — the kid who likes bad action movies and terrible jokes and playing video games with his friends — and then there’s Ilya Rozanov the symbol. The golden son. The future of Russia.

He’s not sure which one is real anymore.

They finally reach the end of the route, where another car is waiting. His father pulls him aside before he gets in.

“You did well,” his father says. “The people are energized. You’ve given them hope.”

“Hope for what? It’s just a hockey tournament.”

His father’s expression hardens. “It is never just hockey. How many times must I tell you this? When you succeed, Russia succeeds. When you beat the Americans, the Canadians, the Europeans — you prove our system is superior. You prove our way of life produces better results than theirs.”

“Yes, sir.”

His father’s face softens again. “I am proud of you, son. Your mother would be proud.”

It’s the second time someone’s mentioned his mother today, and Ilya feels that familiar ache. “I wish she could see this.”

“She can,” his father says. “From heaven, she watches over you. I’m sure of it.”

The drive to Vnukovo Airport takes another hour through Moscow traffic. Ilya spends most of it on his phone, texting with his teammates who are meeting him at the airport.

Dude, did you see the crowds? texts Sergei, his best friend and linemate on the national team. It was on TV. You looked like a fucking tsar.

Language, Ilya texts back, grinning. But yeah, it was crazy.

My mom cried watching you with that little girl. She says you’re going to make a great president someday.

I’m seventeen.

So? You’re already more popular than half the government.

Ilya doesn’t respond to that. The truth is, he doesn’t want to think about politics, about his father’s plans for his future. Right now, he just wants to play hockey.

Vnukovo is normally a civilian airport, but today it’s been cleared for their departure. The team plane — a private charter arranged by the Russian Hockey Federation — sits on the tarmac, gleaming white with the Russian flag painted on its tail.

The rest of the team is already there, along with coaches, staff, and a small army of journalists. When Ilya arrives, his teammates mob him.

“There he is!” Sergei shouts. “The golden boy!”

“Did they crown you yet?” Jokes Andrei, their goalie. “Should we bow?”

“Fuck off,” Ilya says, laughing, pulling them both into a hug. “I hate all of this ceremonial bullshit. Can we just get on the plane and play hockey?”

“Not yet,” says Coach Zhenkin, approaching with his clipboard. “Photos first. The media wants shots of the team together.”

They line up on the tarmac, twenty young men in matching Russia Hockey tracksuits, and smile for what feels like a hundred cameras. Ilya is positioned in the center of the front row, because of course he is. The captain. The star. The face of Russian hockey.

“Ilya!” Shouts one of the journalists. “How does it feel to have the prayers of the Patriarch?”

“It’s an honor,” Ilya calls back. “I’m grateful for everyone’s support.”

“Are you nervous about facing Shane Hollander?”

“Should I be?” Ilya grins, cocky. “I’ve watched his highlights. He’s good, but so am I.”

“Some scouts have him ranked ahead of you for the draft!”

“Then I guess I’ll have to change their minds.” He winks, and the journalists laugh.

Coach Zhenkin finally herds them onto the plane. It’s luxurious inside — leather seats, plenty of legroom, a full galley. The team spreads out, the younger players gravitating toward the back while the older ones, Ilya and Sergei included, take seats near the front.

“Ten hours to Regina,” Sergei says, buckling in. “What do you want to do? Cards? Movies? Sleep?”

“Sleep,” Ilya says. “I’ve been up since five.”

But he doesn’t sleep. He pulls out his tablet and opens the scouting reports Coach Zhenkin sent him last week. There are files on all the top prospects they’ll face — the Americans, the Canadians, the Swedes, the Finns. But there’s one file that’s significantly larger than the others.

Shane Hollander.

Ilya opens it and starts reading. Born May 1991 in Toronto. Five foot ten, one hundred seventy pounds. Center. Plays for the Mississauga St. Michael’s Majors in the OHL. Seventy-three points in forty-five games this season. Exceptional skater, strong on faceoffs, excellent defensive awareness. Projected first overall pick in the 2009 NHL Entry Draft.

There are dozens of video clips. Ilya watches them all. Hollander skating the length of the ice and scoring. Hollander winning a faceoff and immediately transitioning to offense. Hollander throwing a hit that sends a defender into the boards.

He’s good. Really good. Strong, fast, smart. But there’s something different about the way he plays compared to Ilya. Hollander is efficient, economical. Every movement has a purpose. There’s no flash, no creativity, no joy.

He plays hockey like it’s a job.

“Watching the Canadian?” Sergei asks, leaning over.

“Yeah.”

“He’s boring.”

Ilya laughs. “He’s effective.”

“Same thing.” Sergei grabs a handful of chips from his bag. “You’re going to destroy him, you know that, right?”

“Maybe.”

“Not maybe. Definitely. You’re the best player in this draft class. Everyone knows it.”

“Hollander might disagree.”

“Who cares what he thinks?” Sergei shrugs. “He’s just some Canadian pretty boy who’s been handed everything because his daddy’s a politician. You’ve worked for everything you have.”

Have I? Ilya wonders. Or was it handed to me because of who my father is?

He closes the tablet. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Good idea. You need to be fresh so you can make Hollander cry on the ice.”

Ilya does sleep, eventually. He dreams of skating, of crowds chanting his name, of scoring the most important goal of his life while his mother watches from somewhere he can’t see.

He wakes when they’re descending into Regina. Sergei is snoring beside him, and most of the team is asleep. Coach Zhenkin is up front, talking quietly on his phone in rapid Russian.

Ilya looks out the window at Saskatchewan  below — snow-covered forests and frozen lakes, towns lit up against the dark afternoon. It’s barely past four in the afternoon, but the sun is already setting this far north.

His phone buzzes with a text from his father: Land safely. Make us proud. Remember what you represent.

As if Ilya could forget.

Regina International Airport is chaos. Even though they’ve arrived in a private terminal, there are journalists everywhere. Canadian TV, Russian media that followed them, even some European outlets. Cameras flash as they disembark.

“Ilya! Over here!”

“Ilya, how are you feeling?”

“Are you ready to face the Canadians?”

He waves but doesn’t stop for interviews. Coach Zhenkin has forbidden it until after their first game. “Let your play speak for you,” he said.

The team buses are waiting, and they drive to the hotel in convoy. Regina is beautiful in the snow, all clean lines and contrasting architecture. But Ilya barely sees it. He’s thinking about tomorrow, about the opening ceremonies, about when he’ll finally meet Shane Hollander.

His enemy. His rival. The only thing standing between him and everything he wants.

At the hotel, they check in efficiently. Ilya’s room is on the tenth floor, overlooking the city. He unpacks quickly — toiletries in the bathroom, clothes in the drawers, hockey gear still in his bag for now. He sets the stuffed bear from little Yana on the nightstand.

There’s a knock at his door. Sergei, of course.

“Team meeting in twenty minutes. Conference room. Mandatory.”

“I know, I got the text.”

Sergei lingers in the doorway. “You okay? You’ve been quiet since Moscow.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re nervous. About Hollander.”

“I’m not nervous,” Ilya says, more sharply than he intends. “I just … I want to win. That’s all.”

“We’re going to win.” Sergei grins. “Because we’re Russian, and we’re fucking better than everyone else here.”

Ilya wishes he had Sergei’s certainty. His confidence. But all he feels is pressure, crushing and constant, the weight of a hundred and forty million people expecting him to be perfect.

The team meeting is standard — Coach Zhenkin going over the tournament format, the schedule, expectations and rules. No going out at night, no alcohol, no fraternizing with other teams beyond basic politeness.

“Remember,” Coach says, his expression stern. “You are not just players. You are ambassadors for Russia. Everything you do reflects on our country. I expect you to behave accordingly.”

After the meeting, there’s dinner in the hotel restaurant — the entire Russian delegation, including staff and media. Ilya sits with his teammates, eating pasta and trying to ignore the stares from other diners.

“Look,” Alexei says quietly, nodding toward the entrance. “Canadians.”

Ilya looks up. A group of young men in red and white Team Canada tracksuits are being led to a table across the restaurant. He scans their faces, trying to match them to the scouting reports in his head.

And then he sees him.

Shane Hollander is shorter than Ilya expected, broader across the shoulders. Dark hair, strong features, an expression that’s polite but guarded. He’s laughing at something one of his teammates said, and the smile transforms his face from handsome to something almost beautiful.

Ilya’s heart does something weird in his chest. Skips, maybe. Stutters.

“That’s him,” Sergei hisses. “That’s Hollander.”

“I know.”

“He looks like an asshole.”

“He looks fine,” Ilya says, unable to look away.

Hollander must feel eyes on him because he looks up, looks right at Ilya. For a moment, they just stare at each other across the restaurant. Ilya sees recognition dawn on Hollander’s face — he knows who Ilya is, too.

Neither of them smiles.

Neither looks away.

It’s Hollander who breaks the eye contact first, turning back to his teammates. But Ilya can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore.

Good, Ilya thinks. Be nervous. Be afraid. You should be.

But underneath the competitive fire, there’s something else. Curiosity. Hollander looks nothing like what Ilya expected. He expected someone cold, arrogant, typically Western. But Hollander just looks … young. Uncertain. Human.

“Stop staring,” Sergei says. “You’re making it weird.”

“I’m not staring.”

“You’re definitely staring.”

Ilya forces himself to look away, to focus on his food. But he can feel Hollander’s presence across the room like a magnetic pull.

This is it. This is what everything has been building toward. Tomorrow, the tournament starts. Tomorrow, he’ll step onto the ice and prove to everyone — to Russia, to his father, to himself — that he’s the best.

That he’s better than Shane Hollander.

That night, lying in bed, Ilya texts his father: We’re here. Settled in. Ready to play.

The response comes immediately: Good. Remember you are not just Ilya Rozanov tomorrow. You are Russia. You are our pride and our future. Do not fail us.

No pressure, Ilya thinks bitterly. Just the hopes and dreams of an entire nation resting on my seventeen-year-old shoulders.

He turns off his phone and stares at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of Regina at night outside his window. In another room somewhere in this hotel, Shane Hollander is probably doing the same thing. Lying awake, thinking about tomorrow, feeling the pressure of expectations.

They’re not so different, really. Both sons of powerful men. Both carrying the weight of nations. Both terrified of failure.

But that doesn’t matter. Tomorrow, on the ice, they’ll be enemies.

And Ilya Rozanov has never lost to an enemy in his life.

He’s not about to start now.

Chapter 3: mind games

The tournament has been a blur of games and wins, and now it comes down to this.

Canada versus Russia.

Gold medal game.

Shane stands in the tunnel leading to the ice, his teammates crowded around him, all nervous energy and pre-game rituals. Aiden taps his stick against the floor in a rhythmic pattern. Their goalie closes his eyes and mouths a silent prayer. The noise from the arena is deafening — a sold-out crowd at the Brandt Center, split evenly between Canadian and Russian flags.

Shane’s hands won’t stop shaking. He grips his stick tighter, trying to channel the anxiety into something useful. Controlled aggression, Coach Morrison calls it.

“You good, Hollander?” Aiden asks, bumping Shane’s shoulder.

“Yeah. I’m good.”

“You’re going to destroy Rozanov today. I can feel it.”

Shane nods, but his stomach is in knots. He’s watched Rozanov play four games in this tournament so far. Four games of absolute dominance. Rozanov has eleven goals and seven assists in four games. He makes it look easy, like he’s playing against children instead of the best prospects in the world.

And the way he celebrates. After every goal, every assist, every good play — arms spread wide, that cocky grin, skating in circles like he owns the ice. It makes Shane’s blood boil.

“Remember the game plan,” Coach Perrault says, pulling them into a huddle. “Rozanov likes to carry the puck. He likes to make the pretty play. So we shut him down physically. We finish our checks. We make him uncomfortable. Make him think twice about skating through the neutral zone.”

“And Hollander,” Coach looks directly at Shane. “You’re going head-to-head with him. Every shift. I need you to be better than him today. Smarter, stronger, more disciplined. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I need you to mean it.”

“I do,” Shane says, and he does. He means it with every fiber of his being. He’s dreamed of nothing but beating Rozanov for the past two weeks. It’s consumed him, driven him, become the only thing that matters.

His parents called this morning. His father’s words echo in his head. This is your moment, Shane. This is where you prove you’re worthy of being first overall. Beat Rozanov, and the hockey world is yours.

The officials signal. It’s time.

They skate out onto the ice, and the roar from the crowd is overwhelming. Shane does a lap, warming up his legs, trying to settle his nerves. Across the ice, the Russian team is doing the same. He spots Rozanov immediately — number eighty-one, impossible to miss. He’s laughing with a teammate, completely relaxed, like this is just another game.

It makes Shane hate him even more.

During warm-ups, Shane takes shots on his goalie, but he’s watching Rozanov. Watching the way he moves, fluid and graceful, every movement efficient and powerful at once. He’s taller than Shane — maybe six-three, one-eighty-five — but he skates like the ice was made for him.

And then Rozanov looks up, catches Shane staring. And he smiles. Not a friendly smile. A challenging one. He skates closer, casual, like he’s just circling the neutral zone. But Shane knows better.

Rozanov passes within a few feet of Shane. Close enough that Shane can see his eyes — that strange golden hazel color, bright with amusement.

“Hollander,” Rozanov says. His English is accented but perfect. “You look nervous.”

Shane doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look at him. Coach said not to engage.

“That’s okay,” Rozanov continues, skating a slow circle around Shane. “I would be nervous too, if I had to play against me.”

“Fuck off,” Shane mutters.

Rozanov laughs, delighted. “Oh, good. You can talk. I was worried maybe you were a robot. Very serious face, very intense. But no, you’re real boy.”

Shane skates away. But he can feel Rozanov watching him, can hear that laugh carrying across the ice.

When warm-ups end and they line up for the national anthems, Shane stands at attention while the Canadian anthem plays. He tries to focus on the words, on what they mean, on what he’s representing. But all he can think about is Rozanov standing across from him in the Russian line, probably still smiling that cocky smile.

The Russian anthem plays next, and Shane watches the Russian players. They all stand rigid, hands over hearts, singing along with passion. Rozanov’s face is transformed — serious now, almost reverent. Like the anthem means something profound to him.

It makes Shane uncomfortable, seeing that vulnerability. It’s easier to hate Rozanov when he’s being cocky.

The anthems end. The starting lineups are announced. Shane skates to center ice for the opening faceoff, and of course, Rozanov is there waiting for him.

“Hello again,” Rozanov says, settling into position. “Ready to lose?”

“You’re the one who’s going to lose,” Shane shoots back.

“Mmm, I don’t think so.” Rozanov grins. “I’ve watched you play. You’re good. Very good. Strong, fast, smart. But you know what you’re not?”

“What?”

“Fun.” Rozanov winks. “Hockey should be fun, Hollander. Try smiling sometime.”

The referee drops the puck.

Shane wins the faceoff cleanly, snapping it back to his defenseman. He pivots and accelerates, looking for open ice, but Rozanov is already on him, stick checking, body positioning perfect.

“Nice faceoff,” Rozanov says, skating backward to stay with Shane. “But that’s the last one you’ll win today.”

Shane ignores him, passes the puck to Hunter on the wing. But he can feel Rozanov’s presence, constantly shadowing him, stick active, talking the entire time.

“You’re very strong,” Rozanov observes as Shane battles him along the boards. “Must work out a lot. What do you bench press? One fifty? One-seventy-five?”

“Why do you care?” Shane grunts, fighting for the puck.

“Just making conversation. We’re going to be on the ice together a lot today. Might as well be friendly.”

Shane finally gets control and chips the puck out to the neutral zone. Rozanov pursues, still talking.

“Your dad’s a politician, yes? Must be lot of pressure. My dad is politician too. Well, more than politician. But same idea. Always watching, always judging.”

“I don’t want to talk about my dad,” Shane says.

“Okay, okay. We can talk about hockey instead. You like hockey? Wait, stupid question. Of course you like hockey. Unless-” Rozanov cuts in front of Shane, forcing him wide. “Unless you’re just doing this because daddy says so?”

“Shut up.”

“Touched a nerve?” Rozanov grins over his shoulder. “It’s okay, Hollander. We all have daddy issues.”

The first period is relentless. Every time Shane’s line is on the ice, Rozanov is there. Not just playing defense, but actively getting under Shane’s skin. Talking constantly, chirping, finding every possible way to be annoying.

“Nice try,” Rozanov says when Shane’s shot goes wide. “Almost hit the net that time.”

“You’re very serious,” he observes when Shane barks orders at his linemates. “Very captain-like. It’s cute.”

“Is that your girlfriend in the stands?” He asks after Shane glances toward the crowd. “Oh wait, no. That’s your mother. She looks worried. You should smile at her, let her know you’re okay.”

Shane tries to ignore it all, to focus on his game. But it’s impossible. Rozanov is everywhere — in his space, in his head, under his skin. And worse, he’s playing brilliantly. At twelve minutes into the first period, Rozanov picks up the puck in his own zone and just … goes.

Shane chases him, but Rozanov is faster than he has any right to be. He dekes around one Canadian defender, then another, then cuts to the middle and rifles a shot past the goalie, top shelf.

The Russian bench erupts. Rozanov throws his arms wide and tilts his head back, soaking in the moment. His teammates mob him, and he’s laughing, saying something in rapid Russian that makes them all laugh harder.

Shane skates back to the bench, furious. “I had him,” he says to Coach Perrault. “I was right there-”

“You need to be faster than right there,” Coach snaps. “You need to stop him before he gets going. Use your body. Finish your checks.”

The next shift, Shane tries exactly that. When Rozanov gets the puck, Shane lines him up and throws a huge hit. But somehow, at the last second, Rozanov spins away and Shane crashes into the boards.

“So close!” Rozanov calls over his shoulder, already accelerating the other way. “Maybe next time!”

By the end of the first period, Russia leads 2-0. Both goals by Rozanov. Canada heads to the locker room, and the mood is grim.

“He’s getting in your head,” Aiden says to Shane as they sit in their stalls. “You need to tune him out.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder. You’re playing his game instead of yours. You’re reacting to everything he does instead of making him react to you.”

Shane knows Aiden’s right. But knowing it and fixing it are two different things. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Rozanov’s cocky grin, hears his accented voice chirping endlessly.

“Hollander.” Coach Perrault crouches in front of Shane. “Look at me. You’re the best player on this team. You’re one of the best players in this entire tournament. But right now, you’re playing like you’re scared of him.”

“I’m not scared-”

“Then prove it. Next period, I want you to dominate. I want you to show everyone why you’re going first overall, not him. Can you do that?”

Shane nods. “Yes, sir.”

The second period starts better. Shane scores a goal three minutes in, a gritty one where he battles through two defenders and jams the puck past the Russian goalie. As he skates back to center ice, he makes sure to pass close to Rozanov.

“Nice goal,” Rozanov says, and he sounds genuine. “Very strong. Very … Canadian.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“No, no. Is compliment. You play like Canadian. All power, all strength. Very impressive.” Rozanov grins. “Also very predictable.”

Shane’s jaw tightens. “We’ll see who’s predictable.”

But Rozanov is right, and it kills Shane to admit it. Every time Shane sets up in the offensive zone, Rozanov seems to know exactly what he’s going to do. It’s like he’s read Shane’s entire playbook.

At fourteen minutes, the game is tied 2-2. Shane’s line is on the ice, and they’re buzzing in the Russian zone. Shane gets the puck along the boards, looks up for a passing option-

“Behind you,” Rozanov sing-songs.

Shane spins, but Rozanov is already there, stick checking the puck away. He takes off down the ice, and Shane chases, lungs burning. But Rozanov is too fast, too skilled. He dishes the puck to his winger, who scores easily.

3-2 Russia.

As Rozanov skates past Shane, he reaches out and pats Shane’s shoulder. “Good effort, though. Really. You almost had me.”

“Don’t touch me,” Shane snarls, shoving Rozanov’s hand away.

Rozanov’s eyebrows go up, delighted. “Oh, now we’re getting somewhere. You have some fire after all. I was starting to think you were too polite.”

“I’m going to destroy you,” Shane says, getting in Rozanov’s face.

They’re the same height when Shane is on his skates and Rozanov is too. This close, Shane can see flecks of green in Rozanov’s hazel eyes, can smell his cologne — something expensive and distinctly foreign.

“You can try,” Rozanov says softly. There’s something different in his expression now, something Shane can’t read. “But I don’t think you will.”

The referee skates over. “Break it up, boys. Save it for the play.”

Shane skates away, his heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with hockey.

The third period is a battle. Canada scores to tie it 3-3. Then Russia scores. Then Canada ties it again. The pace is frantic, both teams desperate for the winning goal.

With two minutes left, Shane has the puck on a 2-on-1 rush. He’s got Aiden with him, and the Russian defender is caught in no-man’s land. Shane winds up for the shot l-

“Pass it,” Rozanov says, somehow appearing from nowhere to get his stick in the lane. “Your winger is wide open. Pass it.”

Shane hesitates for half a second, just half a second, but it’s enough. Rozanov poke-checks the puck away and clears it down the ice.

“Too slow,” Rozanov says as he skates past. “You think too much. Just play.”

Shane wants to scream. He wants to throw his stick, throw a punch, throw something. How does Rozanov do this? How does he get so completely under Shane’s skin?

The period ends 4-4. Overtime.

In the locker room, Coach Perrault is pacing. “First goal wins. That’s it. One goal, and we’re gold medalists. One goal, and we beat Russia. Everything we’ve worked for comes down to the next period.”

He looks at Shane. “I’m trusting you. You’re my best player. Go out there and win this for us.”

Shane nods, but his hands are still shaking.

They skate out for overtime, and the crowd is deafening. Shane takes his position for the faceoff, and Rozanov is there, as always.

“Hey, Hollander,” Rozanov says. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure? Because I feel great. I could play all night.” Rozanov stretches his arms over his head, casual. “Overtime is my favorite. So much drama. So much … excitement.”

The way he says “excitement” makes Shane’s stomach flip. There’s something in Rozanov’s tone, something almost flirtatious. It throws Shane off balance.

“You’re weird,” Shane says.

Rozanov laughs. “And you’re pretty. We all have our burdens.”

“What?”

But the puck drops, and there’s no time to think. Rozanov wins the faceoff this time, snapping it back to his defenseman. Shane pursues, but Rozanov is already moving, calling for the puck back.

The play develops quickly. Rozanov gets the puck at his own blue line, and Shane is there to pressure him. But Rozanov does something unexpected — he stops completely, lets Shane’s momentum carry him past, then accelerates the other way.

Shane pivots hard, chasing. “Someone get him!” He shouts to his teammates.

But Rozanov is flying now, stick-handling through the neutral zone. One Canadian defender approaches, and Rozanov dekes left. Another defender, and Rozanov goes right. He’s at the Canadian blue line now, and Shane is behind him, desperate.

“Don’t you dare,” Shane mutters, skating as hard as he’s ever skated in his life.

Rozanov looks back over his shoulder, and for a split second, their eyes meet. And Rozanov smiles.

Then he’s in alone on the Canadian goalie. He makes a move, gets the goalie down, and slides the puck into the open net.

Goal.

Russia wins.

The Russian bench explodes. Players pour over the boards, gloves and sticks flying through the air. The crowd — at least the Russian half — is going absolutely insane.

And Rozanov. God, Rozanov.

He throws his arms wide and tilts his head back, screaming in triumph. He drops to his knees on the ice, pounding his chest. His teammates reach him and pile on, a mass of white jerseys and pure joy.

Shane just stands there, stick hanging limply in his hands. He can’t move. Can’t think. Can’t breathe.

They lost.

He lost.

He lost to Ilya Rozanov.

Slowly, the Russian celebration untangles. Rozanov emerges from the pile, helmet off, hair wild, face flushed with exertion and happiness. He’s skating victory laps, arms still spread wide, and the Russian fans are chanting his name.

“I-LYA! I-LYA! I-LYA!”

Then Rozanov spots Shane. He changes direction, skating straight toward him. Shane tenses, not sure what to expect.

Rozanov stops a few feet away. His face is lit up with that cocky grin, but there’s something else there too. Something that might be sympathy.

“Good game, Hollander,” he says, extending his hand.

Shane stares at the hand like it’s a weapon. After everything — the chirping, the trash talk, the mind games — now Rozanov wants to shake hands?

“Fuck you,” Shane says.

Rozanov’s eyebrows go up. “Oh, come on. Don’t be like that. You played well. Really. You’re very good player.”

“I said fuck you.”

“So angry.” Rozanov drops his hand, but he’s still smiling. “It’s just hockey, Hollander. Just a game. We’ll play again. Many times, I think. This is just the beginning for us.”

“I’m going to beat you next time,” Shane says, his voice shaking. “I’m going to make you regret this.”

“Maybe,” Rozanov says. “Or maybe I’ll beat you again. Either way-” he skates a little closer, and his voice drops so only Shane can hear. “Either way, it’s going to be fun. You and me, Hollander. I think we’re going to be very good rivals.”

Then he does something that makes Shane’s brain short-circuit. He blows Shane a kiss, winks, and skates away to rejoin his celebrating teammates.

Shane stands frozen, watching as the Russians mob Rozanov again, lifting him onto their shoulders. He’s holding his stick above his head, and the crowd is roaring, and he looks like a conquering hero.

Like everything Shane was supposed to be.

Shane feels a hand on his shoulder. Aiden. “Come on, man. We have to shake their hands.”

The handshake line is torture. Shane forces himself to shake each Russian player’s hand, to mumble congratulations. When he reaches Rozanov, he almost skips him entirely. But Rozanov grabs his hand anyway.

“See you in the NHL, Hollander,” Rozanov says, squeezing Shane’s hand firmly. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Shane pulls his hand away without responding and finishes the line.

In the locker room, the silence is crushing. Guys sit in their stalls, some crying, some just staring blankly. Aiden has his head in his hands. Their goalie is in the shower, and they can hear him punching the wall.

Coach Perrault doesn’t say much. What is there to say? They lost. They came to Regina to win gold and they’re leaving with silver.

Shane strips off his gear mechanically. His body aches, but it’s nothing compared to the pain in his chest. He thinks about his parents, who are probably in the arena somewhere, disappointed. He thinks about Canada, who expected him to win.

He thinks about Rozanov, skating victory laps, blowing kisses, being everything Shane was supposed to be.

His phone buzzes with a text from his father: We need to talk. Tonight.

Shane closes his eyes. He knows what that conversation will be like. His father will be understanding, supportive even, but underneath it all will be the disappointment. The knowledge that Shane had one job and he failed.

“You okay?” Aiden asks quietly.

“No.”

“Me neither.” Aiden stands, starts pulling his suit out of his bag. “For what it’s worth, you played great. Rozanov’s just … he’s something else.”

“I know.”

“He got in your head.”

“I know,” Shane says again, more forcefully. “I fucking know, okay? I know I let him get to me. I know I should have played better, should have been smarter, should have-” His voice breaks.

Aiden sits back down. “Hey. Hey, it’s not your fault. We all lost this game. Not just you.”

But it feels like just him. It feels like the entire weight of the loss is on Shane’s shoulders, crushing him.

That night, Shane video calls his parents from his hotel room. His father is in his parliamentary office, his mother beside him. Both look tired.

“Shane,” his father says. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You just lost the biggest game of your young career.”

Shane’s jaw tightens. “Thanks for reminding me.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel worse,” his father says, softer. “I’m trying to help you process this. What happened out there?”

“He was better than me,” Shane says bluntly. “Rozanov. He was better.”

“No,” his mother says firmly. “No, he wasn’t. You’re every bit as skilled as he is. What happened was that you let him get in your head. You played his game instead of yours.”

“Everyone keeps saying that. But what does it even mean? How do I play my game when he’s right there, constantly talking, constantly-” Shane stops, frustrated.

“Constantly what?” His father prompts.

“I don’t know. Being himself, I guess. He just … he doesn’t shut up. The entire game, he’s chirping, talking trash, saying weird things-”

“What kind of weird things?” His mother asks.

Shane hesitates. He doesn’t want to tell them about the comment about Shane being pretty, about the kiss Rozanov blew at him. They’ll either think he’s imagining it or they’ll make it into a bigger deal than it is.

“Just mind games,” Shane says. “Trying to throw me off.”

“And it worked,” his father observes. “He found your weakness and exploited it. That’s what good players do.”

“So what do I do next time?”

“You learn,” his mother says. “You watch the tape, you analyze what he did, and you prepare. When you play him again — and you will play him again — you’ll be ready. You’ll know his tricks.”

“The draft is in six months,” his father says. “This isn’t over, Shane. One tournament doesn’t determine your entire future. But you need to use this as motivation. You need to work harder than you’ve ever worked, so that when you face Rozanov again, the outcome is different.”

“I will,” Shane promises. “I’m going to beat him. I don’t care what it takes.”

After they hang up, Shane lies in bed and stares at the ceiling. His mind won’t shut off, won’t stop replaying every moment of the game. Every chirp from Rozanov, every cocky grin, every perfect play.

And that kiss. That stupid, infuriating blown kiss that made Shane feel things he absolutely does not want to examine.

Rozanov is his enemy. His rival. The person standing between Shane and everything he wants.

Shane has never hated anyone more in his entire life.

Somewhere else in this hotel, Rozanov is probably celebrating with his team, probably laughing about how easy it was to beat the Canadians. Probably already forgetting Shane’s name.

But Shane won’t forget. He’ll remember every second of this game, every word Rozanov said, every humiliation. He’ll use it as fuel.

Next time they meet, Shane will be ready.

Next time, Shane will win.

He has to.

Because if he doesn’t — if Rozanov beats him again — Shane isn’t sure he’ll be able to survive it.

His phone buzzes with a notification. Instagram. Someone tagged him in a video.

Against his better judgment, Shane opens it. It’s a clip from the game, uploaded by some Russian hockey account. It shows Rozanov’s overtime goal in slow motion, set to dramatic music. The caption is in Russian, but Shane doesn’t need to read it to understand.

The video has already been viewed three million times.

Shane watches it once. Watches Rozanov’s perfect skating, his beautiful deke, his composed finish. Watches him celebrate like he’s won the Stanley Cup instead of just a prospect tournament.

Then Shane watches it again.

And again.

And again.

Until he’s memorized every movement, every detail, every frame.

Know your enemy, his father always says.

Shane’s going to know everything about Ilya Rozanov.

And then he’s going to destroy him.

Chapter 4: the draft

The TSN broadcast opens with a dramatic montage — clips of the greatest NHL draft picks in history, set to soaring orchestral music. Wayne Gretzky, Mario Lemieux, Sidney Crosby. Legends in the making, all starting with one moment: hearing their name called.

The music fades, and the screen cuts to the TSN studio. Bob McKenzie sits at the desk, flanked by analysts Craig Button and Pierre McGuire. Behind them, a massive screen displays the 2009 NHL Entry Draft logo.

“Good afternoon, hockey fans,” Bob begins, his voice warm and familiar. “Welcome to Los Angeles, where in just a few hours, we’ll witness what might be the most anticipated NHL Entry Draft in a generation. I’m Bob McKenzie, joined by Craig Button and Pierre McGuire. Gentlemen, there’s a lot to talk about today.”

“Absolutely, Bob,” Craig says, leaning forward. “This draft class is incredibly deep, but let’s be honest — everyone’s here for one thing: the battle for first overall between Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov.”

“The Cold War, as it’s been dubbed,” Pierre adds, grinning. “And it’s appropriate, isn’t it? Canada versus Russia. Democracy versus … well, we won’t get too political. But the parallels are impossible to ignore.”

The screen behind them switches to a split image — Shane on one side, Ilya on the other. Both in suits, both looking impossibly young and impossibly serious.

“Let’s start with Shane Hollander,” Bob says. “Canadian center, five-foot-ten, one hundred and eighty pounds. Son of David Hollander, who, as we all know, is currently running for Prime Minister. Shane’s been the consensus first overall pick for most of the season. Craig, what’s your scouting report?”

“Shane Hollander is the complete package,” Craig says. “Elite skating, exceptional hockey IQ, strong in all three zones. He’s a power forward who can also make the pretty play. Seventy-nine points in fifty-one games this season with the St. Michael’s Majors. But more than the stats, it’s the intangibles. Leadership, work ethic, character — this is a kid who does everything right.”

“He’s the safest pick in the draft,” Pierre adds. “You know exactly what you’re getting with Hollander. A franchise center who’ll be a number-one guy for the next twenty years. No question marks, no concerns. Just a solid, reliable, Canadian hockey player.”

“But,” Bob says, and the word hangs in the air. “There’s Ilya Rozanov.”

The screen switches to a highlight reel of Ilya — skating through defenders, scoring impossible goals, celebrating with that signature arms-wide pose.

“Ilya Rozanov,” Craig says, and there’s something different in his tone. Excitement, maybe. Awe. “Seventeen years old. Son of Russian President Grigori Rozanov. And quite possibly the most talented player I’ve seen at this age since Sidney Crosby.”

“That’s a bold statement,” Bob says.

“It’s a true statement,” Craig counters. “Watch the tape. The skating, the hands, the vision — Rozanov does things with the puck that shouldn’t be possible. He put up eighty-six points in forty-seven games in the MHL this season. He dominated the International Prospect Cup, including scoring the overtime winner against Canada in the gold medal game.”

“He’s also incredibly polarizing,” Pierre says. “Some scouts think he’s too flashy, too undisciplined. He takes risks that don’t always pay off. He can be selfish with the puck. And there are concerns about his defensive game.”

“But when he’s on,” Craig says, “there’s no one better. No one more exciting. If you want to sell tickets, if you want highlight-reel plays, if you want a superstar — you draft Ilya Rozanov.”

Bob shuffles his papers. “So the question becomes: who goes first? And as of this morning, I’m hearing the Boston Bears are still undecided.”

“It’s a fascinating situation,” Pierre says. “Boston’s been bad for five years. They’ve finally bottomed out, got the first pick, and now they have to choose. Do they take the safe, reliable Canadian in Hollander? Or do they swing for the fences with Rozanov?”

“And let’s not ignore the political implications,” Craig adds. “The Bears are an American team in a city with a huge Irish-American population. Very patriotic city. Very … let’s say, not pro-Russia. Drafting the son of the Russian president could be controversial.”

“But it could also be brilliant,” Bob counters. “Rozanov would be box office. Every game would be an event. Love him or hate him, people would pay to see him play.”

The broadcast cuts to a pre-recorded interview with Bears GM Bill Donovan, a grizzled veteran with thirty years in hockey management. He’s sitting in his office, looking tired.

“We’ve done our homework,” Donovan says to the camera. “We’ve watched every game, every shift, every play. Both Hollander and Rozanov are generational talents. We’d be lucky to have either one.”

“But if you had to choose?” The interviewer prompts.

Donovan smiles slightly. “You’ll find out in a few hours.”

The broadcast returns to the studio. “Adding another layer to this,” Bob says, “is the relationship between these two players. Or lack thereof. They’ve only played against each other once, but that one game has become legendary. Pierre, you were at the Prospect Cup. What was it like?”

“Electric,” Pierre says immediately. “I’ve never seen two players so focused on each other. Every shift, it was Hollander versus Rozanov. And Rozanov got in Hollander’s head, Bob. He chirped, he trash-talked, he played mind games. And it worked. Russia won in overtime on a coast-to-coast goal by Rozanov that was absolutely breathtaking.”

“There’s been no love lost between them since,” Craig adds. “They don’t follow each other on social media. They don’t comment on each other in interviews. Dead silence. It’s like they’ve both decided the other doesn’t exist.”

“Except they do exist,” Bob says. “And in a few hours, one of them will be drafted first overall, and the other will be second. That’s going to sting, no matter who falls to two.”

The screen switches to show the Staples Center in Los Angeles, already filling with fans and media. “We’ll have full coverage all day,” Bob continues. “Including exclusive interviews with both Hollander and Rozanov before the draft begins. This is going to be appointment television, folks. Don’t go anywhere.”

Shane sits in a private room at the Staples Center, his suit jacket hanging on a chair, his tie loosened. His parents are with him, along with his agent, Rick Carlson, and a small army of handlers and PR people.

His mother fusses with his tie, straightening it for the third time. “You look very handsome, sweetheart.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“How are you feeling?” His father asks. He’s in full politician mode — navy suit, red tie, Canadian flag pin on his lapel. He’s been doing interviews all morning, talking about his son’s big day while also subtly promoting his campaign.

“I’m fine,” Shane says, which is a lie. His stomach is in knots. His hands won’t stop shaking. He’s been up since four in the morning, unable to sleep, running through every possible scenario.

“Boston’s taking you first,” Farah says confidently. She’s a shark of an agent, all expensive power suits and calculated smiles. “I’ve been working my contacts all week. It’s a done deal.”

“It’s not a done deal until they announce it,” Shane’s father says.

“They’d be idiots to take Rozanov over Shane,” Farah continues. “Shane’s the better player, the better prospect, the better person. He’s exactly what Boston needs.”

Shane wants to believe her. He’s been told his whole life that he’s the best, that he’s destined for greatness. But ever since the Prospect Cup, doubt has crept in. What if Rozanov really is better? What if the scouts see something Shane doesn’t?

There’s a knock on the door, and a TSN production assistant sticks her head in. “Mr. Hollander? We’re ready for your pre-draft interview if you are.”

Shane stands, pulls his jacket back on. His mother adjusts his collar one more time.

“Remember,” his father says quietly. “Confident but humble. Grateful for the opportunity. Don’t mention Rozanov unless they ask directly.”

“I know, Dad.”

“And if they do ask about him-”

“I know,” Shane says, more firmly. “I’ve got this.”

The interview is in a small studio setup backstage. The interviewer is Gord Miller, one of TSN’s veterans. He greets Shane warmly, shaking his hand.

“Shane, thanks for joining us. Big day, huh?”

“Yeah, definitely.” Shane sits in the chair across from Gord, trying to look relaxed. “It’s been a dream since I was a kid, so to finally be here is incredible.”

“You’re projected to go first overall to Boston. How does that feel?”

“I mean, nothing’s guaranteed until they call your name. But if Boston does pick me, I’d be honored. They’re a great organization with amazing fans, and I’d love to be part of bringing a championship back to that city.”

“You’ve had an incredible season. Seventy-nine points in fifty-one games, led your team to the OHL finals. What do you think makes you ready for the NHL?”

Shane goes into autopilot, delivering the answers he’s practiced. Work ethic, coachability, commitment to defense, leadership qualities. All the right things.

Then Gord leans forward slightly. “I have to ask about Ilya Rozanov. You two have been linked all season as the top two prospects. You played against each other at the Prospect Cup-”

“Yeah,” Shane says, his jaw tightening involuntarily.

“Russia won that game in overtime. Rozanov scored. Since then, there’s been this narrative of a rivalry between you two. The Cold War, they’re calling it. What’s your relationship with Ilya like?”

Shane chooses his words carefully. “I don’t have a relationship with him. We played one game against each other. He’s a talented player. I respect his skill. But we’re not friends, we’re competitors.”

“Some scouts have suggested that Rozanov got under your skin in that game. That he outplayed you mentally as much as physically.”

Shane’s smile is tight. “I think that’s an oversimplification. It was a close game. They won, we lost. It happens. But one game doesn’t define anyone’s career. I’m focused on my own game, my own development. What Rozanov does or doesn’t do isn’t really my concern.”

“If you both end up in the NHL — which seems likely — do you see this rivalry continuing?”

“I see us both being professional hockey players who want to win. If that creates a rivalry, so be it. But I’m not focused on individual matchups. I’m focused on winning championships.”

Gord smiles. “Diplomatic answer. Last question: where do you see yourself in five years?”

“Hoisting the Stanley Cup,” Shane says without hesitation. “That’s the goal. That’s always been the goal.”

After the interview, Shane returns to the private room. His father looks pleased. “Good job. You handled the Rozanov questions well.”

“Thanks.”

“Though you could have been a bit warmer,” his mother adds. “You looked tense when they mentioned him.”

“Because I am tense,” Shane admits. “I’m tired of hearing about him. Tired of being compared to him. I just want this day to be over so I know where I’m going.”

Farah’s phone buzzes. She looks at it and frowns. “That’s weird.”

“What?”

“My contact in Boston. He says there’s some kind of holdup. The Russians are making demands.”

Shane’s heart sinks. “What kind of demands?”

“Something about security protocols for Rozanov if they draft him. His father’s people are apparently being very … particular.”

“So they’re leaning toward Rozanov,” Shane says flatly.

“We don’t know that-”

“Yes, we do.” Shane stands, paces to the window. From here, he can see the arena floor being set up, the massive stage where prospects will walk when their names are called. “They wouldn’t negotiate security protocols if they weren’t planning to draft him.”

His father joins him at the window. “Shane. Even if you go second, that’s still incredible. Montreal is a great organization. An original six team. Playing in the Bell Centre every night, one of the most passionate fan bases in hockey-”

“I don’t want to go second,” Shane says, his voice cracking slightly. “I’ve been first my entire life. First in my draft class, first in points, first in everything. And now I’m going to be second to him.”

“You don’t know that yet.”

But Shane does know. He can feel it. The same way he felt Rozanov closing in on him during that overtime rush, he can feel his chance at first overall slipping away.

Three floors up, in a much larger private suite, Ilya Rozanov is holding court.

The room is packed. His father sits in a leather chair by the window, surrounded by advisors and security personnel. Russian journalists fill half the space, cameras and microphones everywhere. Ilya’s grandmother flew in from Moscow and is crying happy tears while telling anyone who’ll listen that she always knew her Ilyusha would be a star.

Ilya himself is in the center of it all, completely in his element. He’s wearing a custom-tailored navy suit with a burgundy pocket square, his hair perfectly styled. He looks like a movie star, not a seventeen-year-old about to be drafted.

“Ilya! Ilya, over here!” A Russian reporter waves frantically. “How does it feel, knowing you’re about to make history as the first Russian drafted first overall since Alexander Ovechkin?”

“If I go first,” Ilya corrects, flashing that megawatt smile. “Nothing is certain yet. But yes, it would be incredible honor. To follow in footsteps of Ovechkin, of all the great Russian players — it’s a dream.”

“Are you nervous about living in America? Especially Boston, which is not known for being … friendly to outsiders?”

Ilya shrugs. “I love challenge. And I love proving people wrong. If they don’t like me at first, I’ll make them love me. That’s what I do.”

The reporter laughs, charmed. They’re all charmed. Ilya has that effect on people.

Another journalist, this one from a major American sports network: “Ilya, there’s been a lot of talk about your rivalry with Shane Hollander. Can you address that?”

“Rivalry?” Ilya’s eyebrows go up, innocent. “I don’t think Shane considers me his rival. I think he barely thinks of me at all.”

“You beat him at the Prospect Cup-”

“We beat Canada,” Ilya corrects. “It was team victory, not individual. Shane is very good player. Very strong, very talented. I have lot of respect for him.”

“But you did engage in some … let’s say, psychological warfare during that game. The trash talk, the mind games.”

Ilya grins, unrepentant. “I was having fun. Hockey should be fun. If Shane was upset by little bit of talking, maybe he needs to relax, yes?”

The room erupts in laughter. His father, in the corner, allows himself a small smile.

The TSN crew arrives for Ilya’s pre-draft interview. They set up quickly, and Ilya sits across from James Duthie, another TSN veteran.

“Ilya, thanks for your time. How’s your day been so far?”

“Is wonderful,” Ilya says, his accent thick but his English perfect. “Little bit crazy, lot of people, lot of cameras. But this is what I dreamed about. So I’m very happy.”

“You’re expected to go first or second overall. If Boston takes you first, how will you handle the pressure of being the top pick?”

“Same way I handle all pressure,” Ilya says with a shrug. “I go on ice, I play hockey, I have fun. Pressure is privilege, yes? It means people believe in you. I’m grateful for it.”

“Your father is here today — the President of Russia. That’s not something we see often at the draft. What’s it like having him here?”

Ilya’s expression softens. “It means everything. My father is very busy man, very important man. For him to take time to be here, to support me — I’m very lucky. He’s my hero.”

“There’s been some discussion about security concerns, given your father’s position. Are you worried about that affecting where you’re drafted?”

“I trust the teams to do what’s best,” Ilya says diplomatically. “My father’s people will work with whoever drafts me to make sure everyone is safe and comfortable. But I’m just hockey player. I want to play hockey. Everything else-” he waves a hand dismissively. “-is just details.”

“Let’s talk about Shane Hollander. You two have been compared all season. You played against each other once, and Russia won. Do you consider him your rival?”

Ilya tilts his head, considering. “Rival is interesting word. Shane and I, we’re both centers, both going high in draft. So yes, we’re compared. We’re … what’s the word? Counterparts. But rival?” He pauses, and there’s something in his expression that James can’t quite read. “To be someone’s rival, you must think about them, yes? Wonder what they’re doing, how they’re training, what they’re thinking. I don’t know if Shane thinks about me at all.”

“Do you think about him?”

Ilya’s smile is enigmatic. “Sometimes. He’s interesting player. Very different from me. It makes me curious what will happen when we both in NHL. Will we push each other to be better? Will we … “ he searches for the word. “Will we create something special? I think maybe yes.”

After the interview, Ilya mingles with the Russian journalists. They’re eating it up, every charming smile, every perfect quote. He poses for photos with his grandmother, with his father’s advisors, with random Russian fans who somehow found their way into the suite.

His father finally pulls him aside. They step out onto a private balcony overlooking Los Angeles.

“You’re doing well,” his father says in Russian. “Very poised. Very mature.”

“Thank you, Papa.”

“Boston is going to take you first,” his father continues. “We’ve reached an agreement on security. It’s done.”

Ilya’s heart leaps. “First overall?”

“First overall.” His father puts a hand on Ilya’s shoulder. “You’ve earned this, son. Everything you’ve worked for, everything you’ve sacrificed — it’s all led to this moment. In a few hours, you’ll be the first pick in the NHL draft. You’ll be the future of Russian hockey. The pride of our nation.”

“What about Hollander?” Ilya asks.

His father’s expression darkens. “What about him?”

“He’s good, Papa. Really good. Some scouts think he should go first.”

“Some scouts are wrong,” his father says firmly. “You’re better. You’ve proven you’re better. And now the whole world will know it.”

Ilya nods, but something sits uncomfortably in his chest. He thinks about Hollander, probably in some room downstairs, waiting to hear his fate. How will he react to going second? Will he be angry? Devastated?

Will he hate Ilya even more?

“Stop thinking about him,” his father says, reading Ilya’s expression. “Today is your day. Let him worry about himself.”

The draft begins at four PM Pacific time.

Shane sits with his family in the designated prospects area — plush seats near the stage where they can be easily accessed when their names are called. Around him are the other top prospects: Aiden Brocker, looking nervous. Ryan Kershaw, calm and collected. Various defensemen and wingers, all dressed in their best suits, all trying not to show how terrified they are.

And across the aisle, impossible to miss, is Ilya Rozanov.

He’s surrounded by an actual security detail — four serious-looking men in dark suits with earpieces. His father sits next to him, regal and imposing. His grandmother is on his other side, clutching his hand.

Ilya looks completely relaxed, laughing at something his grandmother says. Then, as if he can feel Shane watching, he looks up. Their eyes meet across the aisle.

Ilya smiles. Not a cocky smile, not a challenging one. Just … a smile.

Shane looks away, his jaw tight.

“Don’t let him get to you,” his father mutters. “Not today.”

The arena lights dim. The NHL commissioner, Roger Crowell, takes the stage to some scattered applause and thunderous boos — a draft tradition.

“Welcome to the 2009 NHL Entry Draft,” Crowell begins. “We have an exciting day ahead of us, with some of the best young talent in the world waiting to begin their NHL careers.”

He goes through the formalities, thanking sponsors and acknowledging the scouts and front office personnel. Shane barely hears any of it. His heart is pounding so hard he’s sure everyone can hear it.

“It’s now my pleasure to welcome to the stage the general manager of the Boston Bears, who hold the first overall selection. Bill Donovan!”

The arena erupts. Donovan takes the stage, looking somehow even more tired than he did in the video. He stands at the podium, holding an envelope.

This is it. Shane leans forward, his hands gripping his knees.

“The Boston Bears are proud to select,” Donovan pauses, and the pause feels like it lasts forever, “from the Moscow Dynamo of the MHL, Ilya Rozanov!”

The arena explodes. Half the crowd is cheering, half is booing, everyone is on their feet.

Shane feels like he’s been punched in the stomach.

He watches as Ilya stands, hugs his grandmother, hugs his father, and makes his way to the aisle. His security detail forms a protective bubble around him as he walks toward the stage.

Shane’s mother grabs his hand. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

He can’t respond. Can’t breathe. Can only watch as Ilya bounds up the stairs to the stage, all energy and charisma. He shakes Donovan’s hand, pulls on a Boston Bears jersey over his suit, and poses for photos.

The crowd is still going crazy. The Russian journalists in the press box are screaming in joy. Someone has brought a Russian flag and is waving it frantically.

Ilya takes the podium for his acceptance speech. “Thank you, Boston,” he says, his accent making the words sound exotic. “Thank you, Bears organization. I promise you I will work every day to deserve this honor. I will give everything I have to bring championship to this city. Thank you for believing in me.”

More cheers. More photos. Ilya is glowing, absolutely radiant with happiness.

Then he steps away from the podium, and for just a moment, he looks directly at Shane.

And he winks.

Shane wants to die.

“With the second overall selection,” Bettman announces, and Shane barely registers standing up, barely registers his father’s hand on his back propelling him forward.

“The Montreal Voyageurs are proud to select, from the Mississauga St. Michael’s Majors, Shane Hollander!”

The applause is enthusiastic, but it’s not the same as what Ilya got. Shane walks to the stage on autopilot, shakes hands with the Voyageurs’ GM, pulls on the jersey. He smiles for the photos, but it feels like his face might crack.

Second overall.

Second to Ilya Rozanov.

The rest of the first round passes in a blur. Aiden goes seventh to Tampa Bay and looks thrilled about it. Ryan Kershaw goes fourth to Columbus. Shane sits through it all, the Bears jersey in his lap, his mind numb.

After the first round, there’s a break. Shane is immediately swarmed by Montreal media, by his agent, by team officials. Everyone wants a piece of him, everyone wants quotes and photos and handshakes.

He does it all mechanically, saying the right things. “Honored to be a Voyageur.” “Can’t wait to play in the Bell Centre.” “This is a dream come true.”

He’s in the middle of answering a question about his development timeline when he sees Ilya approaching. The security detail is still with him, but Ilya waves them back slightly as he gets close.

“Hollander,” Ilya says, and his voice cuts through the noise. “Congratulations.”

Shane turns. Ilya is right there, close enough to touch, holding out his hand.

“Thanks,” Shane says coldly, not taking the hand.

“Montreal is good team,” Ilya continues, undeterred. “Very historic. You’ll love playing there.”

“I’m sure you’ll love Boston too.”

“Oh, I will.” Ilya grins. “They have best fans, I hear. Very passionate. Very loud. I think they’ll love me.”

“Glad you’re so confident.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?” Ilya’s grin widens. “I just went first overall. Is pretty good day.”

Shane’s hands curl into fists. “You know what? Fuck you, Rozanov.”

“Shane!” His mother appears at his elbow, horrified. “Language!”

But Ilya just laughs, delighted. “There he is! The real Hollander. I was wondering when I’d see him.” He leans in slightly, and Shane can smell that expensive cologne again. “You’re so much more interesting when you’re angry. All that Canadian politeness is very boring.”

“I said fuck off.”

“Okay, okay.” Ilya holds up his hands in mock surrender. “I go. But Shane-” he pauses, and something shifts in his expression. “We play each other in preseason. Boston versus Montreal. I’m looking forward to it.”

“So am I,” Shane says through gritted teeth. “I’m going to bury you.”

“Maybe,” Ilya says softly. “Or maybe I bury you again. Like at Prospect Cup.” He winks again, that infuriating wink, and walks away.

Shane watches him go, watches him get absorbed back into the crowd of Russian reporters and handlers. Watches everyone gravitate toward him like he’s the sun and they’re all just planets in his orbit.

“Are you okay?” His mother asks quietly.

“No,” Shane says honestly. “I’m really not.”

The rest of the day is torture. More interviews, more photos, more congratulations that feel hollow. Everyone keeps telling Shane that second overall is amazing, that Montreal is a great fit, that he has a brilliant future ahead.

But all Shane can think about is that he lost.

Again.

To Ilya Rozanov.

That evening, there’s a reception for drafted players and their families. Shane doesn’t want to go, but his agent insists. “Networking,” Farah says. “This is important.”

The reception is at a fancy hotel ballroom, all chandeliers and waiters with champagne trays. Shane mingles dutifully, shaking hands with scouts and GMs, making small talk with other prospects.

He’s talking to Ryan Kershaw about Columbus when he catches sight of Ilya across the room. He’s surrounded by people as always, but he’s looking directly at Shane.

Then he mouths something. Shane can’t hear it over the noise, but he can read Ilya’s lips:

“See you soon, Hollander.”

And he smiles. That cocky, infuriating, beautiful smile.

Shane turns away, his chest tight with something he refuses to name.

He fucking hates Ilya Rozanov.

He hates him more than he’s ever hated anyone.

And the worst part — the absolute worst part — is that he can’t stop thinking about him.

Can’t stop seeing that smile, hearing that laugh, feeling those hazel eyes on him.

Three months until training camp.

Three months until he faces Rozanov on NHL ice.

Three months to figure out how to beat him.

Because Shane is going to beat him. He has to.

His entire identity depends on it.

Later, back in his hotel room, Shane lies in bed and stares at his phone. He’s been tagged in hundreds of posts — photos from the draft, articles about being selected second, comparisons to Rozanov.

He opens Instagram, and of course, Rozanov’s account is right there. The algorithm knows what Shane wants to see, even if Shane doesn’t want to admit it.

Ilya has posted a photo from the draft — him holding the Bears jersey, that massive smile on his face, his father in the background looking proud.

The caption is in Russian and English. Dream come true. Thank you Boston. Let’s make history. 🐻

It has 400,000 likes already.

Shane scrolls through the comments. They’re mostly in Russian, but some are in English:

You’re going to be amazing!

Boston is so lucky!

Better than Hollander!

That last one makes Shane’s jaw clench.

He closes the app, but he can’t stop thinking about that wink. That smile. That comment about Shane being more interesting when he’s angry.

What the fuck does that even mean?

Shane rolls over, punches his pillow, tries to sleep.

But all he can see is Ilya Rozanov, skating victory laps in his mind.

First overall.

The best.

Everything Shane was supposed to be.

Not anymore.

Now Shane is second.

And he’s going to spend the rest of his career trying to prove that the draft got it wrong.

Chapter 5: the shoot

Shane arrives at the Mattamy Athletic Centre in Toronto at six in the morning, still groggy from last night’s workout. The building used to be Maple Leaf Gardens, and there’s something surreal about being here — all this hockey history surrounding him as he walks through the corridors with his equipment bag.

A production assistant with a clipboard meets him at the entrance. “Shane Hollander?”

“Yeah.”

“Great! We’ve got the locker room set up for you down the hall. Hair and makeup will be ready in about twenty minutes. Do you want coffee? Water? Anything?”

“Coffee would be great.”

She leads him through the building, chattering about the shoot schedule. “So we’re doing individual shots first — you skating, handling the puck, some posed stuff with equipment. Then we’ll do the group shots with the other endorsement athletes around noon.”

“Sounds good,” Shane says, only half-listening. He’s exhausted. Training camp starts in two months, and he’s been pushing himself harder than ever. Six hours in the gym every day, skating sessions, skills coaching. He needs to be ready for the NHL. Needs to prove that Montreal made the right choice.

Needs to prove he’s better than-

No. He’s not going to think about Rozanov today.

The locker room they’ve set up is pristine — new CCM equipment laid out perfectly, cameras and lighting rigs everywhere. Shane changes into the gear they’ve provided, all branded with CCM logos. The skates are broken in just enough to be comfortable, the stick has the perfect flex.

Hair and makeup is a young woman named Sophie who makes small talk while she fixes his hair and powders his face. “You’re going to look great on camera,” she says. “Very All-American.”

“Canadian,” Shane corrects with a small smile.

“Right, sorry! All-Canadian. Same wholesome vibe.”

The photographer is a middle-aged man named Jacob who’s apparently shot every major athlete in the last decade. He positions Shane on the ice, adjusts the lighting, and starts shooting.

“Give me intensity,” Jacob calls. “You’re about to take the biggest faceoff of your life. Show me that focus.”

Shane settles into his stance, stick on the ice, and channels every ounce of competitive fire he has. The camera clicks rapidly.

“Beautiful! Now let’s get some skating shots. I want speed, power, explosion.”

They spend two hours on individual shots. Shane skating the length of the ice. Shane handling the puck through cones. Shane in full gear, helmet off, looking directly at the camera with what Jacob calls “that killer instinct.”

It’s tedious, but Shane’s used to this by now. The endorsement deals started rolling in after the draft — CCM, Gatorade, a local car dealership in Montreal. His mother says it’s just the beginning, that once he proves himself in the NHL, the real money will come.

Around eleven, Jacob calls for a break. “Great work, Shane. Let’s reset for the group shots. I need about thirty minutes to adjust the lighting.”

Shane skates to the bench and chugs water. He’s starving — he woke up too early to eat breakfast — and his legs are burning from all the skating. But the shoot’s almost done. Just a few more hours, and he can go home, eat an entire pizza, and crash.

“Shane?” The production assistant is back. “Quick heads up — we’re doing some paired shots for the rivalry campaign. Just you and one other player, really playing up the competition angle.”

“Okay, who?”

“Ilya Rozanov.”

Shane chokes on his water. “What?”

“Ilya Rozanov? He’s also a CCM endorser. They want to do this whole ‘face of the future’ campaign with you two. Hollander versus Rozanov, the Cold War rivalry, all that. It’s going to be huge.”

Shane’s grip tightens on the water bottle. “When was this decided?”

“I’m not sure. It’s been on the schedule for a while, I think. Is that a problem?”

Yes. Yes, it’s a massive fucking problem. But Shane forces a smile. “No, it’s fine. Just surprised, that’s all.”

She leaves, and Shane sits on the bench, trying to control his breathing. Of course. Of course they’d do this. The rivalry narrative has been huge since the draft — every sports outlet in North America has been pushing the Hollander versus Rozanov storyline. It was inevitable they’d end up at the same endorsement shoot.

Shane hasn’t seen Rozanov since the draft. A whole year of blissful separation. Sure, he’s seen the highlights — Rozanov dominating the MHL playoffs, Rozanov at various Russian national events, Rozanov being named to the Russian World Junior team. And yes, Shane may have watched those highlights more times than he’d care to admit.

But he hasn’t seen him in person. Hasn’t had to deal with that smile, that voice, that infuriating presence.

Until now.

“Hollander!”

Shane looks up, and there he is.

Ilya Rozanov, skating onto the ice like he owns it, already in full CCM gear. He looks … fuck, he looks good. He’s filled out over the past year — more muscle in his shoulders and chest, but still lean and fast. His hair is longer, swept back from his face. And that smile. That goddamn smile.

“Hello, rival,” Ilya says, coming to a stop in front of Shane’s bench. “Long time no see.”

Shane stands, trying to maintain some dignity. “Rozanov.”

“So formal!” Ilya laughs. “We’re going to be on ice together for next twenty years, maybe you can call me Ilya, yes?”

“I’m fine with Rozanov.”

“Okay, okay. Hollander it is, then.” Ilya leans on his stick, studying Shane with those unsettling gold-brown eyes. “You look good. Bigger. You’ve been working out.”

“Thanks,” Shane says stiffly.

“Me too. Russian training is very intense. Very … physical.” The way Ilya says “physical” makes Shane’s stomach do something weird. “I’m ready for NHL. Are you ready?”

“I’ve been ready.”

“Mmm.” Ilya’s smile widens. “We’ll see. Boston versus Montreal, we play each other lot. Four times in regular season, maybe more in playoffs. Going to be fun.”

“It’s going to be a bloodbath.”

“Even better!” Ilya claps his hands together. “I love your intensity, Hollander. So serious, so determined. It’s very …” he searches for the word. “Very you.”

Before Shane can respond, Jacob calls them to center ice. “Alright, gentlemen! Let’s start with some faceoff positions. Shane, you take the left circle. Ilya, the right. I want tension, competition, like you’re about to go to war.”

They take their positions. Shane crouches into his faceoff stance, stick on the ice. Across from him, Ilya does the same. They’re maybe three feet apart, close enough that Shane can see the intensity in Ilya’s eyes, the slight smile playing at his lips.

“Give me more,” Jacob calls. “Lean in. Get in each other’s space. This is personal.”

Ilya leans forward, and suddenly they’re inches apart. Shane can smell his cologne — something different from the draft, lighter, more bergamot. Can see the slight stubble on his jaw, the way his lips curve.

“You nervous, Hollander?” Ilya murmurs, quiet enough that only Shane can hear.

“No.”

“Liar.” Ilya’s tongue darts out, wets his bottom lip. “You look nervous.”

Shane’s eyes track the movement without his permission. Watches as Ilya’s lips glisten, watches as Ilya deliberately, slowly, licks his own lip again while holding Shane’s gaze.

What the fuck.

“Perfect!” Jacob shouts. “That intensity is exactly what we need. Hold that.”

The camera clicks frantically. Shane tries to focus, tries to look competitive and fierce, but all he can think about is Ilya’s mouth. The way his tongue moved. The deliberate, almost suggestive-

No. No, Shane’s just dehydrated. And hungry. His brain is playing tricks on him. Ilya wasn’t doing anything weird. It was just … a normal thing. People lick their lips. It doesn’t mean anything.

“Alright, now let’s get some action shots,” Jacob says. “I want you two battling for the puck. Physical, aggressive, really selling the rivalry.”

They reset. A production assistant drops a puck between them, and suddenly Shane and Ilya are fighting for possession. Ilya is strong — stronger than Shane expected — and fast. He gets control first, but Shane body-checks him, taking the puck away.

“Good!” Ilya laughs, already coming back for more. “I like when you play rough.”

They battle back and forth, cameras clicking the whole time. Every time they make contact, Shane feels it like electricity through his gear. Ilya’s shoulder against his. Ilya’s stick checking his. Ilya’s breath hot against his neck when they get tangled up along the boards.

“You’re very strong, Hollander,” Ilya says, pressed against Shane’s back as they fight for the puck. “All this muscle. Very impressive.”

“Shut up and play,” Shane grunts.

“I am playing. Are you?”

They separate, reset, go again. And again. And again. Jacob seems thrilled with whatever he’s capturing, calling for more intensity, more aggression, more heat.

By the time they finish the action shots, Shane is sweating and breathing hard. Ilya looks barely winded, which is infuriating.

“Last setup,” Jacob announces. “I want you two facing each other, just staring. Maximum tension. This is going to be the poster shot, so give me everything.”

They skate to center ice. Stand facing each other, maybe two feet apart. Shane tries to channel every ounce of competitive fire, every bit of hatred and frustration he’s felt toward Rozanov for the past year.

Ilya just smiles. Not the cocky smile from before, but something softer. Almost … fond?

“You hate me very much, yes?” Ilya says quietly.

“Yes.”

“Good. Is honest. I like honest.” Ilya tilts his head slightly. “But you know what I think?”

“I don’t care what you think.”

“I think you don’t hate me as much as you want to. I think you’re curious about me. I think-” he leans in, voice dropping even lower. “I think you watch my highlights. Late at night, when no one is looking. I think you wonder about me.”

Shane’s face burns. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” Ilya agrees. “But I’m not wrong.”

“Gorgeous!” Jacob calls. “Whatever you two are doing, keep doing it. The energy is perfect!”

After what feels like an eternity, Jacob finally calls wrap. “Fantastic work, guys. We got everything we need. You’re free to go.”

Shane doesn’t wait for Ilya. He skates to the bench, grabs his water bottle, and drinks half of it in one go. His heart is still racing, and he’s not sure if it’s from the workout or from being in Ilya’s orbit for the past two hours.

He hears skates behind him. Of course.

“That was fun,” Ilya says, settling onto the bench next to Shane. Too close. Why does he always have to be so close? “We should do this more often.”

“We’re going to be playing against each other all season. We’ll see each other plenty.”

“True. But not like this. Just us two, no coaches, no teammates. Very … intimate.”

Shane’s head whips toward Ilya. “Intimate?”

Ilya’s smile is innocent. “Is wrong word? My English is still not perfect.”

“Your English is fine.”

“Thank you! I’ve been practicing. Watching American TV, reading books, talking with native speakers. I want to be ready for Boston. Want to do interviews, talk to fans, be part of community.” Ilya pauses. “When they tell you? That you do commercial with me, not just alone?”

Shane frowns. “I don’t know, like a few days ago. Why, when did they tell you?”

Ilya’s smile turns into a full grin. “No, they told me nothing. It was my idea.”

Shane stares. “What?”

“CCM want me to do endorsement shoot, and I say yes, but only if they include you too. I tell them we should do rivalry campaign together. They love idea.” Ilya looks incredibly pleased with himself. “Surprise!”

Shane’s vision literally goes red around the edges. “You … you did this on purpose? You specifically requested that I be here?”

“Of course! Is very good for both of us. More publicity, more money, more attention. And-” Ilya’s eyes sparkle with amusement. “And I get to spend time with my favorite rival. Win-win, yes?”

“No,” Shane says through gritted teeth. “Not yes. Absolutely not yes.”

He stands abruptly, skates off the ice toward the tunnel. He needs to get away from Rozanov before he does something stupid like punch him in his stupidly handsome face.

“Hollander, wait!” Ilya calls, following. “Where you going?”

“Away from you!”

“But we’re not done talking!”

Shane doesn’t respond, just keeps skating until he reaches the tunnel. He’s vaguely aware of production people calling goodbyes, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. He storms into the locker room, already pulling off his gloves.

The door opens behind him. Ilya.

“Go away, Rozanov.”

“No.” Ilya closes the door and leans against it. “You’re being very rude.”

“I’m being rude? You manipulated this entire shoot just so you could—what? Fuck with me? Get in my head before the season starts?”

“Maybe little bit,” Ilya admits with a shrug. “But also because I want to see you. Want to know what you’ve been doing, how you’ve been training. Want to see if you still hate me as much as at draft.”

“I hate you more,” Shane says, yanking off his chest protector. “Every day, I hate you more.”

“Liar.”

Shane whirls around. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Ilya pushes off the door, starts removing his own gear. “You don’t hate me. You want to hate me, but you don’t. Is different.”

“What the fuck would you know about what I feel?”

“I know because I watch you,” Ilya says simply. He pulls off his jersey, revealing a compression shirt underneath that clings to every line of muscle. “During shoot today, I watch your eyes. Where they go, what they look at. And Hollander-” he grins. “They look at me lot.”

“Because we were shooting a commercial together,” Shane says desperately. “Of course I was looking at you.”

“Mmm, yes. But not like that. Not like …” Ilya trails off, pulling off the compression shirt. His torso is ridiculous — lean but defined, with the kind of muscle that comes from endless hours of training. “Not like how you look at me now.”

Shane realizes he’s staring and forces his eyes away. “You’re delusional.”

“And you’re in denial.” Ilya sits on the bench and starts unlacing his skates. “Is okay. I don’t mind. I find it very cute.”

“I’m not cute. I’m not anything. I just want you to leave me alone.”

“No, you don’t.” Ilya stands, skates off now, and starts removing his hockey pants. “You want me to keep bothering you, keep getting under your skin, keep making you think about me. Because if I leave you alone, you’ll have to admit you miss the attention.”

Shane’s hands curl into fists. He wants to argue, wants to tell Ilya he’s wrong about everything. But the words won’t come because, fuck, because maybe Ilya isn’t completely wrong.

Ilya removes his hockey pants, and he’s standing there in just his compression shorts and those tight briefs athletes wear underneath. And Jesus Christ, Shane needs to look away, needs to focus on literally anything else, but Ilya’s legs are right there, strong and muscled and-

“See something you like, Hollander?” Ilya’s voice is amused.

“No,” Shane lies, finally managing to turn around. He starts removing his own pants with shaking hands. “I’m not—I don’t-”

“It’s okay,” Ilya says, and his voice is closer now. Shane can feel him moving around the locker room. “You can look. I don’t mind. I look at you too.”

Shane’s brain short-circuits. “What?”

“Why you think I want to do this shoot?” Ilya continues conversationally. “Yes, is good publicity. Yes, is good money. But also-” Shane can hear the smile in his voice. “Also, I’m curious about you. Want to see what kind of man you become. And-” Shane hears the sound of a shower turning on. “I’m not disappointed.”

Shane turns around before he can stop himself. Ilya is walking toward the showers, completely naked, absolutely shameless. And, fuck, every part of him is unfairly, impossibly beautiful. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, an ass that should be illegal, legs that go on forever.

Ilya looks back over his shoulder, catches Shane staring, and winks.

Shane’s face burns so hot he’s surprised he doesn’t combust. He spins back around and starts removing his own remaining gear with jerky, furious movements. This is insane. Ilya is insane. Shane needs to get dressed and get the hell out of here before he does something monumentally stupid.

But his body has other ideas. He’s disgusting and sweaty from the shoot, and a shower would be … practical. Necessary. Nothing to do with Ilya being in there.

Shane wraps a towel around his waist and walks to the showers. There are six showerheads, and naturally, Ilya is under the one at the far end. Water cascades over his body, and he’s running his hands through his hair, head tilted back, completely comfortable in his nakedness.

Shane chooses the showerhead furthest from Ilya, drops his towel, and turns on the water. He keeps his eyes locked firmly on the tile wall in front of him.

“Hollander!” Ilya calls over the sound of running water. “You don’t have to stand so far away. I don’t bite.”

“I’m fine here.”

“You’re very tense. You should relax. We’re both men, both athletes. Is normal to shower together.”

“We’re not showering together. We’re showering in the same room. There’s a difference.”

Ilya laughs. “If you say so.”

Shane focuses on washing himself quickly, efficiently. In and out, that’s the plan. Just get clean and get gone.

“You have very nice body,” Ilya observes. “All those muscles. Very impressive definition. You work hard for it, yes?”

“Shut up, Rozanov.”

“I work hard too. Russian training is very intense. Lot of cardio, lot of strength work, lot of-” he makes a vague gesture Shane can see out of his peripheral vision. “Everything. You know what I mean?”

Shane doesn’t respond. He’s almost done. Just need to rinse his hair and-

“I think about our game lot,” Ilya continues. “At Prospect Cup. I think about you chasing me on ice, how hard you try to catch me. How close you get, but never close enough.” His voice drops lower. “I think about what would happen if you catch me. What you would do.”

Shane’s hands still in his hair. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Talking,” Ilya says innocently. “What you think I’m doing?”

Shane makes the mistake of glancing over. Ilya is looking right at him, water streaming down his body, and his hand is … oh God, his hand is wrapped around himself, moving in slow, deliberate strokes.

“Jesus Christ,” Shane breathes, snapping his eyes back to the wall.

“You can watch,” Ilya says, and his voice has gone rough. “I want you to watch.”

“I’m not watching. I’m leaving.” But Shane doesn’t move. He can’t move. He’s frozen, water beating down on him, trying desperately to focus on the tile grout, on counting the tiles, on literally anything except-

Ilya makes a sound. A low groan that goes straight to Shane’s groin, and fuck, no, this cannot be happening.

“You want to know what I think about?” Ilya’s voice is breathless now. “I think about you, Hollander. About beating you, about making you angry, about that look in your eyes when you hate me. I think about what else I could make you feel. What else I could make you do.”

Shane’s breathing is ragged. His eyes want to close, want to turn toward the sound of Ilya’s increasingly desperate noises. But he can’t. He won’t.

“Fuck,” Ilya gasps, and Shane can hear the wet sounds of his hand moving faster. “Hollander-”

Hearing his first name in Ilya’s accented voice, rough with pleasure, nearly breaks Shane completely. His hand moves to himself without conscious thought, but he catches himself at the last second and grabs the wall instead, fingers digging into tile.

Ilya’s groans get louder, less controlled. Shane can hear his breathing, quick and harsh over the sound of water. Can hear the exact moment Ilya comes — a strangled cry that echoes off the tile walls.

Shane risks a glance. Can’t help it. And he sees the evidence of Ilya’s release being washed away by the shower spray, sees Ilya leaning against the wall with one hand, his eyes closed, a satisfied smile on his face.

Then those hazel eyes open and lock onto Shane. “Your turn?”

“No,” Shane chokes out. He turns off his shower and practically runs out, grabbing his towel and wrapping it around himself with shaking hands.

He’s almost to his locker when he hears Ilya turn off his own shower. Hears footsteps approaching. Shane focuses on drying himself, on getting dressed as fast as humanly possible.

Ilya appears next to him, towel wrapped low around his hips, hair dripping, skin still damp. He’s close enough that Shane can feel the heat radiating off him.

“Hollander,” Ilya says softly.

“Don’t.”

“Room 1410,” Ilya whispers, his lips barely brushing Shane’s ear. “The Fairmont Royal York. Tonight, if you want.”

Then he pulls back, walks to his own locker, and starts getting dressed like he didn’t just jerk off in front of Shane and then proposition him.

Shane’s hands are shaking so badly he can barely button his jeans. His heart is pounding. His face is on fire. And he’s hard, so fucking hard it hurts, and he needs to get out of here before he does something insane.

He throws on his shirt, grabs his bag, and practically runs for the door.

“See you soon, Shane,” Ilya calls after him, voice warm with amusement.

Shane doesn’t respond. He just gets the hell out of there, out of the building, into his car. He sits in the parking lot for ten minutes, trying to catch his breath, trying to make sense of what just happened.

Room 1410. The Fairmont Royal York.

Ilya wants him to come to his hotel room.

Ilya just did that in front of him. While saying Shane’s name.

Shane drops his head onto the steering wheel and groans.

He fucking hates Ilya Rozanov.

He hates him so much.

He hates that Ilya gets under his skin so easily.

He hates that Ilya has no shame, no boundaries, no sense of normal human behavior.

He hates that he can’t stop thinking about the way Ilya looked in that shower.

He hates that part of him — a small, traitorous part — wants to go to that hotel room and find out what would happen.

But he won’t.

He can’t.

Because Ilya Rozanov is his rival, his enemy, the person he’s supposed to beat.

Not the person he’s supposed to …

He’s not going.

He’s definitely not going.

Room 1410.

“Fuck,” Shane says again.

He’s so fucked.

Chapter 6: room 1410

Shane sits in his car outside the Fairmont Royal York for twenty minutes, hands gripping the steering wheel, engine off.

This is insane. He should go home. He should forget this entire day happened. He should absolutely not walk into that hotel and go to Ilya Rozanov’s room.

But his body isn’t listening to his brain. His body got him here, drove him downtown, parked in the hotel garage. His body is apparently in control now, and his brain is just along for the ride.

“Fuck,” Shane mutters. He looks at himself in the rearview mirror. His face is flushed, his hair a mess from running his hands through it obsessively. He looks like exactly what he is — someone about to make a terrible decision.

He gets out of the car before he can change his mind.

The lobby is all marble and chandeliers, impossibly elegant. Shane keeps his head down as he walks to the elevators, praying no one recognizes him. The last thing he needs is someone tweeting about Shane Hollander entering a hotel at nine PM.

The elevator ride to the fourteenth floor feels like it takes forever. Shane watches the numbers tick up, his heart pounding harder with each floor. Nine. Ten. Eleven.

He could still turn back. Could hit the lobby button and leave. No one would ever know.

Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.

The doors open.

Shane steps out into a quiet hallway. Plush carpet, expensive artwork on the walls, only a few doors because these are obviously suites, not regular rooms. He finds 1410 at the end of the hall.

He stands there for a full minute, fist raised to knock, frozen.

What is he doing? What is he actually doing here?

Before he can answer that question or run away, the door opens.

Ilya stands there in low-slung joggers and nothing else, hair still damp from his shower, looking unfairly gorgeous. His expression shifts from surprised to delighted in an instant.

“Shane,” he says, and his accent makes the name sound exotic. “You came.”

“I-” Shane’s mouth is dry. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

“Yes, you do.” Ilya reaches out, grabs Shane’s wrist, and pulls him inside. “But is okay. We can pretend you don’t know. Is more fun that way.”

The suite is massive — floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Toronto, a living area with expensive furniture, a kitchenette, multiple doors that presumably lead to bedrooms. It’s nicer than Shane’s entire apartment.

“Is beautiful, yes?” Ilya says, gesturing around. “Russian Hockey Federation pay for it. They want me comfortable when I’m in Canada for appearances.” He closes the door and leans against it, studying Shane with those hazel eyes. “But I’m much more comfortable now that you’re here.”

“Ilya-” Shane starts, then stops. He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to articulate the storm of confusion and want and anger churning inside him.

“You want drink?” Ilya asks, pushing off the door and walking to the kitchenette. “I have water, juice, vodka-”

“I shouldn’t be here,” Shane blurts out.

Ilya pauses, turns to face him. “But you are here. So maybe you should be.” He moves closer, predatory and graceful. “You think about it, yes? After you leave. You think about me, about what I do in shower, about room number I give you.”

“I-” Shane can’t lie. Not when Ilya is looking at him like that. “Yes.”

“Good.” Ilya smiles, and it’s softer than his usual cocky grin. “I think about you too. I think about you all year, actually. Since draft. I wonder what you’re doing, how you’re training, if you still hate me so much.”

“I do hate you.”

“Mmm.” Ilya is right in front of Shane now, close enough to touch. “But you also want me. Both can be true, yes?”

Shane’s breathing is ragged. “I don’t know what I want.”

“Liar.” Ilya reaches up, runs his thumb along Shane’s jaw. The touch is gentle, questioning. “Your body knows. Your body bring you here. Maybe you listen to it instead of your head?”

“I’ve never-” Shane stops, his face burning. “I don’t—with guys, I mean. I haven’t-”

Understanding dawns in Ilya’s expression, followed by something tender. “Oh, Shane. Is your first time? With man?”

Shane nods, unable to speak.

“Then we go slow,” Ilya says softly. He takes Shane’s hand and leads him to the couch. “We sit, we talk. Nothing happens that you don’t want. Okay?”

They sit, and Shane is hyperaware of every point of contact — Ilya’s thigh against his, Ilya’s hand still holding his, the heat radiating between them.

“Tell me,” Ilya says. “When you know? That you like men?”

“I don’t—I’m not-” Shane struggles. “I’ve had girlfriends.”

“Okay. But you also like men. Or at least-” Ilya squeezes Shane’s hand. “You like me.”

“I hate you,” Shane insists, but it sounds weak even to his own ears.

“Yes, yes, you hate me,” Ilya agrees, amused. “But you also think I’m attractive. You also want to touch me, want me to touch you. Is confusing, I know. Want to hate someone and want to fuck them at the same time … is very confusing.”

The word fuck makes Shane’s stomach flip. “How are you so comfortable with this?”

Ilya shrugs. “I always know. Since I was young boy, maybe thirteen, fourteen. I like girls, yes, but I also like boys. In Russia, this is-” he makes a face. “Is not good. Is not accepted. But I don’t care. I know what I want, and I take it. Carefully, quietly, but I take it.”

“Don’t people find out? The media, your father-”

“My father know,” Ilya says simply. “He’s not happy, but he know. He tell me to be discreet, to never let it be public. So I’m very careful. Very private.” He turns to face Shane fully. “But I’m also honest. I don’t pretend to be something I’m not when I’m alone with someone.”

Shane’s mind is reeling. “Your father knows? The President of Russia?”

“Is complicated. He wants me to marry woman eventually, to have children, to be good Russian son for cameras. But in private-” Ilya shrugs again. “He looks other way. As long as I’m discreet.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “But is my life. I don’t choose my father, I don’t choose Russia. I only choose what I do with body I have, time I have.” He squeezes Shane’s hand again. “Right now, I choose to be here with you. If you want.”

Shane looks at their joined hands. Ilya’s fingers are long and elegant, calloused from years of hockey but somehow still graceful. “What if I’m not—what if I can’t-”

“Shane.” Ilya waits until Shane meets his eyes. “Is not test. Is not competition. Is just two people, alone, doing things that feel good. No judgment, no pressure. We do what you want, nothing more.”

“What do you want?” Shane asks.

Ilya’s smile turns wicked. “I want to make you forget your own name. I want to hear you make sounds you’ve never made before. I want to see you fall apart and know I’m the one who did it to you.” He leans closer. “But only if you want that too.”

Shane’s breath catches. “I don’t know how—I don’t know what to do-”

“So I teach you.” Ilya brings Shane’s hand to his lips, kisses his knuckles. “I’m very good teacher.”

“You’re so fucking arrogant,” Shane says, but there’s no heat in it.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees cheerfully. “But I have reason to be. Now-” he stands, pulling Shane up with him. “You want this, yes? You want me to touch you, to make you feel good?”

Shane nods, not trusting his voice.

“Say it,” Ilya demands softly. “I need to hear you say yes.”

“Yes,” Shane whispers. “Yes, I want this.”

“Good.” Ilya cups Shane’s face in both hands. “Then kiss me.”

Shane has kissed people before — girlfriends, drunken hookups at parties. But he’s never kissed a man. Never kissed someone with stubble on their jaw and muscles in their shoulders and an accent in their voice.

He closes the distance between them and presses his lips to Ilya’s.

Ilya makes a satisfied sound and immediately deepens the kiss, his mouth opening, tongue teasing at Shane’s lips. Shane opens for him, and suddenly they’re really kissing — hot and messy and desperate. Ilya tastes like mint toothpaste and something else, something uniquely him.

Shane’s hands find Ilya’s bare waist, and the feel of smooth skin over hard muscle makes him moan into the kiss. Ilya grins against his mouth.

“You like that?” Ilya murmurs. “You like touching me?”

“Shut up,” Shane says, but he doesn’t stop touching. His hands map Ilya’s torso — the ridges of his abs, the sharp jut of his hipbones, the smooth plane of his chest.

“Is not fair,” Ilya says, breaking the kiss to tug at Shane’s shirt. “You have too many clothes. Off.”

Shane lets Ilya pull his shirt over his head, suddenly self-conscious. He’s in good shape — great shape, actually — but standing half-naked in front of Ilya feels exposing in a way he’s never experienced.

“Fuck,” Ilya breathes, his hands immediately on Shane’s chest. “Look at you. You’re beautiful, Shane.”

“I’m not—guys aren’t beautiful-”

“You are,” Ilya insists. He leans in and kisses Shane’s collarbone, his neck, his jaw. “You’re so beautiful, and you don’t even know it. Drive me crazy all year, thinking about what you look like under your clothes. Reality is better than imagination.”

Shane’s hands tangle in Ilya’s hair as Ilya kisses down his chest. “Ilya-”

“Yes?” Ilya looks up at him, eyes dark with want. “Tell me what you need.”

“I don’t know,” Shane admits. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Then let me do it,” Ilya says. He sinks to his knees in front of Shane, and oh fuck, that image is going to be burned into Shane’s brain forever. “I take care of you. Okay?”

Shane nods, unable to form words.

Ilya’s hands go to Shane’s belt, moving slowly, giving Shane time to object. When Shane doesn’t, Ilya unbuckles the belt and unbuttons Shane’s jeans. He looks up again, checking.

“Yes?” He asks.

“Yes,” Shane confirms, his voice shaking.

Ilya pulls down Shane’s jeans and briefs in one smooth motion, and then Shane is naked from the waist down, exposed and hard and absolutely mortified.

“Don’t,” Shane says when Ilya just stares. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Ilya’s voice is rough. “Like I want to put my mouth on you? Like I want to make you come so hard you forget every person you’ve been with before?” He runs his hands up Shane’s thighs. “Because I do want that. Very much.”

“Fuck,” Shane breathes.

“Yes, please.” Ilya grins up at him, cocky even now. Then he leans in and-

Shane’s knees nearly buckle. He’s had this done to him before, but never like this. Never with this much enthusiasm, this much obvious enjoyment. Ilya is making sounds like Shane is the best thing he’s ever tasted, and his hands grip Shane’s hips to hold him steady.

“Holy shit,” Shane gasps, one hand flying to Ilya’s hair. “Ilya, fuck-”

Ilya pulls off just long enough to say, “You taste so good, Shane. Want to do this for hours. Want to see how many times I can make you come.”

Then he goes back to it, and Shane loses the ability to think. His hips want to move, want to thrust, but Ilya’s hands keep him still, controlled. It’s maddening. It’s perfect. It’s too much and not enough all at once.

“Please,” Shane hears himself say. “Please, I need-”

Ilya takes him deeper, and Shane sees stars. His fingers tighten in Ilya’s hair, probably too hard, but Ilya makes an encouraging sound. Apparently he likes it rough.

The tension builds faster than Shane expects. He’s not going to last, not even close, and he tries to warn Ilya. “I’m gonna—I’m close-”

But Ilya doesn’t pull away. He does something with his tongue that makes Shane’s vision white out, and then Shane is coming, hard, gasping Ilya’s name like a prayer.

When Shane comes back to himself, he’s slumped against the wall, legs shaking. Ilya is standing now, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking incredibly pleased with himself.

“That was-” Shane can’t finish the sentence. Can’t put into words what that was.

“Is just beginning,” Ilya says. He kisses Shane, slow and thorough, and Shane can taste himself on Ilya’s tongue. It should be weird, but it’s not. It’s hot. “Bedroom?”

Shane nods, and Ilya takes his hand again, leads him through one of the doors into a massive bedroom dominated by a king-sized bed. The curtains are open, Toronto glittering below them, but Ilya doesn’t bother closing them.

“Sit,” Ilya instructs, pointing at the bed.

Shane sits, still naked, still dazed. Ilya stands in front of him, and Shane realizes with a jolt that Ilya still has his joggers on. That seems unfair somehow.

“Can I-” Shane reaches for the waistband of Ilya’s pants.

“You want to touch me?” Ilya asks, and there’s something vulnerable in his voice now. “You want to see me?”

“Yes.”

Ilya helps him remove the joggers, and then they’re both naked, and Shane can’t help but stare. Ilya is hard, obviously affected by what they just did, and he’s-

“You’re staring again,” Ilya says, amused.

“You’re-” Shane doesn’t know how to finish that sentence either.

“I know,” Ilya says with false modesty that makes Shane laugh despite everything. “Is curse. Being so attractive. Very difficult.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane says, but he’s smiling.

“Yes, but you like it.” Ilya pushes Shane back onto the bed and climbs over him. “You like when I’m cocky. You like when I’m arrogant. Admit it.”

“Never,” Shane says.

“Then I make you admit it,” Ilya promises. He kisses down Shane’s chest, his stomach, mapping every inch of skin with his mouth. “I make you admit many things tonight.”

Shane’s already half-hard again, which should be impossible but apparently isn’t when Ilya Rozanov is involved. Ilya notices, because of course he does, and grins.

“Already?” He teases. “We just start, Shane. I’m not done with you yet.”

“What do you-” Shane starts, but Ilya is moving lower, and oh. Oh.

“Tell me if I should stop,” Ilya says, and then he’s doing things with his mouth that Shane didn’t even know were possible.

Shane threads his fingers through Ilya’s hair again, gentler this time. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

“Good,” Ilya murmurs. “Because I’m having too much fun.”

The second time is slower, more deliberate. Ilya takes his time, seeming to enjoy every sound Shane makes, every way Shane’s body responds to him. He’s thorough and attentive and frustratingly good at this.

“Can I-” Shane tugs at Ilya’s hair. “Let me—you haven’t-”

Ilya pulls off, looking up at Shane with dark eyes. “You want to touch me?”

“Yes.”

“You sure? You don’t have to-”

“I want to,” Shane insists. “Show me how.”

Ilya’s expression softens into something almost tender. “Okay. Yes. I show you.”

They rearrange, and then Shane is the one between Ilya’s legs, nervous and uncertain and desperately wanting to do this right. Ilya guides him with gentle hands and soft encouragement.

“Just like that, yes. You can—mmm, yes, exactly like that.”

Shane is clumsy at first, unsure, but Ilya doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seems to enjoy Shane’s inexperience, the way Shane looks up at him for reassurance, the way Shane’s clearly trying so hard to make it good.

“Shane,” Ilya gasps, his accent thicker now. “Your mouth, fuck, you’re so good, so perfect-”

The praise makes something warm bloom in Shane’s chest. He wants to hear more of it, wants to make Ilya fall apart the way Ilya did to him. He’s competitive even now, even here, which would be funny if he wasn’t so focused.

Ilya comes with Shane’s name on his lips, his fingers twisted in Shane’s hair, his whole body going taut before relaxing. Shane pulls back, wiping his mouth, feeling absurdly proud of himself.

“Come here,” Ilya demands, and when Shane crawls up the bed, Ilya pulls him into a deep kiss. “You’re dangerous,” he murmurs against Shane’s lips. “You know that? So dangerous.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Shane admits.

“Exactly. Is dangerous.” Ilya pulls Shane down to lie beside him. “You do everything like is competition. Like you have to win. Even this.”

“That’s not-”

“Is okay,” Ilya interrupts. “I like it. I like everything about you, even things I shouldn’t.”

They lie there for a while, catching their breath. Shane should feel awkward, should feel weird about what they just did. But Ilya’s hand is tracing patterns on his chest, and it feels good. Natural.

“What happens now?” Shane asks quietly.

“Now?” Ilya props himself up on one elbow to look at Shane. “Now you stay, or you go. Up to you.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to stay,” Ilya says honestly. “I want to fall asleep with you here and wake up with you still here. But I know is complicated. I know you still hate me, or think you do.”

“I do hate you,” Shane says, but it sounds hollow.

“Mmm.” Ilya leans down and kisses him softly. “Keep telling yourself that. Maybe eventually it be true.”

Shane closes his eyes. He should leave. Should get dressed and walk out and pretend this never happened. Should go back to hating Ilya in a simple, uncomplicated way.

But Ilya’s hand is still on his chest, and the bed is comfortable, and Shane is exhausted in the best possible way.

“I’ll stay for a little while,” he hears himself say.

“Good,” Ilya says, sounding pleased. He pulls the covers over them both. “Is decided then. You stay.”

They lie in silence for a few minutes. Shane’s mind is racing, trying to process everything that just happened, everything it means.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Shane says finally. “On the ice, we’re still rivals. I’m still going to try to beat you every time we play.”

“Of course,” Ilya agrees easily. “I would be disappointed if you didn’t.” He pauses. “But maybe off the ice, we can be … something else.”

“What else?”

“I don’t know yet,” Ilya admits. “But we figure it out. Yes?”

Shane doesn’t answer. Can’t answer. Because he doesn’t know what this is or what it means or how to reconcile the Ilya who infuriates him with the Ilya who just took him apart so thoroughly.

He definitely still hates Ilya Rozanov.

Mostly.

Sort of.

He’s trying very hard to convince himself.

But lying here in the dark, with Ilya’s breathing starting to even out into sleep beside him, Shane has to admit the truth:

It’s getting harder to hate someone when you know what they taste like.

When you know how they sound when they come.

When they look at you like you’re something precious instead of just competition.

Shane stares at the ceiling and tries not to think about how much trouble he’s in.

Tries not to think about the fact that training camp starts in two months, and he and Ilya will be on opposite teams, in the same division, playing each other four times a year.

Tries not to think about what his parents would say, what his teammates would think, what the media would do with this if they ever found out.

Mostly, he tries not to think about how much he wants to stay exactly where he is.

“Stop thinking so loud,” Ilya mumbles, already half-asleep. “Is very annoying.”

“Shut up,” Shane says, but there’s no heat in it.

“Make me,” Ilya challenges.

So Shane does — with a kiss that starts soft but quickly turns heated, until they’re both breathing hard again, until Ilya is smiling against his mouth.

“Again?” Ilya asks, amused and aroused in equal measure.

“Apparently,” Shane says.

“Good,” Ilya says, rolling them so he’s on top. “Is going to be very long night.”

And it is.

Shane leaves at dawn, when the sky is just starting to lighten over Toronto. Ilya walks him to the door, still naked and completely unselfconscious about it.

“See you in Boston,” Ilya says. “Preseason, yes?”

“Yeah,” Shane confirms. “End of September.”

“I look forward to it.” Ilya leans in and kisses him, slow and thorough. “Maybe we make this regular thing. When we’re in same city.”

“Maybe,” Shane says, non-committal.

“You still hate me?” Ilya asks, grinning.

“Absolutely,” Shane lies.

“Good,” Ilya says. “Don’t change. I like you exactly like this — angry and confused and wanting me anyway.”

Shane leaves before he can do something stupid like agree to that.

The drive home is surreal. His body aches in new places. His mouth feels swollen. He can still smell Ilya’s cologne on his skin.

He definitely still hates Ilya Rozanov.

He has to.

Because if he doesn’t, if he admits to feeling anything else, then everything gets infinitely more complicated.

So he hates him.

He’ll keep hating him.

Right up until the next time he finds himself at Ilya’s door, which Shane is trying very hard not to think about.

But as he pulls into his apartment parking lot, his phone buzzes with a text.

Unknown number: Already missing me, Hollander?

Shane stares at the message for a long moment. He should delete it. Should block the number. Should-

How did you get my number? He types back.

Unknown number: I have my ways. Save it. For next time.

Shane: There won’t be a next time.

Unknown number: Liar ;)

Shane does save the number.

But he saves it as “DO NOT ANSWER” because he’s still in denial.

And because he definitely, absolutely, completely still hates Ilya Rozanov.

Mostly.

Sort of.

Maybe.

Fuck.

Chapter 7: preseason

Shane is supposed to be doing squats. That’s what his training plan says — three sets of eight at 315 pounds, focusing on form and explosive power. But he’s been standing in front of the squat rack for five minutes, phone in hand, completely distracted.

On the screen, Ilya Rozanov is shirtless.

It’s from the Boston Bears’ training camp — one of those behind-the-scenes media access things teams do now. Ilya just finished some kind of conditioning test, and he’s standing there in just shorts and skates, chest heaving, skin gleaming with sweat, answering questions from a cluster of reporters.

Shane should turn it off. Should put his phone away and focus on his workout. But he can’t stop watching.

“Ilya,” one reporter calls out. “You told management you’d score forty goals this season as a rookie. That’s a bold prediction. Do you still stand by that number?”

Ilya’s face shifts into that cocky grin Shane knows too well. “I never said forty goals,” he says, and even through the phone’s tinny speakers, his accent makes Shane’s stomach flip. “Is low. Liar told you that.”

He pauses for dramatic effect, and Shane can see him playing to the cameras, loving every second of the attention.

“I said fifty.”

The reporters erupt in questions, but Ilya just winks at the camera and walks away, leaving chaos in his wake.

Shane’s grip tightens on his phone. Fifty fucking goals. As a rookie. The arrogance is breathtaking.

And Shane is hard. Right here in the Montreal Voyageurs’ training facility, watching Ilya Rozanov be a cocky asshole, and he’s fucking hard.

“Hollander!” His trainer, Anthony, appears beside him. “You going to actually lift those weights, or you just going to stare at your phone all day?”

Shane fumbles with his phone, nearly dropping it. “Sorry. Just checking something.”

“Uh-huh.” Anthony eyes him knowingly. “Let me guess. Watching Boston training camp coverage? Specifically, watching number eighty-one?”

“It’s—I’m doing scouting. Learning his patterns.”

“Right. Scouting.” Anthony doesn’t look convinced. “Look, kid, I get it. He’s your rival. The whole league is talking about the Hollander-Rozanov rivalry. But you can’t let him get in your head before the season even starts.”

If only that were the problem, Shane thinks. If only Ilya were just in his head and not also … everywhere else.

“I’m fine,” Shane lies. “Let’s do these squats.”

He manages to get through his workout, but his mind keeps drifting back to that video. To the way Ilya looked — confident and powerful and completely in control. To that wink at the end, like he knew exactly who’d be watching.

After the workout, Shane showers and checks his phone again. The video already has two million views. Social media is going insane.

Rozanov is unreal

This kid is going to be a PROBLEM

50 goals??? Okay Mr. Cocky

Hollander punching air rn

That last comment makes Shane’s jaw clench. But the user isn’t wrong. Shane is absolutely punching air. Or he would be, if he weren’t so busy being inappropriately turned on by his supposed rival.

His phone buzzes with a text.

DO NOT ANSWER: Did you see? I’m very humble :)

Shane stares at the message. He shouldn’t respond. Hasn’t responded to any of Ilya’s texts since Toronto, despite getting at least one a day. Sometimes they’re innocent — how is training? or very hot in Boston today — and sometimes they’re decidedly not innocent — thinking about your mouth or miss the sounds you make.

Shane has ignored them all.

But today, he can’t help himself.

Shane: Fifty goals is insane. You’ll be lucky to hit thirty.

The response is immediate: Want to make bet? Loser has to do whatever winner wants.

Shane: No.

DO NOT ANSWER: Scared?

Shane: Of you? Never.

DO NOT ANSWER: Liar. You’re scared of many things. Mostly, you’re scared of how much you want me.

Shane’s face burns. He shoves his phone in his bag and leaves the facility, trying very hard not to think about how right Ilya is.

Five days later, Shane stands in the tunnel at TD Garden in Boston, waiting for the preseason game to start. It’s just a preseason game. Doesn’t count for anything. Most of the starters won’t play more than a period. It’s basically a scrimmage with fans watching.

But Shane’s heart is pounding like it’s Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals.

“You good?” Asks Pierre Brodeur, one of the Voyageurs’ veteran wingers. He’s been assigned to Shane’s line for the preseason, helping ease the rookie into NHL play. “You look like you’re about to throw up.”

“I’m fine,” Shane says. “Just ready to play.”

“It’s preseason, kid. Relax. Save the intensity for October.”

But Shane can’t relax. Because somewhere in this building, Ilya Rozanov is putting on a Boston Bears jersey, getting ready to step on NHL ice for the first time.

And Shane is going to be facing him.

The crowd is electric despite it being preseason. Boston fans are passionate, and they’re here to see their shiny new first overall pick. When the Bears take the ice for warm-ups, the roar is deafening.

Shane watches from the Voyageurs bench as Ilya emerges from the tunnel. Number eighty-one, of course. He does a lap, and the crowd chants his name.

“I-LYA! I-LYA! I-LYA!”

He eats it up, waving to fans, tapping his stick on the glass. When he reaches center ice, he looks directly at the Voyageurs bench.

Directly at Shane.

And he grins.

“Fuck,” Shane mutters.

“What was that?” Pierre asks.

“Nothing. Let’s warm up.”

During warm-ups, they circle each other like predators. Shane takes shots on his goalie but tracks Ilya’s position constantly. Ilya does the same, and every time their paths cross, the air feels charged.

“Hollander,” Ilya calls as he skates past. “Nice arena, yes? But I think I like it better when I’m winning here.”

“Game hasn’t started yet, Rozanov.”

“But I already win,” Ilya says, skating backward now to face Shane. “Because I’m in your head. Have been since July. Since Toronto. Since-”

“Shut up,” Shane hisses, glancing around to make sure no one can hear.

Ilya just laughs and skates away.

The national anthems feel like they take forever. Shane stands at the blue line, trying to focus, but he’s intensely aware of Ilya standing at the other blue line, smirking at the camera as The Star Spangled Banner plays.

Finally, it’s time.

The starting lineups are announced. Shane is starting at center for Montreal, flanked by Hayden and Pierre. For Boston, Ilya is centering the first line with two veteran wingers, clearly being eased into the system.

They line up for the opening faceoff.

“Miss me?” Ilya asks, settling into his stance.

“Not even a little,” Shane lies.

“Your face says different. You look-” Ilya makes a show of studying Shane. “Tense. Maybe you need to relax. I know good way to relax. I show you after game, yes?”

The referee drops the puck before Shane can respond.

Shane wins the faceoff cleanly, snapping it back to his defenseman. But Ilya is immediately on him, stick checking, body positioning perfect, and they’re battling for space in the neutral zone.

“Still so strong,” Ilya observes as Shane uses his body to shield the puck. “I remember how strong. How you feel against me.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Shane grunts, fighting for position.

“Playing hockey. What you think I’m doing?”

But it doesn’t feel like preseason hockey. It feels like they’re trying to kill each other. Every shift, they’re going at it — hard checks, aggressive stick work, constantly chirping. Shane finishes every hit. Ilya gives as good as he gets.

Six minutes into the first period, Shane has the puck along the boards. Ilya comes in for the check, and they collide hard. Shane gets an elbow up — not dirty, but physical — and Ilya slams him into the glass.

For a moment, they’re pressed together, both fighting for the puck, and Ilya says, low enough that only Shane can hear: “You hit harder than you fuck. Should be other way around.”

Shane nearly loses his grip on his stick. “Are you insane?”

“Maybe.” Ilya finally gets the puck and escapes. “But you like it!”

Shane chases him, and they’re both flying now, and this is — this is what hockey is supposed to feel like. Electric. Alive. Every nerve ending firing at once.

They play like they hate each other. Maybe they do. But there’s something else underneath it, something that makes every collision feel like foreplay and every near-miss feel like a tease.

Their coaches start to notice.

“Hollander!” Coach Theriault yells after Shane takes a penalty for roughing — specifically, for roughing Ilya after the whistle. “What the hell are you doing? It’s preseason!”

“Sorry, Coach,” Shane says, but he’s not sorry at all.

From the Bears bench, he hears the Boston coach yelling at Ilya in almost identical terms. Ilya just shrugs, unrepentant.

In the penalty box, they end up sitting next to each other, separated by the glass partition.

“You play good,” Ilya says through the glass. “Very intense. Very angry. I like angry Shane.”

“I’m going to make you regret that penalty,” Shane says.

“Promise?” Ilya’s eyes are dancing with amusement.

The period ends 1-1. Both teams retreat to their locker rooms, and Shane’s teammates are buzzing.

“What the fuck was that?” Asks Pierre, laughing. “I’ve never seen preseason hockey played like that. You two were ready to murder each other.”

“He’s an asshole,” Shane says, gulping water.

“Yeah, but he’s a talented asshole. Did you see that goal? Fucking beautiful.”

Shane had seen it. Ilya had picked up the puck at center ice, deked around two defenders, and sniped it top corner. It was, objectively, a gorgeous goal. Shane had wanted to punch something.

“We need to shut him down,” Shane says to his coach. “Every shift, I want to be on him.”

“It’s preseason,” his coach reminds him. “We’re trying to evaluate players, work on systems-”

“I want to be on him,” Shane repeats, and something in his tone makes the coach nod.

“Fine. But don’t get yourself hurt over a meaningless game.”

The second period is more of the same. Shane and Ilya are matched up every shift, going at each other like it’s the playoffs.

“You’ve gotten stronger,” Ilya observes as they fight for the puck in the corner. They’re pressed chest to chest, sticks locked together, legs straining.

“You’ve gotten slower,” Shane lies.

“Mmm, no. You just want me to be slower.” Ilya leans in closer, his breath hot against Shane’s ear. “I know what you want, though. What you really want.”

“Fuck off.”

“So hostile. Is okay. I like when you’re mean to me.” Ilya somehow manages to get leverage and steals the puck. As he skates away, he calls back, “Check your phone after game, yes?”

Shane stands there, confused and frustrated and so turned on he could die.

The rest of the period is a blur. Montreal scores to take the lead. Boston ties it up — Ilya with an assist this time, a perfect pass that Shane has to grudgingly admit was brilliant. They’re both playing over twenty minutes, way more than any rookie should in a preseason game.

Third period, things get chippy. After a whistle, Shane and Ilya end up face-to-face, gloves dropped, ready to fight.

“You want to go?” Shane asks.

“Always,” Ilya responds. “But not here. Not now. Later. In private.”

The linesmen separate them before any punches are thrown, but the damage is done. Both teams are fired up now. The benches are chirping at each other. The fans are going crazy.

With two minutes left in regulation and the score tied 3-3, Shane nearly scores. He’s in alone on a breakaway, and he can feel Ilya chasing him, can hear Ilya’s breathing behind him. He makes his move, but the Boston goalie makes a desperation save.

“So close,” Ilya says, skating past as play resets. “But close doesn’t count, yes?”

“Fuck you,” Shane says.

“Later,” Ilya promises with a wink.

The game ends tied, which means a shootout. In preseason, they do shootouts to practice the skill, even though they’re largely meaningless.

But nothing with Ilya feels meaningless.

Shane is sent out second for Montreal. He skates to center ice, takes the puck, and approaches the Boston goalie. He can feel twenty thousand people watching him. Can feel Ilya’s eyes on him from the Boston bench.

He makes his move — a quick deke to the backhand — and scores.

The Voyageurs bench erupts. Shane skates back, trying to keep his celebration muted. It’s just preseason. It doesn’t matter.

Except it does.

Ilya is up next for Boston. He grabs the puck and skates toward center ice with that fluid grace that makes Shane’s chest tight. The crowd is screaming for him.

Ilya approaches the Montreal goalie, and he does something Shane has only seen in highlight reels — a move that involves flipping the puck onto his stick blade and sliding it past the goalie while it’s still in the air. The kind of move that should be illegal because it’s so disrespectful.

It’s the kind of move that would make Pavel Datsyuk proud.

Goal.

Ilya doesn’t just celebrate. He skates past the goalie and pats him on the head. Literally pats the Montreal goalie on the head like he’s a dog.

The Montreal bench loses their minds. Players are yelling, ready to jump over the boards. The referees have to step in to prevent a brawl.

Shane is seeing red. He wants to skate over there and punch Ilya in his stupidly handsome face.

Ilya just grins and blows a kiss toward the Voyageurs bench. Shane isn’t sure if it’s meant for the team or for him specifically, but either way, he wants to die.

The shootout continues. And continues. And continues.

It goes to round twelve before Montreal finally wins it. By the end, both teams are exhausted, and it’s almost one in the morning.

In the handshake line, Shane and Ilya barely look at each other.

“Good game,” Ilya says, his hand lingering in Shane’s maybe a second too long.

“You’re an asshole,” Shane responds.

“I know. Is part of my charm.” Ilya squeezes Shane’s hand once before letting go. “Don’t forget. Check your phone.”

Back in the visitors locker room, the Voyageurs are celebrating like they won the Stanley Cup, even though it was just a preseason shootout win.

“Did you see Rozanov pat Draper’s head?” J.J. Boiziau is saying, still fired up. “That kid has balls, I’ll give him that.”

“He’s going to get his face punched in if he keeps playing like that,” Pierre says. “Someone’s going to make him pay.”

Shane says nothing. He’s exhausted — physically and emotionally. Every muscle aches. His brain feels like mush.

He showers quickly, gets dressed, and then, when most of his teammates are distracted, he checks his phone.

Sure enough, there’s a message from DO NOT ANSWER.

DO NOT ANSWER: You played so good tonight. So angry, so intense. Made me very … distracted.

Another message: I have apartment in Boston now. Very nice, very private. You should come see it.

And then an address in the Back Bay, followed by: Door code is 8118. Let yourself in. I’ll be waiting 🍆😉

Shane stares at the eggplant emoji. The fucking audacity.

He should not go. He should get on the team bus, go back to the hotel with his teammates, and forget Ilya Rozanov exists.

But his fingers are already typing: What time?

DO NOT ANSWER: Now. Come now. I’m very … eager to see you.

Shane looks around the locker room. Most of his teammates are still in various stages of undress, telling war stories from the game. His absence won’t be noticed for at least an hour, maybe more.

“Hey,” he says to Hayden. “I’m going to grab food. I’ll meet you guys at the hotel.”

“You sure? We’re all going out-”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Just need some time to decompress.”

Hayden shrugs. “Your loss. But be back before curfew. Coach will have your ass.”

Shane nods and slips out of the locker room. His heart is pounding as he makes his way out of TD Garden and hails a cab.

He gives the driver the address, and as they navigate through Boston’s streets, Shane tries to convince himself he’s making a rational decision.

It’s just physical. Just stress relief. Just two people who happen to be attracted to each other finding a mutually beneficial arrangement.

It doesn’t mean anything.

It can’t mean anything.

Because Ilya Rozanov is still his rival. Still the person he needs to beat. Still represents everything Shane is supposed to be fighting against.

But as the cab pulls up to a sleek apartment building in Back Bay, Shane can’t remember why any of that matters.

All he knows is that Ilya is upstairs, waiting.

And Shane is done pretending he doesn’t want to see him.

He pays the driver, walks into the building, and punches in the door code.

Shane takes the elevator to the eighth floor, finds apartment 806, and stands outside the door for a long moment.

Last chance to turn back.

Last chance to be smart about this.

But then the door opens, and Ilya is standing there in joggers and a t-shirt, hair still damp from his own shower, and he’s smiling that smile that makes Shane’s brain short-circuit.

“Took you long enough,” Ilya says. “I was starting to think maybe you chicken out.”

“I should have,” Shane says.

“But you didn’t.” Ilya reaches out and pulls Shane inside. “Because you want this. Want me. Even though you hate me.”

“Especially because I hate you,” Shane corrects.

“Even better,” Ilya says, and pulls Shane into a kiss that tastes like victory and feels like losing and is somehow exactly what Shane needs.

The door closes behind them, and whatever happens next …

Well, that’s a problem for future Shane to worry about.

Right now, all that matters is Ilya’s mouth on his and the way Ilya’s hands are already pulling at Shane’s clothes and the fact that Shane came here, despite everything, because he couldn’t stay away.

He’s so fucked.

In every possible sense of the word.

Chapter 8: surrender

The door clicks shut behind Shane, and suddenly the reality of what he’s doing hits him. He’s in Ilya Rozanov’s apartment. In Boston. After a game where they nearly killed each other on the ice.

And Ilya is kissing him like he’s been starving for it.

“Wait,” Shane says, breaking the kiss. He’s breathing hard, his hands somehow already tangled in Ilya’s shirt. “Wait, I-”

“You what?” Ilya’s eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. “You want to leave? You want to pretend you don’t want this?”

“No, I just-” Shane looks around, taking in the apartment properly for the first time. It’s sleek and modern, all clean lines and expensive furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city. “Nice place.”

Ilya grins. “You come here to discuss my interior decorating?”

“No, I—fuck, I don’t know why I came here.”

“Liar.” Ilya backs Shane against the door, caging him in with his arms. “You know exactly why. Same reason I text you address. Same reason you’ve been thinking about me since Toronto. Since before Toronto.”

“I hate you,” Shane says, but it sounds weak even to his own ears.

“I know.” Ilya leans in, brushes his lips against Shane’s jaw. “But you also want me to fuck you. Don’t you?”

Shane’s breath catches. They haven’t done that yet — in Toronto, it was just mouths, just hands. But the way Ilya says it, so direct and confident, makes Shane’s entire body respond.

“I’ve never-” Shane starts.

“I know,” Ilya says softly. He pulls back to look at Shane properly. “I know is your first time. So we go slow. We do only what you want. But Shane-” his voice drops lower. “I want to make you feel so good. Want to take you apart piece by piece until you forget your own name. Want to hear you beg for me.”

“I don’t beg,” Shane says automatically.

Ilya’s smile is wicked. “We’ll see about that.” He takes Shane’s hand and leads him further into the apartment, past the living room and into a bedroom that’s dominated by a massive bed. “But first, we talk. Rules, boundaries, what you like, what you don’t like.”

Shane blinks. He wasn’t expecting this — the thoughtfulness, the communication. It throws him off balance. “I thought we’d just … you know.”

“Just what? Just fuck?” Ilya sits on the edge of the bed, pulling Shane to stand between his legs. “No. Is not how this works. Especially not for your first time. So we talk.” His hands rest on Shane’s hips, thumbs stroking small circles. “Tell me what you want.”

“I don’t know what I want,” Shane admits. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Okay. Then tell me what you think about. When you touch yourself, when you think about me — what do you imagine?”

Shane’s face burns. “I don’t-”

“Shane.” Ilya’s voice is firm now. “Honesty. I need honesty or we stop right now.”

Shane takes a shaky breath. “I think about Toronto. About your mouth. About how it felt when you-” He can’t finish the sentence.

“When I what?” Ilya prompts. “Say it.”

“When you made me come,” Shane forces out.

“Good.” Ilya’s smile is approving. “What else?”

“I think about-” Shane closes his eyes, unable to look at Ilya while saying this. “I think about what it would feel like. To have you inside me. To let you—to let you do whatever you want.”

Ilya makes a low sound in his throat. “You think about being submissive? About giving me control?”

Shane nods, still not opening his eyes.

“Look at me,” Ilya commands, and Shane’s eyes snap open automatically. “Good boy. See? You already know how to take orders.”

The praise makes something warm bloom in Shane’s chest. He shouldn’t like being called a good boy — it should be demeaning — but from Ilya’s mouth, it sounds like the highest compliment.

“I’ve never-” Shane tries again. “I’m not usually like this. I’m always the one in control. I don’t understand why with you, I want-”

“You want to let go,” Ilya finishes. “You want someone else to make decisions, to take control, so you don’t have to think. So you can just feel.” His hands tighten on Shane’s hips. “Is okay. Is more than okay. I take very good care of you. But you need to trust me.”

“I don’t trust you,” Shane says immediately.

Ilya laughs. “Then is good you’re very bad liar. Your body trusts me, even if your brain doesn’t want to.” He stands, and suddenly they’re pressed together, and Shane can feel that Ilya is hard. “So here’s what we do. We start slow. I’m going to kiss you, undress you, touch you. And you’re going to let me. You’re going to be good for me and take what I give you. And if at any point you want to stop, you say red. Like a stoplight. Red means stop immediately, no questions. Yellow means slow down, I need a break. Green means keep going. Understand?”

Shane nods.

“Say it,” Ilya demands.

“I understand. Red, yellow, green.”

“Good.” Ilya cups Shane’s face in both hands. “What’s your color now?”

“Green,” Shane breathes. “So fucking green.”

Ilya kisses him then, deep and thorough, and Shane melts into it. He’s always been competitive, always fighting for dominance in every aspect of his life. But here, now, with Ilya’s hands in his hair and Ilya’s tongue in his mouth, Shane feels something unlock inside him.

The freedom of letting someone else lead.

Ilya breaks the kiss and starts undressing Shane with deliberate slowness. First the jacket, then the shirt, taking time to run his hands over every inch of newly exposed skin. Shane’s chest, his shoulders, his arms.

“So strong,” Ilya murmurs appreciatively. “So beautiful. And all for me tonight.”

He works on Shane’s pants next, sinking to his knees to pull them down along with his briefs. Shane steps out of them, and then he’s completely naked while Ilya is fully dressed, and the power dynamic makes Shane’s head spin.

“On the bed,” Ilya says. “On your back.”

Shane obeys, climbing onto the bed and lying down. The sheets are cool against his heated skin. Ilya stands at the foot of the bed, just looking at him, and Shane has never felt more exposed in his life.

“Color?” Ilya asks.

“Green.”

“Good.” Ilya starts removing his own clothes, and Shane watches hungrily. The shirt comes off first, revealing that lean, muscled torso. Then the joggers and briefs, and then Ilya is naked too, and Shane’s mouth goes dry.

Ilya crawls onto the bed, predatory and graceful. He settles between Shane’s legs, and the feel of their bodies pressed together, skin to skin, makes Shane gasp.

“I’m going to open you up,” Ilya says, his accent thick. “Make you ready for me. Is going to feel strange at first, maybe a little uncomfortable. But then-” he kisses Shane’s neck. “Then is going to feel so good you’ll wonder why you waited so long.”

“Okay,” Shane breathes.

“I need more than okay. Tell me what you want.”

“I want-” Shane’s voice is shaky. “I want you to fuck me. Please.”

“There’s that word,” Ilya says, delighted. “I knew you’d beg eventually.”

“Shut up,” Shane says, but there’s no heat in it.

Ilya reaches for the nightstand and pulls out supplies — lube, condoms. Shane tries not to think about why Ilya has these things so readily available. Tries not to wonder how many other people Ilya has brought here.

“Just you,” Ilya says, reading Shane’s expression. “I buy these hoping you’d come. Hoping you’d let me do this. So is just for you.”

The possessiveness in his tone makes Shane shiver. “Ilya-”

“Shh. Let me take care of you.” Ilya opens the lube, warming it between his fingers. “Relax for me.”

Shane tries, but his body is wound tight with anticipation and nerves. Ilya starts slow, pressing kisses to Shane’s chest, his stomach, anywhere he can reach while his hand moves lower.

“Breathe,” Ilya instructs. “Just breathe and feel.”

The first touch is strange — not bad, just foreign. Shane tenses automatically.

“Relax,” Ilya murmurs. “Trust me. Color?”

“Green,” Shane manages. “Just—it’s weird.”

“I know. But you’ll get used to it. Just focus on me, yes? Focus on my voice, on how good I’m going to make you feel.”

Ilya works patiently, talking Shane through every sensation, praising him constantly. “So good for me. Taking this so well. You’re perfect, Shane. So perfect.”

And slowly, impossibly, it starts to feel good. Really good. Shane’s body adjusts, accepts, and then Ilya does something that makes stars explode behind Shane’s eyes.

“Fuck!” Shane arches off the bed. “What was—how did you-”

“Found it,” Ilya says, smug. “Your prostate. Feels good, yes?”

“Again,” Shane demands. “Do it again.”

“So bossy,” Ilya teases, but he obliges. And again. And again, until Shane is writhing on the bed, completely lost to sensation.

“Please,” Shane hears himself say. “Please, Ilya, I need-”

“What do you need?” Ilya’s voice is rough now, his control clearly slipping. “Tell me.”

“You. Inside me. Now. Please.”

“Color?”

“Fucking green. So green. Please.”

Ilya pulls his fingers out, and Shane whimpers at the loss. He watches through heavy-lidded eyes as Ilya rolls on a condom, slicks himself up. Then Ilya is positioning himself, and Shane feels the blunt pressure.

“Look at me,” Ilya says. “Keep your eyes on me. I want to see your face when I’m inside you for the first time.”

Shane locks eyes with Ilya, and then Ilya pushes forward, slow and steady, and it’s —

It’s overwhelming. It’s too much and not enough. It burns and it’s perfect and Shane can’t breathe, can’t think, can only feel.

“Color?” Ilya asks, frozen, clearly fighting for control.

“Green,” Shane gasps. “So green. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

Ilya continues, inch by agonizing inch, until finally, he’s fully seated. They both groan, and Ilya drops his forehead to Shane’s shoulder.

“Fuck,” Ilya breathes. “You feel—fuck, Hollander, you feel incredible.”

“Move,” Shane demands. “I need you to move.”

“Bossy,” Ilya says again, but he starts to move. Slow at first, letting Shane adjust, but then faster as Shane’s body opens for him, accepts him.

It’s unlike anything Shane has ever experienced. Every thrust hits that spot inside him that makes him see stars. Every movement sends pleasure coursing through his entire body. He wraps his legs around Ilya’s waist, trying to pull him deeper, closer, more.

“So good,” Ilya praises. “Taking me so well. You were made for this, Hollander. Made for me.”

“Harder,” Shane begs. “Please, harder.”

“You want harder?” Ilya’s voice drops to something dangerous. “You want me to fuck you like I hate you?”

“Yes,” Shane moans. “Yes, please-”

Ilya changes the angle, drives in harder, and Shane literally screams. It’s so good it’s almost painful, pleasure so intense it borders on too much.

“That’s it,” Ilya growls. “Let everyone hear how good I make you feel. Let them know who makes you fall apart like this.”

“Rozanov,” Shane chants. “Rozanov, please, I’m so close-”

“Touch yourself,” Ilya commands. “Show me how close you are.”

Shane wraps a hand around himself, and it takes maybe three strokes before he’s coming, harder than he ever has in his life, Ilya’s name on his lips like a prayer.

Ilya follows moments later, burying himself deep and groaning Shane’s name. They stay like that for a long moment, both trembling, both breathless.

Finally, Ilya pulls out carefully and disposes of the condom. He comes back with a warm washcloth and cleans Shane up with gentle touches that are at odds with the roughness from moments before.

“You okay?” Ilya asks softly. “Any pain?”

“No,” Shane says honestly. His body feels like jelly, completely wrung out. “That was—fuck, that was-”

“I know.” Ilya climbs back into bed and pulls Shane against his chest. “You were amazing. So perfect for me.”

They lie there in silence for a while. Shane’s brain is slowly coming back online, and with it comes the familiar spiral of anxiety and confusion.

“I can hear you thinking,” Ilya says. “Stop it.”

“I just—what are we doing? What is this?”

“This is two people who have very good sexual chemistry,” Ilya says pragmatically. “This is stress relief. This is fun. Why does it need to be more complicated than that?”

“Because you’re my rival. Because we play against each other. Because if anyone finds out-”

“They won’t find out,” Ilya interrupts. “We’re careful. Is no one’s business but ours.”

“Your father-”

“My father is in Russia. He doesn’t care what I do as long as I’m discreet and I perform on the ice.” Ilya props himself up on one elbow to look at Shane. “Is this about your parents? About what they would think?”

Shane’s silence is answer enough.

“Fuck them,” Ilya says bluntly. “Is your life. Your body. You don’t owe them explanation for who you sleep with.”

“It’s not that simple-”

“Why not? Why can’t it be simple?” Ilya traces patterns on Shane’s chest. “You want me. I want you. We’re both adults. We use protection. We’re safe. Where is the problem?”

Shane doesn’t have a good answer for that. Or rather, he has too many answers, all tangled up with expectations and image and what it means to be Shane Hollander, son of the future Prime Minister.

“What if I’m not-” Shane starts. “What if this is just—what if I’m not actually into guys, and this is just you?”

“Then is just me,” Ilya says with a shrug. “So what? Sexuality is not always so clean, so simple. Maybe you’re bisexual. Maybe you’re straight but make exception for me. Maybe you’re gay and all other girls were denial. Maybe you’re still figuring it out. All of these are okay.”

“How are you so okay with everything?”

“Because I spend too many years not being okay with myself,” Ilya says quietly. “I hide, I lie, I pretend to be what everyone wants. But when I’m alone, when I’m with someone I trust, I just want to be me. Want to feel good. Want to make someone else feel good. Life is too short for all this guilt and shame, yes?”

Shane considers that. “What if this ruins hockey for us? What if we can’t play against each other properly because of this?”

Ilya laughs. “Did tonight seem like we can’t play against each other? We nearly killed each other on the ice, Hollander. This doesn’t change that. If anything, makes it better. More exciting.”

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe. But you like it.” Ilya kisses Shane’s forehead. “Stay tonight. Sleep here. I make you breakfast in the morning before you go back to your team.”

“I can’t. I have curfew-”

“So you text your roommate, tell him you meet a girl, you’re staying with her. Easy lie. I’m sure you’ve done it before.”

Shane wants to argue. But he’s exhausted. His body is sore in new places. And Ilya’s bed is comfortable, and Ilya’s arms are warm, and Shane doesn’t want to leave.

“Okay,” he hears himself say. “I’ll stay.”

“Good.” Ilya sounds satisfied. “But we should clean up properly. Come, shower with me.”

They shower together, and it’s intimate in a different way than the sex. Ilya washes Shane’s hair, his hands gentle and careful. Shane returns the favor, learning the geography of Ilya’s body with soap-slick hands.

“You’re very tender,” Ilya observes. “Very sweet. Is different from on the ice.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Shane mutters.

“Your secret is safe with me.” Ilya turns Shane under the spray to rinse his hair. “All your secrets are safe with me.”

After the shower, they collapse back into bed. Shane texts Hayden the lie about meeting a girl, and then he lets Ilya pull him close.

“I still hate you,” Shane says into the darkness.

“I know,” Ilya says, and Shane can hear the smile in his voice. “Is part of the fun.”

Shane drifts off with Ilya’s heartbeat under his ear and the certainty that he’s in way over his head.

When he wakes up, morning light is streaming through the windows, and Ilya is already awake, watching him with an expression Shane can’t quite read.

“Good morning, beautiful,” Ilya says.

“Don’t,” Shane says automatically.

“Don’t what? Don’t tell you the truth?” Ilya leans down and kisses him, slow and sweet. “You are beautiful. Especially like this, all sleepy and soft. Very different from angry competitive Shane Hollander on the ice.”

“I need to go,” Shane says, even though he doesn’t move. “My team is probably wondering where I am.”

“Five more minutes,” Ilya bargains. “Then I make you coffee, and you go back to being my enemy.”

“I’m already your enemy.”

“Yes, but now you’re my enemy who knows how I taste.” Ilya grins. “Makes things more interesting, yes?”

“You’re impossible,” Shane says.

“And you love it,” Ilya counters.

The scary thing is, Shane is starting to think Ilya might be right.

He stays for twenty minutes instead of five. He drinks Ilya’s coffee and eats the toast Ilya makes him and tries not to think about how domestic this all feels.

When he finally leaves, Ilya walks him to the door.

“See you on the ice,” Ilya says. “I’ll try not to make you look too bad in front of your team next time.”

“Fuck you,” Shane says.

“You already did,” Ilya points out cheerfully. “But feel free to do it again. Anytime you’re in Boston. Or I’m in Montreal. Or … well, you understand.”

Shane shakes his head, but he’s smiling despite himself. “I definitely still hate you.”

“Good,” Ilya says. He pulls Shane in for one last kiss. “Don’t ever stop hating me. I like you best when you’re angry.”

Shane leaves before he can do something stupid like agree to come back tonight.

On the cab ride back to the hotel, he checks his phone. Three missed texts from Hayden asking where he is, two from his coach asking if he’s okay, and one from his mother asking how the game went.

He responds with lies and half-truths, the way he’s gotten so good at doing.

But when he opens his texts with Ilya, there’s one new message.

DO NOT ANSWER: Already miss you. Next time, maybe we play for real stakes. Winner gets to do whatever they want to loser. Think about it 😏

Shane stares at the message.

He should delete it. Should block the number. Should absolutely not respond.

But his fingers are already typing: You’re on. But I’m going to win.

DO NOT ANSWER: We’ll see about that, Hollander. We’ll see.

Shane puts his phone away and stares out the window at Boston passing by.

He’s so completely fucked.

And the worst part is, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to be un-fucked.

Not anymore.

Chapter 9: all-star weekend

The Bridgestone Arena in Nashville is packed despite it being a Saturday afternoon. All-Star Weekend always draws a crowd, and this year’s Skills Competition is particularly anticipated. The rookie class is stacked, and everyone wants to see the next generation of stars show what they can do.

Shane sits on the Team North America bench, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. He’s wearing the All-Star jersey — dark blue with red and white accents — and it still feels surreal. Five months into his NHL career, and he’s already an All-Star. Twenty-two goals, thirty-four assists in forty-one games. Numbers that have the media calling him a Calder Trophy frontrunner.

But across the rink, sitting on the Team Europe bench in a white jersey with blue and gold trim, is the other Calder frontrunner.

Ilya Rozanov. Twenty-seven goals, twenty-eight assists in forty-two games. Well on his way to that fifty-goal promise that everyone thought was insane hubris.

They haven’t seen each other in person since December, since a game in Montreal where they’d played like they were trying to kill each other and then Shane had shown up at Ilya’s hotel at two in the morning. That night is burned into Shane’s memory — Ilya pinning him against the shower wall, water cascading over them both, whispering filthy things in Russian and English while Shane fell apart.

They’ve been texting, though. Constantly. Sometimes it’s hockey talk — did you see that goal I scored? or your power play is terrible, fire your coach — and sometimes it’s … other things. Pictures that Shane immediately deletes but can never quite forget. Promises of what they’ll do next time they’re in the same city.

“You good, Rook?” Asks Scott Hunter, sitting next to Shane. “You look nervous.”

“I’m fine,” Shane says. “Just ready to compete.”

“You should be,” Scott says with a grin. “You’ve been lights out this season. Hell of a rookie year you’re having.”

“Thanks.”

“Just one problem,” Scott continues, nodding toward the other bench. “Pretty boy over there is having a hell of a year too.”

Shane follows Scott’s gaze to Ilya, who is currently laughing at something one of his teammates said. His hair is longer than it was in October, and he looks relaxed, completely at ease with the cameras and attention.

“He’s good,” Shane admits carefully.

“Good? Kid, he’s fucking incredible. Twenty-seven goals? As a rookie? Playing for Boston’s defensive system?” Scott shakes his head. “If he keeps this pace, he might actually hit fifty. Which would be disgusting.”

Shane doesn’t respond. He’s done the math. Ilya would need twenty-three goals in the final forty games to reach fifty. It’s doable. Very doable, knowing Ilya.

The Skills Competition announcer’s voice booms through the arena: “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Accuracy Shooting Competition! Our competitors will attempt to hit all five targets in the net as quickly as possible. The current record is 11.8 seconds, held by Scott Hunter!”

The crowd cheers, and Scott waves good-naturedly.

“Let’s see if these young guns can beat an old man’s record,” Scott says to Shane with a wink.

Several players go before Ilya — some hitting all five targets in fifteen or twenty seconds, some missing targets and having to take multiple attempts. It’s entertaining, but Shane is barely watching. His attention keeps drifting to Ilya, who is stretching at the bench, completely focused.

“Next up,” the announcer calls, “from Team Europe, playing for the Boston Bears, number eighty-one, Ilya Rozanov!”

The arena erupts. Ilya has been box office all season, and Nashville loves him. He skates to center ice with that easy confidence, waving to the crowd, soaking in the attention.

Shane watches as Ilya lines up. He takes a practice shot to gauge the distance, then nods to the timer operator.

The clock starts.

Ilya moves with surgical precision. Top left — ping. Top right — ping. Bottom left — ping. Bottom right — ping. Center — ping.

The horn sounds. 11.2 seconds.

The arena loses its mind.

Ilya throws his arms wide, his signature celebration, and does a lap around the ice. He’s just broken Scott Hunter’s record, and he’s celebrating like he won the Stanley Cup.

“Well, shit,” Scott mutters good-naturedly. “Lasted five years. That’s not bad.”

Ilya skates past the Team North America bench, and his eyes find Shane. He grins, cocky and challenging, and mouths something that looks like “beat that.”

Shane’s competitive fire ignites. Fuck the record. Fuck Ilya’s celebration. Shane is going to destroy that time.

“Next up,” the announcer calls, “from Team North America, playing for the Montreal Voyageurs, number twenty-four, Shane Hollander!”

Shane stands, and his teammates pat him on the back as he skates to center ice. The crowd is still buzzing from Ilya’s performance, and Shane feeds off that energy.

He lines up, takes his practice shot, and nods to the timer.

The clock starts.

Shane doesn’t think. He just reacts. Muscle memory from thousands of hours of practice takes over. Top left. Top right. Bottom left. Bottom right. Center.

The horn sounds before he even processes that he’s done.

10.7 seconds.

The arena erupts again, even louder this time. Shane’s teammates on the bench are going crazy, jumping up and down. Scott is laughing in disbelief.

Shane allows himself a small smile and a fist pump. Nothing like Ilya’s theatrics — just a controlled celebration. Professional.

But when he skates past the Team Europe bench, he can’t resist looking at Ilya.

Ilya is staring at him with an expression that’s equal parts impressed, annoyed, and something else. Something heated that makes Shane’s stomach flip.

Shane takes his place back on the Team North America bench, and his teammates mob him.

“Holy shit, Hollander!” One of them shouts. “You just broke a record that was like thirty seconds old!”

“Rozanov’s going to be so pissed,” another adds, laughing.

Scott leans over to Shane. “I’m glad my record being broken only lasted a minute,” he says with a grin. “At least Rozanov doesn’t get to keep it. Kid’s ego is big enough already.”

Shane laughs, but he’s hyperaware of Ilya on the other bench. He can feel Ilya’s eyes on him, can feel the tension crackling between them even with the partition and several feet separating them.

The competition continues with a few more skaters, but no one comes close to Shane’s time. Shane barely pays attention. He’s too busy trying not to look at Ilya and failing miserably.

Then he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns to find Ilya leaning over the small glass partition that separates the two benches, a smirk on his face.

“Nice shooting,” Ilya says, his accent making the words sound almost teasing. “Very fast. Very accurate. Very boring celebration though.”

“Some of us don’t need to showboat,” Shane shoots back, keeping his voice low so the cameras don’t pick it up.

“Showboat,” Ilya repeats, testing the word. “Is this bad thing?”

“When you do it, yes.”

Ilya’s grin widens. “You’re just jealous because everyone loves my celebrations.”

“I’m not jealous of anything about you.”

“Liar.” Ilya leans a little closer, and Shane is acutely aware of the cameras everywhere. They need to be careful. “You have fun last night?”

Shane blinks at the sudden topic change. “Last night?”

“With your team,” Ilya clarifies, gesturing vaguely. “Get dinner, get drunk. You know, team bonding.”

“Oh. Yeah, I mean, I had fun but I didn’t get drunk.”

Ilya blows a raspberry, somehow making the childish gesture look charming. “So boring! All-Star Weekend, Shane. Is time to have fun, let loose. Not sit around drinking water and going to bed early.”

“I like going to bed early,” Shane protests.

“This I know,” Ilya says, and there’s definitely innuendo in his tone. “But sometimes is good to stay up late. Enjoy yourself.”

Shane’s face heats. “What about you? Did you have fun with your team?”

“It was great,” Ilya says, leaning his chin on his hand. “No boring Canadians. No stupid Americans. Just good European hockey players who know how to have good time.”

Shane laughs despite himself. “So what? Just a bunch of Finnish guys talking about the cousins they’re in love with?”

Ilya’s eyes light up with amusement. “Exactly! You understand Finnish culture now.”

“I dated a girl from Finland once. She told me some things.”

“Of course you did,” Ilya says, rolling his eyes. “You and your girlfriends. So predictable.”

There’s something in his tone — not quite jealousy, but close. Shane files that information away for later.

“Anyway,” Ilya continues, his voice dropping lower, “I think I’m going to bed early tonight. Very tired. Need rest.”

It’s an invitation. Shane knows it immediately. His heart rate picks up. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Ilya’s smile is slow and deliberate. “Room service, quiet night in. Very boring, very un-fun. Just like you like it.”

“Sounds terrible,” Shane says, matching Ilya’s tone.

“The worst,” Ilya agrees. “But someone has to do it.”

One of Ilya’s teammates calls for him, and Ilya pushes off from the partition. As he skates past Shane’s section of the bench, he leans down, pretending to tie his skate, and murmurs quickly: “1221.”

Then he’s gone, skating back to his teammates like nothing happened.

Shane sits there, heart pounding, trying to look normal for the cameras. Scott gives him a curious look.

“What was that about?”

“Nothing,” Shane says quickly. “Just trash talk.”

“Uh-huh.” Scott doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push it. “Well, whatever it was, you got under his skin. Breaking his record like that. Kid looked genuinely annoyed.”

Shane allows himself a small smile. “Good.”

The rest of the Skills Competition passes in a blur. Shane participates in the Fastest Skater competition and comes in third, which is respectable. Ilya doesn’t compete in that one, but he does the Breakaway Challenge later and pulls off some ridiculous move that involves flipping the puck over his own head and batting it in mid-air.

He gets a perfect score from the judges and celebrates like he just won Olympic gold.

“Showboat,” Shane mutters, but he’s smiling.

That evening, Shane sits in his hotel room, staring at the clock. He should not go. This is getting out of hand. They’ve hooked up two times now since July. Each time, Shane tells himself it’s the last time. Each time, he’s back in Ilya’s bed the next time they play each other.

His phone buzzes.

DO NOT ANSWER: You coming? Or you chicken out again?

Shane: I never chicken out.

DO NOT ANSWER: Boston in October. You waited outside my door for five minutes before knocking. I could see you through peephole.

Shane: You watched me?

DO NOT ANSWER: Was very entertaining. You looked so conflicted. So cute.

Shane: I hate you.

DO NOT ANSWER: I know. Come hate me in person. Room 1221. Don’t be late.

Shane looks at himself in the mirror. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, his hair still damp from the post-competition shower. He looks like exactly what he is — a nineteen-year-old about to make a terrible decision.

But his feet are already moving, grabbing his room key, heading for the door.

The hotel is nice — probably the nicest hotel Shane has stayed in for hockey. The All-Star Game always goes all out. He takes the elevator to the twelfth floor, finds room 1221, and knocks before he can change his mind.

The door opens immediately. Ilya is standing there in joggers and a t-shirt, hair messy, looking unfairly attractive.

“Took you long enough,” Ilya says, pulling Shane inside. “I was starting to think you chicken out for real this time.”

“I was thinking about it,” Shane admits.

“But you didn’t.” Ilya closes the door and locks it. “Because you want this. Want me.”

“I want to beat you,” Shane corrects. “At everything. Including that stupid accuracy competition.”

Ilya’s expression shifts into something competitive and heated. “You think you beat me? You think because you’re point-five seconds faster, you win?”

“Yeah, that’s generally how competitions work.”

“Mmm.” Ilya steps closer, backing Shane against the door. “Maybe on ice. But here-” he presses against Shane, and Shane can feel he’s already half-hard. “Here, I always win.”

“Cocky,” Shane breathes.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “But you like it.”

He kisses Shane then, hard and demanding, and Shane melts into it like he always does. No matter how much he tells himself he hates Ilya, his body knows different. His body has been waiting for this since the last time, counting down the days until they could be in the same city again.

“Bed,” Ilya murmurs against Shane’s lips. “Now.”

They stumble toward the bedroom, shedding clothes along the way. By the time they reach the bed, they’re both down to their briefs, hands everywhere, mouths hungry.

Ilya pushes Shane onto the bed and climbs over him. “I’m going to make you forget your own name,” he promises, echoing what he said that first time in Boston. “Make you forget you beat my record. Make you forget everything except how good I make you feel.”

“Big promises,” Shane manages.

“I always deliver,” Ilya says. He kisses down Shane’s chest, his stomach, pulling Shane’s briefs off with his teeth in a move that’s so unnecessarily sexy that Shane groans.

“Show off,” Shane says.

“Always,” Ilya agrees cheerfully.

He takes Shane in his mouth, and Shane’s brain short-circuits. Ilya has gotten very good at this — knows exactly how Shane likes it, knows when to go slow and when to speed up, knows how to bring Shane right to the edge and then back off.

“Fuck,” Shane gasps, fingers tangling in Ilya’s hair. “Ilya, I’m going to-”

Ilya pulls off, wiping his mouth. “Not yet. I have plans for you.”

“Plans?”

“Mmm.” Ilya climbs back up Shane’s body and kisses him. “I think tonight, you do the work.”

Shane blinks. “What?”

“You on top,” Ilya clarifies, rolling off Shane and onto his back. “You ride me. I want to see your face, want to watch you fall apart.”

Shane’s breath catches. They’ve done a lot in the past few months, but Shane has always been on the bottom, always had Ilya controlling the pace. The idea of being on top, of having that control, is both terrifying and incredibly appealing.

“I don’t know how,” Shane admits.

“So I teach you,” Ilya says. “Come here.”

He guides Shane through it — how to position himself, how to move. His hands are steady on Shane’s hips, his voice calm and instructive. It’s a side of Ilya that Shane doesn’t see often — patient and caring instead of cocky and challenging.

“Like this?” Shane asks, and his voice comes out shaky.

“Exactly like that,” Ilya says. His pupils are blown wide, his breathing heavy. “You look so good like this, Shane. So perfect.”

Shane starts to move, awkward at first, but Ilya guides him with hands and voice until Shane finds a rhythm. And then, oh fuck, then it’s incredible. From this angle, Shane can see everything. Can see Ilya’s face as he falls apart, can watch every micro-expression of pleasure cross his features.

“That’s it,” Ilya encourages. “Just like that. Fuck, Shane, you feel so good.”

Shane’s thighs are burning, but he doesn’t care. He’s completely focused on Ilya beneath him — on making Ilya feel as good as Ilya makes him feel, on proving he can do this, can take control.

“Touch yourself,” Ilya says, and it’s almost a plea. “Want to see you.”

Shane wraps a hand around himself, and the dual sensation — Ilya inside him, his own hand on himself, Ilya’s eyes watching hungrily — is almost too much.

“I’m close,” Shane warns.

“Me too,” Ilya gasps. His hands tighten on Shane’s hips, guiding him faster, harder. “Come for me, Shane. Let me see you.”

Shane comes with Ilya’s name on his lips, his whole body shaking with the force of it. Ilya follows seconds later, and Shane feels it, feels Ilya pulsing inside him, and it’s intimate in a way that makes his chest tight.

They collapse together, both breathing hard, sticky and satisfied. Ilya pulls Shane down to lie on his chest, one hand stroking through Shane’s hair.

“So?” Ilya asks after a moment. “Better than boring team dinner?”

Shane laughs weakly. “Marginally.”

“Liar.” Ilya kisses the top of Shane’s head. “You loved it.”

“Maybe,” Shane concedes. “You’re still an asshole for celebrating your record like that.”

“And you’re still a show-off for beating it so fast,” Ilya counters. “Point-five seconds? Really? You couldn’t let me have it for even one round?”

“Never,” Shane says. “I’ll never let you have anything.”

“Except this,” Ilya points out. “You let me have this. You let me have you.”

Shane doesn’t have a response to that. It’s too close to the truth he’s been avoiding — that what started as just physical has become something else. Something that involves texting every day, something that involves seeking each other out at every opportunity, something that feels dangerously close to actual feelings.

“You’re thinking too loud again,” Ilya murmurs. “Stop it.”

“Can’t help it.”

“Then I distract you,” Ilya says. He rolls them over so he’s on top now. “Again. Because once is never enough with you.”

“We have to be up early tomorrow,” Shane protests weakly. “The game-”

“Is not until evening,” Ilya interrupts. “We have time. And I’m not done with you yet.”

He isn’t. They go two more times before finally collapsing in exhaustion around three AM. Shane should go back to his own room, should maintain some semblance of discretion.

But Ilya’s bed is comfortable, and Ilya’s arms are warm, and Shane is too tired to care about should.

He wakes up at seven to his phone buzzing frantically. Texts from his roommate asking where he is. Texts from his coach asking if he’s coming to the morning skate.

“Shit,” Shane mutters, sitting up.

Ilya stirs beside him. “Morning already?”

“Yeah. I need to go. Team obligations.”

“Mmm.” Ilya watches as Shane scrambles to get dressed. “You look very cute when you’re panicking.”

“I’m not panicking.”

“Yes, you are. Is adorable.”

Shane pulls on his jeans and looks around for his shirt. “Where did my-”

“Here.” Ilya tosses it to him from across the room. “Try not to look so guilty when you see your team. Is very obvious.”

“I don’t look guilty.”

“You look very guilty,” Ilya says, grinning. “But don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you spent the night celebrating my broken record in my bed.”

“You’re the worst,” Shane says, but he’s smiling.

He makes it to the door before Ilya calls out: “Shane?”

Shane turns. “Yeah?”

“See you on the ice,” Ilya says. “Try not to stare at me too much. People will notice.”

“I don’t stare at you.”

“You stare at me constantly,” Ilya counters. “Is okay. I stare at you too.”

Shane shakes his head and leaves before he can do something stupid like climb back into bed.

That afternoon, they play in the All-Star Game itself. It’s three-on-three, fast and loose and fun. Shane and Ilya end up on the ice together several times, and every time they are, the intensity ratchets up.

The announcers comment on it: “Look at Hollander and Rozanov going at it! Even in the All-Star Game, the rivalry is real!”

If only they knew, Shane thinks. If only they knew what kind of rivalry it really is.

Team North America wins 12-10, and Shane has two goals and three assists. Ilya has three goals and two assists. After the game, in the handshake line, Ilya grips Shane’s hand a little too long.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “You’re in Boston in three weeks. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t,” Shane says.

And he doesn’t.

Three weeks later, after a game where they play like they’re trying to kill each other, Shane finds himself at Ilya’s apartment again.

And again two weeks after that when Boston comes to Montreal.

And again and again and again.

It’s becoming a pattern. A routine. A thing.

And Shane is starting to realize that maybe he doesn’t hate Ilya Rozanov as much as he keeps telling himself.

Maybe he never really did.

But admitting that would mean admitting this is more than just physical. Would mean admitting he has feelings for his supposed rival.

So Shane keeps showing up at Ilya’s door.

And he keeps pretending it doesn’t mean anything.

And Ilya keeps letting him pretend, even though they both know the truth.

Chapter 10: the calder

The Nokia Theater in Los Angeles is packed with hockey royalty — current players, legends, executives, media personalities. The NHL Awards ceremony is always a spectacle, but this year feels different. This year, everyone is talking about the rookie class. Specifically, they’re talking about two rookies.

Shane sits at a table with his parents and his agent, wearing a perfectly tailored Tom Ford tuxedo that his mother insisted he buy for the occasion. His father is in full politician mode — he won his bid for Prime Minister last fall, and now everywhere he goes, he’s “Prime Minister Hollander” instead of just “David.” There are cameras following them constantly, and Shane has given at least a dozen interviews on the red carpet.

“You nervous, sweetheart?” His mother asks, squeezing his hand under the table.

“A little,” Shane admits.

“You shouldn’t be,” his father says firmly. “You had the better season. More points, more assists, better plus-minus. The Calder is yours.”

Shane isn’t so sure. Yes, he led all rookies with 84 points — 33 goals and 51 assists in 82 games. Yes, he helped drag Montreal to the playoffs, where they lost in the first round but gave a good showing. Yes, he’s been praised all season for his two-way play, his leadership, his maturity.

But Ilya Rozanov scored 53 goals.

Fifty-three goals as a rookie. Third in the entire league, behind only two Hart Trophy candidates. He didn’t just make his promise of 50, he made it and then kept going. The media has been calling it one of the greatest rookie seasons in modern hockey history.

Shane’s eyes drift across the room to where Ilya sits with his table — his father, several Russian Hockey Federation officials, and a few Bears executives. Ilya is wearing a custom suit that probably cost more than Shane’s car, his hair perfectly styled, looking every bit the Russian prince the media has dubbed him.

Their eyes meet across the room, and Ilya raises his glass slightly. A small salute. Shane returns it with a subtle nod.

They haven’t seen each other since the playoffs ended three weeks ago. Haven’t hooked up since April, when Boston came to Montreal for the last regular season game and Shane spent the night wrapped in Ilya’s arms, both of them exhausted from the playoff push but unable to stay away from each other.

Shane misses him. Which is stupid, because Ilya is his rival, his competition, and tonight they’re literally competing for the same award.

But he misses him anyway.

The ceremony begins with the usual pomp — video packages, speeches from the Commissioner, lifetime achievement awards for legends. Shane barely pays attention. His leg bounces under the table until his mother puts a hand on his knee to still it.

Finally, after what feels like hours, they reach the major awards.

“And now,” the presenter says — some famous actor Shane vaguely recognizes, “the Calder Memorial Trophy, awarded to the player selected as the most proficient in his first year of competition in the National Hockey League.”

The screen behind the stage lights up with a montage of rookie highlights from the season. Shane sees himself scoring goals, setting up plays, playing defense. And he sees Ilya — so much Ilya. Ilya scoring, Ilya celebrating, Ilya being Ilya.

“This year’s nominees,” the actor continues, “represent one of the most talented rookie classes in recent memory. From the Boston Bears, with 53 goals, 28 assists, and 81 points — Ilya Rozanov!”

The crowd applauds. Ilya stands and waves, that megawatt smile in full effect. Cameras flash. Shane watches Ilya’s father, who remains seated but nods approvingly.

“From the Montreal Voyageurs, with 33 goals, 51 assists, and 84 points — Shane Hollander!”

Shane stands as his table erupts in applause. He waves awkwardly, trying to smile for the cameras. His father stands too, shaking Shane’s hand like he’s already won.

They list the third nominee — a defenseman from Tampa Bay who had a great season but clearly isn’t winning — and then it’s time.

The actor opens the envelope with dramatic flair.

“And the winner of the Calder Memorial Trophy is …”

The pause feels eternal.

“Shane Hollander!”

The theater erupts in applause. Shane’s mother is crying, his father is beaming, his agent is pumping his fist. Shane stands on shaky legs and makes his way to the stage.

He shakes the presenter’s hand, accepts the trophy — it’s heavier than he expected — and steps up to the microphone. His prepared speech evaporates from his mind.

“Wow,” he starts, his voice cracking slightly. “I, uh, I didn’t expect this. I mean, I hoped, but-” The crowd laughs kindly. “Thank you to the Hockey Writers Association for this honor. Thank you to the Montreal Voyageurs organization for believing in me. Thank you to my teammates, my coaches, my family.”

He looks at his parents in the crowd. His mother is still crying. His father looks like he might burst with pride.

“This was an incredible rookie class,” Shane continues. “Playing against guys like Ilya Rozanov and the other nominees has pushed me to be better every single day. So thank you to them as well, for the competition.”

He wraps up quickly — he’s never been good at speeches — and walks off stage to more applause. As he returns to his table, he looks for Ilya’s table.

The seat is empty.

Ilya is gone.

Shane tries to focus on the rest of the ceremony. Tries to smile for photos with his trophy, tries to graciously accept congratulations from other players and executives. But his mind is elsewhere.

Where did Ilya go?

After the ceremony ends, there’s a reception with an open bar and a DJ. Shane’s parents leave early — his father has a flight back to Ottawa in the morning — but Shane stays, trophy in hand, accepting congratulations and posing for what feels like a thousand photos.

But Ilya never reappears.

Finally, Shane makes an excuse about needing air and slips away. The rooftop terrace of the Nokia Theater is accessible through a side door, and Shane takes the stairs two at a time.

He pushes open the door to the roof, and there — standing at the edge, overlooking downtown LA, a cigarette in his hand — is Ilya.

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

Ilya doesn’t turn around. “I don’t. Usually. Only when I’m stressed.”

Shane walks over to stand next to him. “Are you seriously being a sore loser right now? That’s beneath you.”

“I’m not-” Ilya takes a drag and exhales slowly. “Is not about the Calder, Shane.”

“Then what is it about? You just disappeared. During the ceremony, right after-”

“I know when I disappear,” Ilya interrupts. “I was there.”

“So what, you couldn’t even congratulate me? Couldn’t pretend to be happy for me?”

Ilya finally turns to look at him, and Shane is struck by how tired he looks. The cocky confidence is gone, replaced by something heavier.

“I am happy for you,” Ilya says quietly. “You deserve it. You had incredible season. Better season than me in many ways.”

“You scored 53 goals.”

“And you had 84 points,” Ilya counters. “And better plus-minus. And you played every situation — power play, penalty kill, even strength. You were more complete player.”

Shane doesn’t know what to do with this version of Ilya — subdued and honest instead of cocky and challenging. “Then what’s wrong?”

Ilya takes another drag of his cigarette. “My father. He’s calling me back to Russia for summer.”

“Okay? Don’t you usually go back to Russia in the summer?”

“Not like this.” Ilya stubs out the cigarette against the railing. “Usually I go home, I train, I see my grandmother, I do some promotional appearances. This time-” He pauses. “This time is different. Military exercises. International meetings. Photo opportunities with generals and ministers. He wants to show me off, show the world that his son is successful, that Russian system produces better athletes than Western system.”

“Oh.” Shane’s stomach twists. “That’s … that’s a lot.”

“Is always a lot,” Ilya says. “But usually I can escape to Moscow, to my own apartment, to places where I can be myself. This summer, he wants me at the Kremlin. At official state functions. At-” He waves a hand vaguely. “At everything.”

“Can you say no?”

Ilya laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You don’t say no to President of Russia. Even if he’s your father. Especially if he’s your father.”

They stand in silence for a moment. LA spreads out below them, lights glittering in the warm June night.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says finally. “That sounds terrible.”

“Is what it is.” Ilya shrugs. “Is my life. I chose to play hockey, to be in spotlight. This is consequence.” He finally looks at Shane properly. “But is not why I come up here. I come up here because I need moment away from everyone. From cameras, from expectations, from-” He gestures back toward the building. “From watching you win something I couldn’t.”

“You’re not usually this honest,” Shane observes.

“Maybe I’m tired of not being honest,” Ilya says. “Maybe I’m tired of pretending.”

There’s something vulnerable in his expression that makes Shane’s chest ache. He wants to reach out, wants to pull Ilya into his arms, but they’re on a rooftop in LA where anyone could see them.

“When do you leave?” Shane asks.

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Tomorrow?” Shane’s voice comes out sharper than he intended. “That’s—that’s really soon.”

“I know.” Ilya’s smile is sad. “But we still have tonight. We still have now.” He reaches out and adjusts Shane’s bow tie, his fingers brushing against Shane’s collar. “And we should celebrate. You won something over me, Shane. First time ever. Might be last time too.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic. I’m honest.” Ilya steps closer. “Next year, I score sixty goals. Maybe seventy. No way you beat me then.”

Despite everything, Shane laughs. “There’s the cocky asshole I know.”

“He never left,” Ilya says. “Just took small break.” He glances around the rooftop — they’re still alone. “You want to get out of here? Go somewhere we can actually celebrate?”

“Where did you have in mind?”

“My hotel room,” Ilya says. “Where else?”

They take separate elevators down, separate cars to the hotel — the Beverly Hilton, where most of the players are staying. Shane clutches his Calder Trophy the entire ride, still not quite believing it’s real.

The lobby is full of people from the ceremony, so they can’t arrive together. Shane goes up first, texting Ilya the room number when he gets there. Five minutes later, there’s a knock.

Shane opens the door, and Ilya slips inside quickly, glancing down the hallway to make sure no one saw him.

“Very spy movie,” Shane comments.

“Have to be careful,” Ilya says. He finally looks at Shane properly — really looks at him. “You look very good in tuxedo.”

“Thanks. You too.”

“I know,” Ilya says with a hint of his usual cockiness. He walks over to where Shane set down the Calder Trophy on the desk. “Can I?”

“Yeah.”

Ilya picks it up, hefting it. “Is heavier than I thought.”

“That’s what I thought too.”

“You know what’s funny?” Ilya sets the trophy down carefully. “I tell myself all season I don’t care about this trophy. I care only about winning games, about scoring goals, about proving myself. But seeing you win it, seeing your name on it-” He shakes his head. “I care. I care very much. Is stupid, but I care.”

“It’s not stupid,” Shane says. “I’d feel the same way if you won.”

“But I didn’t win.” Ilya turns to face Shane. “You did. So tonight is about you. About celebrating your accomplishment.”

“Ilya-”

“No,” Ilya interrupts. He crosses the room and backs Shane against the wall. “Tonight, I make you feel like winner. Like champion. Like you deserve.”

He kisses Shane then, and it’s different from their usual kisses. Slower, more deliberate. Like Ilya is trying to memorize the taste of Shane’s mouth, the feel of his lips.

“Bedroom,” Shane gasps when they break apart.

They stumble toward the bed, shedding expensive tuxedos and designer shoes. By the time they reach the mattress, they’re down to briefs, hands everywhere.

“I’m going to worship you tonight,” Ilya promises, pushing Shane onto the bed. “Going to make you feel so good you forget everything except my name.”

“Big promises,” Shane manages.

“I always deliver,” Ilya says, echoing what he’s said before. He kisses down Shane’s chest, his stomach, taking his time. “Every part of you. Going to taste every part of you.”

He does. Ilya takes his time, mapping Shane’s body with his mouth, learning every spot that makes Shane gasp, every place that makes him shiver. By the time Ilya actually touches Shane where he needs it most, Shane is already trembling.

“Please,” Shane hears himself say. “Ilya, please-”

“So pretty when you beg,” Ilya murmurs. “My champion. My winner.”

The praise goes straight to Shane’s head. He’s never been good at accepting compliments, but from Ilya’s mouth, they sound like prayers.

Ilya brings Shane to the edge and backs off three times before finally letting him fall apart. Shane comes so hard his vision whites out, Ilya’s name on his lips.

“Beautiful,” Ilya says, kissing Shane through the aftershocks. “You’re so beautiful.”

Shane is still catching his breath when Ilya starts prepping him, careful and thorough as always. They’ve done this enough times now that Shane’s body knows what to expect, opens for Ilya easily.

“Table,” Shane says suddenly.

Ilya pauses. “What?”

“The desk. The table.” Shane gestures toward the hotel room desk where his Calder Trophy sits. “Fuck me there. With the trophy watching.”

Ilya’s eyes go dark. “That’s—fuck, Shane, that’s very hot. Little bit dirty.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No,” Ilya says immediately. “Is definitely not a problem.”

They move to the desk, Shane bending over it, Ilya behind him. The trophy is right there, Shane’s name on it, proof of his accomplishment.

“You ready?” Ilya asks, hands steady on Shane’s hips.

“Yeah. Yes. Please.”

Ilya pushes in, and it’s perfect — the stretch, the fullness, the feeling of being completely connected to Ilya. Shane braces his hands on the desk, and the trophy catches his eye.

“That’s it,” Ilya encourages. “Look at your trophy. Look at what you won. You’re a champion, Shane. My champion.”

The words, combined with the perfect angle of Ilya’s thrusts, make Shane’s head spin. He’s never felt like this before — powerful and desired and completely undone all at once.

“Harder,” Shane gasps. “You can go harder.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Fuck, yes.”

Ilya complies, and suddenly they’re both too enthusiastic, too lost in the moment. There’s a concerning creak from the desk, then a crack, and suddenly the whole thing tips forward.

“Shit!” Ilya pulls out quickly, grabbing the trophy before it can hit the ground. They both stare at the desk, which now has one leg completely broken, listing to the side.

“We broke the desk,” Shane says, still breathing hard.

“Is your fault,” Ilya says, but he’s laughing. “You and your dirty trophy fantasies.”

“My fault? You’re the one who-”

“Bed,” Ilya interrupts, setting the trophy safely on the nightstand. “Bed is stronger. Bed can handle us.”

They collapse onto the bed, both laughing now, and Ilya wastes no time pushing back inside Shane. This time, they go slower, making it last. Ilya leans down and kisses Shane while he moves, and it’s intimate in a way that makes Shane’s chest tight.

When they finish — both coming within seconds of each other — they collapse in a tangle of limbs and sweat.

“You okay?” Ilya asks after a moment. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m fine,” Shane says. But he’s not fine. He feels weird — shaky and vulnerable in a way he can’t quite explain. His eyes are prickling with tears for no reason, and his chest feels tight.

“Shane.” Ilya’s voice is gentle. He turns Shane to face him. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

“No, you didn’t—I don’t know what’s wrong.” Shane’s voice cracks. “I feel weird. Like I’m going to cry, but I don’t know why.”

Understanding dawns on Ilya’s face. “Oh. Oh, Shane. Come here.” He pulls Shane against his chest, arms wrapping around him securely. “Is okay. Is completely normal.”

“What’s normal?” Shane asks, confused and embarrassed by the tears now tracking down his face.

“You’re dropping,” Ilya explains softly. “After intense scene, sometimes body has reaction. Hormones crash, emotions come up. Is called sub drop. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I don’t—I’m not-”

“You are,” Ilya says firmly. “And is okay. I take care of you. That’s my job.” He adjusts them so Shane is lying down, head on Ilya’s chest, Ilya’s arms secure around him. “Just breathe. Let yourself feel it. I’m here.”

Shane does cry then, for reasons he can’t articulate. Relief at winning the Calder. Stress from the season. Fear about Ilya being gone all summer. The intensity of what they just did. All of it comes pouring out while Ilya holds him and strokes his hair and murmurs reassurances in Russian and English.

“You’re so good,” Ilya says. “So perfect. You did so well. I’m so proud of you.”

The praise helps. Shane feels himself settling, the shaking subsiding, the tears slowing.

“Better?” Ilya asks after a while.

“Yeah,” Shane admits. “Sorry, I don’t know what-”

“Don’t apologize,” Ilya interrupts. “Is normal. Is healthy. Shows you trust me enough to let go like that.” He presses a kiss to Shane’s forehead. “I’m honored.”

They lie there in silence for a while. Shane is exhausted — physically and emotionally. But he feels safe here, wrapped in Ilya’s arms, Ilya’s heartbeat steady under his ear.

Shane turns in Ilya’s arms to face him. “I do. Trust you, I mean.”

“Good,” Ilya says softly. “Because you are safe. Always. No matter what happens on ice, no matter how we compete, here-” he taps Shane’s chest, right over his heart. “Here you’re safe.”

It’s the most honest Ilya has been with him, maybe ever. Shane wants to say something equally honest back, wants to tell Ilya that he’s more than just a hookup, more than just rivalry and competition.

But the words stick in his throat.

“You should sleep,” Ilya says. “You’ve had very big night. Very emotional.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll sleep too. But I’ll stay awake until you’re asleep first. Make sure drop doesn’t come back.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to,” Ilya interrupts. “Let me take care of you. Please.”

So Shane does. He lets Ilya hold him, lets Ilya stroke his hair and murmur soft words in Russian that Shane doesn’t understand but finds comforting anyway.

He falls asleep to the sound of Ilya’s heartbeat and the warmth of Ilya’s arms.

When he wakes up, sunlight is streaming through the windows. Ilya is still there, still holding him, though he’s clearly been awake for a while — he’s scrolling through his phone with one hand.

“Morning,” Ilya says when he notices Shane is awake. “How do you feel?”

“Good,” Shane says, and he means it. “Really good, actually.”

“Good. Drop is gone, then.” Ilya sets his phone down. “You want breakfast? I can order room service.”

They eat breakfast in bed — pancakes and eggs and too much coffee. Ilya keeps checking on Shane, making sure he’s really okay, and Shane finds it endearing even though he insists he’s fine.

“I have to leave soon,” Ilya says eventually, glancing at the clock. “Flight to Moscow is at three.”

“Right.” Shane’s stomach sinks. “Your father’s … stuff.”

“Yes. My father’s stuff.” Ilya’s expression closes off slightly. “But is only for summer. I’ll be back for training camp in September.”

“That’s three months.”

“I know.” Ilya reaches out and touches Shane’s face. “We text, yes? We stay in touch.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

They both know texting isn’t the same. Isn’t enough. But neither of them says it.

When it’s time for Ilya to leave, Shane walks him to the door. Ilya pauses, one hand on the doorknob.

“Congratulations again,” he says. “On the Calder. You earned it.”

“Thanks.”

“And Shane?” Ilya leans in and kisses him, soft and sweet. “Next year, I win Hart Trophy. And you don’t. So enjoy this while you can.”

Shane laughs despite himself. “There he is. The cocky asshole.”

“Never left,” Ilya says with a wink. “Just was on vacation briefly.”

He opens the door and checks that the hallway is empty before slipping out. Shane watches him go, and the hotel room suddenly feels too big, too empty.

He looks at his Calder Trophy sitting on the nightstand next to the broken desk.

He won.

He finally beat Ilya Rozanov at something.

So why does it feel like he’s losing?

Shane spends the rest of the day doing press for the Calder, smiling for cameras, saying all the right things. But his mind is elsewhere.

On a plane to Moscow.

On whatever political circus Ilya is being forced into.

On the fact that it’s going to be three months before they see each other again.

That night, alone in his hotel room, Shane gets a text.

DO NOT ANSWER: Made it to Moscow. Father already has schedule planned. Full of boring political things. Help.

Shane: You’ll survive.

DO NOT ANSWER: Maybe. Or maybe I die of boredom. Either way, enjoy your summer. Enjoy your trophy. You deserve it.

Shane: Thanks. I mean it.

DO NOT ANSWER: I know. Talk soon, champion. Try not to miss me too much.

Shane: I won’t.

DO NOT ANSWER: Liar :)

Shane stares at his phone for a long time after that.

Then he looks at his Calder Trophy, gleaming in the lamplight.

He won.

But somehow, it doesn’t feel like winning at all.

Chapter 11: sochi

The plane touches down at Sochi International Airport on a gray February morning, and Shane presses his face to the window, watching Russia materialize below him. Snow-capped mountains in the distance, the Black Sea a dark expanse, and the sprawling Olympic complex that’s been the focus of so much international attention.

“First time in Russia?” Asks Sidney Crosby, Team Canada’s captain.

“Yeah,” Shane says. “First time.”

“Interesting place,” Sidney says diplomatically. “Beautiful, but … complicated.”

Shane knows what he means. The lead-up to these Olympics has been controversial — the gay propaganda law passed last year, the environmental concerns, the political tensions. But the IOC pushed forward, and now here they are.

And here Ilya is. Somewhere in this country, probably already at the Olympic Village, preparing to be the face of Russian hockey on home ice.

They haven’t seen each other in person since Christmas, when Boston played in Montreal and Ilya spent the night in Shane’s condo. Before that, it was November in Boston. And before that, September at the start of the preseason.

It’s been like this for three years now — stolen nights whenever their teams play, frantic texts and occasional phone calls, and long stretches of nothing but hockey and distance. No labels, no definitions, just … whatever this is.

Shane has tried not to examine it too closely. Tried not to think about what it means that his heart rate picks up every time he sees Ilya’s name on his phone. Tried not to notice that he saves every article about Ilya’s accomplishments, that he watches Ilya’s highlights more often than he should, that he dreams about those hazel eyes more nights than he doesn’t.

Because examining it means admitting things Shane isn’t ready to admit.

Like the fact that he’s pretty sure he’s gay.

Not bisexual, not “mostly straight with one exception,” but actually, fully gay.

It took him three years to figure it out. Two years of trying to maintain interest in the women his parents tried to set him up with, three years of realizing that the only person he actually wanted was Ilya, three years of slowly accepting what that meant about himself.

He hasn’t told anyone. Not his parents, not his teammates, not even Ilya.

Especially not Ilya.

Because telling Ilya means making this real, means putting a label on what they’ve been doing, means having conversations Shane isn’t ready for.

The plane taxis to the gate, and through the window, Shane can see cameras everywhere. This is the biggest sporting event in the world, and everyone is watching.

“Alright, boys,” says the Team Canada coach. “Remember we’re ambassadors here. Smile for the cameras, be polite, and for God’s sake, don’t say anything controversial to the media.”

They file off the plane into organized chaos. Cameras flash, reporters shout questions in multiple languages, Olympic volunteers in colorful uniforms try to herd them toward buses. Shane keeps his head down and follows Sidney.

Then he sees it.

A massive poster on the wall of the terminal. Ilya Rozanov in his Team Russia uniform, number eighty-one, stick in hand, looking directly at the camera with that intense expression Shane knows so well. The text is in Russian, but Shane doesn’t need to read it to understand. This is Russia’s golden boy. Their hero. Their hope.

“Jesus,” Sidney mutters, following Shane’s gaze. “They really love him here, huh?”

“Yeah,” Shane says quietly.

They board the buses to the Olympic Village, and Shane can’t stop staring out the window. Sochi is draped in Olympic decorations — flags and banners and mascots everywhere. But mixed in with the Olympic imagery are posters of Russian athletes.

And Ilya is on at least half of them.

Ilya in his hockey uniform. Ilya with the Russian flag. Ilya shaking hands with military officers. Ilya standing next to President Rozanov at some official function, both in formal attire.

“That’s his dad, right?” One of Shane’s teammates asks, pointing at a poster. “The President?”

“Yeah,” Shane confirms, his stomach churning.

He knew, intellectually, what Ilya represented in Russia. Ilya had told him enough stories over the years — the constant media attention, the political obligations, the way he couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized. But seeing it like this, seeing Ilya’s face on every corner, on buses, on billboards, is something else entirely.

This isn’t just a hockey player. This is a national icon.

The Olympic Village is a contained city — apartment buildings, cafeterias, recreation centers, security everywhere. Team Canada is assigned to one of the larger buildings, and Shane barely has time to drop his bags before they’re being rushed to orientation meetings and security briefings.

He checks his phone when he gets a moment. One new message.

DO NOT ANSWER: Welcome to Russia. Try not to embarrass yourself ;)

Shane’s lips quirk into a smile despite everything.

Shane: Hard to embarrass myself more than you embarrass yourself with those posters everywhere.

DO NOT ANSWER: Is not my fault they love me. I’m very lovable.

Shane: You’re very something.

DO NOT ANSWER: Want to see me? Tonight, after team meetings? I can sneak you out.

Shane hesitates. They need to be careful here, more careful than ever. This isn’t Boston or Montreal where they can slip in and out of hotels unseen. This is Russia, Ilya’s country, where cameras are everywhere and the stakes are so much higher.

Shane: Is that safe?

DO NOT ANSWER: Probably not. But when has that stopped us?

Fair point.

Shane: Okay. Text me when.

That afternoon, Shane sits through meetings about drug testing protocols and media obligations and security concerns. The security briefing is particularly intense — they’re warned about surveillance, about being careful what they say and do, about remembering they’re guests in a foreign country with different laws and customs.

“And please,” the Canadian Olympic Committee official says, “be respectful of local customs regarding certain … sensitive topics. We don’t want any incidents.”

Shane knows what he means. Don’t talk about the gay propaganda law. Don’t talk about politics. Don’t do anything that could be construed as criticism of the host country.

He thinks about Ilya, who lives here, who has to navigate these laws not as a visiting athlete but as a citizen. As the president’s son.

The thought makes him nauseous.

After dinner in the cafeteria — where Shane can barely eat because his stomach is in knots — he returns to his room. His roommate is off chasing after a Norwegian skier, so Shane is alone when his phone buzzes.

DO NOT ANSWER: Building 7, Room 312. Back entrance, no cameras. Code is 2841. Come now if you can.

Shane checks the hallway and slips out. The Olympic Village is busy with athletes from dozens of countries, all wearing their national gear, and Shane is just another face in the crowd. He makes his way to Building 7, finds the back entrance, punches in the code.

The door clicks open.

He takes the stairs to the third floor and finds Room 312. Before he can knock, the door opens.

Ilya pulls him inside quickly, checking the hallway before closing and locking the door.

“Hi,” Ilya says, and he’s smiling that smile that still makes Shane’s heart do stupid things.

“Hi,” Shane responds.

They stare at each other for a moment. Three years of this, and it’s still awkward at first. Still takes a minute to remember how to be around each other.

Then Ilya steps forward and kisses him, and it’s like no time has passed at all.

“Missed you,” Ilya murmurs against Shane’s lips.

“Missed you too.”

They make their way to Ilya’s bed — these Olympic apartments are tiny, just a bedroom and bathroom — and sit down. Ilya keeps touching Shane like he needs to confirm Shane is real. His hand on Shane’s knee, his shoulder pressed against Shane’s, his fingers tangling with Shane’s.

“How was flight?” Ilya asks.

“Long. How’s your team looking?”

“Good. Very good. We have home ice advantage. Lot of pressure, but I think we can win gold.”

“Canada’s going to win gold,” Shane corrects.

“We’ll see about that.” Ilya grins. “Maybe we play each other in final. That would be very exciting.”

“That would be a nightmare,” Shane says honestly. “I don’t know if I could handle that.”

“You could handle it. You’re strong.” Ilya squeezes Shane’s knee. “But yes, would be very intense. For both of us.”

They fall into easy conversation — catching up on the season, trash talking each other’s teams, making plans for after the Olympics. It’s comfortable in a way that shouldn’t be possible given what they are to each other.

But then Shane glances at the wall and sees it. A poster of Ilya in military dress uniform, looking stern and official. It’s partially hidden behind the door, but it’s there.

“What is that?” Shane asks, nodding toward it.

Ilya follows his gaze and grimaces. “Oh. That. Is from military appreciation event last year. They make me wear uniform, take photos for propaganda. I hate it.”

“You’re in military dress?”

“Is honorary. I’m not actually in military. But my father likes the imagery. Strong Russian athlete, loyal to motherland, ready to serve. All that bullshit.” Ilya stands and walks to the poster, yanks it down. “I try to ignore these things, but they’re everywhere. Can’t escape.”

Shane thinks about all the posters he saw today. “Yeah, I noticed. You’re kind of a big deal here.”

“Is exhausting,” Ilya says, crumpling the poster and shoving it in the trash. “Everyone wants piece of me. Everyone has opinion about what I should do, how I should act, what I should say. And during Olympics in Russia?” He laughs without humor. “Is ten times worse.”

“I can’t imagine what that’s like.”

“No, you can’t,” Ilya says, and there’s no malice in it, just statement of fact. “Your father is Prime Minister, yes, but you live in Canada. Free press, free speech, free to be yourself. Here-” He gestures vaguely. “Here is different. Everything is controlled. Everything is watched.”

Shane’s stomach twists. “Ilya, I need to ask you something.”

“Okay.”

“The law. The one from last year. The gay propaganda law.” Shane forces himself to look at Ilya. “Does it … are you … is it safe for you here?”

Ilya’s expression shuts down immediately. “Shane-”

“Because I’ve been thinking about it ever since they announced these Olympics would be in Sochi. I’ve been thinking about you, living here, having to hide who you are in a place where part of you is literally illegal-”

“Stop,” Ilya interrupts. “Please stop.”

“I can’t stop,” Shane says, his voice rising. “Do you know what it’s like for me? Sitting in Canada, reading about these laws, seeing people protest the Olympics, and knowing you’re here? Knowing that if anyone found out about us, about what we do, you could-” He can’t finish the sentence.

Ilya sits back down heavily. “You think I don’t know this? You think I don’t live with this every single day?”

“Then why do you stay? Why don’t you-”

“Defect?” Ilya laughs bitterly. “Request asylum in America or Canada? Leave my grandmother, my friends, everything I’ve ever known? And do what? Admit to the world that I’m-” He stops himself.

The word hangs unspoken between them.

Bisexual.

Neither of them has ever said it out loud. Not in three years. They’ve never put labels on what they are, what they do, what they mean to each other.

“I’m gay,” Shane says suddenly. “I figured it out. Finally. I’m gay.”

Ilya stares at him. “Shane-”

“And I’ve been terrified to tell you because I didn’t know what it would mean. If it would make this-” he gestures between them “-more real. More dangerous. More complicated than it already is.”

“It’s already complicated,” Ilya says quietly.

“I know. But Ilya, you live in a country where what we do is illegal. Where people like us are illegal. And you’re not just any person — you’re the president’s son. You’re the face of Russian hockey. If anyone found out-”

“They won’t find out,” Ilya says firmly. “I’ve been careful my whole life. I know how to hide, how to lie, how to be what everyone expects.”

“That’s not living,” Shane says. “That’s surviving.”

“For me, is same thing,” Ilya responds. “This is my life, Shane. This is reality. I don’t get to choose different one just because I want to.”

They sit in heavy silence. Shane can hear his own heartbeat, can hear the muffled sounds of the Olympic Village outside.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says finally. “I shouldn’t have brought this up. I just—seeing all those posters today. Seeing you everywhere, seeing what you represent to these people. It made me realize how impossible this situation is. How dangerous it is for you.”

“Is always been dangerous,” Ilya says. “From very first time, in Toronto. I know the risks. I choose to take them anyway.”

“Why?” Shane asks. “Why risk everything for this? For us? We’re not even—we’ve never even said what we are to each other.”

Ilya looks at him for a long moment. “You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Because when I’m with you, I get to be myself,” Ilya says simply. “Not Ilya Rozanov, Russian hockey star. Not Ilya Rozanov, president’s son. Just Ilya. Just me. And that is worth any risk.”

Shane’s throat tightens. “Ilya-”

“But you’re right. Is dangerous. Especially here, especially now. Maybe we should be more careful. Maybe we shouldn’t see each other during Olympics. Too many cameras, too much attention.”

The thought of being in the same city as Ilya and not seeing him makes Shane’s chest ache. But Ilya is right. They need to be smart.

“Okay,” Shane agrees reluctantly. “We’ll be careful. We’ll keep distance until Olympics are over.”

“Is safer this way,” Ilya says, but he doesn’t sound happy about it. “After Olympics, after we’re back to regular season, then we can … we can figure out rest.”

“Figure out what rest?”

Ilya reaches out and takes Shane’s hand. “What we are. What we want. If we keep doing this or if we-” He doesn’t finish.

“If we what?”

“If we make it official,” Ilya says quietly. “If we stop pretending this is just physical, just convenient. If we admit that maybe we mean more to each other than just rivals who fuck sometimes.”

Shane’s heart is pounding. “Do we? Mean more to each other?”

“You tell me,” Ilya challenges. “Why you come here tonight? Why you text me every day? Why you watch my games even when we don’t play each other? Why you save articles about me — yes, I notice — and why you learn Russian phrases you think I don’t notice you using?”

“I don’t-” Shane starts to protest, but Ilya cuts him off.

“You practice saying good morning in Russian. You say it wrong, but you practice. You learn to say ‘good game’ and ‘congratulations’ and other things. You think I don’t notice, but I notice everything about you.”

Shane doesn’t know what to say to that. Doesn’t know how to respond to being seen so completely.

“I notice things about you too,” Ilya continues. “I notice that you never celebrate beating me anymore. I notice that you look for me in the tunnel after games. I notice that you text me when you have bad game, when you need someone to talk to. I notice that you trust me with parts of yourself you don’t show anyone else.”

“Ilya-”

“So yes,” Ilya says firmly. “I think we mean more to each other. I think we have meant more for long time. But we’ve been too scared to say it.”

“I’m still scared,” Shane admits.

“Me too,” Ilya says. “But maybe is okay to be scared together.”

Shane looks at their joined hands. Three years of this. Three years of stolen moments and careful lies and pretending this is casual when it’s anything but.

“What do we do?” Shane asks. “How do we—how does this work? You’re in Boston, I’m in Montreal. We play against each other four times a year. The media watches everything we do. Your father-” He stops.

“My father cannot know,” Ilya says immediately. “Ever. Is not safe. But Shane, we figure out rest. Somehow.”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet,” Ilya admits. “But we’ve figured out last three years. We figure out rest too.”

Shane wants to believe him. Wants to believe they can make this work despite everything stacked against them. But sitting here, in Russia, where what they are is illegal, where Ilya has to hide so much of himself just to survive — it feels impossible.

“I should go,” Shane says, though everything in him wants to stay. “You’re right that we need to be careful here. I shouldn’t be in your room.”

Ilya nods but doesn’t let go of Shane’s hand. “After Olympics. We talk more after Olympics, yes? We figure this out.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Ilya walks Shane to the door. Before opening it, he pulls Shane into a kiss — desperate and clinging and nothing like their usual controlled physicality.

“Be safe,” Shane says when they break apart. “On the ice, off the ice, everywhere. Please be safe.”

“Always,” Ilya promises. “You too.”

Shane slips out of the room and makes his way back to the Canadian building. His mind is spinning, heart racing, everything feeling too big and too overwhelming.

He’s gay.

He said it out loud to Ilya.

And Ilya basically admitted this thing between them is more than just physical.

And they’re in Russia, where all of this is illegal, where discovery could mean disaster for Ilya.

Shane makes it back to his room before his roommate returns. He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, and thinks about Ilya in that poster wearing military dress. Thinks about all the posters he saw today, all the ways Ilya is packaged and presented to the Russian people.

Hero. Icon. Patriot.

But never himself. Never bi. Never free.

Shane pulls out his phone and texts: I’m sorry for what you have to live with. I’m sorry you can’t be yourself here.

The response comes quickly: Is not your fault. And when I’m with you, I get to be myself. Is enough.

Shane: Is it?

DO NOT ANSWER: Has to be. Is all I have.

Shane closes his eyes against the sting of tears. He’s spent three years carefully not examining his feelings for Ilya. Three years pretending this is casual, convenient, uncomplicated.

But lying here, in Ilya’s country, surrounded by images of Ilya that are carefully curated to hide who he really is — Shane can’t pretend anymore.

He’s in love with Ilya Rozanov.

Has been for a while, probably. Maybe from the beginning.

And Ilya is right — that is terrifying.

But Ilya is also right that being scared together might be better than being scared alone.

Shane falls asleep with his phone in his hand and Ilya’s last text on the screen.

And he dreams of a world where they don’t have to hide. Where Ilya can be himself without fear. Where Shane can call Ilya his boyfriend instead of his rival.

But when he wakes up, he’s still in Russia.

And they still have an Olympics to play.

And everything is still just as complicated as it was before.

Maybe more.

Chapter 12: the ultimatum

The arena erupts as the final buzzer sounds. Russia 3, Canada 2.

Olympic gold.

Ilya drops to his knees on the ice, helmet flying off, arms spread wide in that signature pose that’s been photographed a million times. His teammates pile on top of him, all of them screaming, crying, disbelieving. They did it. On home ice, in front of their country, they did it.

Ilya can barely breathe under the weight of his teammates, but he doesn’t care. This is it. This is everything he’s trained for his entire life. This is what his father demanded, what Russia expected, what the world was watching for.

And they delivered.

When his teammates finally let him up, Ilya skates a victory lap, Russian flag draped over his shoulders. The crowd is chanting his name — seventy thousand people screaming “I-LYA! I-LYA! I-LYA!” — and he’s never felt more alive and more exhausted at the same time.

He thinks of the International Prospect Cup, six years ago. Russia beating Canada in overtime. Him scoring the winning goal against Shane. The beginning of everything.

And now here they are again. Russia over Canada. Him beating Shane.

But this time, it doesn’t feel like winning.

Not when he can see Shane across the ice, devastated. Not when he knows what this costs both of them.

The medal ceremony is a blur. Standing on the top podium while the Russian anthem plays. His father in the stands, standing rigid and proud. The weight of the gold medal around his neck. Cameras flashing from every angle.

He’s supposed to be happy. Triumphant. This is the pinnacle of his career at twenty-three years old.

But all he can think about is the handshake line coming up. About having to look Shane in the eye and pretend this doesn’t hurt.

Finally, it’s time. The Canadian team lines up, silver medals around their necks, faces showing varying degrees of devastation and disappointment. Shane is near the middle of the line, standing between his captain and a defenseman.

Ilya starts down the line, shaking hands, exchanging the obligatory “good games.” When he reaches Shane, he grips his hand maybe a second too long. Squeezes slightly.

Shane’s eyes meet his, and Ilya sees everything there — grief, exhaustion, love, understanding.

“Good game,” Shane says, his voice rough.

“Good game,” Ilya echoes. He wants to say more. Wants to say I’m sorry. Wants to say I wish we could both win. Wants to say I love you.

But there are cameras everywhere, and his father is watching, and Russia is watching, and Ilya can only squeeze Shane’s hand one more time before moving on.

After the line, Ilya is pulled into a whirlwind of media obligations. Interview after interview, all in Russian, all asking the same questions. How does it feel? What does this mean to Russia? How proud is your father?

“This is greatest moment of my life,” Ilya says, smiling for the cameras. “To win gold for Russia, in Russia, for my country … there are no words. I’m so proud to be Russian.”

The answers come easily. He’s been trained his entire life to say the right things.

But inside, something is shifting.

That night, there’s a massive celebration at the Olympic Village for Team Russia. Champagne flows freely. Music blasts. Ilya’s teammates are dancing, singing, completely letting loose.

Ilya participates — he smiles, he takes photos, he accepts congratulations from officials and celebrities who’ve come to celebrate Russia’s victory. But his mind is elsewhere.

He keeps checking his phone. Shane hasn’t texted. Hasn’t reached out at all.

Ilya wants to go to him. Wants to find Shane and make sure he’s okay. But he can’t. There are too many eyes on him tonight. He’s the hero of the hour. He can’t slip away.

Around midnight, his father’s chief of staff approaches him. “Your father would like to see you tomorrow. Noon, at his residence. Private meeting.”

Ilya’s stomach sinks. “What about?”

“He didn’t say. But he was very insistent.”

After the man leaves, Ilya finally gets a text. But it’s not from Shane.

It’s from his grandmother.

Babushka: I’m so proud of you, Ilyusha. You made Russia proud. You made me proud. Your mother would be so happy.

He texts back: Thank you, Babushka. I love you.

Then, finally, his phone buzzes with the message he’s been waiting for.

Shane: Congratulations. You played incredible. You deserved it.

Ilya stares at the message for a long time before responding.

Ilya: I’m sorry.

Shane: Don’t be. It was a great game. You were better. That’s hockey.

Ilya: That’s not what I’m sorry for.

Shane: I know. Me too.

Ilya wants to say more. Wants to have the conversation they need to have. But not over text. Not like this.

Ilya: When can I see you?

Shane: I don’t know. We leave day after tomorrow. Everyone’s watching us right now.

Ilya: After Olympics then. When we’re back.

Shane: Yeah. After.

It’s not enough. But it has to be.

The next morning, Ilya wakes with a pounding headache and a sense of dread about the meeting with his father. He showers, dresses in pressed slacks and a button-down — his father appreciates formality — and takes a car to the Presidential residence in central Sochi.

Security is even tighter than usual. Ilya is searched three times before he’s allowed into his father’s private office.

Grigori Rozanov sits behind his massive desk, looking at documents. He doesn’t look up when Ilya enters.

“Sit,” he says.

Ilya sits in one of the chairs facing the desk. He’s been in this position countless times — summoned to his father’s office for debriefings, lectures, instructions. But something about today feels different.

His father finally looks up. “Congratulations on yesterday. You played exceptionally well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“The entire country is celebrating. Your approval ratings are the highest they’ve ever been. Higher than mine, in fact.” His father’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re more popular than the President. An interesting position to be in.”

“I’m just a hockey player,” Ilya says carefully. “The people love hockey. They love winning. Has nothing to do with me personally.”

“Don’t be modest. It doesn’t suit you.” His father leans back in his chair. “You’ve become exactly what I hoped you’d become. A symbol. A hero. The face of modern Russia.”

Ilya’s hands tighten on the arms of the chair. “Is that why you called me here? To talk about my approval ratings?”

“No.” His father’s expression hardens. “I called you here because we need to discuss your future. Specifically, your future beyond hockey.”

“My future beyond—what does that mean?”

“You’re twenty-three years old. You’ve achieved more than most athletes dream of. NHL success, Olympic gold. But hockey careers are short, Ilya. Fifteen years, twenty if you’re lucky. And then what?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“Well, I have.” His father stands and walks to the window overlooking Sochi. “I’m grooming you to take over when I step down. Not immediately — you’re too young, and you need more experience. But eventually, in twenty or twenty-five years, you’ll be ready.”

Ilya’s blood runs cold. “You want me to be President?”

“Why not? You’re popular, charismatic, intelligent. The people already love you. Transitioning from athlete to politician is not uncommon. And with your last name, your legacy, you’d be unstoppable.”

“I don’t want to be President,” Ilya says, keeping his voice even.

“What you want is irrelevant,” his father snaps. “This has been the plan since you were born. You were always meant for this.”

“No,” Ilya says. “I was meant for hockey. You said so yourself. You put me in the Red Army academy when I was six years old because I was good at hockey, not because you wanted me to be a politician.”

“Hockey was always just the first step,” his father says. “A way to build your profile, to make you beloved by the masses. But it was never the end goal.”

Ilya stands abruptly. “You used me. My entire childhood, my entire career — you used me as a propaganda tool.”

“I used you?” His father turns from the window, voice rising. “I gave you everything! The best coaches, the best facilities, the best opportunities. I made you into what you are!”

“You made me into what you wanted me to be,” Ilya corrects. “Not what I wanted.”

“And what do you want, Ilya? To play hockey forever? To avoid responsibility? To continue your reckless behavior that I’ve been covering up for years?”

The room goes silent. Ilya’s heart pounds.

“What behavior?” He asks carefully.

“Don’t insult my intelligence.” His father moves closer, voice dropping dangerously low. “Did you think I didn’t know? About your … proclivities? About the men you sneak around with when you think no one is watching?”

Ilya’s mouth goes dry. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. I’ve had people watching you for years. Making sure you’re discreet, making sure nothing gets out. The bartender in Moscow the year before you were drafted. The model in St. Petersburg after that. And most concerning-” his father’s eyes narrow “-the Canadian hockey player you keep visiting.”

Ilya’s world tilts. He knows. He fucking knows.

“Shane Hollander,” his father continues. “Your supposed rival. You’ve been seen entering his hotels, leaving his apartment. Multiple times over multiple years.”

“We’re friends,” Ilya says, but his voice wavers. “We talk strategy, we-”

“Don’t lie to me!” His father slams his hand on the desk. “I know exactly what you are, Ilya. I’ve known since you were a teenager. And I’ve allowed it because you were discreet. Because it was manageable. But this stops now.”

“You can’t tell me who I can see,” Ilya says, finding his voice. “You can’t control every aspect of my life.”

“I can and I will. You will end whatever this is with Hollander. You will start being seen with appropriate women. And in two years, you will get married. I already have candidates selected.”

Ilya laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You want me to get married? To a woman I don’t love? To live a lie for the rest of my life?”

“Yes,” his father says simply. “That’s exactly what I want. That’s what you’ll do if you want to keep everything you have.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll destroy you,” his father says coldly. “I’ll leak information about your lifestyle. I’ll make sure you never play hockey again. I’ll strip you of your citizenship if I have to. You’ll have nothing.”

Ilya stares at his father — this man who’s supposed to love him, protect him, want what’s best for him. And he sees only calculation. Only power. Only control.

And something inside Ilya snaps.

He thinks about Shane’s face in the handshake line. About four years of hiding, sneaking, pretending. About the gay propaganda law that makes what he is illegal. About all the other people in Russia who have to hide like he does.

About the fact that he just won Olympic gold, and he’s more popular than his father has ever been.

“No,” Ilya says.

His father blinks. “What?”

“No,” Ilya repeats, stronger now. “I’m not doing any of that. I’m not ending things with Shane. I’m not marrying some woman. I’m not living a lie anymore.”

“You don’t have a choice-”

“Actually,” Ilya interrupts, and he can feel the old cocky confidence sliding into place like armor, “I do. Because I have something you need.”

“You have nothing I need.”

“I have popularity,” Ilya says. “I have approval ratings higher than yours. I have the love of the Russian people. I just won Olympic gold — the first for Russia since before the Soviet Union fell. I’m a hero right now. A national treasure.” He leans forward. “And I’m proudly bisexual.”

His father’s face goes white. “You wouldn’t-”

“Wouldn’t I?” Ilya’s smile is sharp. “You think I won’t come out? Won’t tell the world exactly who I am? I will. I’ll do a press conference tomorrow. I’ll tell everyone that the great Ilya Rozanov, Russian hero, likes men. I’ll make the Rozanov name a national embarrassment.”

“If you do that, you’ll destroy yourself,” his father hisses.

“Maybe,” Ilya agrees. “But I’ll destroy you too. Because if I come out, everyone will ask why. Why now? Why would Russia’s golden boy make such a statement? And I’ll tell them. I’ll tell them about the gay propaganda law. About how it makes people like me criminals. About how my own father knew who I was and used it to control me.”

“No one will believe you-”

“They will,” Ilya interrupts. “Because they love me right now. They love me more than they love you. So they’ll believe me. And you’ll lose everything.”

His father is breathing hard, hands clenched into fists. “What do you want?”

“I want you to change the law,” Ilya says. “The gay propaganda law. Repeal it. Make a statement that Russia protects all its citizens, regardless of sexuality. Make it happen within the next six months.”

“That’s impossible-”

“Nothing is impossible for the President of Russia,” Ilya says. “You wrote the law, you can unwrite it. You have the power.”

“The political fallout would be enormous-”

“Less enormous than having your son come out as bisexual and defect to America,” Ilya says. “Because that’s the other option. If you don’t change the law, I’ll request asylum. I’ll leave Russia forever. You’ll lose your heir, your symbol, your golden boy. And I’ll tell everyone why I left. I’ll tell them about the doping ring you’ve been running for Olympic athletes — yes, I know about that too. I’ll burn it all down.”

His father stares at him with something that might be respect, or might be rage. It’s hard to tell.

“You’re bluffing,” his father finally says.

“Try me,” Ilya challenges. “Call my bluff. See what happens. See if I’m still your obedient son, or if I’m finally done being controlled.”

The silence stretches between them. Ilya can hear his own heartbeat, can feel sweat on his palms. But he keeps his expression cocky, arrogant, unreadable. The same face he uses on the ice when he’s trash-talking opponents.

His father taught him how to bluff. Taught him how to negotiate from a position of strength. How to never show weakness.

And now Ilya is using all of it against him.

“You realize,” his father says slowly, “that if I agree to this, if I change the law — it won’t make everything perfect. People will still hate. People will still discriminate. A law doesn’t change hearts.”

“I know,” Ilya says. “But it’s a start. It’s something. It’s better than what exists now.”

“And what do I get in exchange for this?” His father asks. “Besides avoiding embarrassment?”

“You get me staying in Russia,” Ilya says. “You get me continuing to be your hero, your symbol. I’ll do the photo ops, the military events, all of it. I’ll even think about your political plans for my future — not promise, but think about it. But only if you change the law. Only if you give me and people like me the freedom to exist.”

“And Hollander?”

Ilya’s jaw tightens. “Shane is none of your business.”

“If you’re seen with him, if anyone suspects-”

“Let them suspect,” Ilya says. “Let them wonder. I’ll be discreet, but I won’t end it. That’s non-negotiable.”

His father walks back to his desk and sits down heavily. He suddenly looks older than his fifty-seven years. Tired.

“You’ve thought this through,” he observes.

“I’ve had four years to think about it,” Ilya says. “Four years of hiding, lying, pretending to be something I’m not. I’m done.”

“You’ll regret this.”

“Maybe,” Ilya agrees. “But I’ll regret staying silent even more.”

His father pulls out a tablet and starts typing. “If I do this — and I’m not saying I will — it will take time. The Duma will need to vote. There will be international pressure involved. It will be complicated.”

“You have six months,” Ilya repeats. “That’s plenty of time.”

“And if I don’t? If I call your bluff?”

Ilya pulls out his phone. “Then I make a phone call to the New York Times. They’ve been wanting an interview with me for months. I’m sure they’d love an exclusive about why Russia’s Olympic hero is requesting asylum.”

His father’s expression hardens. “You really would do it. You’d destroy everything.”

“To be free?” Ilya meets his father’s eyes. “Yes. I would.”

Another long silence. Then his father nods slowly. “Six months. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Not see what you can do,” Ilya corrects. “You’ll do it. You’ll change the law, or I walk. Those are the terms.”

“You’ve become very arrogant,” his father observes.

“I learned from the best,” Ilya says.

His father almost smiles at that. Almost. “Get out of my office. I have work to do.”

Ilya stands, straightens his shirt. At the door, he pauses. “Papa?”

His father looks up.

“I’m not doing this to hurt you,” Ilya says quietly. “I’m doing it because I can’t live like this anymore. I hope you understand.”

“I don’t,” his father says. “But perhaps that’s not important.”

Ilya leaves the office on shaking legs. He makes it to his car before the adrenaline crash hits. He sits in the back seat, hands trembling, trying to process what just happened.

He threatened the President of Russia.

He came out to his father.

He gave an ultimatum that could either change everything or destroy his life.

And he has no idea which it will be.

His phone buzzes. Shane.

Shane: Are you okay? You haven’t texted all day.

Ilya stares at the message. He wants to tell Shane everything. Wants to explain what he just did, what he just risked.

But not over text. Not until he knows if it worked.

Ilya: I’m okay. Just busy with post-Olympics stuff. Talk soon?

Shane: Yeah. Talk soon. Be safe.

Ilya: Always.

Ilya closes his eyes and leans his head back against the seat.

He just bet everything — his career, his citizenship, his relationship with his father, his entire future — on the hope that his father values power more than pride.

And now all he can do is wait.

Wait and hope that he didn’t just make the biggest mistake of his life.

Or the bravest decision.

Time will tell.

Chapter 13: liberation

Shane is lying face-down on the training table, trying not to wince as Marcel, one of Montreal’s athletic trainers, digs into his left thigh with practiced hands. The muscle has been tight since their game against Tampa two nights ago — too many shifts, not enough recovery time.

“You need to take better care of yourself,” Marcel scolds in accented English. “You’re twenty-three, not thirty-three. Your body should not be this tight.”

“I know, I know,” Shane mutters into the face cradle. “It’s the playoff push. Everyone’s playing hurt.”

“Playoff push or not, you’re no good to team if you’re injured.”

It’s late April, and Montreal is clinging to the last wild card spot in the Eastern Conference. Every game matters. Every shift matters. Shane has been playing over twenty-five minutes a night, and his body is screaming at him for it.

The training room door bursts open, and Shane hears running footsteps. “Holy shit, you guys need to see this!”

“Pike, we’re busy,” Marcel says irritably. “Can it wait?”

“No, it really can’t.” Hayden rushes to the small TV mounted in the corner of the training room and turns it on. “This is fucking insane.”

Shane lifts his head slightly. “What’s insane?”

“Just hold on-” Hayden is flipping through channels until he lands on CNN. “There. Listen.”

The news anchor is mid-sentence: “-unprecedented statement from the Russian Orthodox Patriarch, who claimed to have received a divine vision from Jesus Christ regarding homosexuality. We go now to Moscow, where our correspondent has more.”

Shane’s entire body goes rigid. Marcel notices. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane forces out. “Just the muscle. Tight spot.”

On screen, the correspondent is standing in front of the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour — the same cathedral where Shane once watched video of Ilya receiving blessings before the Prospect Cup, a lifetime ago.

“In a shocking address this morning,” the correspondent says, “Patriarch Kirill announced that he experienced a vision in which Jesus Christ appeared to him and conveyed a message about the church’s stance on homosexuality. Here’s a portion of that statement, translated from Russian.”

The screen cuts to footage of the Patriarch in full regalia, speaking from the cathedral. Subtitles appear at the bottom:

“The Lord came to me in a vision and showed me the truth I had been blind to. He showed me that all people — all people, regardless of whom they love — are His children. Men who love men, women who love women, and all those in between — they are not abominations. They are not sinners for simply existing as God made them. They are beloved children of the Most High, deserving of love, respect, and protection under God’s grace and under our earthly laws.”

The training room has gone completely silent. Shane can barely breathe.

“What the fuck?” Martin says. “The Russian Orthodox Church is pro-gay now? Since when?”

“Since apparently Jesus decided to weigh in,” J.J.jokes weakly. “Though I gotta say, timing is suspicious. Three months after Sochi, right when Russia’s been getting hammered in international press about the gay propaganda law?”

“You think it’s political?” Martin asks.

“Of course it’s political,” Hayden says. “The Patriarch is basically an arm of the Russian government. He doesn’t take a piss without the President approving it first.”

Shane’s mind is racing. The Patriarch. The President’s closest religious ally. Changing the church’s stance on homosexuality.

Ilya.

This has Ilya written all over it.

“Can you turn it up?” Shane asks, trying to keep his voice level.

Martin increases the volume. The CNN anchor is now interviewing a political analyst.

“This is significant because Patriarch Kirill has historically been very conservative on LGBTQ issues,” the analyst explains. “For him to make this statement, with the backing of the church, puts enormous pressure on the Russian government to reconsider the gay propaganda law passed in 2013.”

“And the timing, coming just months after Russia’s Olympic gold medal victory in hockey-”

“Exactly. Russia is riding high on nationalist pride right now. The government can afford to make progressive moves because the population is in a celebratory mood. It’s actually politically brilliant.”

Marcel’s hands have stilled on Shane’s leg. “You’re very tense suddenly. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Shane lies. “Can we finish this later? I need to—I need to make a call.”

“We’re not done-”

“Please,” Shane says, sitting up. “It’s important.”

Marcel sighs but steps back. “Fine. But you come back tomorrow, and we do this properly.”

Shane grabs his phone and practically runs out of the training room. Behind him, he can hear his teammates still discussing the Patriarch’s announcement.

“My priest is going to lose his mind when he hears about this,” J.J. is saying.

“Your priest already lost his mind when Montreal legalized gay marriage,” Hayden responds.

Shane makes it to the parking lot before his hands start shaking. He leans against his car and pulls out his phone.

They’ve been texting regularly since Sochi — daily check-ins, game updates, the occasional photo. But they haven’t talked on the phone in months. It’s too risky, too easy to say something incriminating that could be recorded or overheard.

But Shane has to know.

He dials Ilya’s number. It rings four times before Ilya picks up.

“Shane?” Ilya sounds surprised. “Is something wrong?”

“Did you-” Shane’s voice cracks. “The Patriarch. Was that you?”

Silence on the other end. “You saw broadcast?”

“Everyone saw the broadcast. It’s international news. Ilya, what did you do?”

“Can’t talk on this phone,” Ilya says quickly. “Not secure. But-” He pauses. “But yes. Was me. Sort of. Is complicated.”

Shane’s legs feel weak. He slides down to sit on the parking lot asphalt, back against his car. “You did this. You actually did this.”

“I told you I would figure it out,” Ilya says, and Shane can hear the smile in his voice. “I told you we would find a way.”

“How?”

“Later. I’ll explain everything later, when we can talk properly. But Shane-” Ilya’s voice drops lower. “Is not over yet. Patriarch’s statement is just first step. But is good step, yes?”

“It’s an incredible step,” Shane says. His eyes are stinging. “Do you know what this means? For people in Russia? For you?”

“I know,” Ilya says softly. “But like I said, is not over. Have to wait and see what happens next.”

They talk for a few more minutes — carefully, vaguely, aware that phones can be monitored. When they hang up, Shane sits in the parking lot for another ten minutes, just processing.

Ilya did this. Somehow, some way, Ilya made this happen.

Four weeks later, Shane is in his apartment in Montreal, recovering from a brutal first-round playoff loss to Boston — the fucking irony of losing to Ilya’s team — when his phone starts blowing up with notifications.

He grabs it, expecting trade rumors or playoff updates. Instead, every news outlet is reporting the same thing:

BREAKING: Russia Repeals Gay Propaganda Law

Russian Duma Votes to Overturn 2013 Anti-LGBTQ Legislation

President Rozanov Signs Bill Decriminalizing “Gay Propaganda”

Shane’s hands shake as he clicks on the first article. The CNN headline reads “In Shocking Reversal, Russia Repeals Controversial Gay Propaganda Law, Citing Religious and Social Pressure.”

The article explains that the Russian Duma voted overwhelmingly to repeal the law, with President Grigori Rozanov signing the bill within hours. The move was reportedly influenced by the Patriarch’s statement last month, as well as mounting international pressure following the Sochi Olympics.

“This is a new Russia,” President Rozanov is quoted as saying. “A Russia that protects all its citizens, regardless of personal circumstances. We must move forward with the times while maintaining our traditional values.”

Shane is reading this on his laptop now, pulling up multiple news sources, when he sees the videos.

Someone has posted footage from Moscow. From St. Petersburg. From cities across Russia.

People flooding the streets with rainbow flags. Pride flags. Trans flags. Bi flags. Flags Shane has never even seen before.

Russians — young and old, alone and in groups — celebrating in public. Some are crying. Some are kissing their partners openly. Some are just standing there, holding flags, looking dazed and disbelieving.

The video captions explain that police are present but not intervening. That for the first time in years, LGBTQ Russians can exist publicly without fear of arrest.

Shane watches a video of two young men kissing in Red Square, and he starts crying.

He’s not a crier. He’s spent twenty-three years building walls, being strong, being the perfect son. But watching these people — Ilya’s people — experience even a fraction of freedom they deserve breaks something open in him.

His phone rings. Ilya.

Shane answers, his voice thick with tears. “I’m watching the videos. From Moscow. From everywhere.”

“I know,” Ilya says, and he sounds choked up too. “I’m watching too. Shane, they’re celebrating. They’re free.”

“You did this,” Shane says. “However you did it, whatever you said or threatened or promised — you made this happen.”

“We’re not there yet,” Ilya warns. “Law is repealed, but changing minds takes longer. There will still be violence, still be hatred. But is start. Is better than before.”

“It’s so much better than before,” Shane agrees. He wipes his eyes. “Are you safe? Your father-”

“My father and I have … understanding,” Ilya says carefully. “I can’t talk details on phone. But I’m safe. Promise.”

They’re both quiet for a moment, just breathing together across the distance. Shane in Montreal, Ilya in Boston, both watching their computer screens as history unfolds.

“Where are you spending summer?” Ilya asks suddenly.

“What?”

“Summer. Off-season. Where do you go?”

“Uh, usually my parents’ place for a bit, then my cottage in Muskoka.”

“Cottage,” Ilya repeats. “This is small house by lake, yes?”

Shane laughs wetly. “Not exactly. It’s … it’s pretty big, actually. I had it built when my extension kicked in. It’s on Lake Muskoka, really private, gated community. Why?”

“Can I come?” Ilya asks. “After playoffs are over? Can I visit you there?”

Shane’s breath catches. They’ve never done this before — planned time together that isn’t just stealing hours between games. Never talked about spending real time together, days instead of nights.

“You want to come to my cottage?”

“I want to be somewhere we can actually be together,” Ilya says. “Somewhere without cameras, without fear, without having to hide every minute. Even if just for few days. I want-” His voice cracks slightly. “I want to be with you. Really with you. Is that okay?”

Shane closes his eyes against fresh tears. “Yeah. Yes. Of course it’s okay.”

“Good,” Ilya says, and Shane can hear him trying to regain his composure. “Though I’ll probably bring Stanley Cup with me. Bears are going to win in few weeks.”

“You’re not winning shit,” Shane says, laughing despite his tears. “Admirals are taking it.”

“Admirals.” Ilya scoffs. “Please. We destroyed you in first round, we’ll destroy everyone else too.”

“You got lucky-”

“We got better,” Ilya corrects. “But we can argue about it at your cottage. At your ‘not small’ house by lake.”

“It’s really private,” Shane says. “No one around for miles. Gated community, security at entrance. No media. No cameras.”

“Sounds perfect,” Ilya says softly. “Sounds like exactly what we need.”

They make plans — tentative, subject to playoff schedules, but plans nonetheless. Ilya will come in late June, after the Stanley Cup Finals end. They’ll have a week, maybe two if they can swing it. Time to just be together without constantly looking over their shoulders.

“I’m proud of you,” Shane says before they hang up. “For whatever you did to make this happen. You’re braver than anyone I know.”

“I’m not brave,” Ilya says. “I’m just tired of hiding. There’s difference.”

“No,” Shane says firmly. “You’re brave. And you just changed thousands of lives. Millions, maybe. You gave people hope.”

“We gave people hope,” Ilya corrects. “You make me brave enough to try.”

After they hang up, Shane sits on his couch and watches more videos from Russia. A grandmother holding a sign that says “I love my gay grandson” in Russian and English. A group of teenagers dancing with pride flags. Two women kissing while friends cheer them on.

His phone buzzes with a text from his mother.

Mom: Did you see the news from Russia? Quite surprising. Your father is pleased, thinks it will improve Canada-Russia relations. Are you doing okay? You seemed upset when we talked last week about the playoff loss.

Shane stares at the message. His mother has no idea. No idea that her son is gay. No idea that he’s been in a relationship with Ilya Rozanov for four years. No idea that this news from Russia is personal for him.

He types back: Yeah, I saw. It’s good news. I’m doing okay, just disappointed about playoffs. Looking forward to summer.

What he wants to say: Mom, I’m gay. I’ve been seeing Ilya Rozanov since we were nineteen. I watched people celebrate in Moscow today and cried because I know what it’s like to hide who you are. And I’m terrified of telling you because I don’t know if you’ll still love me.

But he doesn’t. He sends the safe response and puts his phone down.

His mother is one conversation. Ilya is here, now, real.

And in a few weeks, they’ll have time. Real time. Private time.

Time to figure out what they are to each other, without the world watching.

Shane can’t wait.

The Boston Bears do end up winning the Stanley Cup, because the universe has a sense of humor. Shane watches the final game from his apartment, and when Ilya hoists the Cup over his head, tears streaming down his face, Shane feels a complicated mix of pride and jealousy.

Ilya texts him that night: I told you. Now I bring Cup to your cottage. You can take pictures with it 😉

Shane: Fuck you.

DO NOT ANSWER: Yes please. In few weeks. At cottage. Lots of fucking.

Shane: You’re impossible.

DO NOT ANSWER: You love it.

And the terrifying thing is, Shane does. He loves all of it. The cockiness, the confidence, the way Ilya can make him laugh even when he’s devastated about playoffs.

He loves Ilya.

He’s known it for a while, but sitting in his apartment, watching Ilya celebrate on TV, he lets himself really feel it. Really acknowledge it.

He’s in love with Ilya Rozanov.

Has been for years, probably.

And in a few weeks, he’s going to tell him.

Two weeks later, Shane is at his cottage in Muskoka, unpacking groceries and trying not to be nervous. Ilya is driving up from Toronto — a three-hour drive — and should arrive any minute.

The cottage is perfect for what they need. It’s technically a mansion — six bedrooms, massive windows overlooking the lake, a private dock, surrounded by trees on all sides. The nearest neighbor is half a mile away. The gated community has security at the entrance who’ve been told Shane is expecting a guest and to let him through.

For the first time in months they’ll have complete privacy.

Shane is arranging vegetables in the fridge when he hears a car in the driveway. His heart jumps into his throat.

He walks to the front door and opens it just as Ilya is getting out of a black SUV. Ilya is wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap — a weak disguise, but better than nothing for the drive.

Then Ilya pulls something from the back seat, and Shane’s jaw drops.

The Stanley Cup.

“You actually brought it,” Shane says.

“I told you I would,” Ilya says, grinning. He carries the Cup up the front steps. “Now you can take pictures, tell everyone you have Stanley Cup, even though you didn’t win it.”

“I hate you,” Shane says, but he’s smiling.

“No, you don’t,” Ilya says. He sets the Cup down carefully on the porch and pulls Shane into a kiss.

It’s different, kissing Ilya in broad daylight. In front of his cottage. With no fear of cameras or consequences.

It feels like freedom.

“Come inside,” Shane says when they break apart. “Let me give you the tour.”

Ilya follows him in, and Shane watches as Ilya takes in the space. The open floor plan, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the modern kitchen, the massive stone fireplace.

“This is cottage?” Ilya asks, amused. “Shane, this is mansion.”

“It’s a cottage,” Shane insists. “Just … a big cottage.”

“Canadians,” Ilya mutters, but he’s smiling. “Always so modest about your ridiculous wealth.”

Shane shows him the rest of the house — the bedrooms, the home theater, the wine cellar, the deck overlooking the lake. They end up in the master bedroom, which has its own balcony and a king-sized bed.

“This room okay?” Shane asks. “Or you can have your own room if you want-”

Ilya cuts him off with a kiss. “I don’t want my own room. I want to share yours. I want to wake up next to you every morning we’re here. Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane breathes. “That’s more than okay.”

They spend the rest of the day settling in. They make dinner together — Ilya is surprisingly competent in the kitchen, making a pasta dish he learned from his grandmother. They eat on the deck, watching the sun set over the lake, and for the first time in three years, Shane feels like they can just breathe.

After dinner, they sit on the dock, feet dangling in the water, and Ilya finally tells Shane everything. About the meeting with his father after Sochi. About the ultimatum. About the negotiations that followed — the Patriarch’s statement, the careful political maneuvering, the final vote in the Duma.

“I risked everything,” Ilya admits. “My career, my citizenship, my relationship with my father. Everything. And I don’t know if it was worth it yet. Law is changed, but culture … culture takes longer to change.”

“It was worth it,” Shane says firmly. “I saw those videos, Ilya. Those people celebrating. That was worth it.”

“Maybe,” Ilya says. “I hope so.”

They sit in silence for a while, just listening to the water lap against the dock.

“What about you?” Shane says suddenly. “Are you going to come out? Now that the law is changed?”

Ilya is quiet for a long moment. “I don’t know. Is safer now, but still not safe. Russia is not Canada. People still hate. My father still wants me to marry woman, to produce heir, to eventually take over as President.” He laughs bitterly. “So no. I don’t think I come out. Not publicly. Not for long time.”

“But we can be together? Here, when it’s private?”

“Yes,” Ilya says firmly. He takes Shane’s hand. “Here, we can be us. We can be real. We can stop pretending this is just physical or just convenient.”

“What is it then?” Shane asks. “What are we?”

Ilya turns to face Shane fully. “I think you know what we are. I think you’ve known for a while. Same as me.”

“Say it anyway.”

“We’re in love,” Ilya says simply. “I love you. I’ve loved you for years, probably since that stupid accuracy shooting competition where you broke my record. And you love me. Even though you hate that you love me, even though it’s complicated and messy and dangerous — you love me.”

Shane’s eyes are stinging again. “Yeah. I do. I love you.”

Ilya kisses him, soft and sweet and perfect. When they break apart, he says: “So we’re together. Officially. Boyfriends, partners, whatever word you want. But we’re together.”

“What about the rivalry? What about being competitors?”

“We can be both,” Ilya says with a grin. “We can be in love and also want to destroy each other on ice. Makes it more fun, yes?”

Shane laughs. “You’re insane.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “But you love me anyway.”

They stay on the dock until the stars come out, holding hands, making plans for the week ahead. Swimming, hiking, maybe taking the boat out. But mostly just being together. Being themselves.

When they finally go inside, Shane leads Ilya to the bedroom. They make love slowly, taking their time, and it’s different than it’s ever been. Less frantic, less desperate.

More real.

Afterwards, lying in bed with Ilya’s head on his chest, Shane thinks about everything that led them here. Six years since the Prospect Cup. Four years since Toronto. Countless stolen nights and hidden moments.

And now this. Freedom, even if just for a week. Even if just here, in this cottage, miles from anyone who might judge them.

It’s enough.

For now, it’s enough.

“I love you,” Shane says into the darkness.

“I love you too,” Ilya murmurs, already half-asleep. “Even though you still haven’t won anything.”

“I literally won the Calder.”

“It’s not the Stanley Cup.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You love it,” Ilya says again.

And Shane does. He really, really does.

Chapter 14: unexpected visitors

The morning sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the cottage, casting golden rays across the kitchen. Shane is supposed to be making coffee. That was the plan. Coffee, then breakfast, then maybe a swim in the lake.

But Ilya had other ideas.

Ilya, who decided that cooking breakfast in nothing but an apron was somehow appropriate. Ilya, who bent over to check something in the oven and looked so obscene that Shane’s brain short-circuited. Ilya, who is now gripping Shane’s hips and driving into him on the kitchen island while Shane tries to remember how to breathe.

“Fuck,” Shane gasps, his hands scrambling for purchase on the smooth quartz countertop. “Ilya-”

“You like this, yes?” Ilya’s voice is rough, accented, perfect. “You like when I take you in the kitchen, where anyone could see?”

“No one can see,” Shane manages. “We’re alone—oh God—we’re completely alone-”

“Good,” Ilya says, changing his angle slightly, and Shane sees stars. “Because I’m not stopping until you-”

The sound of a car door slamming cuts through the air.

They both freeze.

“Did you hear-” Shane starts.

“Yes,” Ilya says, not moving. “Was probably neighbor. Or delivery.”

“We don’t have neighbors close enough to-”

The front door opens.

Shane’s parents walk into the cottage.

Time stops.

David Hollander, Prime Minister of Canada, briefcase in hand, stops mid-step in the entryway. Yuna Hollander, First Lady of Canada, freezes beside him, her hand still on the doorknob.

Shane, bent over the kitchen island, completely naked, makes eye contact with his father.

Ilya, still buried inside Shane, also completely naked except for the apron somehow still tied around his neck, just stares.

Nobody moves. Nobody breathes.

The grandfather clock in the living room ticks loudly in the silence.

Finally David clears his throat. His face has gone through several shades of red and is now settling on something close to purple.

“Shane,” he says, his voice carefully controlled. “You’re gay?”

Before Shane can respond — before Shane can even process the question because his brain has completely shut down — Yuna takes a step forward, her eyes locked on Ilya.

“You’re gay?” She asks Ilya, her voice climbing in pitch. “You’re—Ilya Rozanov is gay?”

Ilya, because he is apparently incapable of reading a room or feeling shame, slides out of Shane with deliberate slowness. He drops a kiss on the top of Shane’s head, completely casual, and turns to face Shane’s parents.

Still naked.

Still half-hard.

Still wearing only the apron.

“Actually,” Ilya says, and that cocky smile spreads across his face, “I’m bisexual. I don’t discriminate.” He gestures vaguely at Shane. “But Shane, he’s very gay. Very, very gay. No women for him.”

David makes a strangled sound. Yuna sways slightly on her feet.

“Mom-” Shane starts, finally finding his voice, scrambling to cover himself with — fuck, there’s nothing nearby to cover himself with. “Mom, sit down-”

But Ilya is already moving. He walks — naked, shameless, completely unbothered — to the kitchen table and pulls out a chair. “Mrs. Hollander, please, sit. You look pale. I make you pancakes, yes? They’re almost done. Just need to flip them.”

“Pancakes,” Yuna repeats faintly.

“Yes, pancakes. I’m very good at cooking.” Ilya glances at David, who looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm. “You too, Mr. Prime Minister. Sit. We talk like civilized people.”

“Civilized people,” David says, his voice dangerously quiet, “don’t fuck my son on the kitchen counter.”

“Technically is kitchen island,” Ilya corrects. “Counter is over there.”

Shane wants to die. Wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole. “Dad-”

David holds up a hand, his eyes never leaving Ilya. “You. Put on clothes. Now.”

“Of course,” Ilya says pleasantly. He unties the apron — giving everyone an unobstructed view — and drapes it over a chair. Then he walks, still completely naked, toward the bedroom. “Shane, you should also get dressed. Your parents are here.”

“I’m aware,” Shane hisses.

After Ilya disappears down the hall, Shane grabs a decorative throw pillow from the nearby couch to cover himself and faces his parents. His mother has finally sat down, her face in her hands. His father is still standing, briefcase white-knuckled in his grip.

“I can explain,” Shane starts.

“Explain what?” David’s voice is tight. “Explain why you didn’t tell us you’re gay? Explain why you’re sleeping with Ilya Rozanov, of all people? Explain why we just walked in on-” He stops himself. “No. I don’t need that image explained. I already saw it.”

“We knocked,” Yuna says faintly, her voice muffled by her hands. “We knocked several times. You didn’t answer.”

“The music,” Shane realizes. Ilya had been playing music while he cooked. They wouldn’t have heard knocking over the sound system. “I didn’t hear you. I didn’t know you were coming-”

“Obviously,” David says.

“Why are you here?” Shane asks desperately. “You said you weren’t visiting until August-”

“Your mother wanted to see the cottage,” David says. “We had a gap in the schedule, so we decided to surprise you. Clearly, the surprise is on us.”

Shane sinks into a chair, still clutching the pillow. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t—I wasn’t planning on-”

“How long?” Yuna asks, finally lifting her head. Her eyes are red. “How long have you been … with him?”

“Four years,” Shane admits quietly. “Since we were nineteen.”

“Four years,” David repeats. “Four years, and you didn’t think to mention it?”

“I couldn’t,” Shane says. “I didn’t know how. I didn’t even fully understand it myself until recently.”

Ilya returns then, now wearing joggers and a t-shirt, looking infuriatingly calm. He goes directly to the stove and starts flipping pancakes like this is a normal Monday morning.

“Coffee?” He offers brightly. “Is fresh. Shane made it before we … before you arrived.”

“I don’t want coffee,” David says through gritted teeth. “I want answers.”

“Okay,” Ilya says agreeably. He plates the pancakes with practiced efficiency and brings them to the table, along with butter, syrup, and fresh fruit. “Then we sit, we eat, we talk. Is better to have difficult conversations on full stomach.”

He sets plates in front of David and Yuna, then looks at Shane. “You should get actual clothes, not just pillow. I bring you coffee.”

Shane nods mutely and retreats to the bedroom. His hands are shaking as he pulls on shorts and a t-shirt. He can hear muffled voices from the kitchen — his father’s angry baritone, his mother’s higher-pitched questions, and Ilya’s accented responses, frustratingly calm.

When Shane returns, everyone is seated at the table. There’s a plate of pancakes waiting for him, along with his coffee exactly how he likes it — two stevias, splash of oat milk.

“Sit,” Ilya says softly, pulling out a chair next to him.

Shane sits. The silence is excruciating.

Finally, David speaks. “So. You’re gay.”

“Yes,” Shane confirms.

“And you’re with Ilya Rozanov. The Russian hockey player. The son of the President of Russia. Your supposed rival.”

“Yes.”

“How-” David stops, recalibrates. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Because I was scared,” Shane admits. His voice cracks. “I was scared you’d be disappointed. That you’d be angry. That it would affect your career, your campaign-”

“My career?” David looks genuinely shocked. “Shane, you’re my son. You think I care more about my career than about you?”

“You worked so hard to become Prime Minister,” Shane says. “You built everything on this image of the perfect Canadian family. And I didn’t fit that image. I couldn’t fit that image.”

Yuna reaches across the table and takes Shane’s hand. Her eyes are full of tears. “Oh, sweetheart. You always fit. You’re our son. We love you no matter what.”

“You say that now,” Shane says, “but you don’t know what this means. Dating a man is one thing. Dating Ilya Rozanov-” He looks at Ilya. “Dating him is complicated. Dangerous, even. The media would have a field day.”

“The media always has field day with Hollanders,” Ilya says, taking a bite of pancake. “Is nothing new.”

David turns his attention to Ilya. “You. You’re remarkably calm for someone who was just caught in a very compromising position.”

Ilya shrugs. “Is not first time parents walk in on me. Though usually is Russian parents, which is much worse. Trust me.”

“Your parents know?” Yuna asks.

“My father knows,” Ilya clarifies. “My mother is dead, so she doesn’t have opinion. But yes, my father knows I’m bisexual. He’s known for years. He’s not happy about it, but he knows.”

“The President of Russia knows his son is bisexual,” David says slowly. “And he allows this?”

“He doesn’t allow anything,” Ilya says, his tone hardening slightly. “I’m adult. I make my own choices. He can disapprove all he wants.”

There’s a loaded silence. David and Yuna exchange a look that Shane can’t quite read.

“David,” Yuna says carefully, “I think we need to address the elephant in the room.”

“Which elephant?” David asks. “There are several.”

“Russia,” Yuna says. “The law. The one that was just repealed last month.” She looks at Ilya. “Did you know what inspired Russia’s sudden change of heart on criminalizing LGBTQ people?”

Ilya, for the first time since Shane has known him, looks shy. Actually shy. He sets down his fork and stares at his plate.

Shane realizes what’s happening. His parents don’t know. They don’t know what Ilya did.

“It started with Ilya,” Shane says quietly.

Everyone looks at him.

“What do you mean?” David asks.

Shane looks at Ilya, silently asking permission. Ilya nods slightly.

“After Sochi,” Shane explains, “after Russia won gold, Ilya went to his father. He gave him an ultimatum.” Shane takes Ilya’s hand under the table. “He told his father that he was bisexual, and that if the gay propaganda law wasn’t repealed, he would come out publicly. He would defect to America. He would expose state doping programs. He would destroy everything.”

Yuna’s hand flies to her mouth. David has gone very still.

“You threatened the President of Russia,” David says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” Ilya confirms, finally looking up. “I tell him to change law or lose everything. His perfect son, his propaganda tool, his heir. All of it.”

“That’s-” David stops. “That’s incredibly dangerous. Suicidally dangerous.”

“I know,” Ilya says. “But was necessary. I couldn’t live in country where what I am is illegal. Where people I love could be arrested just for existing. So I make him choose. Change law, or lose me.”

“And he chose to change the law,” Yuna says softly.

“He chose to protect his own power,” Ilya corrects. “Changing law was easier than dealing with scandal of me defecting. But yes, he changed it. He got Patriarch to make statement, he pressured Duma, he signed bill. All within six months.”

David leans back in his chair, processing this. “So that’s why. That’s why Russia suddenly became progressive on LGBTQ rights after years of oppression. It wasn’t a change of heart. It was a political calculation to protect the President’s image.”

“Does it matter why?” Ilya asks. “Law is changed. People are safer. Motivation doesn’t change result.”

“I suppose not,” David admits. He looks at Ilya with something that might be respect. “That was incredibly brave. Or incredibly stupid. Possibly both.”

“Definitely both,” Ilya agrees. “But I would do it again. Because-” He squeezes Shane’s hand. “Because I love your son very much. And I couldn’t ask him to hide forever. Couldn’t ask him to be with someone who lived in country where we could be arrested just for being together.”

Yuna starts crying. Actually crying, tears streaming down her face.

“Mom,” Shane says, alarmed. “Mom, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says, wiping her eyes. “I’m just—I’m overwhelmed. My son is gay. He’s in love with Ilya Rozanov. And Ilya Rozanov just told us he essentially blackmailed the Russian President into repealing discriminatory laws.” She laughs through her tears. “This is a lot to process over pancakes.”

“They’re very good pancakes though,” Ilya offers. “You should eat them before they get cold.”

David, incredibly, laughs. It’s a short, surprised laugh, but it’s genuine. “You have balls, kid. I’ll give you that.”

“Thank you?” Ilya says uncertainly.

“How serious is this?” David asks, gesturing between Shane and Ilya. “This relationship. Is it—are you just fooling around, or is this real?”

“It’s real,” Shane says before Ilya can answer. “It’s been real for a long time. We just didn’t say it out loud until recently.”

“We’re in love,” Ilya adds simply. “We’re together. Officially. Lovers, boyfriends, partners, whatever word you prefer.”

“But you’re rivals,” Yuna says. “On the ice, you play against each other. You’re competitive-”

“We can be both,” Ilya interrupts. “We can be in love and also want to beat each other at hockey. Makes it more interesting.”

“You’re both insane,” David mutters, but there’s affection in his voice now.

They eat in silence for a few minutes. The pancakes are excellent, because of course they are. Ilya is frustratingly competent at everything he does.

“So what now?” David finally asks. “Are you planning to come out? Go public with this relationship?”

“No,” Shane says immediately. “At least, not yet. Not until we’re ready. Not until we figure out how to do it safely.”

“Shane’s career could survive it,” David says thoughtfully. “Canada is progressive. Montreal is progressive. But Ilya-” He looks at Ilya. “You’d face enormous backlash in Russia, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Ilya says bluntly. “Even with law changed, culture is still very anti-gay. If I come out, I lose endorsements, I lose sponsors, I maybe lose my place on national team. My father would-” He stops. “My father would not react well.”

“He already knows you’re bisexual,” Yuna points out.

“Knowing privately is different than knowing publicly,” Ilya explains. “As long as I’m discreet, he can pretend I’m straight. But if I come out, if I tell world I have boyfriend, he can’t pretend anymore. And that is problem for him.”

“So you’re planning to stay closeted,” David says. “Both of you.”

“For now,” Shane confirms. “Until we figure out a better way.”

David exchanges another long look with Yuna. Some silent communication passes between them.

“We won’t say anything,” David finally says. “Your secret is safe with us. But Shane, you need to understand — living a double life, hiding who you are, who you love — it’s exhausting. Soul-crushing. Eventually, you’re going to want to be able to hold hands in public, to kiss your boyfriend without looking over your shoulder, to just be yourselves.”

“I know,” Shane says quietly. “But for now, this is what we have. And it’s enough.”

“Is it?” Yuna asks gently. “Is it really enough?”

Shane looks at Ilya, who’s watching him with those hazel eyes that Shane has been dreaming about for years.

“It has to be,” Shane says. “Because the alternative is not being together at all.”

“Then I hope you find a way,” David says. “A way to be together and be yourselves. Because you deserve that. Everyone deserves that.”

They finish breakfast in a much more comfortable silence. Yuna asks about the cottage, about their summer plans. David asks Ilya about the Stanley Cup — which is still sitting on the front porch where Ilya left it yesterday.

“You brought the Cup here?” David asks, surprised.

“Of course,” Ilya says. “I tell Shane I would bring it. I always keep promises.”

“Can we see it?” Yuna asks, suddenly excited. “Can we take pictures with it?”

“Yes, yes,” Ilya says, grinning. “Is what Cup is for. Sharing with people. Shane refuses to take pictures because he says he didn’t win it, but I tell him that’s stupid. Cup is for everyone to enjoy.”

They all go out to the porch, and David and Yuna pose with the Cup while Shane takes photos on his mother’s phone. Ilya stands next to Shane, their shoulders touching, and it feels surreal. His parents, the Stanley Cup, his boyfriend. All together.

“Your turn,” David says to Shane. “Get in there with Ilya.”

“Dad, I don’t need-”

“Get in there,” David insists. “You’ll regret it if you don’t have a photo.”

So Shane and Ilya pose together with the Cup. Ilya’s arm around Shane’s waist, both of them smiling, and Shane’s mother takes the photo.

“Beautiful,” Yuna says, looking at the photo on her phone. “You two look happy.”

“We are,” Ilya says simply.

After more photos and conversation, David and Yuna prepare to leave. They won’t intrude on Shane and Ilya’s time together, they assure him.

At the door, Yuna pulls Shane into a tight hug. “I love you,” she whispers. “No matter what. No matter who you love. You’re my son, and I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Shane says, his voice thick.

David claps him on the shoulder. “We’ll talk more. Soon. About everything. But for now-” He glances at Ilya, who’s standing in the doorway. “Enjoy your time together. Be safe. Be happy.”

“We will,” Shane promises.

David extends his hand to Ilya. “You take care of my son. Understand?”

“Always,” Ilya says, shaking his hand firmly. “I promise.”

After they leave, Shane and Ilya stand in the entryway, processing what just happened.

“Well,” Ilya says eventually. “That could have gone worse.”

Shane starts laughing. He can’t help it. The absurdity of the entire morning — from sex on the kitchen island to pancakes with his parents to photos with the Stanley Cup — it’s too much.

“Could have gone worse?” Shane repeats between laughs. “Ilya, my parents walked in on you fucking me. On the kitchen counter — sorry, kitchen island.”

“And then I made them pancakes,” Ilya points out. “Which they ate. And complimented. So yes, could have been worse.”

Shane pulls Ilya into a kiss. “You’re insane. You know that, right? Completely insane.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “But you love me anyway.”

“I really do,” Shane says.

They stand there for a moment, wrapped in each other’s arms, and Shane thinks about what his father said. About eventually wanting to be public, to not hide.

Maybe someday. Maybe in a few years, when they’re more established, when the world is more ready.

But for now, this is enough. This cottage, this privacy, this love.

It’s enough.

“Come on,” Ilya says, pulling Shane toward the bedroom. “Your parents interrupted very important activity. We should finish what we started.”

“On the kitchen island?”

“God, no,” Ilya says, horrified. “I can never look at that kitchen island same way again. I’ll always see your father’s face. We go to bedroom like civilized people.”

Shane laughs and follows Ilya down the hall.

And if he catches a glimpse of the photo his mother took — him and Ilya with the Stanley Cup, smiling like they don’t have a care in the world — well, maybe someday that photo won’t have to stay hidden.

Maybe someday they can show the world what they already know.

That they’re in love.

And that’s worth everything.

Chapter 15: sunny isles

The Skills Competition ended an hour ago, and Shane is exhausted. He came in second in the Fastest Skater competition — beat only by some rookie phenom from Colorado — and his legs are still burning from the effort. All he wants is to go back to the hotel, order room service, and collapse into bed.

But Ilya has other plans.

“Come with me,” Ilya says, appearing at Shane’s elbow as they’re leaving the arena. He’s still in his Team Europe All-Star jersey, hair damp with sweat, eyes bright with that post-competition energy. “I know place. Is fun.”

“I’m tired,” Shane protests. “Can’t we just-”

“No,” Ilya interrupts. “Is All-Star Weekend. Is time to have fun, not sleep. Besides-” He leans in close, his voice dropping. “When we’re back in Sunny Isles, I can actually kiss you in public. No one cares there.”

That gets Shane’s attention. “What do you mean, no one cares?”

“Is Russian neighborhood,” Ilya explains. “Russians, they mind their own business. They see two men together, they don’t say anything. They just-” He shrugs. “They don’t care. So we can be us. Really us.”

The thought of being able to touch Ilya in public, even just in some neighborhood in Florida, is too tempting to resist.

“Okay,” Shane agrees. “But not too late. We have the game tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes, we’ll be good,” Ilya promises, which Shane immediately doesn’t believe.

They take an Uber from Sunrise to Sunny Isles Beach, about a forty-minute drive. Ilya texts rapidly in Russian the entire ride, and Shane watches the landscape change from hockey arena suburbs to increasingly upscale beachfront property.

“Where exactly are we going?” Shane asks.

“To party,” Ilya says unhelpfully. “You’ll see. Is fun. Trust me.”

The Uber drops them off in front of a building with a neon sign in Russian and English, “Club Beryozka.” There’s a line of people outside — mostly speaking Russian, dressed to impress — and Shane suddenly feels very out of place in his jeans and Team Canada polo.

But Ilya walks straight to the front of the line, exchanges words in Russian with the bouncer, and they’re waved through immediately.

“Did you just cut the line?” Shane hisses as they enter.

“I’m Ilya Rozanov,” Ilya says with a grin. “I don’t wait in lines.”

The club is packed and loud — Russian pop music blasting from speakers, bodies pressed together on the dance floor, the air thick with expensive cologne and the smell of vodka. Ilya navigates through the crowd with ease, clearly familiar with the place.

They end up near the edge of the dance floor, and Ilya leans in close to Shane’s ear to be heard over the music. “I’m going to get drinks. You want vodka?”

“I don’t drink during hockey weekends,” Shane reminds him. “You know that.”

“Right, right. Ginger ale then. Very boring.” Ilya kisses Shane — actually kisses him, right there in the club where anyone can see — and Shane’s brain short-circuits for a moment. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Then Ilya disappears into the crowd, leaving Shane standing awkwardly at the edge of the dance floor.

Shane tries to look casual, like he belongs here. But he’s very aware that he’s one of the few non-Russians in this club, that he doesn’t speak the language, that he has no idea what he’s doing.

He’s been standing there for maybe three minutes when someone sidles up next to him. A man — probably late twenties, dark hair, wearing a shirt that’s unbuttoned too far down his chest.

“You look lost,” the man says in accented English. Not Russian-accented. Something else. Spanish, maybe.

“I’m fine,” Shane says politely. “Just waiting for someone.”

“You don’t look fine. You look uncomfortable.” The man moves closer, and Shane can smell alcohol on his breath. “Let me help you relax.”

“I’m good, thanks,” Shane says, taking a step back.

But the man follows, closing the distance. “Come on. Dance with me. I’ll show you a good time.”

“I’m here with someone,” Shane tries.

“I don’t see anyone,” the man says, reaching out to touch Shane’s arm. “And you’re too handsome to be standing here alone.”

Shane pulls his arm away. “I said I’m not interested.”

The man laughs, but there’s an edge to it now. “Playing hard to get? I like that.” He presses closer, trying to dance against Shane despite Shane’s clear discomfort.

“Seriously, back off-” Shane starts, but then the man is suddenly yanked away from him.

Ilya.

Ilya is standing there, holding two drinks in one hand, his expression absolutely murderous. He looks at the man, then at Shane, then back at the man.

Then he drains the vodka in his left hand in one long swallow, sets down the glass of ginger ale on a nearby table, and punches the man directly in the face.

The man goes down hard. The music is loud enough that most people don’t notice, but Shane hears the sickening crunch of cartilage, sees the blood immediately pouring from the man’s nose.

“Ilya-” Shane starts, but Ilya isn’t done.

Ilya follows the man down, straddling him, and just keeps hitting him. Left, right, left, right. His knuckles split open. The man’s face becomes a bloody mess. And Ilya doesn’t stop.

“Ilya!” Shane finally shouts, grabbing Ilya’s shoulder. “That’s enough!”

Ilya lands one more punch, then stops. He leans down close to the man’s ruined face and says something in rapid, vicious Russian that Shane can’t understand but sounds absolutely brutal.

The man scrambles away as soon as Ilya lets him up, holding his broken face, disappearing into the crowd.

Ilya stands, breathing hard, his knuckles bloody. He turns to Shane, and there’s something wild in his eyes. Something possessive and fierce.

“Did he touch you?” Ilya demands, taking Shane’s face in his hands — his bloody hands. “Did he do anything to you?”

“I’m fine,” Shane says, his heart pounding. “I’m okay. He was just—he was being pushy, but I’m fine.”

“Good,” Ilya says. Then he pulls Shane into a bruising kiss, right there on the edge of the dance floor, not caring who sees.

And Shane … Shane is turned on beyond belief. He’s never seen Ilya be jealous before. Possessive, yes. Competitive, always. But not like this. Not violent and claiming and completely unhinged.

It shouldn’t be hot. Shane knows it shouldn’t be hot. But his body isn’t listening to his brain, and he’s already half-hard just from that kiss.

“Bathroom,” Ilya says against Shane’s mouth. “Now.”

He doesn’t wait for Shane to respond, just grabs his hand and pulls him through the crowd. They reach the bathroom — single stall, thank God — and Ilya shoves the door open, pulls Shane inside, and slams it shut.

The lock is broken, Shane realizes immediately. The door doesn’t lock.

“Ilya, the door-”

“I don’t care,” Ilya says, pressing his back against it. “Let them try to come in. I dare them.”

Then Shane is on his knees.

He doesn’t remember deciding to kneel, doesn’t remember the transition from standing to kneeling. But he’s there, on the dirty bathroom floor, looking up at Ilya with desperate eyes.

“Fuck,” Ilya breathes. “Look at you. So good for me. Always so good.”

His hands are still bloody as he works his belt open, and Shane shouldn’t find that as erotic as he does. But watching Ilya’s blood-stained fingers working the leather, seeing the evidence of his violence, knowing that Ilya just beat someone half to death for touching Shane-

It’s doing things to Shane.

“Open,” Ilya commands, and Shane obeys.

Ilya isn’t gentle. He’s never particularly gentle, but this is different. This is claiming, possessive, fueled by jealousy and adrenaline. His hands tangle in Shane’s hair, controlling the pace, pushing deeper than he usually does.

“Mine,” Ilya says, his accent thick. “You’re mine. No one else touches you. No one else even looks at you.”

Shane makes a sound around him — agreement, affirmation, worship. He doesn’t care about the broken lock, doesn’t care about the people who might hear. All he cares about is this — Ilya above him, Ilya’s hands in his hair, Ilya’s voice claiming him.

Someone tries the door handle. The door rattles but doesn’t open because Ilya is pressed against it.

“Занято!” Ilya shouts without missing a beat. Occupied.

There’s grumbling from outside, but whoever it was moves on.

Shane is lost in it. The taste, the stretch, the way Ilya looks down at him with possessive fire in his eyes. He’s close to transcendent, to that headspace where nothing exists except Ilya and pleasure and belonging.

“Gonna-” Ilya warns, his voice strained. “Shane, I’m-”

Shane looks up at him and holds his gaze. Permission. Invitation.

Ilya comes with a groan, and Shane takes all of it, swallows, savors.

When Shane finally pulls back, he’s dizzy. His knees hurt from the tile floor. His jaw aches. And he’s so hard he might die from it.

Ilya pulls him up gently, tucking himself back into his pants. “Your turn,” he says, already reaching for Shane’s belt.

“I can’t-” Shane’s voice is wrecked. “I can’t stand.”

“Then I hold you up,” Ilya says simply. He makes quick work of Shane’s pants and wraps a hand around him, and Shane nearly blacks out from the sensation.

It doesn’t take long. Shane is already so wound up, so far gone, that three strokes from Ilya’s hand has him coming all over Ilya’s fingers, his vision whiting out, his legs giving out completely.

Ilya catches him, holds him up against the door. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

They stay like that for a moment, both breathing hard, and Shane becomes aware of the pounding on the door behind them.

“Эй! Долго ещё?” Someone shouts from outside. Hey! Much longer?

“Fuck,” Shane mutters. “We should-”

“Yeah,” Ilya agrees. He helps Shane get his pants back up and fastened, then looks at him critically. “You can’t walk, can you?”

“Not really, no.”

“Okay.” Ilya opens the door — revealing a line of at least six people, all glaring — and before Shane can process what’s happening, Ilya scoops him up. Actually picks him up bridal-style.

“What are you doing?” Shane hisses.

“You can’t walk, so I carry you,” Ilya says matter-of-factly. “Problem solved.”

He carries Shane past the line of angry club-goers, past the judgmental stares, through the club, and out onto the street. Shane is mortified and also still so turned on he can’t think straight.

“Put me down,” Shane says weakly. “People are staring.”

“Let them stare,” Ilya says. He’s already pulling out his phone, one-handed, ordering an Uber. “I don’t care.”

The Uber arrives within minutes — a bewildered driver who clearly wasn’t expecting someone to be carrying another full-grown man — and Ilya gives an address in a mix of Russian and English.

“Where are we going?” Shane asks as they pull away from the club. He’s still in Ilya’s lap because there was no graceful way to separate once they got in the car.

Ilya grins. “My place.”

“Your place? You have a place in Florida?”

“Every self-respecting Russian in America has place in Sunny Isles,” Ilya says, like this is obvious. “Is basically Little Moscow. I buy condo few years ago. Never use it, but is good investment.”

“You bought a condo as an investment and never mentioned it?”

“I mention many things you don’t listen to,” Ilya says, kissing Shane’s temple. “You’re too busy being stubborn Canadian.”

The drive is short — just a few blocks deeper into Sunny Isles. They pull up in front of a luxury high-rise right on the beach, all glass and steel and obvious money.

Ilya pays the driver and manages to get both of them out of the car without dropping Shane, though Shane insists on walking by this point, his legs finally functional again.

The lobby is marble and chrome, with a doorman who greets Ilya in Russian. They take the elevator to the top floor — of course it’s the top floor — and Ilya unlocks a door at the end of the hall.

The penthouse is stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Modern furniture in blacks and grays. A kitchen that looks like it’s never been used. Two bedrooms, three bathrooms, a balcony that wraps around the entire unit.

“This is your investment property?” Shane asks, stunned.

“Yes. Is nice, no?” Ilya closes the door and locks it behind them. “Now, where were we?”

He advances on Shane with clear intent, and Shane backs up until he hits the window.

“You were being incredibly jealous,” Shane says. “And violent. You beat that guy’s face in.”

“He touched what’s mine,” Ilya says simply. “What did he expect?”

“I’m not a possession-”

“No,” Ilya agrees, crowding Shane against the glass. “You’re not possession. You’re my boyfriend. My partner. My person. And I don’t share.”

He kisses Shane hard, and Shane can still taste blood on his knuckles when Ilya’s hands frame his face.

“Bedroom,” Shane gasps. “Ilya, please, bedroom-”

They make it to the master bedroom, which has its own ocean view and a bed that’s definitely never been used. Ilya proceeds to make good on every promise his jealousy implied.

He takes Shane apart piece by piece, thorough and possessive and relentless. He marks Shane up — bites and bruises that will last for days. He makes Shane beg, makes Shane plead, makes Shane say his name over and over until it’s the only word Shane remembers.

“Who do you belong to?” Ilya demands, and Shane is too far gone to even think about objecting to the phrasing.

“You,” he gasps. “Ilya, you, only you-”

“That’s right,” Ilya says against Shane’s skin. “Only me. Always me.”

They go three more times — Shane didn’t even know he was capable of three more times — until Shane is completely wrecked, barely conscious, floating somewhere between pleasure and exhaustion.

Ilya cleans them both up with gentle hands, the violence from earlier completely gone. He wraps Shane in the expensive sheets and holds him close.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says quietly. “For losing control. For hitting that man so many times. I just—when I saw him touching you, trying to dance with you, not listening when you said no-”

“It was hot,” Shane admits. “It probably shouldn’t have been, but it was.”

Ilya huffs a laugh. “You like when I’m jealous?”

“Apparently,” Shane says. “Who knew?”

“I’ll try not to make habit of beating people up for you,” Ilya says. “But I make no promises if they touch you again.”

“Noted,” Shane says, smiling into Ilya’s chest.

They lie there in silence, listening to the ocean through the open balcony door. Shane is almost asleep when Ilya speaks again.

“I’ve never felt like this before,” Ilya admits. “This jealous, this possessive. Is new for me.”

“Is that bad?”

“I don’t know yet,” Ilya says honestly. “I don’t like that I’m capable of violence like that. Don’t like that I could hurt someone so badly and not even feel bad about it.”

“He was harassing me,” Shane points out. “You were protecting me.”

“I was claiming you,” Ilya corrects. “Is different. Protection is noble. Claiming is …” He trails off.

“Is what?” Shane prompts.

“Is selfish,” Ilya says. “Is about me, not about you. About making sure everyone knows you’re mine.”

Shane considers this. “What if I want to be claimed? What if I like knowing you’d go feral if someone touched me?”

“Then we’re both little bit fucked up,” Ilya says. “But at least we’re fucked up together.”

“I can live with that,” Shane says.

They fall asleep tangled together, and Shane dreams of jealous Russians and bloody knuckles and belonging.

The next morning, they’re woken by Shane’s phone alarm. They have to be at the arena in two hours for the All-Star Game.

“Shit,” Shane mutters, checking his phone. “We need to get back to the hotel. Get our gear.”

“Mm, five more minutes,” Ilya mumbles, pulling Shane closer.

“We don’t have five minutes. We have to—Ilya, why are your knuckles bandaged?”

Shane sits up and looks at Ilya’s hands properly for the first time in daylight. Both hands are wrapped in gauze and medical tape.

“I bandage them myself when we get here,” Ilya says. “Last night. You were too wrecked to notice.”

“Are they bad?”

“I’ve had worse,” Ilya says with a shrug. “Will heal fine. Might have trouble gripping stick today, but will be okay.”

“You split your knuckles open for me,” Shane says, taking one of Ilya’s hands and examining it gently.

“I would do much worse for you,” Ilya says seriously. “Last night was nothing.”

“You’re insane,” Shane says, but he kisses Ilya’s bandaged knuckles anyway. “Completely insane.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “But you love me anyway.”

“I really do,” Shane says.

They manage to shower, dress, and get an Uber back to the team hotel. Shane is wearing last night’s clothes and definitely looks like he didn’t sleep in his own bed, but he’s hoping no one will notice or care.

Of course, Carter Vaughn notices immediately when Shane walks into the Team North America meeting room.

“Walk of shame much?” Carter says with a grin. “You look like you got hit by a truck. A sexy truck.”

“Shut up,” Shane mutters, his face burning.

“Wait, are those hickeys?” Carter leans closer, pointing at Shane’s neck. “Dude, who were you with?”

“None of your business,” Shane says quickly.

“Oh my god, you have a secret girlfriend. Or boyfriend. No judgment, but you definitely got laid last night.”

“Can we not-”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Carter says with a wink. “Just glad to see you having fun for once. You’re usually so uptight during these things.”

If he only knew, Shane thinks.

The All-Star Game itself is fun but exhausting. Shane and Ilya are on opposite teams again — Shane on North America, Ilya on Europe — and they play against each other with the same intensity as always.

But every time they collide on the ice, Shane thinks about last night. About Ilya’s bloody knuckles. About being claimed.

And it makes him smile behind his mouthguard.

Team North America wins 14-12, and in the handshake line, Ilya grips Shane’s hand a little too long.

“Tonight?” He murmurs. “My place again?”

“Definitely,” Shane says.

“Good,” Ilya says. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

And judging by the heat in his eyes, he’s not kidding.

Shane can’t wait.

Chapter 16: the ballerina

The off-season training program in Toronto is brutal. Twenty of the NHL’s top players, all pushing each other to be faster, stronger, better. Shane has been here for two weeks, and his body is screaming at him. But it’s good. It’s what he needs to stay competitive.

He’s just finished a particularly grueling morning session — two hours of skating drills followed by an hour of strength training. His legs feel like jelly as he drags himself to the locker room.

The shower is a blessing. Hot water pounding on sore muscles, steam filling his lungs, everything else fading away. He takes his time, letting the heat work its magic on his tight shoulders.

When he finally emerges, towel wrapped around his waist, he notices something odd. All the other players are crowded around Tyler Seguin’s phone, talking in low, urgent voices.

“-can’t be real-”

“-gossip site, they always make shit up-”

“-but the photo looks pretty legit-”

Shane grabs his own phone from his locker. “What’s going on?”

The guys turn to look at him, and something in their expressions makes Shane’s stomach drop.

“Hollsy,” Tyler says carefully. “You’re friends with Rozanov, right?”

“I mean, we’re rivals,” Shane says, trying to keep his voice casual. “We talk sometimes. Why?”

“Because-” Tyler glances at the others, then holds out his phone. “This is making the rounds on social media. Someone posted it about an hour ago.”

Shane takes the phone. The screen shows a Russian website — all Cyrillic text that Shane can’t read — but the photos are clear enough.

Ilya in a tuxedo. Ilya with a woman in a stunning red dress. A beautiful woman — dark hair, elegant features, the kind of beauty that belongs on magazine covers.

Shane’s hands start to shake. He scrolls down. More photos. Ilya and the woman at what looks like a gala. Ilya’s hand on the small of her back. Both of them smiling at the camera.

“What-” Shane’s voice cracks. “What does it say?”

“Hit the translate button,” someone says. “Top right.”

Shane’s thumb finds the button, and the text shifts to English. It’s rough, clearly machine-translated, but readable:

ROSSIYSKAYA ZVEZDA: ROMANCE BETWEEN HOCKEY HERO AND BOLSHOI PRIMA BALLERINA?

Ilya Rozanov, Russia’s golden son and NHL superstar, was spotted at the Bolshoi Theatre charity gala last night with prima ballerina Ekatherina Brezhneva. The pair appeared quite comfortable together, leading to speculation about a possible romance between two of Russia’s most beloved stars.

Sources close to Rozanov claim he has been “spending time” with Brezhneva over the past month since returning to Russia for the summer. The ballerina, known for her stunning performances and infamous beauty, would make an excellent match for the bachelor hockey player.

When approached for comment, Rozanov’s representatives declined to confirm or deny the relationship, stating only that “Mr. Rozanov maintains many friendships within Russian high society.”

Could wedding bells be in the future for these two icons? Our sources say …

Shane doesn’t read the rest. He can’t. His vision is tunneling, his chest tight.

“Hollsy?” Someone asks. “You okay, man?”

Shane realizes his grip on the water bottle in his other hand has gotten so tight it’s deformed. The plastic suddenly gives way with a loud crack, exploding water all over his legs and the floor.

“Shit,” Shane mutters. He shoves the phone back at Tyler. “Sorry, I just—I need to make a call.”

“You sure you’re okay?” Tyler looks concerned. “You went really pale there for a second.”

“I’m fine,” Shane lies. “Just surprised. Didn’t know Rozanov was seeing anyone.”

He grabs his clothes and practically runs to the bathroom stalls, needing privacy, needing space to breathe. He gets dressed with shaking hands, his mind racing.

Ilya with a woman. Ilya with a beautiful ballerina. Ilya’s hand on her back. Both of them smiling like they belong together.

It’s fake, Shane tells himself. It has to be fake. Ilya wouldn’t … he wouldn’t do that.

But then he thinks about Ilya in Russia. About the pressure from his father. About the expectations that Ilya marry a woman, produce an heir, continue the Rozanov line.

And he thinks about how Ilya has been in Russia for a month. A month of minimal texting, of time zone differences making calls difficult, of-

Shane’s phone rings.

Ilya.

Shane stares at the screen, at Ilya’s name, at the photo Shane has saved as his contact — Ilya laughing on the dock at the cottage just weeks ago, golden hour lighting making him look unreal.

Shane declines the call.

He finishes getting dressed and returns to the locker room. The other guys have dispersed, probably sensing that Shane needs space. He packs up his gear mechanically, his mind still stuck on those photos.

His phone rings again. Ilya.

Shane declines it again.

By the time he gets back to his hotel room, Ilya has called six more times. Shane ignores all of them. He lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of everything.

His phone rings again.

And again.

And again.

Finally, at nearly midnight Toronto time — so 8 AM in Moscow — Shane picks up. Not to talk. To scream.

“What the fuck, Ilya,” Shane says before Ilya can even speak. “What the actual fuck.”

There’s a pause on the other end. “Shane? What’s wrong? I’ve been trying to call you all day-”

“Oh, I’m sure you have,” Shane snaps. “Busy day with your ballerina girlfriend?”

More silence. “My what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Shane says. “I saw the photos. We all saw them. You and Ekatherina Brezhneva at some gala, looking very cozy-”

“Shane-”

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Shane’s voice cracks. “Or were you just going to let me find out from fucking gossip sites and my training buddies asking if I knew you were seeing someone?”

“Shane, stop,” Ilya says firmly. “Listen to me. Nothing happened.”

“Nothing happened?” Shane laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “There are photos of you two together. Your hand is on her back. You’re both dressed up and smiling like-”

“Like I was at charity gala for work,” Ilya interrupts. “Like I was doing political obligation for my father. Like I was being good Russian son and showing up to event I was required to attend.”

“And the ballerina?”

“Is married,” Ilya says bluntly. “To Pavel Brezhnev. Oil oligarch, eighty-three years old, has one foot in grave and other foot on yacht. Katya married him for money, everyone knows this. She has zero interest in me except as useful photo opportunity.”

Shane’s grip on the phone loosens slightly. “She’s married?”

“Very married. Very rich. And very focused on her inheritance when old man finally dies.” Ilya’s voice softens. “Shane, you really think I would do that to you? You really think I would be with someone else?”

“I-” Shane stops. “I don’t know. You’ve been in Russia for a month. We’ve barely talked. And your father wants you to marry a woman, to have children-”

“My father wants many things I won’t give him,” Ilya says. “Including heterosexual marriage. Shane, I told you. My dick doesn’t get hard for anyone but you. Hasn’t in years. I’m not interested in ballerinas or models or any of the women my father parades in front of me.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me about the gala?”

“Because is boring political obligation I didn’t think about,” Ilya says. “I go to these things all the time. Shake hands, take photos, smile for cameras, leave. Means nothing.”

“It meant something to me,” Shane says quietly. “Seeing those photos. Seeing you with someone else. It felt like-” He can’t finish.

“Like I was replacing you,” Ilya finishes. “Like maybe you weren’t enough. Like maybe I was lying when I said I love you.”

“Yeah,” Shane admits.

“Shane.” Ilya’s voice is serious now. “Listen to me very carefully. You are only person I want. Only person I love. Only person who makes me feel like real human being instead of propaganda machine. These photos, this gossip — is bullshit. Is Russian media trying to make story where there is no story.”

“Your representatives declined to deny it,” Shane points out.

“Because if they deny, media asks why. If they ask why, they start asking questions about who I am actually with. And I can’t-” Ilya pauses. “I can’t risk them finding out about you. About us. Is safer to let them speculate about fake ballerina romance than to have them dig into my real relationship.”

Shane closes his eyes. He knows Ilya is right. Knows that this is the price of secrecy, of hiding. But it doesn’t make it hurt less.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says. “I should have called you first. Should have asked instead of assuming-”

“No, I’m sorry,” Ilya interrupts. “I should have warned you about gala. Should have told you that photos would probably happen. I just—I’m so used to these things meaning nothing that I forgot they might mean something to you.”

“They mean something when they make it look like you’re dating someone else,” Shane says.

“I’m not dating anyone else,” Ilya says firmly. “I’m dating you. Only you. And I will keep dating only you until you get sick of me, which I hope never happens.”

Despite everything, Shane smiles. “I don’t think I could get sick of you.”

“Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.” Ilya pauses. “Though I wish I was going somewhere. Specifically, to Toronto. To you. So I could prove that I want no one except you.”

“When do you get back?”

“Three more weeks,” Ilya says. “Then training camp starts. But Shane-” His voice drops lower. “I will make this up to you. I will show you exactly how much you mean to me. I promise.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to,” Ilya insists. “You were hurt. You doubted us. That’s my fault for not being better about communication. So I will fix it.”

“How?”

“You’ll see,” Ilya says, and Shane can hear the smile in his voice. “Trust me.”

They talk for another hour — about training camp, about Ilya’s obligations in Russia, about how much they miss each other. By the end, Shane feels infinitely better. Lighter.

“I love you,” Shane says before they hang up.

“I love you too,” Ilya responds. “Now go to sleep. Is very late there. You need rest for training.”

“Yes, Dad,” Shane says sarcastically.

“Mm, don’t call me Dad,” Ilya says. “Is weird when we have sex.”

“Oh my God, goodbye,” Shane says, laughing despite himself.

“Goodbye, my jealous Canadian,” Ilya says. “Dream of me.”

Shane does dream of him. But this time, the dreams are good.

Three weeks later, Shane is back in Montreal. Training camp for the Voyageurs starts in a few days, and Shane is spending his last few days of freedom sleeping in and doing absolutely nothing.

He’s dead asleep at 6 AM when something wakes him. A sound. Movement in his room.

Shane’s eyes fly open, heart pounding, ready to-

Ilya is standing at the foot of his bed, fully naked, grinning like the devil himself.

“What-” Shane starts, but then Ilya is on him, pulling back the covers, settling between Shane’s legs.

“Surprise,” Ilya murmurs, and then his mouth is on Shane and Shane’s brain completely short-circuits.

By the time Shane is coherent enough to process what’s happening, Ilya is already prepping him with slick fingers, and Shane is painfully hard and desperate.

“When did you—how did you-” Shane can’t form complete sentences.

“I fly overnight,” Ilya explains, adding another finger. “Land in Montreal at 5 AM. Take taxi straight here. Use key you gave me for emergencies. And then I find you sleeping, so beautiful, so perfect, and I think yes, this is how I prove I’m sorry.”

“You flew overnight from Moscow just to-” Shane gasps as Ilya’s fingers hit that spot. “Just to surprise me?”

“I told you I would make it up to you,” Ilya says. He removes his fingers and positions himself. “I always keep promises. Now may I?”

“Yes,” Shane breathes. “God, yes, please-”

Ilya slides in slowly, and Shane arches off the bed. This is exactly what he needed. Ilya here, real, choosing Shane, proving with his body what his words already said.

“You are only one,” Ilya says, moving in long, slow strokes. “Only one I want. Only one I love. Only one I fly across ocean for.”

“Ilya,” Shane gasps. “Fuck, Ilya-”

“Say you believe me,” Ilya demands. “Say you know I would never choose anyone over you.”

“I believe you,” Shane says. “I know. I’m sorry I doubted-”

“Shh.” Ilya leans down and kisses him. “Is okay to doubt sometimes. Is okay to be jealous. Just remember — I’m yours. Only yours. Always yours.”

They move together, slow and perfect, and Shane feels every doubt from the past two weeks melting away. This is real. Ilya is real. They are real.

When they finally collapse together, sweaty and satisfied, Shane starts laughing.

“What’s funny?” Ilya asks, running his fingers through Shane’s hair.

“You flew halfway around the world just to wake me up with sex,” Shane says. “That’s insane.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “But I’m insane for you, so is appropriate.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Shane says, but he pulls Ilya closer. “And I love you.”

“I love you too,” Ilya says. He yawns. “Now I sleep. I’ve been awake for twenty-six hours, and I’m exhausted.”

“You can’t just have sex with me and then immediately fall asleep,” Shane protests.

“Watch me,” Ilya says, and within minutes, he’s snoring softly against Shane’s chest.

Shane lies there, holding Ilya, watching the sunrise through his bedroom window. And he thinks about the photos from the gala, about the ballerina, about all his doubts and fears.

And he thinks about Ilya flying across an ocean just to prove a point. Just to show Shane that he’s chosen, that he’s loved, that he’s the only one.

It’s dramatic. It’s over the top. It’s completely unnecessary.

It’s so Ilya that Shane can’t help but smile.

He closes his eyes and drifts back to sleep, Ilya’s heartbeat steady beneath his ear, and he knows — really knows, bone-deep — that Ilya is telling the truth.

There is no one else.

There’s only them.

And that’s more than enough.

When Shane wakes up again a few hours later, Ilya is still dead asleep. Shane extracts himself carefully and goes to make coffee.

He’s halfway through his first cup when his phone buzzes with a text from Tyler Seguin.

Tyler: Dude, Rozanov posted a story on Instagram. You might want to see this.

Shane opens Instagram with a sense of dread. Sure enough, Ilya has posted to his story.

It’s a photo of Shane’s apartment building, taken from outside, with the caption in English and Russian: Beautiful morning in Montreal. Good to be back in Canada 🇨🇦

And then another story, posted two minutes later: Some people worth flying across ocean for ❤️

It’s vague enough that no one would know it’s about Shane specifically. But Shane knows. And based on Tyler’s text, other people are speculating.

Shane: What are people saying?

Tyler: That Rozanov has a secret girlfriend in Montreal. The comments are going crazy. People are trying to figure out who she is.

Shane laughs. Let them speculate. Let them think there’s some mysterious woman. As long as they never figure out the truth.

He goes back to the bedroom and climbs back into bed next to Ilya, who immediately wraps around him like an octopus.

“You posted on Instagram,” Shane murmurs. “People are losing their minds trying to figure out who you flew to Montreal for.”

“Good,” Ilya mumbles, not opening his eyes. “Let them wonder. They’ll never guess is handsome Canadian hockey player in my arms.”

“You’re terrible at being subtle.”

“Don’t want to be subtle,” Ilya says. He finally opens his eyes, those hazel eyes that Shane loves so much. “Want people to know I’m happy. Want them to know I’m in love. They don’t need to know with who. But they can know I’m not available.”

“Is that why you posted?”

“Is partly why,” Ilya admits. “Other part is I want you to know. Want you to see that I would post about being here, about flying across ocean, about you being worth it. Even if I can’t say your name, I can say that much.”

Shane kisses him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it,” Ilya says.

“I do,” Shane admits. “I really, really do.”

They spend the rest of the day in bed, making up for lost time. And if Shane’s teammates notice that he’s particularly happy at training camp the next day, well, they can speculate all they want.

He knows the truth.

And the truth is that Ilya Rozanov flew across the world just to prove he’s Shane’s and no one else’s.

That’s better than any gossip article could ever be.

Chapter 17: anya

Shane is painfully, almost embarrassingly hard as he stands outside Ilya’s Boston condo. He’s been like this since the second period of tonight’s game, when Ilya got a Gordie Howe hat trick — a goal, an assist, and a fight with Shane’s teammate Philippe.

The fight had been unnecessary. Philippe had been chirping all game, and Ilya had finally snapped, dropping gloves and pummeling him against the boards. Shane had watched from the bench, unable to look away, and his body had responded in a way that was deeply inappropriate for being on the bench during a game.

Because watching Ilya fight — watching him be aggressive and violent and completely in control — does things to Shane that he probably needs to examine with a therapist.

But instead of examining it, he’s here, at Ilya’s door, still in the suit he wore to the arena, ready to let Ilya do whatever he wants to him.

Shane knocks. He hears movement inside, footsteps approaching, and then the door swings open.

But instead of Ilya’s face, Shane is greeted by a dog.

Not just any dog. A massive dog. Easily eighty pounds, with thick tan and black fur, pointed ears, and intense dark eyes that are currently staring at Shane like it’s assessing whether he’s a threat.

Shane freezes.

The dog doesn’t move. Just stares.

“Anya, иди сюда,” Ilya’s voice comes from somewhere behind the dog. Go here.

The dog — Anya, apparently — turns and trots away, and suddenly Ilya is there, filling the doorway, wearing joggers and nothing else, his hair still damp from his post-game shower.

“Hi,” Ilya says with that cocky grin. “You just going to stand there, or you coming in?”

Shane continues to stare. “You have a dog.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, like this is completely normal. “This is Anya. I’m trying to raise her bilingual, but she’s being stubborn. Won’t listen to English commands. Only Russian.”

“You’re-” Shane shakes his head, trying to process. “You’re raising a dog bilingual?”

“Of course,” Ilya says. “Is important for dogs to understand multiple languages. Makes them more versatile.”

Shane walks into the condo in a daze. The dog is sitting in the living room, watching them with those intense eyes. She’s beautiful, Shane notices now that he’s not frozen in shock. Muscular and elegant, with intelligent eyes and a regal bearing.

“Who is Anya?” Shane asks, unable to quite believe he’s asking this question.

Ilya closes and locks the door. “Anya is dog,” he says, like Shane is being slow. “I just tell you this.”

“I mean where did she come from? When did you get a dog?”

“Oh!” Ilya’s face lights up. “Is funny story. Xi Jinping gift her to me.”

Shane stops walking. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Xi Jinping. President of China. He give me Anya as gift during meeting between Russia and China last weekend.”

“The President of China gave you a dog.”

“Yes,” Ilya says cheerfully. “Was very nice of him. I fly to Moscow for meeting — literally just one day, I land Friday morning, do meeting, fly back Saturday for game Sunday. Jet lag was bitch, let me tell you. But Xi Jinping, he knows I like dogs, so he bring Anya. She’s Kunming wolfdog. Very rare, very expensive. And-” Ilya grins proudly. “-already very spoiled.”

Shane’s brain is short-circuiting. “You flew to Moscow for a day. To meet with the President of China. Who gave you a dog. A Kunming wolfdog. And you flew back with her.”

“Yes, exactly,” Ilya confirms. “You understand now.”

“I don’t understand anything,” Shane says honestly. “This is insane. You’re insane. Your life is insane.”

Anya chooses that moment to approach Shane, her tail wagging slightly. She nudges his hand with her nose, clearly asking for attention.

“She likes you,” Ilya observes. “Is good sign. She doesn’t like most people. Tried to bite my father when he met her.”

“She bit your father?” Shane asks, automatically reaching down to pet Anya. Her fur is incredibly soft.

“Tried to,” Ilya corrects. “He moved fast enough to avoid. But yes, she didn’t like him. I thought it was very funny.”

Anya flops onto her back, exposing her belly, tail still wagging. Shane finds himself automatically kneeling to give her belly rubs, and she makes a satisfied sound.

“Go to bed, Anya,” Ilya says in English. “Shane and I need privacy.”

Anya doesn’t move. Just continues to enjoy her belly rubs, looking blissful.

“Anya, в постель,” Ilya says in Russian. To bed.

This time, Anya immediately stands up, gives Shane one last look, and trots off down the hallway to what must be Ilya’s bedroom.

Ilya sighs. “See? Very stubborn. Won’t listen to English.”

Shane stands up, brushing dog hair off his suit pants. “She gets it from her father.”

Ilya’s expression shifts from frustrated to amused to heated in the span of seconds. “Her father?” He repeats, stepping closer to Shane.

“Well, you’re certainly acting like one,” Shane points out. “Trying to raise her bilingual, complaining about her being stubborn-”

“Maybe I am father to her,” Ilya agrees. He’s close now, close enough that Shane can smell his cologne and the lingering scent of his shower gel. “But right now, I don’t want to think about dogs or Xi Jinping or anything except you.”

He reaches out and starts loosening Shane’s tie. “Where were we?” Ilya murmurs. “Oh yes. You came here because you were very turned on by my play tonight. Specifically, by me fighting your teammate.”

“I wasn’t-” Shane starts to protest, but Ilya cuts him off with a look.

“Shane. You were so hard on the bench, I could see it from the ice. Every time camera showed you, you were shifting around, trying to hide it. Was very distracting.”

Shane’s face burns. “You could see that?”

“I can always see you,” Ilya says simply. He pulls the tie free and starts on Shane’s shirt buttons. “I always know where you are, what you’re doing, how you’re reacting. Is my favorite part of playing against you.”

“That’s creepy,” Shane says, but his voice is breathless.

“That’s love,” Ilya corrects. He pushes Shane’s shirt off his shoulders. “Now. You want to tell me what specifically about the fight turned you on? Or should I guess?”

“I don’t-” Shane stops. There’s no point in lying. “I don’t know why it does. Watching you fight. Watching you be violent. It shouldn’t be hot, but it is.”

“Because you like when I’m in control,” Ilya says, working on Shane’s belt now. “You like when I’m aggressive, when I’m dominant, when I’m showing everyone else that I’m powerful. Makes you feel safe. Makes you feel like I can protect you.”

“That’s-” Shane stops because Ilya has just pulled his pants and briefs down in one smooth motion, and Shane is standing in Ilya’s entryway completely naked while Ilya is still mostly dressed. “That’s a very psychological analysis.”

“I have had lot of time to think about what turns you on,” Ilya says. He drops to his knees, and Shane’s brain whites out for a second. “Lot of time to learn your body, your mind, what makes you fall apart.”

He doesn’t wait for Shane to respond, just leans in and takes Shane in his mouth, and Shane has to brace himself against the wall to stay upright.

“Fuck,” Shane gasps. “Ilya, we should—couch-”

Ilya pulls off just long enough to say, “Anya is in living room. We stay here,” before going back to what he was doing.

Right. The dog. The dog that was a gift from the President of China. The dog that only listens to Russian commands.

Shane’s life has become completely surreal.

But then Ilya does something with his tongue that makes Shane forget about dogs and world leaders and everything else that isn’t this exact moment.

“I’m going to-” Shane warns, fingers tangling in Ilya’s hair. “Ilya, I’m-”

Ilya pulls off and stands up in one fluid motion. “Not yet,” he says. “You don’t get to come yet. Not until I say.”

“That’s not fair,” Shane protests weakly.

“Life’s not fair,” Ilya says cheerfully. He takes Shane’s hand and leads him toward the bedroom. “Now come. We continue this in bed where we have more space and fewer dogs.”

They pass by the living room, and Shane sees Anya curled up on a expensive-looking dog bed in the corner, already fast asleep. She doesn’t even open her eyes as they enter.

“She’s a heavy sleeper,” Ilya explains, pulling Shane to the bed. “Could fire cannon in here and she wouldn’t wake. Is good, because we’re going to be loud.”

“Confident,” Shane says.

“Accurate,” Ilya corrects. He pushes Shane onto the bed and stands there, looking down at him with predatory satisfaction. “Now. Let me show you what happens when you get turned on by watching me fight.”

What follows is intense and thorough and everything Shane needed. Ilya takes his time, mapping every inch of Shane’s body with his hands and mouth, finding all the spots that make Shane gasp and writhe and beg.

“Please,” Shane finally breaks. “Ilya, please, I need-”

“What do you need?” Ilya asks, even though he knows exactly what Shane needs.

“You. Inside. Please.”

“Since you ask so nicely,” Ilya says, reaching for supplies.

He’s thorough with prep, careful and attentive, but Shane is so wound up from the fight and the anticipation and everything else that he’s ready almost immediately.

“Now,” Shane demands. “Ilya, now-”

“So bossy,” Ilya says, but he complies, and Shane sees stars as Ilya pushes inside.

They move together, finding their rhythm, and Shane is vaguely aware that they’re being loud, but he doesn’t care. Can’t care about anything except Ilya above him, inside him, consuming him completely.

“Mine,” Ilya says, the same possessive word from Sunny Isles. “You’re mine, Shane. Say it.”

“Yours,” Shane gasps. “Always yours-”

Ilya changes the angle slightly, hitting that spot that makes Shane’s vision white out, and suddenly Shane is coming so hard he might black out, Ilya’s name on his lips like a prayer.

Ilya follows seconds later, and they collapse together in a sweaty, satisfied heap.

From down the hall, Anya makes a disgruntled sound — probably annoyed at being woken — then goes back to sleep.

“Your dog is definitely judging us,” Shane says when he can breathe again.

“She’ll get used to it,” Ilya says, not bothered at all. “She needs to learn that this is what happens when you’re here.”

“You can’t just-” Shane stops. “Actually, nevermind. You can do whatever you want with your dog.”

“Our dog,” Ilya corrects.

Shane lifts his head. “What?”

“Our dog,” Ilya repeats. “If you’re going to be here all the time, then she’s our dog. You can help raise her bilingual. Maybe teach her some English since she won’t listen to me.”

“Ilya, I can’t—I don’t live here. I live in Montreal.”

“So? You’re here every time you play Boston. I’m in Montreal every time we play you. And we’re in Muskoka fo half of summer. She can have three homes. Dogs are flexible.”

“You want me to co-parent a dog with you,” Shane says slowly. “A dog that was a gift from the President of China.”

“Yes,” Ilya says simply. “Problem with that?”

Shane looks at Ilya’s face — open and sincere and maybe a little bit hopeful — and then thinks of Anya, still sleeping peacefully in the living room.

“No,” Shane says finally. “No problem with that.”

“Good,” Ilya says, pulling Shane closer. “Because I already tell Anya you’re her other father. Would be confusing for her if you change your mind now.”

“You told her—when did you tell her that?”

“On plane ride back from Moscow,” Ilya admits. “I show her pictures of you on my phone. I say, ‘Anya, this is Shane. He is very handsome and very stubborn, just like you. You will love him.’”

Shane’s chest feels tight. “You showed your dog pictures of me.”

“Many pictures,” Ilya confirms. “I have many pictures of you. Some you know about, some you don’t. But I show Anya the nice ones, the ones where you’re smiling. I tell her you’re family.”

“Ilya,” Shane says, and his voice cracks slightly.

“What?” Ilya looks genuinely confused by Shane’s reaction. “Is truth. You are family. Anya is family. We are family now. Strange family with two dads who live in different cities and can’t tell anyone they’re together, but still family.”

Shane kisses him because he can’t find words for what he’s feeling. This man. This ridiculous, dramatic, wonderful man who flies across oceans and threatens presidents and gets gifted dogs by world leaders and treats all of it like it’s completely normal.

“I love you,” Shane says when they break apart.

“I know,” Ilya says with that cocky grin. “I’m very lovable. Dog also loves me already. You should see how she cuddles at night.”

“Where does she sleep?”

“In bed with me,” Ilya admits. “Takes up lot of space too. You’ll see tonight. She’s going to try to sleep between us, and we have to be firm about boundaries.”

“Tonight,” Shane repeats. “I’m staying tonight?”

“Of course you’re staying,” Ilya says. “Is Saturday. You don’t have game until Tuesday. You stay here, we spend time with Anya, we have sex many more times, then you go back to Montreal. Is perfect plan.”

“What about tomorrow? Don’t you have practice?”

“Optional skate only,” Ilya dismisses. “I skip. Tell coach I have jet lag from Moscow trip. He’ll understand. Besides-” He runs his hand down Shane’s side. “I have better things to do than optional skate.”

They lie there in comfortable silence for a while. Eventually, Ilya gets up to clean them both up, and when he comes back, Anya has moved from her bed to the foot of Ilya’s bed, clearly intending to join them.

“Anya, нет,” Ilya says firmly. No. “Not tonight. Shane is here. You sleep in your own bed.”

Anya looks at him with those intense eyes, then looks at Shane, then back at Ilya. She makes a sound that’s almost like a whine.

“I know, I know,” Ilya says sympathetically, switching to English now. “But you’re big dog. Bed is only so big. Maybe tomorrow night you can join, but tonight is for humans only.”

Anya huffs — actually huffs, like she’s disappointed — and jumps down from the bed, returning to her own bed in the other room.

“Good girl,” Ilya praises. “See? She’s learning English already. Just needs motivation.”

Shane watches this entire interaction with something like awe. “You’re really good with her.”

“I had dogs as child,” Ilya explains, settling back into bed next to Shane. “Before my mother died. After she died, my father said no more dogs — too much distraction from hockey. But I always want another one. So when Xi Jinping offer, I say yes immediately. My father was very angry, but what can he do? Can’t refuse gift from Chinese president. Would be diplomatic incident.”

“So you got a dog to spite your father,” Shane says.

“I got dog because I want dog,” Ilya corrects. “That it also annoys my father is just bonus.”

Shane shakes his head, smiling. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it,” Ilya says.

“I do,” Shane admits. “I really, really do.”

They fall asleep tangled together, and Shane dreams of dogs and world leaders and a future where maybe they can have this all the time. Not just stolen nights between games, but actual domesticity. A shared dog. A shared home. A shared life.

It’s a nice dream.

And when he wakes up at 3 AM to find that Anya has somehow snuck onto the bed and is sprawled across both of them, snoring softly, Shane thinks maybe it’s not just a dream.

Maybe it could be real.

Someday.

“Told you she would try,” Ilya mumbles sleepily, not even opening his eyes. “She’s very stubborn.”

“Like her father,” Shane says.

“Like both her fathers,” Ilya corrects, and pulls Shane closer — carefully, so as not to disturb the dog.

And Shane falls back asleep, warm and safe and loved, with Ilya on one side and a dog that was gifted by the President of China on the other.

His life is absolutely insane.

But he wouldn’t change it for anything.

Chapter 18: the hit

The game is intense in the way that Boston-Montreal games always are. Physical, fast, passionate. Shane has been playing some of his best hockey all season, and it shows tonight — he already has a goal and an assist, directly responsible for tying the game 2-2.

Ilya has been equally dominant for Boston, with two assists of his own. Every shift they’re on the ice together, the tension is palpable. The fans can feel it. The commentators keep talking about the Hollander-Rozanov rivalry, how it elevates both players, how they bring out the best in each other.

If they only knew, Shane thinks during a TV timeout. If they knew that last night, Shane fell asleep in Ilya’s arms after Ilya made him come three times. That this morning, they woke up tangled together, Ilya’s face buried in Shane’s neck, neither of them wanting to move. That Ilya kissed him at the door and said, “See you on the ice, try not to be too embarrassed when I make you look slow.”

Shane had laughed and said, “You’re going down tonight.”

“That’s what you said last night too,” Ilya had replied with that cocky grin. “And yet, you were one doing the going down-”

Shane had shoved him out the door before he could finish that sentence.

Now, fifteen minutes left in the third period, the game is still tied. Shane’s line is on the ice, cycling the puck in the neutral zone. He receives a pass from Hayden and accelerates, cutting toward the Boston blue line.

He doesn’t see Cliff Marlow coming.

Doesn’t see the Boston defenseman line him up, doesn’t have time to brace, doesn’t have time to protect himself.

The hit comes from behind. Marlow’s shoulder catches Shane high, driving his head into the glass. The crack is audible even over the crowd noise. Shane’s helmet absorbs some of the impact, but not enough.

He goes down hard.

And doesn’t move.

The arena goes silent. That terrible, heavy silence that happens when everyone knows something is very, very wrong.

On the ice, Shane’s teammates immediately surround him, shouting for the medical staff. Hayden is yelling at Marlow, who’s being pulled away by the referees. The whistle blows, but it’s distant, underwater.

Shane can’t move. Can’t speak. Can barely think through the ringing in his ears and the nauseating pain radiating through his skull. His vision is blurry, and he tastes blood.

He’s aware of voices around him — his teammates, the refs, someone saying “Don’t move him, wait for the medics” — but it all sounds far away.

Then a different voice cuts through, sharp and panicked and speaking rapid Russian.

Ilya.

Shane’s eyes won’t focus, but he knows that voice. Would know it anywhere.

Ilya wasn’t even on the ice. He was on the Boston bench, his shift having just ended. But suddenly he’s there, on his knees next to Shane, his hands hovering like he wants to touch but doesn’t know where it’s safe.

“Shane,” Ilya says, and his voice cracks. “Shane, please, look at me. Open your eyes. Say something.”

Shane tries. Tries so hard to move, to speak, to let Ilya know he’s conscious. But his body won’t cooperate.

“Shane, please,” Ilya begs. He’s switched to English now, but his accent is thick with panic. “Please be okay. Please just—just look at me-”

“Rozanov, you need to move.” Someone — a ref, maybe — is trying to pull Ilya back. “The medical staff needs space-”

“No,” Ilya says flatly. “I’m not leaving him.”

“You need to get off the ice-”

“I said no!” Ilya’s voice rises, and Shane can hear the desperation in it. “I’m not leaving him!”

The Montreal medical staff arrives — Shane recognizes Marcel’s voice, calm and professional. “Shane, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”

Shane tries. Manages the tiniest movement of his fingers.

“Good, that’s good. Don’t try to move anything else. We’re going to take care of you.”

More voices. The team doctor. Another trainer. Everyone talking at once, assessing injuries, checking vitals.

And through it all, Ilya’s voice: “Is he okay? Tell me he’s okay. Shane, I’m here. I’m right here. You’re going to be fine-”

“Rozanov, you need to move back,” Marcel says firmly. “We need to work-”

“I’m not moving,” Ilya says. Shane can hear the tears in his voice now. “I can’t—I can’t leave him-”

“Ilya.” That’s a new voice. One of Ilya’s teammates. “Come on, man. Let them work. You’re in the way.”

“I don’t care,” Ilya says. “I don’t care about anything except-”

Hands on Ilya, pulling him back. Multiple voices in Russian and English, his teammates trying to get him to move. Ilya fighting against them, trying to stay close to Shane.

“Let me go!” Ilya shouts. “Let me—Shane needs me-”

Shane wants to tell him it’s okay. Wants to say he understands, that Ilya should go back to the bench. But he still can’t speak, can barely keep his eyes open.

The medical team is moving quickly now, carefully stabilizing Shane’s neck, checking for spinal injuries. Marcel is talking to him, asking questions Shane can’t quite process.

“We’re bringing out the stretcher,” someone says. “Possible head and neck injury. We need to transport to the hospital.”

Hospital. The word penetrates Shane’s foggy brain. He’s going to the hospital. This is bad. This is really bad.

“No, no, no-” That’s Ilya again, and he sounds destroyed. “Shane, please, you have to be okay. You have to-”

“Rozanov!” Another Boston player, more forceful now. “You need to get off the ice. Now.”

It takes three of Ilya’s teammates to finally pull him away. Shane can hear him fighting, can hear the anguished Russian words he’s shouting, can hear the moment Ilya stops fighting and just starts begging.

“Please, just tell me he’s okay. Please. I need to know he’s okay.”

“They’re taking care of him,” someone says. “They’ve got him. But you need to move.”

The stretcher arrives. Shane feels hands on him, carefully, professionally moving him onto it. The stabilization collar around his neck. The straps securing him.

As they lift the stretcher, Shane manages to open his eyes. Everything is still blurry, but he can make out shapes. Can see the arena ceiling. Can see faces hovering over him.

And there, being held back by three teammates, is Ilya. His face is pale, his eyes red, his expression absolutely shattered.

“Ilya,” Shane manages to say. It comes out barely a whisper, but in the sudden silence of the arena, it carries.

Ilya breaks free.

Shane doesn’t know how he does it — doesn’t know if his teammates let him go or if Ilya just overpowered them — but suddenly Ilya is skating alongside the stretcher as they move toward the tunnel, and he’s taking Shane’s hand, the one that isn’t immobilized.

“I’m here,” Ilya says, and tears are streaming down his face. “I’m right here. You’re going to be okay. I promise you’re going to be okay.”

“Ilya-” Shane tries again.

“Don’t talk,” Ilya says. “Save your strength. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

They reach the tunnel entrance. The medics are trying to move quickly, but Ilya won’t let go of Shane’s hand.

“Sir, you need to stay on the ice,” one of the medics says. “We need to get him to the hospital-”

“I’m coming with him,” Ilya says.

“You can’t-”

“I’m coming with him,” Ilya repeats, his voice leaving no room for argument.

“Rozanov!” That’s Boston’s coach, standing at the bench, face red with fury. “Where the hell do you think you’re going? We’re in the middle of a game!”

Ilya stops. Looks at his coach. Looks at Shane on the stretcher. Looks at the twenty thousand people in the arena, all watching this unfold.

And Shane sees the moment Ilya makes his choice.

“I’m going to be with my boyfriend,” Ilya shouts back, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent arena. “He needs me more than you do right now.”

Boyfriend.

The word echoes in the silence.

Shane’s brain, foggy as it is, registers what just happened. What Ilya just said. What Ilya just revealed to twenty thousand people and however many millions watching on TV.

The arena erupts. Not in cheers or boos, but in shocked gasps, in stunned silence breaking into chaos. People shouting, cameras flashing, commentators stammering.

But Ilya doesn’t seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t care. He just keeps holding Shane’s hand as the medics finally maneuver the stretcher into the tunnel, away from the cameras, away from the crowd.

“I’m here,” Ilya says again. “I’m here, and I’m not leaving. I don’t care who knows. I don’t care about anything except making sure you’re okay.”

Shane wants to say something. Wants to tell Ilya that he just outed them both on national television. Wants to tell him that their careers might be over. Wants to tell him that everything they’ve been hiding for five years just became public knowledge.

But all he can manage is “Love you.”

Ilya’s face crumples. “I love you too. So much. So fucking much. You’re going to be fine. You have to be fine.”

The tunnel is chaos. Montreal staff trying to figure out what’s happening. Boston staff looking panicked. Security trying to maintain order. And Ilya, still in full gear except his gloves and stick, refusing to let go of Shane’s hand.

“Sir, you really can’t come in the ambulance,” the paramedic says gently. “Family only-”

“He is family,” Ilya says fiercely. “He’s my family. He’s my person. I’m going with him.”

“Ilya,” Shane manages. His vision is starting to clear slightly, though his head is pounding. “Your game-”

“Fuck the game,” Ilya says. “Fuck hockey. Fuck everything. You’re what matters.”

They’ve reached the ambulance bay. The paramedics are loading Shane into the back, and Ilya is climbing in with him, still refusing to let go.

“We need to assess him,” the paramedic says. “You’ll have to let go of his hand-”

“I’ll stay out of your way,” Ilya promises. “But I’m not letting go. He needs to know I’m here.”

The paramedic looks at Shane, then at Ilya, then sighs. “Fine. But you stay in that corner and don’t interfere.”

Ilya nods and carefully positions himself where he can still hold Shane’s hand but isn’t blocking the paramedics’ work.

As the ambulance doors close and they start moving, Shane can hear sirens. Can feel the movement. Can see Ilya’s face above him, still crying, still holding his hand like a lifeline.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya whispers. “I’m so sorry I outed us. I wasn’t thinking. I just—when I saw you not moving, when I thought you might be seriously hurt, I couldn’t-” His voice breaks. “I couldn’t pretend anymore. Couldn’t pretend you’re just my rival, just some other player. You’re everything to me, Shane. Everything.”

Shane squeezes Ilya’s hand as hard as he can, which isn’t very hard. “Not … your fault …”

“It is,” Ilya insists. “I fucked up. I ruined everything. Our secret, our careers, everything we’ve built-”

“Don’t care,” Shane manages. And he means it. His head is killing him, he might have a serious injury, and their secret is out. But all he cares about is that Ilya is here, holding his hand, choosing Shane over everything else.

“You should care,” Ilya says. “When you’re feeling better, you’re going to be so angry at me-”

“Won’t be,” Shane says. “Love you.”

Ilya leans down and presses his forehead to Shane’s carefully, mindful of the collar and the injuries. “I love you too. I’m going to fix this. I’m going to fix everything. I promise.”

Shane wants to tell him there’s nothing to fix. That he’s not angry. That maybe this is even a relief, not having to hide anymore.

But his vision is going blurry again, and the pain in his head is getting worse, and the paramedic is saying something about a possible concussion and potential neck injury.

The last thing Shane sees before everything goes dark is Ilya’s face, tear-streaked and terrified and full of love.

And the last thing he hears is Ilya’s voice, whispering in Russian words that Shane doesn’t understand but knows mean I love you, I’m here, you’re going to be okay.

Then everything fades to black.

Back in the arena, the game has stopped. The officials are in a huddle. Both teams are on their benches, staring at each other in shock. The crowd is in chaos — some people on their phones, already spreading the news, some still processing what just happened.

The TSN commentators are struggling. “Did … did Rozanov just say what I think he said?”

“He said boyfriend. He definitely said boyfriend.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to take a break while we figure out what’s happening here.”

But the damage is already done. The clip is already going viral. Within minutes, it’s on every social media platform, every sports news site, every hockey forum.

Ilya Rozanov, son of the Russian President, Boston Bears star, saying “I’m going to be with my boyfriend” in front of twenty thousand people and millions watching at home.

And the boyfriend in question is Shane Hollander. Son of the Canadian Prime Minister. Montreal Voyageurs star. His supposed rival.

The hockey world explodes.

But none of that matters to Ilya, riding in an ambulance with Shane’s hand in his, praying to a God he’s not sure he believes in that Shane will be okay.

Nothing else matters.

Not the secret they’ve kept for half a decade.

Not their careers.

Not the fallout that’s inevitably coming.

Just Shane.

Always Shane.

Only Shane.

Chapter 19: bedside

The emergency room at the Montreal General Hospital is chaos. Doctors and nurses rushing around, machines beeping, the sharp smell of antiseptic cutting through everything. Ilya sits in a plastic chair in the hallway, still in his full hockey gear minus his skates — someone made him take those off — watching as they wheel Shane past him into a CT scan room.

“Sir, you’ll need to wait here,” a nurse tells him for the third time. “Family only past this point.”

“I am family,” Ilya says, his jaw tight.

“Are you related to Mr. Hollander?”

“I’m his-” Ilya stops. What is he? Boyfriend sounds inadequate after seven years. Partner sounds too clinical. “I’m his fiancé.”

The lie comes easily, desperately. And maybe it’s not entirely a lie. Maybe it’s just premature truth.

The nurse looks skeptical but doesn’t push it. “Fine. But you’ll still need to wait here while they do the scans. It’ll be about forty-five minutes.”

Forty-five minutes feels like forever. Ilya sits in that uncomfortable plastic chair, his gear digging into his skin, his hands shaking. He can’t stop replaying the moment — Shane going down, Shane not moving, the terrible silence before the crowd started reacting.

His phone is in his locker back at the arena. He has no idea what’s happening out there. Doesn’t know if the game continued. Doesn’t care.

All he cares about is Shane.

Finally a doctor emerges. She’s young, maybe early thirties, with kind eyes and tired expression.

“Mr. Rozanov?” She asks.

Ilya stands immediately. “Yes. Is he—is Shane okay?”

“He’s stable,” she says, and Ilya’s knees almost buckle with relief. “But he has a severe concussion. Grade 3, which is the most serious. He also has a small subdural hematoma — a collection of blood between his brain and skull.”

Ilya’s blood runs cold. “That sounds very bad.”

“It’s serious,” the doctor confirms. “But it’s small enough that we believe it will resolve on its own with monitoring. We’re admitting him for observation. He’ll need to stay in the hospital for at least 48 hours, possibly longer depending on how he progresses.”

“But he’ll be okay?” Ilya needs to hear her say it. “He’ll recover?”

“With proper rest and treatment, yes. Concussions are tricky — he’ll likely have headaches, dizziness, sensitivity to light and sound for several weeks. He won’t be able to play hockey for a minimum of six weeks, possibly longer. But he should make a full recovery.”

Six weeks. The Voyageurs are in a playoff push. Missing six weeks could cost them their season. But Ilya doesn’t care about that. Shane is alive. Shane will recover. That’s all that matters.

“Can I see him?” Ilya asks.

“He’s being moved to a room now. Follow me.”

Shane’s room is private — probably the hospital pulling strings for the son of the Prime Minister. The lights are dimmed to help with Shane’s light sensitivity. And there, in the bed, looking impossibly small and vulnerable, is Shane.

He’s awake, but barely. His eyes are half-closed, and he has an IV in his arm, a bandage on his temple where they must have cleaned up some abrasion from the hit.

“Shane,” Ilya says, rushing to the bedside. He takes Shane’s hand carefully, mindful of the IV. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Shane’s eyes focus on him with obvious effort. “Ilya,” he mumbles. “You’re … still in your gear.”

“I don’t care about my gear,” Ilya says. “I care about you. How are you feeling?”

“Head hurts,” Shane says. “Everything hurts.”

“I know, I know.” Ilya brings Shane’s hand to his lips, kisses his knuckles. “They’re going to give you pain medication. You’re going to be okay.”

“The game-” Shane starts.

“Fuck the game,” Ilya says fiercely. “I don’t care about the game. I care about you.”

A nurse comes in to adjust Shane’s IV, adding something that must be pain medication because Shane’s eyes start to droop.

“He needs to rest,” the nurse says gently. “You can stay, but keep it quiet. Let him sleep.”

“I will,” Ilya promises.

As Shane drifts off, Ilya settles into the chair next to the bed, still holding Shane’s hand. He doesn’t let go. Won’t let go.

Hours pass. Ilya doesn’t move except to occasionally bring Shane’s hand to his lips. He talks, because the silence is too heavy, too full of beeping machines and the reality of Shane being hurt.

“I’m going to bag skate Marlow so hard next practice,” Ilya says quietly. “His legs are going to fall off. I’m going to make him regret ever touching you. I don’t care that he’s my teammate. I don’t care about anything except making him pay for hurting you.”

Shane doesn’t respond, just sleeps.

“I talked to the doctor again while you were sleeping,” Ilya continues. “She says you’re going to be fine. Six weeks until you can play again. I know that’s going to make you crazy. You hate sitting out. But I’ll be here. Whenever I can. Whenever Boston plays Montreal, or whenever we have a day off, I’ll come see you. We’ll watch movies. I’ll cook for you. Anya will keep you company — she’s very good at cuddling when people are sick.”

Still nothing from Shane. Just the steady rhythm of his breathing.

“I’m sorry I outed us,” Ilya says, his voice cracking. “I know you’re going to be angry when you wake up properly. I know I fucked everything up. But Shane, when I saw you go down, when you weren’t moving — I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Could only think about getting to you, making sure you were okay. Everything else just … disappeared. The secret, the consequences, all of it. None of it mattered compared to you.”

He brings Shane’s hand to his lips again.

“My phone is back at the arena. I have no idea what’s happening out there. Probably chaos. Probably our faces all over the news. Probably my father losing his mind. But I can’t bring myself to care. Let them talk. Let them speculate. Let them say whatever they want. As long as you’re okay, I can handle anything.”

The door opens softly, and Ilya looks up, expecting another nurse.

It’s David and Yuna.

They look like they’ve run all the way from Ottawa. David is in a suit but his tie is loose and his hair is disheveled. Yuna’s makeup is smeared, her eyes red and swollen from crying.

They both freeze when they see Ilya, still in his Boston Bears gear, holding their son’s hand.

“How is he?” Yuna asks, her voice breaking as she rushes to the other side of the bed. “David got a call from the team doctor but he couldn’t tell us much-”

“He has severe concussion,” Ilya says. “Grade 3. And small subdural hematoma, which is bleeding in brain. But doctor says it should heal on its own. He needs to stay here for monitoring, at least 48 hours. Maybe longer.”

Yuna’s hand flies to her mouth, fresh tears spilling over. David moves to her side, putting his arm around her while also reaching out to touch Shane’s face gently.

“He’s going to be okay though?” David asks, his Prime Minister composure cracking. “The doctor said he’ll recover?”

“Yes,” Ilya confirms. “Full recovery expected. But no hockey for minimum six weeks. Maybe longer.”

“Six weeks,” David repeats. “The playoffs-”

“I don’t care about playoffs,” Ilya says firmly. “Shane’s health is more important than hockey.”

David looks at Ilya — really looks at him — and something shifts in his expression. “You’ve been here the whole time?”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “I told them I’m his fiancé so they would let me in. I hope that’s okay. I just—I couldn’t leave him.”

Yuna makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sob. “Fiancé?”

“I panic,” Ilya admits. “But also-” He looks at Shane’s sleeping face. “Maybe not entirely lie. Just … early truth.”

David and Yuna exchange a look that Ilya can’t quite read.

“Thank you,” Yuna says, reaching across the bed to touch Ilya’s arm. “Thank you for being here with him. Thank you for-” Her voice breaks again. “Thank you for making sure he wasn’t alone.”

“I would never let him be alone,” Ilya says. “Never.”

They sit in silence for a moment, all three of them watching Shane sleep. The machines beep steadily, a rhythm that Ilya has already memorized.

“We saw what happened,” David says finally. “We were watching the game. We saw the hit, and we saw-” He stops. “We saw what you said. In front of everyone.”

Ilya’s stomach drops. He’d almost managed to forget about that in his worry over Shane. Almost.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says. “I wasn’t thinking. I just—I couldn’t pretend. Not when he was hurt. I’m sorry I outed him without his consent. I’m sorry I made everything public. I’m sorry-”

“Ilya,” David interrupts gently. “Stop apologizing.”

Ilya looks up, confused.

“What you did was very brave,” David continues. “Stupid, probably. But brave.”

“I don’t understand.”

David pulls a chair over and sits down heavily. He suddenly looks every one of his fifty-nine years. “You revealed to the world that you’re in a relationship with another man. You’re the son of the Russian President. You just outed yourself on international television.” He pauses. “Do you understand what that means? What the consequences could be?”

“I don’t care about consequences,” Ilya says. “Only about Shane.”

“I know,” David says. “That’s what makes it brave. And stupid.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how Russia will respond to this. Your father-”

“My father will be very angry,” Ilya says flatly. “But he won’t do anything. We have … understanding. He knows about me. About Shane. He doesn’t like it, but he knows. And now everyone knows, so he has no choice but to deal with it.”

“He could try to force you to return to Russia,” Yuna says quietly. “He could revoke your passport, your visa-”

“He could try,” Ilya agrees. “But I won’t go. I’ll request asylum if I have to. Canada, America, I don’t care. Wherever lets me stay with Shane.”

David leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “If it comes to that — if you need asylum, if you need legal protection — I will help you. As Prime Minister of Canada, I have resources. I can make calls. I can ensure you’re protected.”

Ilya’s eyes sting with tears he refuses to shed. “Why would you do that? You barely know me.”

“Because you love my son,” David says simply. “Because you just threw away your entire carefully constructed public life to make sure he wasn’t alone in an ambulance. Because-” His voice roughens. “Because when I saw you on that ice, holding his hand, refusing to leave him, I saw someone who would do anything to protect the person they love. That’s all any parent wants for their child.”

The tears fall now, hot and fast down Ilya’s face. He doesn’t wipe them away. “I’m sorry I kept it secret for so long. I’m sorry we lied to you.”

“I understand why you did,” Yuna says. “The world isn’t always kind to people like you and Shane. You were protecting yourselves. Protecting each other.” She reaches across the bed again and squeezes Ilya’s hand. “But you don’t have to hide anymore. Whatever happens, we’re here. We’ll support you both.”

“Thank you,” Ilya manages. “Thank you so much.”

They sit together in silence, the three of them keeping vigil over Shane. Nurses come and go, checking vitals, adjusting medications. A doctor stops by to give an update — everything looks stable, Shane is responding well to treatment.

Around 2 AM, David and Yuna finally convince Ilya to at least take off his hockey gear. Yuna had the presence of mind to grab a bag from Shane’s apartment, and she brought clean clothes for both Shane and, somehow, for Ilya.

“I figured you’d need something,” she says, handing him joggers and a t-shirt. “These are Shane’s, but they should fit you.”

Ilya changes in the bathroom, finally free of the gear that’s been cutting into his skin for hours. When he catches sight of himself in the mirror, he barely recognizes the person staring back. Red eyes, tear-stained cheeks, exhaustion written in every line of his face.

He looks destroyed.

He feels destroyed.

But when he returns to Shane’s room and takes his place in the chair next to the bed, taking Shane’s hand again, he feels a little bit stronger.

“You should go to the hotel,” David says quietly. “Get some real rest. We’ll stay with him.”

“No,” Ilya says. “I’m not leaving. Not until he wakes up properly. Not until I know he’s really okay.”

“Ilya-”

“Please,” Ilya says. “I need to be here. I need-” His voice breaks. “I need him to know I didn’t leave him.”

Yuna’s eyes fill with tears again. “Okay,” she says softly. “You can stay.”

They take turns dozing in the uncomfortable hospital chairs. David makes phone calls in the hallway — to his staff, to lawyers, to the Voyageurs management. Yuna sits with Ilya, occasionally making quiet conversation, occasionally just sitting in silence.

Around 4 AM, Shane stirs. His eyes open more fully than they have since arriving at the hospital, and he looks around the room with confusion.

“Mom?” He says, his voice rough. “Dad?”

“We’re here, baby,” Yuna says immediately, moving to his side. “We’re right here.”

Shane’s eyes find Ilya. “You’re still here.”

“Of course I’m still here,” Ilya says. “Where else would I be?”

“The game-” Shane starts.

“Ended hours ago,” David supplies. “Boston won 3-2. The goal was scored about two minutes after you were taken off the ice. But that’s not important right now.”

“What is important,” Yuna says, “is that you’re awake and you’re okay. Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital,” Shane says. “Got hit. Marlow-” His face twists with pain, and Ilya isn’t sure if it’s physical or emotional.

“Don’t think about it now,” Ilya says. “Just rest. Everything else can wait.”

“No,” Shane says. “What I said—what you said-” He’s struggling to form complete thoughts, the concussion making everything harder. “Everyone heard-”

“Yes,” Ilya confirms. “Everyone heard. And we’ll deal with it. But later. Right now, you need to focus on getting better.”

“Ilya’s right,” David says. “Your health comes first. Everything else is secondary.”

Shane’s eyes drift closed again. “Tired.”

“Then sleep,” Yuna says, stroking his hair gently. “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

Within minutes, Shane is asleep again. The four of them settle back into their vigil, and Ilya realizes that this — sitting here with Shane’s parents, all of them united in their worry and love for Shane — this is the closest he’s ever felt to having a real family.

His own mother is gone. His father is … his father. His grandmother is in Russia, probably hearing about all of this through news reports.

But here, now, David and Yuna are treating him like he belongs. Like he’s already part of the family.

“For now,” Ilya says quietly, “nothing matters except Shane waking up and being okay. Everything else — Russia, my father, the media, all of it — we deal with later. Right now, only Shane matters.”

“Agreed,” David says.

“Agreed,” Yuna echoes.

And they sit together, waiting for morning, waiting for Shane to be okay, waiting for whatever comes next.

Because the secret is out.

The world knows.

And there’s no going back.

But as Ilya sits there, holding Shane’s hand, feeling the steady pulse beneath his fingers, he realizes he doesn’t want to go back.

For five years, they’ve hidden. Sneaked around. Pretended to be rivals and nothing more.

And maybe the way it came out wasn’t ideal. Maybe Ilya should have waited, should have talked to Shane first, should have planned better.

But it’s out now.

They’re out now.

And whatever happens next, they’ll face it together.

As long as Shane is okay, Ilya can handle anything.

The machines beep steadily.

Shane breathes evenly.

And Ilya holds on, refusing to let go.

He’ll never let go again.

Chapter 20: the reckoning

Ilya has been at Shane’s bedside for nearly eight hours when Yuna gently but firmly tells him he needs to leave.

“Just for a few hours,” she says, her hand on his shoulder. “Go shower, change into fresh clothes, eat something real. You’ll be no good to Shane if you collapse from exhaustion.”

“I’m fine,” Ilya protests. “I don’t need-”

“Ilya.” David’s voice is kind but firm. “You’re still wearing Shane’s clothes that you changed into six hours ago. You haven’t eaten since before the game. You look like you’re about to pass out. Go. We’ll be here with him. He won’t be alone.”

Ilya looks at Shane, who’s been sleeping peacefully for the past two hours, his vitals all stable. The doctor was pleased with his progress when she checked in an hour ago.

“He’ll be okay?” Ilya asks for what must be the hundredth time.

“He’ll be fine,” Yuna assures him. “And when you come back, you can tell him all about whatever chaos is waiting for you out there.”

Right. The chaos. The reporters. The fallout from what Ilya said on the ice.

Ilya had managed to forget about all of that, focused entirely on Shane. But now, as he reluctantly stands and grabs his bag, reality starts creeping back in.

“I’ll be back in three hours,” Ilya says. “Maximum. Text me if anything changes. Anything at all.”

“We will,” David promises.

Ilya leans down and kisses Shane’s forehead gently. “I’ll be back soon,” he murmurs. “I love you.”

Shane doesn’t stir, but Ilya imagines he can feel it anyway.

The walk from Shane’s room to the hospital exit feels longer than it should. Ilya keeps his head down, but he can feel eyes on him. Hospital staff whispering, pointing. A couple of people pull out their phones to take pictures.

The news is out. Everyone knows.

When Ilya reaches the main entrance, he sees the crowd.

At least thirty reporters, maybe more, pressed against the barriers that hospital security has set up. Cameras, microphones, voices all shouting at once the moment they spot him.

“Ilya! Ilya Rozanov!”

“Is it true you’re dating Shane Hollander?”

“What does your father think about this?”

“Are you really gay?”

“How long have you been together?”

Ilya stops walking. He could push through, ignore them all, get into the Uber that’s waiting at the curb. That would be the smart thing to do. The safe thing.

But Ilya is done being safe.

He walks directly to the barriers, straight to the reporter who asked if he’s really dating Shane. The man is middle-aged, from TVA Sports based on his microphone flag.

Ilya takes the microphone directly from his hand.

“You want to know if I’m dating Shane Hollander?” Ilya asks, his voice carrying over the suddenly silent crowd. “Yes. I am. Ilya Rozanov doesn’t settle for anything less than the best, and the best is Shane Hollander. He is my boyfriend. He is the person I love. And I am very proud to call him mine.”

The silence lasts exactly two seconds before the questions explode.

“How long have you been together?”

“Does the Prime Minister know?”

“What about Russia-”

But one voice cuts through, clearer than the others. A young woman from Sportsnet. “Does this mean you’re gay?”

Ilya laughs. He can’t help it. The absurdity of the question, the timing, everything.

“I am bisexual,” he says clearly, making sure every camera can see his face, every microphone can catch his words. “I am attracted to men and women. But right now, only one man has my heart.” He pauses, and because he’s Ilya and he can’t help himself, he adds with a smirk, “And my dick.”

The crowd erupts. Some reporters look scandalized. Some laugh. All of them are recording, and Ilya knows that clip will be everywhere within minutes.

Good.

Let it be everywhere.

Let Russia see. Let his father see. Let the whole world see.

He’s done hiding.

Ilya hands the microphone back to the stunned TVA reporter and pushes through the crowd toward his Uber. Security helps clear a path, and soon he’s in the back seat, the driver pulling away from the chaos.

“Rough day?” The driver asks sympathetically, watching the reporters in the rearview mirror.

“You have no idea,” Ilya mutters.

The drive to the hotel where the Boston Bears are staying takes fifteen minutes. The driver makes no mention of recognizing Ilya, which Ilya is grateful for. He just needs a moment of peace before the next storm.

But peace is not what’s waiting for him in the hotel lobby.

His entire team is there.

All twenty players who traveled to Montreal, plus the coaching staff, all sitting in the lobby like they’ve been camping out. They look up the moment Ilya walks through the door, and suddenly twenty pairs of eyes are locked on him.

“Fuck,” Ilya mutters.

One of his assistant captains stands up. Ray Bergeron, a thirty-two-year-old winger who’s been with the Bears for ten years.

“Rozanov,” Ray says. “We need to talk.”

“Can it wait?” Ilya asks, exhausted. “I need to shower, and I need to get back to the hospital-”

“It can’t wait,” Ray says, but his voice isn’t angry. Just serious. “Sit down. Please.”

Ilya drops his bag and sits in one of the lobby chairs. His teammates form a semicircle around him, and Ilya feels like he’s on trial.

“So,” Ray begins. “You’re gay.”

“Bisexual,” Ilya corrects. “Not the same thing.”

“Right. Bisexual.” Ray runs a hand through his hair. “And you’re dating Shane Hollander. Our rival. The guy we literally played against tonight.”

“Yes,” Ilya confirms, his jaw tight. “Is that a problem?”

“I don’t know yet,” Ray says honestly. “I’m trying to figure out how I feel about it.”

“About me being bi?” Ilya asks, his voice harder now. “Or about me dating Shane?”

“Both,” Ryan Carmichael says. “I mean, it’s a lot to process, man. You’ve been with the team for five years, and we had no idea.”

“Because I couldn’t tell you,” Ilya says. “Because I didn’t know how you would react. Because in hockey, being anything other than straight is still-” He stops. “Is still dangerous.”

“Dangerous how?” Ray asks.

“Look at statistics,” Ilya says. “Look at how many openly LGBTQ players are in NHL. None. Look at what happens when players come out in other leagues — they get traded, they lose ice time, they get harassed. You think I wanted that? You think Shane wanted that?”

“Wait,” Ryan says slowly. “Does that mean his father knows you’re together, and he’s okay with it?”

“His parents are more okay with it than mine,” Ilya says. “His parents are at hospital right now, supporting us. My father-” He laughs bitterly. “My father is probably planning ways to make my life miserable for embarrassing him on international television.”

Silence falls over the group. Ilya can see his teammates processing, trying to figure out what to say, how to react.

Then Brad Hammersmith speaks up. “How long have you been together?”

“Five years,” Ilya admits. “Since we were teenagers. Since Toronto, the summer before our rookie year.”

“Five years,” Ray repeats, stunned. “You’ve been hiding this for five years?”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Five years of sneaking around, of lying to everyone, of pretending we hate each other when really-” His voice cracks slightly. “When really he’s the most important person in my life. And tonight, when he got hurt, I couldn’t pretend anymore. I couldn’t let him go to hospital alone. I couldn’t be just his rival.”

“So you outed both of you on live television,” Brad says.

“Yes,” Ilya says. “I know it was stupid. I know I should have waited, should have talked to Shane first. But I wasn’t thinking about consequences. I was only thinking about him.”

More silence. Ilya can feel his heart pounding. This is it. This is where they tell him he’s off the team. Where they say they can’t have someone like him in the locker room.

Then someone starts clapping.

Ilya looks up to see Cliff Marlow standing and applauding.

“What are you doing?” Ilya demands, standing abruptly. “You have no right—you hurt him-”

“I know,” Cliff says, and he looks genuinely remorseful. “And I’m sorry. It was a stupid play. I was trying to make a hit and I caught him high. It wasn’t intentional, but it was reckless, and I’m sorry. I already got ejected from the game and I’ll probably get suspended.”

“You better get suspended,” Ilya says, his hands clenched into fists. “You gave him severe concussion. Subdural hematoma. He can’t play for minimum six weeks.”

Cliff winces. “I really am sorry. But that’s not why I’m clapping.” He gestures at Ilya. “I’m clapping because what you did — coming out like that, in front of everyone, just to be with your boyfriend — that took balls. That took more courage than anything I’ve ever seen on the ice.”

“He’s right,” Victor St-Simon says. “I don’t care if you’re into dudes or chicks or both. What I care about is that you’re a good teammate and a good player. And you are.”

“Plus,” Brad adds with a grin, “we didn’t even know anyone was capable of pulling the stick out of Shane Hollander’s ass. The guy’s always so serious, so focused. I can’t even picture him in a relationship.”

Something loosens in Ilya’s chest. The beginning of relief, maybe. Or hope.

“Someone had to do it,” Ilya says, and his cocky smirk returns. “Seeing as Shane likes certain other things stuffed in there instead.”

The lobby goes silent for exactly two seconds.

Then the entire team erupts.

“OH SHIT!”

“Did he just-”

“ROZANOV!”

“Too much information, man!”

“I’m going to need therapy after that mental image!”

But they’re laughing. All of them. Even Ray is shaking his head with a reluctant grin.

“You’re disgusting,” Brad says, but he’s grinning too.

“You asked,” Ilya points out. “I just answered honestly.”

“Never ask Rozanov honest questions,” Cliff advises the younger players. “You’ll get honest answers you don’t want.”

The energy in the lobby has completely shifted. What started as tense and uncertain has become almost celebratory. Ilya’s teammates are talking over each other, asking questions about how they met, how they kept it secret, what it’s like dating someone you play against.

“Wait, wait,” Ryan says. “So every time you two fight on the ice — that’s like, what? Foreplay?”

“Sometimes,” Ilya admits with a shrug. “Violence can be very arousing.”

“Jesus Christ,” Cliff mutters. “I’m going to have to rethink every Bears-Voyageurs game I’ve ever played in.”

“Good,” Ilya says. “Maybe you’ll finally understand why I play so hard against them.”

“Against him,” Cliff corrects. “You play hard against him specifically.”

“Yes,” Ilya confirms. “He makes me better. Pushes me to be better. And I do same for him.”

“That’s actually kind of sweet,” Ryan says. “In a really fucked up, violent hockey way.”

“That’s us,” Ilya says. “Fucked up and violent and in love.”

The conversation continues, and Ilya realizes something: his teammates don’t care. They really don’t care that he’s bi, that he’s with Shane. All they care about is whether he can still play hockey and whether he’ll still be a good teammate.

The answer to both is yes.

“I need to shower,” Ilya finally says. “And eat. And get back to hospital.”

“How is he?” Ray asks, his expression turning serious. “Hollander. How bad is it really?”

“Bad,” Ilya admits. “But he’ll recover. Doctor says full recovery, but he needs rest. And he needs me not to smell like I’ve been in hospital for eight hours.”

“Go,” Ray says. “Shower, change, eat something. We’ll be here if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” Ilya says, and he means it. “All of you. Thank you for not-” He stops. “Thank you for being okay with this.”

“Rozanov,” Brad says. “You’re our teammate. Our brother. We’ve played together for years. You think we’re going to abandon you because you like dudes? Fuck that. We’re a team. We stick together.”

“Besides,” Ryan adds with a grin, “now we get to chirp you about your boyfriend. This is going to be so much fun.”

“Don’t you dare chirp Shane when he’s injured,” Ilya warns. “Wait until he’s healed. Then you can chirp him all you want. He’ll probably enjoy it.”

“Deal,” Cliff says.

Ilya heads up to his room, and for the first time since Shane went down, he feels like he can breathe. His team knows. His team accepts him. His team has his back.

Now he just needs to face the rest of the world.

He showers quickly, washing away the hospital smell and the stress-sweat from hours of worry. He changes into clean clothes — jeans and a sweater, something casual and comfortable. He orders room service and forces himself to eat even though his stomach is still in knots.

He hasn’t looked at his phone this whole time. He finally turns it on and watches as notification after notification floods in.

Texts from NHL players he’s friendly with.

Texts from Russian players he knows.

Texts from his grandmother. Ilyusha, I saw the news. I love you. I’m proud of you. Come home when you can.

And then, the text that makes his stomach drop. We need to talk. Tomorrow. Video call. 10:00 Moscow time. Don’t be late.

Tomorrow is — Ilya does the math — less than twelve hours from now. 10 AM Moscow time is 2 AM Montreal time.

Great. Just great.

But that’s a problem for Future Ilya. Present Ilya needs to get back to Shane.

He grabs his bag and heads back downstairs. A few of his teammates are still in the lobby, and they wave as he passes.

“Tell Hollander we said get well soon,” Victor calls out.

“And tell him we know all his secrets now!” Ryan adds.

“I’ll tell him you’re all assholes,” Ilya says, but he’s smiling.

The Uber ride back to the hospital is quick. The reporters are still there, but fewer of them now, and hospital security has gotten better at keeping them away from the entrance. Ilya makes it inside without incident.

Shane’s room is quiet when Ilya enters. David and Yuna are both dozing in chairs, and Shane is-

Awake.

Actually awake, his eyes open and alert, looking at his phone.

“You’re awake,” Ilya says, rushing to the bedside. “How are you feeling? Do you need anything? Should I get the doctor?”

“I’m okay,” Shane says. His voice is still a bit rough, but he sounds more coherent than he has since the hit. “Mom and Dad told me you went to shower and eat. How are you holding up?”

“How am I holding up?” Ilya repeats incredulously. “Shane, you’re in hospital with brain injury. I should be asking you that.”

“I’m fine,” Shane insists. “Headache, but the meds are helping. But Ilya-” He reaches for Ilya’s hand. “I saw the news. I saw what you said. To the reporters.”

Ilya’s heart sinks. “I’m sorry. I know I should have talked to you first, I know I shouldn’t have outed us without your permission-”

“Stop apologizing,” Shane interrupts. “I’m not mad.”

“You’re not?”

“No.” Shane squeezes Ilya’s hand. “I’m proud of you. What you said — about me being the best, about being proud to call me yours-” His eyes are shining with tears. “No one’s ever said anything like that about me before. Not publicly. Not where the whole world could hear.”

“I meant every word,” Ilya says fiercely. “You are the best. You are everything to me. And I’m done hiding it.”

“Good,” Shane says. “Because I’m done hiding too.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, and then Ilya leans down and kisses him. Gentle, mindful of Shane’s injuries, but full of everything he’s been feeling for the past nine hours.

When they break apart, Shane is smiling. “My teammates are going to have so many questions.”

“My teammates already did,” Ilya says. “They know everything now. Well, not everything. But enough.”

“How did they react?”

“Better than expected,” Ilya admits. “They don’t care that I’m bi. They just care that I can still play hockey. Though Ryan did say I gave him mental images he’ll need therapy for.”

“What did you say to him?”

Ilya grins. “I maybe mentioned what you like to have stuffed in your ass instead of the stick they claimed was there.”

Shane’s eyes go wide. “You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“Ilya!”

“What? Is true!”

Despite everything — the injury, the hospital, the fact that their secret is now global news — Shane starts laughing. And then Ilya is laughing too, and David and Yuna wake up to find both of them giggling like teenagers.

“Well,” Yuna says with a smile. “I guess Shane really is feeling better.”

And he is. They both are.

Because the secret is out, and the world knows, and somehow, impossibly, it’s going to be okay.

They’ll face whatever comes next together.

Just like they always have.

Just like they always will.

Chapter 21: the call

Ilya stands outside Shane’s hospital room at 1:55 AM, staring at his phone like it might explode. In five minutes, he has to video call his father. In five minutes, he has to face the consequences of what he said on that ice.

David exits Shane’s room quietly, careful not to wake Shane or Yuna, who are both sleeping.

“Can’t sleep?” David asks, noticing Ilya in the hallway.

“I have call with my father,” Ilya says. “In four minutes.”

David’s expression turns serious. “Do you want me to stay? For moral support?”

“No,” Ilya says, though he appreciates the offer. “This is something I need to do alone. But thank you.”

“If you need anything — legal help, political intervention, anything at all — you call me. Immediately. Understood?”

“Understood,” Ilya says.

David squeezes his shoulder once and heads down the hallway toward the family waiting area, giving Ilya privacy.

Ilya finds an empty consultation room and closes the door. He sits in one of the chairs, sets his phone on the table, and waits.

At exactly 2:00 AM Montreal time, his phone rings.

His father’s face fills the screen. Grigori Rozanov looks exactly as Ilya remembers — hard eyes, thin lips, the kind of face that never fully smiles. Behind him is his office in the Kremlin, all dark wood and Russian flags.

“Ilya,” his father says. His voice is cold. Controlled. Which means he’s absolutely furious.

“Father,” Ilya responds, matching his tone.

“I assume you know why I’m calling.”

“I can guess.”

“Then let me be clear,” Grigori says, leaning toward the camera. “What you did — what you said on that ice — was unacceptable. Embarrassing. A complete disgrace to the Rozanov name.”

“I said I was going to see my boyfriend,” Ilya says. “That’s truth. Not disgrace.”

“Truth?” His father’s voice rises slightly. “You announced to the world that you’re involved with another man. With the son of the Canadian Prime Minister, no less. With your supposed rival. Do you have any idea what this has done to our image? To Russia’s image?”

“I don’t care about Russia’s image,” Ilya says flatly. “I care about Shane. He was hurt. He needed me. That’s all that mattered.”

“That’s all that-” His father stops, visibly trying to control himself. “Ilya. Listen to me very carefully. This farce of a relationship ends now. Today. You will release a statement saying it was a misunderstanding, that you were emotional due to concern for a fellow player, that you misspoke.”

“No,” Ilya says.

“No?” His father’s eyes narrow. “You don’t get to say no.”

“I just did,” Ilya says. “I’m not lying. I’m not calling Shane a ‘misunderstanding.’ He’s not a farce. He’s the person I love. And I’m done pretending otherwise.”

“Then you’ll come home,” his father says. “Immediately. I’m arranging your flight back to Moscow. You’ll return to Russia, you’ll end your NHL career, and you’ll begin preparing for your political future as we always planned.”

Ilya laughs. It’s a harsh, bitter sound. “You actually think I’m going to do that? Come back to Russia and become your puppet?”

“You’re my son-”

“I’m twenty-four years old,” Ilya interrupts. “I’m an adult. I make my own decisions. And I decide to stay in America. With Shane. Playing hockey. Living my life the way I want to live it.”

“If you refuse to come home, I will revoke your passport,” his father threatens. “I will have your visa cancelled. I will make it impossible for you to play in the NHL.”

“Then I’ll request asylum,” Ilya says calmly. “Canada or America, doesn’t matter. David Hollander has already offered to help. The Prime Minister of Canada is willing to protect me from you. So go ahead. Revoke my passport. See what happens.”

His father’s face goes red. “You would defect? You would betray your country?”

“I’m not betraying anyone,” Ilya says. “I’m choosing myself for once. Choosing happiness. Choosing love. Things you’ve never understood.”

“You ungrateful—I gave you everything!” His father slams his hand on the desk. “The best coaches, the best facilities, every opportunity. I made you into what you are!”

“You made me into what you wanted me to be,” Ilya corrects. “But that’s not who I am. I’m not straight. I’m not going to marry some woman to make you look good. I’m not going to be President of Russia. I’m just Ilya. And I’m in love with Shane Hollander. And if you can’t accept that, then you don’t have a son.”

Silence. Heavy, dangerous silence.

“If you continue this relationship,” his father finally says, his voice cold as ice, “you are disowned. No money, no support, no family. You’ll be on your own.”

“I’ve been on my own since mother died,” Ilya says quietly. “You were never really a father. You were a politician who happened to have a son. So go ahead. Disown me. I don’t need your money. I make my own from hockey. I don’t need your support. I have people who actually care about me. And I don’t need your version of family. I have real family now.”

“You’re making a mistake,” his father says.

“No,” Ilya says. “The only mistake I made was waiting seven years to tell the truth. But I’m not making that mistake anymore.”

He reaches forward and ends the call.

His father’s face disappears from the screen, and Ilya is left staring at his own reflection in the black mirror of his phone.

His hands are shaking. His heart is pounding. But he feels … lighter. Like a weight he’s been carrying for twenty-four years has finally been lifted.

He’s done. He’s finally done letting his father control him.

Ilya sits in that empty room for another ten minutes, just breathing, processing what he’s done. Then he stands, pockets his phone, and heads back to Shane’s room.

Yuna is awake now, sitting in one of the chairs with a cup of coffee from the hospital cafeteria. She looks up when Ilya enters.

“How did it go?” she asks quietly.

“He tried to make me come back to Russia,” Ilya says. “Tried to make me say it was all a misunderstanding. Threatened to revoke my passport when I refused.”

“And?” Yuna’s expression is concerned but not surprised.

“And I told him he can either accept having bisexual son who loves Shane, or he can have no son at all. Then I hung up on him.”

Yuna’s eyebrows rise. “You hung up on the President of Russia.”

“Yes,” Ilya confirms. “Is very satisfying. Would recommend.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Yuna smiles. “I imagine it was. Do you think he’ll actually follow through on his threats?”

“Maybe,” Ilya says. “But David offered to help if he does. And I have money saved. I have career. I have-” He looks at Shane, still sleeping peacefully. “I have what matters.”

“Yes,” Yuna says softly. “You do.”

They sit together in comfortable silence until the sun starts to rise. David returns around 7 AM with coffee and breakfast sandwiches for everyone, and Shane finally wakes up around 8 AM, looking more alert than he has since the injury.

“Morning,” Shane says, his voice still rough but clearer. “What did I miss?”

“Your boyfriend hung up on the President of Russia,” Yuna says cheerfully.

Shane blinks. “What?”

“I had video call with my father,” Ilya explains, moving to Shane’s bedside. “He tried to make me come home, make me end our relationship. I told him no. Then I hung up on him. Was very dramatic.”

“You hung up on your father,” Shane repeats slowly. “The President of Russia.”

“Yes. I’m very good at hanging up on people. You should try it sometime.”

Despite everything, Shane laughs. Then winces. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh. My head still hurts.”

“Sorry,” Ilya says, pressing a gentle kiss to Shane’s forehead. “No more jokes until you’re healed.”

“That’s going to be a long six weeks for you,” Shane says.

“I’ll survive,” Ilya says.

The next day and a half passes in a strange blur. Doctors and nurses constantly checking Shane’s vitals. David fielding calls from both governments — Canadian officials wanting to support them, Russian officials demanding statements. Media requests flooding in from every outlet imaginable.

But inside Shane’s hospital room, there’s a strange kind of peace. The four of them — Shane, Ilya, David, and Yuna — exist in a bubble where the outside world’s chaos can’t quite reach.

By the afternoon of the second day, Shane is visibly restless.

“I’m fine,” he insists to the doctor doing his afternoon check. “I feel fine. My headache is almost gone. Can’t I go home?”

“Tomorrow,” the doctor says patiently. “We want to monitor you for the full 48 hours. Tomorrow morning, if your scans look good, you can be discharged.”

After the doctor leaves, Shane slumps back against his pillows with a dramatic sigh.

“One more night,” he mutters. “I hate hospitals.”

“Everyone hates hospitals,” Ilya says, looking up from his phone where he’s been reading news articles. “But is necessary. You had brain injury. Need to make sure you’re healing properly.”

“I know,” Shane says. “I just—I want to go home. Sleep in my own bed. Take a real shower. Eat real food.”

“Tomorrow,” Ilya promises. “Tomorrow you can do all those things.”

David and Yuna leave around 6 PM to get actual rest at a hotel. They’ve barely left the hospital since they arrived, and Ilya finally convinced them that he can handle one night alone with Shane.

After they leave, Shane becomes increasingly fidgety. He’s clicking through TV channels without really watching anything, picking at his dinner tray without eating much, shifting positions constantly like he can’t get comfortable.

“You okay?” Ilya asks.

“Fine,” Shane says shortly.

“You don’t seem fine. You seem … agitated.”

“I’m not agitated.”

“Shane.” Ilya sets down his phone and gives Shane his full attention. “What’s wrong?”

Shane’s face flushes. “Nothing.”

“Liar. Tell me.”

“It’s stupid,” Shane mutters.

“If it’s bothering you, is not stupid. Tell me.”

Shane is quiet for a long moment. “I’m horny, okay? I’m really fucking horny, and I know it’s inappropriate given that I’m in a hospital with a brain injury, but I can’t help it. It’s been almost three days, and that’s the longest I’ve gone without … without release in months, and I’m going insane.”

Ilya blinks. Then a slow smile spreads across his face. “You’re horny.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Shane says, his face even redder now. “I know it’s ridiculous. I’m supposed to be recovering, not thinking about sex. But apparently my dick didn’t get the memo about appropriate hospital behavior.”

“Is the pain medication,” Ilya says, trying not to laugh. “Sometimes makes people more sensitive. More needy.”

“Great,” Shane says sarcastically. “So I can blame the drugs for being a horny disaster.”

“Is not disaster,” Ilya says gently. “Is normal. Your body is healing, hormones are all over the place, and yes, medication is making you more sensitive. Is okay to feel like this.”

“It doesn’t feel okay,” Shane says. He sounds genuinely distressed now. “I’m sitting here with a brain injury, whining about not getting off, like some kind of-”

“Like someone who loves their boyfriend and misses being intimate with him,” Ilya interrupts. “Shane, is okay. I understand.”

“You’re not-” Shane stops. “You’re not weirded out?”

“By you being horny? No. By you being whiny about it?” Ilya’s smile turns teasing. “Little bit. Is very out of character. Usually you’re more … controlled.”

“The medication makes me less controlled,” Shane admits. “Everything is just more. More feelings, more needs, more everything. It’s exhausting.”

Ilya stands and checks the door. The nurses’ station is down the hall, and based on the schedule he’s memorized, no one should be coming to check on Shane for at least another hour.

“What are you doing?” Shane asks.

Ilya closes the door and locks it. Then he moves to the windows and closes the blinds, dimming the room.

“Ilya?”

“If you need relief,” Ilya says, returning to the bedside, “then I give you relief. Is simple solution to simple problem.”

Shane’s eyes widen. “We can’t—not here—what if someone comes in-”

“Door is locked. No one is scheduled to check on you for one hour. And I’ll be quick.” Ilya’s smile turns wicked. “Or maybe not so quick. Depends how much you beg.”

“I’m not going to beg,” Shane says, but his voice is already breathy, his body already responding to the promise in Ilya’s tone.

“We’ll see,” Ilya says.

He lifts the hospital blanket and carefully slides it down Shane’s body, mindful of the IV still in his arm and the various monitors attached to him. Shane is wearing a hospital gown, and Ilya makes quick work of pushing it up.

“This is insane,” Shane says. “We’re in a hospital. You’re about to—in a hospital-”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, settling himself between Shane’s legs. “Is very scandalous. Very inappropriate. Are you going to stop me?”

“No,” Shane admits. “God, no, please don’t stop.”

“That’s what I thought,” Ilya says, and ducks his head under the blanket.

The first touch of Ilya’s mouth makes Shane gasp so loudly that Ilya pauses.

“Quiet,” Ilya murmurs against him. “Remember, hospital. Thin walls. Unless you want nurses to hear?”

“No,” Shane manages. “I’ll be quiet. I promise.”

He’s not quiet. But he tries, biting his lip to muffle the sounds, gripping the bed rails so tightly his knuckles go white. Ilya is thorough and skilled and knows exactly what Shane likes, what makes him fall apart.

“Ilya,” Shane gasps. “I’m—I’m close-”

Ilya doesn’t respond, just continues what he’s doing, taking Shane apart piece by piece until Shane is trembling, his hips trying to move but restricted by Ilya’s hands holding him still.

“Please,” Shane finally breaks. “Please, Ilya, I need-”

“I know what you need,” Ilya says, pulling back just long enough to speak. “And I’m going to give it to you. But you have to be good. Be quiet. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” Shane promises. “Yes, I’ll be good, just please-”

Ilya rewards him by doubling his efforts, and within minutes Shane is coming, one hand pressed over his own mouth to muffle the sounds, his whole body shaking with the force of it.

Ilya emerges from under the blanket looking entirely too pleased with himself. He quickly cleans up with tissues from the bedside table and rearranges Shane’s gown and blanket like nothing happened.

Shane is lying there, dazed and boneless, his eyes half-closed.

“Better?” Ilya asks.

“So much better,” Shane mumbles. “You’re amazing. Have I mentioned you’re amazing?”

“Once or twice,” Ilya says, amused. “But you can mention it more if you want.”

“Amazing,” Shane repeats. “Incredible. Best boyfriend ever. Should get award for boyfriend excellence.”

“You’re high on endorphins,” Ilya says fondly. “And probably still high on pain medication.”

“Don’t care,” Shane says. “Still true. Love you. Love you so much.”

“I love you too,” Ilya says, leaning down to kiss him gently. “Now rest. You need to save your strength for tomorrow when you get discharged and we can go home and do this properly.”

“Can’t wait,” Shane says. He’s already starting to drift off, the combination of orgasm and medication making him sleepy. “But Anya—you need to bring Anya-”

“I will bring Anya,” Ilya promises. “Our dog will stay with us while you recover. I’ll have someone bring her from Boston.”

“Our dog,” Shane murmurs, smiling. “Like that. Our dog. Our home. Our life.”

“Yes,” Ilya says softly, watching Shane’s eyes close. “Our everything.”

Shane falls asleep within minutes, peaceful and satisfied, and Ilya settles back into his chair, picking up his phone to make arrangements for Anya’s transport.

He’s reading through messages when the door handle jiggles. Someone trying to get in and finding it locked.

“Shit,” Ilya mutters. He quickly unlocks the door and opens it to find a nurse standing there with a concerned expression.

“Is everything alright?” She asks. “The door was locked.”

“Sorry,” Ilya says smoothly. “Shane was trying to sleep and the light from the hallway was bothering him. I locked it to make sure no one accidentally disturbed him.”

The nurse looks skeptical but doesn’t push it. She checks Shane’s vitals — which are all perfectly normal — and makes some notes on her tablet.

“He seems to be resting well,” she observes.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “Very well. Very … relaxed.”

If the nurse notices anything suspicious, she doesn’t mention it. She simply finishes her check and leaves, reminding Ilya to press the call button if Shane needs anything.

After she’s gone, Ilya looks at Shane’s sleeping face and can’t help but smile.

They’ve been outed to the world. Ilya’s father has effectively disowned him. Their careers are about to get infinitely more complicated. The media won’t leave them alone for months.

But Shane is healing. Shane is here. Shane is his, and everyone knows it.

And somehow, despite everything, they’re going to be okay.

Better than okay.

They’re going to be happy.

Together.

Finally, after half a decade of hiding, they get to just be.

And that’s worth everything.

Ilya sends one more text before putting his phone away: to his grandmother, telling her he loves her, telling her he’s okay, telling her that he’s finally, finally free.

Her response comes immediately. I’m proud of you, Ilyusha. Your mother would be proud too. Love who you love. Be who you are. That’s all that matters.

Ilya closes his eyes against the sting of tears and thinks about his mother — gone for so long, but still somehow present in moments like this.

She would have liked Shane, Ilya thinks. She would have loved how Shane makes Ilya laugh, how Shane challenges him, how Shane sees past the performance to the real Ilya underneath.

“Thank you,” Ilya whispers to the empty room, to his mother’s memory, to whatever higher power might be listening. “Thank you for giving me this. For giving me him.”

And then he settles in for the night, keeping watch over Shane, ready to face whatever tomorrow brings.

Together.

Always together.

That’s all they’ve ever needed.

And it’s all they’ll ever need.

Chapter 22: the world reacts

WBZ-TV Boston, Morning News, 9 AM EST

The camera opens on two anchors sitting at a sleek desk with the Boston skyline behind them. Lisa Chowalski, mid-forties with perfectly styled black hair, sits next to Mark Laughton, a silver-haired man in his fifties who looks like he was born to deliver news.

“Good morning, Boston. I’m Lisa Chowalski.”

“And I’m Mark Laughton. Our top story this morning continues to be the shocking revelation from Monday night’s Bears-Voyageurs game. Bears captain Ilya Rozanov publicly came out as bisexual and announced his relationship with Voyageurs center Shane Hollander after Hollander was injured on the ice.”

“That’s right, Mark. And the reaction has been … well, it’s been unprecedented. We’re joined now by sports analyst Tom Barkley. Tom, you’ve been covering the Bears for twenty years. Have you ever seen anything like this?”

A third screen pops up showing Tom, a balding man in his sixties wearing a Bears polo.

“Never, Lisa. Nothing even close. We’ve had players come out after retirement, sure. But to have an active player — a superstar player — come out in the middle of a game? While defending his relationship with a player on a rival team? It’s unprecedented.”

“And the relationship itself,” Mark adds, “with Shane Hollander of all people. These two have been rivals since they were drafted. The Hollander-Rozanov rivalry has been one of the most talked-about storylines in hockey for years.”

“Apparently for good reason,” Tom says with a chuckle. “Though not the reason we thought. Looking back at old footage, there were signs. The intensity when they played against each other. The way they always seemed to know where the other one was on the ice. We all thought it was competitive fire. Turns out it was a different kind of fire altogether.”

“The Bears organization released a statement yesterday expressing full support for Rozanov,” Lisa says, reading from her tablet. “Quote: ‘Ilya Rozanov is a valued member of our organization and our family. We support him fully and are proud of his courage. The Boston Bears are committed to fostering an inclusive environment for all players, staff, and fans.’ End quote.”

“That’s significant,” Tom says. “And from what I’m hearing, his teammates have rallied around him. There was a team meeting yesterday where the message was clear: Rozanov is one of them, and they’ve got his back.”

“What about the Russian angle?” Mark asks. “Rozanov is the son of Russian President Grigori Rozanov. How is this playing in Russia?”

Tom’s expression turns serious. “That’s the complicated part. Russia just repealed their gay propaganda law a few years ago — partly thanks to Rozanov himself, from what we’re hearing — but culturally, it’s still very conservative. The Kremlin hasn’t released an official statement, but sources suggest the President is … less than pleased.”

“Understatement of the year,” Lisa mutters. “We’ll continue to follow this story as it develops. Coming up: local reactions from the Boston LGBTQ community, and what this means for the Bears’ playoff push …”

CBC News Network, The National, 10 PM EST

The broadcast opens with anchor Ian Hanomansing at the desk, the Canadian flag visible in the background.

“Good evening. Tonight, we continue our coverage of what’s being called a watershed moment for professional sports. Shane Hollander, son of Prime Minister David Hollander, has been revealed to be in a relationship with Boston Bears forward Ilya Rozanov. The announcement came Monday night after Hollander suffered a serious injury during a game in Montreal.”

The screen switches to footage from the game — the hit, Shane going down, Ilya rushing onto the ice.

“What followed was extraordinary. Rozanov, who wasn’t even on the ice at the time, jumped from the Boston bench and refused to leave Hollander’s side, even following him into the tunnel. When his coach asked where he was going, Rozanov’s response was heard by thousands in the arena and millions watching at home.”

The audio plays: “I’m going to be with my boyfriend who needs me more than the team does right now.”

Ian continues: “We’re joined tonight by Dr. Phoebe Weber, a sports sociologist from the University of Toronto, and former NHL player Trevor Walsh. Dr. Weber, let’s start with you. How significant is this moment?”

Dr. Weber, a woman in her forties with glasses and a professional demeanor, appears on screen.

“Ian, this is genuinely historic. The NHL has never had an openly gay or bisexual active player. Not one. To have someone of Rozanov’s stature — a superstar, a former first overall pick, the son of a head of state — come out this publicly? It changes everything. He’s kicked the door open for other players who might be struggling with their identity.”

“Trevor, you played in the NHL for twelve years. What’s the locker room culture like? Could you have come out as a player?”

Trevor Walsh, a burly man in his fifties with a kind face, shakes his head slowly.

“Honestly, Ian? No. I couldn’t have. And I’m straight, so I didn’t have to make that choice, but I saw the culture. The casual homophobia, the ‘locker room talk.’ It’s gotten better in recent years, but it’s still there. What Rozanov did takes incredible courage. He’s risking his career, his relationships with teammates, everything.”

“But the response so far has been largely positive,” Ian notes. “Both the Bears and Voyageurs have released supportive statements. Prime Minister Hollander has been vocal about his pride in his son. What are you hearing from current players?”

“Mixed reactions,” Trevor admits. “A lot of support, which is great to see. But also a lot of guys who are uncomfortable and don’t know how to process it. Hockey is still a very traditional sport. Change comes slowly.”

“Dr. Weber, there’s also the international aspect. Rozanov is Russian. His father is the President of Russia. How does that complicate things?”

“Enormously,” Dr. Weber says. “Russia has made some progress on LGBTQ rights, but it’s still a very conservative society. For the President’s son to not only come out as bisexual but to be in a relationship with the son of the Canadian Prime Minister? That’s almost deliberately provocative. It’s a statement about choosing personal truth over political convenience.”

Ian nods. “We should also mention that Shane Hollander remains in hospital with a serious concussion and will be out of play for at least six weeks. The focus, of course, should be on his recovery. But this story is clearly about much more than hockey …”

Russia-1 Television, Vremya Evening News, 9 PM Moscow Time

The broadcast is in Russian, but the tension is palpable. The anchor, Mikhail Vorubyev, a stern-looking man in his sixties, sits rigidly at the desk.

“Добрый вечер. Tonight we must address the embarrassing spectacle created by Ilya Rozanov in North America.”

The screen shows footage from the game, but the audio is muted.

“The son of our President, a man who should represent Russian values and dignity, has publicly declared himself to be bisexual and involved in a relationship with another man. A Canadian man. The son of a Prime Minister who has repeatedly enacted sanctions against our country.”

A second anchor, Yulia Morozova, a severe woman in her fifties, joins the commentary.

“This is a betrayal not just of Russian values, but of his family and his country. Ilya Rozanov was given every advantage — the best training, the best opportunities. And this is how he repays Mother Russia?”

“The Kremlin has declined to comment officially,” Mikhail continues, “but sources close to the President suggest deep disappointment with his son’s choices. There are even suggestions that Rozanov may face consequences for this public display.”

“As he should,” Yulia says sharply. “This is not how a Russian son behaves. This is not how someone in his position conducts themselves. He has brought shame to his family name.”

But then, in a shift that seems almost reluctant, Mikhail adds, “However, we must acknowledge that not all Russians share this view. There have been demonstrations in Moscow and St. Petersburg — small demonstrations, but demonstrations nonetheless — in support of Rozanov. Young people holding signs, claiming he is brave for being honest about who he is.”

“A minority view,” Yulia dismisses. “Russia is a traditional country with traditional values. We do not celebrate this kind of behavior.”

“The question remains,” Mikhail says, “what will President Rozanov do about his son? Will there be consequences? Will Ilya Rozanov be allowed to continue playing in the NHL, representing Russia in international competition? Or will his father take action?”

“For Russia’s sake,” Yulia says, “let us hope the President does what is necessary to preserve our nation’s dignity …”

Reddit: r/hockey

u/BearsFan4Life
HOLY SHIT ROZANOV AND HOLLANDER ARE TOGETHER???? (15.2k upvotes, 4.8k comments)

This is INSANE. I just watched Rozanov basically come out on live TV and announce he’s dating Shane fucking Hollander. Their RIVAL. The guy they play against 4 times a year.

What is happening right now???

u/HockeyHistorian (3.2k upvotes)
This is the biggest story in hockey history. Not exaggerating. First active NHL players to come out. The circumstances. The drama. The international implications. Holy shit.

u/MontrealMike93 (5.1k upvotes)
As a Voys fan, I don’t know how to feel. On one hand, I’m so fucking proud of Shane for being himself. On the other hand, HE’S BEEN DATING A BEAR THIS WHOLE TIME. A BEAR. Do I have to root for Rozanov now???

u/LGBTQPuckhead (8.9k upvotes, 2 awards)
I’m crying. I’m literally crying. I’m a gay kid who loves hockey and I’ve never had anyone to look up to. And now I have TWO. Two superstars who are out and proud and together. This changes everything.

u/RivalryExpert (2.7k upvotes)
Looking back at old footage of them playing against each other hits SO DIFFERENT now. Like, that fight they had in 2012? That was foreplay. That overtime goal in the 2013 playoffs? That was flirting. I need to reevaluate my entire understanding of this rivalry.

u/BostonGrizzlyBear (1.8k upvotes)
I was at the game. I SAW it happen in person. The whole arena went SILENT when Rozanov said “boyfriend.” Like, you could hear a pin drop. Then it was just chaos. People screaming, crying, recording on their phones. Wildest sports moment of my life.

u/SkepticalFan (893 upvotes)
Okay but can we talk about how Rozanov was in full gear, jumped off the bench IN THE MIDDLE OF A GAME, and refused to leave Hollander’s side? That’s literally a movie moment. Who does that???

u/RomComFan2002 (6.4k upvotes, 3 awards)
Someone who’s desperately in love, that’s who. This is literally the plot of a romance novel. Rivals to lovers. Secret relationship. Dramatic public declaration. I AM LIVING FOR THIS.

stickhandlingmyway
okay okay OKAY so let me get this straight (pun intended):

• ilya rozanov and shane hollander have been RIVALS since they were 17
• they’ve been playing against each other for YEARS
• apparently they’ve been DATING THE WHOLE TIME???
• and NO ONE KNEW???
• and rozanov just OUTED THEM BOTH on INTERNATIONAL TELEVISION because hollander got hurt???

THIS IS THE MOST ROMANTIC THING I’VE EVER HEARD IN MY ENTIRE LIFE

(43,892 notes)

sapphic-slapper reblogged this:
the way i immediately started a powerpoint presentation about them called “THE COLD WAR: A LOVE STORY” (12,403 notes)

hockey-history-nerd reblogged this:
I have been studying hockey rivalries for my PhD for three years. THREE YEARS. And I have to throw out my entire dissertation because IT TURNS OUT THE BIGGEST RIVALRY IN MODERN HOCKEY WAS JUST TWO DUDES BEING IN LOVE. I’M GOING TO SCREAM. (28,764 notes)

anxious-goalie:
my mom (who knows nothing about hockey): “are these the gay hockey players everyone’s talking about?”
me: “yes”
my mom: “the Russian one is very handsome”
me: “MOM”
my mom: “what? i can appreciate that he has good bone structure”

(15,209 notes)

@NHLNews
BREAKING: NHL Commissioner releases statement on Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander: “The NHL is proud to be a league that celebrates diversity and inclusion. We support all players in being their authentic selves.”

@SportsCenter
Ilya Rozanov’s former coach at the Red Army academy in Russia: “I always knew Ilya was special. This doesn’t change that. He’s still one of the greatest players I’ve ever coached.”
(87.2K likes, 15.3K retweets)

@BostonBears
#81 will always be #1 in our hearts. We stand with @ilyarozanovofficial. 🏒🏳️‍🌈
(203K likes, 45.2K retweets)

@VoyageursMTL
Shane Hollander makes us proud every day — on the ice and off it. #VoysFamily stands together. 🏳️‍🌈
(217K likes, 48.6K retweets)

@OutSportsNews
This is what we’ve been waiting for. An active player, at the top of his game, being openly LGBTQ. @ilyarozanovofficial and @shanehollanderhockeyplayer have changed hockey forever.
(156K likes, 42.1K retweets)

@proud_russian_fan
As a Russian hockey fan, I’m so proud of Ilya for being honest. Russia needs to accept that love is love. 🏳️‍🌈🇷🇺
(45.9K likes, 8.3K retweets)

@conservative_hockey
Keep politics out of sports. Nobody cares about your personal life. Just play hockey.
(2.1K likes, 28.3K replies)

|

@shut_up_brad replying to @conservative_hockey
“nobody cares” proceeds to write 58 tweets about how much they care
(81.5K likes)

Spittin’ Chiclets Podcast

Biz Nasty (Paul Bissonnette): “Alright, boys. We gotta talk about it. Rozanov and Hollander. What the actual fuck?”

Rear Admiral (Ryan Whitney): “I’m still processing. Like, I played against both these guys. I’ve been in the handshake line with them. And I had NO idea.”

Biz: “That’s because you’re fucking oblivious, Whit.”

Rear Admiral: “Fair. But seriously, think about how long they kept this secret. Seven years! SEVEN YEARS of sneaking around, of pretending to hate each other, of-”

Biz: “Of hate-fucking.”

Rear Admiral: “I was going to say ‘of maintaining appearances,’ but sure, let’s go with hate-fucking.”

G (Grinnell): “What I find interesting is the reaction from players. I’ve been watching social media, and it’s been overwhelmingly positive from current and former players. That’s huge.”

Biz: “It is huge. When I played, you couldn’t be gay in the NHL. Just couldn’t. The culture wouldn’t accept it. But maybe things are changing.”

Rear Admiral: “Rozanov is also, like, really fucking good at hockey. That helps. When you’re a superstar, people are more willing to look past things that make them uncomfortable.”

Biz: “That’s cynical but probably accurate.”

G: “Can we talk about the actual moment though? Rozanov jumping off the bench, refusing to leave Hollander, basically coming out on live TV? That’s movie shit. That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen in hockey.”

Rear Admiral: “Biz is crying.”

Biz: “I’m not crying, I just—okay, I’m a little emotional. Sue me. It was fucking beautiful.”

G: “We should also mention that Hollander is going to be out for at least six weeks with that concussion. That was a bad hit from Marlow.”

Rear Admiral: “Marlow’s going to get suspended. Book it. That was charging, high contact, everything. He’s looking at minimum five games.”

Biz: “And Rozanov is going to fucking murder him next time they’re on the ice together. Mark my words. Rozanov is going to make Marlow’s life miserable.”

G: “Assuming Rozanov doesn’t get suspended for jumping off the bench during play.”

Rear Admiral: “Nah, the league won’t suspend him for that. Not with the circumstances. They’re going to let it slide.”

Biz: “They better. If they suspend Rozanov for rushing to his injured boyfriend’s side, there’s going to be a riot. I’ll lead it myself.”

G: “Noted. Biz Nasty will lead the pro-Rozanov riot.”

Biz: “Damn right I will …”

Reddit: r/relationship_advice

u/throwaway_hockey_fan
My favorite hockey players just came out as a couple and now I’m questioning my entire sexuality??? (7.2k upvotes)

So I’m a 19-year-old straight dude (or I thought I was?) and I’ve been obsessed with hockey my whole life. I’ve always looked up to Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander as players.

But now they’re dating each other??? And they’re both hot??? And watching them be in love is making me feel things???

Is this normal? Am I bi? What is happening to me???

u/rainbow_therapist (5.1k upvotes)
Buddy, sexuality is a spectrum. It’s okay to find men attractive, even if you’ve only been attracted to women before. It’s also okay to just admire their relationship without being attracted to them. Take your time figuring it out. There’s no rush.

u/bi_disaster (3.8k upvotes)
Welcome to bisexuality! We have finger guns, cuffed jeans, and an inability to sit in chairs properly. It’s great here.

u/hockey_mom_76 (2.1k upvotes)
My son came out to me yesterday. Said he was inspired by Rozanov and Hollander. I’m so grateful to them for giving him the courage. You’ll figure yourself out, honey. Just be patient with yourself.

@queer_hockey_history

THREAD: Every piece of evidence that Rozanov and Hollander were together that we MISSED:

1. They were drafted in 2009. Both went to the All-Star Game in 2010. In the locker room footage, they’re sitting next to each other and laughing. AT AN ALL-STAR GAME. That’s not normal for “rivals.”
2. 2011: Hollander played in Boston. Won the game. Rozanov was seen leaving the arena at the same time as the Montreal team bus. “Coincidence“? I THINK NOT.
3. 2014 Sochi Olympics: Rozanov won gold. Hollander won silver. In the medal ceremony photos, they’re looking at each other. Not at the cameras. At EACH OTHER.
4. Every single interview where they were asked about each other, they got this specific look in their eyes. We thought it was hatred. It was LOVE.

THE SIGNS WERE THERE. WE WERE JUST TOO BLIND TO SEE THEM.

(436K likes, 185K retweets)

By the time Shane is discharged from the hospital the next morning, the entire world has weighed in on their relationship. News outlets from dozens of countries. Social media platforms overwhelmed with reactions. Think pieces being written. Debates being had.

Some positive. Some negative. Most just shocked.

But as Ilya helps Shane into the car, carefully making sure he doesn’t hurt his head, Shane looks at his phone and scrolls through some of the reactions.

“The world is losing its mind,” Shane observes.

“Let them,” Ilya says, settling into the driver’s seat. “We know the truth. That’s all that matters.”

“The truth being that we’ve been lying to everyone for seven years?”

“The truth being that we love each other,” Ilya corrects. “Everything else is just details.”

Shane smiles and leans his head carefully against the window. “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this. Being public. Being us.”

“Better than the alternative,” Ilya says, reaching over to take Shane’s hand. “Better than hiding forever.”

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. “Yeah, it is.”

And as they drive through Montreal, past reporters camped outside Shane’s apartment building, past fans holding supportive signs, past a world that’s still trying to process what happened — they do it together.

Finally.

After five years.

Together.

And that makes everything else worth it.

Chapter 23: babushka’s intervention

Three days after Shane is discharged from the hospital, Ilya wakes up to his phone exploding with notifications. It’s 6 AM, and Shane is still asleep beside him — they’ve been staying at Shane’s apartment in Montreal, with Anya curled up at the foot of the bed.

Ilya groggily checks his phone and sees hundreds of Twitter mentions, Instagram tags, and text messages from teammates.

Marlow: DUDE. DUDE. DUDE. CHECK TWITTER. YOUR GRANDMA IS A LEGEND.

Carmichael: Is that your grandmother hitting your father with a shoe?!?!?!

St-Simon: Roz, I don’t know what’s happening but I’m fucking dying laughing

Confused and still half-asleep, Ilya opens Twitter. The top trending topic is #BabushkaWithASlipper.

The most viral tweet is from some random user with 500 followers who suddenly has 2.3 million likes.

@moscow_gossip LEAKED: Someone caught Ilya Rozanov’s grandmother beating the PRESIDENT OF RUSSIA with a slipper. I cannot breathe. This is the greatest thing I’ve ever seen.

The attached video is grainy, clearly shot from a hidden phone camera, and the angle is terrible. But it’s unmistakable.

His babushka — all four-foot-eleven of her — is chasing someone who is very clearly his father around what looks like the Presidential residence. She’s holding a slipper in her hand and hitting him with it repeatedly while shouting in rapid Russian.

Ilya turns up the volume and listens:

“Ты, бестолочь! Ты называешь себя отцом?” (You fool! You call yourself a father?)

THWACK. The slipper makes contact with his father’s shoulder.

“Твой собственный сын! Твой сын, который тебя любит!” (Your own son! Your son who loves you!)

THWACK. Another hit, this time to his father’s arm as he tries to shield himself.

“Он нашел любовь, и ты хочешь забрать её? За что? За свою гордость?” (He found love, and you want to take it away? For what? For your pride?)

THWACK. THWACK. THWACK.

“Иринушка умерла бы от стыда, видя, что ты делаешь!” (Irinushka would die of shame seeing what you’re doing!)

That last one — the mention of Ilya’s mother — seems to hit harder than any of the slipper strikes. Grigori Rozanov, President of Russia, one of the most powerful men in the world, actually flinches.

“Mama, please-” he’s saying, but Babushka Lyudmila is not finished.

“Нет! Ты будешь слушать!” (No! You will listen!) THWACK. “Илья хороший мальчик. Он заслуживает быть счастливым. И если ты не можешь это принять, то ты не мой сын!” (Ilya is a good boy. He deserves to be happy. And if you can’t accept that, then you’re not my son!)

The video cuts off there, but the damage is done.

The comments are incredible

@frommoscowwithlove This is the most Russian thing I’ve ever seen. Grandma with a slipper > President of Russia

@rozanovswife Forget nuclear weapons. Russia’s greatest weapon is babushkas with slippers.

@hollandertruther THE WAY SHE SAID ‘YOU’RE NOT MY SON’ I AM SCREAMING

@queerlyrussian This woman just did more for LGBTQ rights in Russia than any politician. Queen shit.

Ilya is still staring at his phone in disbelief when Shane stirs beside him.

“What’s so funny?” Shane mumbles, his voice rough with sleep. “You’re shaking the whole bed.”

“My grandmother,” Ilya manages to say between silent laughs. “My grandmother is hitting my father with slipper on internet.”

“Your what?” Shane sits up, wincing slightly — his head is still tender. “Show me.”

Ilya hands him the phone, and Shane watches the video. His eyes get wider and wider until he’s also laughing, one hand pressed to his head because laughing hurts but he can’t stop.

“Oh my God,” Shane wheezes. “She’s—she’s chasing the President of Russia with a shoe-”

“Slipper,” Ilya corrects. “Is traditional babushka weapon. More effective than any military equipment.”

“How did this get leaked?”

“I have no idea,” Ilya says. “Probably security camera, someone in staff who sympathizes. Or maybe babushka herself leak it. She’s very smart, could do it.”

“Your grandmother is incredible,” Shane says, watching the video again. “The way she defends you — Ilya, she really loves you.”

“Yes,” Ilya says softly. “She does. She’s only family who always accept me exactly as I am.”

Anya, disturbed by all the movement and laughter, stretches and moves up the bed to push her head between them, demanding attention.

“Yes, yes, good morning to you too,” Ilya says, scratching behind her ears. “You’re hungry, I know.”

The rest of the morning is spent fielding calls and messages. Ilya’s agent wants to discuss the situation. His teammates are dying to know if the video is real. Random journalists are trying to get comments.

But the most important notification comes at 2 PM.

An email from one of his father’s most senior aides. The subject line is simply Regarding Your Status.

Ilya opens it with trepidation.

Ilya,

The President has asked me to convey the following:

Your Russian citizenship remains intact. Your position on the national hockey team remains secure. Your visa and work authorization in the United States will not be revoked.

The Kremlin will be releasing a statement this afternoon regarding the recent events. The President wanted you to be aware of this before it becomes public.

Regards,
Vladimir Rishkin
Senior Aide to the President

“Shane,” Ilya calls. “Come look at this.”

Shane emerges from the kitchen, where he’s been making tea, and reads over Ilya’s shoulder. “Your citizenship is safe. That’s good news, right?”

“Is surprising news,” Ilya says. “I thought for sure he would revoke everything. But-” He thinks about the video of his grandmother. “But maybe babushka changed his mind. Or at least reminded him that he still has a mother who can beat him with slipper.”

True to the email’s promise, at 3 PM Moscow time, the Kremlin releases a statement:

OFFICIAL STATEMENT FROM THE OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION:

The Office of the President acknowledges recent public statements made by Russian citizen and professional hockey player Ilya Rozanov regarding his personal life.

While the President maintains traditional values consistent with Russian culture and history, he recognizes that Russia is a nation of diverse perspectives and experiences.

Ilya Rozanov remains a citizen of the Russian Federation in good standing. His contributions to Russian sport and international prestige are valued and appreciated.

The President will not comment further on private family matters.

“That’s-” Shane reads it three times. “That’s almost supportive?”

“Is very neutral,” Ilya corrects. “But for Russia, neutral is almost same as supportive. He’s not disowning me. Not revoking citizenship. Not destroying my career. For him, this is basically acceptance.”

“Do you think your grandmother actually changed his mind?”

“I think my grandmother reminded him that he can be President of Russia, but he is still her son,” Ilya says. “And babushkas are scarier than presidents. Is universal truth.”

The statement causes another round of media frenzy. Political analysts trying to read between the lines. LGBTQ advocates cautiously celebrating. Russian conservatives angry at what they see as capitulation.

But Ilya doesn’t care about any of that.

His grandmother stood up for him. Literally hit the President of Russia with a slipper to defend him. And somehow, impossibly, it worked.

That evening, as Shane is napping on the couch with Anya (doctor’s orders are still for lots of rest), Ilya’s laptop begins to ring with an incoming Skype call.

Babushka Lyudmila.

Ilya answers immediately, and his screen is filled with an extreme close-up of his grandmother’s face. She’s so close to the webcam he can see up her nose.

“Babushka,” Ilya says, smiling despite himself. “You need to move back. I can’t see you properly.”

“Что? Я не вижу тебя!” (What? I can’t see you!)

“Because you’re too close to camera! Move back!”

After some fumbling — and several accidental shots of the ceiling, her ear, and what appears to be a cat — Lyudmila finally gets herself properly positioned. She’s sitting in her apartment in Moscow, wearing a floral housecoat, her white hair pinned up.

“Ilyusha!” she exclaims, and her face immediately crumples. “Мой мальчик, мой любимый мальчик!” (My boy, my beloved boy!)

“Babushka, don’t cry,” Ilya says, though his own eyes are stinging. “I’m okay. I’m fine.”

“I saw the news,” she says. “I saw what happened. How that man on the ice hurt your Shane. How you went to him. How you told everyone the truth.”

“You saw the video?” Ilya asks. “Of you and Papa?”

“What video?” Lyudmila looks genuinely confused. “What are you talking about?”

Ilya pulls up the viral video on his phone and holds it up to the camera. His grandmother squints at it, then her face breaks into a satisfied smile.

“Oh, that video,” she says dismissively. “Yes, yes. Someone leaked it. Probably that young security guard? Leonid? He’s very supportive of you. Nice boy. I gave him blini.”

“You—you knew it was leaked?”

“Of course I knew! I’m eighty-six, not stupid.” She leans forward conspiratorially. “Maybe I tell Lenya where the security cameras are. Maybe I make sure I have this conversation where I know he’s watching. Maybe I’m not as helpless as everyone thinks.”

Ilya starts laughing. “You orchestrated this? You knew it would go viral?”

“I know how internet works,” Lyudmila says primly. “Your cousin Borya — the one in St. Petersburg, very smart boy — he teaches me. He says if something is dramatic and has old woman hitting powerful man, it goes ‘viral.’ So I make it dramatic.”

“Babushka, you’re genius.”

“I know,” she agrees. “Now, where is your handsome boy? I want to see him.”

“Shane is sleeping,” Ilya says. “Doctor says he needs lots of rest. He has very bad concussion.”

“Wake him up,” Lyudmila demands. “I want to meet my grandson-in-law.”

“We’re not married, babushka.”

“Yet. You’re not married yet. Now go wake him. Go, go!”

Ilya carries the laptop into the living room where Shane is dozing on the couch, Anya’s head in his lap. “Shane,” Ilya says softly. “Shane, wake up. My grandmother wants to meet you.”

Shane blinks awake, confused. “What? Your grandmother?”

“On Skype. She’s very insistent.”

Shane sits up quickly — too quickly, judging by his wince — and tries to smooth his hair down. “I—I’m not ready. I look terrible. I just woke up-”

“She doesn’t care. Come, she’s waiting.”

Ilya positions the laptop on the coffee table so they’re both in frame. Lyudmila’s face lights up when she sees Shane.

“Ой, какой красивый!” (Oh, how handsome!) she exclaims. “Ilya, he’s even more beautiful than in the pictures! Those eyes! That face! Мой бог!” (My God!)

Shane looks at Ilya in panic. “What is she saying?”

“She says you’re very handsome,” Ilya translates.

Lyudmila continues in Russian, and Ilya translates as she speaks.

“Shane, hello. I am Lyudmila, Ilya’s grandmother. You can call me Babushka if you like.”

“It’s an honor to meet you,” Shane says, and Ilya translates. “Ilya has told me so much about you.”

“And you,” Lyudmila says through Ilya’s translation, “you are the one who makes my grandson happy. I see it in his face. When he talks about you, his whole face changes. You are good for him.”

Shane is already turning pink. “Thank you. He makes me happy too.”

“Good, good,” Lyudmila continues. “Because if you hurt him, I will come to Canada and hit you with slipper too. Just like I hit his father. You understand?”

“I—yes, ma’am,” Shane says, going even pinker. “I understand.”

Lyudmila laughs. “I like this one, Ilya. He’s respectful. Good manners. And so handsome! Those cheekbones!” She turns her attention back to Ilya. “Ты сделал хорошо выбор. Он хороший мальчик. Я вижу, как он смотрит на тебя. Он любит тебя очень сильно.” (You made a good choice. He’s a good boy. I see how he looks at you. He loves you very much.)

“I know, babushka,” Ilya says softly in Russian. “I love him too.”

“And his family?” Lyudmila asks. “They accept you?”

“Yes. His parents have been very kind. Very supportive.”

“Good. That’s important.” She switches back to looking at Shane. “Shane, your Russian is not good, yes?”

“I don’t speak Russian at all,” Shane admits. “Ilya’s been teaching me a few phrases, but I’m not very good at it.”

“Then you must learn,” Lyudmila says firmly, through Ilya’s continued translation. “If you’re going to be part of this family, you need to speak Russian. I will teach you. We will have lessons on this … this Skype thing.”

“I’d like that,” Shane says, and he sounds genuine.

“Now,” Lyudmila continues, “you must eat. You’re too skinny. Both of you, too skinny. Ilya, are you feeding him?”

“Yes, babushka, we eat plenty-”

“Not enough! I can see his collarbones! And you-” she points at Ilya through the screen. “-you look tired. Are you sleeping?”

“Shane is recovering from concussion,” Ilya explains. “So I’m taking care of him. Sometimes I don’t sleep much.”

“Then you need to sleep more. Both of you. Sleep, eat, take care of each other. That’s what family does.”

“Yes, babushka.”

Lyudmila’s expression softens. “Ilyusha. My dear boy. I’m so proud of you. For being brave. For being honest. For choosing love over fear.”

Ilya’s throat tightens. “Thank you.”

“Your mother,” Lyudmila continues, and her voice wavers slightly, “would be so proud of you too. She always wanted you to be happy. To be yourself. And now you are.”

“I wish she could have met Shane,” Ilya says quietly.

“She knows,” Lyudmila says. “She’s watching. And she approves. I know she does.”

They talk for another thirty minutes. Lyudmila shares stories about Ilya as a child — much to Shane’s delight and Ilya’s embarrassment. She talks about her life in Moscow, about the changing attitudes she’s seeing in young people, about her hope for the future.

“Russia is changing,” she says. “Slowly, yes. But changing. And you’re part of that change. Never forget how important that is.”

Before they end the call, Lyudmila insists on giving them her blessing in Russian. She makes them bow their heads — which looks ridiculous on Skype — and she says a prayer that Ilya’s mother used to say, about love and protection and finding your way home.

When she’s done, she looks at them both with tears in her eyes. “You take care of each other. You hear me? Take care of each other, and everything else will work out.”

“We will,” Shane promises.

“We will,” Ilya echoes.

After they hang up, Shane immediately turns to Ilya. “She’s amazing. Your grandmother is literally the best person I’ve ever met.”

“She likes you,” Ilya says. “She called you ‘grandson-in-law.’”

“She what?”

“In Russian, before. She called you her grandson-in-law. Means she considers you family already.”

Shane’s eyes go wide. “That’s—wow. That’s-”

“Too much?” Ilya asks, suddenly worried. “I can tell her to slow down-”

“No,” Shane says firmly. “Not too much. Perfect. It’s perfect.”

They sit together on the couch, Anya between them, and Ilya thinks about how his life has changed in just one week.

From hiding to exposed. From secret to public. From worried about losing everything to gaining a future he never thought possible.

His father may never fully accept him. Russia may never be completely safe for him. There will be challenges ahead — he knows this.

But he has Shane. He has his grandmother. He has teammates who support him and a dog who doesn’t care about sexuality or politics or anything except belly rubs and dinner time.

He has family. Real family. Chosen family.

And that’s more than enough.

“What are you thinking about?” Shane asks, noticing Ilya’s distant expression.

“About how lucky I am,” Ilya says. “About how I almost gave this up to make my father happy. About how close I came to choosing fear over love.”

“But you didn’t,” Shane says, taking his hand. “You chose love. You chose us.”

“Best decision I ever made,” Ilya says.

“Second best,” Shane corrects with a grin. “First best was getting that dog from Xi Jinping.”

“You’re right. Anya is better than you.”

“Hey!”

Anya, hearing her name, thumps her tail against the couch and licks Shane’s face, making him laugh.

Ilya takes a mental picture of this moment — Shane laughing despite his concussion, Anya being dramatic, sunlight streaming through the windows of Shane’s Montreal apartment. This is happiness. This is home.

His phone buzzes with another notification. Another news article, another hot take, another person weighing in on their relationship.

Ilya turns his phone off and puts it aside.

The world can wait.

Right now, he has everything he needs right here.

@russian_babushka_fan Update: Someone identified the babushka with the slipper as Lyudmila Rozanova, Ilya’s grandmother. She’s 86 years old and literally hit the President of Russia to defend her gay grandson. I would die for her.

(892K likes, 234K retweets)

@slippers4equality I’m starting a charity: Babushkas with Slippers for LGBTQ Rights. Every donation gets you a commemorative slipper. All proceeds go to LGBTQ organizations in Russia.
(406K likes, 173K retweets)

@moscow_gossip CONFIRMED: The security guard who leaked the babushka video has been given a promotion and a raise. Apparently the President was “impressed by his initiative.” Russia is wild, y’all. (671K likes, 182K retweets)

@BostonBears Shout out to Babushka Lyudmila. We’d like to offer her season tickets if she’s ever in Boston. 🏒👵
(1.2M likes, 365K retweets)

And somewhere in Moscow, Lyudmila Rozanova sits in her apartment, looks at her phone (with help from cousin Boris), and smiles.

She’s trending worldwide.

At eighty-six years old.

For hitting the President with a slipper.

Perfect.

Chapter 24: return

Ilya has been in Montreal for five days when his phone rings with a call from Coach LeClaire.

“Rozanov,” his coach says without preamble. “We need you back. We have a game in two days, and you’ve missed three practices.”

“I know,” Ilya says, watching Shane doze on the couch, Anya’s head resting on his stomach. “But Shane-”

“Shane is going to be fine,” LeClaire says, not unkindly. “He has his parents. He has nurses checking on him. He has doctors. What he doesn’t need is you hovering over him 24/7 like you’re going to die if you look away.”

“But-”

“Rozanov. I get it. I do. When my wife had our first kid, I didn’t want to leave the hospital. But you have a job. You have a team. And we need our l captain back.”

Ilya knows LeClaire is right. Logically, he knows this. But the thought of leaving Shane — who still gets headaches, who still needs help sometimes, who still has three more weeks before he’s even cleared to start light exercise — makes Ilya’s chest tight.

“I’ll be there tomorrow,” Ilya finally says. “Morning skate.”

“Good. See you then.”

After he hangs up, Ilya sits on the edge of the couch near Shane’s feet. Anya lifts her head and looks at him with those intelligent eyes, like she knows something’s wrong.

Shane stirs, blinking awake. “Was that your phone?”

“LeClaire,” Ilya says. “I need to go back to Boston. We have game in two days.”

Shane sits up slowly, carefully. He’s gotten better at managing his symptoms, but sudden movements still make him dizzy. “Of course you do. You should have gone back days ago.”

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“Ilya.” Shane reaches for his hand. “I’m fine. I’m getting better every day. My parents are here. The doctors are happy with my progress. You need to get back to your team.”

“But what if something happens-”

“Then my parents will call you immediately, and you’ll get on a plane. But nothing is going to happen. I have a concussion, not a terminal illness. I’m going to be fine.”

Ilya knows Shane is right. But knowing something and feeling okay about it are two different things.

“I leave Anya with you,” Ilya decides suddenly. “For emotional support. And for protection.”

“You’re leaving your dog?”

“Our dog,” Ilya corrects. “And yes. She’ll keep you company. Make sure you’re not alone. Plus-” he looks at Anya. “She’s very good at knowing when something is wrong. If you need help and can’t reach phone, she’ll bark. She’ll make noise. She’ll protect you.”

“Ilya, that’s—you love that dog. You don’t have to-”

“I love you more than dog,” Ilya says simply. “And I need to know you have someone with you. Even if that someone has four legs and only understands Russian.”

Shane’s eyes go soft. “Okay. Anya can stay with me.”

“Good.” Ilya turns to Anya, switches to Russian, and kneels down to her level. “Anya, слушай меня.” (Anya, listen to me.)

Anya’s ears perk up, fully attentive.

“Я оставляю тебя здесь с Shane. Ты должна заботиться о нем. Понимаешь? Он твой другой папа, и он болен. Ты должна его защищать.” (I’m leaving you here with Shane. You need to take care of him. Understand? He’s your other father, and he’s sick. You need to protect him.)

Anya makes a small sound, almost like acknowledgment. She moves from the couch to sit directly in front of Ilya, and then she places one paw on his knee.

“Хорошая девочка,” (Good girl) Ilya says, his voice thick. “Я знал, что могу на тебя положиться.” (I knew I could count on you.)

He scratches behind her ears, and Anya leans into the touch. Then she walks over to Shane and sits next to him, leaning against his legs.

“I think she actually understood you,” Shane says, amazed.

“Of course she understood. She’s very smart dog. Smarter than most people I know.”

Ilya spends the rest of the day with Shane, making sure he has everything he needs. He fills the fridge with easy-to-prepare meals. He sets up reminders on Shane’s phone for medications. He gives David and Yuna a detailed list of Shane’s symptoms and what to watch for.

“Ilya,” Yuna says gently when he’s going through the list for the third time. “We’ve got this. We’re his parents. We know how to take care of him.”

“I know, but-”

“But you’re worried,” David finishes. “That’s normal. But Shane is going to be fine. And you need to get back to your life. Your team needs you.”

“I know,” Ilya says again. It’s all he seems to be able to say.

That night, Ilya and Shane lie in bed together, and Ilya can’t stop touching him. Running his hands through Shane’s hair, tracing the line of his jaw, pressing kisses to his forehead.

“You’re being clingy,” Shane observes, but he’s smiling.

“I’m allowed to be clingy. You almost died.”

“I had a concussion. I didn’t almost die.”

“You were unconscious on ice for thirty seconds. That’s almost dying.”

“That’s not even close to almost dying,” Shane argues. “Stop being dramatic.”

“I’m Russian. Drama is in my blood.”

Shane laughs and pulls Ilya closer. “I’m going to miss you too, you know.”

“Good. You should miss me. I’m very missable.”

“Is that even a word?”

“Is now. I make it word.” Ilya buries his face in Shane’s neck. “Promise me you’ll call if anything changes. Anything at all. Even if you just feel slightly more dizzy than normal. Promise.”

“I promise.”

“And you’ll rest. No trying to work out or practice or do anything stupid.”

“I promise.”

“And you’ll take care of Anya. She needs to be walked twice a day. And she likes her breakfast at 7 AM exactly. She’s very punctual about meals.”

“I promise.”

“And you’ll FaceTime me every night before bed. Even if it’s late.”

“Ilya.” Shane tilts Ilya’s face up to look at him. “I promise all of those things. I promise to take care of myself and let your dog take care of me and call you constantly. Okay?”

“Okay,” Ilya says quietly.

They fall asleep tangled together, and when Ilya’s alarm goes off at 5 AM for his early flight, he seriously considers just not going. Just staying here in this bed with Shane and pretending the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

But Shane practically pushes him out of bed.

“Go,” Shane says. “Your team needs you. And I’ll be here when you get back.”

“You better be,” Ilya says. “If you die while I’m gone, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Noted. No dying. Got it.”

At the door, Ilya kisses Shane one more time. And then again. And then one more time for good measure.

“Ilya, your Uber is here,” Shane says, laughing. “You have to go.”

“I know, I know.” One more kiss. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Now go before you miss your flight.”

Ilya kneels down and hugs Anya. “Take care of him,” he says in Russian. “I’m counting on you.”

Anya licks his face, which Ilya chooses to interpret as “I’ve got this.”

The flight to Boston is only an hour, but it feels like the longest hour of Ilya’s life. He spends the entire time texting Shane, even though they just said goodbye.

Ilya: Did you take your morning medication?

Shane: Yes, Dad.

Ilya: Don’t call me Dad. Is weird when we have sex.

Shane: Stop making everything sexual.

Ilya: Cannot help it. You make everything sexy just by existing.

Shane: I’m lying on a couch in sweatpants with unwashed hair and a dog on my lap. Very sexy.

Ilya: Exactly. See? You understand.

By the time Ilya lands in Boston, Shane has sent him a photo: Shane on the couch, hair indeed unwashed and sticking up in all directions, with Anya sprawled across his lap and both of them looking at the camera.

Ilya saves the photo immediately and sets it as his phone background.

He goes home to his apartment — which feels empty without Shane and Anya — showers, changes into workout gear, and heads to the practice facility for morning skate.

The parking lot is full of his teammates’ cars. Ilya sits in his own car for a moment, steeling himself. This is the first time he’ll see most of them since everything happened. Since he came out. Since the world found out.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, and gets out of the car.

The walk from the parking lot to the locker room feels longer than usual. Ilya pushes open the door and-

The entire team is there. All of them. Even guys who usually show up late. They’re all in various stages of getting dressed for practice, and they all stop what they’re doing when Ilya walks in.

The silence is deafening.

Ilya walks to his stall — his nameplate still there, his number 81, everything exactly as he left it — and starts unpacking his bag. The silence continues.

He’s halfway through lacing his skates when he can’t take it anymore. “What?” He says, looking up. “Why is everyone staring?”

More silence. Then Cliff clears his throat.

“We, uh.” Cliff stops. Starts again. “We wanted to say we’re sorry again. About what happened. About Shane getting hurt. And about-” he gestures vaguely. “About how we reacted. Or didn’t react. We should have said something sooner.”

“Said what?” Ilya asks.

“That we support you,” Ray says, standing up. “That you’re our teammate and our brother and nothing changes that. We should have said it the moment you walked in. Instead, we just sat here like idiots making it weird.”

“You are idiots,” Ilya agrees. “But is okay. I forgive you.”

Victor grins. “See? This is why we need him back. Who else is going to call us idiots?”

“Many people,” Ilya says. “You’re very easy to insult.”

The tension breaks. Someone laughs, and suddenly everyone is talking at once, asking questions, welcoming Ilya back.

“How’s Hollander?” Brad asks. “Is he really okay? The news said he had a bad concussion.”

“He’s okay,” Ilya confirms. “Getting better. But he’ll be out minimum six weeks. Maybe longer.”

“That sucks,” Ryan says. “Especially with the playoffs coming up. Montreal needs him.”

“Yes, but his health is more important than playoffs,” Ilya says firmly. “He needs to heal properly.”

“You left your dog with him, right?” Victor asks. “I saw the photo on Twitter. Very cute.”

“Yes. Anya is keeping him company. Making sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“Smart,” Cliff says. “Hollander seems like the type to ignore doctor’s orders.”

“Oh, he absolutely is,” Ilya says. “Yesterday he tried to do pushups. I had to stop him.”

“Did you actually stop him, or did you just make him do a different kind of workout?” Connor asks with a waggle of his eyebrows.

The locker room erupts in “oooohs.”

“None of your business,” Ilya says, but he’s smirking.

“That’s a yes,” Connor declares. “He totally-”

“Moving on!” Ray interrupts loudly. “Let’s get out there and actually practice. Coach wants to see how you look after missing a week.”

They file out onto the ice, and it feels almost normal. Almost like nothing has changed.

But then, during a drill, Victor skates past Ilya and says, “Hey Roz, you think Hollander misses you or is he too busy cuddling your dog?”

“He misses me more,” Ilya says confidently. “Dog is good, but I’m better.”

“At what?” Brad calls from across the ice. “Cuddling?”

“At everything,” Ilya says. “I’m very talented.”

“We know you’re talented at hockey,” Connor says. “But are you talented at being a boyfriend? That’s the real question.”

“I’m excellent boyfriend,” Ilya says. “Ask Shane. He’ll tell you.”

“We would,” Ryan says, “but he’s in Montreal and can’t defend himself from your lies.”

“Is not lies! I’m very good boyfriend! I cook, I clean, I’m very good in-”

“DO NOT FINISH THAT SENTENCE,” Cliff yells across the rink.

But Ilya does finish it. “-in bed! I’m very good in bed! Shane will confirm!”

The entire practice stops. Everyone is dying laughing, including the coaches, who are trying and failing to maintain professional composure.

“Rozanov,” Coach LeClaire says, shaking his head. “You’ve been back for twenty minutes and you’re already making HR nightmare.”

“Is just truth,” Ilya says innocently. “Shane is very satisfied. Very well-taken-care-of. Is important to communicate these things.”

“Please stop communicating these things,” Cliff begs.

“You’re the ones who ask questions,” Ilya points out. “I just answer honestly.”

“From now on, we ask no more questions,” Ryan declares.

“Too late,” Ilya says with a grin. “Now you know too much. You have to live with it.”

Practice continues, and the chirping doesn’t stop. But it’s good-natured, friendly. No one crosses the line into actual meanness. And Ilya gives as good as he gets.

When someone mentions that Ilya must miss Shane, Ilya responds, “Of course I miss him. He’s my boyfriend. And he’s very handsome. Much more handsome than any of you.”

When someone suggests that Shane only dates Ilya because he feels sorry for him, Ilya says, “Yes, he feels sorry for me. Sorry that I’m so good-looking and talented and charming. Is very difficult for him.”

When Cliff makes a joke about Ilya being “whipped,” Ilya skates over to him and says, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Yes, I’m whipped. Very whipped. Because I’m in love and I’m not ashamed of it. You know what’s more embarrassing than being whipped? Being single because you hit people in the head and give them concussions.”

Cliff actually flinches. “Roz, I’m sorry-”

“I know you’re sorry,” Ilya interrupts. “You’ve apologized many times. And I forgive you. But if you ever hit Shane again — if you ever hurt him again — I will make your life miserable. Understood?”

“Understood,” Cliff says quietly.

“Good. Now shut up and skate faster. You’re slow today.”

After practice, in the locker room, Ray pulls Ilya aside.

“You good?” Ray asks. “Really?”

“I’m good,” Ilya confirms. “Is strange, being here while Shane is hurt. But I’m good.”

“The team’s got your back,” Ray says. “I know we were weird at first, but that’s just because we didn’t know how to react. We’ve never had a teammate come out before. But we’re with you. All of us.”

“Even Cliff?” Ilya asks, only half-joking.

“Especially Cliff. He feels terrible about what happened. He’s been asking me every day if there’s anything he can do to make it up to you.”

“He can start by not hitting people in head,” Ilya mutters.

“He’s been working with the coaches on his hitting technique,” Ray says. “Making sure it doesn’t happen again. He’s a good guy, Rozanov. Just made a bad play.”

“I know,” Ilya admits. “Is hockey. Bad plays happen. I just—when I saw Shane go down-”

“I know,” Ray says. “I get it. When someone you love gets hurt, logic goes out the window. You did what you had to do.”

“Even though it meant outing us both to entire world?”

“Especially because of that,” Ray says. “You chose him over everything else. That’s real love, man. That’s the kind of love people write songs about.”

Ilya spends the rest of the day at the practice facility — meetings with coaches, film study, weight training. By the time he gets home, it’s nearly 9 PM and he’s exhausted.

He FaceTimes Shane immediately.

Shane answers after two rings, and Ilya’s heart does that stupid fluttering thing it always does when he sees Shane’s face.

“Hi,” Shane says, smiling. “How was practice?”

“Good. Tiring. Team was being weird at first but then was normal. Lots of chirping.”

“Did you win the chirp battle?”

“Of course I won. I always win.”

Shane laughs. “What did you say?”

“Many things. Mostly about how you’re much more handsome than any of them. And about how I’m very good boyfriend.”

“You are a very good boyfriend,” Shane confirms.

“See? I told them truth.”

They talk for an hour — about Shane’s day (boring, lots of resting), about Anya (she’s currently sleeping on Shane’s bed and refuses to move), about the upcoming game (Ilya is nervous but ready).

“I wish you could be there,” Ilya says. “At the game. I know you can’t play, but I wish you could at least watch from the stands.”

“I’ll be watching on TV,” Shane promises. “And I’ll text you good luck before puck drop.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Before they hang up, Shane says, “I’m proud of you, you know. For going back. For facing the team. I know it was hard.”

“Was easier knowing I have you,” Ilya says. “Knowing I have someone to come home to. Even if home is different city.”

“It won’t always be different cities,” Shane says quietly. “Maybe after our contracts are up-”

“We’ll figure it out,” Ilya says. “We have time.”

After they hang up, Ilya lies in his empty bed in his empty apartment and thinks about the future.

A future where maybe he and Shane play for the same team. Or at least live in the same city. A future where they don’t have to hide or sneak around or lie about where they’re spending their nights.

A future where they can just be together.

It’s a nice dream.

And for the first time in his life, Ilya thinks it might actually be possible.

He falls asleep thinking about Shane, about Anya, about his grandmother hitting his father with a slipper, about teammates who support him even when they don’t fully understand.

And he dreams of a future where love is enough.

Where being himself is enough.

Where happiness isn’t something to hide but something to celebrate.

It’s a good dream.

And when he wakes up to another text from Shane — just a simple Good morning, love you — Ilya knows that dream is already starting to come true.

One day at a time.

One game at a time.

One moment at a time.

Chapter 25: surprise

Shane stares at himself in the mirror of his Montreal apartment, turning side to side to examine the jacket. It’s a custom Bomber-style jacket in neutral black — no team colors, no logos that would get him in trouble with the Voyageurs organization. But across the back, in bold embroidered letters: ROZANOV 81.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Shane mutters to Anya, who’s lying on his bed watching him with those intelligent eyes. “Your dad better appreciate this.”

Anya tilts her head, and Shane swears she looks amused.

It’s been four weeks since the injury. Four weeks of headaches and dizziness and boredom. Four weeks of watching hockey instead of playing it. Four weeks of FaceTime calls with Ilya every single night, both of them pretending it’s enough when it’s clearly not.

But Shane’s doctor gave him clearance to travel yesterday. Not to play — God, not to play, he still has two more weeks before he’s even allowed to think about skating — but to travel. To live his life like a normal person.

And Shane knows exactly how he wants to use that clearance.

Boston plays at home tonight. Ilya doesn’t know Shane is coming. Shane made his parents swear not to say anything, even though his mother is terrible at keeping secrets and has already almost blown it twice.

Shane books a flight that lands at 3 PM. The game starts at 7. He has just enough time to get to the arena, pick up the ticket he had a PR manager mysteriously arrange without Ilya knowing, and find his seat before warmups start.

The plan is perfect.

Except for the part where Shane is wearing a jacket with Ilya’s name on it and is about to sit in TD Garden surrounded by Bears fans while being a very recognizable member of the Montreal Voyageurs.

“This is going to be interesting,” Shane tells Anya as he packs an overnight bag. His mother is coming over to watch Anya while Shane is gone. “Be good for Grandma. Don’t bite the mailman again.”

Anya huffs, which Shane has learned means “I make no promises.”

The flight to Boston is short but feels endless. Shane keeps checking his phone, half expecting Ilya to text him and somehow magically know what Shane is planning. But Ilya is busy with game day routines — morning skate, pre-game nap, film study.

When Shane lands at Logan Airport, his heart is pounding. He catches an Uber to TD Garden, and the driver does a double-take when he recognizes Shane.

“Hey, aren’t you Shane Hollander? From Montreal?”

“Yeah,” Shane admits.

“What are you doing in Boston? And-” The driver spots the jacket. “Is that Rozanov’s name on your jacket?”

“It’s a long story,” Shane says.

“I bet it is,” the driver says with a knowing grin. “You two are all anyone can talk about. My daughter is obsessed with you guys. Says you’re ‘relationship goals’ or whatever the kids say these days.”

Shane’s face heats. “That’s … nice?”

“Between you and me,” the driver continues, “I think it’s great. What you guys are doing. Being open about it. My nephew is gay, and he’s been so much more confident since you two came out. So thank you for that.”

“Oh,” Shane says, genuinely touched. “I—thank you. That means a lot.”

They arrive at TD Garden, and Shane tips generously before heading to will call to pick up his ticket. The woman at the counter does a double-take when she sees his ID.

“You’re Shane Hollander,” she says.

“That’s me.”

“And you’re here to watch the Bears play?”

“Yep.”

She looks at his jacket — at Ilya’s name and number — and her face breaks into a huge smile. “This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. He has no idea you’re here, does he?”

“No,” Shane confirms. “It’s a surprise.”

“Well, he’s going to lose his mind when he sees you. Here’s your ticket. You’re in a suite — courtesy of Bears management. They wanted to make sure you’d be comfortable and have some privacy.”

“That’s very kind of them.”

“Are you kidding? You’re Shane Hollander. And you’re dating our star player. We’re basically required to treat you like royalty.”

Shane makes his way to the suite, and it’s incredible — private box with comfortable seating, a full bar, catered food, and a perfect view of the ice. A few other people are already there — some Bears executives and their families — and they all greet Shane warmly.

“We’re so glad you could make it,” one of them says. “Ilya’s been playing well, but we can tell he’s been missing you. Maybe having you here will give him that extra boost.”

Shane settles into a seat near the glass and waits. The arena is filling up, the energy building. It’s strange being at a game as a spectator instead of a player. Strange being in Boston instead of Montreal. Strange wearing Ilya’s name on his back instead of his own number.

But also kind of perfect.

At 6:30, the Bears take the ice for warmups. Shane leans forward, watching as players file out of the tunnel. And then — there he is.

Ilya, number 81, skating onto the ice with that easy confidence Shane loves. He does a lap, warming up his legs, and then he starts taking shots on the goalie.

Shane wants to call out to him, wants to bang on the glass, wants to do something to get his attention. But he waits. Waits for the perfect moment.

Ilya completes another lap and glides toward the bench to grab water. As he does, he looks up at the crowd, scanning the seats the way players do — acknowledging fans, taking in the atmosphere.

His eyes land on the suite level.

Land on Shane.

Ilya stops skating. Just stops, right there in the middle of the ice, stick hanging loosely in his hands, mouth falling open.

Shane stands up and turns around, showing Ilya the back of his jacket. ROZANOV 81.

Even from this distance, Shane can see Ilya’s face light up. See the biggest smile Shane has ever witnessed spread across his face. See him start laughing, disbelieving and delighted.

Ilya skates over to the glass closest to Shane’s suite, looks up, and mouths, “You came.”

Shane nods and mouths back, “Surprise.”

Ilya places his hand on the glass, and even though they’re separated by several dozen feet of distance and protective barriers, Shane feels it like a touch. He places his own hand up, matching Ilya’s position, and they just stare at each other for a moment.

Then one of Ilya’s teammates skates by and shoves him. “Roz! Stop making eyes at your boyfriend and warm up!”

Ilya laughs and gives Shane one more look of pure joy before skating away to continue warmups. But Shane can tell he’s distracted. He keeps looking up at the suite, keeps smiling to himself, keeps nearly missing passes because he’s too busy being happy.

The game itself is intense. The Bears are playing the Admirals, and both teams are fighting for playoff position. Ilya is flying — skating faster than Shane has seen him skate all season, making plays that are equal parts brilliant and risky, scoring a goal in the second period with a move that makes the entire arena erupt.

When Ilya celebrates, he points up at Shane’s suite. The cameras catch it, and suddenly Shane is on the jumbotron, wearing his ROZANOV 81 jacket, grinning like an idiot.

The arena goes absolutely wild.

The final score is 4-2 Bears. Ilya has two goals and an assist. And when he’s named first star, he skates around the ice acknowledging the fans, and when he passes Shane’s suite, he blows a kiss.

Shane catches it, because he’s apparently become the kind of person who does that now.

After the game, Shane makes his way down to the tunnel where family and friends wait for players. The PR manager — a very efficient woman named Carol — meets him there.

“Mr. Hollander,” she says warmly. “Ilya asked me to bring you to the family lounge. He’ll be out in about twenty minutes.”

The family lounge is nice — comfortable couches, a TV playing post-game coverage, some of the other players’ wives and girlfriends chatting. They all look up when Shane enters, and he suddenly feels very out of place.

But then one of them — a woman probably in her early thirties — stands up and walks over.

“You must be Shane,” she says. “I’m Isa, Ray’s wife. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

“You too,” Shane says.

“That jacket is adorable,” Isa says. “Did you have it custom made?”

“Yeah, I couldn’t exactly wear a Bears jersey-”

“Because you’re a Voyageur,” Jessica finishes. “Smart. But also, the fact that you’re here at all, wearing his name, publicly supporting him-” She shakes her head. “That’s really special. Ilya talks about you constantly, you know. Ray says he’s never seen Ilya this happy.”

Shane’s face heats. “He talks about me?”

“All the time,” another woman says, joining them. “I’m Gina, Cliff’s girlfriend. And yes, constantly. It’s actually kind of annoying how in love he is.”

“In the best way,” Isa adds quickly. “It’s sweet. He just lights up whenever your name comes up.”

They chat for a while, and Shane is surprised by how welcome they make him feel. How normal it all is. Like Shane being here, being with Ilya, is just another aspect of hockey life.

Finally, the door opens and players start filing out. Ray first, then Cliff, then a few others. And then Ilya.

He’s freshly showered, hair still damp, wearing a suit that Shane knows for a fact cost more than Shane’s car. His eyes scan the room, find Shane, and his entire face transforms.

“Shane,” Ilya says, crossing the room in long strides. “You’re really here. I thought maybe I hallucinate during warmups.”

“I’m really here,” Shane confirms.

And then Ilya is kissing him. Right there in the family lounge, in front of everyone, kissing Shane like they’re the only two people in the world.

Someone wolf-whistles. Someone else says, “Get a room.”

Ilya pulls back, grinning. “That’s exactly what we’re going to do. Get a room.” He looks at Cliff. “I’m leaving. See you at practice tomorrow.”

“You just got out here,” Cliff protests.

“And now I’m leaving. With my boyfriend. Who came all the way from Montreal to surprise me. Have a good night.”

Ilya grabs Shane’s hand and practically drags him out of the building. They make it to Ilya’s car, and Ilya kisses Shane again before they even get in.

“You came,” Ilya says between kisses. “You actually came. I can’t believe you came.”

“I missed you,” Shane says simply. “And the doctor cleared me to travel. So I figured, why not?”

“Best surprise ever,” Ilya declares. “Better than Stanley Cup. Better than Olympic gold. Better than anything.”

“Better than Anya?” Shane teases.

“Okay, maybe not better than Anya. But close second.”

They drive back to Ilya’s place, and the sexual tension in the car is so thick Shane can barely breathe. Ilya’s hand keeps drifting from the gearshift to Shane’s thigh, and Shane’s having a hard time remembering why they can’t just pull over right now.

“How is your head?” Ilya asks. “Doctor says you’re okay for … activities?”

“Doctor says I’m fine for normal activities,” Shane says. “She didn’t specifically mention sex, but I’m choosing to interpret ‘normal activities’ broadly.”

“Very broad interpretation,” Ilya agrees. “I like it.”

They barely make it into Ilya’s apartment before they’re kissing again, desperate and hungry. Four weeks is the longest they’ve gone without touching each other since they got together, and it shows.

“Bedroom,” Shane gasps. “Ilya, bedroom-”

“Yes, yes, bedroom,” Ilya agrees, but he’s too busy pulling Shane’s jacket off to actually move toward the bedroom.

They stumble through the apartment, shedding clothes as they go. By the time they reach Ilya’s room, Shane is down to his boxers and Ilya is shirtless.

Ilya pushes Shane onto the bed and looks at him with dark, hungry eyes. “I have idea,” he says.

“What kind of idea?”

Ilya walks to his closet and pulls out a Bears jersey. His jersey, number 81. He tosses it to Shane. “Put this on.”

Shane catches it, confused. “You want me to wear your jersey?”

“Yes. While we-” Ilya makes a suggestive gesture. “You know.”

“You want me to wear a Bears jersey during sex,” Shane says slowly. “You want me to wear your Bears jersey during sex.”

“Yes, exactly.” Ilya’s grin is wicked. “You wear my name, my number, and I get to watch you ride me. Is perfect fantasy.”

“You have a jersey kink,” Shane accuses.

“I have you-in-my-jersey kink,” Ilya corrects. “Is different. Is specific.”

Shane should say no. Should tell Ilya this is absurd. Should maintain some dignity as a member of the Montreal Voyageurs.

But Shane is also very turned on and has missed Ilya desperately and really, really wants to make Ilya happy.

“Fine,” Shane says, pulling the jersey over his head. “But if anyone finds out about this-”

“No one will find out,” Ilya promises. “Is just between us. You, me, and your complete lack of team loyalty.”

“I have team loyalty,” Shane protests, but he’s pulling the jersey on, and it’s huge on him — Ilya is broader in the shoulders — and it smells like Ilya’s cologne and laundry detergent and home.

“You look so good,” Ilya breathes. “Shane, you look—fuck, you’re wearing my jersey. My name. My number.”

“Happy now?” Shane asks, but he’s smiling because Ilya looks like all his dreams just came true.

“Very happy,” Ilya confirms. He climbs onto the bed and pulls Shane into his lap. “But I’ll be happier when this jersey is the only thing you’re wearing.”

They make quick work of Shane’s boxers, and then Shane is naked except for Ilya’s jersey, sitting in Ilya’s lap, and Ilya looks like he might actually combust from happiness.

“Worth the wait?” Shane asks.

“So worth it,” Ilya confirms. “Worth every day of waiting. Worth all four weeks. Worth everything.”

They take their time — partly because it’s been four weeks, partly because Shane is still recovering and they need to be careful. But mostly because they’ve missed this, missed each other, missed being close.

When Shane finally sinks down onto Ilya, both of them groan.

“Fuck,” Ilya breathes. “I missed this. Missed you. Missed everything.”

“Me too,” Shane manages. “So much.”

They move together, finding their rhythm, and Ilya can’t stop staring at Shane wearing his jersey. Can’t stop running his hands over the fabric, over his name and number on Shane’s chest.

“Mine,” Ilya says, possessive. “You’re mine. Everyone who sees you in that jacket knows it. Everyone who sees you here knows it. You’re mine.”

“Yours,” Shane agrees, because he is. Has been for five years, really. Maybe even longer.

It doesn’t take long for either of them — four weeks is too long, and they’ve both been desperate. Shane comes first, Ilya’s name on his lips, and Ilya follows moments later, his hands gripping Shane’s hips hard enough to bruise.

They collapse together, both breathing hard, and Shane is still wearing the jersey.

“You know,” Shane says after a moment, “if anyone ever found out about this, I’d be kicked out of Montreal.”

“Then we make sure no one finds out,” Ilya says. “Is our secret. One of many.”

“We don’t have to have secrets anymore,” Shane points out.

“No,” Ilya agrees. “But some secrets are fun. Some secrets are just for us.”

They lie there for a while, tangled together, and Shane thinks about how much has changed in four weeks. From hiding to open. From secret to public. From separated to together.

“I’m glad I came,” Shane says quietly.

“I’m very glad you came too,” Ilya says. “Best surprise. Best jersey. Best boyfriend. Best everything.”

“You’re delirious,” Shane says, but he’s smiling.

“Maybe,” Ilya admits. “But is good delirious. Is happy delirious. Is I-love-you delirious.”

“I love you too,” Shane says. “Even if you have weird jersey kinks.”

“Is not weird if you enjoy it too,” Ilya points out.

“I didn’t say I enjoyed it.”

“Your body said you enjoyed it,” Ilya says smugly. “Your body is very honest.”

Shane groans and buries his face in Ilya’s chest. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Ilya says confidently. “You love me. You love me so much you flew to Boston and wore my jacket to my game and wore my jersey during sex. You love me very much.”

“Unfortunately,” Shane mutters, but he’s still smiling.

They fall asleep like that — Shane in Ilya’s jersey, Ilya’s arms wrapped around him, both of them exactly where they want to be.

Together.

Finally.

After five years of secrets and hiding and pretending.

They get to just be.

And that’s worth everything.

Including, apparently, Shane’s dignity as a Montreal Voyageur.

But that’s a problem for tomorrow.

Tonight, Shane is exactly where he belongs.

In Boston.

In Ilya’s bed.

In Ilya’s jersey.

In Ilya’s heart.

And that’s all that matters.

Chapter 26: the plan

Ilya wakes to warmth and weight and the overwhelming certainty that he never wants to move from this spot.

Shane is wrapped around him like the world’s clingiest koala — one leg thrown over Ilya’s, one arm across Ilya’s chest, face buried in Ilya’s neck. He’s still wearing Ilya’s jersey, which has ridden up in the night to expose most of his stomach and back. His breathing is soft and even, and in the early morning light filtering through the curtains, he looks young and peaceful and perfect.

Ilya has never been more in love.

He traces his eyes over Shane’s face, cataloging every detail. The strong line of his jaw. The dark lashes against his cheeks. And the freckles — God, the freckles. They’re scattered across Shane’s shoulders and back, faint but visible in the morning light. Some dark, some so light they’re barely there. A constellation of marks that Ilya has mapped dozens of times but never gets tired of.

He wants to kiss every single one.

So he does.

He starts at Shane’s shoulder, pressing soft kisses to each freckle he can reach. Shane stirs but doesn’t wake, just makes a small sound and burrows closer. Ilya continues his exploration — across Shane’s collarbone, up the side of his neck, along his jawline. Finding freckles, kissing them, moving to the next one.

“Mmm,” Shane mumbles, finally starting to wake. “What’re you doing?”

“Counting your freckles,” Ilya says against his skin. “Is important scientific research.”

“S’too early for science,” Shane protests, but he’s smiling, Ilya can feel it.

“Is never too early for appreciating how beautiful you are.”

Shane’s eyes open, still heavy with sleep. “You’re disgustingly romantic in the morning.”

“Only for you,” Ilya says. He kisses another freckle, this one on Shane’s cheek. “Only ever for you.”

Shane pulls back enough to look at Ilya properly. “How long have you been awake?”

“Maybe ten minutes. Was watching you sleep.”

“That’s creepy.”

“That’s love,” Ilya corrects. He runs his hand down Shane’s back, under the jersey, feeling the warm skin beneath. “You’re still wearing my jersey.”

“You didn’t give me much choice,” Shane points out. “You fell asleep on top of me. I couldn’t take it off.”

“Good. Should never take it off. Should wear it always.”

“I have to go back to Montreal eventually,” Shane says. “I can’t wear a Bears jersey in Montreal. They’d revoke my contract.”

“Then stay here,” Ilya says, only half-joking. “Wear my jersey. Sleep in my bed. Be with me all the time.”

“Ilya-”

“I know, I know,” Ilya interrupts. “You have your team. Your contract. Your life in Montreal. But someday-” He traces patterns on Shane’s back. “Someday maybe we live in same city. Play for same team. Wake up together every morning.”

“Someday,” Shane agrees softly. “But not yet.”

“But soon,” Ilya says. He pulls Shane into a kiss, slow and deep and full of promise.

The kiss turns into more. Slow, sleepy morning sex, both of them still half-tangled in sheets, moving together like they have all the time in the world. It’s different from last night’s urgency — gentler, more intimate. Taking their time to relearn each other after four weeks apart.

When they finish, Shane collapses on Ilya’s chest, boneless and sated. Ilya kisses his sweaty forehead and runs his fingers through Shane’s hair, and thinks I want this forever.

The thought hits him with startling clarity. Not just want — need. He needs this. Needs Shane. Needs every morning to start like this, with Shane in his arms and sunlight streaming through the windows and the absolute certainty that this is home.

He wants to marry this man.

The realization should be terrifying. They’ve only been publicly together for four weeks. They’re both young — twenty-four is young, right? Too young to be thinking about marriage?

But they’ve also been together for five years. Five years of secret nights and stolen moments and loving each other despite every obstacle. Five years of choosing each other over and over again.

Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s more than enough.

Ilya wants to propose.

But first, he needs a plan.

“Shane,” Ilya says softly.

“Mmm?” Shane sounds half-asleep again.

“I’m making breakfast. What do you want?”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to,” Ilya interrupts. “You’re here, in my apartment, wearing my jersey. I want to feed you. Is boyfriend duty.”

Shane laughs softly. “Okay. Surprise me.”

Ilya carefully extracts himself from Shane’s embrace and pulls on sweatpants. He looks back at the bed — at Shane sprawled across the sheets, still in that jersey, looking thoroughly debauched — and has to resist the urge to climb right back in.

Later. First, breakfast. And planning.

In the kitchen, Ilya makes blini — his grandmother’s recipe, the one she taught him when he was young. He brews coffee. He cuts up fruit. He makes everything perfect because Shane deserves perfect.

While he cooks, his mind races. A proposal. He needs to propose. But how? When? Where?

It can’t be public — too much pressure, too many cameras. But it also can’t be too casual. Shane deserves something special. Something that shows how much Ilya loves him, how much thought he put into this.

And he needs a ring. A proper engagement ring. Something that screams “taken” and “loved” and “mine.”

By the time breakfast is ready, Ilya has the beginning of a plan.

Shane emerges from the bedroom wearing actual clothes now — borrowed joggers and a t-shirt, both Ilya’s. He’s washed his face and finger-combed his hair, and he looks soft and domestic and Ilya wants to marry him right now.

“Breakfast smells amazing,” Shane says, sliding into a chair at the kitchen table.

“Is my babushka’s recipe,” Ilya says, setting down a plate of blini. “She would approve of me making this for you. She says feeding people is how you show love.”

“Your grandmother is wise,” Shane says around a mouthful of food. “Oh my God, this is incredible.”

They eat together, comfortable and easy, and Ilya tries to memorize this moment. This perfect, ordinary morning. The kind of morning he wants to have for the rest of his life.

“I have practice today,” Ilya says eventually. “Nine to eleven. You can stay here, rest. Use my Netflix. Take nap. Whatever you want.”

“Okay,” Shane agrees. “I should probably FaceTime Anya anyway. Make sure my mom is feeding her properly.”

“She’s feeding her too much,” Ilya predicts. “Your mother has soft heart. Anya probably already gained five pounds.”

“Probably,” Shane agrees, smiling.

Ilya cleans up breakfast while Shane takes his morning medications — still necessary for the concussion recovery. Then Ilya gets dressed for practice, and at the door, he pulls Shane into a long kiss.

“I’ll be back by one,” Ilya promises. “Then we have rest of day together before you fly back tomorrow.”

“Sounds perfect,” Shane says.

Ilya forces himself to leave — even though every part of him wants to stay — and drives to the practice facility. Practice is routine — drills, scrimmages, film study. But Ilya’s mind is elsewhere, planning.

After practice, when everyone else is heading to the showers, Ilya pulls out his phone and googles “best jewelry stores Boston.”

Cartier. Tiffany’s. Shreve, Crump & Low. All good options, but maybe too predictable? Too standard?

He keeps scrolling until he finds Martino Fine Jewelry and Custom Design Specialists.

The reviews are glowing. “Best custom work in New England.” “Made the perfect ring for my wife.” “Attention to detail is unmatched.”

Perfect.

Ilya showers quickly, changes into street clothes, and tells Cliff he has an errand to run.

“What kind of errand?” Cliff asks suspiciously.

“Personal errand,” Ilya says. “Private errand. None of your business errand.”

Cliff’s eyes narrow. “You’re being weird. Are you okay?”

“I’m perfect,” Ilya says. “Never better. See you tomorrow.”

He leaves before Cliff can ask more questions.

Martino Fine Jewelry is in the heart of downtown Boston, tucked between a gallery and an upscale restaurant. The storefront is elegant but understated — no flashy displays, just a simple sign and frosted windows.

Ilya takes a deep breath and walks in.

The interior is gorgeous — all dark wood and soft lighting and glass cases filled with jewelry that probably costs more than most people’s cars. A well-dressed man in his fifties approaches immediately.

“Good afternoon,” he says warmly. “Welcome to Martino’s. I’m Robert Martino. How can I help you today?”

“I need engagement ring,” Ilya says. “Custom. Very specific. Very perfect.”

Robert’s expression shifts to professional interest. “Wonderful. We specialize in custom pieces. Please, have a seat.”

He leads Ilya to a private consultation room — a small space with comfortable chairs, a large table, and better lighting. Robert pulls out a leather notebook and a tablet.

“Let’s start with some basics,” Robert says. “Do you have a budget in mind?”

“No,” Ilya says. “Money is not object. I want best. I want perfect. I want something no one else has.”

Robert’s eyes gleam. “I like your style. Now, tell me about the lucky person. What are they like?”

“He,” Ilya corrects. “Is for a man. For my boyfriend.”

“Ah,” Robert says smoothly, not missing a beat. “Tell me about him.”

“His name is Shane,” Ilya begins, and even saying the name makes him smile. “He’s hockey player, like me. Very strong, very beautiful. But also … soft. Gentle. Kind. He has freckles and dark hair and eyes that change color in different light. Sometimes brown, sometimes almost gold.”

Robert is writing this down. “And what’s his style? Does he wear jewelry normally?”

“No jewelry,” Ilya says. “He’s very practical. Very simple. He doesn’t like flashy things. But I want something that’s obviously engagement ring. Want everyone to see it and know he’s taken. Know he’s mine.”

“Possessive,” Robert observes with a small smile. “I can work with that.”

“I want it to be special,” Ilya continues. “Want it to mean something. Not just expensive because it’s expensive, but expensive because it’s thoughtful. Because I put time into it. Because I know him.”

“When’s his birthday?” Robert asks. “And yours?”

“His is May tenth. Mine is June fifteenth.”

Robert’s expression lights up. “Birthstones! We could incorporate both. His birthstone — emerald for May — and yours — pearl or alexandrite for June. Pearl might be too soft for a ring that’ll see daily wear, but alexandrite-” He pulls up images on his tablet. “Alexandrite is fascinating. It changes color in different lighting. Green in natural light, reddish-purple in incandescent light.”

“Like Shane’s eyes,” Ilya says immediately. “They change color too. That’s perfect.”

“Excellent,” Robert says, making notes. “So we’re thinking a masculine design, not too delicate, incorporating emerald and alexandrite along with diamonds. Do you want a traditional band or something more unique?”

“Unique,” Ilya says. “Shane is not traditional person. We’re not traditional couple. Want ring that shows that.”

Robert spends the next hour showing Ilya different designs on the tablet. Wide bands versus narrow. Brushed metal versus polished. Different stone arrangements. Different settings.

They narrow it down to platinum — strong, durable, won’t tarnish. A wider band, masculine but elegant. And for the stones, Robert suggests something innovative.

“What if we do a primary diamond in the center — something substantial, maybe two carats — flanked by smaller emeralds on one side and alexandrites on the other? The stones will tell the story of you together. His month. Your month. And diamonds in the middle representing your relationship.”

“I love that,” Ilya says. “But I want more diamonds. Want people to see it from far away. Want it to catch light.”

“We could do a channel of smaller diamonds around the band,” Robert suggests, pulling up a design. “Not too flashy, but enough to make a statement.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “Exactly that.”

Robert sketches some preliminary designs, showing Ilya different options. They settle on something perfect: a platinum band with a two-carat center diamond, flanked by three small emeralds on one side and three small alexandrites on the other. The band itself will have a channel of smaller diamonds running three-quarters of the way around, leaving the bottom smooth for comfort.

“This is going to be stunning,” Robert says, showing Ilya the final sketch. “Unique, masculine, meaningful. Everything you wanted.”

“How long?” Ilya asks. “How long until it’s finished?”

“For a piece this custom? Eight to ten weeks minimum. We need to source the alexandrites — they’re rare — and design the setting perfectly. This isn’t something we can rush.”

Eight to ten weeks. That’s … that’s actually good. It gives Ilya time to plan the proposal properly. Time to make sure everything is perfect.

“That’s okay,” Ilya says. “I want it to be right, not fast.”

“Excellent,” Robert says. “Now, do you know his ring size?”

Ilya pauses. “No. How do I find out without him knowing?”

Robert smiles. “Does he wear any rings currently? Even occasionally?”

“No, never.”

“Okay, then we’ll need to estimate based on his build. You said he’s a hockey player? What position?”

“Center. Same as me.”

“So similar build to you?”

“Five inches shorter, maybe little less broad in shoulders. His hands are-” Ilya holds up his own hands. “Maybe slightly smaller than mine?”

“We’ll make it a size 10,” Robert decides. “That’s fairly standard for athletic men of his build. And worst case scenario, if it doesn’t fit perfectly, we can resize it. Though with this design, we want to minimize resizing since it’ll affect the stone placement.”

They go over more details — the exact specifications of each stone, the finish on the platinum, the interior engraving Ilya wants (S.H. + I.R. Forever).

Finally, Robert presents the cost estimate.

It’s astronomical. Six figures. More than some people’s houses.

“Perfect,” Ilya says without hesitation. “I’ll put down deposit today.”

“You don’t want to think about it?” Robert asks. “This is a significant investment.”

“I don’t need to think about it,” Ilya says. “This is for Shane. For rest of our lives together. Is worth every penny.”

Robert smiles. “You’re a romantic, Mr. Rozanov.”

“I’m in love,” Ilya corrects. “Is different.”

“Is it?” Robert asks, amused.

“Love is practical,” Ilya explains. “Love is choosing same person every day. Love is making breakfast and walking dog and having boring conversations about nothing. Romance is just-” he waves a hand. “Is the pretty packaging. But love is what’s inside.”

“That’s very wise,” Robert says. “And very Russian.”

“How you know I’m Russian?”

“Your accent,” Robert says. “Plus, I may have recognized you when you walked in. My son is a huge Bears fan. You’re Ilya Rozanov. And Shane Hollander is Shane Hollander.”

Ilya tenses. “You’re not going to-”

“Going to what? Tell people?” Robert shakes his head. “I’ve been in the jewelry business for thirty years. Discretion is part of the job. What happens in this room stays in this room. Your secret is safe.”

“Thank you,” Ilya says, genuinely relieved.

“Though I have to say,” Robert adds, “my son is going to lose his mind when he finds out Ilya Rozanov bought an engagement ring from us. Can I at least tell him after you propose? He’ll never believe me otherwise.”

Ilya laughs. “After proposal, yes. You can tell him. You can tell everyone. But not before.”

“Deal,” Robert agrees.

They finalize the payment details, and Ilya puts down a substantial deposit. Robert promises to have preliminary mock-ups ready within two weeks, and the finished ring in eight to ten weeks.

“I’ll call you when it’s ready,” Robert says. “And Mr. Rozanov? Congratulations. I hope he says yes.”

“He’ll say yes,” Ilya says confidently. “He has to. I’m very lovable.”

Robert laughs. “I’m sure you are.”

Ilya leaves the jewelry store feeling lighter than air. He has a plan. He has a ring in progress. He has eight to ten weeks to figure out the perfect proposal.

Everything is falling into place.

When he gets back to his apartment, Shane is on the couch watching hockey highlights, and Anya is—wait.

“Why is Anya here?” Ilya asks, confused but delighted.

“My dad brought her,” Shane explains. “Apparently she missed you and was driving my mom crazy. So he picked her up and brought her here as a surprise.”

Anya bounds over to Ilya, tail wagging frantically, and Ilya kneels down to greet her properly.

“Привет, девочка,” (Hello, girl) he says, scratching behind her ears. “Did you miss me? Were you protecting Shane?”

Anya licks his face enthusiastically.

“She’s been good company,” Shane says. “We’ve been watching TV together and judging your highlight reel.”

“Judging?” Ilya asks, standing. “What is there to judge? Is all perfection.”

“You hot-dogged on that goal in the third period,” Shane says. “You could have made a simple play but you had to make it fancy.”

“Is called style,” Ilya says, sitting next to Shane and pulling him close. “You’re just jealous you can’t do it.”

“I absolutely can do it. I just choose not to because I have taste.”

They bicker playfully while Anya settles at their feet, and Ilya thinks: this is it. This is everything I want.

Shane, Anya, a comfortable couch, and an engagement ring being made.

He hasn’t even proposed yet, and he’s already planning the wedding in his head.

What flowers. What venue. What music. Whether they’ll do it in Russia or Canada or America or somewhere neutral.

But first, the proposal. And for that to be perfect, Shane can’t suspect anything.

So Ilya acts completely normal for the rest of the day. They order takeout. They watch a movie. They take Anya for a walk around the neighborhood, and when people recognize them and ask for photos, they smile and comply.

That night, they make love again — slower, gentler, knowing Shane has to leave tomorrow. And when Shane falls asleep in Ilya’s arms, still wearing Ilya’s t-shirt, Ilya lies awake planning.

Eight to ten weeks.

Then he’ll ask Shane to marry him.

And Shane will say yes — Ilya is certain of this.

And they’ll spend the rest of their lives having mornings like this one.

Perfect, ordinary, beautiful mornings.

Together.

Always together.

Forever.

Ilya falls asleep with a smile on his face and Shane’s heartbeat steady beneath his palm.

And dreams of their future.

Chapter 27: the question

Ilya has been planning this for twelve weeks. Twelve weeks of secret phone calls with Robert from the jewelry store. Twelve weeks of coordinating with David and Yuna, who are surprisingly enthusiastic co-conspirators. Twelve weeks of lying to Shane about why he’s so eager to spend the entire off-season at the cottage.

“You love Muskoka suddenly?” Shane had asked suspiciously when Ilya suggested they spend July there. “You usually want to go back to Moscow for at least part of summer.”

“Is peaceful,” Ilya had said. “Private. No cameras. Just us and Anya and the lake.”

“And you don’t have any ulterior motives?”

“When do I ever have ulterior motives?” Ilya had asked innocently.

Shane had given him a look that said always, you always have ulterior motives, but he’d agreed anyway.

Now they’ve been at the cottage for two weeks, and Ilya has been waiting for the perfect moment. The ring has been ready for a month, hidden in Ilya’s toiletry bag where Shane would never look. He’s rehearsed what he wants to say at least a hundred times. He’s planned every detail.

Except he keeps chickening out.

The first week, he told himself Shane was still settling in, still decompressing from the season. The second week, his excuse was that they had David and Yuna visiting for a weekend, and it wouldn’t be romantic with Shane’s parents there.

But now it’s Sunday evening, the sun is setting over the lake, painting everything in gold and orange, and Ilya knows: it’s time.

Shane is inside making dinner — roasted chicken thighs and vegetables, because they’re both trying to maintain their off-season training diets. Anya is lying on the dock, watching the water for fish she’ll never catch.

Ilya sneaks upstairs to their bedroom and retrieves the ring box from his toiletry bag. He opens it for maybe the hundredth time, and it still takes his breath away.

Robert had outdone himself. The platinum band is perfect — masculine but elegant. The center diamond catches the light beautifully, and the emeralds and alexandrites flanking it are exactly the right size. The smaller diamonds around the band sparkle without being ostentatious. And the engraving inside is perfect.

Ilya closes the box and slips it into his pocket. Then he finds Anya’s special collar — the fancy one he ordered specifically for this moment. It’s leather with custom embroidery that reads: “Will you marry my dad?”

He calls Anya inside quietly. “Anya, иди сюда.” (Come here.)

She trots over, and Ilya removes her regular collar, replacing it with the proposal collar. She sits patiently, like she knows something important is happening.

“Okay, девочка,” Ilya says, kneeling down to her level. “Very important job. When I call you, you go to Shane. You show him your collar. And then you come back to me. Understand?”

Anya tilts her head, and Ilya swears she looks like she’s saying obviously, I understand, I’m not stupid.

“Good girl. Now we wait.”

Ilya goes back outside to the dock, and his heart is pounding so hard he’s surprised it’s not audible. He checks his pocket for the ring box — still there. He checks his phone — camera app ready, just in case Shane wants photos. He checks-

“What are you doing out here?” Shane’s voice calls from the deck. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Come down here,” Ilya calls back. “Want to show you something.”

“What?”

“Just come. Please.”

Shane appears on the dock a minute later, barefoot in shorts and one of Ilya’s t-shirts. The sunset light catches his hair, his face, and Ilya thinks: yes. This is perfect. This is the moment.

“What did you want to-” Shane starts, but Ilya whistles for Anya.

Anya comes bounding down from the cottage, tail wagging, and goes straight to Shane. She sits in front of him, looking up expectantly.

“What’s with you?” Shane asks, reaching down to pet her. His hand touches the collar, and he pauses. “Why does she have a different collar?”

He looks down, reading the words, and freezes.

“Will you marry my dad?” Shane reads slowly. Then he looks up, confused. “What-”

He turns, and Ilya is on one knee.

The ring box is open, the diamond catching the sunset light, throwing tiny rainbows across the dock. And Ilya is there, on one knee, looking up at Shane with his heart in his eyes.

“Shane,” Ilya begins, and his voice only shakes a little. “I have speech prepared. Very good speech. Very romantic. But now that I’m here, I forget all of it.”

“Ilya-” Shane’s voice breaks.

“So instead, I tell you truth,” Ilya continues. “I love you. I have loved you for seven years. I loved you when we were hiding. I loved you when we were lying. I loved you when I thought we could never have this-” He gestures around them, at the cottage, at their life together. “But now we can have this. We can have everything. And I want it all with you.”

Shane is crying now, tears streaming down his face, and Anya has moved to sit beside him, leaning against his leg.

“I want every morning to start with you,” Ilya says. “Every night to end with you. I want to fight about stupid things and make up in even stupider ways. I want to have boring Sunday afternoons and exciting Saturday nights. I want to grow old with you and Anya and whatever other dogs we adopt because you know we’re going to end up with more dogs.”

Shane laughs through his tears.

“I want to marry you,” Ilya says simply. “So Shane Hollander, will you marry me?”

For a moment, Shane just stands there, frozen, tears running down his face. And Ilya’s heart stutters because what if he says no, what if this is too much, what if-

Then Shane drops to his knees on the dock, so fast Ilya hears his knees crack, and crashes into Ilya with a kiss that nearly knocks them both into the lake.

“Yes,” Shane says against Ilya’s mouth. “Yes, yes, yes, you ridiculous man, of course yes-”

He’s kissing Ilya between words, and Ilya is laughing and crying and trying to get the ring out of the box without dropping it.

“Let me—wait—I need to-” Ilya manages to extract the ring and take Shane’s left hand. “Is perfect fit. I guessed your size, but I have good eye.”

He slides the ring onto Shane’s finger, and it fits perfectly. The platinum gleams against Shane’s skin, the diamond catches the dying light, and the emeralds and alexandrites sparkle like tiny stars.

“It’s beautiful,” Shane whispers, holding his hand up to look at it properly. “Ilya, it’s—how did you—when did you-”

“Months ago,” Ilya admits. “In Boston. Day after you surprised me at game. I went to jeweler after practice. Had it custom made. Emeralds for your birthday, alexandrites for mine, diamonds for us.”

“You’ve been planning this for ten weeks?” Shane asks, looking up at Ilya with wonder in his eyes.

“Yes. Was very hard secret to keep. Almost tell you many times. But I want it to be perfect. Want you to have perfect proposal, perfect ring, perfect moment.”

“It is perfect,” Shane says. He looks at the ring again, then at Anya — who is watching them with what can only be described as satisfaction — then at Ilya. “I can’t believe you’re going to be my husband.”

“Cannot believe you’re going to be mine,” Ilya echoes. He pulls Shane into another kiss, deeper this time, and his hands start wandering, pulling at Shane’s shirt-

Shane pulls back, breathing hard. “Wait. Wait, I need—stay here. Don’t move.”

“What?” Ilya asks, confused. “Shane, where are you-”

But Shane is already running back toward the cottage, Anya trotting after him curiously.

Ilya kneels there on the dock, bewildered. Did he do something wrong? Is Shane having second thoughts? Did the proposal not go how Shane wanted?

But Shane said yes. Shane definitely said yes. And he’s wearing the ring.

Two minutes later — two very long, anxiety-filled minutes — Shane comes running back down to the dock. He’s holding something in his hand. A small box.

A ring box.

“Are you kidding me,” Ilya says, starting to laugh. “Shane, are you—do you have-”

Shane drops to his knees in front of Ilya again, and he’s laughing and crying at the same time. “I was going to propose to you tonight. I had this whole plan. I was going to do it after dinner, on the deck, with candles and wine and-” He opens the box. “But you beat me to it, you asshole.”

Inside the box is a ring. A beautiful yellow gold band, slightly wider than traditional men’s rings, with two stones set into it. Something unique.

“Is yellow gold,” Shane explains, “to match your mother’s cross.” His fingers brush against Ilya’s chest, where the small orthodox cross rests beneath his shirt. “I wanted you to have something that connected to her, to your family.”

Ilya’s throat tightens.

“And the stones,” Shane continues, “are a brown zircon and a hazel sapphire. The zircon is for my eyes — brown, boring-”

“Not boring,” Ilya interrupts. “Beautiful. Perfect.”

“-and the sapphire is for yours. Because your eyes aren’t one color. They’re gold and brown and green all at once. Hazel. Like you — complicated and beautiful and impossible to define.”

He takes Ilya’s left hand. “I was going to give you this whole speech about how you’re the most infuriating person I’ve ever met, and also the most wonderful. About how you drive me crazy and keep me sane at the same time. About how I never believed in soulmates until I met you.”

“Shane,” Ilya manages, and he’s crying now too.

“So even though you proposed first — which I’m very annoyed about, by the way — I still want to ask.” Shane looks up at Ilya, his eyes shining with tears and love and joy. “Ilya Grigorievich Rozanov, will you marry me?”

“Da,” Ilya says. Yes. “Yes. Of course yes. Always yes.”

Shane slides the ring onto Ilya’s finger, and it fits perfectly. The yellow gold is warm against Ilya’s skin, and the stones catch the last rays of sunset, throwing off flecks of brown and gold.

They’re both on their knees on the dock now, both wearing engagement rings, both crying, and Anya is sitting between them looking incredibly pleased with herself.

“We’re both idiots,” Shane says, laughing.

“Perfect idiots,” Ilya agrees. He looks at his ring, then at Shane’s, then at Shane. “You were really going to propose tonight?”

“I’ve been planning it for weeks,” Shane admits. “I had the ring made in Montreal. Been carrying it around in my suitcase, waiting for the right moment.”

“How long ago you order ring?”

“Two months,” Shane says. “Right after Boston won in the first round. I went to this jeweler in Montreal and told them exactly what I wanted.”

Ilya starts laughing. “So we were both planning proposals at same time?”

“Apparently,” Shane says. “We’re even worse at keeping secrets from each other than I thought.”

“Or maybe we just know each other too well,” Ilya suggests. He takes both of Shane’s hands, admiring the way their engagement rings look together. “Maybe we’re just on same wavelength.”

“Same wavelength,” Shane repeats with a smile. “Yeah. Maybe we are.”

Ilya leans in for another kiss, and this time his hands definitely start wandering. He pulls Shane’s shirt up, runs his hands over warm skin, and Shane makes that sound he makes when he’s turned on and trying to pretend he’s not.

“We should-” Shane gasps as Ilya’s mouth moves to his neck. “We should go inside-”

“Why?” Ilya murmurs against his skin. “Is private here. Is just us and Anya and the lake.”

“Because there are people boating on the lake,” Shane points out. “And I don’t want our engagement to be remembered as the time we traumatized innocent tourists.”

“Fine,” Ilya concedes. He stands and pulls Shane up with him. “But we go inside now. Right now. Cannot wait.”

They practically run back to the cottage, Anya barking excitedly and chasing after them. Shane barely has time to turn off the stove — dinner forgotten — before Ilya is pushing him against the kitchen counter.

“Bedroom,” Shane gasps. “Ilya, bedroom-”

“Too far,” Ilya says. “Here is good.”

“The windows-”

“I close them.”

Ilya makes good on his promise, quickly pulling down all the shades and closing the curtains. Then he’s back on Shane, and they’re both fumbling with clothes, laughing and kissing and celebrating.

They make love on the living room couch — which is probably expensive and definitely not designed for this — and then again in the shower, and finally, properly, in their bed as the sun sets completely and stars come out.

Afterward, they lie tangled together, admiring their rings in the moonlight streaming through the window.

“I still can’t believe you beat me to it,” Shane says, mock-pouting. “I had candles planned. And wine. And a whole romantic speech.”

“My speech was better,” Ilya says confidently.

“You said you forgot your speech.”

“Yes, and my improvised speech was better than your prepared speech would have been,” Ilya clarifies. “Because mine came from heart. Yours would have been too rehearsed.”

“You’re impossible,” Shane says, but he’s smiling.

“You love it,” Ilya responds. “You love me. You’re going to marry me. Is official now.”

Shane holds up his left hand, looking at the ring — at the diamond and emeralds and alexandrites that Ilya chose specifically for him. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I am.”

Ilya holds up his own hand, admiring the yellow gold and the stones that match their eyes. “And I’m going to marry you. We’re going to have wedding. Big wedding. Invite everyone.”

“Or small wedding,” Shane suggests. “Just us and our families and close friends.”

“Okay, small wedding,” Ilya agrees easily. “Whatever you want.”

“Whatever we want,” Shane corrects. “It’s our wedding. Both of ours.”

“True.” Ilya pulls Shane closer. “We have to tell people. Parents first, then teams, then-”

“Everyone,” Shane finishes. “The whole world will know.”

“Good,” Ilya says fiercely. “I want everyone to know. Want everyone to see these rings and know you’re mine and I’m yours.”

“Possessive,” Shane observes.

“Always,” Ilya confirms, not even pretending otherwise.

They fall asleep like that, hands intertwined so their rings touch, Anya curled up at the foot of the bed, both of them wearing matching expressions of pure happiness.

The next morning, Shane wakes up first and immediately checks his left hand, convinced he might have dreamed it all. But no — the ring is there, solid and real and beautiful.

Ilya is still asleep, face peaceful, his own ring glinting in the early morning light.

Shane takes a photo — just for them, just to remember this moment. Ilya asleep with the sunrise lighting his face, the ring on his finger, everything perfect.

When Ilya wakes up, the first thing he does is grab Shane’s hand and kiss the ring.

“Still real,” Ilya says. “Still happening. Still going to marry you.”

“Good,” Shane says. “Because I already started planning the guest list in my head.”

“Already?” Ilya laughs. “We’ve been engaged for twelve hours.”

“I’m efficient,” Shane says. “Also, I need to know: Russian wedding or Canadian wedding?”

“Both,” Ilya decides. “Two weddings. One in Russia for my grandmother and Russian friends. One in Canada for your family and Canadian friends.”

“That’s excessive.”

“We’re excessive people,” Ilya points out. “We hid our relationship for five years. We came out on international television. We got engaged on same night because we’re both terrible at timing. Why should our wedding be any different?”

“Fair point,” Shane concedes.

They spend the morning making calls. First to David and Yuna, who pretend to be surprised even though Ilya had visited them weeks ago to get permission.

“We’re so happy for you,” Yuna says through FaceTime, crying happy tears. “Both of you. You’re going to have such a beautiful life together.”

Then they call Ilya’s grandmother, who screams so loudly they have to hold the phone away from their ears.

“Наконец-то!” (Finally!) She shouts. “I was beginning to think you would never ask! When is wedding? I need to buy new dress. I need to—Mikhail!” She’s calling to someone off-screen. “Mikhail, get my good shoes, we’re going to wedding!”

“Babushka, wedding is not tomorrow,” Ilya says, laughing. “We have to plan it first.”

“Plan faster,” she demands. “I’m eighty-six years old. I don’t have time for long engagements.”

After they hang up, Shane says, “We’re going to have to plan this faster than we thought.”

“Apparently,” Ilya agrees. “But is okay. We’ve waited five years. What’s a few more months?”

They spend the rest of their time at the cottage in a blissful bubble — swimming in the lake, taking Anya for long walks, planning their future. Two weddings, one in Moscow and one in Ottawa. Where they’ll live (probably still separate cities during the season, but maybe Muskoka in the off-season). When they’ll tell their teams (during training camp). How they’ll handle the media (carefully, with matching statements and probably a joint interview).

On their last night at the cottage, they sit on the dock watching the sunset, and Ilya says, “Thank you for saying yes.”

“Thank you for asking,” Shane responds. “And for not being mad that I was also going to ask.”

“Was very romantic,” Ilya says. “Two proposals. Very us.”

“Everything about us is ‘very us,’” Shane observes. “We don’t do anything normally.”

“Normal is boring,” Ilya declares. “We’re interesting. Exciting. Perfect.”

“Perfect is a strong word.”

“Perfect for each other,” Ilya clarifies. “Is different from just perfect.”

Shane looks at Ilya — at his fiancé, the man he’s going to marry, the person he’s going to spend the rest of his life with — and thinks yeah. Perfect for each other. That’s exactly right.

“I love you,” Shane says.

“I love you too,” Ilya responds. “My fiancé.”

The word sends a thrill through both of them.

Fiancé.

Soon to be husband.

Soon to be forever.

And that night, in their bed at the cottage, with Anya snoring at their feet and their rings catching moonlight, they celebrate their engagement one more time.

And it’s perfect.

Just like them.

Perfect for each other.

Perfect together.

Perfect.

Chapter 28: the announcement

Shane and Ilya are lying in bed in Shane’s apartment, scrolling through their phones while Anya snores between them, when Ilya suddenly sits up.

“I have idea,” he announces.

Shane doesn’t look up from his phone. “Your ideas usually end with me questioning my life choices.”

“This one is good idea. Great idea. Best idea.”

“That’s what you said about the jersey thing, and I still can’t look my teammates in the eye when they mention Boston.”

“That worked out perfectly,” Ilya says, grinning. “Besides, this is different. This is about our engagement.”

That gets Shane’s attention. He sets his phone down and looks at Ilya. “What about our engagement?”

“We need to announce it, yes? Tell the world we’re getting married.”

“We’ve already told our families and close friends,” Shane points out. “We were going to do a joint statement next week, remember? Through our agents. Very professional, very dignified-”

“Boring,” Ilya interrupts. “Very boring. We’re not boring people. Why should our engagement announcement be boring?”

“Because we’re professional athletes who are already under intense media scrutiny?” Shane suggests. “Because we want to control the narrative? Because-”

“Because we’re us,” Ilya says, cutting him off. “And we don’t do anything the normal way. So why start now?”

Shane eyes him suspiciously. “What exactly are you proposing?”

“Not proposing. Already did that. This is announcing.” Ilya shifts to face Shane fully, his expression animated. “We wait until first game of season. Montreal versus Boston. Home opener for you, second game for us. Will be huge media coverage already. Everyone watching.”

“Okay,” Shane says slowly. “And?”

“And during warmups, we do something. Something fun. Something that lets everyone know we’re engaged without boring press release.”

“Like what?”

Ilya’s grin turns mischievous. “I’m still figuring out details. But trust me. Will be perfect.”

“I don’t trust you,” Shane says flatly. “The last time you said ‘trust me,’ I ended up in your jersey on a very explicit video that you swore you deleted but I know you still have.”

“I deleted it!” Ilya protests. “Mostly.”

“Ilya.”

“Okay, okay, I keep one copy. For private viewing only. For when I miss you during road trips.”

Shane groans and flops back onto the pillows. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it,” Ilya says, crawling over Anya to kiss Shane. “You love me. You’re going to marry me. And you’re going to let me announce our engagement in fun way.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”

“But you will,” Ilya says confidently. “Because I’m very persuasive.”

He proceeds to demonstrate exactly how persuasive he can be, and by the time they’re both satisfied and breathless, Shane has reluctantly agreed to let Ilya plan the engagement announcement.

“Nothing too embarrassing,” Shane warns. “Nothing that’s going to end up on a blooper reel.”

“Define embarrassing,” Ilya says.

“Ilya.”

“I promise, will be tasteful. Will be perfect. Trust me.”

“Those are the words I’m going to have engraved on my tombstone,” Shane mutters. “Here lies Shane Hollander. He trusted Ilya Rozanov.”

The Bell Centre is electric. Opening night always is, but this year there’s extra buzz. The Voyageurs had a decent season last year despite losing Shane for the end of it, and they’re hungry to prove themselves. And their first game is against Boston.

Everyone knows about the engagement now. The players know. The coaches know. Management knows. It’s the worst-kept secret in hockey.

Shane’s teammates have been chirping him about it for weeks. But the truth is, he’s excited. Nervous, but excited. Tonight, the world is going to find out. Thanks to whatever plan Ilya has cooked up.

Shane still doesn’t know what that plan is. Ilya has been maddeningly secretive about it.

“You’ll see,” is all he’ll say. “Will be perfect. Stop worrying.”

During the pre-game warmups, Shane skates out onto the Bell Centre ice to thunderous applause. His first game since the injury. His first one against Boston since that hit.

He does his usual routine — stretching, taking practice shots, getting a feel for the ice. But his eyes keep drifting to the visitors’ tunnel, waiting for Boston to emerge.

When they do, the crowd’s reaction is mixed. Some boos — standard for the rivalry. But also some cheers, probably for Ilya specifically. He’s become something of a folk hero since coming out, especially in progressive cities like Montreal.

Ilya skates onto the ice, and Shane’s heart does that stupid fluttering thing it always does. Even after all these years. Even now, when they’re engaged and living together half the time and planning two weddings.

Their eyes meet across the ice. Ilya grins and does a little spin, showing off. Shane rolls his eyes but can’t help smiling.

Warmups continue, and Shane is taking shots on his backup goalie when he hears the crowd near the glass start to laugh and cheer. He glances over and sees Ilya skating along the boards, looking at something.

Someone in the crowd is holding a sign.

Shane squints, trying to read it from this distance. It’s being held by a young guy, maybe early twenties, and it says:

ILYA ROZANOV, WILL YOU MARRY ME?

Shane’s stomach drops. This is it. This is going right according to Ilya’s plan. And Shane has no idea what Ilya is about to do.

Ilya stops skating and looks at the sign. He’s laughing, clearly delighted by it. He skates closer to the glass, and the crowd is going absolutely wild, phones out, recording everything.

Ilya gestures to the guy with the sign, shaking his head good-naturedly. Then he holds up his left hand — still in his glove, but making the gesture clear — and taps his ring finger.

The crowd gasps. Then screams.

Ilya is miming “sorry, I’m taken” with exaggerated apologetic gestures that are absolutely playing to the crowd. He’s hamming it up, clutching his chest like he’s heartbroken to turn down the proposal.

Then he gestures to one of the staff to toss him a puck. He catches it, scribbles something on it with a marker someone hands him, and tosses it over the glass to the guy with the sign.

The guy catches it, reads it, and his jaw drops. He holds up the puck for the crowd around him to see, and even from across the ice, Shane can make out what it says:

SORRY, ALREADY ENGAGED

The arena erupts.

People are screaming, crying, trying to get photos. The broadcast cameras are zooming in on the puck, on the guy holding it, on Ilya skating away with a satisfied smirk.

Shane’s teammates are staring at him.

“Did he just-” Hayden starts.

“Did Rozanov just announce your engagement by turning down a marriage proposal during warmups?” J.J. finishes.

Shane closes his eyes. “Yep. That’s exactly what he did.”

“That’s fucking hilarious,” J.J. says, starting to laugh. “Oh my God, Hollzy, your fiancé is insane.”

“I’m aware,” Shane mutters.

But he’s also fighting a smile because of course this is how Ilya would do it. Of course he’d make it a spectacle. Of course he’d turn their engagement announcement into performance art during warmups.

Ilya skates past Shane’s end of the ice and winks. Shane shakes his head but mouths “I love you, you asshole.”

Ilya blows him a kiss, which sends the crowd into another frenzy.

By the time warmups end, social media is already exploding. Someone got video of the entire interaction — the sign, Ilya’s reaction, the puck toss, everything — and it’s spreading like wildfire.

@HockeyInsider
BREAKING: Ilya Rozanov just confirmed he’s engaged during Montreal warmups. No word yet on who the lucky person is, but given his reaction and where he is … 👀🏒
(214K likes, 83K retweets)

@BellCentreFan
I WAS THERE. I SAW IT. ILYA ROZANOV JUST ANNOUNCED HIS ENGAGEMENT BY TURNING DOWN SOMEONE ELSE’S PROPOSAL. THIS IS THE MOST EXTRA THING I’VE EVER SEEN.
(152K likes, 36K retweets)

@LGBTQHockey
The way Rozanov is just casually announcing his engagement during warmups like it’s no big deal when it’s actually HUGE. This man knows how to make a statement 🏳️‍🌈
(184K likes, 57K retweets)

@SportsCenter
You’re watching warmups at the Bell Centre, just a normal night of hockey, when suddenly Ilya Rozanov announces he’s engaged to someone. What a way to break the news 😂
(445K likes, 178K retweets)

@TheScore
WATCH: The moment Ilya Rozanov confirmed his engagement by turning down a fan’s proposal during warmups. [Video attached]
(1.2M views, 319K likes, 94K retweets)

@VoyageursMTL
We’re not saying we know who Rozanov is engaged to, but we’re also not NOT saying it 😏 #GoVoysGo
(527K likes, 24K retweets)

In the locker room before the game, Shane’s phone is blowing up. His agent, his parents, his friends, random reporters he doesn’t even know — everyone wants confirmation.

His teammates are losing their minds.

“Hollzy!” Lapierre shouts across the room. “Your man just announced your engagement to the entire hockey world during warmups!”

“I’m aware,” Shane says, trying to lace his skates and ignore the chaos.

“That’s the most Rozanov thing ever,” Dubois says. “I’m honestly impressed.”

“You need to confirm it, right?” J.J. asks. “You can’t just let everyone speculate.”

Shane pulls out his phone and looks at Ilya’s last text, sent two minutes ago.

Ilya: Was good plan, yes? Very fun. Everyone talking about us now 😈

Shane types back: You’re unbelievable.

Ilya: You love me. You’re going to marry me. Everyone knows now.

Shane: We still need to do an official statement.

Ilya: After game. After I score hat trick and dedicate it to my beautiful fiancé.

Shane: You’re not getting a hat trick.

Ilya: Want to bet? Winner gets to be on top tonight.

Shane: We both know how that will end anyway.

Shane puts his phone away and looks at his teammates, who are all staring at him expectantly.

“Yes,” Shane says. “Yes, that’s how he announced it. No, I didn’t know he was going to do it like that. Yes, I’m going to kill him later. Any other questions?”

“When’s the wedding?” Hayden asks immediately.

“Will there be Russian chicks?” J.J. adds.

“Details TBD,” Shane says. “Now can we please focus on actually playing hockey?”

But he’s smiling. He can’t help it. Because as ridiculous and over-the-top as Ilya’s announcement was, it was also perfectly them. No boring press release. No carefully orchestrated photo shoot. Just Ilya being Ilya — playful and dramatic and completely in love.

The game itself is intense. Both teams are playing hard, and the energy in the building is electric. The crowd keeps chanting “Ro-za-nov! Ro-za-nov!” every time Ilya touches the puck, and Shane isn’t sure if they’re cheering for him or making fun of him.

Probably both.

Ilya scores in the first period. Of course he does. He celebrates by pointing at Shane and blowing him a kiss, and the crowd goes absolutely insane.

Shane shakes his head from the bench, but he’s grinning like an idiot.

The game is tied 2-2 going into the third period. Shane has one goal and one assist. Ilya has one goal. The media is going to have a field day with this — the newly engaged couple going head-to-head in a tied game.

With five minutes left in the third, Shane gets the puck in the neutral zone. He sees Ilya coming to defend him, and for a split second, they make eye contact.

Then Shane dekes around him — an absolutely filthy move that makes the crowd gasp — and scores top shelf on the Boston goalie.

3-2 Montreal.

As Shane celebrates with his teammates, he skates past Ilya and can’t resist chirping: “Looks like you’re not getting that hat trick.”

“Game’s not over,” Ilya responds. “Still have five minutes.”

“Not happening.”

“We’ll see.”

But Ilya doesn’t score again. Montreal holds on for the 3-2 win, and in the handshake line, Ilya grips Shane’s hand a little too long.

“You win tonight,” Ilya murmurs. “But I win later.”

“We had a bet,” Shane reminds him. “You didn’t get the hat trick. That means I’m on top tonight.”

“We’ll see about that,” Ilya says with a wicked grin.

After the game, both teams are bombarded with media questions. The engagement announcement has overshadowed everything else about the game.

“Ilya, can you confirm you’re engaged?”

“To whom are you engaged?”

“When’s the wedding?”

“How did you propose?”

Ilya handles it with his usual charm. “Yes, I’m engaged. To the most beautiful, most talented, most wonderful person in the world. We’re very happy. Details about wedding will come later. Now, can we please talk about how I scored very nice goal tonight?”

In the Montreal locker room, Shane is getting similar questions.

“Shane, are you engaged to Ilya Rozanov?”

“How long have you been engaged?”

“Did you know he was going to announce it like that?”

Shane takes a deep breath and gives his prepared statement — the one he and Ilya agreed on weeks ago, before Ilya went rogue with the warmups announcement.

“Yes, Ilya and I are engaged. We’re very excited about our future together. We appreciate everyone’s support and ask for privacy as we plan our wedding. That’s all I have to say about it for now.”

But his smile gives him away. He can’t stop smiling, even when he tries to look serious and professional.

After media is done, Shane showers quickly and checks his phone. Ilya has sent approximately seventeen texts.

Ilya: That move you did. The deke. Very sexy.

Ilya: I’m not even mad you scored on us.

Ilya: Okay I’m little bit mad.

Ilya: But also very turned on.

Ilya: Meet me at home?

Ilya: And before you ask, yes I cleared it with our coaches. Told them is important fiancé time.

Ilya: They think is very romantic.

Ilya: I didn’t tell them about the bet.

Ilya: Or what I plan to do to you when I get there.

Ilya: Even though you think you’re on top tonight.

Ilya: Spoiler: you’re not.

Ilya: See you soon, my fiancé. My beautiful, talented, game-winning fiancé.

Ilya: I love you.

Ilya: Did I mention I’m very turned on?

Ilya: Because I am.

Ilya: Very.

Ilya: VERY.

Ilya: Hurry up.

Shane laughs and types back: I’m leaving now. And I’m still on top tonight. We had a deal.

Ilya: We’ll see.

By the time Shane gets home, social media has fully exploded. The video of Ilya’s warmup announcement has been viewed over 10 million times. There are think pieces being written. Memes being created. Fan art appearing.

But Shane doesn’t care about any of that. Because when he walks into his apartment, Ilya is there waiting — freshly showered, wearing one of Shane’s t-shirts, looking at Shane like he’s the only person in the world that matters.

“Hi, fiancé,” Ilya says.

“Hi, fiancé,” Shane responds.

And then they’re kissing, and the bet is forgotten, and positions don’t matter because they’re engaged and the whole world knows it and everything is perfect.

Later, as they’re lying in bed with Anya snoring at their feet, Shane says, “I can’t believe you announced our engagement by turning down someone else’s proposal.”

“Was perfect plan,” Ilya says smugly. “Everyone is talking about us. Is trending worldwide. And we didn’t have to do boring press conference.”

“Farah is furious,” Shane says. “She had a whole media strategy planned.”

“Farah will forgive us when she sees the merchandise sales,” Ilya says. “Already people are making t-shirts. Is genius.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love me,” Ilya says confidently.

“Unfortunately,” Shane agrees. “I really, really do.”

They fall asleep holding hands, their engagement rings — the ones they’ve been carefully hiding under gloves and tape for weeks — finally free for the world to see.

And the next morning, when they wake up to find they’re the number one trending topic worldwide, neither of them can stop smiling.

Because they’re engaged.

Because everyone knows.

Because they don’t have to hide anymore.

And because Ilya Rozanov announcing their engagement by turning down a fan’s marriage proposal during warmups is absolutely the most them thing that’s ever happened.

Perfect.

Ridiculous.

But perfect.

Just like them.

@TheGuyWithTheSign
For everyone asking: YES that was me with the sign. YES Ilya actually gave me the puck. And YES I’m framing it and putting it in my living room. Best rejection of my life. Congrats to him and Shane! 🏒💍
(2.3M likes, 75K retweets)

@NYTimes
How Ilya Rozanov Announced His Engagement in the Most Hockey Way Possible: A full breakdown of last night’s viral moment at the Bell Centre.
(256K likes, 21K retweets)

@TheAthletic
Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov: From Rivals to Lovers to Fiancés. The full story of hockey’s most talked-about couple.
(49K likes, 17K retweets)

@PrimeMinisterHollander
Congratulations to my son Shane and his fiancé Ilya. Though I wish they’d given me a heads up before announcing it during a hockey game. 😅 Love you both.
(2.8M likes, 93K retweets)

And somewhere in Russia, President Grigori Rozanov sees the news and sighs heavily.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Because his mother would hit him with a slipper.

And that’s a precedent he doesn’t want to set again.

Chapter 29: changing plans

Shane is sitting at the kitchen table in his apartment, surrounded by no fewer than seven binders, three tablets, and a laptop all displaying different aspects of wedding planning. His hair is sticking up in about fifteen different directions from running his hands through it, and he’s pretty sure he’s developed a twitch in his left eye.

“The caterer in Moscow says they need final numbers by next week,” Shane says, scrolling through his emails. “But the venue in Montreal says we can’t confirm numbers until we know the final guest list. But we can’t finalize the guest list until we know which relatives are coming from Russia versus which ones are coming to Montreal. And we can’t know that until we confirm dates for both weddings. But we can’t confirm dates until-”

“Shane,” Ilya interrupts gently. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling. I’m organizing. There’s a difference.”

“You just tried to drink from a highlighter,” Ilya points out.

Shane looks down at his hand. He is, indeed, holding a neon yellow highlighter instead of his coffee mug. “Okay. Maybe I’m spiraling a little.”

Ilya closes his own laptop — he’s been dealing with the Russian side of things while Shane handles the Montreal logistics — and moves to stand behind Shane’s chair. He starts massaging Shane’s shoulders, which are basically concrete at this point.

“We’ve been doing this for three months,” Ilya says. “Planning two weddings. Coordinating with two different countries. Trying to make everyone happy.”

“Your grandmother wants traditional Russian ceremony,” Shane says, leaning into Ilya’s touch. “My mother wants a classic Canadian reception. Your father’s people want it to be a political statement. My father’s people want it to be a political statement in a completely different direction. The Moscow venue wants a deposit we can’t give them until we confirm the guest list. The Montreal venue-”

“Shane,” Ilya interrupts again, his hands stilling. “What if we don’t do two weddings?”

Shane twists in his chair to look at Ilya. “What?”

“Two weddings is too much,” Ilya says. “Is making us both crazy. We’re hockey players, not professional wedding planners. And this-” he gestures at the chaos on the table “-this is not what wedding should be. Should be about us. About celebrating our love. Not about politics and guest lists and making everyone else happy.”

“But your grandmother-”

“My grandmother will understand,” Ilya says firmly. “She wants me to be happy. Not stressed. Not turning into person who drinks from highlighters.”

“It was one time,” Shane mutters.

“Shane.” Ilya kneels down so they’re at eye level. “What do you want? Not what our families want. Not what makes political sense. What do you want for our wedding?”

Shane thinks about it. Really thinks about it. And realizes that every time he pictures their wedding day — actually pictures it, not just the logistics — he sees something simple. Intimate. Just them and the people who matter most.

“I want the cottage,” Shane admits. “I want Muskoka. I want the lake and the dock and-” He stops. “Is that selfish? Your family would have to travel so far.”

“The people who love us will travel,” Ilya says. “And the people who won’t travel? Maybe they don’t need to be at our wedding.”

“What about your father?”

Ilya’s expression hardens slightly. “If my father wants to come, he can come. If he doesn’t, that’s his choice. I’m done making my life decisions based on what he wants.”

Shane studies Ilya’s face. “You’re serious about this.”

“Very serious. I want to marry you at the place where I proposed. Where we’re happy. Where we can be ourselves without cameras and politics and expectations. Just us and our families and close friends.”

“One wedding,” Shane says slowly, testing the words. “At the cottage. Small, intimate.”

“Yes,” Ilya confirms. “What do you think?”

Shane looks at the table — at the binders and tablets and the highlighter he almost drank from. At the stress and chaos and complication. And then he looks at Ilya — at the man he loves, the man he’s going to marry, the man who just offered him the perfect solution.

“Yes,” Shane says. “Yes, let’s do that. One wedding. The cottage. Fuck the political optics.”

Ilya’s face breaks into the biggest smile Shane has seen in weeks. “You said fuck. You never say fuck unless you really mean it.”

“I really mean it,” Shane confirms. “I’m done trying to plan two weddings. I’m done trying to make everyone happy. I just want to marry you.”

“Then that’s what we do,” Ilya says. He pulls Shane into a kiss, and for the first time in three months, Shane feels like he can actually breathe.

They spend the rest of the evening calling their families. Yuna cries, but happy tears this time, not stressed ones. David says he’s relieved because trying to coordinate security for two international weddings was giving him actual nightmares.

The hardest call is to Ilya’s grandmother.

“Babushka,” Ilya says carefully, with Shane sitting beside him for moral support. “We need to talk about the wedding.”

“Oh good!” Lyudmila says brightly. “I was thinking about the menu for Moscow ceremony. We should have-”

“We’re not doing a Moscow ceremony,” Ilya interrupts gently. “We’re doing one wedding. In Canada. At Shane’s cottage.”

Silence. Long, heavy silence.

“Babushka?” Ilya prompts nervously.

“Finally!” Lyudmila exclaims. “I thought you would never make smart decision! Two weddings is stupid idea. Who has time for two weddings? I’m eighty-six years old! You think I want to do this twice?”

Shane and Ilya exchange surprised looks.

“You’re … not upset?” Ilya asks.

“Upset? Why would I be upset? I get to see beautiful Canadian cottage. I get to watch you marry beautiful Shane. I get to do it once, not twice. Is perfect.” She pauses. “When is wedding?”

“We’re thinking June,” Shane says. “Early June, when the weather will be perfect.”

“Good, good. I’ll book flight. I’ll bring Boris—you remember cousin Boris? Very good with computers. He’ll help me with travel arrangements.” She sounds delighted. “Oh, this is much better. Now I don’t have to worry about two dresses. Just one very fancy dress. Perfect.”

After they hang up, Shane looks at Ilya. “Did we just get played?”

“I think my grandmother has been waiting for us to make this decision for months,” Ilya says slowly. “I think she knew two weddings was stupid and was just waiting for us to figure it out.”

“Your grandmother is terrifying and brilliant,” Shane declares.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “She really is.”

The next few weeks are a whirlwind of cancellations and reorganization. They have to cancel the Moscow venue, rearrange the Montreal plans to move everything to Muskoka, and completely overhaul their guest list. Instead of 200+ people across two continents, they’re down to about 60.

Immediate family. Close friends. Teammates they actually like. And Anya, obviously.

“This is so much better,” Shane says one night as they’re going through the new, much shorter guest list. “Look, we actually know everyone who’s coming. We actually want all these people at our wedding.”

“Is almost like we should have done this from beginning,” Ilya says with exaggerated thoughtfulness.

“Shut up.”

“You know I’m right.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Shane grumbles, but he’s smiling.

They hire a wedding planner — someone local to Muskoka who specializes in intimate weddings — and suddenly everything is easier. No international logistics. No political considerations. Just what kind of flowers do you want? What food do you like? What music makes you happy?

Simple questions with simple answers.

“I want it to be in June,” Shane says during one planning meeting. “Early June. By the lake.”

“Outdoor ceremony?” The planner asks.

“Yes,” Ilya says immediately. “On the dock. Where I proposed. Where we-” He looks at Shane. “Where we started this.”

“The dock it is,” the planner says, making notes. “We’ll need a backup plan in case of rain-”

“The cottage has big living room,” Shane says. “If it rains, we do it inside. But I hope it doesn’t rain.”

“For early June in Muskoka? You have about a 70% chance of good weather,” the planner says. “But we’ll prepare for both scenarios.”

They pick a date: June 7th. A Saturday. They choose readings — one in English, one in Russian. They select music that means something to both of them. They decide on food that represents their families — some Russian dishes for Ilya’s side, some Canadian classics and Japanese favorites for Shane’s.

And most importantly, they make decisions based on what they want, not what anyone else expects.

“I want to wear a suit,” Shane says. “Not a tuxedo. Just a really nice suit.”

“I want to wear tuxedo,” Ilya says. “Is more dramatic.”

“Of course you do,” Shane says fondly.

“You can wear suit,” Ilya says. “I wear tuxedo. We’ll look very handsome together. You looking professional and sophisticated, me looking like I’m going to opera.”

“You’ve never been to an opera in your life,” Shane points out.

“This is not the point,” Ilya says. “The point is I’ll look very good. And you’ll look very good. And everyone will be jealous that we found each other.”

Their wedding planner, Karen, looks between them with barely concealed amusement. “You two are adorable.”

“We’re competitive hockey players,” Shane corrects. “We’re not adorable.”

“You’re planning your wedding while bickering about whether suits or tuxedos are more dramatic,” Karen says. “That’s adorable. Own it.”

As the wedding gets closer, they start receiving RSVPs. Ilya’s grandmother is coming, obviously, along with cousin Boris and a few other Russian relatives. Shane’s parents. Teammates from both Boston and Montreal. A few childhood friends. David and Yuna, of course.

And then one RSVP arrives that makes Ilya go very still.

“My father,” Ilya says quietly, staring at the formal response card. “He’s coming.”

Shane moves to read over Ilya’s shoulder. The response is typically formal: President Grigori Rozanov accepts your kind invitation in perfect English. No personal note. No congratulations. Just the acceptance.

“How do you feel about that?” Shane asks carefully.

“I don’t know,” Ilya admits. “Part of me wants him to be there. He’s my father. But part of me-” He stops. “Part of me wishes he could just be happy for me. Without making it complicated.”

“Do you want to uninvite him?”

“No,” Ilya says immediately. “No, if he’s willing to come, if he’s willing to be there, then I want him there. Maybe-” He pauses hopefully. “Maybe this is his way of accepting us. Of accepting me.”

“Maybe,” Shane agrees, though he’s not entirely convinced. But if Ilya wants his father there, then Shane will support that.

They continue planning, and as June approaches, Shane realizes he’s actually excited. Not stressed. Not anxious about politics or optics or making everyone happy. Just excited to marry Ilya.

One night in May, they’re lying in bed at the cottage — they’ve been spending more time there as the wedding approaches — and Ilya says, “I want to take you to Moscow someday.”

Shane turns to look at him. “Yeah?”

“Yes. After wedding, maybe next summer. Show you where I grew up. Where I learned hockey. Introduce you to people who matter to me.” Ilya’s voice is soft. “Russia is … complicated. Is still not perfect. But is getting better. Slowly. Very slowly. And I want you to see it. Want you to understand where I come from.”

“I’d like that,” Shane says. “I’d really like that.”

“Is different now,” Ilya continues. “Laws are changed. Society is changing. Is still hard sometimes, still dangerous in some places. But in Moscow, in St. Petersburg, in the big cities — is getting better. Young people are more accepting. More open.”

“Because of you,” Shane says. “Because you came out. Because you showed them it’s possible to be yourself and still be successful.”

“Maybe little bit because of me,” Ilya admits. “But also because people are tired. Tired of hiding. Tired of pretending. Ready for change.” He rolls onto his side to face Shane. “I want to take you to Red Square. To the Bolshoi Theatre. To my grandmother’s apartment where I spent so much time as child. Want to show you everything.”

“Then we’ll go,” Shane promises. “After the wedding. Next summer. We’ll take a whole month off and you can show me everything.”

“Everything?” Ilya asks, his expression turning mischievous.

“Everything,” Shane confirms.

“Including the bedroom where I had first crush on boy from my hockey team?”

“Even that.”

“You’re very weird,” Ilya observes.

“You’re marrying me,” Shane points out.

“Best decision I ever made,” Ilya says seriously. “Besides getting Anya. That was also very good decision.”

“I’m second-best to the dog,” Shane says. “Good to know.”

“You’re tied for first,” Ilya corrects. “Both very good decisions. Cannot choose between them.”

Shane laughs and pulls Ilya into a kiss. And lying there in their cottage, with their wedding less than three weeks away and their whole future ahead of them, everything feels perfect.

Simple. Intimate. Just them.

Exactly what they wanted all along.

The days leading up to the wedding are surprisingly calm. No last-minute crises. No drama. Just final preparations and increasing excitement.

Ilya’s family arrives a few days early, and Shane watches with delight as Babushka Lyudmila immediately takes over the cottage kitchen, declaring that the catering is “fine but not enough” and proceeding to make approximately seventeen Russian dishes “just in case.”

“Babushka, the caterers are bringing plenty of food,” Ilya protests.

“Is never enough food at wedding,” she says firmly. “What if people are hungry? What if they want more? I make extra. Is what grandmothers do.”

Cousin Boris turns out to be exactly as advertised — very good with computers and extremely helpful with last-minute logistics. He sets up a video system so relatives who couldn’t travel can watch the ceremony remotely, and he does it all without complaining once.

Shane’s parents arrive the day before the wedding, and Yuna immediately bursts into tears when she sees the cottage decorated with flowers and lights.

“It’s perfect,” she says. “Shane, it’s absolutely perfect.”

David pulls Shane aside that evening. “I’m proud of you,” he says. “For doing this your way. For not letting politics or expectations dictate your wedding.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Shane says. “That means a lot.”

The night before the wedding, Shane and Ilya stay in separate rooms — tradition that Babushka insists on, saying it’s bad luck to see each other before the ceremony.

Shane lies in bed, unable to sleep, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’s getting married. Tomorrow he’s marrying Ilya Rozanov.

His phone buzzes with a text.

Ilya: Are you awake?

Shane: Yes. Can’t sleep.

Ilya: Me neither. Is weird being in different rooms.

Shane: Your grandmother will kill us if you come to my room tonight.

Ilya: I know. But I miss you.

Shane: I’m literally two rooms away.

Ilya: Is too far.

Shane: Go to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Ilya: Promise you won’t run away before ceremony?

Shane: I promise. Now go to sleep.

Ilya: Fine. But tomorrow you’re mine.

Shane: Tomorrow I’m yours.

Ilya: Forever.

Shane: Forever.

Shane puts his phone down and closes his eyes, a smile on his face.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow he marries the love of his life.

In a simple, intimate ceremony at the cottage where they’ve built so many memories.

With the people who matter most.

No politics. No complications. No stress.

Just love.

Just them.

Just perfect.

Shane falls asleep thinking about tomorrow, about Ilya, about their future.

And dreams of forever.

Chapter 30: lawfully wedded husbands

Shane wakes up to sunlight streaming through the windows and the sound of people already moving around downstairs. For a moment, he’s disoriented — why are there so many voices? Why is someone singing in Russian?

Then he remembers.

Today is his wedding day.

He sits up so fast he gets dizzy. His heart is pounding, but not from nerves. From excitement. From the absolute certainty that today is going to be the best day of his life.

There’s a knock on his door, and his mother peeks in. “You’re awake! Good. We have so much to do. Boris wants to test the audio system, Karen needs to confirm the timing, and Ilya’s grandmother has made enough food to feed a small army.”

“What time is it?” Shane asks, reaching for his phone.

“Seven AM. The ceremony isn’t until four, but trust me, the day is going to fly by.”

She’s right. The morning passes in a blur of activity. Shane showers, shaves carefully, and then has breakfast with his family while trying not to spill anything on his undershirt. Anya keeps trying to steal food off everyone’s plates, and Babushka Lyudmila keeps trying to feed Shane more.

“You’re too skinny,” she declares, even though Shane is literally a professional athlete in peak physical condition. “Eat more blini. Need strength for ceremony. For dancing. For wedding night-”

“Babushka!” Ilya’s voice carries from the other room, where he’s being kept separate per tradition. “No embarrassing Shane!”

“I’m not embarrassing! I’m being practical!”

Around noon, Shane’s groomsmen arrive. Hayden and J.J. help him get dressed in his suit — a perfectly tailored navy blue that makes his eyes look even deeper — and Hayden keeps making jokes to keep Shane from getting too emotional.

“Remember when we were rookies and you said you’d never get married?” Hayden says while adjusting Shane’s tie. “You said relationships were too complicated and you’d just live alone with dogs.”

“I was nineteen,” Shane protests.

“You were very adamant about it,” Hayden continues. “You had a whole plan. You were going to retire in a cabin in the woods with seventeen dogs and no human contact.”

“Seventeen is a very specific number,” J.J. observes.

“I was a weird teenager,” Shane admits.

“And now look at you,” Hayden says, stepping back to admire his work. “Getting married to Ilya fucking Rozanov on a dock in Muskoka. Life is weird.”

“Life is perfect,” Shane corrects, looking at himself in the mirror. He looks good. Professional. Sophisticated. Ready.

At 3:30, Karen knocks on the door. “Thirty minutes until we start. Everyone to their positions.”

Shane’s heart starts pounding again. This is it. This is really happening.

Downstairs, the cottage has been transformed. The dock is decorated with white flowers and sheer fabric that moves gently in the breeze. White chairs are set up on the lawn leading down to the water — about 60 of them, already filling with guests. A string quartet is playing softly. The sun is shining, the lake is calm, and everything is absolutely perfect.

Shane walks down to take his position at the end of the dock. His father is already there — he’s officiating the ceremony, which required him to get ordained online specifically for this purpose. The groomsmen line up beside Shane. And then they wait.

The music changes. The guests stand and turn.

And Anya comes walking down the aisle.

She’s wearing a custom harness that’s been decorated with flowers, and attached to it is a small pillow with both wedding rings secured on top. She walks slowly and deliberately, like she knows exactly how important this is, and when she reaches Shane, she sits perfectly and looks up at him as if to say I did my job, now give me treats.

“Good girl,” Shane whispers, giving her head a scratch. “The best girl.”

The music changes again. To the classical song Ilya chose — something beautiful and haunting that Shane doesn’t know the name of but that makes his chest tight.

And Ilya appears at the end of the aisle.

He’s wearing a black tuxedo that fits him perfectly, his hair is styled but not too styled, and he’s looking at Shane like Shane is the only person in the world. His grandmother is walking beside him — Ilya chose her to walk him down the aisle instead of his father — and she’s beaming with pride.

Shane’s vision goes blurry with tears. He blinks them back, trying to be strong, but it’s impossible. Because Ilya is walking toward him. Ilya is here. This is happening.

When they reach the dock, Babushka kisses Ilya’s cheek, whispers something in Russian that makes Ilya’s eyes go even more watery, and then takes her seat in the front row next to Ilya’s father, who is sitting rigid and formal but is actually here.

Ilya takes his position across from Shane, and they just stare at each other for a moment. Both of them are crying already, and the ceremony hasn’t even started.

“Hi,” Ilya whispers.

“Hi,” Shane whispers back.

David clears his throat, smiling through his own tears. “Welcome, everyone. We’re gathered here today on this beautiful dock, on this beautiful lake, to witness the marriage of my son Shane and his partner Ilya. This is a celebration of love in its purest form — the choice these two men have made to spend their lives together, to support each other, to build a future together.”

He talks about love and commitment and partnership. About the journey Shane and Ilya have been on — from rivals to lovers to partners. About courage and authenticity and choosing happiness.

“And now,” David says, “Shane and Ilya have prepared their own vows. Shane, would you like to go first?”

Shane nods. He pulls out the note card where he wrote his vows, but his hands are shaking so badly he can barely read his own handwriting.

“Ilya,” he begins, and his voice cracks immediately. He takes a breath and tries again. “Ilya, I’ve tried to write these vows about fifty times. I kept trying to find the perfect words to explain what you mean to me. But the truth is, there are no perfect words. Because what we have — what we are — is too big for words.”

Ilya is openly crying now, and Shane has to pause to wipe his own eyes.

“I spent so many years hiding who I was. Hiding what I felt. Pretending to be something I wasn’t. And then I met you, and suddenly hiding felt impossible. Because you saw me. The real me. Not the hockey player, not the son, just me. And you loved me anyway.”

Someone in the audience makes a sobbing sound.

“You make me laugh when I’m taking life too seriously. You challenge me when I’m being stubborn. You support me when I’m struggling. You love me even when I’m unlovable. And-” Shane’s voice breaks completely. “And I want to spend the rest of my life trying to make you as happy as you make me.”

He has more written down, but he can’t read it anymore because he’s crying too hard. “I love you,” he finishes. “I love you so much. And I’m so grateful that you chose me. That you kept choosing me. That you’ll keep choosing me for the rest of our lives.”

“Fuck,” Ilya says, which makes everyone laugh through their tears. “How am I supposed to follow that?”

“Language,” David says mildly, but he’s smiling.

Ilya doesn’t have a note card. He’s going from memory, and his accent is thicker than usual with emotion.

“Shane,” he begins. “In Russian, we have word родная душа. Means related soul. Or maybe soulmate is English word. Is person you were meant to find. Person who completes you.”

He wipes his eyes, but tears keep falling.

“I never believe in this. Think is romantic nonsense. But then I meet you, and suddenly I understand. Because you are my родная душа. You are person I was meant to find. And finding you-” His voice breaks. “Finding you saved me.”

Shane is sobbing now, not even trying to hide it.

“You saved me from life where I hide who I am. From life where I pretend. You showed me is possible to be authentic and happy and loved. You showed me that I deserve good things. Deserve love. Deserve happiness.” Ilya steps closer, taking Shane’s hands. “And I promise you — I promise on everything I am — that I will spend rest of my life making sure you know how loved you are. How special. How important. You are my home, Shane. Wherever you are is where I want to be.”

There’s not a dry eye on that dock. Even Grigori Rozanov, rigid in his seat, has a suspicious shine to his eyes.

David has to take a moment to compose himself before continuing. “Do you, Shane Hollander, take Ilya Grigorievich Rozanov to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

“I do,” Shane says, his voice steady despite the tears. “I absolutely do.”

“And do you, Ilya Grigorievich Rozanov, take Shane Hollander to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

“I do,” Ilya says. “Yes. Forever yes.”

“The rings, please.”

Anya, who has been sitting patiently this entire time, stands and moves forward. Shane and Ilya each take a ring from the pillow on her harness, and Anya gets multiple treats from David for being such a good girl.

“Shane, place this ring on Ilya’s finger and repeat after me: With this ring, I thee wed.”

Shane slides the yellow gold band onto Ilya’s finger. “With this ring, I thee wed.”

“Ilya, place this ring on Shane’s finger and repeat after me: With this ring, I thee wed.”

Ilya slides the platinum band onto Shane’s finger. “With this ring, I thee wed.”

“Then by the power vested in me by the province of Ontario and by the internet,” David says, which gets a laugh, “I now pronounce you married. You may kiss your husband.”

Ilya pulls Shane into a kiss that’s somehow both gentle and desperate, and the dock erupts in applause and cheers. Someone whistles loudly. Anya barks excitedly.

They break apart, both still crying, both grinning like idiots.

“We’re married,” Shane says, like he can’t quite believe it.

“We’re married,” Ilya confirms. “You’re my husband.”

“You’re my husband.”

They kiss again, and the cheering gets even louder.

The reception is on the cottage lawn, under a large white tent with lights strung everywhere. There’s a DJ, a dance floor, several bars, and enough food to feed twice as many people thanks to Babushka’s contributions.

Dinner is a blur of toasts and laughter. Hayden gives a surprisingly moving speech about watching Shane finally become himself. Ilya’s cousin Boris gives a toast half in Russian, half in English that has everyone laughing. Cliff tells embarrassing stories about Ilya from their time as teammates and J.J. does the same about Shane.

When it’s time for their first dance, the DJ plays “At Last” by Etta James — Shane’s choice, something classic and romantic. They sway together, and Ilya whispers, “I can’t believe this is real. That you’re my husband. That we did this.”

“Believe it,” Shane whispers back. “Because I’m never letting you go.”

After the first dance, the party really starts. The music gets louder, the drinks flow freely, and soon everyone is on the dance floor.

Babushka Lyudmila is doing some kind of traditional Russian dance with cousin Boris. Yuna is dancing with David. The teammates are doing that thing straight guys do where they claim they don’t like dancing but are actually having the time of their lives.

Around 10 PM, several of the Boston players decide that swimming in the lake is a great idea.

“Come on!” Ryan yells, already pulling off his shoes. “It’s a wedding! We have to do something crazy!”

“The lake is cold,” Victor protests, but he’s also removing his jacket.

“We’re hockey players!” Cliff declares. “We don’t care about cold!”

Before anyone can stop them, five Boston players — all in various states of undress but still mostly in their dress clothes — are running toward the lake and jumping in with spectacular splashes.

“Idiots,” Ilya says, shaking his head. But he’s laughing.

Shane’s teammates look at each other.

“We can’t let Boston show us up,” Hayden says.

“We absolutely cannot,” J.J. agrees.

And suddenly Montreal players are stripping down and running for the lake too.

“This is best wedding reception ever,” Ilya declares. He’s a little drunk — they both are — and his bow tie is undone, hanging loose around his neck.

“Your teammates are swimming in the lake,” Shane observes.

“Your teammates are also swimming in the lake,” Ilya points out. “Is equal opportunity.”

They watch as Cliff tries to dunk Hayden, who retaliates by splashing water directly into Cliff’s face. J.J. is doing some kind of bizarre backstroke. Ryan appears to be trying to race Brad across to the dock.

“I should stop them,” Shane says, but he makes no move to actually do so.

“No, no,” Ilya says. “Let them have fun. Is wedding. Everyone should do something crazy at wedding.”

“You want to do something crazy?” Shane asks.

“Always,” Ilya says with that wicked grin.

Before Shane can ask what he means, Ilya is running toward the lake, still fully dressed in his tuxedo, and launching himself off the dock in a spectacular dive.

“ILYA!” Shane shouts, but he’s laughing.

Ilya surfaces, his tuxedo completely soaked, his hair plastered to his head. “Come in!” He shouts. “Water is perfect!”

“You’re insane!” Shane calls back.

“You married me! You knew what you were getting!”

Several people are now filming this on their phones. Someone is yelling in Russian about how expensive that tuxedo was. But Ilya just treads water, grinning, waiting.

And Shane thinks fuck it. It’s our wedding. We’re allowed to be ridiculous.

He doesn’t bother taking off his jacket or even his shoes. He just runs and jumps, landing in the lake next to Ilya with a huge splash that soaks everyone nearby.

The water is cold, but Shane doesn’t care. Because Ilya is laughing and pulling Shane close, and they’re kissing in the lake while their teammates cheer and their wedding guests take photos and everyone is happy.

“Best decision ever,” Ilya says, wrapping his arms around Shane. “Marrying you. Having wedding at cottage. Jumping in lake in tuxedo. All best decisions.”

“You’re going to be cold later,” Shane warns.

“Then you warm me up,” Ilya says, waggling his eyebrows in a way that should be ridiculous but somehow is just endearing.

They stay in the water for maybe ten minutes — long enough to thoroughly ruin their clothes and for Shane’s mother to throw towels at them when they finally emerge.

“You two are impossible,” Yuna says, but she’s smiling. “Go change. You’re dripping everywhere.”

They run up to the cottage, laughing and shivering, and change into dry clothes. When they come back down, the party is in full swing. The DJ is playing “September” by Earth, Wind & Fire, and absolutely everyone is on the dance floor.

Babushka grabs both of them and pulls them into a dance that appears to be part waltz, part something she’s making up as she goes. They dance with her, then with Shane’s parents, then with each other again.

Around midnight, they cut the cake — a beautiful three-tier vanilla cake with strawberries and cream. They feed each other slices like normal people, not smashing it in each other’s faces, because they’re not monsters.

“Speech! Speech!” Someone chants, and soon everyone is chanting it.

Shane and Ilya stand together, Ilya’s arm around Shane’s waist, and Shane raises his glass.

“Thank you,” Shane says, his voice carrying over the crowd. “Thank you all for being here. For traveling to be with us. For celebrating with us. This day-” His voice catches. “This day has been perfect. Because you’re all here. Because we’re surrounded by love. Because-”

“Because you love me so much you can’t even finish sentence,” Ilya interrupts, which gets a huge laugh.

“Because I love him so much I can’t even finish my sentence,” Shane agrees, grinning. “So instead, I’ll just say: thank you. We love you all. And we’re so glad you’re here to share this with us.”

“And also,” Ilya adds, “you’re all invited back for breakfast tomorrow because my grandmother made too much food and someone needs to eat it.”

More laughter. More cheers. More love.

The party continues until almost 2 AM. People finally start leaving — either heading to hotels in town or to the guest rooms at the cottage. The players who went swimming are all wrapped in blankets and looking slightly regretful about their choices.

“Worth it though,” Cliff declares. “Best wedding swim ever.”

“Only wedding swim ever,” Hayden corrects.

“Exactly. Best by default.”

Shane and Ilya stay until the last guest leaves, thanking everyone personally, hugging people goodbye, promising to share photos.

Finally, it’s just them and their immediate families. Babushka has already gone to bed. Boris is cleaning up with Shane’s mother. David is making sure the cottage is secure for the night.

And Shane and Ilya are standing on the dock, looking out at the lake, still in their dry clothes but both exhausted and happy.

“We did it,” Shane says.

“We did it,” Ilya echoes. “We’re married.”

“How do you feel?”

“Like the luckiest person in the world,” Ilya says. He turns to face Shane, taking both his hands. “Like I found my person. Like everything that came before was just practice for this moment.”

“That’s very romantic for someone who just jumped in a lake in a tuxedo,” Shane observes.

“I contain multitudes,” Ilya says with dignity. “I can be romantic and also jump in lakes. Is part of my charm.”

“It really is,” Shane agrees.

They stand there for a while longer, just holding hands, listening to the water lap against the dock and the sounds of their families inside preparing for bed.

“Ready to go inside?” Ilya finally asks. “Is our wedding night. Should probably celebrate properly.”

“I’m ready,” Shane says.

They walk back to the cottage together, hand in hand, married.

Husbands.

Partners.

Forever.

Chapter 31: wedding night

By the time everyone else has finally gone to bed or left for their hotels, it’s nearly 3 AM. The cottage is quiet except for the distant sound of Babushka snoring in the guest room and Anya’s gentle breathing from her bed in the living room.

Shane and Ilya stand in the hallway outside their bedroom and just look at each other.

“Hi, husband,” Ilya says softly, a smile playing at his lips.

Shane’s heart does that stupid fluttering thing. “Hi, husband.”

“You know what I’m supposed to do now, yes?” Ilya asks.

“What?”

“Is tradition,” Ilya says, and before Shane can ask what tradition, Ilya is scooping him up bridal style.

“Ilya!” Shane hisses, trying to keep his voice down. “Put me down, you’re going to drop me-”

“I’m not going to drop my husband,” Ilya says, adjusting his grip. “I’m very strong. Professional athlete. Remember?”

“You just jumped in a lake fully clothed and have been drinking champagne for hours-”

“Still strong,” Ilya insists. He manages to open the bedroom door while still holding Shane — which is actually impressive — and carries him over the threshold. “See? Traditional. Perfect.”

Once they’re inside, Ilya sets Shane down gently and closes the door, locking it. For a moment, they just stare at each other again.

The room is beautiful. Someone has lit candles everywhere, creating a soft, romantic glow. Rose petals are scattered across the bed. The curtains are open, letting moonlight stream in from the lake.

“This is very romantic,” Ilya observes. “Very movie-like.”

“Very unlike us,” Shane says.

“Maybe we can be romantic sometimes,” Ilya suggests. “Special occasions. Weddings. Anniversaries. Tuesdays.”

“Tuesdays?”

“I like Tuesdays,” Ilya says with a shrug. “Are good day to be romantic.”

Shane laughs and pulls Ilya into a kiss. It starts soft, sweet, but quickly deepens. Three AM, exhausted, and still they can’t keep their hands off each other.

“Wait,” Shane says, pulling back slightly. “We should—this is our wedding night. We should make it special.”

“Every night with you is special,” Ilya says, but he’s smiling. “But yes, okay. Wedding night should be different. Should be-” He gestures vaguely. “Extra.”

“Extra?” Shane repeats, amused.

“Extra romantic. Extra passionate. Extra-” Ilya searches for the word. “Extra us.”

“I can work with that,” Shane says.

He starts unbuttoning Ilya’s shirt — the casual button-down he changed into after destroying his tuxedo in the lake. His fingers are shaking slightly, which is ridiculous because they’ve done this hundreds of times. But somehow tonight feels different. More important.

“You’re nervous,” Ilya observes, covering Shane’s hands with his own.

“A little,” Shane admits. “It’s stupid, I know. But this is—we’re married now. It feels different somehow.”

“Is different,” Ilya agrees. “Because now when I touch you-” He slides Shane’s shirt off his shoulders. “I touch my husband. When I kiss you-” He presses a kiss to Shane’s collarbone. “I kiss my husband. When I make love to you-” He looks up, meeting Shane’s eyes. “I make love to my husband. Is better. Is more.”

Shane’s breath catches. “Yeah. Exactly that.”

They undress each other slowly, taking their time, exchanging kisses and touches. When they’re both finally naked, Ilya guides Shane back to the bed.

“I want to take my time with you tonight,” Ilya says, his accent thick with emotion and desire. “Want to show you how much I love you. How much you mean to me.”

“You just told a whole wedding full of people how much you love me,” Shane points out. “In very emotional vows that made everyone cry.”

“That was with words,” Ilya says. He pushes Shane gently onto the bed and climbs over him. “This is with actions. Is different. Better.”

“Show me,” Shane challenges.

So Ilya does.

He starts at Shane’s neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along his pulse point. Shane tilts his head back, giving him better access, and makes a sound that goes straight to Ilya’s groin.

“My husband makes such pretty sounds,” Ilya murmurs against Shane’s skin.

“Your husband is going to make you pay for all this teasing,” Shane warns, but his voice is already breathy.

“Promise?” Ilya asks. He works his way down Shane’s chest, pausing to lavish attention on each freckle he finds. “I love these,” he says, kissing one on Shane’s collarbone. “Every single one. Have I told you that?”

“Only about a thousand times,” Shane says, but he’s smiling.

“Not enough. Should tell you every day. Every hour.” Ilya continues his exploration, mapping Shane’s body with his mouth. “Should write poetry about them. Very bad poetry. ‘Roses are red, Shane has freckles, his body is perfect, he is my-’” He pauses. “Okay, I’m not good at poetry.”

Shane laughs, which makes his whole body shake. “Thank God. I was worried you were going to try to rhyme something with freckles.”

“Speckles,” Ilya suggests.

“Terrible.”

“Heckles?”

“Worse.”

“Then I stop talking and continue with actions,” Ilya decides.

He moves lower, and Shane’s laughter turns into gasps. Ilya takes his time, using his mouth and hands in ways he knows drive Shane crazy. He’s learned Shane’s body over five years — knows exactly what makes him squirm, what makes him beg, what makes him fall completely apart.

“Ilya,” Shane gasps, his hands fisting in Ilya’s hair. “Husband, fuck, you’re killing me-”

“Good death though, yes?” Ilya asks, pulling back slightly. “Very good way to go on wedding night.”

“You’re-” Shane can’t finish the sentence because Ilya does something with his tongue that makes all coherent thought impossible.

When Shane is trembling and gasping and clearly close to the edge, Ilya pulls back completely.

“No,” Shane protests. “Don’t stop-”

“Not stopping,” Ilya assures him. “Just changing position. Want to see your face. Want to watch my husband fall apart.”

He moves up Shane’s body and kisses him deeply. Shane can taste himself on Ilya’s tongue, and it should probably be weird but it’s just hot.

“How do you want me?” Shane asks when they break apart.

“Always like this,” Ilya says, settling between Shane’s legs. “Always where I can see you. Where I can watch every expression. Where I can kiss you whenever I want.”

“Romantic,” Shane says, but his voice is shaking.

“Only for you,” Ilya says. He reaches for the supplies they keep in the nightstand. “Only my husband gets romantic Ilya.”

“Lucky me,” Shane says.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees seriously. “Very lucky. I’m excellent husband.”

“You’ve been married for like six hours.”

“And already I’m excellent at it,” Ilya says. “Very talented.”

He starts prepping Shane, careful and thorough despite Shane’s increasingly impatient sounds. “Patience,” Ilya murmurs. “Is our wedding night. We have all the time in world.”

“We’ll have all the time in the world tomorrow and the day after that,” Shane points out. “I don’t want to be patient. I want my husband to-” He gasps as Ilya hits that spot. “-to do that. But more.”

“Demanding husband,” Ilya observes, but he’s smiling. “I like it.”

He continues his careful preparation, watching Shane’s face the entire time. Watching the way Shane’s eyes flutter closed, the way he bites his lip, the way he tries so hard to stay still but can’t quite manage it.

“Ready?” Ilya finally asks.

“So ready,” Shane confirms. “Please.”

Ilya lines himself up and pushes in slowly. They’ve done this so many times, but it still takes Shane’s breath away every time. The stretch, the fullness, the feeling of being completely connected to Ilya.

“My husband,” Ilya says, his voice rough. “My beautiful husband.”

“Your husband,” Shane agrees. “Yours.”

Ilya starts moving, slow and deep, maintaining eye contact the entire time. It’s intense — too intense almost — but Shane can’t look away.

“I love you,” Ilya says, punctuating each word with a thrust. “I love you so much. Love everything about you. Your strength. Your kindness. Your-” thrust “-terrible sense of humor-”

“My sense of humor is fine,” Shane protests, but it comes out as more of a moan.

“Your competitive nature,” Ilya continues. “Your dedication. The way you look at me like I’m-” His voice breaks slightly. “Like I’m worth something.”

“You’re worth everything,” Shane says fiercely. He pulls Ilya down into a kiss. “Everything.”

The pace picks up, both of them chasing that edge. Shane wraps his legs around Ilya’s waist, pulling him deeper, and Ilya groans into his mouth.

“Touch yourself,” Ilya demands. “Want to watch you. Want to see you come for me.”

Shane obeys, wrapping a hand around himself, and the dual sensation — Ilya inside him, his own hand on himself — is almost too much.

“That’s it,” Ilya encourages. “That’s perfect. You’re perfect. My perfect husband.”

“Say it again,” Shane gasps.

“My husband,” Ilya says. “My husband, my partner, my everything-”

Shane comes with Ilya’s name on his lips and tears streaming down his face because it’s too much — the emotion, the physical sensation, the absolute certainty that this is exactly where he’s supposed to be.

Ilya follows moments later, burying his face in Shane’s neck and saying Shane’s name like a prayer.

They stay like that for a long moment, both breathing hard, both trembling. Eventually, Ilya pulls out carefully and gets a warm washcloth from the bathroom. He cleans Shane up with gentle touches, then himself, then returns to bed.

Shane immediately curls into Ilya’s side, one leg thrown over Ilya’s, one arm across his chest.

“Hi, husband,” Shane says softly.

“Hi, husband,” Ilya responds, kissing the top of Shane’s head.

“That was-”

“I know,” Ilya agrees. “Was perfect.”

“Better than perfect,” Shane says. “It was us.”

They lie there in comfortable silence, listening to each other breathe. Outside, the lake is quiet. The candles have mostly burned down, but moonlight still streams through the windows.

“Do you think it will always be like this?” Shane asks quietly.

“Like what?”

“This good. This easy. This-” Shane gestures vaguely. “This us.”

Ilya thinks about it. “No,” he says honestly. “Sometimes it will be hard. We’ll fight. We’ll disagree. We’ll have bad days and worse days and days where we want to kill each other.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” Shane says.

“But,” Ilya continues, “we’ll also have good days. Great days. Days like today. And even on bad days, I still get to be married to you. Still get to wake up next to you. Still get to call you my husband. So yes, I think it will always be this good. Just different kinds of good.”

“When did you get so wise?” Shane asks.

“Is wedding night,” Ilya says. “Marriage makes me wise. Is been seven hours already.”

“Six and a half,” Shane corrects.

“See? Already you’re being difficult. Is starting already, the hard times I warned about.”

Shane laughs and pokes Ilya in the ribs. “Shut up.”

“Make me,” Ilya challenges.

So Shane does — with kisses and touches that quickly turn heated again. Because they’re young and in love and it’s their wedding night, and they have all the time in the world but somehow it’s still not enough.

The second time is faster, more urgent. Shane on top this time, riding Ilya while Ilya holds his hips and watches with dark, hungry eyes.

“So beautiful,” Ilya says. “My husband is so beautiful.”

“Your husband is going to develop a complex if you keep calling him beautiful,” Shane manages.

“Good complex. True complex. Beautiful husband complex.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“Is now. I make it a thing. Husband privilege.”

They move together, finding their rhythm, and Shane thinks this is marriage. This is what people mean when they talk about becoming one person. Because right now, he can’t tell where he ends and Ilya begins. Can’t separate his pleasure from Ilya’s. Can’t imagine existing without this connection.

When they finish this time, they’re both completely exhausted. Shane collapses on Ilya’s chest, too tired to even move to the side.

“You’re heavy,” Ilya complains, but his arms wrap around Shane, holding him close.

“You’re comfortable,” Shane counters.

“Is not compliment when you’re crushing me.”

“You’re a professional athlete. You can handle it.”

“I’m also tired. We’ve been awake for almost twenty-four hours. And we jumped in lake. And had sex twice.”

“Are you complaining about sex on your wedding night?” Shane asks, lifting his head to look at Ilya.

“No, no,” Ilya says quickly. “Sex is perfect. Best sex. A+ sex. Would recommend.”

“Would recommend?” Shane repeats. “To who?”

“To-” Ilya pauses. “Okay, I don’t know. Not thinking clearly. Brain is broken from too much happiness and not enough sleep.”

Shane laughs and finally rolls off Ilya. “We should sleep.”

“Should,” Ilya agrees. “But also should stay awake forever so wedding night never ends.”

“That’s not physically possible.”

“Is romantic though.”

“It’s ridiculous,” Shane says, but he’s smiling. He pulls the covers over both of them and settles back against Ilya’s chest. “Go to sleep, husband.”

“Say it again,” Ilya requests.

“Husband.”

“Again.”

“Husband. My husband. My husband who needs to sleep because he’s delirious.”

“Perfect,” Ilya says, his eyes already closing. “Love you, husband.”

“Love you too, husband,” Shane responds.

They fall asleep within minutes, tangled together, wedding rings catching the moonlight, both of them wearing matching expressions of absolute contentment.

And outside their window, the lake is calm and the stars are bright and everything is exactly as it should be.

Perfect.

They wake up around noon the next day to the sound of voices downstairs and the smell of food cooking. For a moment, Shane is disoriented — why are there people in his cottage? Why does he smell blini?

Then he remembers. The wedding. The reception. The invitation for everyone to come back for breakfast.

“Shit,” Shane says. “Your grandmother invited everyone back for breakfast.”

“Is noon,” Ilya mumbles, still half-asleep. “Technically is lunch now.”

“We need to get up. We can’t let them know we slept until noon.”

“Why not? Today is day after wedding day. Is allowed to sleep late on day after wedding day.”

“Your grandmother is downstairs cooking for all our guests,” Shane says, sitting up. “We should help.”

“My grandmother will be offended if we try to help,” Ilya counters. “She likes cooking. Is her way of showing love. We go down, we eat, we accept love. Is what she wants.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure. I know my babushka.” Ilya finally opens his eyes and smiles at Shane. “Good morning, husband.”

There it is again. That flutter. “Good morning, husband.”

They shower together — which takes longer than necessary because they can’t keep their hands off each other — and finally make it downstairs around 1 PM.

The cottage is full of people. Not everyone from yesterday, but a good portion — family members who stayed in guest rooms, a few teammates who apparently crashed on couches, and Babushka, who is in the kitchen cooking enough food to feed an army.

“There they are!” Cliff calls out when Shane and Ilya appear. “The newly married couple, finally emerging from their love nest.”

“It’s one PM,” Hayden adds. “Rough night?”

Shane’s face goes red, but Ilya just grins. “Best night,” he says. “Very good night. A+ night.”

“Ilya,” Shane hisses.

“What? Is truth. We’re married. Is expected to have good wedding night. Is part of wedding tradition.”

“I don’t need details,” Shane’s mother says, but she’s smiling.

“No details,” Ilya assures her. “Just confirmation that tradition was upheld. Very thoroughly.”

“Oh my God,” Shane mutters, but everyone is laughing.

They spend the rest of the day with their guests — eating Babushka’s food, telling stories from the reception, looking at photos people took. Someone has already made a video montage set to music, and when they watch it, both Shane and Ilya tear up again.

“You two are very emotional,” J.J. observes. “It’s good though. Shows you actually love each other. Not just married for publicity.”

“We would be worst publicity marriage,” Ilya points out. “Two men, both hockey players, both from politically complicated families. Is worst possible publicity strategy.”

“That’s what makes it real,” Ryan says seriously. “You did it anyway. Despite everything. That’s love.”

As the day winds down and guests start leaving, Shane and Ilya find themselves back on the dock, watching the sun set.

“Same dock we got married on,” Shane observes.

“Same dock I proposed on,” Ilya adds.

“Same dock we’ve had many important conversations on.”

“Is good dock,” Ilya decides. “Lucky dock.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Shane says fondly.

“And you’re stuck with me now,” Ilya says. “Married. Forever. No take backs.”

“Wouldn’t want to anyway,” Shane says. He leans against Ilya, and Ilya wraps an arm around him.

They sit like that as the sun sets, painting the sky orange and pink. Married. Husbands. Partners.

Forever.

And neither of them would have it any other way.

Chapter 32: honeymoon phase

The villa is private — completely, totally private. Set on a cliff overlooking the Caribbean Sea, with its own pool, its own staff who only appear when summoned, and a bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a view so spectacular it should be illegal.

They arrive late afternoon on the day after all their wedding guests finally leave. Anya is staying with Shane’s parents for the three weeks they’ll be gone, and Shane already misses her even though they’ve only been apart for eight hours.

“She’ll be fine,” Ilya assures him as they walk through the villa. “Your mother will spoil her. She’ll gain ten pounds. Will be happy dog.”

“I know,” Shane says. “I just—I’ve never been away from her this long.”

“Is honeymoon,” Ilya points out. “Is supposed to be about us, not dog. Even though dog is very good dog, best dog, we still need time without dog.”

The villa is stunning. All white marble and soft blues, with gauzy curtains that blow in the ocean breeze. The bedroom is massive, dominated by a bed that could easily sleep four people. There’s a Jacuzzi tub on the balcony, somehow both private and offering the ocean view.

“This is-” Shane stops, taking it all in. “This is incredible.”

“You deserve incredible,” Ilya says simply. He wraps his arms around Shane from behind, resting his chin on Shane’s shoulder. “You deserve everything.”

“We literally got married three days ago,” Shane points out. “You can’t still be in the super-romantic honeymoon phase already.”

“I can be in super-romantic phase forever,” Ilya says. “Is husband privilege. Get to be romantic whenever I want.”

“That’s not how marriage works.”

“How would you know? You’ve only been married three days.”

Shane turns in Ilya’s arms to face him. “Fair point. Maybe this is how marriage works. Maybe we’re just exceptionally good at it.”

“Obviously we’re exceptionally good at it,” Ilya says. “We’re exceptionally good at everything.”

“Your humility is astounding.”

“I’m also exceptionally humble,” Ilya agrees. “Most humble person ever.”

Shane laughs and kisses him, and somehow they end up not even making it to the bed. The couch in the living room becomes their first conquest of the villa, and they christen it thoroughly while the sun sets through the windows.

That first night sets the tone for the entire week in Barbados. They quite literally do not leave the bedroom. Or the bathroom. Or the balcony. Or, one memorable time, the kitchen at 3 AM.

The villa staff leave meals outside their door and discreetly disappear. Housekeeping is instructed to only come when they’re absolutely sure the honeymooners are otherwise occupied (which is most of the time).

“We should probably see the island,” Shane says on day four, lying in bed after their third round of the morning. “We’re in Barbados. There’s probably stuff to do. Beaches to see. Culture to experience.”

“I’m experiencing culture,” Ilya says, his hand tracing patterns on Shane’s stomach. “Very intimate cultural exchange with my husband.”

“That’s not what cultural exchange means.”

“Is now. I make it mean that. Husband privilege.”

“You can’t just declare everything ‘husband privilege,’” Shane says.

“Can,” Ilya counters. “Watch. I declare that we don’t leave this villa for entire week. Husband privilege.”

“What if I want to see the island?”

“Do you want to see island?” Ilya asks, his hand drifting lower. “Or do you want to stay here with me?”

“That’s — that’s not fair-” Shane gasps as Ilya’s hand reaches its destination. “You’re cheating-”

“Not cheating. Persuading. Very different.” Ilya shifts to lean over Shane. “So? What do you want, husband? Island or me?”

“You,” Shane admits. “Always you.”

“Good answer,” Ilya says, and proceeds to make Shane forget all about beaches and culture and anything that exists outside their villa.

On day six, they finally make it to the Jacuzzi on the balcony. The sun is setting, painting the sky impossible colors, and they sit in the warm water with drinks that the staff somehow manifested without them seeing anyone.

“This is the life,” Shane says, leaning back against the edge. “I could get used to this.”

“Barbados or honeymoon?” Ilya asks.

“Both. All of it. Just-” Shane gestures around them. “This. Us. No hockey, no media, no expectations. Just us being us.”

“We go back in few weeks,” Ilya reminds him. “Training camp. New season. Cameras and questions and people having opinions about our marriage.”

“I know,” Shane says. “But for now, we have this. And it’s perfect.”

“Perfect,” Ilya agrees. He moves through the water to sit next to Shane. “But you know what would make it more perfect?”

“What?”

“If you-” Ilya’s hand slides up Shane’s thigh under the water. “-let me-”

“We just-” Shane protests weakly. “Like an hour ago-”

“And? Is honeymoon. Is expected to — what is English phrase — fuck like rabbits.”

“That is definitely the phrase,” Shane confirms, already giving in because he always gives in when Ilya looks at him like that. “Very eloquent.”

“I’m very eloquent,” Ilya agrees, climbing into Shane’s lap. “Most eloquent. Husband privilege.”

The Jacuzzi gets very good use that evening.

On their last day in Barbados, they finally venture out of the villa. Just to the beach — their own private section where no one can see them. They swim in the Caribbean, lie in the sun, and actually have conversations that don’t end in nakedness.

“This has been a good week,” Shane says, lying on a beach towel with Ilya beside him.

“Best week,” Ilya corrects. “Though next week will be better.”

“How could next week possibly be better? We literally haven’t worn clothes in seven days.”

“Next week we go to Ibiza,” Ilya says. “Is completely different experience. Parties, music, dancing. Very exciting.”

“I thought you wanted intimate honeymoon,” Shane says.

“I do. We had intimate here. Now we have exciting in Ibiza. Then we have meaningful in Moscow. Is well-rounded honeymoon. Very thoughtful planning.”

“You’re very proud of yourself for this planning, aren’t you?”

“Very proud,” Ilya confirms. “Am excellent husband.”

Ibiza is the complete opposite of Barbados. Where Barbados was private and secluded, Ibiza is loud and crowded and full of people. They stay at a boutique hotel in Playa d’en Bossa, right on the beach, with clubs and bars and restaurants everywhere.

“This is-” Shane looks around at the crowds of people, the music pumping from nearby clubs even though it’s only 6 PM. “Very different.”

“Is Ibiza,” Ilya says, grinning. “Is party island. Everyone comes here to have fun, dance, be wild. Is perfect.”

“I’m not sure I’m the ‘party island’ type,” Shane admits.

“Then we make you party island type,” Ilya declares. “Tonight, we go to club. We dance. We drink. We have fun that’s not just sex. Though there will also be sex. Obviously.”

That night, they go to one of the famous clubs — Pacha, with its iconic cherry logo. Ilya was right; it’s incredible. The music is loud enough to feel in your chest, the lights are spectacular, and everyone is dressed to impress.

They dance for hours. Ilya is surprisingly good at it, his body moving with the same grace he has on ice. Shane is less graceful — all the years of hockey training didn’t prepare him for club dancing — but he doesn’t care because he’s having fun.

And because watching Ilya dance — loose and free and uninhibited — is doing things to Shane.

Around 2 AM, they take a break at the bar. Shane is ordering waters (they’ve both been drinking but are trying to stay hydrated) when he feels someone press against his side.

“Hey there,” a voice says in English with an American accent. “First time in Ibiza?”

Shane turns and finds himself facing a man about his age — tall, muscular, with perfectly styled hair and an expensive-looking shirt. Next to him is another man, equally well-dressed, who’s watching Shane with obvious interest.

“Uh, yeah,” Shane says. “Honeymoon, actually.”

“Congratulations,” the first man says, not backing away. “I’m Jason. This is Josh.”

“Shane,” Shane says, trying to be polite while also trying to subtly move away.

“We know,” Josh says with a smile. “You’re Shane Hollander. Montreal Voyageurs. And-” he looks past Shane “-that’s your husband, Ilya Rozanov. We’re big hockey fans.”

“Oh,” Shane says. “That’s nice?”

“We were wondering,” Jason says, leaning in closer, “if you two might be interested in joining us for a drink. Somewhere more private. More … intimate.”

It takes Shane a moment to process what’s being suggested. When he does, his face goes red. “Oh. I—we’re not-”

“Think about it,” Josh says, pressing something into Shane’s hand. A hotel key card. “Room 908. If you’re interested.”

Before Shane can respond — before he can explain that they’re absolutely not interested — a hand closes around his wrist.

“Excuse me,” Ilya’s voice says, dangerously polite. “What exactly is happening here?”

Jason and Josh look up at Ilya, and something in his expression makes them take a step back.

“Just making conversation,” Jason says quickly.

“With my husband,” Ilya says. “Who was clearly trying to get away from you. Who said he’s on his honeymoon. His honeymoon with me. His husband.”

“We were just-”

“I know what you were doing,” Ilya interrupts. His grip on Shane’s wrist tightens, not painfully but possessively. “And answer is no. He’s not interested. We’re not interested. So you can-” he switches to Russian, says something that sounds extremely rude based on the tone, then switches back to English. “-leave now.”

Jason and Josh look at each other, then at Ilya’s expression, and wisely decide to leave.

After they’re gone, Ilya turns to Shane. “What did they give you?”

Shane holds up the key card. “Their hotel room key.”

Ilya takes it and drops it in the nearest trash can. “Unbelievable. We’re on our honeymoon. Our honeymoon. And people try to-” He stops, running a hand through his hair. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Shane says. “They were persistent but not aggressive. I was about to tell them off when you arrived.”

“Good,” Ilya says. “Because you’re mine. My husband. Not interested in anyone else.”

“Possessive,” Shane observes, but his heart is racing in the good way. Jealous Ilya is extremely hot.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, not even pretending otherwise. “Very possessive. Is that a problem?”

“No,” Shane says honestly. “It’s really, really not a problem.”

Ilya’s eyes darken. “You like when I’m jealous.”

“Maybe.”

“Not maybe. Definitely.” Ilya moves closer, backing Shane against the bar. “You like when I remind everyone that you’re mine.”

“We’re in public,” Shane points out, but his voice is breathless.

“I don’t care,” Ilya says. “Want everyone to know. Want everyone to see that you’re taken. That you’re married. That you’re mine.”

He kisses Shane right there at the bar, in full view of everyone, and Shane melts into it because jealous, possessive Ilya is his favorite Ilya.

When they break apart, Shane says, “Take me back to the hotel.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees immediately. “Right now.”

They make it back to their hotel room in record time, and Ilya proceeds to thoroughly remind Shane exactly who he belongs to. It’s intense and desperate and perfect, and by the time they’re done, Shane can barely remember his own name, much less anyone else who might have hit on him.

The rest of their time in Ibiza is calmer. They swim in the Mediterranean, explore the old town of Ibiza, eat at amazing restaurants. But every night, they go dancing, and every night, Ilya keeps a possessive hand on Shane at all times.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Shane says on their last night, after Ilya has glared at yet another person who looked at Shane for too long. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know,” Ilya says. “But I can still make sure everyone else knows it too.”

“Husband privilege?” Shane guesses.

“Exactly,” Ilya confirms.

The flight from Ibiza to Moscow is long — over four hours — and Shane spends most of it nervous. He’s never been to Russia. Never seen where Ilya grew up. Never met most of Ilya’s family beyond his grandmother and a few relatives who came to the wedding.

“Stop being nervous,” Ilya says, taking Shane’s hand. “Moscow is just city. Russia is just country. Is nothing to worry about.”

“Your father is there,” Shane points out.

“Yes, but we’re not seeing him,” Ilya says firmly. “We’re staying with my grandmother. Seeing my friends. Visiting places I love. My father is separate from all of that.”

“Okay,” Shane says, trying to believe it.

Moscow is overwhelming. The moment they step off the plane, Shane is hit by the foreignness of it all — Cyrillic signs everywhere, Russian being spoken all around them, the architecture completely different from anything in North America.

But Ilya navigates it all effortlessly, translating when needed, guiding Shane through customs and baggage claim like he does this every day.

They take a car to his grandmother’s apartment — a modest but comfortable place in a building that’s seen better days but is clean and well-maintained. Babushka answers the door before they even knock.

“Ilyusha!” She cries, pulling Ilya into a crushing hug. Then she turns to Shane. “And Shane! My grandson-in-law! Welcome, welcome!”

She insists on feeding them immediately, even though it’s 10 PM and they’re exhausted from traveling. But her blini are incredible, and Shane finds himself eating way more than he intended while Babushka asks about the honeymoon in rapid Russian that Ilya translates.

“She wants to know if you like Russia so far,” Ilya says.

“Tell her I love it,” Shane says. “And thank her for having me.”

Ilya translates, and Babushka beams. She says something else, and Ilya blushes.

“What?” Shane asks. “What did she say?”

“She says you are very handsome and she’s glad I married someone with such good bone structure,” Ilya mutters. “She’s very concerned about genetics for grandchildren.”

“We can’t have grandchildren,” Shane points out. “We’re both men.”

“She knows this,” Ilya says. “She still has opinions about theoretical grandchildren genetics.”

They spend the first few days exploring Moscow. Ilya takes Shane to the Red Square, to the Kremlin (from outside only — neither of them wants to deal with Ilya’s father), to the Bolshoi Theatre, to tiny restaurants that serve the best food Shane has ever eaten.

“This is incredible,” Shane says on their third day, standing in front of St. Basil’s Cathedral with its colorful domes. “I can’t believe you grew up here.”

“Is good city,” Ilya says. “Has problems, yes. But also has beauty. Has history. Has soul.” He takes Shane’s hand, not caring who sees. “I’m glad you’re seeing it. Glad I can show you.”

On their fifth day in Moscow, Ilya is quiet at breakfast. Babushka notices too, saying something in Russian that makes Ilya nod.

“Today,” Ilya says to Shane, “I want to take you somewhere. Somewhere important.”

“Okay,” Shane says. “Where?”

“To see my mother,” Ilya says quietly. “Her grave. I want to introduce you to her.”

Shane’s chest tightens. “Are you sure?”

“Very sure,” Ilya says. “She was most important person in my life for my first four years. And now you are most important person. I want her to-” He stops. “I want to tell her about you. About us. Even if she can’t hear.”

They take a car to the cemetery — a large one on the outskirts of Moscow. Ilya leads Shane through rows and rows of graves until they reach one with a simple headstone.

IRINA NIKOLAEVNA ROZANOVA
1962 - 2003
Beloved Mother

There’s a photo on the headstone — a young woman with Ilya’s eyes and Ilya’s smile. She’s beautiful, and Shane can see exactly where Ilya got his looks.

Ilya kneels in front of the grave and says something in Russian, soft and private. Then he switches to English.

“Mama,” he says, “I brought someone to meet you. This is Shane. Shane Hollander. He’s-” His voice breaks. “He’s my husband now. We got married last month. I wish you could have been there.”

Shane kneels beside Ilya, not sure what to do or say.

“He’s very good to me,” Ilya continues. “He makes me laugh. He makes me happy. He loves me even though I’m difficult and stubborn and too much sometimes. He-” Ilya wipes his eyes. “He’s everything I didn’t know I needed.”

Shane puts his arm around Ilya’s shoulders, and Ilya leans into him.

“I’m going to give you two a moment,” Shane says softly. “Is that okay?”

Ilya nods, and Shane stands, moving a few rows away to give Ilya privacy. He can see Ilya talking, his lips moving, but he can’t hear the words. It’s intimate and heartbreaking and Shane has to blink back his own tears.

After about ten minutes, Ilya stands and waves Shane back over.

“Can I-” Shane starts, then stops. “Can I talk to her? Alone? Just for a minute?”

Ilya looks surprised, then nods. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He kisses Shane’s cheek and moves away.

Shane kneels in front of the grave and looks at Irina’s photo. “Hi,” he says quietly. “I’m Shane. I’m your son’s husband. And I-” His voice breaks immediately. “I want you to know that I love him. So much. More than I thought it was possible to love someone.”

He has to stop and wipe his eyes.

“I know I can’t replace you,” Shane continues. “And I wouldn’t want to. But I promise you—I promise I’m going to take care of him. I’m going to love him for the rest of my life. I’m going to support him and challenge him and be there for him through everything.”

Shane looks at the photo — at those eyes that are so like Ilya’s.

“He talks about you sometimes,” Shane says. “When he thinks I’m asleep. He tells me stories about you. About how you called him your little star. About how you used to make him blini on Sunday mornings. About how you told him he could be anything he wanted to be, even when his father wanted to control everything.”

Tears are streaming down Shane’s face now.

“I promise you,” Shane says fiercely, “that I will spend every day making sure he knows he’s loved. That he’s valued. That he’s enough exactly as he is. Because he is. He’s everything. And I’m so grateful that you gave the world such an amazing person. That you gave me the person I get to spend my life with.”

He places his hand on the headstone.

“Thank you,” Shane whispers. “Thank you for your son. I’ll take care of him. I promise.”

He stands, wiping his face, and turns to find Ilya standing a few feet away, openly crying.

“Shane,” Ilya says, his voice wrecked.

“Come here,” Shane says, and Ilya crashes into him, and they hold each other in the middle of a Moscow cemetery while the sun shines down and somewhere, Shane hopes, Irina Rozanova is watching and is happy.

They stay at the cemetery for another hour, just sitting by the grave, holding hands. Ilya tells Shane stories about his mother — about how she loved to dance, how she taught him to skate, how she always smelled like vanilla.

“She would have loved you,” Ilya says. “She would have loved how you make me laugh. How you’re not impressed by power or status. How you love me just for me, not for being President’s son or hockey star, just me.”

“Just you is my favorite,” Shane says. “All the other stuff is just bonus.”

As they’re leaving, Ilya turns back one more time. “Thank you, Mama,” he says in Russian. “For everything. For giving me life. For teaching me love. For making me who I am. I hope I’ve made you proud.”

In the car back to Babushka’s apartment, Shane says, “That was—thank you for taking me there. For letting me meet her.”

“Thank you for what you said,” Ilya responds. “I heard some of it. Not everything, but enough. And-” His voice breaks. “It meant everything.”

They spend the rest of their time in Moscow exploring the city, meeting Ilya’s friends, eating too much food that Babushka insists on cooking. But that visit to the cemetery — that moment of introducing Shane to Irina — remains the most important part of the trip.

On their last night before flying back to North America, they sit on Babushka’s tiny balcony, drinking tea and watching the Moscow sunset.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” Shane says. “For showing me where you come from. For letting me into this part of your life.”

“Is your life now too,” Ilya says. “Russia is your home now, as much as it’s mine. Babushka is your grandmother. My friends are your friends. My mother-” He stops. “My mother is watching over both of us now.”

“I hope so,” Shane says.

“I know so,” Ilya corrects. “She would never miss chance to check on me. Even from heaven, she’s probably making sure I’m eating enough and dressing warmly.”

Shane laughs. “She sounds like she was wonderful.”

“She was,” Ilya agrees. “She really was.”

They sit in comfortable silence, and Shane thinks about how far they’ve come. From rivals to lovers to husbands. From hiding to openness. From two separate lives to one shared life.

And he thinks about Irina Rozanova, who gave the world Ilya, who made him who he is, who Shane promised to honor by loving her son for the rest of his life.

It’s a promise Shane intends to keep.

Forever.

Chapter 33: epilogue: GQ edition

GQ MAGAZINE - July 2028 “Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander: Love, Hockey, and Life After the Closet” By Laura Johansson | Photography by Elliot Hutchinson

The cottage in Muskoka looks exactly like you’d imagine a hockey player’s summer retreat would look — all wood beams and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a pristine lake. But it’s the little details that tell you this isn’t just any cottage. The Russian Orthodox icon hanging next to a Canadian flag. The two sets of skates by the door — one size 11, one size 10½. The family photos covering every available surface.

And the children’s toys. So many toys.

“Sorry about the mess,” Shane Hollander says, stepping over a pile of LEGO bricks as he leads me to the kitchen. He’s 37 now, with a few more lines around his eyes but otherwise looking much the same as the young player who made headlines 12 years ago. “We have a four-year-old and a six-year-old. The mess is just part of life now.”

“Don’t apologize for children living in their home,” Ilya Rozanov adds, appearing from somewhere deeper in the cottage with said four-year-old on his hip. The child — a little girl with dark curls and serious brown eyes — is clutching a worn stuffed animal that might have once been a dog. “Sofia likes to build things. And then destroy them. And then build them again.”

“Sonya is architect,” Ilya explains, using the Russian diminutive. “Very talented.”

“I’m not a architect,” Sofia says with the confidence only a four-year-old can muster. “I’m a hockey player. Like Papa and Dad.”

“Papa” is Ilya — Sofia’s accent gives it away, that slight Russian lilt she’s picked up from him. “Dad” is Shane. It’s a system they developed early, they’ll tell me later, to help the kids distinguish between them.

“Of course you are,” Shane says, ruffling her hair. “The best hockey player.”

A door bangs open, and another child appears — a boy, about six, with lighter brown hair and a nearly identical copy of Ilya’s smile. He’s dragging behind him what appears to be a very old, very patient dog.

“Leo, gentle with Anya,” Shane says automatically. “She’s twelve. She’s an old lady now.”

Anya — the famous Kunming Wolfdog, gift from President Xi Jinping himself — follows the boy with the long-suffering patience of a dog who has helped raise two children. She’s moving slower than she did in the photos from a decade ago, but her eyes are still bright.

“Lenya, show respect,” Ilya adds, using the boy’s Russian nickname. “Anya is babushka of dogs.”

“She likes it when I pull her,” Leonid protests, but he releases his grip on her collar anyway. Anya immediately lies down on the kitchen floor with a content sigh.

This is the Rozanov-Hollander household in 2028: chaotic, bilingual, full of love, and completely, utterly normal in the most extraordinary way possible.

We settle at the kitchen table while the children are sent to play with their grandmother — Lyudmila Rozanova, now 96 and still formidable, is visiting for the summer. Through the window, I can see her on the deck, teaching Sofia what appears to be a traditional Russian folk dance.

“My grandmother is immortal,” Ilya says, following my gaze. “She will outlive us all. Possibly out of spite.”

“She’s determined to teach the kids Russian culture,” Shane explains, pouring coffee. “Which is great, except now Sofia keeps demanding I make pelmeni, and I have no idea how.”

“I showed you how,” Ilya protests.

“You showed me once. That doesn’t mean I absorbed the knowledge through osmosis.”

They bicker like this for a moment — comfortable, familiar, the kind of argument that’s more habit than actual disagreement. It’s clear they’ve had this conversation before and will have it again.

GQ: You’ve been married for eleven years now. How has marriage changed you?

They exchange a look, having what appears to be an entire conversation without words.

SHANE: I don’t know if it’s changed us as much as it’s just … solidified who we already were. We were together for five years before we got married, so it wasn’t like the marriage itself changed the relationship.

ILYA: It changed how we thought about future. Before marriage, was always temporary plans. “Maybe next year we do this.” “Maybe eventually we live in same city.” After marriage, was “when we have children” and “where we retire” and “what we do after hockey.”

SHANE: Yeah. Marriage made the future feel real. Not just something we talked about, but something we were actively building.

GQ: Let’s talk about that future. In 2019, you both made headlines again by signing with the Ottawa Centaurs. You’d spent your entire careers as rivals — Shane in Montreal, Ilya in Boston — and then suddenly you were teammates. What prompted that decision?

ILYA: [laughing] Was not sudden. Was very long discussion. Many arguments.

SHANE: We knew we wanted kids. We’d known for a while. But we also knew we couldn’t raise kids in two different cities. We couldn’t be those parents who see their children every other week. We wanted to be there every day.

ILYA: Both our teams, we loved them. Montreal was Shane’s home. Boston was mine. But neither was more important than family. Than being together.

SHANE: Ottawa made sense. It’s close to my parents, so they’re around to help with the kids. It’s a good hockey city. And the Centaurs had cap space for both of us.

ILYA: Was strange at first. Playing on same team after so many years as rivals. But also was-

SHANE: -it was amazing. Getting to play with him instead of against him. Seeing his talent up close instead of from across the ice.

ILYA: We made each other better. Is what we always did, even as rivals. But as teammates? [He reaches for Shane’s hand on the table] Was magic.

GQ: You both retired this year. Do you have any regrets about timing?

SHANE: No. We talked about playing longer, maybe trying for one more Cup run. But-

ILYA: But our bodies were telling us to stop. [He rotates his shoulder unconsciously] Many years of hockey. Many injuries. And we wanted to retire while we could still play with our children. While we could still skate with them, teach them properly.

SHANE: And honestly? We’re tired. We’ve been playing professional hockey since we were nineteen. That’s almost twenty years. We’re ready for the next chapter.

GQ: What does that next chapter look like?

SHANE: [gesturing around the cottage] More of this. Family time. Teaching the kids hockey — though Sofia is insisting she wants to be a figure skater this week, so that might change.

ILYA: Last week she wanted to be astronaut. Week before, paleontologist. She is very ambitious child.

SHANE: Leo’s pretty set on hockey though. He’s already on a mini-mites team in Ottawa.

ILYA: He’s good. Very good. Has my hands and Shane’s hockey IQ. Is unfair combination for other children.

SHANE: [laughing] We’re trying not to be those parents. The ones who push too hard. But it’s difficult when you’ve both played professionally.

ILYA: We tell them: hockey is fun. If stops being fun, you stop playing. Is not career, is not obligation. Is just game.

GQ: You kept your relationship secret for five years. That must have been incredibly difficult.

SHANE: [quietly] It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Harder than any game, any injury, anything. Having to pretend the person you love is just your rival. Having to hide every time you’re together. Having to lie to everyone — your family, your teammates, the media.

ILYA: Was necessary though. In 2010, in 2012, even in 2014 — was not safe to be open. NHL had no openly gay players. Russia had propaganda laws. Shane’s father was politician. My father was president. Everything was complicated.

SHANE: We told ourselves we’d come out when it was safe. When the timing was right. But there was never a right time. There was always another reason to wait.

ILYA: Until I couldn’t wait anymore.

GQ: The hit. The one that changed everything. Take me through that night.

SHANE: [touching his head unconsciously] Montreal versus Boston. February 2015. I got hit — caught high, went down hard. I don’t remember much of it. Just waking up in the hospital with the worst headache of my life and Ilya holding my hand.

ILYA: [his voice tightens] I was on bench. I saw him go down and not move, and I—everything else disappeared. I didn’t think about consequences, about cameras, about anything. I just needed to get to him.

SHANE: He jumped off the bench in the middle of the game. Skated to me. Refused to leave my side.

ILYA: His coach asked where I was going, and I said- [he pauses, looking at Shane]

SHANE: He said “I’m going to be with my boyfriend who needs me more than the team does right now.” On live television. To twenty thousand people in the arena and millions watching at home.

ILYA: Was not planning to come out like that. Was not planning at all. But I saw Shane on ice, not moving, and I thought I cannot pretend anymore. Cannot pretend he is just rival. Cannot pretend I don’t love him more than anything.

SHANE: [his eyes are wet now] He chose me. Over his career, over his image, over everything. He chose me.

ILYA: [squeezing Shane’s hand] Was easy choice. Only choice.

GQ: The backlash must have been intense.

SHANE: It was. Some of it was supportive — we got so many messages from young LGBTQ people saying we gave them hope. But there was also hatred. Death threats. People saying we were destroying hockey, corrupting children, going to hell.

ILYA: My father was very angry. Threatened to disown me, to revoke my citizenship. But he couldn’t, because by then his mother — my babushka — had already beaten him with slipper on camera, and whole world saw it. [He grins at the memory] She is small woman but very powerful.

SHANE: [laughing] That video of your grandmother chasing the President of Russia with a slipper is still one of the most-viewed videos on the internet.

ILYA: Is her legacy. She is very proud.

GQ: You played a big role in Russia’s repeal of the propaganda law. How does that feel, knowing your coming out contributed to legislative change?

ILYA: [serious now] Is complicated. Yes, I helped change law. Yes, Russia is better now than it was. But is still not perfect. Is still hard to be LGBTQ in Russia. Still dangerous in many places.

SHANE: But it’s better. That’s what matters. Ilya gave people hope. He showed them it was possible to be yourself and still be successful, still be loved, still be Russian.

ILYA: And now we take our children to Moscow sometimes, and they see where I grew up, and we don’t have to hide. We don’t have to pretend. That is everything.

GQ: Tell me about the kids. How did you decide to adopt?

SHANE: We always knew we wanted kids. But we also knew that as two male professional athletes, the process would be complicated.

ILYA: Many agencies were [he searches for the word] not accepting. Told us that two men cannot provide proper home for children. Was very frustrating.

SHANE: But we found an agency in Ottawa that specializes in LGBTQ adoptions. They helped us navigate the process, prepare our home, all of it.

ILYA: Sofia came first. Was three months old when we got her. Tiny baby with big eyes and very loud voice.

SHANE: [smiling at the memory] I’d never been so terrified in my life. I’m a professional athlete. I’ve played in the Stanley Cup Finals. But holding this tiny baby and knowing she was ours, that we were responsible for her? That was terrifying.

ILYA: You were very good with her. Are very good with her. She loves you so much.

SHANE: Leo came two years later. He was a year old by then, already walking and getting into everything.

ILYA: Was harder adoption. He had been in system for while, moved between homes. Had trust issues. But we were patient, and eventually-

SHANE: Eventually he started calling us Papa and Dad. Eventually he let us in.

ILYA: Now he is happiest child. Loves hockey, loves his sister, loves Anya even though he pulls her tail.

SHANE: We’re very lucky. We know not everyone who wants to adopt gets to. We know we’re privileged to have the resources and support system we do. But these kids [his voice cracks], they’re everything.

GQ: How do you balance being fathers with your public personas? Your kids are growing up with famous parents.

ILYA: We try to give them normal life. Normal as possible, anyway. They go to regular school, play with regular children, do regular activities.

SHANE: We’re very protective of their privacy. No posting them on social media, no bringing them to public events unless absolutely necessary. They didn’t choose to have famous parents. They deserve to have childhoods that aren’t defined by our careers.

ILYA: When they are older, they can decide how public they want to be. But for now, they are just Sofia and Leonid. Just our children.

GQ: What do you want people to know about your family?

SHANE: That we’re normal. I know that sounds weird coming from two Olympic gold medalists who are married to each other, but we are. We fight about whose turn it is to do dishes. We struggle to get the kids to bed on time.

ILYA: We are just family. Just two parents trying to raise good children. Trying to teach them to be kind, to work hard, to be themselves.

SHANE: The fact that we’re both men, the fact that we’re both former athletes, the fact that we’re from different countries — that’s all secondary to the fact that we love each other and we love our kids.

ILYA: And we have very good dog. Don’t forget Anya.

SHANE: [laughing] Yes. And we have the best dog.

Later, after the formal interview portion ends, I’m invited to stay for lunch. Babushka has made enough food to feed an army, insisting that I’m “too skinny” and need to “eat something substantial.”

The kids are back inside now, and Sofia is showing me her LEGO creation — something that might be a castle or might be a spaceship, she hasn’t decided yet. Leonid is more reserved, staying close to his parents, but eventually he warms up enough to tell me about his hockey team.

“I’m the best player,” he says with the confidence of a six-year-old who hasn’t yet learned false modesty. “Coach says I have natural talent.”

“He gets it from me,” Ilya says.

“And his humility from you too,” Shane adds dryly.

Over lunch — a spread of Russian and Canadian dishes that somehow work together perfectly — I watch them. Really watch them.

Ilya cutting up Sofia’s food while simultaneously listening to Leonid’s story about school. Shane wiping up a spill while answering his mother’s phone call about what time they’ll be over tomorrow. Anya under the table, accepting scraps from small hands. Babushka presiding over it all like a tiny, benevolent dictator.

This is what happiness looks like, I think. Not the Hollywood version, not the sanitized version. The real, messy, complicated, beautiful version.

GQ: One final question. If you could go back and tell your younger selves anything, what would it be?

SHANE: [looking at Ilya] I’d tell twenty-year-old Shane that it gets better. That all the hiding and lying and fear — it doesn’t last forever. That one day you’ll be sitting in your cottage with your husband and your kids and your old dog, and you’ll be happy. Truly, completely happy.

ILYA: I would tell twenty-year-old Ilya to trust more. Trust that Shane loves you. Trust that you can have this. Trust that the world is changing, even when it doesn’t feel like it.

SHANE: And maybe I’d tell him to come out sooner. Not to wait five years. But-

ILYA: But maybe we needed those five years. Maybe we needed to be sure. To be ready.

SHANE: Maybe the timing was exactly when it was supposed to be.

ILYA: [raising his water glass] To timing.

SHANE: [clinking his glass against Ilya’s] To timing.

EDITOR’S NOTE:

As I’m preparing to leave, Sofia runs up to me with a drawing. It’s a picture of two stick figures on ice skates, holding hands. One has dark hair, one has lighter hair. Between them are two smaller stick figures — her and Leonid, I realize. And next to them is a dog.

“That’s Papa and Dad and me and Lenya and Anya,” she explains. “We’re skating.”

“It’s beautiful,” I tell her honestly.

“You can keep it,” she says generously. “I’ll make another one.”

I thank her and carefully tuck the drawing into my bag. It will end up framed in my office, a reminder of this day, this family, this story.

As I drive away from the cottage, I glance in my rearview mirror. Ilya and Shane are standing on the dock, arms around each other, watching their children play in the yard while Anya supervises. The sun is setting over the lake, painting everything golden.

It’s the same dock where Ilya proposed ten years ago. The same lake where they jumped in during their wedding reception. The same cottage where they’ve built a life, a family, a home.

From rivals to lovers to husbands to fathers.

It’s a love story for the ages.

But more than that, it’s a reminder that love wins. Not easily, not quickly, not without struggle and sacrifice and fear.

But it wins.

And sometimes, if you’re very lucky, it wins completely.

SIDEBAR: By The Numbers

• Years together: 18 (5 dating, 1 engaged, 12 married)
• Combined Stanley Cups: 10 (Ilya: 2014, Shane: 2015, 2016, 2020, Both: 2023, 2024, 2027)
• Combined Olympic Gold Medals: 2 (Ilya: 2014, Shane: 2022)
• NHL All-Star appearances: 24 (Shane: 12, Ilya: 12)
• Combined career points: 3,281
• Children: 2
• Dogs: 1 (very old, very patient, very loved)
• Countries where they’re legally married: 39
• Grandmothers who have hit world leaders with slippers: 1 (legendary)
• Regrets: 0

POSTSCRIPT:

Three months after this interview is published, Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander will announce the launch of the Hollanov Foundation, a non-profit dedicated to supporting LGBTQ youth in sports. The foundation will provide grants for equipment, coaching, and support services, with a special focus on helping LGBTQ athletes in countries where being out is still dangerous.

“We had each other,” Ilya will say at the press conference. “Not everyone is so lucky. We want to be there for kids who are alone.”

“Sports saved our lives,” Shane will add. “We want to make sure every LGBTQ kid has the same opportunity to find their home in sports that we did.”

The foundation will be funded by their own funds, endorsement deals, and donations from athletes around the world. Within a year, it will have chapters in twelve countries.

But that’s a story for another day.

For now, they’re just Ilya and Shane. Papa and Dad. Two former rivals who fell in love and built a life together against all odds.

And they’re living happily ever after.

Not because their story is perfect.

But because it’s real.

And because, after everything, they chose each other.

They’re still choosing each other.

They always will.

Chapter 34: epilogue: president rozanov

Chapter Notes

The New York Times - Breaking News Alert
June 12, 2046 - 3:48 AM EST

BREAKING: Russian President Grigori Rozanov Dies at 91

MOSCOW — Grigori Rozanov, who served as President of Russia for over four decades, died early this morning at his residence in the Kremlin. He was 91. The Kremlin confirmed his death in a brief statement, citing natural causes.

Rozanov’s death marks the end of an era for Russia and raises immediate questions about succession. The country now faces its first leadership transition in over 30 years.

@BBCBreaking
President Grigori Rozanov of Russia has died at age 91. The Kremlin has announced his death but provided few details. Russia now faces uncertainty about who will lead the country next.
(2.4M views | 481K likes | 153K retweets)

@CNN
BREAKING: Grigori Rozanov, Russia’s president for four decades, has died. His son, former NHL star Ilya Rozanov, has not yet commented.
(1.8M views | 304K likes | 98K retweets)

@Reuters
Russia’s longtime president Grigori Rozanov dead at 91. Questions arise about succession as thousands gather in Moscow’s Red Square.
(952K views | 274K likes | 65K retweets)

Shane: Are you okay?

Shane: I just saw the news. I’m so sorry.

Shane: Call me when you can. I love you.

CNN International

ANCHOR: “We’re continuing our coverage of the death of Russian President Grigori Rozanov. Joining us now is Dr. Dmitri Agutin, Professor of Russian Politics at Moscow State University. Dr. Agutin, thank you for being with us.”

DR. AGUTIN: “Thank you for having me.”

ANCHOR: “What happens next in Russia? There’s no clear line of succession.”

DR. AGUTIN: “That’s correct. Unlike some countries, Russia doesn’t have an automatic succession process. The government will need to organize elections. But already, we’re seeing something unprecedented happening in Moscow and other major cities.”

ANCHOR: “Can you elaborate?”

DR. AGUTIN: “There are massive crowds gathering, primarily young people. And they’re all chanting the same name: Ilya Rozanov.”

ANCHOR: “The president’s son. The former NHL player who’s been living in Canada for the past twenty years.”

DR. AGUTIN: “Exactly. Ilya Rozanov is perhaps the most famous Russian in the world. He won three Stanley Cups, an Olympic gold medal, and became an international symbol of LGBTQ rights when he came out in 2015. He’s beloved in Russia, especially among younger generations.”

ANCHOR: “But he has no political experience.”

DR. AGUTIN: “Neither did his father, initially. What Ilya Rozanov has is something far more valuable: genuine popularity. Not the manufactured kind his father had, but real affection from the Russian people. They see him as a bridge between Russia and the West, between tradition and progress.”

Reddit - r/worldnews

Posted by u/MoscowReporter - 6 hours ago

Thousands gather in Moscow demanding Ilya Rozanov take his father’s place (45.2k upvotes, 8.1k comments)

The crowds started small this morning but have grown to an estimated 100,000+ people in Red Square alone. Similar protests/demonstrations are happening in St. Petersburg, Yekaterinburg, and other major cities.

The signs say things like “ILYA FOR PRESIDENT,” “GIVE US ROZANOV THE YOUNGER,” and “WE WANT OUR PRESIDENT.”

This is wild. I’ve been covering Russian politics for 15 years and I’ve never seen anything like this.

Top Comments:

u/PoliticsNerd (12.3k upvotes)
This is actually insane. Ilya Rozanov hasn’t lived in Russia full-time since 2009. He’s been in North America playing hockey and then coaching for the past 40 years. Why would he want to be president?

u/RussianMillennial (18.2k upvotes)
Because we’re tired. We’re tired of old men who don’t understand us. Ilya represents something different. He’s openly bi, he’s married to a Canadian, he’s lived in the West but he’s still Russian. He gets both worlds.

u/SkepticalAnalyst (9.4k upvotes)
This feels like mass delusion. You can’t just elect a hockey player as president because he’s popular.

u/HistoryBuff (22.1k upvotes)
I mean... the US elected a reality TV star. Ukraine elected a comedian. At least Ilya Rozanov has integrity and international respect.

u/IlyaSupporter (15.8k upvotes)
He also helped change our laws. Don’t forget that he’s the reason we repealed the gay propaganda law. He’s done more for Russia from Canada than most politicians have done from the Kremlin.

Shane stands at the window of their Ottawa home, watching the sunset, when his phone rings. Ilya. Finally.

“Hey,” Shane says softly. “How are you?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya admits. His voice sounds tired. Strained. “Is very complicated feeling. I’m sad he’s dead. He’s my father. But also-” He stops.

“But also you had a complicated relationship,” Shane finishes gently.

“Yes. Very complicated.” Ilya sighs. “The funeral will drive me mad. Everyone wants something from me.”

Shane thinks about the news reports, the crowds, the chanting. “I don’t think it stops there.”

“What?”

“Turn on the news. Any Russian channel.”

There’s a pause, then Ilya’s sharp intake of breath. “There are so many people.”

“They’re all there for you,” Shane says. “They want you to be president.”

“That’s—no. That’s insane. I’m hockey player. I’m coach. I’m not—I don’t know how to be president.”

“Your father didn’t either, when he started.”

“Exactly! And look how that turned out. Shane, I can’t—this is not who I am.”

Shane takes a breath. “I’m going to say something, and I want you to really listen. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“You are exactly who they need,” Shane says firmly. “You’re compassionate, you’re intelligent, you understand both Russian and Western culture. You’ve spent your life building bridges between people. You’ve changed laws, you’ve changed minds, you’ve changed hearts.”

“I did that by playing hockey, not by being politician.”

“You did it by being yourself,” Shane corrects. “By refusing to hide. By choosing love over fear. That’s what leadership is, Ilya. Not policy papers and political maneuvering. It’s inspiring people to be better than they think they can be.”

Silence on the other end. “What if I fail? What if I’m terrible at it?”

“Then you’ll fail,” Shane says simply. “But you’ll fail trying to make things better. That’s more than your father ever did.”

More silence. Shane can hear voices in the background, people calling for Ilya in Russian.

“I need to think,” Ilya finally says. “Is huge decision. Will change everything. Our life, our retirement, our—everything.”

“I know,” Shane says. “And whatever you decide, I support you. If you want to come home and never think about Russian politics again, I support that. If you want to run for president, I support that too.”

“You would move to Moscow?” Ilya asks quietly. “You would leave Canada?”

“I would follow you anywhere,” Shane says. “I’ve been following you for forty years. I’m not going to stop now.”

He can hear Ilya crying softly on the other end. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too. Now go talk to your sycophants. Call me later.”

“Okay. Shane?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For always knowing what to say.”

After they hang up, Shane looks at his phone. At the wedding photo that’s been his background for twenty years — him and Ilya on that dock, both soaking wet from jumping in the lake, laughing like idiots.

They were so young then. Twenty-seven. Now they’re fifty-six, with gray hair and reading glasses and creaky knees.

But they’re still them. Still in love. Still choosing each other.

No matter what comes next.

@ilyarozanovofficial

My father died two days ago. This is very difficult time for my family, and for my country, who lost its leader.

Many people are asking me to consider political future in Russia. This is not decision I take lightly. Is not decision I ever expected to make.

I am hockey player. I am coach. I am husband to most wonderful man in world (hi @shanehollanderhockeyplayer, I know you’re reading this). I never wanted to be politician.

But I watch what is happening in Russia. I see the young people in streets. I see the hope in their eyes. And I remember what my grandmother told me when I first came out. “Sometimes the life we’re given is not the life we’re meant to live.”

I don’t know yet what I will do. But I promise you this: whatever I decide, it will be because I want to make Russia better. Because I want to build bridges, not walls. Because I believe in love, in progress, in a future where everyone can be themselves without fear.

Thank you for your patience while I make this decision. Thank you for your support. And thank you for believing that a hockey player can maybe, possibly, help lead a country.

More soon,

Ilya

(6.8M likes | 187K comments)

Top Comments:

@shanehollanderhockeyplayer: I believe in you. Always have, always will. ❤️

@luca_haas: Whatever you decide, you have my support. You’ve been an inspiration my whole career.

@thecliffmarlow: PRESIDENT ROZANOV. Make it happen. You’ll be amazing!

The Moscow Times - Opinion

By Ksenia Boyarsky - June 18, 2044

Why Ilya Rozanov Should Be Our Next President

I was 14 when Ilya Rozanov came out on that ice in Montreal, when he announced to the world that he was in love with Shane Hollander. I remember watching it with my parents, remember the shocked silence in our living room.

I also remember what happened next. The conversation that opened up in Russia. The slow, painful, beautiful progress toward acceptance.

Ilya Rozanov didn’t just change a law. He changed how we see ourselves.

I am one of millions of young Russians who grew up watching Ilya be unapologetically himself. Who saw him succeed not despite being gay, but as a complete person who happened to be queer. Who saw him marry the love of his life and build a beautiful family (yes, we all follow your Instagram, Ilya, we see you and Shane being adorable with your grandkids).

Now we’re being asked if a hockey player can be president. And I say: why not?

What has traditional politics given us? Corruption. Stagnation. A Russia that feels trapped between past and future.

Ilya Rozanov represents something different. He understands Russia — its soul, its pain, its potential. But he also understands the world beyond Russia. He’s built bridges his entire life. Between countries, between cultures, between people who thought they could never understand each other.

We don’t need another politician. We need a leader. Someone who inspires us to be better. Someone who shows us that change is possible.

We need Ilya Rozanov.

Ilya calls Shane at 3 AM Ottawa time, which means it’s 11 AM in Moscow.

“I’m going to do it,” Ilya says without preamble.

Shane sits up in bed, fully awake immediately. “You’re sure?”

“No,” Ilya admits. “I’m terrified. But I talked to babushka. I talked to advisors. I talked to the young people in streets. And they all said same thing: Russia needs change. Real change. Not politician who promises change and delivers nothing. Someone who actually believes it’s possible.”

“You believe it’s possible,” Shane says. It’s not a question.

“I do,” Ilya says. “I spent forty years believing that hockey could bring people together. That being yourself could inspire others. That love could overcome hate. And it worked, Shane. Not perfectly. Not completely. But it worked. Why can’t that work for country too?”

“It can,” Shane says. “It will. Because it’s you.”

“Will you come?” Ilya asks. “Will you really move to Moscow? Leave Canada? Leave everything we’ve built?”

“We’ll build something new,” Shane says. “We’ve done it before. We’ll do it again.”

“I love you,” Ilya says. “Have I mentioned that recently?”

“Not in the last few hours,” Shane says. “You’re slacking, husband.”

“Husband,” Ilya repeats, and Shane can hear the smile in his voice. “Even after twenty years, that word still makes me happy.”

“Me too,” Shane agrees. “Now go announce your candidacy so I can start packing.”

The room is packed with journalists from around the world. Cameras everywhere. Ilya stands at a podium, wearing a suit but no tie — a deliberate choice, more approachable than formal.

Shane sits in the front row. Various Russian officials sit around him, looking uncertain about what’s about to happen.

Ilya clears his throat and begins. He speaks in Russian, but translators provide real-time interpretation in multiple languages.

“Thank you all for coming. I know you have many questions. I will try to answer them.

“Five days ago, my father died. He was President of Russia for over forty-two years. He was also my father — complicated, difficult, but my father. I am still processing his death, and I ask for patience as I grieve.

“But I also understand that Russia cannot wait for my grief to be finished. The country needs leadership. It needs direction. And many of you have asked if I will provide that leadership.

“The answer is yes.

“I am officially announcing my candidacy for President of Russia.

“I know what you’re thinking. I am hockey player. I am coach. I have no political experience. You are right. I am all of those things.

“But I am also Russian. I love this country. I love its people, its culture, its potential. And I truly believe that we can build a Russia that is strong and free. Proud and open. Traditional and progressive.

“These things are not contradictions. They are who we can be if we choose to be brave.

“I do not promise you easy solutions. I do not promise you that everything will be perfect. What I promise is honesty. Transparency. Leadership that listens to you, not just tells you what to do.

“I promise to build bridges, not walls. To open conversations, not close them. To invite the world to see Russia as we truly are — complex, beautiful, full of potential.

“And I promise to do this with integrity. My husband will be at my side — yes, my husband, Shane Hollander, who many of you know. We will be transparent about who we are. About our life. About our values.

“Some of you will not like this. Some of you will say that a bisexual man should not lead Russia. That is your right. But I believe — and the young people in the streets believe — that it is time for Russia to be led by someone who represents all of Russia. Not just part of it.

“So this is my announcement. This is my promise. And this is my request: give me a chance. Give Russia a chance to be something different. Something better.

“Thank you. I will now take questions.”

The room erupts.

1. #RozanovForPresident
2. #NewRussia
3. Ilya Rozanov
4. Russian President
5. Shane Hollander
6. Moscow
7. #ChangeIsComing

The votes are counted electronically, with international observers monitoring to ensure fairness. It’s the most transparent election in Russian history.

Ilya and Shane watch from a hotel suite in Moscow, surrounded by campaign staff, family, and friends.

The results come in district by district. Ilya wins Moscow by a landslide. St. Petersburg too. The younger demographics are overwhelmingly in his favor. The older, more conservative areas are split, but even there, he’s competitive.

By 11 PM Moscow time, it’s clear.

Ilya Rozanov will be the next President of Russia.

The room erupts in cheers and tears. Staffers are hugging each other. Shane is crying. And Ilya just stands there, stunned.

“I won,” he says to Shane. “I actually won.”

“You won,” Shane confirms, pulling him into a hug. “You’re going to be President.”

They hold each other while chaos erupts around them, and Shane thinks about the journey that brought them here. From rivals to lovers to husbands to this. The President of Russia and the First Gentleman.

Life is very, very weird.

But it’s their weird. And that makes it perfect.

Ilya takes the oath of office in the Grand Kremlin Palace, his hand on a bible that belonged to his mother. Shane stands beside him, holding the bible steady.

The oath is in Russian, solemn and ancient. When it’s finished, Ilya becomes the second youngest President in Russian history.

In his inaugural address, he speaks about unity. About progress. About building a Russia that honors its past while embracing its future.

“I stand before you not as a politician,” he says, “but as a Russian who loves his country. As a son who wants to honor his mother’s memory by making Russia a place where everyone can be free. As a husband who knows that love is stronger than hate.

“Together, we will build something beautiful. Something that makes us all proud.

“This is not my presidency. It is ours. All of us. Every Russian, whether you voted for me or not. We are in this together.

“Let us begin.”

The crowd erupts in applause.

@shanehollanderhockeyplayer

[Image: Shane and Ilya on the balcony of the Kremlin, waving to crowds below, both wearing formal suits, Ilya’s hand in Shane’s]

So ... this is happening. My husband is President of Russia. I am First Gentleman.

Life is very weird.

But 40 years ago, we were two kids who thought we’d just play hockey and maybe win some championships. We never imagined this. Any of this.

We’ve been rivals, lovers, partners, husbands. We’ve hidden and been exposed. We’ve been scared and been brave. We’ve failed and succeeded.

And now we’re here. In Moscow. Building something new.

To everyone who supported us over the years, thank you. To everyone who believed that two hockey players could change the world, we’re going to try our best not to let you down.

This is going to be an adventure.

Спасибо за всё ❤️

- Shane

(5.9M likes | 107.2K comments)

@ilyarozanovofficial: Love you, husband. Let’s do this. ❤️

Chapter End Notes

Wow, I can't believe this is the end! Thank you all for joining Shane, Ilya, and I on this journey. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it 🫶