Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warnings:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

Explicit Sexual Content, Angst, college hockey AU, Older Bottom Shane Hollander, Younger Top Ilya Rozanov, Captain Shane Hollander, Rookie Ilya Rozanov, Alternate Universe - College/University, Explicit Language, Breathplay, Rough Sex, Humiliation Kink, Heavy Themes, Heavy Angst depending on Author’s mood, Slice of Life, Hurt/Comfort, Crack, Trauma, mentions of abuse, Mentions of Suicide, Younger Top Characters/Older Bottom Characters

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-24 Completed: 2026-02-21 Words: 54,863 Chapters: 15/15

Fractured Lights

Summary

Shane’s preferences are simple: older, rougher, married men who lie to their wives and gone before morning.

Ilya Rozanov is nineteen, Russian, and already moving into his dorm.

Cue in covert hookups, stupidly questionable life choices, and a rookie who stares at Shane like he’s a particularly fascinating bug under a microscope.

Now he has to explain why he keeps getting texts from "Mr. Chicago" while trying to teach this kid how to use the campus laundry without melting his sweaters.

Campus life promised new experiences. It failed to mention the experience of being psychologically dissected over instant ramen by a stupidly handsome blond Russian who hasn't blinked in seven minutes.

---

This fic is finished! You can binge-read it now 😁

Notes

Author’s Note / Content Warning:

This work contains heavy and potentially triggering themes, including but not limited to: emotionally unhealthy relationships, infidelity, power imbalance, self-destructive coping mechanisms, emotional neglect, and explicit sexual content. These themes are explored deliberately and in depth. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Please take care of yourself and do not continue if these topics are distressing for you.

Chapter 1

Hayden’s voice carried across the whirring chill of the rink like he’d been born breathing ice. “There he is,” he said, his elbow nudging Shane’s ribs without subtlety. “Goldilocks himself, straight from whatever Russian snowdrift they plucked him from.”

Shane didn’t look up at first. He was tugging the strap on his pad tight, the heel of his hand nudging the buckle until he felt it bite. Nothing but routine, a pregame ritual of tug, adjust, tug again. Almost enough to drown out the pull at the corner of his eye where curiosity threatened. Hayden didn’t shut up though.

“Swear to god, look at him. He’s not even wearing his gear and he looks like he walked out of some murder show. Cold, deadly, probably fucking lethal with a puck.”

Shane exhaled through his nose and finally turned. There, toward the boards where the coaches huddled with clipboards and tight mouths, stood a guy in a gray coat that hung open to reveal a fitted black sweater, jeans cut so well they probably cost more than their entire equipment line, and hair like wheat lit by some invisible sun.

Ilya Rozanov.

Prodigy, troublemaker, a walking headline with hands too good to bench and an attitude nobody had figured out how to rein in yet. Shane had heard all of it before the kid even stepped foot onto Northbridge ice.

“You’re staring,” Hayden whispered.

“You’re annoying,” Shane shot back, but there was no heat. It was easier to stare quietly than argue. Ilya was tall, easily a few inches more than Shane despite the gap in age. Broad shoulders filled the coat, laces undone on boots that looked expensive but scuffed. Hands in pockets. He barely nodded as the coaches gestured and talked, proud line of his mouth flat, eyes narrowed, hazel flickering against the glaring lights of the rink. He looked bored. Detached. The rookie everyone had been gossiping about for weeks stands there like he had better things to do than listen to men in their forties gush over him.

“He’s rooming with you,” Hayden said. “Because the universe hates me.”

Shane paused then, his glance sharp. “What?”

“Coach said it. You’d know if you listened when he talks.” Hayden smirked. “But luckily you have me, and I have the uncanny ability to gather gossip from thin air. The guy’s been assigned to Room 608. Your room.”

Shane didn’t outwardly react. Just turned back to his skate and tightened the laces until his fingers throbbed. “That’s temporary. He can’t be transferred mid-season and expect to steal my space.”

“He can and he has,” Hayden hummed. “Look, you know the dorm situation’s always tight. One bed, two guys, cry me a river. At least he’s hot.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters enough that I heard he fucked half his last team.”

“You hear a lot of shit. Doesn’t make it true.”

Hayden shrugged and leaned against the boards, helmet dangling from his fingertips. “I hear what the managers hear, what the coaches mutter when they think we’re not listening. They’re obsessed with him. The entire fucking program has been waiting for him like he’s the second coming of Gretzky. Rumor says he fucked his old captain’s girlfriend, knocked out a defenseman with one punch, and still scored a hat trick the next day. He left because they couldn’t handle him. Or because he wanted ‘a bigger challenge’. Your pick.”

Shane watched Ilya nod at whatever Coach Morgan said, then laugh. Just a tilt of his mouth, barely there, but it tightened Shane’s jaw. That sound didn’t reach him across the ice, but he imagined it low and quiet.

Hayden spoke again. “He’ll be moving his shit in this weekend. Figured you’d want to know, seeing as your side of the room looks like an IKEA catalog and his probably looks like… whatever Russians live in, I don’t know. Bears? Washington Capitals posters? Vodka barrels?”

“Do you do anything besides talk?”

“I win faceoffs and I gather information. Congratulations, you’re bunking with a six-foot-three hazard with a passport.” Hayden slapped his helmet on and pushed off the boards, skates scraping. “He’s trouble. Coaches love him. I’ve already resigned myself, but you? You get to sleep with him breathing down your neck.”

The words slipped under Shane’s skin; he couldn’t deny that. He looked back, caught Ilya watching the team from across the rink. Caught his eyes flickering from drill to drill, scanning, absorbing. It felt like being studied from a distance, dissected without permission. Even his posture screamed patience. Anyone else would fidget as coaches droned on for twenty minutes. Ilya? He listened like a king indulging a court jester.

Shane forced himself to look away. Hayden was still talking, and only when he heard the snippet “he was playing against grown men when he was like fifteen” did he tune back in.

“That’s just Canada,” Shane said, deadpan. “We all play grown men.”

“Yeah but he was in Russia. Siberia. Or something. It’s colder there. People are harder. Their mothers probably feed them frozen meat and threats. Look at him.” Hayden jerked his head toward Ilya again, voice lowering. “He’s nineteen. You’re twenty-one. Easily looks older than both of us put together.”

The only thing older about Ilya was the way he looked at the rink. The way he stood, tall and relaxed, not a drop of nerves. He had the face of someone who probably got anything he wanted. The mouth of someone who might push.

Star players usually were trouble. Shane had spent four years grinding through captains’ meetings, endless practices, babysitting younger guys, breaking up dumb fights. He’d handled hotshots before. He’d dealt with arrogance. But this felt different, like the entire rink had tilted toward the rookie without needing him there yet.

Shane exhaled and pulled his helmet on, chin strap clicking into place. “Practice starts in two minutes. Please be normal.”

Hayden laughed and skated backward toward center ice. “Relax, Captain. Morale is important. It’s called team bonding.”

Shane ignored him and stepped onto the ice. The world sharpened: cold cutting into lungs, the shriek of blades, the thud of sticks on the boards. He fell into the rhythm as usual: lead the warm-up laps, watch the rookies, bark his orders like muscle memory. Coach Morgan called out drills, and they dove into line rushes, passing patterns, breakout work. The team was focused, and as the minutes slid past, he let the churn of his thoughts fade. Hockey was the only thing that did that. Hockey was the only place he felt easy inside his skin.

Except the prickling awareness at the back of his neck wouldn’t disappear. Every time he looped around center ice, he caught Ilya on the bench in the highest row, sitting like a goddamn spectator with elbows on knees, watching everything. Watching him. It wasn’t a glare. Wasn’t admiration. Interest, maybe? Even curiosity. Assessing the captain he would have to deal with soon.

Shane pushed harder, lungs burning. He refused to acknowledge the stare.

Morgan’s whistle cut through the ice. “Hollander! Come over for a bit.”

Shane grabbed a puck and skated over. Coach waved him closer, turning toward the bench. Ilya stood, hands in his coat pockets, expression neutral. Up close, he was even more intimidating, strong lines carved into his face, eyes a shade of hazel that shifted green under the rink lights. Up close, he smelled faintly like cedar and crisp winter air. He was tall, carrying his height like a weapon.

Shane pulled his helmet off, breath fogging. “Coach.”

Morgan clapped Ilya’s shoulder. “Ilya Rozanov. He’ll be practicing with us in a few days once his paperwork clears. Wanted you two to get acquainted.”

The rookie extended his hand, fingers long, the wrist strong despite the casual posture. The lenses of his eyes were unreadable, yet heavy with assessment. When Shane’s palm met his, the grip didn’t crush, didn’t clamp, it simply held, past the line of formality, like he was checking for stress fractures.

“Nice to meet you, Captain,” Ilya said, voice thick with a Russian lilt, each syllable sliding with a chilly cadence. “Heard a lot about you.”

Shane kept his reply minimal. “Likewise.”

His pulse ticked painfully behind his jaw. The weight of Ilya’s attention hit him like a two-by-four. He’d usually drop some light comment, laugh along, be a friendly leader. Instead he slid his hand away from that long grip and swallowed the urge to shift his feet, to wipe his palm discreetly.

“Why don’t you show him some of the drills later?” Coach suggested.

“Happy to,” he said, automatic, even if he meant the opposite. He backed away, rejoining the drill circuit with a nod. Ilya leaned against the boards near the top rows of seats once he released him, sitting like a disinterested patron waiting for the show to get good. Hayden zipped past, circles tight. “How’s the new guy?” he asked out of the corner of his mouth, reading Shane’s expression quickly.

“Ask him yourself,” Shane muttered.

“I will later, don’t worry,” Hayden said cheerfully. “Kid looks like if Bond was in a Calvin Klein campaign.”

Shane pretended he didn’t hear that. He focused on the ice, on the puck moving between sticks, on the bit of practice that felt honest. Across the ice, Ilya leaned back and draped one arm over the bench behind him, legs spread, posture loose as if he owned the rink. He watched the breakout drill with frightening focus, eyes trailing from winger to defense, pausing when Shane cut through center to take the one-timer. Shane felt the stare, felt it even when he wasn’t looking directly. The rookie marked every stride, every pass, every decision. It made him sharper, angrier. He pushed the line harder, barked a few corrections, drove the team through sprints.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya never moved, never looked away. Maybe the kid wasn’t as bored as he let on. Shane wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse. If he was faking indifference, it meant he was deliberate, and deliberate people always wanted something.

Practice wound down as usual. Coach made closing remarks, emphasizing the upcoming tournament. The team dispersed toward the locker room with their usual energy. Shane stayed behind as everyone else clattered out accompanied by steam and chatter. He folded towels, centered them, put up pucks. It soothed him, banal tasks that he could control. When he finally looked over toward the section where Ilya had been sitting, it was empty, as if the guy hadn’t been there at all. He had a feeling he would still see him everywhere he looked.

“Man disappears like smoke,” Hayden said. “You sure he’s not a spy?”

Shane pulled off his gloves. “What would he be spying on?”

“I don’t know, but if he’s rooming with you, lock up your diaries.”

“I don’t have a diary.”

“Whatever you call the leather journal you write in every night.”

“That’s for checking plays and patterns,” Shane said. “Also, mind your business.”

Hayden grinned wide, exposing teeth. “Seriously though. Don’t let him boss you. Freshmen who flirt with the coaches can be dangerous.”

“He hasn’t flirted with anyone,” Shane said. It came out sharper than planned, so he added, “He’s Russian. They stare.”

“Is that a stereotype?”

“Maybe,” Shane said, already walking toward the tunnel. “We’ll find out.”

The dorm hall smelled like industrial cleaner and stale pizza. Shane dumped his bag by his desk and stepped straight into the bathroom to scrub the sweat off. The hot water did little to unravel the tight coil inside him. He cleaned, dressed, pulled on an oversized gray hoodie with a cracked logo from two seasons ago. He stood by the bed, staring at the note pinned to the corkboard by his computer bearing coach’s signature: “Final room assignment updates. Please pick up keys for new roommate tomorrow.”

He killed an hour under the guise of film review. The team footage loaded slowly, and he watched the clip of his sloppy board battle from last game, the one that nearly got him smashed between two opponents. He should have reversed the play sooner. Or maybe he needed to be faster on his edges. The video froze on his grimace mid-hit. He shut off the monitor and stuffed the laptop into his bag.

Shane blinked, half lost-in-thought, then pushed to his feet, tugging his hoodie straight and slinging the bag over his shoulder.

He needed a break.

The hotel sat three blocks off campus, a corporate chain with a glossy lobby and indifferent staff who’d seen enough secret meetings to never ask questions. Shane strode through the revolving door, nodding once at the night clerk, and headed straight to the elevator bank. He knew the room number by heart. The man waiting upstairs always booked the same suite, liked routine, liked control.

Room 912 opened with a soft click. Inside, the lights were dimmed, curtains drawn against the city’s frosted glow. A man in an expensive navy suit stood near the mini bar, tie loosened, phone pressed to his ear. He was in his early thirties, hair slicked back, eyes a sharp green that hardened whenever he glanced at Shane.

“There you are,” he said around a tight smile, then addressed the phone. “Yeah, babe, just got in. The flight was delayed. Yeah, still in Chicago. No, I told you, the client wanted the presentation tonight. I’ll be back by Thursday morning.” His voice glided with practiced ease through the lie, an entire narrative he’d conjured a dozen times before.

Shane closed the door behind him and shrugged off his coat, hanging it on the chair, revealing the fitted sweater clinging to his torso. He watched the man talk, watched the way his eyes flickered with irritation at whatever question his wife asked now. Shane unbuttoned the sweater slowly, letting it slide off his shoulders, leaving him in the thin white T-shirt underneath. He toed off his boots, never making noise beyond the soft thud.

The man’s gaze caught on him then, pupils dilating briefly before he looked away. “Of course, honey. Yeah, the guys are taking me to some steakhouse. You know how it is. I’ll call you before bed.” Shane could hear the faint female voice on the other end, concerned, trusting. It used to make him feel guilty. Now it barely registered as background noise to the drumbeat pounding in his veins.

He crossed the room, slow steps, until he stood directly in front of the man. Without asking, he sank to his knees and ran his palms up the man’s thighs, pressing them inward. The man inhaled sharply, phone still to his ear. Shane nuzzled the fabric, breathing in the mix of aftershave and travel cologne. He palmed the bulge through the slacks, feeling it swell under his touch, and a thrill sparked through him, electric, dangerous.

“Yes, honey,” the man said, voice tight. “I’ll text you the hotel address. Room…uh…912.” Shane’s mouth twitched. He palmed harder, fingers kneading, and the man’s free hand finally dropped to tangle in Shane’s black hair. There was the first tug, light, testing. Shane’s nerves fired. He nipped at the fabric, teeth dragging, and the man grunted softly.

When the call finally ended with a sugar-sweet goodbye, the man tossed the phone onto the nightstand and cupped Shane’s jaw, forcing his head up. “You’re late.”

“Practice ran long,” Shane answered, voice flat.

“Still so cocky,” the man muttered, but there was fondness tangled with the disdain. He drew Shane to his feet and pushed him backward toward the bed, stripping with efficient motions: jacket off, shirt open, belt unbuckled. He left the tie hanging loose, an arrogance Shane had always found…useful.

Shane lifted his arms, letting the man peel off his shirt, then his jeans, until he stood in only navy boxer briefs stretched taut across his hips. His body was lean muscle, chest rising with anticipation. The man stepped in close, sliding fingers over Shane’s ribs, thumbs brushing nipples until they hardened. Shane’s lips parted, a breathy “hnn” slipping out. The man smirked.

“Take them off,” he ordered, gesturing to the briefs.

Shane obeyed, hooking his thumbs under the waistband and sliding them down, revealing his cock already half hard, smeared with pre-cum. He stepped out of them and stood, naked, the lamplight painting bronze across his skin. He lifted his chin, meeting the man’s gaze head-on, daring him to do what he came here to do.

“You always look so hungry,” the man said, voice dropping. “You must be getting desperate. Your other boys at the university not good enough?”

“I told you I don’t do boys,” Shane replied, and there was a deliberate taunt woven into his words. He knew this man’s weak spots. “They don’t know what to do with me.”

The man’s eyes flared with possessive annoyance. “On the bed. Face me.”

Shane crawled onto the mattress, knees pressing into the plush comforter. He straddled the man’s lap once the older body joined him, the suit pants pushed down enough to free a thick, veined cock already weeping at the tip. Shane gripped the base and stroked slowly, watching the man’s head fall back with a groan. “Fuck, Shane.”

He lined himself up, the head of the cock pressing against his slicked rim. He was prepped, always was, never relying on anyone else to make sure he could take what he wanted. He sank down inch by inch, the stretch sharp and perfect, his breath hitching, fingers braced on the man’s shoulders. “Mmhhnghh—” The moan dragged out of him, low and needy, and his thighs trembled as he took the man all the way in, the base grinding against his ass. The sense of fullness consumed him, and he shuddered, head dropping forward so his sweat-damp hair brushed the man’s chest.

“There you go,” the man murmured, hands sliding up Shane’s back, palming the muscles. “Ride me, baby.”

Shane began to move, rolling his hips, bouncing slowly at first, letting the man settle deeper, letting his walls adjust. His fingers dug into the older man’s shoulders, nails leaving crescents. The man’s hands drifted down and gripped Shane’s ass, spreading him wider, guiding the rhythm. Each thrust up filled him brutally, scraping that sweet spot inside, and sparks scattered behind Shane’s eyelids. “Fuck—” He bit his lip to muffle louder sounds, teeth sinking in until he tasted iron.

The phone on the nightstand buzzed again, vibrating against the nightstand. The man ignored it now, too wrapped up in the way Shane moved. Shane dragged himself up until just the head stayed inside, then slammed down hard, a wet smack echoing as skin met skin. “Unnh—” He felt the veins along the shaft pulsing against his walls, felt the friction ripping sparks out of his nerve endings. He gripped the man’s loosened tie and used it as a rein, pulling tight until the knot pressed into his own sternum. The man groaned, head falling back against the upholstered headboard, throat exposed.

“Harder,” Shane gasped, chasing the edge. 

“Desperate little slut,” the man growled. He grabbed Shane’s hips brutally, fingers digging in enough to bruise, and thrust upward with punishing force, turning Shane’s ride into a violent piston. The bed creaked, the headboard thudding the wall in a steady, vulgar rhythm. Shane’s nails scraped down the man’s chest, leaving red lines over the thin undershirt. He leaned forward, sweat dripping onto the man’s skin, and arched his back, cock leaking between their bodies. Every slam knocked a whimper out of him: “Ahh—hahh—fuck—yes—”

The man’s grip slid, seizing Shane’s wrists, squeezing until the bones ground. Shane’s mouth fell open in a silent cry, then he let out a raw “nnnhh!” that vibrated in his throat. It still wasn’t enough.

He wrenched one of his wrists free, fingers slipping in the sheen of sweat, and used that hand to take the man’s wrist, dragging it up, pressing it to his own throat. His pupils blew wide, breath coming in jagged pulls. “Please,” he whispered, voice hoarse, a hint of desperation cracking the usually calm veneer. He closed his fingers around the man’s hand, guiding it to squeeze. “Do it.”

The man froze for a beat, surprise flashing across his face. Then a slow, cruel smile curved his lips. “Sick little freak,” he murmured, and tightened his grip. His thumb pressed into Shane’s windpipe, cutting air. Shane’s eyes rolled half-lidded, lips parting in a voiceless gasp. The pressure sent a lightning bolt straight to his cock. He surged down onto the dick inside him, riding even harder despite the oxygen deprivation, drool glossing his lower lip as he let out guttural “gkh—ahhh—gnn—” sounds.

“Look at you,” the man taunted, voice thick with arousal. His other hand slid down to smack Shane’s ass, the sharp crack ricocheting off the hotel walls. “Begging to be choked by a man almost twice your age. Pathetic.”

Shane’s vision blurred at the edges, black dots swimming. He nodded frantically, agreeing to the insult, agreeing to anything if it meant the hand stayed tight around his throat. His cock brushed the man’s abdomen with every thrust, leaving streaks of pre-cum. He was getting close, tension coiling low, but he refused to let go until the man broke him completely. The man pumped his hips upward faster, the slap of bodies devolving into a feral rhythm. “You feel that?” he snarled. “You’re milking me like a whore.”

Shane couldn’t speak. His voice was trapped under the clamp on his throat. He moaned instead, a strangled “mmmn—mff—” that vibrated against the man’s palm. He was so far gone he barely registered the way his own nails dug crescent moons into the man’s shoulders.

Then, suddenly, the hand disappeared. The man released his neck and flipped him, rolling them so Shane hit the mattress on his stomach with a surprised barked “ah!” His cheek pressed to the sheets, his hips hauled up as large hands grabbed his waist. The cock slammed back inside in one brutal thrust. “Fuck!” Shane yelped, fingers clutching at the covers. The man grabbed both of Shane’s wrists and pinned them above his head with one hand, effectively arching his back, forcing his chest flat to the bed, ass in the air like an offering.

“You wanted rough?” the man grunted, pounding into him, each thrust hitting deep, relentless. “You got it.” His other hand snaked up to the base of Shane’s skull, fisting in his short hair, yanking his head back so his mouth was dragged open. Drool strung from Shane’s lip to the sheets, his eyebrows knitting in overwhelmed ecstasy. “Uhnnn—god—fuck me—” he keened, voice cracked, desperate.

The bedframe protested, the headboard slamming into drywall with each snap of the man’s hips. He pistoned with the rhythm of a metronome, ruthless, and the slap of their bodies was soaked, obscene. Shane’s cock pressed into the mattress, smearing precum. He shifted his hips slightly to angle for more pressure, chasing friction, but the man clamped his hand harder, forcing him to take the thrusts without moving. “Stay,” he ordered.

Shane whimpered. He wasn’t used to being disobeyed, not outside these walls, but here he was addicted to it. He wanted more, always more. He felt the orgasm building like a dam about to burst, but he needed a push, needed that rush of danger. “Ch—choke—” he stuttered, barely forming the plea.

The man laughed, low and mean, then looped the loosened tie around Shane’s throat, pulling the ends tight like reins. The silk bit into his skin, and Shane gasped, the pressure sitting exactly where he craved it. The man used the tie to haul him backwards, arching his spine until his chest left the bed. Dots danced in Shane’s vision again, pleasure cresting. “You love this, don’t you?” the man taunted. “Little captain gets on his knees for daddy in a hotel while I lie to my wife. You fucking love it.”

“Yes—yes—” Shane choked out, barely a whisper. His own hand scrabbled between his body and the sheets, fingers wrapping around his cock, jerking in sync with the pounding inside him. The combination of the tie’s constriction, the brutal thrusts, and the forbidden filth of the scene shoved him over the edge. “Ahhh—hnnng—” He came hard, cum splattering across the sheets, his entire body convulsing, walls clenching around the cock inside him. The tie dug deeper, his vision whiting out.

The man growled at the tight squeeze around him, losing rhythm as he slammed in a few more times, grip bruising. “Fuck, Shane—” He yanked the tie tighter, practically lifting Shane off the bed with it, and then he was groaning, hips stuttering, filling Shane with hot pulses of cum. “Take it—take all of it, you filthy little freak.”

Shane’s whimper turned into a tremulous laugh edged with hysteria. He breathed through the tie’s pressure, blinking slowly as the man’s orgasm dragged on. He felt every throb, every spurt, and he shuddered, milking it, loving how wrecked it left the older man. When the grip finally loosened, he slumped, cheek pressing into the damp sheets, tie hanging loosely around his neck, sweat cooling on his spine. The man pulled out with a wet slick, cum dripping from Shane’s hole down his thighs. He gave Shane’s ass a sharp slap, leaving a pink handprint, then stepped off the bed.

“Stay there,” he ordered, heading to the bathroom. Shane heard water run, the rustle of paper towels. He remained sprawled exactly where he landed, chest heaving, heartbeat still racing in his ears. The tie dangled, and he fingered the fabric, feeling the muggy heat radiating from his own neck. He wanted to lick the salt off his skin, wanted another hand in his hair, wanted—he didn’t know what he wanted. He just knew it was never enough.

The man returned moments later, shoved a damp towel between Shane’s legs, wiped perfunctorily, then dropped it. “You’re a mess,” he said, but there was satisfaction woven into the words.

Shane rolled onto his back, limbs languid. He watched the man tuck his dick back into his pants, adjust his belt, button the crisp shirt. He didn’t bother hiding his amusement at the contrast between the carefully dressed professor or consultant or whatever he pretended to be and the fact that the tie around Shane’s neck was still stretched and damp with sweat. The phone on the nightstand buzzed again—maybe the wife, maybe a colleague—and the man picked it up, texting quickly, face impassive. He ignored Shane until he was fully reassembled as the respectable adult he presented to the world.

Finally, he glanced over, eyes raking Shane’s sprawled form. “I have a family trip next week. Skiing in Vermont. Don’t text me. I won’t be available.”

Shane pushed up onto his elbows, stretching his long legs, the sheet sliding off his thighs. “Didn’t plan on it.”

The man scoffed. “Always such a cold little bitch after you get what you want.”

“You’re the one who comes crawling back whenever you’re in town,” Shane retorted, voice calm. He reached up, unlooped the tie, and tossed it toward the man. “Don’t forget that.”

The man caught it midair, eyes narrowing, but he didn’t respond. He grabbed his suit jacket, shrugged it on, and headed for the door. “Remember what I said. Don’t text,” he said without turning around. “Or call. I’ll text you when I’m back in town.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Shane muttered, barely loud enough to carry.

The door closed with a soft snick. Silence rushed in. Shane lay back down, staring at the ceiling. The room smelled like sex and cologne and something else. He listened to his own breathing, counted each inhale and exhale until his pulse slowed.

Minutes passed. He could stay, order room service, sleep in the strangers’ sheets. Instead, he rolled off the bed and padded to the bathroom. He cleaned himself with brisk, detached motions, wiping away cum, washing his face, brushing his damp hair with fingers. He pulled on his underwear, jeans, T-shirt, sweater, coat. He never lingered. These hookups were transactional, never worth the emotional hangover that came from staying in the scene of the crime.

When he stepped out of the hotel into the bitter wind, his cheeks stung. The city lights blurred behind a curtain of light snow. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and walked, boots crunching on salted sidewalk. His breath ghosted in front of him, the night quiet except for distant car engines and the murmur of a bar spilling laughter onto the street.

For a moment, he paused. He tipped his head back, looking up at the low clouds illuminated by the city glow. Snowflakes landed on his lashes, melting instantly, like relief that never lasted. He laughed softly, no humor in it, then shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and walked toward the dorm.

God, what a freak.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Hayden sprawled belly-down on Shane’s bed, all sharp elbows and soccer socks despite not playing a single second of soccer in his life, a human raccoon with infinite energy and no boundaries. He dug around in the open drawer under the lofted desk, emerging triumphant with a bright orange packet. “Found it!” he crowed, ripping it open with his teeth. “I knew you were hiding the good stuff in here.”

“That’s my pregame stash,” Shane said, kneeling beside his wardrobe as he pulled out clothes and refolded them meticulously. Jerseys in stack by color, practice tees lined up facing the same direction, socks paired so the logos matched. His side of the dorm looked like a catalog spread, everything clean lines and neutral tones. Across the room, the empty half that would soon be Ilya’s was a blank canvas: bed stripped, desk clear, drawers open. He’d even vacuumed, crawling under the bed frame to suck up dust bunnies, because the alternative was pretending he didn’t care.

“Who are you cleaning for?” Hayden asked with his mouth full, crumbs sprinkling the sheets. “The queen of Russia? Because if it’s for him, sorry, he’s probably used to living in palaces made of ice. This little dorm room might not impress.”

Shane didn’t answer. He ignored the way Hayden’s dirty socks dangled off the bed, ignored the discarded pudding cup on his desk that Hayden had devoured the second he’d walked in. He folded the towel again, aligning the corners with exact precision, muscle memory from years of discipline. Every corner tucked, every drawer straightened, every shelf dusted. He needed order. He needed it when his life felt like a scatter of control.

“Do you think he’s allergic to peanuts?” Hayden mused, rummaging through the snack bin now. “I heard Russians drink vodka from the time they’re eight. Maybe he needs raw potatoes in the fridge to feel at home?”

“Can you not eat everything I own?” Shane muttered, pushing his half-zipped backpack under the bed so Ilya wouldn’t trip over it. “You have a meal plan.”

“Yeah, and it’s dog food,” Hayden replied cheerfully, shaking a bag of chips over his face. “Anyway, he probably brings his own food. Russians, man. They eat caviar like cereal. I saw it in a movie once.”

“You can’t generalize everything you see in a James Bond movie,” Shane said, lifting a stack of folded T-shirts and sliding them neatly into the top drawer. Even as he spoke, he brushed a stray crumb off his pillow.

Hayden plopped onto his back, boots still on, depositing a trail of mud on the duvet. “Do you think he’s going to hang pictures of his mother and Putin? Or like, snow?”

Shane turned and leveled a flat stare at him. “Please stop talking.”

Hayden just grinned wider. “I bet he’s really good at chess,” he said, not stopping. “And smoking. Russians are always smoking in movies. Do you think he’ll teach us how to curse in Russian? I heard their curse words are intense. Oh! Oh! I heard Russians never smile. Like maybe there are government laws against it.”

“I will choke you.”

“With your captain arms? Kinky.” Hayden munched through the chips with purpose, the pile on his blanket growing into a small mountain of trash. “You think he’s the broody kind? He had that look, right? The one where he stares like he knows when you lost your virginity. Like some kind of sexy ghost.”

Shane slid his eyes toward him again mid-sock pairing. “Do you actually talk to anyone else or am I your only captive audience?”

Hayden shrugged. “Look, some people get excited about Christmas. I get excited about new teammates.” He chewed, voice muffled by the chips. “Also, have you seen him? He’s like some kind of lab experiment where they combined hockey talent and cyberpunk model genetics. If he walks in here and starts doing push-ups in Russian, I might cry.”

“You think he does push-ups in Russian?” Shane asked, letting the sarcasm drip slow.

Hayden rolled onto his side, propped on an elbow, gesturing with a half-eaten granola bar. “Why are you so calm? If I found out some stranger was moving into my room, I’d be rearranging my furniture like it’s a Tetris game. Is your side ready for him to judge? Did you hide your tragic romantic poetry?”

“I don’t write poetry,” Shane said. He tucked the final sweater onto a shelf, stepping back to appraise the closet. Color-coded, hangers evenly spaced. He should probably leave some empty hangers for the guy. He paused, grabbed five, hung them on the far side.

Hayden tilted his head, considering. “Do you think he snores? Or like, sleep talks in Russian? What if he’s a sleep fighter? You’re going to wake up with a hockey stick shoved up your—”

“Hayden.” Shane’s tone held a warning now, a softness underlined by command. “I’m trying to get things ready.”

He glanced at his desk—a row of textbooks, a laptop centered, pens perpendicular. The corkboard had pinned schedules and a photo of the team from last year with confetti raining down after regionals. He pulled down last year’s line charts and replaced them with blank calendar pages. He’d read somewhere that sharing space meant making room for someone else’s presence. He was doing his best, even if every part of him resisted the idea of someone sleeping six feet away, breathing in his air.

Hayden swung his legs off the bed, feet thudding onto the floor. He leaned back on his palms in a lazy sprawl. “Do you think he’s gay?”

Shane folded a pair of sweatpants with more force than necessary. “I don’t think about my teammates’ sexual preferences.”

“Liar,” Hayden sing-songed. “You absolutely do. You probably have dossiers on us. File folders. Little tabs.”

“That’s because I’m your captain,” Shane said, returning the pants to their drawer.

“You think he knows you’re gay?” Hayden went on, relentless. “Or does he not care? Russians are weird about that. Some are all macho. Some don’t give a shit. Maybe he’ll want to cuddle.”

Shane straightened and looked at Hayden with a bland look of disbelief. “Are you done making entire narratives about a person you have not spoken three words to?”

“No.” Hayden popped to his feet, grabbing another snack from the drawer. “By the time he moves in, I’ll have his entire backstory. I already decided he grew up in St. Petersburg, and his father is a lumberjack who beat him with frozen branches, and his mother is a ballerina who sends him ballet slippers in the mail.”

Shane blinked, unimpressed, as Hayden shoveled the latest snack into his mouth, cheeks puffed out. “Did you only come here to empty my pantry?”

Hayden pointed at him with a half-eaten candy bar. “Yes. Also to observe your descent into impending cohabitation.”

Shane grabbed the candy wrapper out of his hand and tossed it into the trash bin. “At least respect my diet plan when you raid my stuff. Those are measured calories.”

“Oh please,” Hayden snorted, retrieving another snack. “Live a little. You act like you weren’t eating ramen from a vending machine at two a.m. last night. We live on a diet of instant noodles and protein powder.”

“I’m trying to stay at my playing weight,” Shane said.

“You’re also eating so much cafeteria lasagna that your arteries are probably singing hymns,” Hayden retorted. “Don’t lecture me on nutrition when you’ve turned mac and cheese into a personality trait.”

Shane finally let himself smile, the smallest curve, as he shook his head. “Fine. Eat whatever you want. Just clean up.”

Hayden grinned, triumphant, and dove into another pack of crackers. He crunched loudly, crumbs spraying. “You’re only uptight because your romantic life is about to be deeply inconvenienced. How are you going to sneak dudes in when Ivan Drago is sleeping ten feet away?”

The mention of his “romantic life” made Shane’s stomach knot, but he shrugged, the expression tipping into something slightly sardonic. “Maybe I’ll abstain. Clear my mind. Become celibate.”

Hayden snorted so loud it sounded like a warthog. “Yeah right. You’ll be vibrating by day three. You already look like you haven’t slept since sophomore year. I don’t envy the new guy if he has to listen to you stress-breath all night.”

Hayden hopped off the bed finally, wiping his hands on his jeans. The room, despite his presence, looked almost ready for an inspection. Shane had arranged the second desk, stacked the unopened orientation materials, even placed a spare lamp in the corner. He’d stripped the extra mattress and left a fresh set of sheets folded on top. It was absurd, really, to prepare for someone he didn’t know like they were an honored guest. It didn’t matter. Order mattered. It was the only thing he could control when his nights were spent in hotel rooms being choked by men with wives.

“Okay, mom, the room is spotless.” Hayden tossed his empty chip bag into the trash with a basketball flourish and clapped his hands. “Let’s go eat before I chew off my stick tape.”

“You just ate half my pantry.”

“That was an appetizer.” Hayden grabbed his keys from the desk chair. “Come on. I heard they’re serving chicken that vaguely resembles poultry.”

They trooped down the hallway, the dorm buzzing with noise. Someone blasted EDM from behind a closed door, another guy argued on the phone about a group project, a girl giggled outside the stairwell. Shane’s footsteps echoed on the cinderblock walls. He kept his shoulders squared, posture effortlessly controlled even when he wore sweats. Hayden bounced beside him, leaning into doorframes, tapping random posters as they passed.

“Coach was on one today,” Hayden grumbled as they walked down the slush-covered sidewalk toward the cafeteria. “He yelled at me for smiling. Said I didn’t take drills seriously because I ‘had joy in my eyes’. Who the hell critiques joy?”

“You do look like you’re about to crack a joke at any moment,” Shane pointed out. “Maybe tone it down during defensive drills.”

“Oh, you sound like him now,” Hayden whined, voice pitching up. “Next thing you know, you’ll be calling my parents to report me for laughing.”

Shane elbowed him lightly. “Try not to piss him off. We need you at center.”

Hayden rolled his eyes, though there was a sliver of respect under the dramatics. “Yeah, yeah. Speaking of practice, I swear Coach has some grudge against me. Ask me to block shots, fine, but don’t force me to do suicides every time he thinks someone’s not hustling. My legs still feel like spaghetti.”

“You’ll live,” Shane said. “He’s harder on you because he expects more.”

“Don’t give me the leadership speech. I’ll puke.” Hayden pushed through the cafeteria doors, letting the smell of institutional cooking wash over them. “Ugh. Smells like someone burned a boot.”

The cafeteria was half full, students scattered at long tables, a low hum of conversation and the clatter of trays. The serving stations glowed under fluorescent lights: pizza, salads, soups, the ominous “Chef’s Special”. A line snaked in front of the main hot food section where a tired woman in a hairnet ladled mushy vegetables. Hayden made a face. “I swear, I’m going to die of food poisoning before finals.”

Shane grabbed a tray and set it on the metal rail, sliding it down as he grabbed utensils. “Just eat.”

Hayden peered at the offerings and groaned. “This meatloaf looks like something that crawled out of a swamp.”

“Protein is protein,” Shane said, scooping a portion of chicken, rice, and steamed broccoli that looked like it had given up on life. “If you stop whining, you might finish before practice tomorrow.”

Hayden sniffed the mashed potatoes suspiciously. “How many health codes do you think this violates?”

“Shut up and eat,” Shane said, fighting a smirk. The fact that Hayden complained every single time but still ate everything was comforting in its predictability.

They found a table near the window, partly because Shane liked the natural light, partly because he wanted to be able to observe the entire room. It was a defensive habit: always keep the exits in sight, always stay aware. Hayden plopped down, dropping his tray with a clatter. “Did I tell you about my economics TA? She legit threw a pencil at me for yawning. I think she might be possessed.”

“You yawn like a horse,” Shane replied, slicing his chicken. “Maybe she did the right thing.”

“She’s jealous I’m charismatic.” Hayden took a bite of his mashed potatoes and grimaced dramatically. “Ugh, oh my god. This is so bad. Why do we pay fifty grand to be fed airplane food?”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Because you spend all your money on games and concert tickets.”

“So do you!”

“I do not.”

“You went to three concerts last semester.”

“Yes. Because I needed a distraction. One that wasn’t you, by the way.”

Hayden huffed, poking at his plate. “Whatever. I’m just saying, this campus pretends to be bougie with their architecture and then feeds us recycled cardboard.” He took another bite regardless, washing it down with neon-blue sports drink. “And we get to share this exquisite dining experience with the entire student body.” He gestured around grandly, almost tipping his tray.

Shane kept eating, unbothered, though his gaze drifted around involuntarily, scanning faces. Habit, curiosity, and something else tugged his attention toward the buffet line. He saw a familiar figure there, stance distinct even in a crowd. “Speaking of,” Hayden murmured, voice pitching low. He nudged Shane’s shin under the table and nodded toward the hot food station. “Look what the wind blew in.”

Ilya stood with a tray balanced in one hand, looking both impossibly out of place and irritatingly put-together in the fluorescent chaos of the cafeteria. He wore a charcoal coat open over a navy sweater, jeans hugging long legs. His hair curled slightly at the nape, damp like he’d just showered. He stared at the options in front of him with a small, controlled frown, as if the food had personally offended him. He tapped a finger against the tray rhythmically, eyes narrowed at the dubious gray meat. The cafeteria worker gave him a patient smile, plastic gloves rustling as she offered options.

“I bet Russians eat raw fish for breakfast,” Hayden whispered. “He probably thinks our food is poison.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t know what any of this is,” Shane said, voice low. He shouldn’t be watching. He made himself take a bite, yet his eyes kept flicking toward the line. Ilya gestured subtly, asking a question, his brow furrowed. The worker answered with wide motions, miming something, and Ilya scratched the back of his head, the gesture unexpectedly unsure. He nodded eventually, selecting the chicken and rice—the safe bet. He took a small bowl of something that might have been soup, then moved to the bread station, picking up a roll and examining it like he expected it to bite him.

Hayden snickered. “What, Russia doesn’t believe in bread?”

“Mind your own business,” Shane muttered, though there was no heat. It came out half fond, half weary. The rookie’s expression made his mouth twitch despite himself. There was something oddly humanizing seeing the ice king frown at limp vegetables like any other college kid.

Ilya carried his tray through the tables, scanning for a seat. He ended up alone at a far corner, sitting with his back to the wall, an angle that let him watch the room the same way Shane did. He set his tray down, took his fork, and poked the chicken. He gave it a look like he was evaluating an opponent on the ice. The glower deepened when he took the first bite. He chewed slowly, expression blanking. For a moment, he seemed almost innocent, confused by campus life, entire persona stripped down to someone trying to figure out why the rice tasted like glue.

Shane shook his head, eyes dropping to his own plate. “So when is he moving in?”

Hayden was mid-cram of a bread roll into his mouth, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk. “Huh?”

Shane raised his eyebrows, disgust painted across his face. “Do you have to eat like an animal? I asked when he’s supposed to move in.”

Hayden swallowed with a dramatic gulp, then shrugged. “No idea. Coach just said after his paperwork clears. Could be tomorrow, could be next week.” He grabbed another roll and ripped it in half. “I’m telling you, once he moves in, your life’s going to get spicy. Maybe he’ll bring in a bunch of Russian candy to replace all the ones I stole.”

Shane hummed, noncommittal, and shrugged.

Guess he’ll have to wait.

By the time paperwork finished strangling Ilya’s transfer, Shane had scrubbed the dorm three times and Hayden had destroyed it three times, each round a perfect mirror of their personalities: compulsive order versus tornado exuberance. After the third cycle, Shane stood over Hayden with a broom like a medieval executioner.

“If you dump another sports drink on the rug, I am swapping your protein powder with powdered kale,” he threatened, voice flat enough to be believable. “I will also email Coach and tell him you volunteered to room with the freshmen.”

Hayden’s eyes went wide with theatrical horror. “You wouldn’t.”

“I’ll write it in calligraphy.”

That kept the problem in check until Hayden wandered through two days later with Cheetos fingers and wiped them on the desk. Shane eventually surrendered, muttering under his breath as he re-sanitized surfaces. He’d given up on achieving the pristine calm he wanted, settling for functional order.

Two weeks after the first expected move-in date, the universe finally delivered. Shane had run back to the dorm to grab his practice notebook and a fresh roll of stick tape when he turned the corner and nearly tripped over two modest suitcases outside his door. One was scuffed black, the wheels scratched and wobbling, the other a faded blue with a cracked handle. No monogrammed leather, no luxury brand, just workhorse luggage that had seen too many buses.

There was a backpack leaning against them, the canvas frayed at the edges, the zipper sewn back on with uneven stitches. A duffel was unzipped, revealing neatly folded gear bags, skates wrapped in a towel to protect the blades. The only items that looked expensive were a pair of branded training shoes and a sleek track jacket emblazoned with a sponsor’s insignia—the kind of free swag big-name athletes receive in exchange for photo ops, not evidence of personal wealth. The phone in Ilya’s hand had a spiderweb crack across the corner and a cheap case peeling at the sides.

He sat cross-legged on the hallway floor, back against the cinderblock wall, earbuds in, eyes locked on a video playing on his screen. Shane paused, watching him for a second. Even sitting on a scuffed tile floor, Ilya looked put-together in a minimalist way. A gray hoodie over a dark T-shirt, black jeans that fit snugly around long thighs but had a threadbare knee, one lace trailing loose. His head bobbed slightly in rhythm to whatever he watched. He didn’t notice Shane’s approach until a shadow fell over him.

Shane cleared his throat. “Do you not have your key?”

Ilya blinked up, tugged one earbud out, hazel eyes focusing instantly. “Cannot go inside,” he said, accent thick, consonants clipped. “Coach say wait for you.”

“You could have just gone in. You live here now.”

“Nyet,” Ilya said simply, shaking his head. “Not my room yet. I wait.”

Shane didn’t show the flicker of surprise. He’d expected arrogance, entitlement, maybe even a cocky smirk while he barged in. Instead, Ilya remained seated, respectful of boundaries that nobody else on the team had cared about during the last four years. The rookie stood smoothly then, dusting the back of his jeans, straightening the hoodie. “You can open, ya?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, pushing the door open. He stepped aside to let Ilya drag the suitcases in. The rookie moved with economical efficiency, rolling both bags inside without bumping anything, then lifting the worn backpack with one hand.

Inside, the room smelled faintly of lemon cleaner from Shane’s efforts and something softer, soap from Ilya’s clothes maybe. Ilya set his bags near the empty side and took a moment to stand in the center, scanning the space with a neutral expression. He didn’t comment on the color-coded closet, the lined-up textbooks, the small plant on the windowsill that Shane tended like a fragile secret. He just knelt and unzipped the black suitcase.

The packing was minimal: stacks of hockey gear wrapped carefully, a handful of folded shirts in muted colors, two pairs of jeans, one pair of dress pants. No posters, no decorations, no clutter. The only personal item was a small photo tucked between shirts, the edges worn. He pulled it out briefly, studied the image—a woman with high cheekbones and pale hair, smiling at the camera while a younger version of Ilya clung to her side. He stared for a heartbeat, thumb brushing the corner, then slid it into the top drawer of his desk and shut it softly.

They worked in near silence. Shane sat on his own bed, unscrewing the cap from his water bottle, watching as Ilya unpacked with disciplined motions. He organized his sticks in the corner, leaned his stick bag next to them, lined his skates under the desk. The closet door creaked as he hung the few clothes he had on the extra hangers Shane had left. He placed a battered paperback novel on the shelf, its spine cracked. A set of headphones went on the desk, along with a spiral notebook labeled in Cyrillic. No electronics beyond the cracked phone. No knickknacks.

He found the laundry hamper Shane had rolled into the corner and placed it near his bed without a word. Everything was so orderly it barely registered as a move-in; it was like he was setting up camp, ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

They exchanged small practical words.

“Outlet here,” Shane said, pointing to the power strip between the beds.

“Da. Thank you,” Ilya replied.

“I leave extra blankets in the top drawer if you need.”

“Is warm enough,” Ilya said, tucking his few pairs of socks into the drawer.

An hour later, the sun dipped beyond the dorms, painting the window in dusky mauve. The room had shifted, though the changes were subtle: a pair of worn gloves on the desk, a stick propped in the corner, a new duvet in muted navy smoothing across the bed. The space felt smaller, lived-in. Shane’s half remained as organized, but now the mirror hung between the beds reflected two different worlds merging awkwardly.

Ilya sighed and flopped onto his newly made bed, sprawled on his stomach, face buried in the pillow. He wore the same blank expression as always, yet exhaustion softened the edges. His shoulders untensed, long legs stretching diagonally. He began to doze, eyelids fluttering.

Shane sat at his desk, flipping through practice notes, though his mind was elsewhere. He glanced at Ilya, remembered the cafeteria, the way Ilya had frowned at the limp vegetables like they insulted him. The image flashed unbidden, tugging a smile out of him. Before he could stop himself, the words slipped free.

“Want to grab something for dinner?”

Ilya cracked one eye open, slow, as if verifying he’d heard correctly. He thought for a beat, then pushed up to sit cross-legged. “Oke.”

Chapter End Notes

Enjoy~
As usual kudos and comments are greatly appreciated 🥰

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

The cafeteria could keep its suspicious beef—not even a glutton like Hayden would survive another round of that mystery meat. Shane angled them toward the neighborhood food hall instead, all neon chalkboards and clattering trays and the mingled scents of frying oil, garlic, and hot sugar. Students and delivery guys crowded the aisles, all of them wrapped in thick hoodies, shuffling along with their own agendas. The air hummed with the white noise of chatter, the screwball jukebox in the corner blaring a song that sounded like it was recorded in a basement.

They stepped in and were swallowed by heat, chatter, clanging bowls, the sizzle of oil. People packed every table, a mosaic of exhausted med students, janitors in reflective vests, a handful of guys still in work boots, two women in scrubs splitting dumplings. The line snaked past the counter, menus dangling overhead handwritten in marker with specials that changed whenever the cook felt like it. This was where players came when they craved something their dorm meal plan couldn’t provide.

He and Ilya stood in the slow-moving line outside a fusion stall, and Shane watched as his new roommate scowled at a rotating spit of shawarma like it had insulted his ancestors. It was becoming a familiar expression—a deep crease sketched between his brows, eyes narrowed, lips set, a default scowl that said more about concentration than mood. Still, when he glared at the caramelized meat, it really did seem like the food had committed a crime. Shane bit his lip, a chuckle threatening. The rookie looked genuinely offended by broccoli. He reached out, fingers closing gently around Ilya’s elbow, guiding him toward a less crowded corner of the line.

“Come on,” Shane murmured. “There’s more over here.”

They shuffled past the hot table, past trays of noodles glistening with sauce and giant vats of soup. Shane scanned for anything that might resemble home, or at least something close enough to keep Ilya from shutting down. He knew Russian cuisine only from a single family in his neighborhood growing up whose grandmother fed him borscht and black bread while he watched hockey with their son. Anything remotely earthy, hearty, or stuffed might do.

He caught the flick of Ilya’s eyes toward a dutch oven bubbling with a stew laden with chunks of meat, carrots, potatoes, generous spoonfuls of dill on top. Not exactly borscht, but close enough to a stew his own grandmother would make. Shane tugged Ilya gently in that direction, smirking when the rookie followed without protest, pretending he wasn’t interested.

The line edged forward. When they reached the counter, Shane nudged him. “Get what you want. I’ll pay.”

Ilya blinked, surprised. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, pulling out his wallet. “Consider it a welcome gift. Or whatever.”

The corners of Ilya’s mouth lifted almost imperceptibly. “Rich captains,” he muttered, a teasing curl under his accent.

Shane shook his head, amused, as Ilya considered the menu. Two minutes later, Shane’s eyebrows had climbed. The kid hovered over every option like he was judging a competition, pointing at some dishes, rejecting others with a slight head shake. He was precise, almost surgical. He pointed at the stew, then at a platter of seared fish, then paused at the dumplings, eyes lingering, before nodding. He rejected the rice entirely, gave the greens a look that could fillet fish, and pointed instead to the pickled vegetables in jars near the cashier. The line backed up behind them and he still refused the sautéed spinach even after the lady behind the counter encouraged him twice.

Shane cleared his throat. “Maybe some greens?”

Ilya glanced at a tray of sautéed kale with the same expression he’d given the cafeteria meatloaf and shook his head firmly. “Nyet.”

“They’re good for you,” Shane tried again.

Ilya stared. “No.”

“Fine.” Shane held up a surrendering hand, amused. The team nutritionist was going to grind her teeth down to powder trying to wrangle this one. “Next time, then.”

Ilya’s tray ended up a careful composition of stew, dumplings, pickled cabbage and beets, and a loaf of dark bread that the woman behind the counter cut in half and toasted on the grill. Shane paid, refusing to let Ilya drop crumpled bills onto the counter, and steered them toward a corner table wedged between the window and a cracked mirror.

They sat down, elbows brushing. Outside the glass, snow drifted in lazy spirals, the streetlight painting halos on the sidewalk. Inside, warmth embraced them, the noise a comfortable hum. Ilya picked up his spoon and dipped into the stew cautiously, testing. He lifted it to his lips, blew, then tasted. His eyes closed briefly, lashes dark against his cheek, and his shoulders dropped. The scowl eased, not disappearing but softening, like a muscle unclenching. He tore off a piece of bread, dipped it, and took another bite, chewing thoughtfully.

Shane watched. In the yellow glow, Ilya looked younger, less marble statue, more nineteen-year-old uprooted from home. He reminded Shane of someone dropped into a foreign film, subtitles missing. He pushed aside his own bowl and leaned back, letting the scene soak into him: the clink of cutlery, the murmured conversations, Ilya’s quiet concentration as he dissected each flavor.

“You like it?” Shane asked when it felt less intrusive.

Ilya nodded, swallowing. “Is… good,” he said, searching for the word. “Like home. Not same. But close.”

Shane nodded, something easing in his chest.

Ilya burned up the ice like he’d been forged there, all length and raw power, edges biting as if the rink was his private hunting ground. He picked up every team system inside a week—breakouts, forecheck rotations, special-team triggers—then rewired them in his head and started pointing out flaws with a surgeon’s precision. By day five he’d already called out half the top line and managed to make three defensemen blush in front of the assistant coaches.

During a forward rush drill, he skated beside Reed, the sophomore winger with decent hands and an ego the size of the campus stadium. Reed misjudged his pivot, turning his hips early, leaving his stick lagging. Ilya coasted up, neutral as frost. “Your toe pick is dragging,” he said calmly, thick accent slicing the words. “You leave lane open for strip, da? Maybe keep your knees bent.”

Reed blinked, cheeks going red. “Excuse me?”
“You skate like baby deer on first day,” Ilya added matter-of-factly. “Fix edges.”

Reed’s jaw dropped and he sputtered something about Russians and attitude. Coach barked at them to keep moving, and Reed did, but not before cursing under his breath. Ilya’s expression never changed.

Next up, he tagged Fraser, the third-line grinder, during a neutral-zone regroup. Fraser fumbled the puck and Ilya scooped it up, smoothly resetting the play, then glided in front of him. “You hold stick like hammer,” he said. “No feel. Maybe go grab actual hammer. Practice.”
Fraser stared, stupefied. “What?”

“You break passes with stone hands,” Ilya explained, still expressionless. “Coach say play soft, yes?” He demonstrated, flexing his wrists, receiving a phantom pass so gently it could have been silk. Fraser gaped and finally snapped, “Dude, shut the hell up!” before bolting to the bench. Ilya blinked, shrugged, and rejoined the drill.

Each observation was accurate, each delivered without tact. The locker room vibrated with simmering pride. Shane spent more time playing mediator than captain.

“He’s gonna get his ass beat,” Hayden muttered under his breath after one pointed critique ended in a shouted “Mind your own business, Rozanov!”

Shane let it go until the fourth practice, when tension crackled so loudly it pierced even his focus. He caught Ilya midway through a skate, grabbed his elbow, and tugged him aside near the penalty boxes. Ice spray dusted their shins. Ilya blinked, patient but wary.
“Tone it down,” Shane said under his breath. “The guys already know when they mess up. They don’t need a live refresher course every five seconds.”

Ilya’s brows knit. “But is true,” he said simply. “They want to win? They adjust.” He was earnest, genuinely confused why honesty upset people.

“I know,” Shane said, voice low so the rest wouldn’t eavesdrop. “Just ease into it. Maybe soften it. People get defensive.”

Ilya’s mouth tipped into a tiny downward curve, as close to a pout as Shane had ever seen. “Eh.” He shrugged, but nodded. “I try.”

“Good.” Shane fought the urge to grin at the sulky expression. He let him go, watched him glide back into line for the next drill, posture slightly hunched as if bracing himself. When he turned, Hayden was smirking, eyebrows bouncing suggestively.

“Going soft now, Captain?” Hayden teased, tapping his stick against the ice.

Shane rolled his eyes and snapped, “Shut up and get back on forecheck duty.” Hayden saluted lazily, but there was a knowing glint in his eyes. Shane ignored the tug in his gut and focused on the next drill.

Ilya skated alone during partner drills more often than not, partly because no one volunteered, partly because he barely seemed to notice. He cycled through puck handling exercises with relentless focus, executing patterns solo, flipping the puck over cones, dragging it through tight figure eights. The other guys paired up, chirped each other, fell into easy banter. Ilya kept his head down, lips moving as he counted in Russian under his breath. His isolation was palpable, self-contained. The team that had once been tight now split around him, whispers trailing after every practice. Shane eventually sighed and joined him on a drill, claiming he needed extra reps. Ilya didn’t look surprised. He just adjusted his pace, matching Shane’s stride, and for the first time they moved together on the ice, blades carving parallel lines.

Practice ended with the usual stretch circle. Shane stayed behind afterward, helping Coach Morgan gather pucks, double-checking clipboards, making sure training aids were stored. When he finally trudged toward the locker room, the room had mostly emptied, steam curling from the showers, a few voices echoing low.

He peeled off his pads, shirt sticking to his spine, and was halfway through tugging on a clean compression top when the shower door swung open with a squeak. Ilya stepped out, towel slung low around his hips, water beading on his chest, trails running over defined abs. His hair was damp, curling around his ears, droplets sliding down his neck to his collarbones. For half a second, Shane just stared, breath stalling, before he snapped his gaze away and focused on stuffing socks into his bag. His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

Stop. He dug fingers into his skate bag, searching for tape, forcing his brain to focus on logistics.

Shane had one skate off, the laces of the second draped across his thigh, when the locker room door burst open and an oily voice flooded the space before the cold air did. He didn’t need to look to know what kind of visitor it was. The crisp suit, slicked-back hair, the entourage of two overly eager assistants—he’d seen versions of this sponsor a dozen times over the years. Corporate leeches who dipped into college athletics for photo ops, press releases, bragging rights. Most were tolerable. This one reeked of entitlement before he even spoke.

“Where’s my star?” the man boomed, scanning the room with hungry eyes. He zeroed in on a young winger—still pulling on his undershirt, cheeks pink from the cold—then descended like a vulture. He laid a proprietary hand on the rookie’s shoulder, squeezing too hard. “There you are. I’ve been telling my board all about you. We need a few shots for the social media campaign.”

The kid’s posture stiffened. He tried to smile, eyes darting around for help. Shane tightened his jaw, reminding himself that getting into a fistfight with a sponsor would cause more problems than it solved. Still, his fingers curled around the skate blade like a weapon. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the older man pushed closer, hand sliding from shoulder to upper arm, thumb brushing the bicep with fake intimacy.

“Relax,” the sponsor crooned. “We’re family now. Let’s get a nice shot with the towel—no need to cover up those muscles.”

The rookie laughed weakly, shifting away. The assistants readied their phones. Shane felt heat crackle under his skin. He set down his pads and stood, ready to step in. Memories flared—moments in hallways, half-heard stories from players at other colleges about men in suits who dangled scholarships for “special favors.” Rage prickled behind his teeth. He opened his mouth, inhaling, preparing to break the thick silence with something that would get him suspended.
Before he could, Ilya’s voice cut through the room, flat and solid. He didn’t look up from where he sat, calmly taping his stick. He spoke in Russian first, a quiet murmur that sounded like disapproval soaked in sarcasm.
The sponsor turned, face scrunching. “Excuse me?”

Ilya didn’t even lift his head. “I say you loud,” he translated in English, then flicked his eyes up, deadpan. “Which mean you annoying.”
The assistants shifted uneasily. The sponsor’s cheeks flushed crimson. “What did you just say to me?”

“You have two inside voice,” Ilya said calmly, unworried. “Use one.” He returned to smoothing tape along the blade, as if brushing off a gnat.
The man sputtered, leaning closer. “Do you know who I am? I’ve been supporting this program since before you were born—”

“Da, you old,” Ilya responded, still uninterested. He finally glanced at the rookie, then back at the sponsor with the faintest arch of a brow. “Leave kid to shower in peace. You do meeting with coach, not boy in towel.” There was steel hidden under the nonchalance, an implicit threat.
The sponsor’s jaw worked, but something in Ilya’s gaze—an unflinching, unblinking warning—made him falter. “You players have no respect,” he hissed, straightening. “I’m taking this up with the administration.”

“Go,” Ilya said simply, pointing his roll of tape toward the door. “Take cats.” He meant the assistants, apparently, who looked equal parts relieved and mortified. The sponsor puffed up, but whatever comeback he had died on his tongue. He spun on his heel, signaling his entourage, and stormed out, muttering about entitlement.

Silence flowed back in, quick and heavy. The rookie exhaled shakily, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh. Thanks, man. That was… I mean…” He sighed, shoulders sinking. “Dude’s a creep.”

“Mnn,” Ilya hummed, already sliding his stick into his bag. “If bald salo comes back, tell compliance. They don’t like when meat goes rotten.” He delivered it with deadpan seriousness, calling the sponsor a slab of cured pork rendered rancid.

The rookie blinked, then huffed a surprised laugh. “Right. Yeah. Yeah, I got it.” He nodded gratefully at Shane on his way out, still chuckling under his breath.
When the door swung shut, only Shane and Ilya remained. Shane leaned against his locker, arms crossed, watching Ilya slide his stick back into the rack as if he hadn’t just verbally clotheslined a sponsor. His amusement bubbled uncontrollably, chasing away the earlier knot of anger.

Ilya caught his look and tilted his head. His mouth twitched, almost a smile. “What? Gonna scold me again? What is it this time? Bad conduct?”

“You’re crazy,” Shane said, shaking his head in disbelief, a smile edging onto his face. “Come on. If we don’t get to the lounge fast, JJ will inhale all the dumplings.”

Ilya’s eyes lit, interest piqued immediately. “Dumplings?”

“Yeah. Fresh delivery.” Shane grabbed his hoodie and slung it over his shoulder. “Let’s go before Bald Salo circles back.”

They raided the student union lounge where the food delivery always hit just after practice, a row of plastic clamshells sweating on folding tables. Ilya prowled the spread with predatory concentration, picking through the offerings like a jeweler evaluating flawed gems. Dumplings, he accepted. Meat skewers, yes. Salad, no. Fruit cup, no. The skin-crawling nod of approval he gave the beet salad almost made Shane laugh out loud. Watching him work the tongs, expression intense, felt weirdly intimate, like glimpsing the gears inside his head.

Ilya settled with a container of dumplings, a bowl of soup, and exactly three pieces of bao. He sat cross-legged on the carpeted platform near the window and dug in, inhaling the dumplings first, chewing steadily, eyes half-lidded. He wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb, then methodically devoured the soup, leaving only the vegetables to the end, where he grudgingly forked a piece of bok choy and glared at it before eating. The leftovers on his plate—anything green—remained untouched. Shane leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching with a blend of patience and fondness he refused to name. He nursed his own bowl, slurping noodles, amused by the toddler-level stubbornness hiding beneath the assassin exterior.

“I’m surprised Gina hasn’t whooped your ass yet,” Shane said, watching the pile of rejected veggies grow.

Ilya scoffed, poking the bok choy. “Gina loves me,” he deadpanned. “She makes me eat…” He shuddered theatrically, face contorting in mock horror. “Kale smoothie. With spirulina. Taste like pond sludge.”

Shane’s laughter burst out helplessly. “Serves you right. Eat your greens.”

“She stand there and watch I drink,” Ilya insisted, eyes wide, playing it up now that he had an audience. “Say ‘for iron, Ilya.’ I say ‘I have iron, I born with it.’ She say ‘shut up and drink.’” He mimed gagging, and even his low, rough chuckle made Shane’s chest loosen.

They packed up their empty containers, slung their gear bags over their shoulders, and headed into the night. Snow fell in a fine mist, turning the streetlights into blurred halos. Their breath clouded in front of them, rhythmic puffs that matched the slap of their boots on the pavement.

The walk stretched quiet, comfortable, Ilya a step ahead, Shane a half pace behind. Their shadows folded together on the sidewalk, elongated by the amber glow of the lamps. The dorm looming ahead felt less like a destination and more like a holding station in their strange, shared orbit.

Halfway back, Shane broke the silence. “You handled that sponsor earlier,” he said, voice low. “You get a lot of that back home?”

Ilya’s shoulders twitched. “Sponsors? Da. Some worse, some better.” His tone was neutral, but the word worse held weight. He adjusted his bag strap. “We sign many papers. Some want pictures. Some want… other things.”

Shane nodded, processing that. He watched the curve of Ilya’s shoulder blades under the hoodie, the way tension rippled there when he spoke. “Always thought those guys were universal.”

Ilya hummed, noncommittal. The silence folded around them again until he broke it, voice dipping softer. “Does that…” He paused mid-step, frown creasing his brow, eyes flicking to Shane before darting away. “Does that happen a lot?” The question hung between them, more than curiosity. He walked onward, hands burrowing into his pockets, waiting.

Shane inhaled, cold air biting his lungs. “Yeah,” he said. “More than anyone admits. Places like this, they talk about opportunity and networking, but some sponsors think they own you.” He huffed a humorless laugh. “There was one time a donor cornered a goalie in the elevator and offered him cash for ‘private training sessions’ if he smiled nice enough. Another time a booster told a freshman he’d ‘fix his ice time’ if the kid met him in his hotel.” The stories flowed, old bitterness disguised as casual anecdotes. “Guys joke about it half the time because it’s easier than dealing with how gross it is. Compliance steps in when it gets obvious, but most times the kids just… let it slide.”

He kept his voice light, dry, like he was discussing penalty minutes. He remembered being seventeen, a recruiter’s hand lingering too long on his shoulder, an invitation to a “late-night film review” that his parents luckily intercepted. He remembered the quiet relief of parents who loved him enough to put lawyers between him and the vultures. He remembered the hotel room two nights ago, a married man’s hand on his throat, and he laughed under his breath, hating how the sound scraped.

Ilya listened without interrupting, eyes fixed straight ahead. Snow stuck to his eyelashes, a thin dusting.

Shane kept going, words tumbling, voice steady, as if the narrative was detached from him. “Everyone pretends it’s just the price of playing. Smile, shake hands, let them mic you up, let them pay for dinners, ignore the way they stare. Eventually you stop noticing unless they touch.” He let out a soft laugh, airy and hollow.

Ahead of him, Ilya scoffed, short and cutting. “Who would want that?” He turned just enough for Shane to catch the twist of his mouth, one corner lifting in clear revulsion. His voice stayed flat, clipped. “Is disgusting.”

The words hit Shane like a blunt weapon. Something thudded in his chest, a dull ache. For a second his lungs forgot how to work. He pictured himself two nights ago, lungs straining under a stranger’s hand, craving the choke, moaning for more. Ilya’s disgust ricocheted through him, painfully ironic. He laughed softly, the sound cracking. “Yeah.” He tipped his head back, staring at the swollen clouds, snowflakes catching on his lashes. “It’s disgusting.”

His smile felt brittle, stretched too tight.

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kept walking.

Chapter End Notes

Aaaahhh we’re on chapter 3 now! *^*
I hope u guys like this one too! Thank you to everyone engaging with this fic~ I hope u know how genuinely awesome you all are 🥹🫶🏻

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

The walk back to the dorm stretched longer than it should have. Each step felt heavier, the snow falling faster now, thick flakes catching on Shane's eyelashes and melting into cold rivulets down his cheeks. Ilya walked ahead, silent, shoulders hunched against the wind, his breath clouding in steady puffs. Shane followed, hands shoved deep in his pockets, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

Disgusting.

The word echoed in his skull, bouncing off every corner, scraping against his thoughts. He tried to shake it off, tried to remind himself that Ilya had been talking about sponsors, about men who preyed on young athletes, about situations that were objectively wrong. But the word clung to him anyway, sticky and sharp, because wasn't that exactly what Shane did? Wasn't he the one who crawled into hotel rooms and begged men to choke him until his vision blurred? Wasn't he the one who got off on being called a freak, who craved the degradation, who needed the roughness to feel anything at all?

He swallowed hard, throat tight. The cold bit into his skin, but he barely felt it. All he could feel was the hollow ache in his chest, the way his stomach twisted with something that felt like shame but tasted like resignation.

They reached the dorm building, the warmth hitting them like a wall as they stepped inside. Ilya shook snow from his hair, droplets scattering, and headed straight for their room. Shane followed mechanically, unlocking the door, stepping inside. The room felt smaller than usual, the air thick and stifling. Ilya dropped his bag by his bed, kicked off his boots, and started pulling off his hoodie.

"I'm gonna shower," Shane said abruptly, voice flat.

Ilya glanced at him, nodded.

Shane grabbed his towel and a change of clothes, disappearing into the tiny bathroom attached to their room. He locked the door behind him, leaned against it for a moment, eyes closed. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, harsh and unforgiving. He turned on the shower, twisting the knob until the water ran scalding hot, steam rising in thick clouds.

He stripped, stepping under the spray, and hissed as the heat hit his skin. It burned, but he didn't adjust the temperature. Instead, he grabbed the soap and started scrubbing, fingers digging into his arms, his chest, his thighs. He scrubbed until his skin turned red, until it felt raw and tender, until the friction hurt. He wanted to scrub away the feeling, the memory of hands on his throat, the way he'd begged for it, the way he'd loved it. He wanted to scrub away the disgust he'd heard in Ilya's voice, the way it had burrowed under his skin and made a home there.

But no matter how hard he scrubbed, it didn't go away.

He stood under the water for a long time, head bowed, letting the heat pound against his shoulders.

By the time he finally turned off the water, his skin was lobster-red, tender to the touch. He dried off slowly, pulling on sweatpants and a T-shirt, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. He didn't want to see the hollow look in his eyes, the exhaustion etched into his face.

When he stepped back into the room, Ilya was already in bed, facing the wall, his breathing slow and even. Asleep. Shane moved quietly, setting his towel on the back of his chair, putting his dirty clothes in the hamper. He busied himself with small tasks—straightening his desk, checking his phone, reorganizing his bookshelf—anything to keep his hands occupied, his mind distracted.

But eventually, there was nothing left to do. He climbed into bed, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the streetlight outside, casting long shadows across the walls. He could hear Ilya's breathing, steady and soft, and it made the silence feel heavier somehow.

His phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark. He stared at it for a long moment, then reached for it, unlocking it with a swipe. His thumb hovered over the messaging app, hesitating. He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't. But the ache in his chest was unbearable, and the only way he knew how to quiet it was to drown it in something worse.

He typed out a message: You around tonight?

The response came quickly: Yeah. Same place. 30 minutes.

Shane deleted the conversation, set the phone down, and sat up. He pulled on a hoodie, grabbed his keys, and slipped out of the room as quietly as he could. The hallway was empty, the dorm silent except for the hum of the heating system. He walked quickly, head down, hands shoved in his pockets.

Outside, the snow was falling harder now, thick flakes swirling in the wind. He should have grabbed a jacket, but he didn't go back. The cold bit into his skin, seeping through the thin fabric of his hoodie, but he welcomed it. It was sharp, distracting, something to focus on besides the gnawing emptiness inside him.

The walk to the hotel felt longer this time, each step deliberate, each breath visible in the frigid air. The city was quiet, streets empty, the snow muffling sound. By the time he reached the hotel, his fingers were numb, his cheeks stinging from the cold. He pushed through the revolving door, the warmth inside hitting him like a slap.

This hotel was different from the last one—smaller, cheaper, the kind of place that didn't ask questions. The clerk at the front desk didn't even look up as Shane crossed the lobby and headed for the elevator. He rode up to the fourth floor, the elevator rattling and groaning, and stepped out into a dimly lit hallway.

Room 412. He knocked once, and the door opened immediately. The man on the other side was different too—younger, maybe mid-thirties, with sharp features and cold eyes. He didn't smile, didn't greet Shane, just stepped aside to let him in.

The room was small, the bed unmade, the curtains drawn. It smelled like cheap cologne and stale cigarettes. Shane stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him, and the man's hand was already on his shoulder, pushing him toward the bed.

"You're late," the man said, voice clipped.

"Sorry," Shane murmured, not meaning it.

The next morning, Shane dragged himself to the library with Hayden, his body aching, his mind foggy. He hadn't slept. He'd left the hotel room around 3 a.m., walked back to the dorm in the snow, and crawled into bed just as the sky started to lighten. He'd stared at the ceiling for another hour before giving up and getting ready for the day.

Now, sitting at a table in the library, he felt like death warmed over. His eyes burned, his head throbbed, and every muscle in his body protested the slightest movement. Hayden, of course, found this hilarious.

"Dude, you look like you got hit by a truck," Hayden said, snorting as he shoved a handful of chips into his mouth. "Did you even sleep?"

"No," Shane muttered, resting his forehead on the table.

"What were you doing? Playing video games? Jerking off? Both?"

"Hayden, shut up."

"I'm just saying, you look rough. Like, rough rough. Did you get into a fight with your bed? Did your bed win?"

Shane groaned, lifting his head just enough to glare at him. "Do you ever stop talking?"

"Nope." Hayden grinned, crunching loudly on another chip. A librarian across the room shot them a sharp look, pressing a finger to her lips in a shushing motion. Hayden waved at her cheerfully, then turned back to Shane. "So seriously, what's going on? You've been weird lately."

"I'm fine," Shane said, closing his eyes. "Just tired."

"Liar."

"Hayden, I swear to God—"

"Okay, okay, I'll shut up." Hayden leaned back in his chair, still munching. "But for the record, you're a terrible liar."

Shane ignored him, folding his arms on the table and resting his head on them. He tried to nap, to let the exhaustion pull him under, but his mind wouldn't quiet. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Ilya's face, heard his voice: Disgusting. He saw the hotel room, felt the hands on his throat, tasted the shame that lingered like ash on his tongue.

A sharp nudge to his ribs jolted him awake. He groaned, lifting his head. "What now?"

Hayden pointed out the window, grinning. "Isn't that Rozanov?"

Shane followed his gaze, squinting against the light. Outside, in the field below, stood Ilya. He was wearing a black puffer jacket, unzipped, with a gray hoodie underneath, his breath misting in the cold air. Two girls flanked him, both wearing bright red shirts with a logo Shane recognized—the campus animal rescue club. They were smiling, chatting animatedly, clearly trying to recruit passersby. Ilya stood between them, hands in his pockets, expression blank.

Shane smirked despite himself. The kid was being used as bait, and he probably didn't even realize it. Of course they'd put the hot Russian guy front and center to lure people in.

"Damn," Hayden muttered, leaning closer to the window. "They're really milking the pretty-boy angle, huh? Look at him. He looks like he's about to fall asleep standing up. Even with two gorgeous girls next to him, he's got that resting bitch face going strong."

Shane shook his head, scoffing fondly. "That's just his face."

"Yeah, but still. You'd think he'd at least try to look interested."

Shane kept watching, silent. Ilya shifted his weight, glancing at the girls, then back at the small crowd gathering around them. He looked uncomfortable, out of place, like he'd been roped into something he didn't fully understand.

Then, a dog appeared.

It was small, scruffy, with matted fur and a limp in its hind leg. It wore a tiny red shirt matching the girls', wobbling toward the group with its tail wagging furiously. One of the girls noticed it first, crouching down to pet it, but the dog ignored her, heading straight for Ilya.

Ilya noticed, his gaze dropping. Slowly, he crouched down, reaching out to pat the dog's head. The dog's tail wagged harder, and it tried to climb onto Ilya's leg, paws scrabbling against his jeans. Ilya's mouth twitched. Then, it bloomed into a soft, gentle smile, his entire face transforming. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of the dog's head.

Shane's breath caught.

Hayden said something else, but Shane didn't hear it. "Huh?" he said absently.

Hayden frowned, looking at him. "I said, do you think he likes animals more than people? Have you not been listening?"

"Yeah, sorry," Shane muttered, turning back to the window.

By the time he looked again, the dog was with the girls, and Ilya's face had returned to its usual blank mask. Shane stared at him for a moment longer, replaying the smile in his mind.

He can smile like that, huh?

He leaned back in his chair, sinking into it, letting the image settle in his chest.

It's nice.

The nap had been brief, barely twenty minutes of fitful sleep slumped over his notebook, but it was enough to dull the sharp edge of exhaustion into something more manageable. Shane blinked awake slowly, the library's fluorescent lights burning into his retinas, his neck stiff from the awkward angle. Hayden was still beside him, now watching something on his phone with earbuds in, occasionally snickering at whatever video had captured his attention.

Shane rubbed his face, the skin still tender from last night's scalding shower, and glanced at the clock on the wall. They had fifteen minutes before class. He gathered his things mechanically—notebook, pens, the textbook he hadn't even opened yet—and stuffed them into his backpack. His movements were slow, deliberate, his body protesting every shift.

"Ready?" Hayden asked, pulling out his earbuds.

"Yeah," Shane muttered.

They left the library together, stepping out into the cold. The snow had stopped, leaving behind a thin layer of white that crunched under their boots. The campus was alive with midday activity—students hurrying between buildings, the distant sound of a snowball fight, the smell of coffee drifting from the nearby café. Shane pulled his hood up, hunching his shoulders against the wind.

The walk to the lecture hall was short, but it felt longer with the headache building behind his eyes. Hayden chatted the entire way, something about a meme he'd seen, a joke someone had made in the group chat, a complaint about the upcoming exam. Shane nodded occasionally, offering noncommittal hums, but his mind was elsewhere.

They reached the lecture hall, a sprawling auditorium with tiered seating and a projector screen at the front. Shane and Hayden climbed the stairs to their usual spot near the back, sliding into seats next to JJ, who was already there, scrolling through his phone with a bored expression.

"Captain!" JJ greeted, grinning. "You look like shit."

"Thanks," Shane said dryly, dropping his backpack onto the floor.

"Rough night?"

"Something like that."

JJ leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head. "Well, hopefully you'll perk up by this weekend. You're coming to the party, right? Don't bail on me again."

Shane blinked, his brain sluggishly processing the question. "Uh, no, I have—"

"Of course he's coming," Hayden interrupted, leaning across Shane to grin at JJ. "We're coming, right, Captain?"

Shane sighed, turning to stare at Hayden with a flat, exhausted expression. "Hayden—"

"We're coming, right, Shane?" Hayden pressed, his tone insistent. "It's not like you have anything to do other than brood in your dorm and reorganize your sock drawer for the fifth time this week."

"I have a paper due," Shane said, though even as he said it, he knew it was a weak excuse.

"Yes, and that can wait," Hayden said, waving a dismissive hand. "Even Coach Morgan said you should take a break. You've been wound tighter than a drum lately. Come on, it's one night. Live a little."

Shane felt the headache intensify, a dull throb behind his temples. He didn't have the energy to argue, didn't have the willpower to push back. The exhaustion weighed on him like a physical thing, pressing down on his shoulders, making every word feel like too much effort.

"Fine," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Fine, I'll go."

Hayden and JJ exchanged triumphant looks, high-fiving across Shane's lap.

"Excellent," JJ said, grinning. "It's gonna be a good time. Keg stands, beer pong, probably some terrible karaoke. You know, the usual."

"Sounds thrilling," Shane muttered.

"Oh, and bring Rozanov too," Hayden added casually, as if it were an afterthought.

Shane frowned, turning to look at him. "What?"

"Rozanov," Hayden repeated. "Bring him along. Kid needs to socialize. He's been here for weeks and I don't think he's talked to anyone outside of practice. It's kind of sad."

"What if he doesn't want to go?" Shane asked.

Hayden shrugged. "Then use your captaincy or whatever. Convince him. Just bring him along. It'll be good for him."

Shane sighed again, the sound heavy with resignation. The idea of dragging Ilya to a party felt absurd. The guy barely tolerated team dinners, sitting at the edge of the table with his tray of carefully selected food, answering questions in monosyllables. A party full of drunk college students seemed like the last place he'd want to be.

But Hayden was right about one thing: Ilya did need to socialize. He was isolated, by choice or circumstance, and as captain, it was Shane's job to make sure every player felt like part of the team. Even if it meant forcing a socially awkward Russian rookie into a frat house basement.

"Fine," Shane said, his voice flat. "I'll ask him."

"Atta boy," Hayden said, clapping him on the shoulder.

The professor walked in then, saving Shane from further conversation. The lecture started, something about economic theory and market equilibrium, and Shane tried to focus, but the words slid past him like water.

He scribbled notes mechanically, his handwriting messy and uneven. Beside him, Hayden was doodling in the margins of his notebook, drawing what looked like a very detailed stick figure version of their coach yelling. JJ was half-asleep, his head propped on his hand, eyes glazed over.

The lecture dragged on. Shane's headache worsened, a sharp, insistent pain that made it hard to think. He pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to massage it away, but it didn't help. By the time the professor dismissed them, Shane felt like his skull was splitting open.

"You good?" Hayden asked, glancing at him as they packed up their things.

"Headache," Shane said shortly.

"You should take something for that."

"I will."

They filed out of the lecture hall, joining the stream of students heading to their next destinations. Shane checked his phone—still an hour before practice. Enough time to grab food, maybe take some painkillers, try to pull himself together.

"Let's hit the dining hall," JJ suggested. "I'm starving."

"You're always starving," Hayden said.

"Yeah, well, I'm a growing boy."

"You're twenty years old."

"Exactly. Still growing."

Shane followed them, letting their banter wash over him. The dining hall was crowded, the usual lunchtime chaos. They grabbed trays and moved through the line, Shane selecting a sandwich and some fruit, Hayden piling his plate high with everything in sight. JJ went straight for the pizza, loading up three slices.

They found a table near the window, the same one they always sat at. Shane ate slowly, chewing mechanically, his appetite nonexistent. Across from him, Hayden and JJ were arguing about something—hockey stats, maybe, or a video game—but Shane tuned them out, staring out the window at the snow-covered quad.

His phone buzzed. He glanced at it, expecting a message from his mom or maybe a reminder about an assignment. Instead, it was a text from an unknown number: Had fun last night. Let me know when you're free again.

Shane's stomach twisted. He deleted the message without responding, shoving the phone back into his pocket. His hands were shaking slightly, and he pressed them flat against the table, willing them to stop.

"You okay?" Hayden asked, his voice cutting through Shane's thoughts.

"Yeah," Shane said, forcing a smile. "Just tired."

Hayden didn't look convinced, but he didn't push. Instead, he turned back to JJ, resuming their argument. Shane finished his sandwich, drank some water, and tried to ignore the gnawing feeling in his gut.

After lunch, they headed to the rink. The walk was quiet, the three of them trudging through the snow in companionable silence. Shane's headache had dulled to a manageable throb, thanks to the painkillers he'd swallowed with his water, but the exhaustion remained, a heavy weight pressing down on him.

The rink was already buzzing with activity when they arrived. Players were scattered around the locker room, some taping sticks, others lacing up skates, a few lounging on the benches and scrolling through their phones. The familiar smell of sweat and ice hit Shane like a wave, grounding him.

He dropped his bag onto the bench and started pulling out his gear. Across the room, he spotted Ilya, already half-dressed, pulling on his shoulder pads with practiced efficiency. His expression was neutral, focused, his movements precise. Shane watched him for a moment, then forced himself to look away.

"Alright, boys!" Coach Morgan's voice boomed from the doorway. "Let's get moving! We've got a lot to cover today, and I don't want to see any half-assed effort out there!"

The team groaned in unison, but they started moving, pulling on the rest of their gear, grabbing helmets and gloves. Shane laced up his skates, the ritual calming, and stood, testing his weight on the blades. He grabbed his stick and headed toward the ice.

Practice was brutal. Coach ran them through drill after drill, pushing them harder than usual. Breakouts, defensive zone coverage, power play setups—everything fast, everything intense. Shane's legs burned, his lungs screaming for air, but he pushed through, barking orders at his teammates, keeping them focused.

Ilya was a machine, as always. He moved with effortless precision, his skating smooth, his passes crisp. He didn't complain, didn't slow down, didn't show any sign of fatigue. Shane found himself watching him more than he should, noting the way his body moved, the way he anticipated plays before they happened, the way he seemed to exist in a different plane of focus.

At one point, during a line rush drill, Ilya intercepted a pass meant for Shane and carried it down the ice himself, deking around two defenders before burying the puck top shelf. The sound of the puck hitting the back of the net echoed through the rink, and a few players whistled in appreciation.

"Nice one, Rozanov!" JJ called out.

Ilya didn't acknowledge the compliment, just skated back to the line, his expression unchanged. Shane skated past him, and their eyes met for a brief second. Ilya's gaze was steady, unreadable, and Shane looked away first, his chest tightening.

Practice ended with a scrimmage, and by the time Coach blew the final whistle, Shane was drenched in sweat, his body aching. He skated to the bench, leaning heavily on his stick, breathing hard.

"Good work today," Coach said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You looked sharp out there."

"Thanks, Coach," Shane managed.

Practice had ended twenty minutes ago. The locker room had emptied in waves—first the freshmen, eager to escape Coach's post-practice lecture, then the upperclassmen, dragging their exhausted bodies toward showers and dinner. Shane had taken his time, peeling off his gear methodically, letting the noise fade around him. Hayden had tried to linger, chatting about the party again, but Shane had waved him off with a tired smile and a promise to meet him later.

Now, as he zipped up his duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder, he glanced toward the rink entrance. Through the plexiglass, he could see a lone figure still on the ice, moving with focused intensity.

Ilya.

Shane paused, bag halfway onto his shoulder, watching. The Russian was running through a drill—some kind of edge work combined with shooting—that required a partner to feed passes. But there was no partner. Ilya was doing it alone, skating hard to one side, pivoting sharply, then racing back to collect the puck he'd left at center ice before repeating the sequence. It was inefficient, frustrating to watch, but Ilya's expression remained unchanged, his focus absolute.

Shane stood there, debating. He should leave. He was exhausted, his body aching, his mind still foggy from lack of sleep. He had no reason to stay, no obligation to help. Ilya was perfectly capable of figuring things out on his own.

But then Ilya stumbled slightly on a tight turn, his blade catching, and Shane saw the flash of annoyance cross his face before he reset and tried again.

Shane sighed, dropping his bag back onto the bench. He grabbed his stick and skates, lacing up quickly, and pushed through the door onto the ice.

The cold hit him immediately, sharp and bracing, cutting through the lingering heat from practice. His breath misted in front of him as he skated toward Ilya, who didn't notice him at first, too focused on the drill.

"You need to drop your inside shoulder more," Shane called out, his voice echoing in the empty rink.

Ilya stopped mid-stride, glancing over. For a moment, he just stared, hazel eyes unreadable, then he nodded once. "Oke."

Shane skated closer, demonstrating the movement. "When you pivot, you're staying too upright. It's throwing off your balance. Drop the shoulder, shift your weight lower, and use your edges to carve the turn instead of forcing it."

Ilya watched intently, his gaze tracking Shane's movements. Then he tried it himself, adjusting his posture, leaning into the turn. This time, the pivot was smoother, cleaner, and he came out of it with more speed.

"Better," Shane said.

Ilya nodded again, a small dip of his chin, and reset to try again.

They fell into a rhythm after that. Shane fed him passes, calling out adjustments as they worked through the drill. "Tighter turn." "Keep your stick blade open." "Eyes up, not down." Ilya absorbed every correction without complaint, his movements improving incrementally with each repetition. There was something almost meditative about it, the repetition, the focus, the way the world narrowed to just the ice and the puck and the sound of blades cutting through frost.

Time slipped away. The rink lights buzzed overhead, harsh and bright, casting long shadows across the ice. Shane's legs burned, his lungs aching from the cold air, but he didn't stop. Neither did Ilya. They pushed through drill after drill, working in near silence, the only sounds the scrape of skates, the crack of the puck against sticks, the occasional grunt of effort.

By the time they finally stopped, the rink was empty save for the two of them. Shane leaned on his stick, breathing hard, sweat dripping down his temples despite the cold. Across from him, Ilya looked equally spent, his chest heaving, his hair damp and curling at the edges.

"That's enough," Shane said, his voice rough. "We should clean up."

Ilya nodded, skating toward the boards to grab the pucks scattered across the ice. Shane joined him, gathering the loose equipment, stacking cones, dragging the net back to its storage position. They worked in comfortable silence, the kind that didn't need filling, each movement practiced and efficient.

Shane was bent over, collecting the last few pucks, when he heard Ilya's voice, quiet and deliberate.

"You didn't come back last night."

Shane froze, his hand hovering over a puck. He straightened slowly, turning to look at Ilya. "Huh?"

Ilya was standing near the boards, his stick resting against his shoulder, his expression as neutral as ever. "Last night," he repeated, his accent thickening slightly as he searched for the words. "I wake up. You not there. Then I wake again in morning. Still not there."

Shane's throat tightened. He forced himself to keep his expression calm, his voice steady. "I… just went for a walk."

Ilya tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady. "Long walk."

"Yeah," Shane said, his mind racing. "I couldn't sleep. Needed to clear my head. I came back, though. You probably just didn't notice. And I left early this morning for class, so…"

The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, clumsy and unconvincing even to his own ears. He braced himself for Ilya to press, to ask more questions, to push until the lie crumbled. He was already constructing more excuses in his head, layering them like armor.

But Ilya didn't press. He just looked at Shane for a long moment, his hazel eyes searching, then he skated past him without a word.

Shane blinked, turning to watch as Ilya moved toward the equipment rack, beginning to store the cones they'd used. His movements were methodical, unhurried, as if the conversation had already ended.

Shane stood there, uncertain, the silence stretching between them. When Ilya finished with the cones, he skated back toward Shane, closing the distance in a few smooth strides. Shane instinctively stepped back, his pulse quickening.

"What are—" Shane started, but Ilya simply reached out and gently took the pucks from Shane's hands, his fingers brushing Shane's for a brief second.

"I do it," Ilya said quietly, his voice matter-of-fact. "You tired."

Shane watched, speechless, as Ilya skated back to the storage area and deposited the pucks into the bin. He moved with the same calm efficiency he brought to everything, no judgment, no questions, just quiet action.

As Ilya closed the storage bin and turned back toward Shane, he spoke again, his voice low and even.

"Then bring jacket."

Shane frowned. "What?"

Ilya skated closer, stopping a few feet away. His expression was still neutral, but there was something softer in his eyes. "It's cold," he said simply. "So bring jacket with you when you go for walk."

He didn't wait for a response. He just turned and skated toward the exit, his blades cutting clean lines across the ice, leaving Shane standing alone in the middle of the rink.

Shane stared after him, his chest tight, his mind blank. The words echoed in his head, simple and unadorned, but they hit him like a punch to the gut.

Bring jacket.

It’s cold. So bring jacket with you when you go for walk.

Shane exhaled shakily, his breath misting in the cold air. He stood there for a long moment, then finally turned and skated toward the exit, his legs heavy, his thoughts a tangled mess.

In the locker room, Shane was the only one left. The space felt cavernous without the usual noise, the hum of the overhead lights the only sound. He sat on the bench, unlacing his skates slowly, his movements mechanical.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen.

Message: You coming tonight? I'm free. Same room. Be there at 11.

Shane stared at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He typed out a response: ok

He stared at the word, then deleted it. He typed again: can't tonight. practice

He hit send before he could second-guess himself, then shoved the phone back into his pocket. He finished packing his bag, slinging it over his shoulder, and headed out into the cold.

The walk back to the dorm was quiet, the campus blanketed in fresh snow, the streetlights casting long, golden pools across the paths. Shane's breath misted in front of him, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Halfway back, his stomach growled, and he realized he hadn't eaten since lunch. He changed direction, heading toward the food hall instead of the dorm. The place was still open, the warm glow of the windows inviting in the dark.

As he pushed through the heavy doors, a wave of warmth and sound enveloped him—the clatter of dishes, the low hum of conversation, the sizzle from the grill. But cutting through it all was a distinct, savory aroma: dill, garlic, and slow-cooked meat. It was the same stew Ilya had chosen that first night they’d eaten here together.

Shane paused just inside the entrance, the scent pulling him back to that corner table by the window. He could picture it perfectly: Ilya hunched over his bowl, scowling at the vegetables before reluctantly fishing out a carrot, his expression softening only when he tasted the broth. The way he’d torn the dark bread with careful precision, dipping it methodically, his focus absolute, as if the act of eating required the same concentration as a power-play setup. He’d looked… content. In a way Shane hadn’t seen before or since.

A small, unexpected chuckle escaped Shane’s lips, startling him in the quiet of the entryway. He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth as he walked toward the counter.

He ordered a bowl for himself.

Chapter End Notes

This chapter was honestly really hard to write for some reason, idk why 😭 I rewrote it so many times I genuinely felt like I was losing my mind lmfao. This was also the point where the story started shifting away from the original plot I had in mind, which definitely didn’t make things easier.

The first half of this chapter was kind of emotionally heavy… and I spent a lot of time trying to balance that weight without dragging the pacing down or dulling the emotions I wanted to land. I kept second-guessing whether to push harder or pull back, so this chapter ended up taking way longer to write than expected…

Hopefully the emotions came through the way I intended 😅 And if this explanation sounds a little all over the place… yeah, that’s pretty much how my brain felt while writing it 🤣

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

Shane liked to convince himself he'd been persuasive. That when he'd cornered Ilya in the hallway outside their dorm room two days ago, fumbling through an awkward invitation to JJ's party, he'd actually succeeded in convincing the kid to come.

It had gone… poorly.

Shane had caught him just as Ilya was returning from a morning run, earbuds in, face flushed from exertion, his breath still coming in visible puffs. Shane had cleared his throat, hands shoved deep in his pockets, trying to look casual and failing miserably.

"Hey, uh, so JJ's throwing a party this weekend," he'd started, the words tumbling out too fast. "Saturday night. Just team stuff, some other people. Nothing crazy. You should come."

Ilya had pulled out one earbud, staring at Shane like he'd just suggested they set themselves on fire for fun. His brow furrowed, mouth pulling into a confused line, as if the very concept of a party was alien. "Party?" he'd repeated slowly, like he was testing the word.

"Yeah. You know, music, drinks, people hanging out. It'll be good for team bonding or whatever." Shane had winced internally at how forced that sounded.

Ilya's frown deepened. He muttered something in Russian under his breath, a low grumble that Shane didn't catch, then nodded reluctantly. "Oke."

"Okay?" Shane had repeated, surprised.

"Da. Okay." Ilya had shrugged, though his expression suggested he'd rather eat glass. Then he'd brushed past Shane into their room, leaving Shane standing in the hallway feeling oddly off-balance.

Since then, Shane had kept his distance. Not deliberately—or maybe deliberately, he wasn't sure. Every time he thought about approaching Ilya, about striking up a conversation, his mind flashed back to the rink. Bring jacket. It's cold. The simple concern in those words had burrowed under his skin, settling somewhere uncomfortable in his chest. So he'd thrown himself into schoolwork, practice, anything to avoid the quiet moments when they were both in the dorm at the same time.

Now, standing in JJ's crowded living room with a red solo cup in his hand, Shane wasn't even sure if Ilya would actually show up. When Hayden had grabbed him earlier, eyes bright with pre-party excitement, and asked, "Where's Roz?" Shane had just shrugged and muttered, "No idea. Maybe he'll come, maybe not."

Hayden had rolled his eyes. "You're his captain. You should've dragged him here."

"He's a grown adult," Shane had replied, taking a long sip of whatever sugary vodka concoction JJ had mixed. "He can make his own decisions."

Now Shane sat perched on a stool at the makeshift bar JJ had set up in the kitchen, chin propped on his hand, nursing his drink and watching his teammates make fools of themselves. JJ was attempting some kind of interpretive dance in the middle of the living room, his shirt already half-unbuttoned, while Hayden cheered him on, recording everything on his phone. A group of girls from the women's soccer team had commandeered the couch, laughing and singing along badly to whatever pop song was blasting through the speakers.

It was loud, chaotic, exactly the kind of scene Shane usually avoided. But there was something comforting about it too—the easy camaraderie, the way everyone seemed to shed their stress and just exist in the moment. He let himself relax slightly, the alcohol warming his chest, dulling the sharp edges of his thoughts.

That's when he noticed someone watching him.

A man, maybe in his early forties, leaning against the far wall near the entrance to the kitchen. He wasn't a student—too old, too polished. He wore dark jeans and a fitted button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a watch glinting on his wrist. Probably one of the bartenders JJ had hired from that upscale place downtown, the ones who mixed craft cocktails and charged way too much.

The man caught Shane's eye and smiled, slow and deliberate. He raised his own drink in a small salute, his gaze lingering just a beat too long to be casual.

Shane felt the familiar tug low in his stomach, the one that always preceded bad decisions. He hummed softly to himself, considering. The man was attractive in that polished, older way Shane had grown accustomed to. Strong jawline, graying temples, the kind of confidence that came with age.

Maybe later, Shane thought, turning his attention back to his drink.

Ilya showed up about an hour later. Shane figured it was because the kid had probably spent the entire hour psyching himself up, standing outside the house, debating whether to turn around and leave. That, or he'd gotten lost trying to find the place. Either way, when Shane finally spotted him, he was standing awkwardly near the entrance, hands shoved into the pockets of a dark gray bomber jacket, his expression hovering somewhere between bored and mildly irritated.

He was wearing a plain black T-shirt underneath the jacket, the fabric clinging to his broad shoulders and chest in a way that was impossible not to notice. His jeans were dark, fitted but not tight, and his boots were the same scuffed pair he always wore. He looked effortlessly put-together, the kind of casual that only worked when you had the build to pull it off.

He wasn't socializing. In fact, he looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. He stood near the wall, arms crossed, his gaze sweeping the room with detached observation, like he was cataloging exits and potential threats. A few people glanced his way—girls mostly, their eyes lingering—but he didn't seem to notice or care.

Shane felt an unexpected surge of relief at seeing him. He hadn't realized how much he'd been hoping Ilya would actually show up until he saw him standing there, looking thoroughly unimpressed by the entire event.

Before Shane could decide whether to go over and say something, Hayden and JJ stumbled into the kitchen, both of them laughing so hard they could barely stand. Hayden had an arm slung over JJ's shoulders, his face flushed, his words slurring together.

"Captain!" Hayden shouted, pointing at Shane with his free hand. "Captain, we need your wisdom!"

"Oh god," Shane muttered, setting down his drink.

JJ was giggling—actually giggling—his eyes glassy and unfocused. "Hayden says he can do a backflip off the couch. I bet him twenty bucks he can't."

"I can," Hayden insisted, his voice indignant. "I'm like a gymnast. A beautiful, athletic gymnast."

"You're going to break your neck," Shane said flatly.

"Only if I fail," Hayden said, as if that were a reasonable counterargument.

Shane sighed, standing and grabbing Hayden by the arm. "No backflips. Sit down before you hurt yourself."

"You're no fun," Hayden whined, but he let Shane guide him to a chair. JJ collapsed into the seat next to him, still giggling.

"Water," Shane said, grabbing two bottles from the fridge and shoving them into their hands. "Drink. Now."

"Yes, Captain," they chorused in unison, their voices sing-song and mocking.

Shane shook his head, fighting a smile. "You two are disasters."

"We're fun," JJ corrected, taking a sip of water and immediately spilling half of it down his shirt.

"You're so bossy," Hayden whined, but he drank anyway.

"Yeah, well, someone has to keep you idiots alive," Shane muttered, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms.

JJ took a long gulp of water, then grinned at Shane. "You're a good captain, you know that?"

"I know," Shane said dryly.

"No, seriously," JJ continued, his voice taking on that earnest, drunk quality. "You're like… the best. Always looking out for us. Always making sure we're okay. We don't say it enough, but we appreciate you, man."

Hayden nodded vigorously. "Yeah. You're the best. The best."

Shane felt his cheeks warm, a mix of embarrassment and something softer he didn't want to examine too closely. "Okay, okay, enough. Just drink your water and try not to puke on my shoes."

They stayed in the kitchen for a while, Shane babysitting them as they slowly sobered up. JJ eventually wandered off to find a couch to collapse on, and Hayden declared he needed to "go talk to that girl from my econ class" before stumbling back into the living room.

Shane exhaled, running a hand through his hair. He glanced around the kitchen, now mostly empty, and was about to head back to his spot at the bar when a voice spoke behind him.

"You're good with them."

Shane turned to find the man from earlier standing a few feet away, drink in hand, that same slow smile on his face.

"Someone has to be," Shane said, his tone neutral.

The man stepped closer, his gaze sweeping over Shane in a way that made his skin prickle. "You're on the hockey team, right? I've seen you play. You're really good."

"Thanks," Shane said, keeping his expression carefully blank.

"I'm Marcus, by the way." The man extended a hand.

Shane shook it briefly. "Shane."

"I know," Marcus said, and there was something in his tone—knowing, amused—that made Shane's guard go up. "JJ talks about you a lot. Says you're the glue that holds the team together."

"JJ talks too much when he's drunk," Shane replied.

Marcus laughed, a low, warm sound. "Maybe. But I think he's right." He took a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving Shane's. "You look like you could use a break. All that responsibility must get exhausting."

Shane's jaw tightened. He recognized this game, the careful probing, the way Marcus was testing the waters. "I'm fine," he said.

"Are you?" Marcus stepped closer, close enough that Shane could smell his cologne—expensive, woody. "Because you look tense."

Shane should have walked away. Should have made some excuse and rejoined his teammates. But the alcohol was buzzing pleasantly in his veins, and the way Marcus was looking at him—hungry, intent—sent a familiar thrill through him.

"Maybe a little," Shane admitted quietly.

Marcus's smile widened. "Come on. Let's get some air."

They ended up in a corner of the backyard, away from the main party, half-hidden by the shadow of the house. The music was muffled here, the cold air biting but not unbearable. Marcus wasted no time, pressing Shane against the wall, his mouth finding Shane's neck.

Shane tilted his head back, letting him, his breath hitching as Marcus's teeth grazed his skin. Hands roamed over his chest, his waist, gripping with just enough pressure to make Shane's pulse spike.

"You're even hotter up close," Marcus murmured against his throat, his voice rough.

Shane bit his lip, a small sound escaping him when Marcus's hand slid under his shirt, fingers tracing the lines of his abs. He felt the familiar pull, the need building, and he let himself sink into it, let himself stop thinking.

Marcus pulled back slightly, his hand moving to Shane's hair, gripping and tugging. Shane's mouth fell open, a soft whimper slipping out before he could stop it.

Marcus chuckled, low and satisfied. "I knew you were that type."

Shane's eyes fluttered open, hazy, and Marcus leaned in closer, his lips brushing Shane's ear. "Wanna take this somewhere else?"

Shane was about to answer, his mouth already forming the word yes, when movement caught his eye.

Through the doorway, in the kitchen, someone stumbled—tall, broad-shouldered, unmistakable even in the dim light.

Ilya.

He was leaning against the counter, one hand braced on the surface, his head bowed slightly. He looked unsteady, his movements slower than usual, and Shane's chest tightened.

Marcus followed his gaze, frowning. "You know him?"

Shane didn't answer. He was already pulling away, straightening his shirt, his mind suddenly, painfully clear.

"Hey—" Marcus started, but Shane was already walking back toward the house.

Ilya was clearly drunk.

Which was suspicious as hell, because the kid was Russian. Shane had watched him down vodka shots at team dinners without so much as a grimace, had seen him nurse beers with the same detached indifference he applied to everything else. The guy had probably been drinking since he was tall enough to reach the counter. There was no reason a party like this—with its watered-down jungle juice and cheap beer—should have him stumbling.

But there he was, leaning heavily against the kitchen counter, one hand braced on the granite surface, his head bowed like he was fighting to stay upright. Even from across the room, Shane could see the deep furrow between his brows, the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched and unclenched like he was trying to force his body back under control.

Shane's chest tightened, alarm bells ringing in his head.

He started moving toward the kitchen, weaving through the crowd, his eyes locked on Ilya. He was halfway there when a woman appeared at Ilya's side, all glossy lips and predatory smile. She was older, maybe mid-thirties, dressed in a tight dress that left little to the imagination. Shane didn't recognize her—probably someone JJ knew, or a friend of a friend, the kind of person who showed up to college parties to feel young again.

She leaned in close to Ilya, her hand landing on his arm, her body pressing against his side. She was saying something, her mouth moving close to his ear, and Ilya tried to pull away, his hand coming up weakly to push at her shoulder. But his movements were sluggish, uncoordinated, and she just laughed, her fingers curling tighter around his bicep.

Shane's jaw clenched. He moved faster.

By the time he reached them, the woman was holding something—a small bottle, one of those overpriced hangover remedies you could buy at gas stations. She was waving it in front of Ilya's face, her voice syrupy and fake. "Come on, sweetie, just drink this. You'll feel better, I promise."

Ilya shook his head, his eyes half-lidded, his words slurring in Russian. He tried to push her away again, but she just pressed closer, her hand sliding down his arm to his wrist.

Shane stepped between them, his body a solid wall. He stared down at the woman, his expression cold and flat. "I got it from here."

The woman blinked up at him, startled, then her expression shifted into something coy. "Oh, I'm with him. I was just gonna help him—"

"Yeah?" Shane cut her off, his voice sharp. "So what's his name?"

The woman's mouth opened, then closed. She blinked, her smile faltering. "I—well, he said—"

"What's his name?" Shane repeated, his tone harder now.

She stammered, her cheeks flushing. "I don't—look, I'm just trying to help—"

"Bullshit," Shane said flatly. He glanced at the bottle in her hand, then back at her face. "You spiked his drink, didn't you? Or you're trying to finish the job someone else started."

Her eyes widened, her face going pale. "I didn't—how dare you—"

"Fuck off," Shane said, his voice low and dangerous. "Before I call campus security and tell them exactly what you were trying to do. I'm sure they'd love to hear about it. Pretty sure spiking drinks and attempting to take advantage of someone falls under a few criminal charges."

The woman's mouth opened and closed like a fish, her hands trembling. "You can't—"

Shane took a step forward, his expression darkening. "Try me."

That did it. She turned on her heel and scurried away, disappearing into the crowd, the bottle still clutched in her hand. Shane watched her go, his fists clenched, his heart pounding with barely restrained fury.

He took a breath, forcing himself to calm down, then turned to Ilya.

The kid had slumped further against the counter, his head lolling to the side, his eyes closed. The deep frown was still etched between his brows, even in his unconscious state, and Shane felt something tug in his chest—something between exasperation and fondness.

He crouched down, bringing himself to eye level, and just stared for a moment. Ilya's face was flushed, his breathing slow and even, his hair falling into his eyes. The frown remained, stubborn and persistent, and Shane couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips.

He reached out and flicked Ilya's forehead lightly.

Ilya didn't wake up, but the frown deepened, his nose scrunching slightly.

Shane chuckled, shaking his head. "How'd you get yourself into this mess, huh?"

Ilya didn't answer, of course. He just slumped further, his weight shifting, and Shane sighed, standing and hooking an arm under Ilya's shoulders.

"Alright, big guy," Shane muttered. "Let's get you home."

Getting Ilya out of the house was a trial in itself.

The kid was heavy—all muscle and dead weight—and Shane had to half-drag, half-carry him through the crowded living room. People stared, a few offering concerned looks, but Shane waved them off with a tight smile. "He's fine. Just had too much to drink."

Hayden appeared out of nowhere, his eyes wide. "Holy shit, is Roz okay?"

"He'll be fine," Shane said through gritted teeth, adjusting his grip on Ilya's waist. "Someone spiked his drink."

"What?" Hayden's expression shifted to anger. "Who—"

"Don't know. Doesn't matter right now. I'm taking him back to the dorm."

"You need help?" Hayden asked, already reaching for Ilya's other arm.

"No," Shane said quickly. "Stay here. Make sure no one else gets spiked. Keep an eye on the drinks."

Hayden hesitated, then nodded. "Okay. Text me when you get back."

Shane nodded, then maneuvered Ilya toward the door. The cold air hit them like a slap, and Ilya stirred slightly, mumbling something unintelligible in Russian. Shane adjusted his grip, pulling Ilya's arm over his shoulders, and started the long walk back to the dorm.

It was slow going. Ilya kept trying to walk, his legs moving in uncoordinated jerks, but he was more hindrance than help. Shane had to stop every few steps to readjust, his own legs burning from the effort of keeping them both upright.

"You're a fucking giant, you know that?" Shane muttered, his breath misting in the cold air. "What's the point of you being Russian if you can't even hold your liquor?"

Ilya mumbled something that might have been a protest, his head lolling against Shane's shoulder.

Shane sighed, his exasperation tinged with something softer. "Next time, you're not drinking anything unless I hand it to you myself. Got it?"

Ilya didn't answer, but his hand curled weakly into Shane's jacket, holding on like a lifeline.

By the time they reached the dorm, Shane was sweating despite the cold, his arms aching, his legs trembling. He fumbled with his keys, cursing under his breath as he tried to unlock the door while keeping Ilya upright.

Finally, the door swung open, and Shane half-carried, half-dragged Ilya inside. He kicked the door shut behind them, then maneuvered Ilya toward his bed, lowering him down as gently as he could.

Ilya collapsed onto the mattress with a soft grunt, his eyes still closed, his face still flushed. Shane stood over him for a moment, catching his breath, then crouched down to unlace Ilya's boots.

Shane knelt beside the bed, his fingers working at the laces. The kid was completely out, his breathing deep and even, his face still flushed from whatever had been slipped into his drink. Shane worked methodically, tugging off the first boot and setting it aside, then reaching for the second.

He was just finishing with the laces when he moved to adjust Ilya's position, his hand closing gently around Ilya's wrist to shift his arm.

The touch was incidental, fleeting.

But in the next blink, the world upended.

One second Shane was kneeling beside the bed, and the next he was slammed backward, his back hitting the mattress hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. A hand clamped around his throat—not tight enough to choke, but firm, unyielding—and when Shane's eyes flew open, he found himself staring up into Ilya's face.

Except it wasn't Ilya. Not the Ilya he knew.

The hazel eyes staring down at him were sharp, alert, burning with something fierce and dangerous. There was no trace of the drunken haze from moments before. Instead, there was only cold calculation, a predator assessing a threat. Ilya's body was tense, coiled like a spring, his weight pinning Shane completely, one knee pressed between Shane's legs, the other braced on the mattress for leverage.

Shane's heart hammered against his ribs, his pulse roaring in his ears. "What are—"

Ilya cut him off with a string of rapid Russian, his voice low and harsh, edged with anger. Shane didn't understand the words, but the tone was unmistakable—accusatory, defensive, dangerous. Ilya's grip on his throat tightened fractionally, just enough to make Shane's breath hitch.

"Ilya—calm down—" Shane managed, his voice strained.

For a moment, Ilya just stared at him, his eyes searching Shane's face with an intensity that made Shane's skin prickle. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, recognition flooded his expression. The sharpness in his gaze softened, his brows drawing together in confusion, and he exhaled sharply.

"Fuck," Ilya muttered, his voice rough and slurred again. "It's just you. I thought…"

He didn't finish. His body went slack all at once, collapsing onto Shane like a puppet with its strings cut. His full weight pressed down, heavy and warm, his face buried against Shane's shoulder, his hand still loosely curled around Shane's throat.

Shane lay there, frozen, his heart still racing, his mind struggling to catch up. Ilya's breath was hot against his neck, slow and even again, already slipping back into unconsciousness. The hand on Shane's throat slid away, falling limply to the mattress beside Shane's head.

Shane stared at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling rapidly, trying to process what had just happened. His throat tingled where Ilya's hand had been, not painful but present, a phantom pressure that made his pulse spike all over again.

He waited, counting his breaths, until he was sure Ilya was fully out again. Then, carefully, he began to wiggle free, shifting his hips, twisting his shoulders, trying to maneuver out from under the dead weight pinning him down. It took effort—Ilya was solid muscle, and even unconscious, he was heavy—but eventually Shane managed to slide out, rolling to the side and sitting up.

He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, catching his breath, then turned his attention back to Ilya. The kid was sprawled across the mattress now, one arm flung over his head, his legs tangled in the comforter. The frown was back, etched between his brows, and his mouth was slightly open, soft snores escaping.

Shane sighed, running a hand through his hair, then got to work.

He pulled off Ilya's jacket first, carefully maneuvering his arms out of the sleeves. The fabric was damp with sweat, and Shane tossed it over the back of the desk chair. Next came the socks, which Shane peeled off and dropped into the laundry hamper. He considered removing Ilya's jeans—they looked uncomfortable, tight around his thighs—but decided against it. That felt like crossing a line he wasn't ready to examine.

Instead, he grabbed the spare blanket from the closet and draped it over Ilya, tucking it around his shoulders. He adjusted the pillow under Ilya's head, smoothing the fabric, then stepped back to survey his work.

Ilya looked… peaceful. Vulnerable, even. The hard edges of his face softened in sleep, the perpetual scowl eased into something almost serene. Shane found himself staring longer than he should, his gaze tracing the curve of Ilya's jaw, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones, the faint part of his lips.

He shook his head, forcing himself to turn away. He grabbed a glass from the desk and filled it with water from the mini-fridge, setting it on the nightstand within Ilya's reach. Then he turned off the overhead light, leaving only the small desk lamp on, casting a soft glow across the room.

Shane stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the door, his hand still on the handle. Then, slowly, he slid down to the floor, his back against the wall, his knees drawn up.

He threaded his fingers into his hair, gripping tightly, and exhaled shakily.

His hands were trembling.

His heart was still pounding, adrenaline coursing through his veins, but it wasn't fear. Not anymore. It was something else, something darker, something that made his skin feel too tight and his breath come too fast.

He could still feel it—the weight of Ilya's body pinning him down, the firm grip on his throat, the sharp intensity in his eyes. The way Ilya had looked at him, all danger and focus, like Shane was the only thing in the world that mattered in that moment.

Shane's breath hitched, and he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to force the image away.

But it wouldn't leave.

Instead, it replayed in vivid detail: the sudden shift from unconscious to alert, the way Ilya had moved with brutal efficiency, the pressure of his hand, the heat of his body, the low rasp of his voice speaking words Shane couldn't understand.

Shane's pulse throbbed, heat pooling low in his stomach, spreading through his limbs.

He dropped his hands, staring blankly at the opposite wall, his jaw clenched.

Fuck.

He was hard.

Chapter End Notes

We’re officially 1/3 into the story now~ 🥹

I’d genuinely love to hear your thoughts on how it’s been unfolding so far 🫶🏻

Thank you so much for reading and sticking with me! 🫂

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

Shane dragged himself into the lecture hall the next morning feeling like he'd been hit by a truck, reversed over, and hit again for good measure. He'd spent the entire night on Hayden's couch—or rather, what Hayden generously called a couch, which was actually a futon held together by duct tape and prayers—staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment Ilya had pinned him to the bed over and over until the memory wore grooves into his brain.

He hadn't slept. Not really. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the phantom pressure of Ilya's hand on his throat, saw the sharp focus in those hazel eyes, heard the low rasp of Russian he couldn't understand. And worse—far worse—was the way his body had reacted, the heat that had coiled low in his stomach, the undeniable evidence of his arousal that had taken embarrassingly long to fade.

By the time dawn broke, Shane had given up on sleep entirely. He'd showered in Hayden's mildew-scented bathroom, thrown on yesterday's clothes, and trudged to class with his backpack slung over one shoulder and a tension headache building behind his eyes.

Hayden was already there when Shane arrived, sprawled across two seats with his feet propped on the chair in front of him. He glanced up as Shane dropped into the seat beside him, and his eyebrows shot up.

"Jesus Christ, man," Hayden said, his voice a mix of amusement and concern. "How do you manage to look more like a corpse every time I see you?"

Shane grunted, pulling out his laptop and setting it on the desk. "Thanks. Really needed that today."

"I'm serious," Hayden continued, leaning closer to examine Shane's face. "You've got bags under your bags. And is that—are you wearing the same shirt as yesterday?"

"Drop it," Shane muttered, rubbing his eyes.

Hayden held up his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. Just saying, if you keep this up, you're gonna collapse mid-practice and Coach is gonna have my ass for not staging an intervention."

Shane ignored him, opening his laptop and staring blankly at the screen. The professor walked in, and the lecture started, but Shane couldn't focus. The words washed over him like static, meaningless noise that failed to penetrate the fog in his brain.

He lasted about twenty minutes before giving up entirely. He closed his laptop, leaned back in his chair, and stared at the ceiling, his mind drifting.

After a long moment, he turned to Hayden. "Change rooms with me for a while."

Hayden blinked, pulling out one earbud. "Hmm? Why?"

Shane scrambled for an excuse, his brain sluggish. "Need to finish a paper. The library's closer from your building."

Hayden raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but he shrugged. "Sure, I guess. How long you need?"

"Just a few days," Shane said quickly.

"Alright," Hayden said, turning his attention back to his phone. "But you owe me. And if JJ burns my dorm down, I'm holding you personally responsible."

"Deal," Shane muttered.

Hayden's room was exactly what Shane expected: a disaster zone masquerading as a living space.

The door swung open to reveal chaos incarnate. Clothes were strewn across every available surface—draped over the desk chair, piled on the bed, hanging from the closet door. Empty energy drink cans formed a small pyramid on the windowsill, and the floor was a minefield of textbooks, sneakers, hockey gear, and what looked like half a bag of tortilla chips spilled across the rug.

Shane stood in the doorway, staring, his expression flat. "How are you worse than when you’re living with me?"

"It's organized chaos," Hayden said defensively, pushing past him with a grin. "I know where everything is."

"Do you, though?" Shane asked, stepping inside and toeing a crumpled hoodie out of the way.

"Absolutely," Hayden said, though his tone suggested otherwise. He clapped his hands together. "Okay, ground rules. Number one: you need to feed Gerald twice a day. Once in the morning, once at night. You can't feed him more than twice or he'll get fat and die."

Shane blinked. "Who the hell is Gerald?"

Hayden pointed to a small tank on the desk, where a turtle the size of Shane's palm paddled lazily in murky water. "My son."

"Your turtle is named Gerald."

"He's a dignified gentleman," Hayden said seriously. "Treat him with respect."

Shane pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. What else?"

"Number two: you can't let JJ use my Xbox. He'll hog it and I'll never get it back. If he asks, tell him it's broken."

"It's not broken."

"He doesn't know that."

"Hayden—"

"Lastly," Hayden continued, ignoring him, "if the RA knocks, pretend you're not here. I may or may not owe him an explanation about the fire extinguisher incident."

Shane stared at him. "What fire extinguisher incident?"

"Don't worry about it," Hayden said breezily. "Anyway, you good? Need anything else?"

Shane sighed, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah. I need to sleep. Get lost already."

Hayden saluted, then started shoving clothes into his backpack with the efficiency of someone who had done this many times before. Shane turned his attention to the bed, grimacing at the tangle of sheets and blankets. He grabbed the corner of the comforter and pulled, revealing a half-eaten bag of gummy bears stuck to the fabric.

"Hayden," Shane said slowly, holding up the bag.

Hayden glanced over, then grinned sheepishly. "Oh yeah. I was wondering where those went."

Shane groaned, tossing the bag into the trash. "You're disgusting."

"You love me," Hayden said, zipping up his backpack.

"Debatable."

Hayden slung the bag over his shoulder, pausing at the door. "Does Roz know I'll be using your room? I don't want him killing me when I walk in unannounced."

Shane tensed at the mention of Ilya, his fingers tightening on the blanket. "Just tell him I need to get something done."

Hayden raised an eyebrow. "Right, so you're dumping the duty of explanation on me. Great. Thanks for that."

"You'll survive," Shane muttered.

Hayden lingered, leaning against the doorframe. "Anything I need to know? Does he snore? Do I need to keep the windows closed? Or is he one of those guys who wakes up at the crack of dawn and starts doing push-ups?"

Shane hesitated, his mind flashing to Ilya sprawled on his bed, frowning even in sleep. "Just… he's a bit picky. So when you notice he hasn't been eating, just bring him to the food hall. The one near the rink. He likes the stew there."

Hayden blinked, his expression shifting into something unreadable. "You know what he likes to eat?"

"He's my roommate," Shane said quickly, too quickly. "I notice things."

"Uh-huh," Hayden said, his tone dripping with amusement. "Sure. Whatever you say, captain."

"Get out," Shane said, pointing at the door.

Hayden laughed, holding up his hands. "Alright, alright. I'm going. Try not to have a breakdown in my absence."

He left, the door clicking shut behind him, and Shane was finally alone.

He stood there for a moment, staring at the mess surrounding him, then sighed and got to work. He stripped the bed, tossing the sheets into a pile in the corner, then remade it with the spare linens Hayden kept in the closet. He cleared the desk, stacking textbooks and shoving empty cans into the trash. By the time he was done, the room was still chaotic, but at least it was functional.

Shane collapsed onto the bed, pulling out his laptop and opening the document for his overdue paper. The cursor blinked at him, mocking, and he stared at it for a long moment before forcing himself to type.

The economic implications of market volatility in emerging sectors…

He deleted it. Tried again.

Market volatility in emerging sectors presents unique challenges…

Delete.

He groaned, scrubbing his hands over his face. Shane sighed and forced himself to focus. He had deadlines. Real, tangible deadlines that wouldn't care about his spiraling thoughts or the way his heart had hammered when Ilya's hand had closed around his throat.

He typed. Deleted. Typed again.

Hours passed in a blur of half-formed sentences and mounting frustration. By the time the sun began to set, Shane had managed a grand total of three paragraphs, none of which he was happy with.

His phone buzzed. He glanced at it, expecting Hayden or JJ, but the name on the screen made his stomach twist.

Marcus: You disappeared last night. Everything okay?

Shane stared at the message, his jaw tightening. He didn't remember giving the man his number, but he must have at some point. He typed out a response, then deleted it. Typed again.

Me: Yeah. Had to take care of something.

The reply came almost immediately.

Marcus: Shame. I was hoping we could finish what we started.

Shane's thumb hovered over the keyboard. He should respond. Should say something noncommittal, keep the door open. That's what he always did.

Instead, he locked his phone and tossed it onto the desk.

He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind already circling back to that stupid scowl that somehow was easier to think about than anything else.

He tried not to think about why.

The avoidance worked. For two days, at least.

Shane threw himself into a routine designed specifically to minimize contact. He arrived at practice early, left late. He sat at the opposite end of the locker room during team meetings, angled his body away during drills, and made sure there were always at least three people between him and Ilya at any given time. When Ilya's eyes found him across the ice—and they did, often, with an intensity that made Shane's skin prickle—Shane pretended not to notice, busying himself with adjusting his gloves or barking instructions at the freshmen.

It should have been easy. Shane was good at compartmentalizing, at building walls and keeping people at arm's length. But Ilya made it difficult in ways Shane hadn't anticipated.

The first attempt came after morning practice on day two. Shane was halfway to the exit, his gear bag slung over his shoulder, when he heard Ilya's voice behind him.

"Captain."

Shane's spine stiffened, but he didn't stop walking. "Yeah?" he called over his shoulder, not slowing.

"Can we—" Ilya started, his accent thicker than usual, like he was choosing his words carefully.

"Sorry, gotta run," Shane interrupted, flashing a quick smile and gesturing vaguely toward the door. "Got a study group in ten. Catch you later, yeah?"

He didn't wait for a response, just pushed through the door and disappeared into the hallway, his heart pounding harder than it should have been.

The second attempt came during lunch. Shane had been sitting with JJ and a few other guys, halfway through a mediocre sandwich, when Ilya appeared at the edge of the table. He stood there, silent, his tray balanced in one hand, his expression unreadable.

"Captain," he said again, quieter this time.

Shane looked up, forcing his expression into something casual. "Hey. What's up?"

"Can we talk?" Ilya asked, his gaze steady.

"Sure, yeah," Shane said, nodding. "After practice tonight? I've got a thing right now, but—"

"Shane," JJ interrupted, frowning. "You don't have a thing. You literally just said you were free all afternoon."

Shane shot him a look that could have melted steel. "I forgot. I have a thing."

JJ opened his mouth to argue, but Shane was already standing, grabbing his tray. "Sorry. Tonight, yeah? We'll talk then."

He left before Ilya could respond, dumping his tray and practically fleeing the dining hall.

By the third day, Shane could feel the cracks forming in his carefully constructed walls. Ilya's stares had grown sharper, more pointed, and Shane was running out of excuses. He'd started taking the long route to avoid passing their dorm, had claimed phantom meetings and nonexistent deadlines, and had even considered faking an illness just to avoid practice entirely.

But he couldn't avoid practice. Not as captain. So when the third day rolled around and Coach called the team together for a full scrimmage, Shane resigned himself to another few hours of pretending everything was fine.

The scrimmage was brutal. Coach had them running full-contact drills, pushing the pace until Shane's lungs burned and his legs screamed. Ilya was on the opposite line, and every time they clashed—stick against stick, shoulder against shoulder—Shane felt the impact reverberate through him in ways that had nothing to do with the physicality of the game.

By the time Coach blew the final whistle, Shane was drenched in sweat, his body aching, his mind exhausted from the effort of keeping his distance. The team filed off the ice in clusters, their voices echoing in the cavernous rink as they joked and shoved each other toward the locker room.

Shane lingered, pretending to adjust his skate laces, watching as the last few stragglers disappeared through the doors. He waited until the rink was silent, the only sound the hum of the overhead lights, before standing and heading toward the exit.

He made it three steps before Ilya's voice stopped him.

"Captain."

Shane froze, his hand tightening on his stick. He turned slowly, forcing a smile onto his face. "Hey. What's—"

But Ilya was already moving, skating toward him with deliberate, unhurried strokes. He didn't stop until he was directly in front of Shane, close enough that Shane had to tilt his head back slightly to meet his eyes.

"We need to talk," Ilya said, his voice flat.

"Yeah, totally," Shane said, his smile widening even as his stomach twisted. "But I've got—"

Ilya shifted, angling his body to block Shane's path to the exit. He didn't touch him, didn't crowd him, but the message was clear: Shane wasn't leaving until they had this conversation.

Shane glanced toward the locker room doors, watching as the last few guys disappeared inside. The rink was empty now, just the two of them, and he cursed inwardly even as the fake smile stayed plastered on his face.

"Right," Shane said, his tone light. "What is it, again? Sorry, I didn't—"

"You're avoiding me," Ilya said, cutting him off.

Shane's smile twitched. "Ah. There, there, your captain's not ignoring you." He reached out, patting Ilya's shoulder with exaggerated cheerfulness. "I just need to finish a paper, so I've been crashing at Hayden's. Didn't he tell you? I told him to tell—"

"When are you coming back?" Ilya interrupted, his voice quieter now.

Shane opened his mouth to respond, but the words died in his throat. Ilya was frowning, his gaze fixed on the ice between them, and there was something almost childlike in the way his shoulders hunched, the way his jaw tightened.

Shane's chest tightened, something warm and uncomfortable blooming there. He forced the smile to stay in place, even as it wavered. "…A week. Just give me a week. I just need to finish—"

Ilya leaned forward suddenly, resting his forehead against Shane's shoulder.

Shane went rigid, his breath catching. He stared down at the top of Ilya's head, at the damp curls plastered to his scalp, and for a moment he forgot how to think.

"Hayden snores," Ilya grumbled, his voice muffled against Shane's shoulder. "He leaves his socks everywhere. He eats all the food. And he talks in his sleep. About turtles."

Shane blinked, his brain struggling to process. "…Turtles?"

"Gerald," Ilya muttered. "He says 'Gerald, no' in his sleep. Many times."

Despite everything, Shane felt a laugh bubble up in his chest. He bit it back, his hand coming up to rest lightly on Ilya's shoulder. "That sounds… terrible."

Ilya lifted his head, his expression as blank as ever, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—frustration, maybe, or exasperation. "He doesn't even know what shchi is," he said, his tone flat. "The lady at the food hall. I ask for extra dill. Hayden just stares. She gives me no dill. Because he doesn't know."

Shane's lips twitched. "You're upset because Hayden doesn't know how to ask for dill?"

"You know," Ilya said, his frown deepening. "You always know. You tell her. She gives me dill. With Hayden, no dill. Just… soup. Sad soup."

Shane stared at him, at the way his brows were drawn together, at the genuine distress in his voice over the lack of dill, and something in his chest cracked wide open. He couldn't help it—he laughed, soft and helpless, shaking his head.

"You're ridiculous," Shane said, his voice fond despite himself.

Ilya's frown didn't budge. "Is not ridiculous. Is important."

"Fine," Shane said, sighing. The fight drained out of him all at once, replaced by a warm, exasperated affection he didn't want to name. "Four days. I'll finish the paper in two days, then come back. You good with that?"

Ilya nodded, a small dip of his chin. "Mnn."

He turned and skated toward the locker room, his movements smooth and unhurried, leaving Shane standing alone on the ice.

Shane watched him go, then turned and thumped his forehead against the boards, groaning. The cold bit into his skin, grounding him, but it did nothing to erase the tiny, ridiculous smile tugging at his lips.

Sad soup, he thought, and the smile widened despite himself.

Chapter End Notes

Ilya is sad because of the sad soup, poor babieeee 😭😭😭😂

Hope you enjoyed this chapter too! Something light before we go for it again heheheheheheheh

As always, your comments are like dopamine to me, so please keep them coming. I truly appreciate it 🥹

I almost forgot it was upload day today because I’ve been buried in editing another work

A little backstory: I was actually writing another piece while working on this one. Funny enough, I actually started that one before this, but at the time I didn’t really know how I wanted it to go, so this work ended up being kind of a “rebound” from that frustration LMAO. And here we are—I finished this ages ago, but the other one is still sitting there

I really like the plot for that other piece, which is probably why I’m being so picky about it. That’s also why it’s taking me longer to write

Anyway, I spent today working on it, and the fact that I’m talking about it now tells me I’m about 75% sure I can actually finish it—which I really hope I will, because I love the idea behind it. But I also know myself well enough to know I can’t write something I don’t enjoy… so please, please wish me luck 🙏

I have a feeling I’m going to be so happy once that piece is done 🥹

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Shane made it four days.

Four days of Hayden’s filth, four days of wrestling with his paper in a dorm room that smelled vaguely like old gym socks and cheap incense, four days of sleeping on a couch that had more lumps than a bag of pucks. He kept his promise. The paper got turned in. He told himself he’d done what he needed. And by the fourth night, he found himself walking up the dorm stairs, keycard in hand, every muscle in his body singing for his own bed, his own desk, his own order.

He shoved the door open and froze.

Ilya’s side was the same as always: bed made with crisp efficiency, desk neat, gear organized with military precision. Shane’s side looked like a crime scene. Hayden had managed to wreak absolute havoc in under a week. Clothes were draped over his chair, textbooks stacked at odd angles on the desk, empty snack wrappers on the floor, and the bed looked like someone had tried to wrestle a bear on top of it and lost. The scent of Hayden’s cologne lingered like a ghost.

Hayden was standing by the closet, holding a hoodie in one hand and rummaging through Shane’s drawers with the other. He was mid-sentence, apparently telling Ilya about some class, when he noticed Shane in the doorway and froze, a deer caught in perpetual chaos.

“Hey, you’re back early,” Hayden said, attempting a charming smile that failed miserably.

Shane just stared, eyes roaming over the disaster. He felt tired down to his bones, too exhausted for theatrics. “Hayden.”

Hayden blinked. “Yeah?”

“If you don’t start cleaning right now, I’m going to replace Gerald’s lettuce with ground beef and let nature take its course.”

Hayden paled. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Hayden tossed the hoodie back into the dresser with zero aim and immediately began scooping up the mountain of mess on the bed, babbling about how he’d meant to tidy up. His version of helping was picking up a sock, staring at it for a moment, then dropping it in a different place.

Shane shrugged off his hoodie, dropped his backpack by the desk, and rolled up his sleeves. If he wanted order restored before the night ended, he’d have to do it himself. He pulled his sheets off the mattress and tossed them in a pile, stripped the pillowcases, gathered all the stray clothes, and separated Hayden’s things from his own. Every so often, Hayden attempted to hand him something (“Is this yours?” “No, that’s your underwear.” “Oh. Yeah.”), and Shane fought the urge to throw half the room out the window.

Ilya sat on his bed throughout the chaos, legs crossed, phone in hand. He didn’t look particularly surprised by the disaster, nor bothered by it. When Shane had walked in, Ilya had glanced up, their eyes meeting for a brief second before Ilya gave a small nod and returned to whatever game he was playing. Hayden tried to rope him into the conversation twice, asking what level he’d reached and whether he’d seen the newest highlight reel on Instagram, but Ilya responded with monosyllabic “mn” and “nyet” and kept tapping away at the screen. Still, Hayden kept talking, narrating his entire week as if someone had asked.

Shane picked up a stack of books from the desk, reorganizing them by class, then opened his drawer to find his spare phone charger tangled in Hayden’s necklace. He untangled it with a huff, muttering under his breath.

Finally, after what felt like an hour but was probably twenty minutes, Hayden checked his phone and yelped.

“Shit! I’m late. I’ve got class.” He grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder, already halfway to the door. “I borrowed your charger, by the way. Left it in the library, I think? Oh, and I told Roz he’s the reason you hadn’t slept all week, so have fun with that.”

“Hayden,” Shane warned.

“Love you!” Hayden chirped, and darted out, the door thumping shut behind him.

And just like that, silence descended. Real silence. The kind that hung in the air like a held breath, calm and oddly comforting.

Shane smoothed the freshly replaced sheets, fluffed his pillows, and stepped back, surveying his side of the room. The bed was neatly made, the desk cleared, clothes folded or hung in the closet, gear stored where it belonged. Order restored. Calm threaded through him, subtle but grounding. He exhaled slowly, shoulders loosening.

He glanced to the left. Ilya was still in the same spot, phone in hand, thumbs moving in quick, precise taps, brows furrowed in what looked like concentration and mild annoyance at whatever game he was playing. His posture was loose, relaxed, yet everything about him remained sharp, watchful. Shane had caught glimpses of the screen earlier—some kind of tactical puzzle game that made his own head hurt just looking at it.

Shane watched him for a second, the familiarity of the scene settling in—the hum of the heater, the faint smell of Ilya’s detergent, the soft scrape of his fingers on the screen.

He missed this. The quiet. The routine.

He cleared his throat lightly. “Wanna grab the stew?”

Ilya paused, mid-tap, and turned his head. He considered the question for all of three seconds, then gave a short nod. “Mnn.” He closed out of the game, slipped the phone into his pocket, and slid off the bed. Without a word, he grabbed a towel and his shower caddy and headed toward the bathroom.

Shane couldn’t hide the small, fond little smile that crept onto his face. “And don’t swap the soaps again,” he called after him. “The lavender one’s mine.”

There was a pause, then a quiet “Da” from the bathroom doorway, as if Shane’s domestic nagging made perfect sense in their shared ecosystem.

Shane sank onto his chair, rubbing the back of his neck, the tightness in his chest loosening for the first time in days.

This was better. Not easier—never that—but better.

Living with Ilya turned out to be a slow education in patience, tenderness, and how many ways one person could glower at food.

It started with the laundry. The first morning back, Shane found Ilya hunched over their shared hamper in the laundry room, arms crossed, staring down at a shrunken sweater like it had personally betrayed him. The sleeves had pulled up to mid-forearm, the hem was barely waist-length, and his face was a picture of stoic outrage.

“Did you dry it on high?” Shane asked, biting back a laugh.

“What is high?” Ilya grumbled, holding up the sweater as if he could intimidate it back into shape.

Shane took pity on him. “Move.” He nudged Ilya aside, took over the controls, and spent the next fifteen minutes demonstrating the difference between cold wash and warm, what detergent to use, why fabric softener was a scam, and the importance of separating colors. Ilya listened with uncharacteristic focus, nodding occasionally, though his jaw remained tight and his eyes narrowed like he suspected the laundry machine of sabotage.

After that, every Sunday became laundry day. Shane would toss in his load, Ilya would do the same, and they’d end up folding side by side on the beds. Ilya’s folding was precise enough to impress a drill sergeant; Shane’s was functional. On more than one occasion, he caught Ilya quietly re-folding his shirts, muttering “this way is better” under his breath. Shane pretended not to see, secretly amused.

Meals took on their own peculiar rhythm. Shane had always been a practical eater: whatever fuel kept him going, he’d take it. Ilya, on the other hand, approached food like a suspicious detective interrogating a hostile witness.

The first week, Shane learned that Ilya despised canned tuna (“smells like cat punishment”), tolerated rice (“is blank, acceptable blank”), and adored dill to a degree that bordered on obsession (“dill is flavor of childhood”). He loved root vegetables, soup with heavy broth, anything pickled. He glared—really glared—at most cafeteria food unless it resembled something he’d grown up with. Shane took it as a challenge.

He began introducing Ilya to new dishes, one at a time, bracing himself for the inevitable frown. Some were hits: beef stew, sourdough bread, dark chocolate. Others… not so much. The night he convinced Ilya to try Thai green curry almost ended their roommate truce; Ilya sat with the bowl, scowled deeply, tasted a single bite, and then stared at Shane as if he’d been betrayed. “Why is it sweet and spicy?” he asked, offended. “Pick one.” Shane laughed so hard he nearly fell off the chair.

Over time, Shane learned how to navigate the minefield. He knew exactly how Ilya liked his eggs (soft scramble, heavy on the pepper), knew which days the food hall had decent roasted vegetables, knew to grab extra bread rolls because if he didn’t, Ilya would silently stare at his plate like something was missing and refuse to admit it. He made sure to ask the food station staff for extra dill, explaining slowly and clearly, because Ilya’s English wasn’t always there when he needed it and the glower only got him so far. The staff started recognizing them, handing over an extra scoop with a smile whenever they lined up.

That’s how they learned about Anya, too. The first time, Shane had seen the little dog wobble over at the recruitment booth, wearing a red shirt and sporting a limp, and only after watching the campus rescue club a few times did he learn the shaggy, lopsided mutt had a name: Anya.

Her history was pinned on a corkboard—rescued from a construction site, leg injured, gentle disposition, currently fostered by one of the volunteers while awaiting adoption. The rescue girls noticed Shane watching and brought Anya over; the dog took to Ilya instantly, pawing at his leg until he crouched to scratch behind her ears. She licked his face, wagged her tail until her whole body shook, and he broke out into that same soft, rare smile Shane had glimpsed through the library window. After that, it was over.

They started bringing Anya to the rink on light practice days, letting her trot around during cooldowns. She’d flop down on the ice like a queen surveying her kingdom, her little club shirt dragging behind her like a cape. The guys adored her—JJ tried to teach her tricks, Hayden attempted to skate with her tucked under one arm, Coach even took a photo with her “for team morale.” Ilya carried her like a baby in one arm between drills, murmuring soft Russian nonsense while she napped against his chest.

Sometimes, on evenings when schedules lined up, the rescue club let them take Anya for the night. She’d sleep at the foot of Ilya’s bed, snoring gently, and the next day Shane would find her sprawled on her back, paws in the air, basking in the morning sun while Ilya carefully brushed her fur with more patience than he showed most human beings. Shane teased him about being whipped. Ilya didn’t bother denying it.

One night, Shane was lying on his bed, scrolling through his phone, when Anya hopped up and settled on his chest, her weight surprisingly comforting. He scratched her head absently, and she let out a contented sigh.

"She likes you more than me now," Ilya said from his desk, not looking up from his laptop.

Shane grinned. "Jealous?"

"Nyet," Ilya said, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips.

After practice one afternoon, Shane was on the ice with Anya, tossing a small rubber puck for her to chase. She couldn't run fast with her bad leg, but she tried, her tail wagging furiously as she hobbled after it.

Hayden skated over, nudging Shane's shoulder. "Who's that?"

Shane glanced up, following Hayden's gaze to the benches. A woman was sitting there, maybe in her early thirties, dressed in a sleek coat and jeans. She was talking to Ilya, her expression animated, her hands gesturing as she spoke. Ilya stood in front of her, his posture relaxed, nodding occasionally.

"That her girlfriend?" Hayden asked, his tone teasing.

Shane's jaw tightened. "How the hell would I know? Go finish cleaning up."

Hayden raised his hands in surrender, skating off with a smirk.

Below him, Anya whimpered, nudging his skate with her nose. Shane crouched down, rubbing her chin. "You're fine," he murmured, but his gaze drifted back to Ilya and the woman.

They were still talking, the woman laughing at something Ilya said. Shane forced himself to turn away, focusing on gathering the stray pucks scattered across the ice. He barked orders at the team, his voice sharper than usual, and ignored the curious looks a few guys threw his way.

By the time he finished, Ilya was back on the ice, the woman gone. Anya padded over to him immediately, and Ilya scooped her up, cradling her against his chest. She licked his jaw, and Ilya's mouth twitched into one of those rare, soft smiles.

Shane finished tidying up and followed the team to the locker room, Anya trotting along beside him. He waited while Ilya showered and changed, scratching Anya's belly absently, then they headed back to the dorm together.

It was nearing 7 p.m. when Shane noticed Ilya pulling on a clean shirt, running a hand through his damp hair.

"Going out?" Shane asked, not looking up from his notebook.

"Mnn," Ilya said. "Need to help a friend with something. I'll be back late."

Shane hummed, twirling his pen. Anya was curled up on Ilya's bed, watching him with sleepy eyes.

Shane watched as Ilya grabbed his jacket, checked his phone, and headed for the door. "Bye," Ilya said, and then he was gone.

Anya padded over to Shane, hopping onto his lap and settling there with a soft whine.

Shane chuckled, rubbing her head. "Your dad's busy, huh?"

Anya whimpered again, her tail thumping weakly against his leg.

"I know, I know," Shane murmured. "He'll be back soon. Don't worry."

He leaned back in his chair, Anya warm and solid on his lap, and tried to focus on his homework.

Anya sighed, the sound almost human, and settled in, eyelids drooping. The room hummed with the quiet comfort of shared space—a desk lamp glowing over Shane’s notes, the muted tick of the radiator, the faint scent of cedar and detergent mingling in the air. Shane exhaled, tension unwinding by inches, even with the lingering image of that woman at the rink lingering at the edge of his thoughts.

Chapter End Notes

This one’s a bit on the short side! Probably the shortest chapter out of all 15 really, but it was crucial as it sets the stage for what’s coming next and gives us a little breathing room before the next wave 🥹

Next chapter is on the way! ❤️

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

The woman became a pattern.

At first, Shane saw her maybe twice in the span of a week—one afternoon sitting near the bench with a coffee, talking quietly to Ilya as he unlaced his skates, another evening when she appeared outside the arena just as the team trooped out, her smile warm, Ilya’s expression unreadable. The guys started muttering about it almost immediately, Hayden inventing wild theories (“She’s probably a Russian spy sent to make sure he hasn’t defected to the NHL”), JJ insisting she was clearly some kind of secret agent, and the rookies whispering about “pretty blonde Russians” as if they were an urban legend.

Shane ignored all of it. Or tried to.

By the third time he saw her—midweek, standing near the benches in a navy coat, her hair pulled back, laughing quietly at something Ilya said—he felt it like a stone in his stomach. He fought the instinct to watch, forcing himself to pack up his gear, to corral JJ away from harassing a freshman, to keep his voice steady as he shouted reminders about upcoming drills. But every time he glanced up, there she was, calm, composed, leaning close to Ilya as he listened.

He had no right to care. He told himself that constantly. Ilya’s life outside the rink wasn’t his business. He was captain, not babysitter, not… whatever this was becoming. So he forced it down and went about his routine.

It got harder when Ilya began leaving at the same time every evening. Seven-thirty, like clockwork. He’d shower, pull on clean clothes, run a hand through his damp hair, then check his phone while his brow furrowed just slightly. He’d offer a quiet “Bye,” sometimes with Anya nosing at his ankle, and leave. Always the same pace, the same calm expression. He’d return around midnight, sometimes later, slipping into the room quietly and collapsing into bed without a word.

Shane told himself it didn’t matter. He told himself to focus on his own schedule, his classes, the mountain of film he needed to review. But every night, when he heard the door click closed and felt the shift in the room, something hot and sour twisted in his gut.

He didn’t bring it up. He couldn’t. Even if he wanted to—and he absolutely did, in moments of weakness when the silence stretched too thin—what could he say? Where are you going? Who is she? Why do you always smell like fresh air and new laundry when you come back? It would be insane. Intrusive. He wasn’t that guy. He refused to be.

Still, the pattern wore at him. Thursday night, Ilya stood in front of the mirror, fastening the top button of a black shirt, the fabric clinging just enough to show the lines of his shoulders. Shane sat on his bed, phone in hand, playing the same puzzle game Ilya had introduced him to weeks ago. He’d scoffed at it initially, calling it boring, but now he played it when his brain needed something simple and repetitive. Except his focus was shot. His fingers kept fumbling over the screen, misplacing tiles, costing him points.

“Bye,” Ilya said, zipping his jacket. He paused, waiting, as if expecting something more than the usual mumble.

Shane didn’t look up. “Mhm. Take care.”

The door clicked shut. Silence swelled. Shane kept tapping at the game, jaw clenched, forcing his attention onto the tiny squares as if the right combination would solve everything. His fingers stilled. “Game Over” flashed across the screen in bold letters, mocking.

He stared at it for a second, then exhaled through his teeth, dropping the phone beside him. The room felt too quiet, too empty. Anya wasn’t there either; the rescue club had her for a weekend event. He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling, counting the hairline cracks in the plaster. One, two, three, four. The slow drag of his pulse rubbed against his nerves like sandpaper.

His phone buzzed. He ignored it at first, then rolled over and grabbed it. A message from a name he hadn’t deleted—not yet. He opened it without thinking.

You around? Room 814 tonight.

Shane stared at the text, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The knot in his chest tightened, bitter and sharp. He typed a reply, deleted it, typed again.

Yeah. On my way.

He threw on a hoodie, shoved his feet into sneakers, and left without another thought.

Room 814 was dimly lit, the city glowing beyond the window, rain streaking down the glass. The man waiting for him was older—late thirties, early forties, with a jawline that could cut glass and hands that knew exactly how to pin someone down. Shane didn’t ask questions; neither did he.

The room smelled like expensive cologne and expensive regret.

Shane lay on the bed, wrists pinned above his head, breath coming in ragged bursts. The man’s grip was iron, fingers digging into Shane’s skin with possessive confidence. His body pressed down heavy and hot, movements precise, practiced. Shane should have felt… something. Relief, maybe. Familiarity. Instead, everything inside him felt wound too tight, stretched thin like fishing wire pulled to the verge of snapping.

“Relax,” the man murmured against his ear, his breath warm. “Why are you so tense tonight?”

Shane shut his eyes. “Just fuck me.”

The man chuckled, low. “Bossy.”

He thrust harder. Shane bit down on the inside of his cheek, tasting copper. The headboard thumped against the wall, a rhythmic beat that should have been grounding. Instead, it grated. Every slap of skin against skin echoed in his ears, loud and empty. He wasn’t in the room. He felt as if he were hovering somewhere above, watching his body go through the motions while his mind replayed Ilya walking out the door, jacket zipped, voice quiet.

A hand shifted, squeezing his wrists tighter. Bruises bloomed under the fingers, sharp reminders that something was happening, that he couldn’t float away entirely. He sucked in a breath, anchored by the sting, by the way his ribs protested under the weight pressing them into the mattress.

It still didn’t quiet the noise in his head.

By the time Shane returned to the dorm, it was past midnight. The hallway was silent, the building thick with sleep. He unlocked the door quietly and stepped inside.

The room was dark except for the dim glow of the streetlight seeping through the blinds. Ilya’s silhouette was faint but unmistakable—curled on his side, facing the wall, breathing deep and even. Shane could make out the rise and fall of his shoulders under the blanket, the messy curls splayed across his pillow.

His own bed was untouched. He dropped his hoodie over the chair, stripped off his clothes, and slipped under the covers. The sheets were cold, biting at the raw skin around his wrists where bruises were already forming. He lay on his back, staring into the darkness.

His heartbeat refused to slow. He could still feel fingers around his throat. He could still hear the click of the door as Ilya had left. He wanted to shut it all off, to let exhaustion drown him, but every breath scraped against the tightness in his chest.

Across the room, Ilya murmured something in his sleep, a quiet word in Russian Shane didn’t understand. It rolled through the darkness, low and soft, and Shane bit down hard, the ache inside him tilting toward something fragile and unwelcome.

He closed his eyes, fists clenched under the blanket. He lay there until his body finally surrendered to exhaustion, even as his mind kept replaying footsteps, doors, whispered voices, the indifferent press of hands that never felt like enough.

Shane stared down at the leaning tower of laundry sliding out of his hamper, resigned to reality. The pile had been threatening to avalanche for two days, and the faint smell of stale sweat drifting from somewhere near the bottom was the final straw. He hauled the hamper into his arms and trudged down the hallway to the laundry room, the wheels squeaking under the weight.

He dumped everything onto the folding table, sorting with autopilot efficiency: practice gear here, everyday clothes there, socks in the corner. A shadow fell across the doorway.

“You doing laundry?” Ilya leaned against the frame, hoodie half-zipped, hair damp from a recent shower.

“Trying to before it stages a coup,” Shane muttered.

Ilya nodded like that was the only acceptable outcome. “I go with you.” He disappeared, then reappeared with his own smaller pile stacked in a neat cube. Together they fed quarters into the machine that always rattled ominously before engaging, the panel flashing an error code for the third time in as many weeks.

Shane groaned and crouched down, tapping the corner with the side of his fist. “Come on. Not today.” He pried open the panel, nudged the sensor back into place, and slammed it shut. The machine whirred to life like that had been the plan all along.

“You fix everything,” Ilya observed, straight-faced.

“I have to if I want clean clothes,” Shane shot back. “You still owe me for the time you turned my white shirts blue.”

Ilya shrugged, unapologetic. “Blue is good color.”

They retreated to the plastic chairs lining the wall, sitting shoulder to shoulder while the washers rumbled. The laundry room smelled faintly of detergent and whatever cologne the guys from the third floor drowned themselves in before class. A vending machine rattled sporadically in the corner even when no one touched it, and someone had left an empty ramen cup on the counter.

Shane reached into his bag, pulled out two cup noodles, and handed one to Ilya. “Lunch?”

“Third day in row,” Ilya pointed out.

“Broke students do what they must.” Shane tore off the lid, added hot water from the machine, and tilted the cup closed with his phone. Steam curled up, smelling vaguely of chicken if you squinted with your nose.

They slurped in silence, the kind that had settled between them lately whenever they weren’t on the ice. Not tense, not quite comfortable, just… careful. Every sound was amplified—the burble of boiling water, the mechanical hum of the washers, the quiet click as Ilya set his empty cup aside. Shane stayed focused on the motion, counting down the minutes on his phone, waiting for the final spin.

The washers chimed in union, a cheerful ding that never matched the ancient machines. Shane stood, stretching his stiff back, and crossed to the row. He pulled open the door, the smell of warm cotton hitting him in a familiar rush. He started transferring damp clothes into his basket.

He sensed rather than saw Ilya move closer. A shift in air, a presence hovering at his back. Shane reached for a T-shirt, started to turn, and froze when a hand closed around his wrist.

“What—” he started, glancing down.

Ilya had his fingers wrapped around Shane’s left wrist, thumb resting over the dark crescent bruise blooming there. His brow furrowed, thumb stroking absently across the mottled skin. The touch sent a shock through Shane, equal parts electric and mortifying. He clamped his teeth together to keep from flinching.

“What happened to this?” Ilya’s voice was quiet, but there was an edge in it, something sharp and displeased.

Shane tugged lightly, trying to slip free. “Nothing. I just—uh—caught it on the locker door.”

Ilya’s eyes flicked to his other wrist. Shane instinctively pulled it behind his back, but Ilya caught his elbow, gently but firmly, and brought the arm forward. The bruise there was worse—the imprint of fingers stark against his skin. Ilya’s expression flattened, unimpressed.

“Door?” Ilya repeated, doubt dripping from the single word.

Shane swallowed. “Yeah. You know how zero-one gets jammed. Didn’t move my hands fast enough.”

They stood like that for a moment, Ilya holding both wrists like evidence, Shane feeling heat crawl up the back of his neck. After a tense beat, Ilya released him. He turned back to his own washer, hauling out clothes with precise movements, as if the conversation could be neatly folded and stored away.

Shane flexed his fingers, rubbing the spots where Ilya’s thumb had pressed. He turned back to the laundry, finishing the transfer in silence. The air grew heavier. The easy hum they’d fallen into earlier shrank into something awkward and tight. Ilya said nothing else during the cycle. Neither did Shane.

They carried their baskets back to the dorm without speaking. The hallway fluorescents buzzed overhead, casting both their shadows long and thin along the walls. Shane pulled ahead slightly, eager to have space, but Ilya’s footsteps remained steady right behind him. When they reached the room, Shane set his basket on the bed, twisting the fabric of his sleeve between his fingers. Ilya put his laundry away quietly, folded with annoying precision, then sat at his desk and picked up his phone, the screen lighting up his face.

By seven, the room had gone dim. Shane sat at his desk, pretending to read his notes. Across the room, Ilya pulled on another clean shirt, buttoning it up with the same unhurried motions as every other night that week. He laced his boots, straightened, and reached for his jacket.

“I go out,” he said, the usual preface.

Shane didn’t look up. “Mhm. Take care.”

The door closed with a soft click.

Shane waited until the footsteps faded down the hall before exhaling sharply. He pressed his thumb over the bruise on his left wrist, directly where Ilya’s thumb had been moments ago. He rubbed hard, as if he could erase both marks at once, and cursed under his breath.

Outside, the night pressed in, sharp and airless.

At the back entrance of an old brick building, a figure stood under the jaundiced spill of a security light, shoulders tucked inside a windbreaker that wasn’t doing much against the night chill. Night pressed close, the air sharp with January frost, the metallic tang of fallen snow mixing with the faint scent of detergent from dryers still thudding inside. The figure stood motionless, long fingers curled around a cigarette. The ember flared when he drew on it, illuminating a profile carved in shadow—jaw tight, eyes narrowed, as if replaying something behind his ribs he didn’t want to name.

Smoke curled from his lips and was immediately stolen by the wind. He tapped ash into the slush at his feet, watching it dissolve. Knuckles on his free hand were blanched pale, pressed so tight that the tendons stood out under the skin. He inhaled again, shoulders hitching in a breath that sounded almost like a hitch, and stared straight ahead, not really seeing the backlot’s chain-link fence or the dumpsters lined up like soldiers. Something else lived behind his eyes: flashes of bruised wrists, raised voices, the memory of a different hand—smaller, feminine, but no less vicious—wrapping around his arm, nails digging in, the sharp sting of vodka-laced breath against his cheek as she hissed words he’d spent years trying to forget. His jaw clicked softly, a tell that only someone who knew him well would recognize, a small tremor of fury held taut between teeth.

The back door creaked open. Warm light spilled across the snow, and a woman stepped out, pulling her coat tighter. She paused when she spotted him, surprise flickering across her face before softening into something familiar. Her gaze dropped to the cigarette, then lifted back to his eyes.

“Я думала, ты бросил,” she said—I thought you quit.Her voice was gentle, tinged with concern rather than reproach.

He didn’t answer. The cigarette hovered between two fingers, ember glowing one last time. He stared at it, the line of his mouth flat, then ground it out against the brick with a slow, deliberate twist, sparks dying silently against the cold.

Chapter End Notes

This reminds me of a comment from the last chapter that said something like ‘if Anya hadn’t been staying over, would Shane have gone out to distract himself like he used to?’ And I just LOVE how these small additions in Shane’s life show his evolving side, but at the same time keep him grounded in his flaws and history… mhmm a little something to ponder on

Anyway! I think this is the first time I added Ilya’s POV hehe, so that’s also something! This fic is very Shane-centric for a reason, so Ilya’s POV is naturally less explored. That doesn’t mean, though, that his perspective isn’t important or interesting. OFC, multi-POV has always been a choice, and many would argue that more perspectives make a story richer, but personally, I feel like a good writer (I’m using the word “good” loosely here 😭) should be able to convey other characters’ emotions and depth even without fully switching POVs. Also, sometimes keeping a single POV actually lets the main character’s feelings and struggles resonate more deeply, which is something that is really important to the emotional impact I want to achieve here

Hmmm what more? COMMUNICATION IS KEY!

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

The next morning, Shane woke to find Ilya already gone.

Not unusual. Ilya often left early for runs or extra ice time. But the empty bed across from him felt heavier somehow, the silence in the room pressing down like a hand on his chest. Shane sat up, rubbing his face, and glanced at the clock. 6:47 a.m. He'd slept through his alarm.

He showered quickly, dressed, and headed to class with his backpack slung over one shoulder. His wrists ached dully beneath his sleeves, the bruises tender when fabric brushed against them. He tugged his cuffs down reflexively, even though no one was looking.

Practice that afternoon was routine. Drills, scrimmages, Coach yelling about defensive positioning. Shane went through the motions, barking orders when necessary, correcting form, keeping the team moving. Ilya was there, sharp as ever, his skating fluid and precise. But he didn't look at Shane. Not once.

Not in the way he usually did, anyway. No quick glances during water breaks, no silent check-ins across the ice. He just… skated. Focused. Present but distant, like Shane had become part of the background.

It shouldn't have bothered him. Ilya was always quiet, always reserved. This was nothing new. Except it felt new. It felt like something had shifted, like a door had closed that Shane hadn't realized was open.

After practice, Shane lingered in the locker room, taking his time unlacing his skates. Most of the guys filtered out in groups, laughing and shoving each other. Ilya finished quickly, as always, and left without a word. Shane watched him go, jaw tight.

"You good, Cap?" JJ asked, dropping onto the bench beside him.

Shane blinked, forcing a smile. "Yeah. Just tired."

JJ didn't look convinced, but he didn't push. "Alright. Don't stay too late. Coach'll lock you in."

Shane nodded, and JJ left. The locker room emptied. Shane sat alone, staring at his skates, the laces dangling loose.

He told himself it was fine. Ilya was just being Ilya. There was nothing to read into. But the knot in his chest said otherwise.

Dinner was worse.

Shane grabbed a tray and scanned the dining hall, spotting Hayden and a few others at their usual table. Ilya was there too, sitting at the far end, methodically eating soup. Shane hesitated, then made his way over.

"Captain!" Hayden greeted, grinning. "Took you long enough. We saved you a seat."

Shane slid into the chair across from Hayden, setting his tray down. Ilya didn't acknowledge him. Didn't even glance up. Just kept eating, his focus entirely on the bowl in front of him.

Shane picked at his food, half-listening to Hayden's story about some girl in his psych class. He kept stealing glances at Ilya, waiting for… something. A look, a nod, anything. But Ilya remained absorbed in his meal, expression blank.

"Earth to Shane," Hayden said, waving a hand in front of his face.

Shane blinked. "What?"

"I asked if you're coming to the thing on Friday."

"What thing?"

"The party. JJ's hosting again. You said you'd come."

Shane rubbed his temple. "Yeah. Sure. I'll be there."

Hayden studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "Cool. You look like shit, by the way."

"Thanks," Shane muttered.

Across the table, Ilya stood, tray in hand. He walked past without a word, heading toward the dish return. Shane watched him go, the knot in his chest tightening.

The pattern continued. Days bled into each other, each one the same. Ilya was present but unreachable, existing in Shane's orbit without ever really connecting. He still left every night at seven-thirty. Still came back after midnight. Still said nothing about where he went or who he saw.

And Shane… Shane started unraveling.

It was small things at first. Forgetting to respond to texts. Snapping at Hayden over something minor. Losing focus during film review, staring at the screen without actually seeing it. He felt like he was walking on a tightrope, every step precarious, the ground too far below to see.

He started second-guessing everything. The way he spoke to Ilya, the things he said, the space he took up in the room. He became hyper-aware of his own presence, of how loud his footsteps sounded, how his breathing filled the silence. He caught himself watching Ilya more than he should, cataloging every movement, every expression, searching for clues he didn't know how to interpret.

Was he angry? Disappointed? Did he think Shane was pathetic? A liar? Did he even care?

The not-knowing gnawed at him, a constant itch he couldn't scratch.

One night, Shane was at his desk, staring at an essay he'd been trying to write for hours. The cursor blinked mockingly on the screen, the document still mostly blank. Across the room, Ilya sat on his bed, scrolling through his phone, earbuds in.

Shane's fingers hovered over the keyboard. He typed a sentence, deleted it. Typed another, deleted that too. His jaw clenched. He glanced at Ilya, who hadn't moved, hadn't looked up, hadn't acknowledged Shane's existence in over an hour.

Shane's chest tightened. He forced himself to look back at the screen, but the words blurred together, meaningless.

By Thursday, Shane was running on fumes. He'd barely slept, his mind too loud, too full of spiraling thoughts he couldn't shut off. He snapped at a freshman during practice for missing an easy pass, his voice sharper than necessary. The kid flinched, and Shane immediately regretted it, but the apology stuck in his throat.

After practice, he sat in the locker room, head in his hands. His wrists throbbed dully, the bruises fading to sickly yellow-green. He pressed his thumb against one, the pain grounding, familiar.

"Captain?" a voice asked.

Shane looked up. One of the sophomores stood nearby, hesitant.

"Yeah?"

"You okay? You've been… I don't know. Off."

Shane forced a smile. "I'm fine. Just stressed. Midterms and all that."

The guy didn't look convinced, but he nodded and left. Shane sat alone, the silence pressing in.

Friday arrived like a storm cloud. Shane woke with a headache, the kind that sat behind his eyes and refused to budge. He dragged himself through classes, through practice, through dinner, each hour bleeding into the next.

By the time he got back to the dorm, he was wound so tight he felt like he might snap. Ilya was already there, sitting at his desk, typing on his laptop. He glanced up when Shane entered, then went back to whatever he was doing.

Shane dropped his bag by the door and stood there, staring at Ilya's back. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

"You've been quiet," Shane said, the words coming out before he could stop them.

Ilya paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard. "I am always quiet."

"Yeah, but…" Shane trailed off, unsure how to finish. But this is different. But it feels like you're avoiding me. But I can't stop thinking about the way you looked at my wrists and I don't know what it means.

Ilya turned slightly, his expression unreadable. "But what?"

Shane's jaw tightened. "Nothing. Forget it."

Ilya held his gaze for a moment, then turned back to his laptop. The dismissal stung more than it should have.

Shane clenched his fists, the ache in his wrists flaring. He wanted to say something, to push, to demand answers he had no right to ask for. But the words tangled in his throat, sharp and useless.

Instead, he grabbed his towel and headed for the shower, slamming the bathroom door harder than necessary.

The water ran scalding hot, steam filling the small space. Shane stood under the spray, hands braced against the tile, and tried to breathe. But the tightness in his chest wouldn't ease, the knot wouldn't loosen.

He stayed there until the water ran cold, then longer still, shivering and numb.

When he finally emerged, Ilya was gone. Out for the night, as always. Shane stood in the empty room, dripping onto the floor, and felt something crack inside him.

Practice had been a disaster.

Coach Morgan had torn into Shane in front of the entire team, his voice echoing off the rink walls as he dissected every mistake Shane had made during the scrimmage. Missed passes, lazy positioning, a complete failure to read the play. Shane had stood there, jaw clenched, taking it without argument because Coach was right. He'd been off all week, distracted, his head somewhere else entirely.

"You're the captain, Hollander!" Coach had barked, his face red. "Act like it! If you can't get your shit together, I'll strip the C off your jersey and give it to someone who actually wants to lead!"

The words had landed like punches, each one driving deeper into the hollow space in Shane's chest. He'd nodded, mumbled an apology, and skated off the ice with his head down while the rest of the team pretended not to stare.

Now, walking back to the dorm with his gear bag slung over his shoulder, Shane felt like his skin was too tight, like every nerve was exposed and raw. His jaw ached from clenching it, his hands were balled into fists in his pockets, and the headache that had been simmering all day had bloomed into a full-blown migraine.

He just wanted to get back to the room, collapse on his bed, and shut the world out for a few hours.

But as he rounded the corner to his building, he saw them.

Ilya stood just outside the entrance, hands in his jacket pockets, his head tilted slightly as he listened to the woman beside him. She was the same one from before—blonde, early thirties, wrapped in a sleek coat that probably cost more than Shane's textbooks. She was gesturing animatedly, her voice low and rapid, the cadence unmistakably Russian.

Shane slowed, his stomach twisting. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he caught fragments—soft consonants, rolled r's, the kind of fluid rhythm that came from speaking a language you'd grown up with. Ilya nodded occasionally, his expression neutral, his posture relaxed in a way Shane hadn't seen in days.

Shane scoffed quietly, the sound bitter even to his own ears. Of course she's Russian too. He should've known. It made perfect sense. Ilya probably felt more comfortable with her, could talk without struggling for words, could be himself without the constant effort of translation.

Shane's grip tightened on his bag strap. He forced himself to keep walking, his footsteps loud on the pavement. Ilya glanced up as Shane approached, his gaze flicking to Shane's face for a brief second before returning to the woman.

Shane ignored them both, pushing through the door without a word. He climbed the stairs quickly, his pulse pounding in his ears, and let himself into the room. He dropped his bag on the floor, kicked off his shoes, and stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard.

The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. Shane ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands, trying to ground himself. He needed to calm down. He needed to stop spiraling. But the image of Ilya standing outside with her, smiling faintly at something she said, wouldn't leave his head.

The door opened behind him. Shane didn't turn around.

He heard the soft clink of keys being set on the small table beside the door, the rustle of Ilya's jacket as he shrugged it off. Shane stayed where he was, staring at the wall, his jaw tight.

Before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out.

"Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you."

Ilya paused. Shane could feel his gaze on his back, heavy and questioning.

"Women aren't allowed inside the dorms," Shane continued, his tone light, almost conversational. "Dorm policy. Hayden once brought his girlfriend here and the RA threatened to write him up. Just letting you know in case you were planning on inviting her in."

There was a beat of silence. Shane turned slightly, just enough to see Ilya's profile. His expression was unreadable, his hands still in his pockets.

"I got it," Ilya said quietly.

Shane should have stopped there. Should have let it go. But something ugly and restless was clawing at his insides, demanding to be let out.

"She your girlfriend?" Shane asked, the question coming out sharper than he intended. He forced a smile, leaning against the desk. "There's a hotel a few blocks from here if you want to take her somewhere. Pretty cheap, too. Or, you know, there's that coffee shop on Main that's open late if you just want to—"

"She's not my girlfriend," Ilya interrupted, his voice flat.

Shane almost snorted. Right. Of course she's not.Because helping someone every single night, leaving at the same time like clockwork, talking to her in hushed Russian outside the dorm—that all screamed "just friends."

"Yeah, I'm just saying," Shane continued, his smile widening even as his chest tightened. "There's options if you need them. The Rosewood Inn is nice, too. A little pricier, but—"

"I already told you she's not my girlfriend," Ilya cut him off again, his tone harder now. "What is this about?"

Shane paused, the smile still plastered on his face even as something in him twisted painfully. He didn't know. He didn't know what this was about, didn't know why he couldn't stop talking, couldn't stop pushing.

"And I said I was just trying to help, didn't I?" Shane said, his voice light, almost mocking. "Why are you mad?"

Ilya just stared at him, his hazel eyes dark and unreadable. Then he shook his head, the movement slow and deliberate. "You are being a child."

Shane's jaw clenched. He watched as Ilya turned, grabbing his keys from the table.

"If you're having a bad day, don't take it out on me," Ilya said, his voice quiet but firm. Then he opened the door and left, the sound of it closing behind him echoing in the sudden silence.

Shane stood there, frozen, staring at the door.

Then he snorted, the sound harsh and bitter. Fucking Russians and their stupid composure. Always so calm, so collected, like nothing ever got under their skin. It grated on him, the way Ilya could just walk away, could dismiss him so easily.

Shane tried to resume what he'd been doing—unpacking his gear, organizing his desk—but his hands were shaking, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. He reached for a notebook, and his sleeve rode up, exposing the fading bruises on his wrist.

He paused, staring at the yellowed marks, the ghost of fingerprints still visible against his skin.

Finally, he dropped his arms to his sides and let out a low, humorless chuckle.

He'd done it.

He'd really made him mad this time.

The realization settled over him like a weight, pressing down on his chest until it was hard to breathe.

What the hell was wrong with him?

Shane busied himself with the pretense of productivity.

He reorganized his desk, stacking textbooks by size, aligning pens in a neat row. He folded the laundry he'd left in the basket for two days, smoothing out wrinkles with more care than necessary. He scrolled through his phone, refreshing the same three apps over and over until the screen blurred.

Every sound made him flinch.

Footsteps in the hallway—his head snapped toward the door. Just someone passing by.

The distant slam of a door—his breath caught. Not theirs.

The creak of the radiator—his shoulders tensed before he forced them to relax.

He glanced at the clock. 8:47 p.m. Ilya had left less than an hour ago, but it felt longer. Shane told himself he wasn't waiting. He was just… existing. Doing normal things. Being normal.

9:15 p.m. Shane sat on his bed, laptop open, an essay document staring back at him. He'd typed two sentences in twenty minutes, both of which were garbage. He deleted them and stared at the blank page.

9:43 p.m. He got up, paced the room. Sat back down. Got up again. His hands felt restless, his skin too tight.

10:21 p.m. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. The cracks in the plaster formed patterns he'd memorized weeks ago—a jagged line that looked like a lightning bolt, a cluster of smaller fractures that resembled a constellation. He traced them with his eyes, counting each one, trying to quiet the noise in his head.

Ilya wasn't coming back.

Not yet, anyway. Maybe not tonight at all.

Shane's chest tightened. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, willing himself to stop caring, to stop waiting, to stop feeling like the room was too empty without Ilya's presence filling the other half of it.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Shane stared at it for a long moment, then reached over and picked it up.

Still up? Same place. Room 512.

Shane read it twice. Then he laughed—a short, bitter sound that didn't reach his eyes. He tossed the phone onto the bed, stared at the ceiling for another beat, then sat up.

He pulled on a hoodie, grabbed his keys, and left.

They didn't waste time. The man's hands were on him immediately, rough and impatient, pulling Shane's hoodie over his head, shoving him toward the bed. Shane went willingly, his mind already detaching, floating somewhere above the scene.

The man pushed him down onto the mattress, his weight pressing Shane into the cheap comforter. Shane's breath hitched, not from pleasure but from the pressure, the way it forced the air from his lungs.

Shane reached up, grabbing the man's wrist, and guided his hand to his throat.

The man paused, then chuckled, low and dark. "Needy tonight, aren't we?"

Shane ignored the comment, his fingers tightening around the man's wrist. "Harder."

The man obliged, his grip tightening around Shane's throat, just enough to make his pulse pound in his ears, to make the edges of his vision blur. Shane closed his eyes, letting the sensation wash over him, trying to drown out everything else.

But it didn't work.

Even with the man's hands on him, even with the rough thrust of hips against his, even with the ache building in his body—all Shane could think about was Ilya.

You are being a child.

The words echoed in his head, over and over, a relentless loop. He saw Ilya's face, the way his expression had flattened, the way he'd shaken his head before walking out. He heard the quiet disappointment in his voice, felt the weight of it settle in his chest like a stone.

Shane bit down on his lip, hard enough to taste copper, and tried to focus on the present. On the man above him, on the bed beneath him, on the sharp sting of nails digging into his hips.

But Ilya's voice wouldn't leave.

If you're having a bad day, don't take it out on me.

Shane's breath came faster, harsher, but not from arousal. His chest felt tight, his throat constricting even without the hand around it. He wanted to scream, to shove the man off, to run back to the dorm and—

And what? Apologize? Explain? Admit that he didn't know what the hell was wrong with him?

The man finished with a grunt, collapsing onto Shane for a moment before rolling off. Shane lay there, staring at the ceiling, his body buzzing with unsatisfied tension.

"You good?" the man asked, already reaching for his clothes.

"Yeah," Shane lied.

It was pathetic.

Chapter End Notes

Mr. Avoidant is picking fights now hahhaaha poor babie is so stressed 😭😭😭

Raahhhh their first fight 💔

See u again in two days! We’re getting there 🥰

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

The man insisted on driving him back. Shane didn’t argue. He slid into the passenger seat, buckled his belt, and stared out the window as the city slid by in blurred smears of neon and sodium streetlight. The dashboard glowed a soft blue, the heater hummed, and the silence stretched uneasily.

“You eat yet?” the man asked after a block, voice casual, like the question mattered.

Shane shrugged, eyes fixed on the blurred reflections in the glass. “Not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask that,” the man said, not unkindly. “There’s a new place that opened last week. Supposed to be good. Let me take you.”

Shane considered refusing. The idea of sitting across from this man at a table, pretending to be human for the length of a meal, felt near impossible. But he didn’t have the energy to argue. “Whatever,” he muttered.

They pulled up to a narrow restaurant wedged between a laundromat and a specialty tea shop, the sign above the door painted in soft cream and deep green: “The Samovar.” Warm light spilled from the windows, steam fogging the panes. Inside, mismatched wooden tables sat beneath hanging plants, shelves lined with tin tea canisters and jars of pickled vegetables. Copper samovars gleamed in a row along the back wall. The air smelled like black tea, roasted meat, and honey.

Shane followed the man inside. The hostess waved them toward a small table near the bar. The man sat, tossing his keys down, and raised a hand to flag someone for menus.

Shane picked up the laminated page, eyes skimming lines of Cyrillic transliterations mixed with English descriptions. Dumplings, beet salad, mushroom stew. He felt nothing—no hunger, no curiosity, just a low-grade buzzing in his head. He kept staring at the menu because it gave his hands something to do.

Footsteps approached. A voice followed, low, familiar. “What can I get for you?”

Shane’s head snapped up.

Ilya stood beside their table. He wore a dark gray apron over a black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. A notepad rested in his left hand, pen poised. His hair was damp at the temples, like he’d rinsed off before the shift. His expression was neutral, schooled into the polite blankness of a server who’d learned to endure too many customers.

The man either didn’t notice Shane’s reaction or chose to ignore it. “I’ll have the beef stroganoff, side of bread, and the house tea,” he said easily. He turned to Shane. “You?”

Shane’s tongue felt thick. The words lodged in his throat. He kept his eyes on the menu, refusing to meet Ilya’s gaze. The moment stretched, brittle.

“Excuse me,” the man said, his phone buzzing on the table. He glanced at the screen, grimaced. “One sec. I gotta take this.” He stood, stepping away, leaving Shane alone with the one person he’d been trying—and failing—to read for days.

Silence pooled between them. Shane made himself breathe, steady and silent. Ilya stayed still, hand resting on the notepad, waiting.

“What are you getting?” Ilya asked eventually, voice low, even.

Shane swallowed. “Uh… the shchi. And… the pelmeni.” The words felt clumsy, even though he’d ordered those dishes with Ilya more times than he could count.

Ilya gave a short nod. “Mnn.”

He turned to leave.

“Ilya,” Shane said. The name slipped out before he could stop it.

Ilya paused mid-step, back to him, head angled slightly as if listening.

Shane opened his mouth, then closed it again. There was too much caught in his throat—apologies, explanations, accusations—and none of it could be spoken here, in this place, with the scent of dill and tea thick in the air.

“I’ll bring out the appetizers,” Ilya said after a beat. He didn’t look back. He walked toward the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind him.

Dinner proceeded with the kind of tension that made breathing feel deliberate.

The man returned, sliding back into his seat with an apology Shane didn't hear. He ordered a second drink—vodka, neat—and settled in like he had nowhere else to be. Shane picked at his food mechanically, spooning shchi into his mouth without tasting it. The broth was rich, thick with cabbage and dill, but it might as well have been cardboard.

He kept his eyes on his plate, on the worn wood grain of the table, on the condensation sliding down his water glass. Anywhere but up. Anywhere but toward the bar, where Ilya moved between tables with practiced efficiency, balancing trays, refilling drinks, his expression carefully blank.

But Shane looked anyway. He couldn't help it.

Quick glances, stolen in the seconds when Ilya's back was turned or when he disappeared into the kitchen. Shane watched the way he carried himself—shoulders square, movements precise, the same quiet control he brought to the ice. He watched the way he spoke to other customers, his English halting but polite, his accent thickening when he had to repeat himself. He watched the way his jaw tightened when someone snapped their fingers at him, the way he exhaled slowly before turning with that same neutral expression.

He didn't even know Ilya was working. He'd known Ilya left every night, had watched him dress and leave without explanation, but he'd never asked where. Never pressed. And now here he was, in a gray apron, serving food to strangers, and Shane felt like he'd stumbled into something private, something he wasn't supposed to see.

The man's hand landed on Shane's thigh under the table, fingers squeezing lightly. Shane stiffened, glancing up.

"You're quiet tonight," the man said, his words slightly slurred. He'd finished his second drink and was already signaling for a third.

"Just tired," Shane muttered, shifting his leg away.

The man's hand followed, sliding higher. "You weren't tired an hour ago."

Shane's jaw clenched. He forced himself to take another bite, chewing slowly, willing the meal to end.

The man leaned closer, his breath warm and vodka-sharp against Shane's ear. "You were so good tonight," he murmured, his voice low but not quiet enough. "Took my cock so well. Such a good boy."

Shane's face burned. He glanced around reflexively, praying no one had heard, but the restaurant was small, the tables close together. A couple at the next table glanced over, then quickly looked away.

"Stop," Shane said quietly, his voice tight.

The man chuckled, his arm sliding around Shane's waist, pulling him closer. "What's wrong? Shy?" His lips brushed Shane's neck, and Shane bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound.

He wanted to shove the man off, to stand up and leave, but the arm around his waist was solid, possessive, and Shane felt trapped. His hands clenched into fists on his lap, nails digging into his palms.

Ilya appeared at their table, setting down a plate of bread with a soft thud. His expression was unreadable, his gaze fixed somewhere over Shane's shoulder.

"Anything else?" he asked, his voice flat.

The man didn't let go of Shane. If anything, his grip tightened, his fingers splaying across Shane's ribs. "We're good," he said, grinning lazily. "Just enjoying the company."

Ilya's jaw twitched. He nodded once, then turned and walked away.

Shane exhaled shakily, his chest tight. He tried to pull away again, but the man just laughed, his lips finding Shane's neck again.

"Relax," the man murmured, his voice loud enough to carry. "You're so tense. I know how to fix that."

Shane insisted, his fingers finding the man's wrist and tugging weakly. But the arm around his waist was iron, and the lips on his neck were insistent, wet and embarrassing. Shane's breath came shallow, his pulse hammering in his ears.

He turned his head slightly, desperate for an escape, for something to focus on that wasn't the heat of the man's breath or the way his hand was sliding lower under the table.

That's when he saw Ilya.

He was standing at the bar, a tray balanced in one hand, but he wasn't moving. He was just… standing there. Staring.

Their eyes met.

Shane's stomach dropped. Ilya's expression was unreadable, his hazel eyes dark and steady, locked on Shane with an intensity that made Shane's breath catch. There was no judgment in his gaze, no anger, just… something. Something Shane couldn't name, something that made his chest tighten and his face burn hotter.

Shane looked away immediately, his head turning sharply, his hands trembling as they gripped the edge of the table. He couldn't breathe. The humiliation was suffocating, crawling over his skin like ants, and he wanted to disappear, to sink into the floor and never come back.

The man's lips moved to his ear again, his voice a low, slurred murmur. "You like it when people watch, don't you? Dirty little—"

A sharp thud cut him off.

Shane flinched, his eyes snapping open. A plate had been set down on their table—hard. The sound echoed in the small space, loud enough to make the couple at the next table glance over.

Ilya stood beside them, his hand still on the edge of the plate. His expression was carved from stone, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the man.

"Your pelmeni," Ilya said, his voice cold and clipped. He didn't look at Shane. Didn't acknowledge him at all.

The man blinked, his arm loosening slightly around Shane's waist. "Uh, thanks."

Ilya nodded once, then turned and walked away, his movements sharp, controlled.

Shane exhaled shakily, his hands trembling. The man's grip had loosened enough for Shane to pull free, and he did, scooting his chair back slightly, putting space between them.

"Hey," the man said, frowning. "What's wrong?"

"I need to go," Shane said, his voice tight. "I'm not feeling well."

The man's frown deepened, but he was too tipsy to argue. "Alright, alright. Let me pay and I'll drive you back."

"No," Shane said quickly, standing. "I'll walk. It's fine."

"Shane—"

"I'm fine," Shane insisted, grabbing his jacket. He tossed a twenty on the table—more than enough to cover his portion—and turned toward the door.

He didn't look back. Didn't look at Ilya. He just pushed through the door and out into the cold night air, his breath misting in front of him as he walked.

Shane made it three steps from the restaurant before a hand clamped around his wrist.

"Hey, where are you going?" The man's voice was rough, slurred at the edges, his grip tight enough to make Shane stumble backward.

"I told you, I'm not feeling well," Shane said, trying to pull free. "Just—let me go home."

"Come on," the man said, his grin lazy and dark. "Don't be like that. We're having a good time."

"I'm not—" Shane started, but the man was already pulling him, dragging him around the corner of the building into the narrow alley that ran along the side of the restaurant. The brick walls pressed close, the air thick with the smell of garbage and old grease from the dumpsters.

The man pushed Shane against the wall, his body crowding in, blocking any escape. His mouth found Shane's neck again, wet and insistent, and Shane's hands came up instinctively, pressing against the man's chest.

"Stop," Shane said, his voice shaking. "Just—just take me home, okay? I don't want—"

"Shh," the man murmured, his hands sliding down Shane's sides, gripping his hips. "Just a little more. You're so fucking pretty when you're like this."

Shane's breath came faster, panic clawing at his throat. He shoved harder, but the man was solid, immovable, his weight pinning Shane in place. "I said stop—"

The back door of the restaurant slammed open with a loud metallic clang.

The man froze, his head snapping toward the sound. Shane's heart leapt into his throat.

Ilya stepped out into the alley, a black garbage bag slung over one shoulder. He paused when he saw them, his expression unreadable, his eyes flicking from Shane to the man and back again.

The man cursed under his breath, his grip on Shane loosening slightly. "Fuck," he muttered, then turned toward Ilya, his mouth twisting into a sneer. "You got a problem, kid?"

Shane's stomach dropped. He grabbed the man's arm, his fingers trembling. "Just—just let it go," he said quickly, his voice small and stuttering. "We should just go. Please."

Ilya didn't move. He walked toward the dumpster, his movements deliberate, and tossed the bag inside with a heavy thud. Then he turned, his gaze locking on the man.

"Just throwing trash," Ilya said, his voice cold and flat.

The man's sneer widened. "Yeah? Then fucking do it quietly."

Shane tugged on the man's arm again, harder this time. "Please, just—let's go. It's not worth it."

The man yanked his arm free, the movement sharp enough to make Shane stumble. "Get off me," he snapped, his voice rising.

Shane backed up a step, his pulse hammering.

Ilya's jaw tightened. He took a step forward, his posture shifting, shoulders squaring. "This is private property," he said, his accent thickening. "You need to leave."

The man laughed, the sound harsh and mocking. "Private property? You're a fucking busboy. Get back inside and do your job."

"Stop," Shane said, his voice cracking. He stepped between them, his hands raised. "Just—just stop. We're leaving. Okay? We're leaving right now."

But the man wasn't listening. His hand shot out, grabbing Shane's jaw roughly, fingers digging into his cheeks. Shane's breath hitched, his eyes going wide.

"You want to go so bad?" the man said, his voice low and dangerous. "Fine. But first—"

He yanked Shane forward and kissed him.

It was brutal, forceful, his mouth crushing against Shane's, teeth scraping, tongue forcing its way past Shane's lips. Shane's hands came up, shoving against the man's chest, but the grip on his jaw was iron, holding him in place.

Shane's vision blurred. He couldn't breathe. Panic surged through him, hot and suffocating, and he twisted his head sharply, breaking the kiss.

And then he slapped him.

The sound cracked through the alley, sharp and final. The man's head snapped to the side, his grip on Shane's jaw loosening. Shane stumbled back, his hand stinging, his whole body trembling.

The man turned back slowly, his eyes dark with fury. "You little—"

His fist came up.

Shane flinched, his arms coming up instinctively to shield his face. He braced for the impact, his breath frozen in his chest.

It didn't come.

Shane opened his eyes.

Ilya had the man's wrist in his hand, his grip white-knuckled, his expression carved from stone. The man tried to pull free, but Ilya didn't budge.

"Let go of me," the man snarled.

Ilya didn't respond. He twisted the man's arm sharply, forcing him to turn, then shoved him hard against the brick wall. The man's face slammed into the rough surface, and he let out a choked gasp.

"Ilya—" Shane started, his voice shaking.

But Ilya wasn't listening. His fist came down, hard and precise, slamming into the man's ribs. The man grunted, his knees buckling, but Ilya didn't stop. Another punch, then another, each one landing with brutal efficiency.

"Ilya, stop!" Shane shouted, stepping forward.

The back door slammed open again, and two other staff members rushed out, their eyes wide. One of them—a burly cook with tattooed forearms—grabbed Ilya's shoulder, pulling him back.

"Ilya, enough!" the cook barked in Russian.

Ilya's chest heaved, his fists still clenched, but he let himself be pulled back. The man slumped against the wall, blood trickling from his nose, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

The man spat blood onto the pavement, his eyes blazing as he looked between Shane and Ilya. Then he laughed, the sound wet and bitter.

"Ahh, so you know each other, huh?" he sneered, his voice dripping with venom. "That's why. No wonder you kept looking at him all night. You thought I didn’t notice?” He jerked his chin toward Ilya, a cruel smile twisting his mouth. “I thought you didn't fuck boys? What happened?"

Shane's stomach twisted, his face burning.

The man's grin widened, cruel and mocking. "What a fucking slut—"

Ilya lunged.

The cook barely managed to hold him back as Ilya's fist connected with the man's jaw, the impact sending him sprawling to the ground. Ilya didn't stop. He dropped down, his knee pressing into the man's chest, his fists raining down with terrifying precision.

"Ilya!" Shane grabbed his arm, his voice breaking. "Stop! You're going to kill him!"

The other staff member joined in, pulling at Ilya's shoulders, shouting in Russian. It took all three of them to drag Ilya off, his chest heaving, his knuckles bloodied.

The man lay on the ground, groaning, his face a mess of blood and bruises.

Ilya stood there, breathing hard, his eyes still locked on the man like he was deciding whether to finish the job.

"Enough," the cook said firmly, his hand still on Ilya's shoulder. "Enough."

Shane stood frozen, his whole body shaking, his mind unable to process what had just happened.

Chapter End Notes

2/3 done!! And we finally know who the woman is 🙂‍↕️ (it’s not Svetlana)

I was equal parts excited and nervous to upload this chapter >< but I really want to know what you guys think about it! 🥹🫶🏻

OH AND YES ILYA BEAT HIM UP!!

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

They didn’t call the cops. The manager insisted on handling it privately, citing the restaurant’s reputation and the fact that the man—a regular donor to the college’s athletic programs, apparently—wasn’t eager to explain why he’d been caught assaulting a student in the alley. He agreed to settle, muttering accusations about “overreacting servants” and “crazy Russians,” but every time his gaze drifted toward Shane, his voice softened into something sticky and nauseating.

“Baby,” he said, wiping blood from his lip. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

Shane flinched, shoulders hunching. His hands disappeared into the sleeves of his hoodie. He watched the ground, watched a puddle of water ripple near the dumpster, watched satellite flakes of broken glass. Anything but the man.

The man took a step forward. “Shane, come on. Let me—”

Ilya moved. Just a subtle shift in stance, shoulders tightening, the kind of movement that said a thousand silent things. The cook with the tattoos sweated onto the scene immediately, planting one hand on the man’s chest and pushing him back.

“You need to leave,” the cook said, voice low and firm. “Now.”

The man hesitated, eyes flicking toward Shane one last time. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, this time quiet, almost plaintive.

Shane swallowed and said nothing. He couldn’t. The words thudded uselessly against the wall of his throat, trapped.

The owner had to usher Shane into the office and close the door to keep the man and Ilya from setting each other off again.

Inside, the office smelled of spice jars and paperwork. A woman sat behind the desk—a familiar blonde in a neatly tailored coat, eyes lined with fatigue but sharp with authority. The same woman Shane had seen outside the dorm, now watching him with a blend of concern and calculation. She introduced herself as Nina Aranova, owner and manager of The Samovar. Her voice was accented but warm, the cadence of her Russian lilt smoothing the edges of her words.

“I apologize for tonight,” she said, tone steady. “We should have kept better control of the floor.”

Shane shook his head. “It isn’t your fault.”

She studied him, as if weighing the truth of his statement. “Maybe not. But this is my business. And my staff.” Her gaze drifted toward the hallway, where raised voices in Russian grew louder, then faded. “You’re the captain, aren’t you? The hockey captain.”

Shane blinked. “Yeah.”

“Nina,” she said again, offering a hand. He shook it. Her grip was cool but firm.

“Ilya never mentioned this,” he said, the confession slipping out before he could stop it.

“He doesn’t mention much.” Nina’s mouth flickered in the hint of a smile. “He works nights, helps close, walks home. That’s all he lets me know. Typical.”

“Typical?” Shane echoed, half a question, half disbelief.

Nina leaned back in her chair, studying him. “His parents and I grew up together. When I emigrated, I promised them I’d look after him if he ever came to Canada. He hates the idea of anyone taking care of him.” She gestured toward the door. “Now he’s taking out the trash and starting fights with customers twice his size.”

Shane opened his mouth, then closed it. He nodded, once, not trusting his voice.

The door creaked open. Ilya stepped inside, knuckles reddened and raw, the skin around his cheekbone already swelling. He moved stiffly, like adrenaline still pulsed through him. Nina stood, pulling a first-aid kit from a shelf, and pointed to a chair.

“Sit.”

“I’m fine,” Ilya muttered.

“Sit,” Nina repeated, sharper.

He obeyed, dropping into the chair with a reluctant thud. Nina wheeled closer, snapping open a packet of antiseptic wipes. Shane stood against the wall, hands in his pockets, watching the scene unfold like a ghost in the corner.

Nina dabbed at the cut on Ilya’s cheek with gentle precision. He flinched, eyes squeezing shut briefly, but didn’t pull away. “Grigori doesn’t know when to stop,” she muttered, more to herself than to either of them. “You punch like your father.”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “Stop talking.”

“I’ll stop when you stop bleeding.” She wrapped gauze around his hand, the lilies of her perfume cutting through the metallic tang of antiseptic. “When you get home, wash it again. Fresh bandage. No hot water on the knuckles.”

“I know,” he grumbled.

“Do you?” She met his gaze, unblinking. “Or do you just say you know so I stop talking?”

He didn’t answer. Nina let out a soft sigh and pressed a small white envelope into his palm. “Your pay. Extra for tonight. And take a cab.”

“I’ll walk,” Ilya said immediately.

“You will not. I’m not letting either of you wander in the dark after that man tried to drag you off into shadows.” She glanced at Shane. “You both go. Now.”

Shane nodded, still mute, and followed her orders because that was easier than arguing.

They stepped out into the night, the cold slapping their cheeks. The cab she’d ordered idled at the curb, exhaust curling like steam at their feet. Ilya hesitated, lips thinning, but obeyed. They climbed in. Shane gave the driver their dorm address, then settled against the seat, every muscle in his body stiff.

The ride was silent. Ilya stared out his window, jaw tight, eyes unfocused. Shane watched his own reflection in the glass, the bruises on his wrist barely visible under his sleeves, his face pale in the streetlights.

The driver dropped them off with a grunt, and Ilya paid before Shane could reach for his wallet. They climbed the dorm stairs without speaking. The hallway was dim, the hum of other students filtered through closed doors. The walk felt longer than usual, each step echoing off the linoleum.

They stepped inside the dorm. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in silence.

Shane moved immediately, words tumbling out in a nervous rush. "You should—uh—you should probably wash those again. Nina said no hot water, right? I think we have some extra gauze in the bathroom cabinet. Or—wait, maybe Hayden used it all last time he scraped his knee being an idiot. I can check. Do you need ice? I could grab some from the—"

"Shane."

Shane stopped mid-sentence, his hands hovering uselessly in the air. Ilya stood by the door, still in his coat, his face shadowed but his eyes clear and focused entirely on Shane.

"You don't have to—" Shane started again, but the words died when Ilya moved.

He crossed the small space between them slowly, deliberately, each step measured. Shane's back pressed against the wall beside the door, his breath catching as Ilya stopped directly in front of him. Close. Too close. Close enough that Shane could see the cut on his cheek, the bruise blooming dark along his cheekbone, the way his jaw worked like he was chewing on words he couldn't quite release.

Then Ilya leaned forward and rested his forehead on Shane's shoulder.

The weight of it was gentle, almost tentative, but it anchored Shane completely. He froze, hands still raised awkwardly, unsure where to put them, unsure what this meant.

Silence stretched between them, thick and fragile.

"Why are you so confusing?" Ilya's voice was low, muffled against Shane's hoodie, and tired in a way that had nothing to do with the fight.

Shane's throat tightened. "I don't—"

"You push me away," Ilya continued, his breath warm through the fabric. "Then you look at me like… like you want something. But when I try to understand, you lie. You hide. You go to other people." His voice cracked slightly on the last word, and Shane felt it like a knife between his ribs. "I don't know what you want from me."

Shane opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His hands trembled where they hovered near Ilya's shoulders, wanting to touch but afraid to.

Ilya lifted his head slightly, just enough to meet Shane's eyes. His gaze was raw, unguarded in a way Shane had never seen before. "I really want to kiss you right now."

Shane didn't even know he was holding his breath until his lungs started to burn.

"…Then kiss me," he whispered.

The silence that followed was excruciating. Ilya searched his face, his expression caught between want and hesitation, like he was waiting for Shane to take it back, to laugh it off, to run.

"Can I?" Ilya asked, his voice barely audible.

Shane nodded, shy and uncertain, his heart hammering so hard he thought it might crack his ribs.

Ilya's hand came up slowly, cupping Shane's jaw with a gentleness that made Shane's chest ache. His thumb brushed over Shane's cheekbone, once, twice, and then he leaned in.

The kiss was soft. Careful. Nothing like the brutal press of lips Shane had endured earlier. Ilya kissed him like he was something precious, something that might break if handled too roughly. His mouth was warm, his lips slightly chapped, and Shane melted into it, his hands finally finding purchase on Ilya's shoulders.

Ilya deepened the kiss slowly, his other hand sliding to the small of Shane's back, pulling him closer. Shane made a small sound in the back of his throat, his fingers curling into Ilya's shirt, and Ilya responded by pressing him more firmly against the wall, his body solid and grounding.

They kissed until Shane's knees felt weak, until his mind went blissfully quiet, until the only thing that existed was the heat of Ilya's mouth and the steady thrum of his heartbeat where their chests pressed together.

When Ilya finally pulled back, his breathing was uneven, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. "Bed," he murmured, his voice rough.

Shane nodded wordlessly, and Ilya took his hand, leading him across the room.

They moved slowly, carefully, like they were learning each other for the first time.

Ilya kissed him again, deeper this time, his hands sliding under Shane's hoodie, pushing it up and off. Shane's breath hitched as Ilya's fingers traced the lines of his ribs, his waist, mapping him with a reverence that made Shane want to cry.

"You're shaking," Ilya murmured against his mouth.

"I know," Shane whispered back.

Ilya pulled back just enough to look at him, his brow furrowing. "We don't have to—"

"I want to," Shane said quickly, his hands fisting in Ilya's shirt. "Please. I want to."

Ilya studied him for a long moment, then nodded. He stripped off his own shirt, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the faint scars scattered across his skin. Shane reached out, his fingers trembling as they traced one, and Ilya caught his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

They fell onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs and whispered breaths. Ilya was patient, maddeningly so, taking his time to learn what made Shane gasp, what made him arch into his touch. He kissed every bruise on Shane's wrists, his mouth soft and apologetic, and Shane felt something inside him crack open.

When Ilya finally pushed inside him, slow and careful, Shane's breath punched out of him in a broken sob. It felt different. It felt like everything.

Ilya moved with the same deliberate care, his hands braced on either side of Shane's head, his eyes locked on Shane's face like he was trying to memorize every expression. Shane's hands clutched at his shoulders, his back, anywhere he could reach, grounding himself in the solid warmth of Ilya's body.

"Okay?" Ilya asked, his voice strained.

"Yeah," Shane breathed. "Yeah, I'm—"

But then his hand moved without thinking, grabbing Ilya's wrist and guiding it to his throat.

Ilya froze.

The pause that followed was deafening. Shane felt it in the sudden stillness of Ilya's body, in the way his hand hovered just above Shane's neck without pressing down, in the sharp inhale that cut through the room.

A sob broke from Shane's throat, helpless and raw. He squeezed his eyes shut, shame flooding through him hot and choking. "I'm sorry," he gasped, his voice breaking. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

He sat up abruptly, wrapping his arms tight around Ilya's neck, burying his face against his shoulder. The sobs came harder now, wracking his whole body, and he couldn't stop the litany of apologies spilling from his lips. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—I'm sorry—"

Ilya's arms came around him slowly, hesitantly, but he didn't speak. He just held Shane as he fell apart, his hand rubbing slow circles on Shane's back.

Eventually, Ilya gently pried Shane's arms from around his neck. His expression was unreadable, his jaw tight. "I'm leaving for a bit," he said quietly.

Shane's heart plummeted. "Ilya—"

But Ilya was already pulling away, grabbing his shirt from the floor and tugging it on. He didn't look at Shane as he left, the door closing softly behind him.

Shane sat alone on the bed, his body still trembling, tears streaming down his face. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles until they were red and swollen, until his vision blurred and his head throbbed.

He'd known. Even before he'd done it, he'd known what Ilya's reaction would be. But he'd tried anyway, because that's all he knew how to do.

He curled up on the bed, hugging his knees to his chest, and let the sobs shake through him until there was nothing left.

Hayden took the stairs two at a time, his breath coming in sharp bursts, sneakers pounding against concrete. His phone was still clutched in his hand, the screen dark now, but the message burned behind his eyes like an afterimage.

He'd woken to it at 6:47 a.m., groggy and disoriented, squinting at the notification through the fog of sleep. Four words. That's all it had been. But they'd launched him out of bed like a starting gun, his heart already racing before his feet hit the floor.

He cursed when he reached the third-floor landing and nearly collided with a freshman carrying a laundry basket. "Move," Hayden snapped, swerving around him without waiting for a response. The kid shouted something indignant, but Hayden was already gone, rounding the corner, his pulse hammering in his ears.

Please don't let it be what I think it is. Please.

But he knew. He'd known the second he'd read those four words. He'd known from the weight of them, the way they sat heavy and final in his chest.

He reached their floor and sprinted down the hallway, his hand already digging into his pocket for the spare key Shane had given him months ago. His fingers fumbled with it, slick with sweat, and he cursed again, louder this time, as he jammed it into the lock and twisted.

The door swung open.

Hayden stopped.

Shane was sitting on the floor, his back against the side of his bed, knees drawn up to his chest. His face was blotchy, eyes swollen and red-rimmed, the kind of red that came from hours of crying. His hair was a mess, sticking up at odd angles, and he was still wearing the same clothes from the night before—wrinkled, disheveled, clinging to him like a second skin.

He didn't look up when Hayden entered. Didn't acknowledge him at all. Just sat there, staring at the wall, his arms wrapped tight around his knees.

Hayden's stomach dropped.

He'd seen Shane like this before. Years ago, back when they were younger, back when Shane had first started hooking up with guys who didn't give a shit about him, who used him and tossed him aside like he was nothing. Back when Shane had shown up at Hayden's door in the middle of the night, eyes hollow, voice cracked, asking if he could stay because he didn't want to be alone.

Hayden had thought those days were over. He'd thought Shane had moved past it, had learned to protect himself, to set boundaries, to stop seeking out people who would break him.

But here he was. Again.

"Fuck," Hayden breathed, the word barely audible.

Shane didn't react.

Hayden crossed the room quickly, dropping to his knees in front of Shane. "Hey," he said softly, reaching out to touch Shane's shoulder. "Shane. Look at me."

Shane's gaze shifted slowly, like it took effort, and when their eyes met, Hayden's chest tightened. There was nothing there. No spark, no fight, just a dull, empty exhaustion that made Hayden want to punch something.

"Come on," Hayden said, keeping his voice gentle. "Let's get you up. You need to shower."

Shane didn't move.

"Shane," Hayden tried again, his hand tightening on Shane's shoulder. "Please. Just—let me help you, okay?"

For a long moment, Shane just stared at him. Then, slowly, he nodded.

Hayden exhaled in relief and helped Shane to his feet. Shane swayed slightly, unsteady, and Hayden kept a hand on his elbow, guiding him toward the bathroom.

"Do you need help?" Hayden asked when they reached the door.

Shane shook his head, his voice barely a whisper. "I got it."

"Okay," Hayden said, stepping back. "I'll be right here. Just—take your time."

Shane disappeared into the bathroom, and the door clicked shut behind him. Hayden stood there for a moment, listening to the sound of water running, then turned and walked back into the room.

Hayden sat on Shane's desk chair, elbows on his knees, phone gripped tight in both hands. The shower was still running in the bathroom, the sound of water a steady white noise that did nothing to calm the storm building in his chest.

He opened his messages, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Then he typed, slow and deliberate.

I'm here now. Where are you?

He hit send. The message showed Deliveredimmediately, the word sitting there like a waiting pulse.

Hayden stared at it, sighing, then scrolled up.

The previous message sat above it, timestamped 3:24 a.m. Four words. No context. No explanation. Just a statement, cold and final.

Roz: I made him cry.

Hayden read it again. Then again. Each time, the words hit harder, sinking deeper into his chest like stones.

I made him cry.

Not we had a fight. Not something happened. Not even I fucked up.

Just that. Simple. Direct. Like Ilya had been sitting alone somewhere in the dark, staring at his phone, trying to condense everything that had happened into the smallest possible truth.

And somehow, those four words said everything.

Chapter End Notes

So… how was that? 😀

(AAAHHH DONT JUMP ME, I AM INNOCENT!)

Anyway! A little sharing time bc these chapters were VERY hard to write 😮‍💨

This arc (I think Chapters 10 to 13?) took me FOREVER to get right, mainly because of all the tension and the emotions packed into it. This part of the story hits very close to home, so I wanted to capture them as raw and authentic as possible. On top of that, making sure the story flowed the way I envisioned made it even harder to put everything on the page. But! We’re finally unraveling bits of Shane’s past that reveal the experiences shaping him in the present 🤲

I really hope the emotions came across to you the way I felt them while writing 🥹

Can’t wait to hear your thoughts! Lots of love! ❤️

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

Hayden stared at the message, his jaw tight.

I made him cry.

He'd suspected something was building between them. It hadn't been sudden—nothing with Shane ever was. Shane buried things deep, layered them under charm and deflection until even he forgot they were there. But Hayden had known him too long. He'd learned to read the signs.

It had been easy with Shane. The way his gaze lingered on Ilya during practice, tracking him across the ice even when he was supposed to be watching the play. The way his voice softened when he talked about him, even when he was complaining. The way he'd started coming back to the dorm earlier, started caring about whether Ilya had eaten, whether he'd slept, whether he was okay.

Ilya had been harder to read. The kid was a fortress, all walls and locked doors, his emotions buried so deep Hayden wasn't sure even Ilya knew where they were half the time. But there had been signs. Small ones. The way Ilya's eyes followed Shane when he thought no one was looking. The way he'd started asking Hayden questions—casual, offhand—about Shane's schedule, his habits, his moods. Does he always skip breakfast? Does he sleep enough? Is he okay?

The way Ilya had quietly started doing Shane's laundry when Shane forgot. The way he'd leave extra food on Shane's desk after practice. The way he'd wait up, pretending to be absorbed in his phone, until Shane came home.

Hayden had seen it all. Watched it unfold from the sidelines, waiting for one of them to finally admit what was so fucking obvious to everyone else.

And now this.

Hayden sighed, running a hand through his hair. He wanted to be angry. Wanted to march out, find Ilya, and demand to know what the hell had happened. But he couldn't. Not yet. Not when Shane was falling apart in the next room.

Because Hayden had seen this before.

He'd seen Shane break himself over and over, trying to fit into a mold that was never meant for him. Trying to be the son his parents wanted, the captain his team needed, the perfect student everyone expected.

Hayden had been there when Shane's dad had shown up unannounced during their sophomore year, all polished shoes and disappointed frowns, lecturing Shane about "wasting his potential" and "embarrassing the family name" because Shane had gotten a B+ in Economics. He'd watched Shane sit through that conversation with a smile plastered on his face, nodding along, agreeing with everything, and then spend the next three days barely eating, barely sleeping, throwing himself into practice until his body gave out.

He'd been there when Shane had come back from winter break their freshman year, quieter than usual, his shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. Hayden had asked what was wrong, and Shane had laughed it off, said he was fine, said his parents were just "concerned" about his future. It wasn't until weeks later, after too many drinks at a party, that Shane had finally admitted the truth: his dad had found out he'd hooked up with a guy at a summer camp when he was sixteen, and they'd spent the entire break trying to "fix" him. Therapy sessions with a pastor. Long lectures about "choices" and "consequences." Silent dinners where his mother wouldn't look at him.

Hayden had held him that night while he cried, while he said he was sorry, while he promised he'd do better, be better, be the son they wanted.

And Hayden had watched him spiral.

It started small. A hookup here and there, always with older guys, always men who looked at Shane like he was a prize to be won and discarded. Shane never talked about them, never brought them around, but Hayden saw the signs. The bruises on his wrists. The way he'd flinch when someone touched him unexpectedly. The way he'd come back to the dorm at three in the morning, eyes hollow, and go straight to the shower.

Hayden had asked him about it once. "Why them?" he'd said. "Why guys who treat you like shit?"

Shane had shrugged, his smile brittle. "Because they don't expect anything from me. They don't care if I'm perfect. They just want what they want, and then they leave."

"That's fucked up," Hayden had said.

"Yeah," Shane had agreed. "But it's easier."

Easier than what? Hayden had wanted to ask. Easier than being yourself? Easier than letting someone actually care about you?

But he hadn't. Because he'd known the answer. Shane didn't think he deserved to be cared about. Not really. Not when he'd spent his entire life being told he was only worth something if he was winning, if he was succeeding, if he was making his parents proud.

So he'd found men who didn't care. Men who wanted him for his body, for the thrill of control, for the power of making him submit. Men who would choke him, bruise him, use him, and then leave without a second thought.

And Shane had let them. Because at least with them, he knew where he stood. At least with them, there were no expectations to fail.

Hayden had seen him cry over it more times than he could count.

He remembered one night in particular, their sophomore year. Shane had stumbled in at two in the morning, makeup smudged under his eyes from where he'd tried to cover a bruise on his cheekbone. He'd gone straight to the bathroom, and Hayden had heard the shower turn on. It ran for over an hour.

When Shane finally emerged, wrapped in a towel, his eyes were red and swollen. He'd sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands, and then he'd started crying. Not the quiet, muffled sobs he usually tried to hide. Full, gut-wrenching sobs that shook his whole body.

Hayden had gone to him immediately, sitting beside him, pulling him close.

"I don't understand," Shane had choked out between sobs. "I don't understand why I'm like this. Why I keep doing this to myself."

"Like what?" Hayden had asked gently.

"Like I need it," Shane had whispered, his voice breaking. "Like I need them to hurt me. Like that's the only way I can feel anything." He'd looked up at Hayden, his face crumpled, tears streaming down his cheeks. "What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing's wrong with you," Hayden had said firmly, gripping Shane's shoulders. "You hear me? Nothing."

But Shane had just shaken his head, pulling away. "Then why do I keep going back? Why do I let them—" His voice had cracked, and he'd buried his face in his hands. "Why can't I just be normal?"

Hayden hadn't known what to say. He'd just held Shane while he cried himself out, until his sobs turned to hiccups, until he'd finally fallen asleep curled up on Hayden's shoulder.

There had been other nights like that. Nights when Shane would come back bruised and hollow, nights when he'd sit in the shower until the water ran cold, nights when he'd stare at himself in the mirror with such disgust that Hayden had to physically pull him away.

Hayden had seen him angry, too. Punching walls until his knuckles split. Throwing books across the room. Screaming at himself in the mirror, calling himself weak, pathetic, broken.

He'd seen Shane frustrated, pacing the room for hours, unable to articulate what he was feeling, unable to explain why he kept seeking out men who treated him like garbage.

He'd seen Shane insecure, standing in front of the mirror, picking apart every flaw, every imperfection, convinced that he wasn't good enough, would never be good enough.

He'd seen Shane disgusted with himself, scrubbing at his skin in the shower until it was raw, trying to wash away the feeling of hands that had touched him, used him, discarded him.

And through it all, Hayden had been there. Cleaning up the mess. Bandaging his knuckles. Reminding him that he was worth more than what those men made him feel.

It had taken years, but Shane had finally started to heal. He'd stopped seeking out the worst of them. He'd started setting boundaries. He'd started believing, just a little, that maybe he deserved better.

And then Ilya had happened.

Hayden had noticed the shift almost immediately. The way Shane's eyes lit up when Ilya walked into a room. The way he smiled—really smiled—when Ilya said something in his halting English. The way he started taking care of himself again, eating properly, sleeping more, because Ilya noticed when he didn't.

Hayden had watched Shane start to hope.

He'd seen it in the way Shane would linger in the dorm, waiting for Ilya to come back from his runs. In the way he'd make sure there was extra food for Ilya after practice. In the way he'd started asking Hayden questions about relationships, about what it meant to actually care about someone.

"Do you think it's possible?" Shane had asked one night, his voice quiet, almost afraid.

"Do I think what's possible?" Hayden had asked.

"To actually… be with someone. Like, really be with them. Not just—" Shane had gestured vaguely, his expression pained. "Not just the physical stuff. But actually… care."

Hayden had smiled. "Yeah, man. I think it's possible."

Shane had nodded slowly, like he was trying to convince himself. "Yeah. Maybe."

Hayden had seen the way Shane looked at Ilya after that. Like he was something precious, something fragile, something Shane was terrified to break but desperately wanted to hold onto.

He'd seen Shane start to believe that maybe, just maybe, he could have something real. Something good. Something that didn't end with bruises and shame and crying on the bathroom floor.

And now he was sitting on that same bathroom floor, broken all over again.

The sound of the shower shutting off pulled Hayden from his thoughts. He looked up, watching the bathroom door, waiting.

A moment later, Shane emerged. His hair was damp, plastered to his forehead, and he was wearing clean clothes—sweatpants and an oversized hoodie that swallowed him whole. But his eyes were still red, still swollen, and the emptiness in them hadn't faded.

Hayden's chest tightened. This was the same look Shane had worn all those years ago. The same brokenness. The same defeat.

Hayden sighed, standing. "Come here," he said softly.

Shane hesitated, then crossed the room. Hayden pulled him into a hug, wrapping his arms tight around him, and Shane sagged against him, his face pressing into Hayden's shoulder.

"I got you," Hayden murmured. "I got you."

Shane didn't cry. He just stood there, letting Hayden hold him, his breath shaky and uneven.

And Hayden held on, his jaw tight, his eyes burning, as he stared at the phone on the desk.

I made him cry.

Yeah. You fucking did.

Shane was quiet the entire day.

Hayden stayed with him, a constant presence that required nothing but offered everything. He made Shane eat—toast with peanut butter, because it was easy, because Shane's hands shook too much to hold a fork properly. He made him drink water, refilling the glass every time Shane set it down half-empty. He put on a mindless show on his laptop, some sitcom neither of them really watched, just to fill the silence with something other than Shane's ragged breathing.

Shane sat through it all like a ghost. Present but not really there. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, staring at the screen without seeing it. Every so often, his breath would hitch, like he was on the verge of crying again, but the tears never came. He'd just swallow hard and go back to staring.

Hayden didn't push. He just stayed.

By the time practice rolled around, Hayden had hoped—foolishly, maybe—that Shane would skip it. That he'd take the day off, give himself time to breathe, to process, to not have to face Ilya in front of the entire team.

But Shane got dressed without a word, pulling on his gear with mechanical precision, and headed out the door.

Hayden followed.

The rink was loud, the usual chaos of pre-practice warm-ups filling the air. Skates scraping against ice, pucks clattering against boards, voices shouting drills and jokes and insults. Hayden kept close to Shane, positioning himself between Shane and the rest of the team as much as he could, trying to create a buffer.

Shane went through the motions. He stretched, he skated, he ran drills. But his eyes kept drifting.

Hayden saw it every time. The way Shane's gaze would find Ilya across the ice, tracking him like a compass needle finding north. Ilya was practicing with the same focused intensity as always, his movements sharp and controlled, but there was something off about him too. His jaw was tight, his shoulders tense, and he didn't look at Shane. Not once.

Hayden sighed quietly and skated closer to Shane, nudging him with his stick. "Hey. Focus up, Cap. Coach is watching."

Shane blinked, tearing his eyes away from Ilya, and nodded. "Yeah. Sorry."

But five minutes later, he was looking again.

Hayden tried everything. He cracked jokes, pulled Shane into drills, kept him moving, kept him engaged. But it was like trying to hold back the tide. Shane's eyes always found their way back to Ilya, and every time they did, Hayden saw the hurt flicker across his face, raw and unguarded.

Hayden sighed again, softer this time, and clapped Shane on the shoulder. "Come on. Let's run the breakaway drill. You and me."

Shane nodded, but his heart wasn't in it.

By the time practice ended, Hayden was exhausted. Not from the skating, but from watching Shane fall apart in slow motion, piece by piece, while pretending he was fine.

The team filtered off the ice, heading toward the locker room in clusters. Hayden lingered, waiting for Shane to finish unlacing his skates. Ilya was already gone, one of the first out, his gear packed with the same efficiency he brought to everything.

Hayden glanced toward the locker room door, then back at Shane. "I'll meet you in there," he said. "Gotta grab something from my locker."

Shane nodded absently, and Hayden slipped away.

He found Ilya in the hallway outside the locker room, his bag slung over one shoulder, his hair still damp from the ice. He was staring at his phone, his expression carefully blank in that way that meant he was feeling too much.

"Ilya," Hayden called.

Ilya looked up, his eyes flicking to Hayden, then away. He didn't say anything.

Hayden crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. "So… are you coming back tonight?"

Ilya's jaw tightened. He didn't answer immediately, his gaze dropping to the floor.

"To the dorm, I mean," Hayden clarified, though he knew Ilya understood.

Ilya was silent for a long moment. His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag, knuckles still bruised from the night before. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, strained. "I don't know."

Hayden nodded slowly. He'd expected that. "Look, why don't we just switch dorms for the meantime? I'll stay with Shane, you can crash in my room. Give you both some space to… figure things out."

Ilya's shoulders sagged slightly, relief and something heavier flickering across his face. "Okay."

"Okay," Hayden echoed. He studied Ilya for a moment—the tension in his posture, the way his eyes kept darting toward the locker room door like he wanted to go back in but couldn't make himself do it. "You know he's a mess, right?"

Ilya flinched, his expression cracking for just a second before he smoothed it over again. "I know."

"And you're not doing much better."

Ilya's jaw worked. He didn't respond.

Hayden sighed, pushing off the wall. He wanted to say more, wanted to tell Ilya that running away wasn't going to fix this, that they both needed to talk, to figure out what the hell had happened and how to move forward. But he could see it in Ilya's eyes—the same haunted look Shane got sometimes, the one that said he was drowning and didn't know how to ask for help.

Hayden watched as Ilya turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the empty hallway. He stood there for a moment, staring after him, then shook his head and headed back toward the locker room.

Shane moved through the days like he was underwater.

Everything felt muffled, distant, like there was a layer of glass between him and the rest of the world. He went to class, took notes he didn't remember writing, nodded when professors asked questions he didn't hear. He went to practice, ran drills, followed Coach's instructions with mechanical precision. He smiled when he was supposed to, laughed when the team joked around, played the part of captain with the same ease he'd been doing for years.

But inside, he was drowning.

The dorm felt different now. Hayden had moved in within hours of their conversation, hauling his duffel bag and a crate of textbooks through the door with practiced efficiency. He'd claimed Ilya's bed without ceremony, tossing his stuff onto the mattress and immediately starting to rearrange things to make space for both of them.

Shane had watched in silence, standing by his own bed, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The sight of someone else's belongings on Ilya's desk, Ilya's shelves, made something twist painfully in his chest. But he didn't say anything. He just turned away and started organizing his own things, straightening books that were already straight, refolding clothes that didn't need folding.

"You don't have to hover, you know," Hayden had said, glancing over his shoulder. "I'm not gonna break anything."

Shane had nodded but hadn't moved. He'd just stood there, watching Hayden unpack, his mind a thousand miles away.

That first night, Shane took a shower. The water was scalding, hot enough to turn his skin pink, but he didn't turn it down. He stood under the spray, scrubbing at his arms, his chest, his neck, trying to wash away the feeling of hands that weren't his own. He scrubbed until his skin felt raw, until the soap stung, until his fingers ached from gripping the washcloth too tight.

When he finally emerged, his skin was red and blotchy, steam rising off him in waves. Hayden glanced up from where he was sprawling on Ilya's bed—his bed now—scrolling through his phone. His brow furrowed slightly when he saw Shane, but he didn't say anything. Just went back to his screen.

Shane pulled on a clean shirt, the fabric rough against his sensitized skin, and climbed into bed without a word.

The next morning, Shane washed his hands three times before breakfast. Once with soap, once with hand sanitizer, once with soap again. The skin around his knuckles cracked and bled slightly, but he barely noticed. He just dried them carefully, wincing at the sting, and pulled on his hoodie.

Hayden was making coffee when Shane emerged from the bathroom, the cheap pot they kept on the shelf gurgling and hissing. He glanced at Shane, his eyes flicking to Shane's hands, then away.

"Want some?" Hayden asked, holding up a mug.

"Yeah. Thanks."

Hayden poured two cups, handing one to Shane. Their fingers brushed briefly, and Shane pulled back quickly, cradling the mug against his chest.

They drank in silence, standing on opposite sides of the room. Hayden leaned against his desk, watching Shane over the rim of his mug. Shane stared out the window, watching students trudge through the snow below, their breath misting in the cold air.

"You okay?" Hayden asked eventually.

"Yeah," Shane said automatically. "Just tired."

Hayden didn't press. He just nodded and finished his coffee, rinsing the mug in the tiny sink by the door.

Later that day, Hayden left a bottle of lotion on Shane's desk. He didn't say anything about it, didn't draw attention to it. Just set it down and went back to his homework.

Shane stared at it for a long time before putting it away in his drawer, unopened.

The days started to blur together.

Shane went to class, went to practice, came back to the dorm. He ate when Hayden reminded him, slept when exhaustion finally dragged him under, and showered until the water ran cold.

Hayden settled into the space with surprising ease. He kept his side of the room relatively tidy—messier than Ilya's meticulous organization but cleaner than Shane had expected. He left notes sometimes, little Post-its stuck to the bathroom mirror or the edge of Shane's desk. Don't forget to eat. Lotion is your friend. You're doing great.

Shane read them every time, his chest tightening, but he never responded. He just peeled them off and tucked them into his desk drawer, where they accumulated in a small, crumpled pile.

Practice became a routine of avoidance.

Shane threw himself into drills with a ferocity that bordered on reckless. He pushed harder, skated faster, hit harder, like he could outrun the thoughts clawing at the edges of his mind. Coach praised him for his intensity. The team followed his lead, feeding off his energy.

But Shane wasn't there. Not really. He was just going through the motions, performing the role he'd been trained to play since he was old enough to hold a stick.

Ilya was there, at first. Quiet, focused, skating with the same precision as always. But he didn't look at Shane. Didn't speak to him. Didn't acknowledge him beyond the bare minimum required for drills.

Shane told himself he didn't care. Told himself it was better this way. But every time he caught a glimpse of Ilya across the ice—the set of his shoulders, the way his hair curled at his nape, the quiet intensity in his eyes—Shane's chest tightened, his breath caught, and he had to force himself to look away.

Hayden stayed close, a constant shadow. He positioned himself between Shane and Ilya during drills when he could, cracked jokes to fill the silence, pulled Shane into conversations with the rest of the team. Shane appreciated it, even if he couldn't bring himself to say so.

At night, Shane showered again. And again. Sometimes twice in one evening, scrubbing at his skin until it was raw and tender, until the water ran cold and his fingers pruned.

Hayden started timing him after the third night, knocking on the bathroom door after twenty minutes.

"You're gonna run out of hot water," Hayden called through the door.

"I'm almost done," Shane lied, his hands still moving in slow, methodical circles across his chest, his ribs, his stomach.

He wasn't. He stayed in there for another fifteen minutes, scrubbing at his wrists, his neck, his thighs, trying to erase the phantom touch of hands that had held him down, choked him, used him. The washcloth was rough against his skin, the soap burning in the raw patches that had started to spread.

When he finally emerged, Hayden was sitting on his bed, laptop open but clearly not working. His eyes flicked to Shane, to the angry red patches blooming across his forearms, visible below the sleeves of his T-shirt.

"You good?" Hayden asked, frowning.

"Yeah," Shane said, toweling off his hair. "Just needed to relax."

Hayden's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. "You're scrubbing too hard."

"I'm fine."

"Shane—"

"I said I'm fine."

The sharpness in Shane's voice cut through the room. Hayden held his gaze for a moment, then sighed and turned back to his laptop. "Alright. Just… take it easy, okay?"

Shane didn't respond. He just pulled on a clean shirt and climbed into bed, turning to face the wall.

One night, Shane stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at his reflection. His eyes were hollow, shadowed with exhaustion. His skin was blotchy and raw, red patches spreading across his arms, his chest, the sides of his neck. He looked like he'd been scrubbed clean and then scrubbed again, like he was trying to erase himself entirely.

He turned on the faucet and started washing his hands. Once with soap, working it into a lather between his palms, scrubbing at his knuckles, his fingernails, the spaces between his fingers. He rinsed, then pumped more soap, scrubbing again. Then again.

The soap stung the cracks in his knuckles, small fissures that had opened from the repeated washing, but he didn't stop. He just kept scrubbing, methodical and precise, watching the suds swirl down the drain.

There was a knock on the door.

"Shane, you've been in there for half an hour."

Shane blinked, looking down at his hands. The water was still running, his fingers red and raw. He turned off the faucet slowly and dried his hands on the towel, wincing at the sting.

When he opened the door, Hayden was standing there in the dim hallway light, his own face a mask of quiet dread.

Hayden's eyes flicked to Shane's hands, to the raw, cracked skin around his knuckles, the redness creeping up his wrists. Something in his expression gave, just for a second. His jaw tightened, not with anger but restraint. He looked away first.

“Come on. We need to get up early tomorrow,” he said quietly, stepping aside to let Shane pass.

Shane climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. Across the room, Hayden turned off the light and settled into his own bed. The darkness pressed in, thick and heavy.

Shane lay there, staring at the ceiling, his hands tucked under the blanket. His skin still felt wrong. Dirty. Like no amount of scrubbing would ever make it clean again.

It was a Tuesday when Ilya didn't show up to practice.

Shane noticed immediately. He always did. His eyes scanned the rink as the team filed in, searching for the familiar silhouette, the dark hair, the quiet intensity. But Ilya wasn't there.

Shane told himself it didn't matter. Told himself Ilya probably had a class or an appointment or something. But the knot in his chest tightened anyway, a dull ache that settled behind his ribs and refused to leave.

By the time warm-ups started, whispers were already spreading through the locker room.

"Did you hear?"

"Yeah, Coach said he's gone for a while."

"How long?"

"Don't know. A week, maybe more."

Shane's hands stilled on his skate laces. He glanced at Hayden, who was sitting beside him, already laced up and ready. Hayden was staring at the floor, his jaw tight.

"What's going on?" Shane asked quietly.

Hayden hesitated, then sighed. "I don't know. But Coach called a team meeting after practice. Guess we'll find out then."

Shane nodded slowly and finished lacing his skates, his fingers shaking just enough that he had to slow himself down. His mind was already racing, running through possibilities, each one worse than the last.

The meeting was short. Coach stood at the front of the locker room, his arms crossed, his expression somber.

"Rozanov's father passed away," he said bluntly, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "He flew back to Russia yesterday. He'll be gone for at least a week, maybe longer. I know some of you are close with him, so if you need to talk, my door's open."

The room went silent. Shane felt the words hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs. He stared at Coach, his mind struggling to process, to make sense of what he'd just heard.

Ilya's father is dead.

Shane's chest tightened, his hands clenching into fists on his thighs. He wanted to say something, to ask questions, to demand more information. But his throat was too tight, his voice locked somewhere deep inside him.

Around him, the team shifted uncomfortably. A few guys murmured condolences, their voices low and awkward. JJ rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at his skates. Hayden's hand landed on Shane's shoulder, squeezing gently.

Shane didn't look at him. He just stared at the floor, his mind racing.

Ilya's father is dead.

And Shane hadn't known. Hadn't been there. Hadn't even known Ilya was hurting.

Part of his brain told him it was fine. What even was he to Ilya? A roommate. A captain who'd fucked everything up. Someone who shared a room with him for a few months and couldn't even manage that without breaking something. He probably didn't even register as a footnote in Ilya's life, didn't fill any space that mattered, didn't occupy any corner of Ilya's mind the way Ilya had somehow, inexplicably, taken root in his.

But another part of him—the part that wouldn't shut up, that kept digging at the wound—pulled him back to that first week of the semester. To Ilya standing at the edge of the locker room, shoulders stiff, watching the team joke and shove each other with an expression Shane couldn't read. Lost. That was the word. He'd looked lost, like someone had dropped him in the middle of a foreign country and forgotten to give him a map. Which, Shane supposed, was exactly what had happened.

He remembered seeing Ilya at practice, skating alone during warm-ups while everyone else paired off. Remembered the way Ilya's jaw would tighten when someone spoke too fast for him to follow, the flicker of frustration in his eyes before he smoothed it away. Remembered finding him once in the common room at two in the morning, sitting by the window, staring out at nothing.

Shane had almost said something that night. Almost asked if he was okay. But he'd chickened out, convinced himself it wasn't his place, that Ilya wouldn't want his pity.

Now, sitting in the locker room with the weight of Coach's words pressing down on him, Shane felt something crack open in his chest. A raw, aching feeling that spread through his ribs and settled somewhere behind his sternum.

What must Ilya have felt when he got the news? Was he in the dorm? In class? Was he alone when he found out, standing in some hallway with his phone pressed to his ear? Did anyone hold him? Did anyone even know to try?

Or did he just swallow it down the way he swallowed everything else—silent, stoic, that careful blankness settling over his features like a mask he'd learned to wear too young?

The meeting ended, and the team started to disperse, their voices subdued. Shane sat frozen on the bench, his hands still clenched, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts.

"Shane," Hayden said quietly, crouching in front of him. "You okay?"

Shane nodded, but the movement felt mechanical, disconnected. "Yeah. I'm fine."

"You're not fine."

Shane finally looked up, meeting Hayden's eyes. "What do you want me to say?"

Hayden sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know, man. Just… don't shut down on me, okay?"

Shane nodded again, but he couldn't promise that. He felt like he was already shutting down, piece by piece, the walls closing in around him.

After practice, Shane lingered in the locker room, moving slowly, methodically packing up his gear. The rest of the team filtered out in groups, their voices subdued, the usual banter replaced with quiet murmurs.

Hayden stayed close, hovering nearby, but Shane barely noticed. He was too busy trying to breathe, trying to keep the rising panic at bay, trying to process the fact that Ilya was gone and Shane hadn't even known he was leaving.

He was halfway to the door, gear bag slung over his shoulder, when a voice stopped him.

"Shane."

Shane turned. Nina stood near the entrance, her coat pulled tight against the cold, her expression cautious but determined. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and there were shadows under her eyes, like she hadn't been sleeping well either.

"Can we talk?" she asked.

Shane hesitated, his eyes flicking to Hayden. Hayden gave him a small nod, then stepped back, giving them space.

Shane turned back to Nina, his chest tight, and nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

Chapter End Notes

🧘🏻‍♀️ Breathe In Breathe Out
Breathe In Breathe Out 🧘🏻‍♀️

Okay! Think we can take another round? 😂

Finally, we get to unravel some of the things that have shaped Shane into who he is.

This chapter was a difficult one to write, not because it's particularly dark or graphic, but because it's about the quiet, cumulative weight of expectation. It’s about how love, when it’s conditional, can feel like a cage. How the desperate need to be "good enough" for someone else can twist into a belief that you are only worthy of attention when you are being used.

It’s a coping mechanism born from a specific kind of pain: the pain of believing you are fundamentally disappointing. 💔

I know, understanding this doesn't excuse Shane's choices, but hopefully, it makes them comprehensible.

I can’t wait to hear your thoughts about it! Love love! ❤️

Chapter 13

Chapter Notes

Nina led Shane to a small, quiet coffee shop a few blocks from the rink. The air inside was warm and smelled of roasted beans and cinnamon. They took a table in the back corner, away from the windows, where the light was dim and the noise from the street was muffled.

Shane sat stiffly, his hands wrapped around the mug of tea Nina had ordered for him. He hadn't touched it. He just stared at the steam curling up from the surface, his mind racing.

Nina watched him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "You look like you haven't slept," she said finally, her voice gentle.

Shane shrugged. "I'm fine."

"You're not," Nina said bluntly. "And neither is he."

Shane's jaw tightened. He didn't ask who she meant. He already knew.

"I'm worried about him," Nina continued, her fingers tracing the rim of her own cup. "He's been… different lately. Quieter. Angrier. And then what happened at the restaurant…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "I know Ilya wouldn't want me talking to you about this. But I don't know what else to do."

Shane looked up, meeting her eyes. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because he cares about you," Nina said simply. "And because I think you care about him too."

Shane's chest tightened. He looked down at his hands, at the raw skin around his knuckles, and didn't respond.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. The coffee shop hummed around them—the low murmur of other patrons, the hiss of the espresso machine, the soft clink of ceramic. Nina sipped her coffee slowly, not rushing, not pressing. Shane kept his eyes on his tea, watching the steam thin and dissipate. His throat ached with everything he wanted to say and couldn't.

Outside, the light was fading, the last traces of afternoon bleeding into the pale gray of early evening. A bell chimed as someone entered the shop. Somewhere behind the counter, a barista laughed quietly at something.

Shane finally lifted the mug and took a sip. The tea was lukewarm now, faintly bitter. He set it back down.

Nina chuckled softly. The sound was unexpected, warm, and Shane looked up.

"You know," she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips, "once, Ilya called me after a game. He never calls me after games. I always have to call him, pry out every detail, because he'd rather chew glass than admit he had a good day." She shook her head, the smile deepening. "But this time, he called me. And he said—" She paused, glancing at Shane. "'The captain is annoying. He talks too much. He smiles at everyone. He made me eat his terrible sandwich.'"

Shane blinked.

Nina's eyes crinkled. "When he said that, I thought—this boy has never voluntarily told me about another person in his entire life. Not once. Not a classmate, not a teammate, nobody. And here he was, complaining about you for ten minutes straight, every detail, like he'd memorized the entire day." She tilted her head, studying Shane's face. "Now, I can tell it was never really complaining."

Heat crept up Shane's neck, spreading to his ears. He looked away, his fingers tightening around the mug.

Nina watched him, her expression softening. "He doesn't know how to say things directly. He never learned. So he complains. He criticizes. He picks fights. But if you listen carefully…" She trailed off, letting the sentence hang.

Shane swallowed hard. The blush wouldn't fade. He could feel it burning across his cheeks, his ears, the back of his neck.

For a while, Nina didn't say anything else. She just sat there, her fingers wrapped around her cup, her gaze drifting to the window. The silence between them was different now—less strained, more contemplative.

Then, quietly, almost to herself, Nina murmured, "Irina would have loved you."

Shane blinked. "Irina?"

Nina stiffened slightly, like she hadn't meant to say it out loud. Her fingers tightened around her cup, and for a moment, Shane thought she was going to change the subject. But then she sighed, her shoulders sagging, and nodded.

"Yeah," she said softly, a small smile crossing her face. It didn't reach her eyes. "Ilya's mom."

Shane nodded slowly, filing the name away. Irina. He turned it over in his mind, trying to picture the woman who had raised Ilya, who had shaped him into the person he was.

Silence settled between them again. The espresso machine hissed. A chair scraped against the floor somewhere behind them.

"Then… will she be there with him?" Shane asked after a while, his voice careful. "At home? In Russia?"

Something shifted in Nina's face. The smile faded, replaced by something heavier—grief, old and deep, the kind that never fully goes away.

For a long moment, she didn't respond. She just stared at her coffee, her thumb tracing a slow circle on the rim of the cup. Then she shook her head.

"No," she said quietly. "He lost her when he was fifteen."

Shane's stomach dropped. He opened his mouth, then closed it. His hands tightened around his mug.

"She took her life," Nina said.

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and final. Shane stared at Nina, his mind struggling to process, to reconcile those words with the Ilya he knew—the stoic, controlled, infuriatingly composed Ilya who never let anyone see him break.

Fifteen. Shane had been fifteen once. He'd been playing hockey, worrying about grades, sneaking out to parties with Hayden. He'd been a kid. Ilya had been a kid, and his mother—

Shane's throat closed.

Nina wrapped both hands around her mug, holding it like an anchor. "You're probably wondering why he transferred here out of nowhere."

Shane nodded, barely.

"It might not seem obvious, because he doesn't really say anything. But his family situation… it's complicated." Nina paused, choosing her words carefully. "There are things about Ilya's childhood that he doesn't talk about. That he probably will never talk about, not unless he decides to on his own. But I think…" She hesitated, her brow creasing. "I think you need to understand some of it. Because otherwise, you'll keep hurting each other without knowing why."

Shane leaned forward slightly, his elbows on the table. "What do you mean?"

Nina took a slow breath. "Ilya's father was not a good man." The words came out flat, practiced, like she'd said them before. "He drank. Heavily. And when he drank, he became violent."

Shane went very still.

"Irina—she was my closest friend growing up. We were neighbors in Chelyabinsk. She was… bright. Funny. She had this laugh that could fill up a whole room." Nina's voice softened, her eyes distant. "She married Grigori when she was twenty. He was charming at first. They always are." Her mouth twisted. "Ilya was born a year later."

Shane didn't say anything. He barely breathed.

"It started small," Nina continued. "A shove here, a slap there. Grigori would apologize, bring flowers, promise it would never happen again. And Irina believed him, because she wanted to. Because she had a son and nowhere else to go." She paused, swallowing. "But it got worse. It always does."

"How bad?" Shane asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Nina met his eyes. "Bad enough that Ilya learned to sleep with his door locked before he was old enough to go to school. Bad enough that he knew to hide in the closet when he heard glass breaking. Bad enough that by the time he was seven, he could tell from the sound of his father's footsteps whether it was going to be a good night or a bad one."

Shane's hands were trembling. He pressed them flat against the table to keep them still.

"Irina tried to leave. More than once. But Grigori always found her, always convinced her to come back, and when convincing didn't work—" Nina broke off, her jaw tightening. "Ilya saw things no child should ever have to see. His father's hands on his mother's throat. Her face bruised so badly she couldn't leave the house for days. He once told me—" Her voice wavered, just for a second. "He once told me that the worst part wasn't the hitting. It was the silence after. When everything went quiet and he didn't know if she was still breathing."

Something in Shane's chest cracked open. A raw, aching fissure that spread through his ribs and made it hard to breathe. He thought of Ilya—young Ilya, a child crouching in a closet, listening to silence, terrified of what it meant.

"She started using when Ilya was about ten," Nina said. "Pills, at first. Then harder things. It was her way of coping, of numbing herself to what was happening. I tried to help. I sent money, offered to bring her and Ilya to the States, but she was too deep in by then. Grigori had her convinced she was nothing without him. That she couldn't survive on her own. And the drugs made it easier to believe."

Shane's jaw ached from clenching. He forced himself to relax it, to breathe. "Did Ilya know? About the drugs?"

Nina nodded slowly. "He knew. He was the one who found her, most nights. Passed out on the kitchen floor, or in the bathroom, or—" She stopped, pressing her lips together. "He took care of her. Cleaned her up, put her to bed, made sure she ate. He was ten years old, Shane. Ten. And he was already taking care of his mother like a parent takes care of a child."

Shane closed his eyes briefly. Behind his eyelids, he saw Ilya at ten—small, dark-haired, serious-faced, pulling a blanket over his mother's unconscious body. Checking her breathing. Making sure she was alive.

"He loved her," Nina said, her voice thick. "More than anything. Despite everything, despite what she put him through, he loved her completely. She was his whole world. And she loved him too, in her way. On her good days, she was the mother he deserved. She'd read to him, sing to him, take him to the rink. She was the one who taught him to skate, you know." A ghost of a smile crossed Nina's face. "She'd been a figure skater in her youth. Beautiful on the ice. She'd hold his hand and they'd skate together, and for those few hours, everything was okay."

Shane's throat was so tight he could barely swallow.

"But the good days got fewer," Nina continued. "And the bad days got worse. Grigori’s drinking escalated. The violence escalated. Irina's addiction deepened. And Ilya was caught in the middle of all of it, trying to hold everything together, trying to protect her, trying to survive."

"Why didn't anyone help?" Shane asked, his voice hoarse.

Nina's expression hardened. "People knew. Neighbors, teachers, family. But this was Chelyabinsk, not… here. People looked the other way. Domestic matters were private. You didn't interfere. And Grigori was well-connected—he worked for the force, knew people. Nobody wanted to make an enemy of him." She shook her head bitterly. "I left for the States when Ilya was twelve. I tried to take them with me. Irina refused. Said she couldn't leave Grigori, that he needed her, that things would get better. The drugs were talking by then. I knew it. But what could I do? I couldn't force her."

Shane watched Nina's face, the grief etched into every line. This wasn't a story she told often. That much was clear.

"I kept in touch as much as I could," Nina said. "Called every week. Sent money for Ilya's skating. But I could hear it in her voice—the deterioration. The hope draining out of her, month by month. And Ilya—every time I talked to him, he was quieter. More closed off. Like he was building walls inside himself, sealing everything away where it couldn't hurt him."

"He's still like that," Shane murmured.

Nina nodded. "Yes. He is." She paused, taking a slow sip of her coffee. "When Ilya was fourteen, Irina tried to leave again. For real this time. She packed a bag, took Ilya, and went to her sister's house. For two weeks, things were okay. Ilya told me later that those were the best two weeks of his life."

Shane could feel where this was going. His stomach clenched.

"Grigori found them. He showed up at the sister's house, drunk, screaming. There was a fight. Ilya tried to intervene—he was fourteen, tall for his age but still a child—and Grigori hit him hard enough to crack his orbital bone."

Shane's breath left him in a sharp exhale, like he'd been punched.

"Irina went back after that," Nina said, her voice flat. "To protect Ilya. That's what she told herself. If she went back, Grigori would leave Ilya alone. And for a while, he did." She paused. "But the damage was done. Ilya stopped talking to her. Stopped eating at home. Spent every waking hour at the rink, skating until his feet bled, because it was the only place he felt safe. The only place that was his."

Shane thought of Ilya on the ice—the way he moved like it was the only place in the world where he could breathe.

"A year later," Nina said quietly, "Irina overdosed. Intentionally."

The word intentionally landed in the silence like a stone dropped into still water.

"Ilya found her," Nina added, and Shane watched her grip on the mug tighten until her knuckles turned white. "He came home from school and found her in the bathroom. Pills everywhere. He was the one who called the ambulance. He was the one who sat with her body until they arrived."

Shane couldn't speak. His jaw was locked, his body rigid.

“She'd left a note, but he never told anyone what it said. Just folded it up and kept it.” She looked up at Shane, her eyes red but dry. “Ilya never forgave himself for not being able to save her.”

Shane stared at the table, at the grain of the wood, at the small ring of moisture where his mug had been. Everything felt too sharp, too bright, too loud.

"His father didn't even come to the funeral," Nina said bitterly. "Just sent a wreath and a card. Ilya burned it."

Shane's jaw clenched.

"After that, he shut down," Nina said. "Stopped talking to people. Stopped letting anyone in. His grandmother tried to help, but he wouldn't let her. He just… existed. Went through the motions."

Nina took a shaky breath. "That's when I convinced him to come here. To Canada. To start over. I thought maybe if he got away from Russia, from all those memories, he could heal."

She looked at Shane, her expression earnest. "And for a while, I thought it was working. He seemed… lighter. Less burdened. And then I saw the way he looked at you."

Shane's breath caught.

"He's difficult sometimes," Nina said gently. "He doesn't know how to let people in. Doesn't know how to trust. But he's trying. With you, he's trying."

Shane's throat tightened. He looked down at his hands, his vision blurring.

"So just… give him a chance," Nina said quietly. "Please."

Shane nodded, not trusting his voice.

When Shane walked back into the dorm, Hayden was sitting at his desk, laptop open but clearly not working. He looked up when Shane entered, and his expression immediately shifted.

"Shane—"

Hayden stopped. He saw Shane's face—the hollow eyes, the tight jaw, the way Shane's hands were trembling slightly at his sides.

Hayden stood, crossing the room in two strides. He didn't say anything. Just opened his arms.

"Come here."

Shane broke.

He stumbled forward, and Hayden caught him, wrapping his arms tight around him. Shane's knees buckled, and Hayden held him up, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other pressed firm against his back.

Shane sobbed into Hayden's shoulder, his whole body shaking. He couldn't stop. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything but cry.

He thought about Ilya at seven years old, standing between his mother and his father. He thought about Ilya at twelve, hiding pills, begging his mother to stop. He thought about Ilya at fifteen, finding her body, folding up a note he'd never show anyone.

He thought about the way Ilya had frozen when Shane had grabbed his hand and put it around his throat. The way his expression had cracked, just for a second, before he'd pulled away.

He thought about the bruises on his own wrists, the ones Ilya had stared at with that quiet, unreadable expression.

And he understood.

He understood why Ilya had left. Why he couldn't stay. Why the sight of Shane's bruises had hurt him so deeply.

Because Ilya had seen it before. Had lived it. Had watched his mother endure it until she couldn't anymore.

And Shane had made him relive it.

"I didn't know," Shane choked out between sobs. "I didn't know."

"I know," Hayden murmured, his voice steady. "I know."

Shane cried until there was nothing left, until his throat was raw and his eyes burned. Hayden held him the entire time, never letting go, never pulling away.

When Shane finally quieted, Hayden guided him to the bed, sitting him down gently. He grabbed a box of tissues from the desk and handed it to Shane, then sat beside him, close but not crowding.

Shane wiped his face, his hands still trembling. "I fucked up," he whispered.

"You didn't know," Hayden said firmly. "You can't blame yourself for something you didn't know."

"But I should have—"

"Shane." Hayden's voice was sharp, cutting through Shane's spiraling thoughts. "You didn't know. And beating yourself up about it isn't going to help either of you."

Shane swallowed hard, nodding.

Hayden sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Come on, let's get you something to eat. When's the last time you had a real meal?"

Shane opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. He couldn't remember. Yesterday? The day before? Time had blurred together into an indistinct haze.

"That's what I thought," Hayden said, standing. He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and tossed Shane's hoodie at him. "We're going to that diner on Fifth. The one with the good pancakes."

The diner was warm, the kind of place that smelled like coffee and bacon grease no matter what time of day it was. Hayden had driven them there in his beat-up Honda, the heater blasting, the radio playing something low and forgettable.

Shane sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, watching the city slide by in blurred streaks of light. His face still felt tight from crying, his eyes swollen and raw. He felt hollowed out, like someone had scooped everything inside him and left only an empty shell.

When they pulled into the parking lot, Shane didn't move. He just sat there, hands folded in his lap, staring at the neon sign flickering above the entrance.

Hayden turned off the engine and glanced at him. "You coming?"

Shane nodded but didn't unbuckle his seatbelt.

Hayden waited, patient as always. After a moment, he said, "I'll order for you. Pancakes and eggs, right? That's what you always get."

Shane's throat tightened. He swallowed hard, then shook his head. "Actually…"

Hayden raised an eyebrow. "Actually what?"

Shane hesitated, his fingers twisting in his lap. "Can we… can we go to the food hall instead?"

Hayden blinked. "The food hall? You mean that Russian place you and Ilya always go to?"

Shane nodded, not meeting his eyes.

Hayden stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Alright. Let's go."

The food hall was quieter than usual, the dinner rush already past. A few students lingered at tables, hunched over textbooks or scrolling through their phones. The air smelled like dill and roasted meat, warm and familiar.

Hayden wrinkled his nose as they walked in. "I still don't get how you eat this stuff," he muttered. "It's like someone took perfectly good food and drowned it in sour cream."

Shane didn't respond. He just walked toward the counter, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

The woman behind the counter—the same one who always served them—looked up when they approached. Her expression brightened when she saw Shane, then faltered slightly when she noticed Ilya wasn't with him.

"Hello," she said, her accent thick. "Just you today?"

Shane nodded, his voice quiet. "Yeah. Just me."

Hayden stepped up beside him, eyeing the menu with barely concealed disdain. "Alright, what's good here?"

"Nothing," Hayden muttered under his breath, then louder, "I'll just get the… uh… beef thing. The stroganoff."

The woman nodded, writing it down. "And for you?" she asked Shane.

Shane opened his mouth, then closed it. He stared at the menu, his mind blank. He couldn't remember what he usually ordered. Couldn't remember anything beyond the way Ilya would always lean over his shoulder, pointing at dishes and explaining them in his halting English.

"I'll have the shchi," Shane said finally. "And the pelmeni."

The woman nodded, her expression softening. "Of course."

She turned to prepare their order, and Hayden leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "So this is where you two always eat, huh?"

Shane nodded.

"It's… cozy," Hayden said, glancing around. "In a weird, grandma's-basement kind of way."

Shane almost smiled. Almost.

They waited in silence, Hayden drumming his fingers on the counter, Shane staring at the floor. When the woman returned with their trays, she set Shane's down first, then Hayden's.

But then she paused, reaching under the counter. She pulled out a small container and set it on Shane's tray.

Shane blinked, looking down at it. Extra dill. A generous handful, bright green and fragrant.

"For that big guy you're always with," the woman said, her smile gentle. "He always asks for extra."

Shane's breath caught. He looked up at her, his chest tightening.

The woman just smiled, her eyes kind. "You tell him I say hello, yes?"

Shane nodded, his throat too tight to speak.

Hayden grabbed his tray and headed toward a table, but Shane lingered for a moment, staring at the container of dill. Then he picked up his tray and followed.

They sat at a table near the back, the same one Shane and Ilya always sat at. Hayden dug into his stroganoff with a grimace, muttering something about "too much sour cream," but Shane barely heard him.

He just stared at the container of dill, his chest aching.

For a while, he didn't touch his food. He just sat there, turning the container in his hands, his mind replaying Nina's words.

Give him a chance. He's trying. With you, he's trying.

Shane didn't know if he deserved that chance. Didn't know if he deserved Ilya's patience, his quiet care, his effort.

But he wanted to try.

He set the container down gently, then picked up his spoon and took a bite of shchi. The broth was warm and rich, the dill cutting through the heaviness with a bright, familiar tang.

Across the table, Hayden watched him, his expression softening. "You okay?"

Shane nodded, a small, fragile smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah. I think so."

It wasn’t a lie this time.

Chapter End Notes

I am getting emotional. 😭

I can’t believe we’re already down to the last two chapters. It feels surreal knowing we’re this close to the end after EVERYTHING they’ve been through. I’m excited and terrified in equal measure, and I’m so grateful you’ve all been on this rollercoaster with me. Let’s hold hands and see them through it! We are finally seeing the light 🥹

Can’t wait to hear your thoughts about this chapter! 🫶🏻

Chapter 14

Chapter Notes

The blanket was pulled over Shane's head like a hood, the soft fabric casting his face in shadow, the glow of his phone screen illuminating the sharp angles of his jaw, the furrow between his brows. He lay on his stomach, elbows propped on his pillow, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

The cursor blinked at him. Steady. Patient. Mocking.

Hey Ilya, Coach wanted me to check what time you're

Shane deleted it.

Hi. Just wanted to ask about tomorrow, Coach needs to know

Delete.

Hey. What time is your flight?

Too casual. Delete.

Rozanov, Coach asked me to confirm your arrival time for

Too formal. Way too formal. He sounded like a secretary. Delete.

Hi Ilya. Hope you're doing okay. Coach wanted me to

Shane stared at the words, his lip caught between his teeth. Hope you're doing okay. Was that weird? Was it too personal? Too distant? Did it sound like he didn't care, or like he cared too much? Should he add an emoji? No. God, no. Ilya would probably think he was having a stroke.

Delete.

Shane groaned quietly into his pillow and started again.

Hey, when are you landing tomorrow? Coach needs

His thumb hovered over the send button. He read it again. Again. The words blurred together. He deleted the last two words and retyped them. Deleted them again. Added a period. Removed the period. Added it back.

Across the room, Hayden was lying on his bed, textbook open on his lap, but he hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes. His eyes were fixed on Shane—or rather, on the blanket-covered lump that was Shane—watching with growing incredulity as Shane's thumbs tapped and paused, tapped and paused, tapped and paused.

"Are you plotting a murder over there?" Hayden finally said. "You've been staring at your phone for half an hour. Just send it already."

Shane's head jerked up, the blanket slipping off one shoulder. "I'm not—I'm working on it."

"Working on it," Hayden repeated flatly. "It's a text, Shane. Not a thesis."

"It has to sound right."

"It has to sound like 'what time are you coming back tomorrow.' That's literally all it has to sound like. Coach asked me to tell you three days ago. Three. Days."

Shane pulled the blanket tighter around himself. "What if he's busy?"

Hayden stared at him. "Busy doing what?"

"I don't know. Things. He's in Russia. There's a time difference."

"It's nine p.m. there. He's not busy."

"What if he doesn't receive it? International service can be spotty, and—"

"Shane."

"What do I say?" Shane sat up fully, the blanket pooling around his waist, his phone clutched in both hands like a lifeline. His face was flushed, his eyes wide with genuine distress. "Is this okay?" He turned the phone around, showing Hayden the screen. "What if it's rude? Should I just type it in Russian? I could use Google Translate. Or maybe I should—"

"Give me the phone."

"What? No."

"Shane. Give me the phone."

"Hayden, you can't just—"

Hayden moved. He was across the room in three strides, his hand shooting out and plucking the phone from Shane's grasp with the practiced ease of someone who'd been dealing with Shane's nonsense for years.

"Hayden—!"

Shane lunged for it, but Hayden spun away, holding the phone out of reach. His eyes scanned the screen, his thumb already moving.

"'Hey, what time are you landing tomorrow? Coach needs the info,'" Hayden read aloud as he typed. "Period. Send."

The whoosh of the outgoing message filled the room.

Shane's face drained of color. "You didn't."

Hayden tossed the phone back to him. "I did. Easy."

Shane caught it with fumbling hands, staring at the screen in horror. The message sat there in its blue bubble, delivered, final, irreversible. Three lines of perfectly normal, completely unremarkable text that Shane had somehow been unable to send for seventy-two hours.

"I hate you," Shane breathed.

"You love me," Hayden corrected, dropping back onto his bed. "And you're welcome."

Shane opened his mouth to respond, but his phone buzzed.

He froze.

The notification banner dropped down from the top of the screen, and Shane's heart slammed against his ribs so hard he felt it in his teeth.

Ilya Rozanov: Landing at 2. I'll be at practice.

Shane stared at the reply, his lips parted. Six words. Simple, direct, no embellishment. Perfectly Ilya.

But he'd replied in under a minute.

Shane's face flooded with heat, starting at his neck and climbing rapidly to his ears, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. He pulled the blanket over his head again, hiding the flush, his heart hammering.

"What'd he say?" Hayden asked from across the room.

"Nothing," Shane mumbled, his voice muffled by the fabric. "Just… the time."

"Cool. Crisis averted. Can I study now?"

Shane didn't answer. Under the blanket, he was reading the message again. Landing at 2. I'll be at practice. His thumb traced the edge of the screen, hovering over the words.

He read it a third time. A fourth.

I'll be at practice.

Shane pressed the phone against his chest and closed his eyes, breathing slowly.

An hour later, Hayden glanced up from his textbook and caught Shane staring at his phone again.

Shane was lying on his side, the blanket draped loosely over his shoulders, his face illuminated by the screen's glow. His lips were curved in the faintest suggestion of a smile, his thumb scrolling up and down—up to the message, down, back up again—like he was rereading the same six words on a loop.

The tips of his ears were pink.

Hayden watched him for a moment, something soft and aching passing through his chest. Then he looked away, turning back to his textbook.

He knew they were still far from okay. Just that morning, he'd watched Shane in the bathroom, scrubbing his hands under the faucet, the water running and running. Shane's brow had been furrowed, his lips pressed tight together as he worked soap into the raw, cracked skin around his knuckles. He'd caught his own reflection in the mirror and frowned—not at his face, but at something deeper, something behind his eyes that he couldn't scrub away no matter how hard he tried.

Hayden had knocked on the doorframe then, casual, easy. "Breakfast?"

And Shane had blinked, looked down at his hands like he'd forgotten what he was doing, and turned off the water. "Yeah. Coming."

Small steps. That's what Hayden kept telling himself. Small steps.

But watching Shane now, flushed and shy over a six-word text message, clutching his phone to his chest like a teenager with a first crush—Hayden felt something in his chest ease. Just a little. Just enough to breathe.

Shane barely slept that night.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind cycling through scenarios with excruciating detail. What would he say when he saw Ilya? Should he say anything? Should he act normal? What was normal? They hadn't spoken in weeks. Ilya's father had just died. Was it weird to bring that up? Was it weirder not to?

Should he say he was sorry? For what happened? For all of it?

Should he tell Ilya that he'd talked to Nina?

His stomach turned at that thought. He rolled onto his side, pulling the covers tighter.

No. Not yet. That was too much. One thing at a time.

By the time his alarm went off at six, Shane had slept maybe two hours. He dragged himself out of bed, showered—quickly this time, fifteen minutes, Hayden's Post-it note stuck to the mirror reading You got this, champ with a crude smiley face drawn underneath—and got dressed.

He changed his shirt three times.

Hayden, still half-asleep, watched from his bed with one eye open as Shane pulled on a gray henley, stared at himself in the mirror, stripped it off, tried a black T-shirt, frowned, took that off, and finally settled on a dark blue long-sleeve that he immediately started rolling the cuffs of with trembling fingers.

"It's practice," Hayden mumbled into his pillow. "You're gonna be wearing pads."

Shane froze. "Right."

"Over your clothes."

"I know that."

"So why are you trying on outfits?"

Shane's jaw tightened. He grabbed his gear bag and slung it over his shoulder. "I'm not. Let's go."

Hayden groaned but rolled out of bed, pulling on sweats and a hoodie without ceremony.

Shane was a wreck at breakfast.

He pushed his oatmeal around the bowl, building small mountains and valleys with his spoon, eating maybe three bites total. His knee bounced under the table, a rapid, nervous rhythm that made the silverware rattle.

"You're vibrating," Hayden observed around a mouthful of toast.

"I'm not."

"You literally are. The table is shaking."

Shane pressed his palm flat against his knee, stilling it. Five seconds later, it started bouncing again.

Hayden sighed and ate his toast.

They arrived at the rink early. Too early. The parking lot was half-empty, the ice freshly resurfaced and gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Shane changed into his gear in the locker room with mechanical precision, his fingers fumbling with buckles and straps he could normally fasten in his sleep.

Hayden sat beside him on the bench, watching with poorly concealed amusement. "You've got your left shin guard on your right leg."

Shane looked down. He did, in fact, have his left shin guard on his right leg. "Fuck."

He stripped it off and redid it, his face burning.

Hayden leaned back against the lockers, arms crossed. "So, on a scale of one to ten, how hard are you going to try to act casual when he walks in?"

"Shut up."

"Because right now you're at like a negative three. I've seen hostage negotiators with less tension in their shoulders."

"Hayden, I swear to God—"

"I'm just saying, maybe try to breathe? Like a normal human person?"

Shane glared at him, but the effect was somewhat diminished by the blush creeping up his neck. "I'm breathing fine."

"Sure you are."

The rest of the team started filtering in, filling the locker room with the usual noise and chaos. Shane pulled on his jersey and tried to focus on taping his stick, but his eyes kept flicking to the door.

Every time it opened, his heart lurched. And every time, it was someone else—JJ, Davis, Chen, Murphy—and the disappointment landed in his stomach like a stone.

Hayden noticed. Of course he did. But he just bumped Shane's shoulder with his own and said nothing.

Practice started at four.

Coach gathered them at center ice, clipboard in hand, going over the day's drills. Shane stood at the front, arms crossed, chin up, wearing the captain's mask he'd perfected over years of practice. His expression was focused, his posture straight, his voice steady when he relayed instructions to the team.

Inside, his heart was trying to claw its way out of his chest.

Ilya wasn't there.

Coach mentioned it casually, almost as an afterthought, ten minutes into warm-ups. "Rozanov's flight got delayed. He won't make it for the start, but he'll be here when he gets here. Let's keep moving."

Shane's stomach dropped. He nodded, keeping his expression neutral, and skated back to the drill line.

Hayden glided up beside him, bumping his elbow. "Delayed. Not cancelled."

"I know."

"So stop looking like someone killed your dog."

"I don't have a dog."

"Exactly. So relax."

Shane exhaled through his nose and threw himself into drills with renewed intensity, trying to burn off the nervous energy buzzing under his skin. He ran passing drills, defensive formations, power play setups. He barked orders at the second line, corrected Chen's positioning, called out JJ for slacking on backchecks.

Thirty minutes in, he was near the boards by the tunnel entrance, shouting instructions at Davis about gap control, gesturing with his stick. "Tighter on the blue line! You're giving him a mile of—"

His blade caught an edge.

It happened fast—one second he was upright, the next his skate slipped out from under him on a patch of shaved ice, his body pitching sideways. He braced for the impact, tensing, waiting for the hard slam of the boards or the unforgiving surface of the ice.

A hand caught him.

It wrapped around his waist, firm and steady, fingers gripping the fabric of his jersey just above his hip. The momentum of his fall was arrested mid-motion, his body suspended at an angle for one breathless second before being pulled upright.

Shane's hands shot out instinctively, grabbing onto the arm that held him. His gloves closed around a forearm, solid and unyielding beneath the padding.

"Careful, captain."

The voice was low, quiet, tinged with the faintest trace of an accent that turned the a in captain into something softer, rounder.

Shane's head snapped up.

Ilya stood beside him, one hand still on Shane's waist, the other holding his stick loosely at his side. He was in full gear, his helmet tucked under his arm, his dark hair mussed from travel. There were shadows under his eyes, a tiredness in his face that hadn't been there before. But his gaze was steady, clear, and fixed on Shane with an intensity that made Shane's breath stutter.

For a long, suspended moment, neither of them moved.

Then Ilya's hand slid away from Shane's waist, and he skated past him onto the ice, smooth and unhurried, joining the drill line like he'd never been gone.

Shane stood frozen by the boards, his heart hammering, the warmth of Ilya's hand still burning through his jersey.

"You good, Cap?" JJ called from across the ice.

Shane blinked. "Yeah," he managed, his voice coming out rougher than intended. "Yeah, I'm good."

He skated back to his position, his face on fire.

Shane couldn't focus for the rest of practice.

His mind was a mess, his body moving on autopilot while his brain short-circuited. Ilya was here. Ilya had caught him. Ilya's hand had been on his waist, warm and steady, and Shane could still feel the pressure of it even now.

He tried to shake it off, tried to focus on the drills, but every time he glanced across the ice and saw Ilya skating—fluid and precise, like he'd never left—Shane's chest tightened and his face burned.

Hayden noticed immediately, of course.

During the next water break, Hayden skated up beside Shane, his grin wide and insufferable. "So," he said casually, taking a long drink from his bottle. "That was smooth."

Shane shot him a glare. "Shut up."

"I'm just saying," Hayden continued, completely unbothered. "If you wanted to literally fall into his arms, you could've just asked. Didn't need to make it so dramatic."

"I didn't—it was an accident," Shane hissed, his face burning hotter.

"Sure it was," Hayden said, his grin widening. "An accident. Right."

Shane wanted to punch him. Or maybe sink through the ice and disappear forever. Either option seemed preferable to this.

"Did you see the way he looked at you?" Hayden added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Like you were the only person on the ice."

"He didn't—" Shane started, but his voice cracked, and Hayden laughed.

"You're so gone," Hayden said, shaking his head. "It's actually kind of adorable."

Shane groaned, burying his face in his gloved hands. "I hate you."

"No, you don't," Hayden said cheerfully, skating away before Shane could respond.

The scrimmage resumed, and Shane tried—really tried—to focus. But it was impossible. Every time Ilya was on the ice, Shane's eyes found him. He couldn't help it. It was like his brain had been rewired to track Ilya's every movement, to catalog the way he skated, the way he handled the puck, the way his jaw tightened when he was concentrating.

At one point, Shane was supposed to be watching the defensive line, but instead, he was staring at Ilya as he executed a perfect breakaway, his movements sharp and controlled. Shane didn't even realize he'd stopped moving until JJ skated past and clipped his shoulder.

"Cap! You good?" JJ called, glancing back.

Shane blinked, shaking himself out of it. "Yeah. Sorry."

JJ gave him a weird look but didn't press. Shane forced himself to focus, to stop staring, but it was a losing battle.

Across the ice, Hayden was watching him with barely concealed amusement. Shane caught his eye and glared, and Hayden just grinned and made a kissy face.

He was going to kill him.

During the next break, Shane was leaning against the boards, catching his breath, when he felt someone's gaze on him. He glanced up and immediately froze.

Ilya was looking at him.

Not just looking—staring. His expression was unreadable, but there was something soft in his eyes, something almost fond. The corner of his mouth twitched, like he was fighting a smile.

Shane's breath caught. His face burned, and he quickly looked away, his heart hammering.

Hayden, of course, noticed.

"Oh my god," Hayden said, skating up beside Shane. "He's looking at you."

"Stop," Shane hissed, his voice barely above a whisper.

"He's totally looking at you," Hayden continued, not bothering to lower his voice. "And you're blushing. This is amazing."

"Hayden, I swear to god—"

"What?" Hayden said innocently. "I'm just saying, if you wanted to go over there and talk to him, now would be a great time."

"I'm not—" Shane started, but he made the mistake of glancing back at Ilya.

Ilya was still looking at him, and this time, the smile broke through. It was small, barely there, but it was real.

Shane's brain stopped working.

He whipped his head back around, his face so hot he thought it might catch fire. He pressed his gloved hands to his cheeks, trying to cool them down, but it was useless.

Hayden was laughing so hard he had to lean against the boards for support. "Oh my god, Shane. You're a mess."

"Shut up," Shane muttered, his voice muffled by his gloves.

"This is the best thing I've ever witnessed," Hayden said, wiping tears from his eyes. "I'm never letting you live this down."

Shane groaned, wishing the ice would just swallow him whole.

The rest of practice was torture.

Every time Shane looked at Ilya, Ilya seemed to be looking back. And every time their eyes met, Shane's face would flush, and he'd have to look away, his heart racing.

It was ridiculous. He was the captain. He was supposed to be focused, professional, in control. But instead, he was a blushing, flustered mess, and Hayden was having the time of his life.

At one point, Shane was trying to demonstrate a play to the defense line, but he got so distracted by Ilya skating past that he completely lost his train of thought.

"Uh, Cap?" Tyler said, raising an eyebrow. "You were saying?"

Shane blinked, his mind blank. "I—uh—just… do it like that. Yeah."

JJ and Tyler exchanged a look but didn't comment. Shane skated away quickly, his face burning.

Hayden skated up beside him, his grin wide. "You were saying?" he mimicked, his voice high and mocking.

"I'm going to kill you," Shane muttered.

"You love me," Hayden said, completely unbothered.

When practice finally ended, Shane was both relieved and terrified. Relieved because he could stop making a fool of himself on the ice. Terrified because now he'd have to face Ilya in the locker room.

The team filed off the ice, their voices loud and familiar. Shane lingered, pretending to adjust his gloves, but really just stalling.

Hayden skated up beside him, nudging him with his elbow. "You coming?"

"Yeah," Shane said, but he didn't move.

Hayden sighed, grabbing Shane's arm and pulling him toward the exit. "Come on, Cap. You can't avoid him forever."

"I'm not avoiding him," Shane protested weakly.

"Sure you're not," Hayden said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

The locker room was chaos, as always. Guys were stripping off their gear, tossing sweaty jerseys into piles, shouting over each other about the scrimmage. Shane found his spot and started unlacing his skates, his hands working automatically while his mind lagged somewhere behind.

Ilya was a few lockers down, his back to Shane, pulling off his jersey. Shane's eyes caught on the movement, on the way Ilya's shoulders shifted, the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck.

Hayden elbowed him, hard.

"Ow," Shane hissed, glaring at him.

"Stop staring," Hayden whispered, his grin insufferable.

"I wasn't—"

"You were."

Shane groaned, turning back to his skates. He finished unlacing them and pulled them off, then started on his pads. He was halfway through when he heard footsteps approaching.

He glanced up.

Ilya stood in front of him, his gear bag slung over one shoulder. He was still in his practice pants and undershirt, his hair damp with sweat. He looked tired, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced up close, but there was something soft in his expression.

"Hey," Ilya said, his voice quiet.

Shane's brain short-circuited. "Hey."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The locker room noise faded into the background, and all Shane could focus on was Ilya standing in front of him, looking at him like he was trying to figure out what to say.

Finally, Ilya cleared his throat. "Can I… can I move back in? To the dorm?"

Shane's heart skipped a beat. He nodded quickly, his face flushing. "Yeah. Of course."

Ilya's expression softened, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small smile. "Okay. Good."

Shane nodded again, not trusting his voice.

Ilya lingered for a moment longer, like he wanted to say something else, but then he just nodded and walked away.

Shane sat there, frozen, his heart pounding.

Across the locker room, Hayden grinned at him like an idiot, giving Shane two enthusiastic thumbs up.

Shane buried his face in his hands, groaning.

But despite the embarrassment, he couldn't stop the small, helpless smile that tugged at his lips.

Chapter End Notes

Final chapter in two days! 🥹🙌

I can’t believe I’m even typing this. After nearly a month of updates, this fic is finally coming to an end. Thank you so much to everyone who’s been here from the very beginning! Truly, to everyone who’s been reading, commenting, and reacting every single chapter, you have no idea how much your engagement kept me motivated. Seeing your thoughts, your excitement… it made the late nights and difficult scenes so worth it.

This story felt alive because of you. 🥹❤️

Oh! And remember that longfic I mentioned before? The one I was struggling with direction-wise before I even started this one? I finally finished it! And I’m planning to start uploading it right after this one wraps up 🥹

If you enjoyed this fic, I can safely say you’ll probably enjoy that one too. I don’t want to say too much just yet, but it’s between a neurodivergent art student Shane Hollander and part-time bartender Ilya Rozanov. Different universe, but the same emotional core.

As for these two… after all the missteps, the hurt, the distance, and the stubbornness, they’ve finally found their way back to each other. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t gentle. But it was real this time. And now we get to see them in the light after everything.

Two more days! Let’s send them off properly 🥹❤️

Chapter 15

Chapter Notes

Hayden didn't leave without a fight.

"Absolutely not," Shane said, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. "You are not giving him a talk."

Hayden ignored him, already sitting on the edge of Ilya's bed—his bed, for now—with his arms crossed and his expression set in that stubborn way Shane knew too well. Ilya sat across from him at his desk, his expression somewhere between confused and amused.

"Hayden," Shane tried again. "I'm serious. Get out."

"Five minutes," Hayden said, holding up a hand. "That's all I need."

"You don't need five minutes. You don't need any minutes. This isn't—"

"Shane," Hayden said, turning to look at him with an expression that brooked no argument. "Go wait in the hall."

Shane opened his mouth to protest, but Hayden's gaze was steady, unyielding. After a long moment, Shane groaned, throwing up his hands.

"Fine. Five minutes. But if you traumatize him, I swear to god—"

"Hall," Hayden repeated, pointing at the door.

Shane shot Ilya an apologetic look, but Ilya just shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Shane huffed and stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

He paced for exactly four minutes and thirty-seven seconds—he counted—before the door opened again and Hayden stepped out, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

"What did you say to him?" Shane demanded immediately.

Hayden grinned. "Wouldn't you like to know."

"Hayden."

"Relax," Hayden said, clapping Shane on the shoulder. "I just gave him the standard best friend speech. You know, 'hurt him and I'll end you,' that kind of thing."

Shane's face burned. "You didn't."

"I absolutely did," Hayden said, still grinning. "He took it well, by the way. Very stoic. Very Russian."

Shane groaned, burying his face in his hands. "I'm going to kill you."

"You keep saying that, and yet here I am," Hayden said, spreading his arms wide. "Alive and thriving."

Shane glared at him, but there was no real heat behind it. Hayden just laughed and pulled him into a hug, brief but tight.

"Take care of yourself, okay?" Hayden said quietly, his voice softer now. "And let him take care of you too."

Shane's throat tightened. He nodded, not trusting his voice.

Hayden pulled back, his expression shifting into something more serious. "I mean it, Shane. You deserve to be happy. Don't forget that."

Shane swallowed hard. "I won't."

Hayden studied him for a moment, then nodded, satisfied. He turned to leave, but paused at the end of the hallway, glancing back over his shoulder.

He grinned, wide and bright, but Shane could see the relief in his eyes. The weight that had lifted from his shoulders. The quiet joy at seeing Shane finally—finally—letting someone in.

Shane watched him go, his chest tight with a warmth he couldn't quite name.

He thought about a playground twenty years ago, about a snotty kid with scraped knees and a loud voice, about walking up to him and saying, "Do you want to be friends?"

He'd been right to ask.

The cracks didn't disappear. Shane hadn't expected them to. But slowly, carefully, they started to heal.

It was three days after Ilya moved back in when it happened for the first time.

Shane was in the bathroom, standing at the sink, his hands under the running water. He'd already washed them twice, but the feeling was still there—the crawling, itching sensation that made his skin feel wrong, dirty, like no amount of scrubbing could ever make it clean.

He pumped more soap into his palm and started again.

He didn't hear the door open. Didn't realize Ilya was there until a hand reached past him and turned off the faucet.

Shane froze, his heart hammering. His hands were red and raw, the skin around his knuckles cracked and bleeding slightly. He tried to hide them, to pull away, but Ilya caught his wrists gently.

"I—" Shane started, his voice cracking. "I didn't—it's not—"

Ilya didn't say anything. He just guided Shane to sit on the edge of the bathtub, then crouched in front of him, pulling a small tube of ointment from the cabinet under the sink.

Shane watched, his face burning with shame, as Ilya took his hands and started applying the ointment to the raw patches. His touch was gentle, careful, almost reverent. He worked in silence, his brow furrowed in concentration, his thumb smoothing the cream into Shane's skin.

When he was done, he lifted Shane's hands to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to each knuckle.

Shane's eyes burned. He looked away, blinking hard.

"Sorry," he whispered.

Ilya shook his head, his expression soft. "Don't be."

He pulled Shane to his feet and wrapped his arms around him, holding him close. Shane buried his face in Ilya's shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him, and let himself be held.

Sometimes Shane would catch himself staring in the mirror.

He didn't know how long he'd been standing there—minutes, maybe longer—his eyes tracing the lines of his reflection, cataloging every flaw, every imperfection. His skin looked wrong. His face looked wrong. Everything felt wrong, and he couldn't explain why.

Ilya found him like that one night, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, his expression blank and distant.

He didn't say anything. He just stepped up behind Shane and wrapped his arms around his waist, pulling him back against his chest. His chin rested on Shane's shoulder, his lips brushing against Shane's neck.

"Hey," Ilya murmured.

Shane blinked, coming back to himself. "Hey."

"What are you looking at?"

Shane shrugged, his throat tight. "Nothing."

Ilya hummed, pressing a kiss to the curve of Shane's neck. "You're beautiful, you know."

Shane's face flushed. "Shut up."

"It's true," Ilya said, his voice low and steady. "You are."

Shane's eyes burned. He turned his head, pressing his face against Ilya's neck, and let out a shaky breath. Ilya's arms tightened around him, holding him close.

"I don't feel like it," Shane whispered.

"I know," Ilya said softly. "But I'll keep telling you until you believe it."

Shane's chest ached. He didn't know if he'd ever believe it, not fully. But having Ilya there, solid and warm, made the ache a little easier to bear.

Some nights, Shane woke to the sound of Ilya's breathing.

Not the steady, even rhythm of sleep, but something harsher. Ragged. Choked.

The first time it happened, Shane didn't know what to do. He lay there in the dark, listening to Ilya's breath hitch and stutter, watching the way his body tensed and twisted under the covers.

He was having a nightmare.

Shane sat up slowly, careful not to startle him. "Ilya," he said softly. "Ilya, wake up."

Ilya's eyes snapped open, wild and unfocused. For a moment, he didn't seem to recognize where he was, his chest heaving, his hands clenched in the sheets.

"It's okay," Shane said, keeping his voice calm. "It's just me. You're safe."

Ilya stared at him, his breath still coming in ragged gasps. Then, slowly, the tension drained from his body. He slumped back against the pillows, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Did I wake you?"

"No," Shane lied. He shifted closer, reaching out to brush Ilya's hair back from his forehead. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Ilya shook his head. "It's nothing."

Shane didn't push. He just lay down beside Ilya, close enough that their shoulders touched, and stayed there until Ilya's breathing evened out and he drifted back to sleep.

Other nights, Shane would wake to find the bed beside him empty.

He'd find Ilya in the common room, or by the window, staring out at the darkness with a blank, distant expression. Shane would pad over on quiet feet, sitting beside him without a word.

Sometimes they'd talk. Sometimes they wouldn't. Sometimes Shane would just lean against Ilya's shoulder and stay there, a quiet presence in the dark.

"You don't have to stay up with me," Ilya said once, his voice rough.

"I know," Shane said. "I want to."

Ilya was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached out and took Shane's hand, lacing their fingers together.

They sat like that until dawn.

Sex was different now.

Ilya was careful with him. Almost too careful. He touched Shane like he was something precious, something fragile, his hands gentle and reverent. He kissed Shane's bruises, his scars, the raw patches on his wrists. He whispered words against Shane's skin—some in English, some in Russian—and Shane didn't always understand them, but he understood the tone.

You're safe. I've got you. You're okay.

It made Shane's chest ache in a way he couldn't explain.

But sometimes, in the heat of the moment, Shane would catch himself reaching for Ilya's hand. His fingers would close around Ilya's wrist, guiding it toward his throat.

And then he'd freeze.

The first time it happened, Shane jerked away like he'd been burned, his face crumpling. Shame washed over him, hot and suffocating, and he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but curl in on himself and sob.

"I'm sorry," he choked out. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—I don't know why I—"

Ilya didn't pull away. He didn't flinch or recoil. He just gathered Shane into his arms and held him, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other rubbing slow circles on his back.

"It's okay," Ilya murmured against his hair. "Shh. It's okay."

"I can't—I don't know how to stop—"

"You don't have to stop anything," Ilya said softly. "You're not broken, Shane. You're just healing."

Shane sobbed harder, pressing his face into Ilya's chest. Ilya held him through it, kissing his temple, his cheek, the corner of his eye where tears were streaming down.

"I've got you," Ilya whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."

And slowly, gradually, Shane started to change.

He didn't notice it at first. It crept up on him, subtle and quiet, like the first hints of spring after a long winter.

He started craving the praises more than the pain. The soft words, the gentle touches, the way Ilya looked at him like he was something worth looking at.

"You're doing so good," Ilya would murmur against his skin, and Shane would shiver, his chest swelling with something warm and unfamiliar.

"Beautiful," Ilya would say, kissing the inside of Shane's wrist, and Shane would flush, but he wouldn't flinch.

"Mine," Ilya would breathe, and Shane would believe him.

It didn't erase the cracks. Didn't make the dark thoughts disappear. But it gave Shane something to hold onto, a light in the darkness.

And for now, that was enough.

One Year Later – Graduation Day

The dorm room was a mess.

Boxes were stacked haphazardly in the corner, half-filled with books and clothes and random memorabilia Shane had accumulated over four years. His cap and gown were tossed over the desk chair, the tassel dangling off the side. Empty champagne bottles littered the floor—courtesy of Hayden, who had insisted on a "proper celebration"—and the faint smell of pizza lingered in the air.

Shane sat on Ilya's lap, his legs dangling over the side of the bed, still wearing his dress pants and button-down from the ceremony. His tie was loosened, his hair mussed, his cheeks flushed from the champagne.

He nipped at Ilya's chin, giggling. "Come onnn, that's cheating. You can't just—just distract me with kisses when I'm trying to make a point."

Ilya's arm tightened around Shane's waist, a smile tugging at his lips. "What point?"

"I don't remember," Shane admitted, giggling again. "But it was a good one."

Ilya chuckled, pressing a kiss to the corner of Shane's eye. "You haven't even packed your bags yet. The RAs are going to break down the door tomorrow if you don't clear out."

Shane pouted, leaning back to look at Ilya with exaggerated betrayal. "Why are you so eager to kick me out? I technically still live here."

"For twelve more hours," Ilya pointed out.

"Twelve hours is a long time," Shane said, pressing closer. "Anything could happen in twelve hours."

Ilya kissed his pout, soft and lingering. "Do you want to stay for another year?"

"No," Shane said immediately, then paused. "Well. Maybe. But also no." He straightened, his expression shifting into something almost serious. "I'm gonna make so much money in the pro league. Like, so much. I'll buy you… I'll buy you a house. A big one. With a pool."

"A pool," Ilya repeated, his voice warm with amusement.

"A big pool," Shane confirmed. "And a hot tub. And one of those fancy fridges that makes ice. The good ice, you know? The crunchy kind."

"Crunchy ice," Ilya said, nodding solemnly. "Very important."

"It is," Shane agreed. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Ilya's. "And I'll pay your rent. All of it. Forever."

"That's very generous."

"I'm a generous person," Shane said, grinning.

They stayed like that for a while, tangled together on the bed, Shane's head resting on Ilya's shoulder. The champagne buzz was fading into something softer, warmer, a pleasant haze that made everything feel golden and slow.

"Who's gonna be your new roommate?" Shane asked eventually, his voice muffled against Ilya's neck.

"Some guy named Troy," Ilya said.

Shane lifted his head, his brow furrowing. "Troy? What kind of name is Troy?"

"A normal name."

"Is he pretty?"

Ilya raised an eyebrow. "How would I know?"

Shane considered this for a moment, then nodded decisively. "I'm prettier."

"You are," Ilya agreed.

"I'm the prettiest," Shane added, pressing his face back against Ilya's neck. "The prettiest in the whole world."

Ilya smiled, kissing Shane's cheek. "Yes, you are."

Shane sighed happily, his eyes drifting closed. The room was quiet, the night pressing in soft and warm around them. Outside, the campus was still buzzing with the aftermath of graduation—laughter and music and car doors slamming—but in here, it was just the two of them.

"Can I still come visit?" Shane mumbled, already half-asleep.

"Only if you pay rent," Ilya said.

Shane giggled, the sound muffled against Ilya's skin. "When I go pro, I'll be so rich. I'll pay the whole building's rent. Buy the whole building. Then I can visit whenever I want."

"Very practical," Ilya said, his thumb tracing lazy circles on Shane's hip.

Shane was quiet for a moment, his breathing evening out. Then, so soft Ilya almost didn't hear it: "Or I can just pay with my body."

Ilya's chest rumbled with a quiet laugh. He tilted Shane's chin up, pressing a tender kiss to his lips.

"Then I'll be taking no refunds," Ilya murmured against his mouth.

Shane smiled, sleepy and content, and let himself drift off in Ilya's arms.

Outside, the last of the graduation fireworks bloomed against the night sky, silent bursts of gold and blue that bled into the dark. The distant sounds of celebration drifted through the open window—a car horn, a cheer, the fading echo of music from a party down the street.

In the quiet room, Shane slept, his face pressed into the curve of Ilya’s neck, his breathing deep and even. Ilya stayed awake, one hand resting on Shane’s back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his ribs. He watched the shadows shift across the ceiling, listened to the soft sounds of the world outside, and thought about how strange it was to feel so full when he’d spent so long being empty.

He thought about his mother’s smile, faded now like an old photograph. He thought about his father’s fists, the memory of them more a dull ache than a sharp pain. He thought about the pills, the silence, the note he still kept folded in his wallet, its edges worn soft from touch.

And he thought about Shane—the bruises on his wrists, the way he scrubbed his skin raw, the quiet desperation in his eyes when he thought no one was looking.

They were both broken. They always would be. Some cracks ran too deep to ever fully mend.

But here, in this small room with its peeling paint and stacked boxes, they had found a way to hold each other’s pieces together. Not to fix what was shattered, but to keep the fragments from cutting deeper. To build something new from the ruins, knowing it would always bear the marks of how it was made.

Ilya pressed a kiss to Shane’s temple, soft and lingering. Shane stirred, murmuring something unintelligible, and burrowed closer.

Maybe that was what healing looked like. Not a clean break mended, not a scar erased, but the quiet understanding that some cracks would always remain. They were two fractured things, leaning against each other in the dark, learning to bear weight without breaking further. It wasn't about fixing what was broken inside them—it was about learning to live with the fractures, to find a strange, imperfect peace in the steady presence of another person who knew what it meant to be broken and chose to stay anyway.

And somehow, that was enough.

And if those eyes seemed just a little bit brighter, then it must have been just a play of light.

~FIN~

Chapter End Notes

Finally, we’ve reached the end 🥹
(I am so emotional writing this 😭)

This was such a journey—messy, emotional, heart-wrenching, but also full of little joys and quiet moments that I hope stayed with you. Writing it has been both exhausting and incredibly rewarding, and I can’t express how much it means to me that you’ve been here for every step of the ride.

I promised to talk about the original direction this story was meant to take, so here we go! When I first came up with this plot, the original direction leaned more heavily toward smut (ahem 🙈). In fact, I even added the smut tags at the beginning when I was writing the first few chapters. But halfway through, as I delved deeper into their internal trauma and got to know the characters more intimately, I realized that heavy smut wouldn’t complement the story the way I wanted. It could have worked, of course, but it wasn’t the direction I personally wanted to take. Despite that! I am very happy with how everything turned out. In fact, I can confidently say that I prefer this version more to the original one—it feels more true to the characters and the story I wanted to tell.

That is all! To everyone who has been engaging—reading, commenting, sharing the fic, leaving kudos—you guys have no idea how much your support has motivated me and made this experience SO meaningful. 🫂❤️

I know it’s sad that it’s ending already, but I have another longfic lined up for you! I am very excited to share it because the idea for that one actually came before this fic was even written. After several months of writing, I finally finished it, so I’ll be starting uploads soon! It should go up sometime this week. You can follow me here to get notified once it’s published.

As some of you have probably noticed, especially if you’ve been following me for a while, I tend to lean toward plots that are a bit unconventional. I don’t always know if everyone will love them, but I hope you’ll enjoy this next one as much as this story!

As I’ve mentioned in the previous chapter, it’s about a neurodivergent artist Shane Hollander crushing on the new bartender (Ilya) his mom hired for their family bar. It’s also a college AU like this one, with both of them attending university—Shane majoring in art and Ilya in sports medicine. 😁

Again, it has been an absolute pleasure sharing this story with all of you. I hope to see you over on the next fic! Love you all always!