Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warnings:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

F/M, M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Scott Hunter, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Kip Grady, Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov as a spy, sleeper agent, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry Friendship, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Smut, Fluff and Smut, Author knows a little hockey, author knows nothing about russian spies, author knows nothing about computer science, The Author Regrets Nothing, Homicide, Ilya Rozanov is a killer

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of The Sleeper

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-13 Completed: 2026-03-24 Words: 25,390 Chapters: 14/14

The Sleeper (complete)

Summary

Ilya leaned back against the headboard, eyes on the ceiling. Attraction was dangerous. It clouded judgment, created attachments, left openings for mistakes. He had been trained to compartmentalize: duty first, always. Emotions were liabilities and yet…
The image of Shane spotting him—close enough to feel the heat off his body, voice steady and low—lingered. The casual strength in his hands when he’d yanked the pin free. The way he’d said “good form” like it mattered, like Ilya mattered in that moment.
Ilya exhaled slowly, forcing the thoughts down. He was here for a mission, not a life. Whatever briefing came next would demand focus. Shane Hollander was a variable, nothing more. A ticket to a hockey game. A potential networking opportunity if the target turned out to be a fan. That was all.

Or: Ilya Rozanov is a sleeper agent for Russia and all is well until Shane Hollander enters his life. Now Ilya must choose whether serving his country is worth a life of solitude.

Notes

I've been working on this one for a while and am very excited to finally post the first chapter! Bear with me on this one, Shane shows up in chapter 2.

All computer knowledge comes from a friend of mine. Thanks Neddie, this fic would shit without you!

Chapter 1

The Autumn wind swept through the quiet streets of Orleans, a suburb on the eastern end of Ottawa, carrying with it the faint scent of decaying leaves and distant woodsmoke. It was the kind of neighbourhood where everyone knew each other's names, where hockey rinks in winter backyards were as common as maple trees, and where the rhythm of life pulsed to the steady beat of commuter traffic heading into the city. Ilya Rozanov - though no one here called him that - jogged along the cracked sidewalk, his breath forming small clouds in the crisp morning air. At twenty years old, he was the epitome of unremarkable youth: tall and lean, with sandy blonde hair cropped short, blue eyes that crinkled when he smiled, and a faint accent that blended into the multicultural tapestry of Canada. To his neighbours, he was Christopher “Chirs” Martin. The polite kid who mowed lawns in the summer and shoveled driveways in the winter without being asked. 

Ilya paused at the corner of his block, stretching his calves against a lamppost. The sun was just cresting over the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. He adjusted his earbuds which were blasting the bass to a Drake song. Music was his escape, a way to drown out the mundane thoughts that plagued him lately - college assignments piling up, his part time job at the local Tim’s that barely covered textbooks, and the nagging sense that his life was on autopilot. He was studying computer science at Algonquin College, nothing flashy, just practical. His professors praised his aptitude for coding and  his ability to debunk complex algorithms with a calm precision that surpassed his age. You’ve got a future in tech Chirs, one of them had said. Maybe even in cybersecurity.

If only they knew.

Ilya shook off the thought and continued his jog, weaving past the rows of modest bungalows and town houses. His own home was a split-level affair, painted a muted blue, with a Canadian flag fluttering on the porch. His parents - adopted as everyone knew - were Russian immigrants who had fled the Soviet Union in the late ‘80’s…Well, that's the story they told at least. They spoke English with thick accents, but Ilya’s was flawless, crafted by years of public school and neighbourhood barbecues. He played hockey in the winters, cheered for the Centaurs, and knew every lyric to the national anthem. He was as Canadian as a double-double. 

But beneath the surface, his true identity simmered. The name Ilya Rozanov was a whisper in his mind, a secret he knew to keep. His alias parents had drilled into him from a young age that he might be Ilya inside the house, but to the rest of the world he was Christopher. Truthfully, his parents weren’t refugees. They were plants - deep cover operatives for the SVR, Russia’s foreign intelligence service. Ilya had been born in Moscow, smuggled out as an infant, raised to blend in, to wait. His childhood was a masterclass in duality: Russian folktails at bedtime, Canadian history in school; pelmeni on the weekends and Kraft Dinner for his weekday lunch. By the time he was ten, he could recite Pushkin’s poetry in flawless Russian and quote Wayne Gretzky’s stats with equal ease. 

The training had been subtle. His father, under the guise of family outings, taught him basic tradecraft: how to spot a tail, how to memorize a license plate, how to use a dead letter drop in crowded areas. Just games, his father would say, but Ilya knew better. His mother handled the languages - Russian, French, and a little Mandarin just in case. They never pushed too hard - the goal was patience, immersion. One day they call will come, his father said on his death bed, cancer eating away his liver. Be ready moy syn. 

His mother passed away a year later from a heart attack. Ilya had buried them both in a quiet ceremony at the local cemetary, surrounded by neighbours who spoke sympathetically about the now orphaned boy. He lived in the house alone now, supported by a small inheritance and his job. No one questioned it. Why would they? He was just Chris Martin, the nice guy who volunteered at the food bank and dated casually, never getting too serious. 

As he rounded the block back home, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Not his smart phone, the burner. An old blackberry he carried with him everywhere but had never actually used. For the first time since obtaining it, someone was making contact. He fished it out of his pocket with a trembling hand. The screen lit up with no caller ID. He answered on the third ring, his voice steady despite the adrenaline rushing through his blood. 

“Hello?”

A russian voice replied, clipped and authoritative. “Vo vtornik idet dozhd'.” It rains on Tuesday. 

Ilya’s mind raced. It was the activation code, the thing he had been waiting years to hear. Ilya exhaled and replied: “No tol'ko v maye.” But only in May.

“Good. Listen carefully Ilya, your first assignment begins now. Proceed to the coordinates sent to your phone. Retrieve the package and follow the instructions inside. Do not deviate. Confirm.”

“Confirmed.” Ilya said with a dry mouth. The line went dead and a text followed - a set of GPS coordinates and nothing more. 

He stood there on the sidewalk, letting reality sink in as the wind whipped as his hoodie. This was it. The life he’d been groomed for, the shadow beneath the facade. No more waiting. He pocketed the phone and hurried inside, his mind already shifting gears. The house was quiet - the kind of silence that amplified every creak in the floors. Ilya shed his running clothes and scrubbed away the sweat in a hot shower. Christopher Martin was no longer the only occupant of this house, Ilya Rozonov had been spoken back into existence. In his bedroom, he knelt by the bed and pulled out a hidden panel in the baseboard. Inside was his go-kit: a fake passport, cash in several currencies, a 9mm pistol with a suppressor, and a lockpick set gifted by his father. 

He hesitated over the pistol. Was it that kind of assignment? The coordinates pointed to Gatineau Park, just across the river in Quebec. It was far too public to be high-risk but Ily was not willing to take the chance. He tucked it back into his bag, along with the burner phone. 

He opted for breakfast - nothing fancy, just cereal and coffee - but his mind was no where near food. He thought about his comfortable life here: his friend Mike from college, his cute coworker Carly who he’d like to take on a date. Would he ever see them again? Sleeper agents were activated for special ops, but many times they didn't make it back home. He pushed his doubt aside, for this was his purpose in life. The Motherland called, and he must answer. 

The drive to Gatineau took thirty minutes. He admired how the Ottawa River gleaned under the morning sun as he crossed the Alexandra Bridge. Traffic was light - mostly commuters heading the other way into the city's downtown area. Ilya turned the radio on, listening to the news with half an ear. A man rambled about tensions with Russia over Arctic claims and trade disputes. Ilya found it ironic, his country had no idea just how close the enemy truly was. 

Gatineau Park slowly unfolded before him over the horizon - rolling hills blanketed with autumn foliage, and lakes shimmered in the distance. He parked at a trailhead lot, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. The coordinates lead to a spot off the main path, a secluded bench overlooking Meech Lake. He hiked briskly, taking comfort in the sound of leaves crunching under his boots. A few early bird walkers nodded greetings and he smiled back as if he were simply just another hiker enjoying the day. 

The bench was empty, weathered wood with a plaque commemorating some long dead philanthropist. Ilya sat to scan the area. No one in sight. He left under the seat. Nothing. Then he noticed a red ribbon laying next to a rock behind it. Ilya looked around one more time for people before flipping the rock and digging. In the dirt he found a small package wrapped in plastic. Bingo. 

He stuffed it in his bag and hiked back to his car at an unsuspecting pace. In the car, he opened the package to find three items: a USB drive, a folded note, and a keycard. The words were written in an old Cyrillic script - something his father had taught him to read many moons ago. He was rusty, but he got the message well enough:

Target Dr. Elena Bouchard, cybersecurity at CSE. Find Project Aura file. Meet contact Ottawa Tech Conference tomorrow. Room 308 Westin Hotel. Code: The ___ are turning. Return: Winter is coming. Burn after reading. 

Ilya did his best to learn the full code but both leaves and trees were a possible match. He decided he would have to trust his gut on this one, and lit the note on fire with a lighter from his bag. Project Aura - he had heard of it before. Something about quantum encryption, a joint Canada-America initiative to detect foreign hacking. If the Russians got their hands on it…well it might just start a cyber war. 

At home, he plugged the USB into an air-gapped laptop - another relic gifted by his parents. It contained dossiers: everything from Bouchard's childhood pet, right down to her allergies. She worked at Communications Security Establishment and would be attending a conference as a guest speaker. This was Ilya’s opportunity to strike. 

He spent the afternoon preparing, reviewing his one false identity as well as brushing up on his coding knowledge. He had even updated his LinkedIn profile that had been created years ago. Ilya’s pitch was well rehearsed and charming: Hello, I am Christopher Martin, a computer science student at Algonquin. Big fan of your work on inscriptions. 

As evening fell, pe paced the living room, feeling the weight of the assignment sink in. This wasn’t a game he played with his Dad anymore. Stealing data could mean prison…or worse. But defying the SVR? Well that was just an act of suicide. The thought of his parents and their sacrifices. Leaving their beloved homeland to insure that Ilya would be the perfect asset. 

Sleep did not come peacefully that night, dreams of shadowy figures and encrypted codes plague his mind. He woke before dawn, dressed in business casual, and pinned a tag with the company logo on his shirt. The Westin Hotel buzzed with activity: tech execs in suits, startups pitching apps, booths preaching AI solutions. 

Ilya - Chirs - mingled, grabbing a coffee and a printed program. Bouchard’s talk was at 2pm, neatly titled in the program as “Quantum Threats to Modern Cryptography.” He attended panels in the morning, using the opportunity to practice his networking. At lunch, he spotted his contact in the lobby cafe: a middle-aged man in a grey suit, scrolling on a smartphone. Ilya approached.  

“The leaves are turning,” he said softly. 

The man looked up. “Winter is coming.” He slid an envelope under the table. “Tools for the job. Good luck.” Inside was a tiny device- a network sniffer disguised as a USB charger, hotel floor plans with marked rooms, and instructions on deployment. 

The talk was packed. Bouchard was impressive - sharp, and articulate. She discussed vulnerabilities in current systems, hinting at Aura without specifics. During the Q&A, Ilya raised his hand.

“Great presentation. Dr. Bouchard. As a student, I am curious, how does Aura handle post-quantum attacks?”

She smiled. “Smart question. Aura incorporates lattice-based crypto, but details are classified. Come see me after, I’d love to chat about it.”

Bingo. 

Post-talk, he approached her podium. “Christopher Martin,” he said, extending his hand. “Algonquin College.”

“Elena.” She replied, shaking it. “You seem well versed for an undergrad.” They bantered for minutes - algorithms, career advice, etc. She gave him her card. “Email me, you may find yourself with an internship if you're lucky.”

Perfect entry point. As he left, the burner buzzed with a text: progress?

Contact made, he replied. 

Proceed to phase two.

Phase two? What the hell was phase two? And what else are they hiding from him?

That night he hacked into Bouchard’s public profiles - nothing invasive of course, just surface level things. LinkedIn, Twitter, academic accounts. She was as clean as a whistle - no red flags. But to steal Aura he’d have to access her laptop or network. The sniffer would help if he could somehow plant it in her office or hotel room. 

She’d be staying at the Westin for the duration of the conference. That gave Ilya three days to come up with a plan. Room 308 was the designated contact spot, maybe her room was close by? No, that would be too risky. Ilya reassessed the hotel floor plans, Bouchard would be in room 512. He had to find a way into the room. 

He returned to the conference the next day, tailing her discreetly. Unsurprising to Ily, she was very boastful of her work to anyone who would listen. During a break, he followed her to the elevators. She pressed 5. 

Showtime. 

He waited an hour, then headed up. The housekeeping car in the hall was his opportunity. Donned with a stolen name tag, he approached the maid. “Excuse me, I’m with tech support and Dr. Bouchard in 512 reported a wifi issue. May I check?”

The maid waved him in. “Quickly okay?”

Elena had kept her room tidy: coats hung up in the closet, suitcase tucked neatly underneath, and her laptop sat on the desk. Ilya plugged in the sniffer, disguised as a charger, into the wall outlet. It would capture packets and relay data to a secure server. He was out in five minutes. 

He reported to his contact and relaxed with a sigh. Before he could reach his own room, the phone buzzed with a new command: Target suspects. Eliminate. He wasn’t stupid, he knew what “eliminate” meant. 

Tonight, Ilya would make his first kill.

Chapter 2

[3 years later]

The train rattled into Montreal’s Gare Central just as the afternoon sun dipped behind a veil of grey clouds, casting the city in a muted light. Ilya stepped out onto the platform with the careful neutrality of someone who had spent years practicing invisibility. His backpack felt heavier that it should, despite containing nothing but clean clothes, a laptop, and the burner phone. The station smelled of diesel and wet concrete. Montreal greeted him with its familiar bilingual hum - French announcements overlapping English ones, chatter in both languages echoing off the high ceilings. 

He followed the instructions precisely, the dead drop for the Aura fragments had gone smoothly on the train ride. By now the drive containing more stolen encryptions was in SVR hands. His role this time was a courier, nothing more. The reply text had arrived almost immediately: Package secure. Proceed to safe house coordinates. Assignment duration approx one month. Stand by for briefing.

The safe house was a third- floor walk-up on Rue Sainte-Catherine Est, above a 24-hour corner store that sold everything from cigarettes to fresh baguettes. It was more of an apartment really. Tiny but clean. Ilya swept it methodically, under lamps, behind baseboards, inside vents. In all, he found a pre-paid credit card, a stack of Canadian cash, and a burner laptop already fixed with Tor and other encrypted messaging apps. He stashed his pistol in the false bottom of a dresser drawer and allowed himself one long, slow breath. 

The first week passed in deliberate monotony. He took his morning runs along the Canal de Lachine, where joggers and cyclists hardly paid him any mind. Afternoons were spent in cafes pretending to freelance code while watching for tails. Evenings were for mapping the city. Escape routes, vantage points, blind spots, and any other points of interest. The burner remained silent. 

To keep his body sharp and his mind from spiraling, Ilya found a gym. Centre Sportif Claude-Robillard was large enough to be anonymous, busy enough to feel safe. He went mid-morning on his fourth day in the city, when the after-work crowd hadn’t yet arrived and the place smelled mostly of rubber mats and metal. He changed quickly, chose a corner bench press station, and began his warm-up sets.

The bar was stubborn when he tried to lower it for incline work. The adjustment pin had rusted into place; years of sweat and neglect had fused it. Ilya tugged, twisted, swore quietly in English.

“Need some help with that?”

The voice came from behind him—low, warm, carrying the easy confidence of someone used to being listened to. Ilya turned.

The man was tall, broader across the shoulders than most casual gym-goers, with dark hair still damp from a recent shower and a disarming half-smile. He wore a plain black tank top that showed the clean lines of an athlete’s build: powerful but not overbuilt, functional muscle earned through years of specific training.

“Yeah,” Ilya said, stepping aside. “This thing’s fighting me.”

The stranger gripped the pin, gave it one hard yank, and it slid free with a metallic scrape. He adjusted the bench smoothly, then offered a quick nod. “There. They really should replace these.”

“Thanks. I’m Chris.”

“Shane.” The handshake was firm, callused, brief. “You new here?”

“Moved from Ottawa a week ago,” Ilya replied, keeping the story simple and true enough to hold up. “You?”

“Ottawa originally. Kanata, born and raised. But I live here now.” Shane glanced at the loaded bar. “Mind if I work in? I’ll spot you.”

Ilya hesitated only a second—spotting meant proximity, conversation, exposure—but refusing would draw more attention than accepting. “Sure.”

They traded sets for the next forty minutes. Shane’s form was textbook: controlled negatives, full range of motion, breathing timed perfectly. He gave quiet corrections when Ilya’s elbows flared too wide, offered encouragement without patronizing. Between sets the talk turned naturally to Ottawa.

“I always played hockey out on frozen ponds.” Shane asked, wiping down the bar after his set. “I used to drag my little cousins out there at dawn so we’d have the whole stretch to ourselves.”

Ilya smiled despite himself. “I did the opposite—waited till evening when they were packed with lights and music. Felt less lonely that way.”

Shane laughed softly. “Yeah, Kanata winters can feel endless if you’re by yourself. You play much growing up?”

“Rec league, nothing serious,” Ilya said. “You?”

“A bit.” Shane chuckled. “Enough to keep me out of trouble, mostly.”

They finished with cable flies, then moved to the water fountain. The gym noise faded around them—clanks and grunts blurring into background static.

“Good lift,” Shane said, extending a fist. Ilya bumped it.

“You too.”

As they headed toward the change rooms, Shane paused. “Hey—got a game in three days. Metros hosting. If you’re into hockey, I can leave a ticket at the booth. Lower bowl. No pressure.”

Ilya blinked. A ticket. A public event. Exposure. But also opportunity—crowds were camouflage, and information flowed freely at games.

“That’d be great,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Cool. Game’s at seven. See you there?”

Ilya nodded. “See you there.”

They exchanged numbers, and Shane gave a quick wave before dissapearing into the locker room. Ilya stood a moment longer, pulse slightly elevated—not from the workout.

Back at the safe house he locked the door, drew the blinds, and sat on the edge of the bed. The encounter replayed in fragments: the easy strength, the low laugh, the way Shane’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he talked about home. Ilya opened his laptop—not the burner one, the clean civilian PC he used for cover—and typed “Shane hockey Ottawa” into the search bar.

The results loaded instantly.

Shane Hollander. Forward. Ottawa Centaurs. Drafted in the second round four years earlier, called up permanently at the start of last season. Twenty-tree years old. Six-foot-two, one hundred ninety-five pounds. Known for two-way play, quiet leadership, and an uncanny ability to read the ice. A handful of articles praised his work ethic; a few fan forums speculated about his personal life (single, apparently—no confirmed relationships). Photos filled the screen: action shots on the ice, post-game interviews in a crisp suit, a candid from last year’s rookie camp showing him laughing with teammates.

Ilya stared at one image in particular—a close-up from a recent profile piece. Shane’s hair was tousled, damp from a shower, his smile small but genuine. Chocolate-brown eyes looked directly into the camera. Something tightened in Ilya’s chest—sharp, unexpected, unwelcome.

He closed the tab quickly, as though someone might be watching the screen.

Shane was new enough to the top line that Ilya hadn’t recognized him at the gym. The Centaurs had been rebuilding; roster turnover was constant. A player who’d spent most of his career in the NHL or on the third line wouldn’t have been on national highlight reels yet. That explained the anonymity, the lack of immediate recognition. It also meant Shane was still carving out his place—hungry, focused, probably grateful for normal conversations that didn’t revolve around stats or contracts.

Ilya leaned back against the headboard, eyes on the ceiling. Attraction was dangerous. It clouded judgment, created attachments, left openings for mistakes. He had been trained to compartmentalize: duty first, always. Emotions were liabilities and yet…

The image of Shane spotting him—close enough to feel the heat off his body, voice steady and low—lingered. The casual strength in his hands when he’d yanked the pin free. The way he’d said “good form” like it mattered, like Ilya mattered in that moment.

Ilya exhaled slowly, forcing the thoughts down. He was here for a mission, not a life. Whatever briefing came next would demand focus. Shane Hollander was a variable, nothing more. A ticket to a hockey game. A potential networking opportunity if the target turned out to be a fan. That was all.

He stood, crossed to the window, and parted the blinds just enough to look down at the street. Cars passed in the wet glow of streetlights. Somewhere out there, in three days, Shane would step onto the ice wearing Centaurs red and white. Ilya would be in the stands, watching. Blending in. He let the blinds fall closed.

The burner phone sat silent on the nightstand. The city outside breathed around him—alive, indifferent, full of secrets. Just like him.

For now, he waited.

The next day dragged. Ilya explored the city on foot, mapping potential meeting points. Mont Royal's trails offered vantage points; the Underground City tunnels, quick escapes. He bought a prepaid SIM for his main phone, updated his fake LinkedIn with Montreal vibes. But thoughts of Shane lingered. Why the ticket? Kindness, or something else? In his world, nothing was free.

Evening brought rain, pattering against the window as he cooked a simple meal—pasta from the corner depanneur. The burner finally buzzed: "Assignment briefing tomorrow. Cafe Le Petit Coin, 10 AM. Contact: Blue scarf. Phrase: 'The poutine here is legendary.'"

Adrenaline surged. The wait was over.

The cafe was cozy, tucked in a side street off Sainte-Catherine. Ilya arrived early, nursing an espresso at a corner table. At 10 sharp, a woman in her forties entered, blue scarf draped elegantly. She ordered, then approached. "Mind if I join? The poutine here is legendary."

"But the gravy makes it," Ilya replied, the countersign.

She sat, sliding an envelope under the table. "Your target: Jacques Lavigne, Quebec financier. He's funding anti-federal ops. Infiltrate his circle, gather financials. One month timeline. Use hockey connection if arises—Lavigne's a Habs fan, attends games."

Hockey connection? Coincidence with Shane? Or orchestrated?

She left without another word. Inside the envelope: dossiers, access codes, a fake ID as a financial consultant.

The assignment unfolded slowly. Ilya posed as Chris Martin, junior analyst, networking at Montreal finance mixers. Lavigne was elusive—old money, ties to Parti Québécois remnants. But his love for hockey was key: box seats at a Metts games.

Three days later, the game. Bell Centre thrummed with energy, red jerseys everywhere. Ilya picked up the ticket—lower bowl, prime view. Shane's doing.

The stadium in Montreal thrummed with pre-game energy. The arena's red-and-blue lighting bathed the ice in a dramatic glow, the Metts' logo gleaming at center ice like a badge of pride. The crowd—over 21,000 strong—filled the seats with a sea of red jerseys, the air thick with the scent of beer, hot dogs, and anticipation. Chants of "Olé, olé, olé" echoed from the upper decks, punctuated by the sharp crack of pucks during warm-ups and the low rumble of the organ.

Ilya Rozanov, under his alias Christopher Martin, sat in the lower bowl, section 112, row 15—close enough to feel the chill off the glass but far enough to remain anonymous. He made use of the ticket impulsively after Shane's casual offer at the gym three days earlier, telling himself it was reconnaissance, a chance to observe a potential variable in his new Montreal assignment. In truth, curiosity had won. Shane Hollander—the man who'd helped him adjust a stubborn bench press pin, who'd laughed about Ottawa winters and offered a ticket like it was no big deal—was an Ottawa Centaur playing on enemy ice tonight.Metros vs Centaurs, a classic rivalry, even if the teams had changed divisions over the years.

The jumbotron flashed highlights from previous match-ups: Montreal's speed against Ottawa's grit, past goals and saves, the crowd roaring at every clip. Ilya kept his hood up, face half-shadowed, blending with the thousands of other fans. His pulse ticked up when the Centaurs skated out for warm-ups. Shane was easy to spot—number 24, white jersey with red and black trim, helmet off for the national anthem stretch, dark hair damp from the shower. He moved with effortless power, gliding backward in tight circles, stickhandling a puck like it was an extension of his body. No flash, no showboating—just quiet competence.

Ilya felt an unfamiliar tug in his chest. He'd watched hockey highlights before, studied players for cover stories, but this was different. Personal. Shane laughed at something a linemate said, the sound lost in the arena noise but visible in the crinkle of his eyes. Ilya shifted in his seat, reminding himself why he was here: the assignment, the dead drop later that night, the need to stay sharp. Not this.

Chapter 3

The dawn broke grey over Montreal, a thin mist clinging to the streets. Ilya stirred from his sleep in the safe house, the apartment’s thin walls did little to muffle the city’s early sounds. He rose methodically, his body attuned to the rhythm of vigilance. He did a quick sweep of the room to insure that he hadn’t missed anything during the night. Satisfied with the lack of findings, he brewed a pot of cheep coffee and sat as the rickety kitchen table to review the files on his next target for the umpteenth time. 

Jacques Lavigne was a silver-haired financier in his late sixties with deep pockets and and even deeper hatred for Ottawa. His fortune came from real estate and mining investments, but the SVR knows him as a shadow funder for modern forms of the Parti Quebecois - groups pushing for sovereignty through means of cyber activity and misinformation. Ilya’s assignment was infiltration: pose as a financial consultant, find proof of elicit transfers, and plant maleware for east data access. One month was a tight timeline but Ilya wouldn’t have been given this case if he weren’t reliable. And Ilya was always, ironically, reliable. 

The briefing at the cafe provided him with tools: a fake business card, access to a shell bank account, and a USB with custom spyware. Ilya had spent the first week laying groundwork - attending boring networking events, and dropping hints about his distaste for federal overreach. He’d secured an invite to a low-key mixer at a downtown lounge, where Lavigne was rumored to frequent. Unfortunately, progress was slow. The man was nothing if not paranoid, and rightfully so. It would take Ilya extra finesse to win him over. 

As the days blurred into each other, Ilya found himself frequently distracted by the idea of Shane. The gym encounter replayed in idle moments - the easy banter, the unexpected ticket offer. Googling Hollander that night had been a mistake. To say the least, Ilya found him attractive. There was a raw appeal in his build and how he carried himself with subtle confidence. Ilya had closed the laptop abruptly, scolding himself. Attachments were a no-go in his line of work.And he certainly shouldn't have attended the game. 

But Montreal was smaller than it appeared. Two weeks into the assignment, on a drizzly afternoon, Ilya found himself at a coffee shop near Place Ville Marie. It was a strategic spot - central and anonymous, with a clear view of Lavigne’s office building. He had tailed one of Lavigne’s aids - a nervous young man named Pierre - who frequented the place for mid-day coffee runs. Pierre was a weak link which is exactly what Ilya needed. 

Ilya sat in the corner, nursing a late and pretending to scroll on his phone. The bell jingled and in walked Pierre ordering his usual. Ilya noted the messenger bag hanging off his shoulder. But before he could act, another person entered. It was none other that Shane Hollander. 

Ilya’s stomach dropped. Shane scanned the room for a seat and his face visibly lit up when he spotted Ilya. “Chris? Hi.” Shane approached with that same casual stride and a fresh drip coffee in his hand. Ilya noted how Shane tended to dress oddly - like he was always prepared for a workout. Shane, without invitation, sat in the chair across from him. “Small world huh?”

Ilya forced a nod. Pierre was at the counter now, chatting up a young female barista who did not seem interested. “Yeah small world. You’re still in Montreal?”

Shane nodded. “Gota a game tomorrow. Practice ended early and the coffee in my hotel room is not good.” Shane set down his coffee and leaned back. He had a habit of avoiding eye contact which Ilya would normally find endearing. “Did you enjoy the game the other night?”

“Yeah it was good.” Ilya’s response was clipped, his gaze darting to Pierre who was collecting a wrapped baked good of some sort. He needed to act now, perhaps stage an accidental bump in. But he had not anticipated Shane’s presence getting in the way of everything. 

Shane’s smile faltered a little but he pressed on in his mildly awkward manner. “Cool. I’ve been meaning to hit the gym again if you’re free. Or maybe grab a beer after the game tomorrow?”

Ilya shifted in his seat, half-heartedly stirring his coffee. "Maybe. Busy with work." His tone was flat, bordering on dismissive. Internally, he winced—Shane didn't deserve this, but the mission came first. Pierre was heading for the door now, briefcase in tow.

Shane tilted his head, picking up on the vibe. "Of course yeah. I just-”

Before Shane could probe further, Ilya stood abruptly, grabbing his cup. "Sorry gotta run. See you around." He brushed past without a backward glance, the bell jingling as he exited.

Outside, the rain had picked up, slicking the sidewalks. Ilya fell into step behind Pierre, keeping a discreet distance—twenty paces, using pedestrians as cover. Pierre turned toward the metro entrance, oblivious. Ilya followed, his mind already scripting the "chance" encounter: a shared umbrella offer, a comment on the weather leading to shop talk.

Behind him, Shane sat stunned at the table, coffee cooling in his grip. Confusion knit his brows. Had he said something wrong? The gym session had been solid; the texts exchanged afterward, friendly enough. Chris's abrupt exit felt like a slap—standoffish, almost rude. A pang of hurt twisted in his chest. Maybe the guy was just having a bad day. Shane finished his coffee mechanically, the sweetness turning bitter on his tongue.

Pierre led Ilya to a nearby café, where he met a colleague for what looked like a quick handoff—a flash drive exchanged under the table. Ilya snapped discreet photos with his phone's hidden camera app, then slipped away before being noticed. Back at the safe house, he uploaded the images to an encrypted SVR server, along with notes on Pierre's routines. Progress, finally. But as evening fell, the adrenaline ebbed, leaving room for regret.

Ilya paced the apartment, the encounter with Shane gnawing at him. Why had he been so curt? Shane was innocent, oblivious to the shadows Ilya navigated. Just a guy from home, extending friendship in a new city. And attractive—damn it, that hadn't faded. The memory of Shane's confused expression, the way his voice softened... it stirred guilt. Ilya wasn't used to this; his training emphasized detachment, but Shane had cracked that armor without trying.

He pulled out his phone—the civilian one—and stared at Shane's contact. A simple text: Sorry about earlier. Was having a rough day. Didn't mean to bail like that.

Sent. The message showed as delivered. Ilya set the phone down, expecting a quick reply—Shane seemed the forgiving type. But minutes stretched into hours. No response. By midnight, it still sat on delivered, unread or ignored. Ilya lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the city's neon glow filtering through the blinds. His job was more important—lives, nations hung in the balance. But in the quiet, he felt like an ass.

The next day brought escalation. The SVR contact—a woman named Nadia, posing as a journalist—met him in a park bench dead drop. She passed an encrypted drive with updated intel: Lavigne was planning a major transfer to a radical group, timed for a gala in two weeks. "Get closer," she whispered. "Use any means." Ilya nodded, pocketing the drive. He spent the afternoon hacking Pierre's social media—weak passwords made it easy—uncovering invites to the gala. Posing as a mutual contact, he RSVP'd under his alias.

But Shane lingered in his thoughts. The unanswered text burned. Was he offended? Busy with the game? Ilya checked the Centaurs' schedule—yes, playing the Metors tonight. Perhaps Shane was focused, in the zone. Evening found Ilya at another stakeout, this time near Lavigne's residence in Westmount. He watched from a rented car, noting security patterns. His phone buzzed—a SVR check-in. Nothing from Shane.

Guilt morphed into frustration. Why care? Shane was a civilian, a potential liability. But the attraction complicated it—the pull toward normalcy, connection. Ilya had never allowed himself that. Raised in duality, affection was a luxury.

Days passed in a grind. Ilya attended the mixer, charming Pierre into an introduction with Lavigne. The old man was shrewd, eyes like flint. "You understand the cause, Mr. Martin?" he asked over a glass of brandy.

"More than most," Ilya replied, layering his words with feigned passion. "Ottawa's grip chokes progress."

Lavigne nodded approvingly, inviting him to the gala. Breakthrough.

Yet, back home, the silence from Shane echoed. Ilya replayed the cafe scene: his standoffish tone, abrupt exit. Hurtful, unnecessary. He drafted another text—Hey, hope the game's going well—but deleted it. 

Weakness.

A week later, at the gala—a lavish affair in a historic ballroom—Ilya planted the spyware during a restroom break, slipping the USB into Lavigne's assistant's laptop. Data flowed to his server: account numbers, transfers to offshore shells funding agitators.

The assignment was nearly complete, but personal fractures widened as Shane's number stayed silent. Ilya googled him again—post-game interviews showed a focused player, no hint of turmoil. Perhaps the rudeness had severed the budding friendship. In the safe house, Ilya sat alone, the weight of isolation pressing. Job first. Always. But for the first time, he wondered if the cost was worth it. The chapter wove on, detailing stakeouts, close calls—a near-miss with security, a tense SVR debrief. Through it, Ilya's internal conflict deepened: duty versus the human pull of Shane's unanswered text.

Finally, as the month closed, extraction loomed. But the hurt lingered - a reminder of the life he could never have.

Chapter 4

Toronto welcomed Ilya Rozanov with the indifferent roar of a metropolis that never truly slept. After the Lavigne operation in Montreal concluded—data extracted, funds disrupted, the separatist financier quietly neutralized through financial ruin rather than anything messier—Ilya had been rerouted east. The SVR's next assignment was vague but urgent: monitor emerging tech startups in Toronto's growing AI corridor, identify assets with military dual-use potential, and establish long-term covers. Toronto was Canada's economic engine, a city of glass towers and multicultural neighborhoods where a young professional could vanish into the crowd.

He found an apartment in Liberty Village, a trendy district of converted warehouses and rooftop patios, close enough to the financial core for plausible cover work but far enough from the tourist traps to avoid casual recognition. The place was modern, impersonal: exposed brick, stainless steel appliances, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Gardiner Expressway. Ilya swept it daily, installed his own countermeasures—motion sensors disguised as smoke detectors, a Faraday cage pouch for devices. The burner phone stayed charged, silent for now, awaiting the next directive. 

Toronto's rhythm was faster, sharper than Montreal's. Mornings meant runs along the waterfront trail, past the CN Tower's looming silhouette and the ferries churning toward the islands. Afternoons were spent in co-working spaces, blending with coders and entrepreneurs, ears open for whispers of government contracts or export deals. Evenings brought isolation—takeout from nearby pho shops, encrypted reviews of dossiers on his laptop. The city pulsed around him, alive with possibility and threat.

A free evening arrived unexpectedly. The SVR contact had delayed their next meet by forty-eight hours—some internal shuffle in Moscow, no explanation given. Ilya found himself with unstructured time, a rarity that left him restless. He wandered Queen West, past graffiti-covered walls and indie galleries, ending up near the entertainment district. Scotiabank Arena loomed ahead, its curved glass facade glowing under floodlights. A marquee announced the night's matchup: Toronto Maple Leafs vs. Ottawa Centaurs. Face-off at 7:00 p.m.

Ilya paused on the sidewalk, crowds streaming past in blue Leafs jerseys. Ottawa. Shane's team. Ilya hadn't followed hockey closely since Montreal—too risky, too tied to memories—but he knew the basics. Shane Hollander had been climbing the ranks, a steady two-way forward earning praise for his hockey IQ and work ethic. Recent articles called him "the quiet engine" of Ottawa's rebuild.Curiosity tugged. Or perhaps something deeper. Ilya hadn't seen Shane since that awkward cafe encounter months ago. The guilt had faded to a dull ache, rationalized away by duty. But here, in a new city, with nothing pressing, the pull was undeniable. One game. Anonymous in the crowd. What harm?

He bought a ticket at the box office—upper bowl, obstructed view, cheap enough to feel impulsive rather than planned. No suite, no premium seats; just a seat in the nosebleeds where he could blend. Inside the arena, the air thrummed with pre-game energy: organ music, vendor calls, the sharp crack of pucks during warm-ups. Ilya found his row, settled in among families and die-hard fans wearing retro Leafs sweaters. He pulled his hoodie low, kept his face neutral.

The game began with the usual fury. Toronto's stars dominated early play, but Ottawa countered with disciplined strategy. Ilya watched clinically at first—angles, shifts, line changes. Then his eyes sought number 24. Shane Hollander skated with controlled power: quick pivots, smart passes, a relentless backcheck that disrupted Toronto's rhythm. He wasn't flashy, but effective. When he blocked a shot in the second period, the crowd groaned; Ilya felt an involuntary flicker of admiration.

Midway through the third, with Ottawa clinging to a one-goal lead, Shane took a tripping penalty. The whistle blew, and he glided to the penalty box, head down, jaw set. The jumbotron—massive, omnipresent—cut to the box for the obligatory "naughty chair" shot. Fans chuckled as the camera lingered on Shane, helmet off, sweat-slicked hair tousled, expression focused despite the frustration. Then the feed panned slightly, capturing the crowd behind the glass. In the background, partially framed but unmistakable, sat Ilya—Chris—hoodie up, arms crossed, staring at the ice. Shane's eyes flicked upward. Recognition hit him like a body check. His posture shifted—shoulders straightening, a subtle widening of the eyes. For a split second, the arena noise faded in his perception. Chris, in Toronto. After the weird cafe bailout, the unanswered apology text, months of radio silence. He was surprised at first. How? Why? Then a quiet warmth crept in. Despite everything, Shane felt a small, genuine spark of happiness. The guy had shown up. Maybe it meant something. Maybe the rudeness had been just a bad day, as claimed. Shane allowed himself a faint, private smile, hidden from the camera but real. He tapped his stick against the boards once, a small gesture, then refocused as the power play began.

Ilya felt the shift before he saw it. The jumbotron replayed the moment in slow motion—his face caught in the frame. He froze. Exposure. Even in the upper deck, even partially obscured, it was a risk. His pulse quickened. Had Shane seen? The camera lingered too long. Ilya sank lower in his seat, hood shadowing more of his face.

The penalty killed successfully. Shane hopped back over the boards to cheers, immediately winning a faceoff. Ottawa pushed, tying the game late before Toronto won in overtime on a deflected shot. The final horn sounded; fans streamed out, grumbling or celebrating. Ilya stayed seated until the crowd thinned, buying time.

Shane, in the dressing room post-game, showered quickly, mind elsewhere. Was Chris there by coincidence, or did he come to see Shane?  The last interaction had stung—standoffish, abrupt, like Shane had overstepped. But seeing him tonight... it softened the memory. Maybe Chris had been dealing with real shit. Life happened after all. Shane dressed, checked his phone—no messages from the mystery number. He almost texted first, then hesitated. It’s best to not push things. 

Back in Liberty Village, Ilya paced the apartment. The burner remained silent—no SVR ping about the game exposure. Good. He opened his laptop, pulled up recent Centaurs highlights. Shane's face filled the screen: post-game interview, calm, articulate, deflecting praise to teammates. Attractive in that understated way—strong jaw, kind eyes, the quiet confidence of someone who knew his worth without needing to shout it.

Ilya closed the tab. Enough. The assignment demanded focus. Toronto's tech scene was rife with targets: startups working on drone AI, facial recognition algorithms, quantum-adjacent computing. SVR wanted eyes on anything exportable to adversaries—or stealable for Russia.

The next days blurred into routine. Stakeouts at MaRS Discovery District, casual networking at tech meetups, planting digital breadcrumbs for potential approaches. But Shane lingered in quiet moments. Ilya found himself checking scores—Ottawa's road trip continued. No more Toronto games soon, per the schedule. Relief mixed with odd disappointment.

A week later, the SVR directive arrived: approach a specific engineer at a neural network firm. Ilya prepared—fake LinkedIn outreach, coffee meet setup. Success came slowly but steadily.

Yet, one evening, walking past a sports bar on King Street, he paused. The TV showed Centaurs highlights. Shane scoring a shorthanded goal. The bar erupted in mixed cheers—Leafs fans groaning, Ottawa expats celebrating. Ilya watched from the sidewalk, rain starting to fall. He pulled out his phone—the civilian one. Shane's contact still there. No new texts. The apology sat unanswered, delivered but unread. Or perhaps read and ignored.

Ilya typed: Saw the game in Toronto. Good win.

He stared at the draft. Deleted it. Pocketed the phone. Some lines weren't meant to be crossed again.

The job finished with Ilya's deepening immersion in Toronto's shadows, close calls with security at a startup, tense SVR communications, and a very bruised set of ribs. And through it all, the jumbotron moment echoed—a brief, unintended bridge between worlds. Shane, in Ottawa's locker room or on the road, occasionally thought of the guy in the stands. Wondering if he’d reach out, or why it even mattered. He never did know that Ilya tried, but the text didn’t go through.

Ilya knew why it couldn't matter. His job would always come first. But in the quiet of his apartment, watching the city lights, he allowed himself one small admission: seeing Shane happy to spot him had felt... good. Human. Dangerous.

He turned off the light, the assignment waiting in the dark.

The Toronto skyline gleamed through the haze of early morning light, casting shadows across the Liberty Village apartment. Ilya Rozanov stirred beneath the thin comforter, his body heavy with the remnants of a restless night. Dreams had plagued him—fragments of code scrolling endlessly, shadowed figures in alleyways, and inexplicably, the flash of a jumbotron screen illuminating Shane Hollander's surprised smile. He blinked awake, the digital clock on his nightstand reading 7:45 a.m. The city outside hummed faintly: distant traffic on the Gardiner, the coo of pigeons on the fire escape, and the muffled beep of a delivery truck reversing.

His civilian phone buzzed on the pillow beside him—a soft vibration that cut through the grogginess. Ilya reached for it, squinting at the screen. The message was from Shane, timestamped just minutes ago: Saw you at the game last night. Still in Toronto?

A jolt ran through him, sharper than a shot of espresso. His heart skipped, a giddy flutter blooming in his chest despite his best efforts to suppress it. Shane had seen him on that jumbotron. And now, this casual text, laced with curiosity. Ilya sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist, and stared at the words. Part of him—the trained operative—flagged it as a risk: renewed contact meant potential exposure, attachments that could unravel his cover. But another part, buried deeper, was thrilled. Shane, with his easy smile and quiet strength, had lingered in Ilya's thoughts more than he cared to admit.

He typed back immediately, fingers flying over the screen before doubt could intervene: Yeah, still here. Work stuff. Good game, congrats on the assist.

The response came almost instantly, three dots pulsing: Thanks man. Practice this morning but free after. Want to grab a drink? Catch up?

Ilya's breath caught. A meet-up. In Toronto, of all places, where his assignment was just ramping up. It was dangerous but the giddiness won. Shane was a peep-hole into what normalcy looked like and it was intoxicating. 

Sure. Name a spot.

They settled on a bar in the Distillery District—neutral ground, low-key, away from the hockey crowds. Shane suggested 2 p.m., post-practice. Ilya agreed, then set the phone down, his mind racing. What was this? Friendship? Something more? He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the day ahead.

The morning passed in a blur of routine. Ilya showered quickly, dressed in jeans and a plain black sweater—nondescript, blending. He checked the burner phone: a cryptic SVR update on the AI startup target, nothing urgent. Breakfast was a protein bar and black coffee at a corner café, where he scanned the room out of habit for tails. Toronto felt safer than Montreal, its vastness a buffer, but paranoia was his constant companion.

By noon, he was at a co-working space in the financial district, posing as Chris, data analyst extraordinaire. He networked casually, dropping hints about interest in neural networks, gathering intel on the engineer he'd been tasked to approach. But his thoughts drifted to Shane—the way he'd looked on the ice, focused and fierce, then that brief, happy surprise on the jumbotron. Giddy. It was an unfamiliar sensation, like a glitch in his programming.

At 1:45, Ilya arrived at the bar early, securing a corner booth with a view of the entrance and exits. The place was rustic: exposed brick walls, Edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling, a chalkboard menu listing craft beers and small plates. Soft indie rock played in the background, mingling with the murmur of lunchtime stragglers. He ordered a soda water with lime, nursing it as he waited. Shane walked in at 2:05, fresh from practice—hair still damp, wearing a gray hoodie and jeans that hugged his athletic frame. He scanned the room, spotting Ilya with a grin that lit up his features. 

"Chris! Hey."

Ilya stood, extending a hand that turned into a quick bro-hug. "Shane. Good to see you."

They settled into the booth, the air between them charged with unspoken history. The cafe awkwardness hung like a faint cloud, but Shane seemed eager to move past it. "So, Toronto, huh? What brings you here? More tech stuff?"

"Yeah," Ilya said, sticking to his cover. "Freelance gig turned into a longer contract. AI consulting. Boring, but pays the bills."

Shane nodded, signaling the bartender. "Ginger ale for me, please." He turned back to Ilya. "Sounds intense. I’m just doing the usual—road games, practices. Toronto's always a tough barn, but we scraped out a point last night."

Ilya watched as Shane took the glass, sipping the fizzy drink without a hint of irony. No beer, no cocktail—just ginger ale, clear and unassuming. It struck him as oddly endearing, a glimpse into the disciplined life of a pro athlete. Cute, he thought, the word bubbling up unbidden. Shane, this powerhouse on the ice, opting for something so wholesome. It humanized him, softened the edges of his professional persona.

"Ginger ale? Not even a light beer?" He joked.

Shane laughed, a deep, genuine sound that warmed the booth. "Nah, man. Coach has us on a tight regimen mid-season. Plus, I don't drink much anyway. Keeps the head clear." He leaned in slightly, eyes meeting Ilya's. "You ordering something stronger?"

Ilya shook his head, matching the grin. "Soda water. Keeping it light too."

The conversation flowed from there, easing into familiar territory. They talked Ottawa roots—shared memories of snowy winters, and the Centaurs glory days. Shane opened up about the grind: injuries nagging at his knee, the pressure of a rebuilding team, the loneliness of road life. "It's rewarding, but man, sometimes you just want a normal day, you know? No cameras, no expectations."

Ilya nodded, empathizing more than he let on. His own life was a perpetual road trip, no home base, no normalcy. "I get that. Work pulls me around—Ottawa, Montreal, now here. It's hard to put down roots."

Sparks flickered in the pauses—subtle, electric. A brush of knees under the table, accidental but lingering. Shane's gaze holding a beat too long, his laugh drawing Ilya in. It was small, tentative, but undeniable. Attraction simmered beneath the surface, unacknowledged yet palpable. Ilya felt it in his chest, a warmth spreading despite the warnings in his mind.

They lingered for over an hour, the bar emptying around them. Shane checked his watch reluctantly. "Gotta head back—team meeting. But this was good. We should do it again. You sticking around Toronto long?"

"Indefinitely," Ilya said, a half-truth. "Text me next time you're in town."

Shane smiled, that crinkling at the eyes that made Ilya's stomach flip. "Will do. Take care, Chris."

They parted with another hug, Shane's hand lingering on Ilya's shoulder. Outside, the afternoon sun cut through the clouds, but Ilya felt the spark linger, a quiet buzz in his veins.

As night fell, he stepped into the shower, the hot water cascading over his skin, steam fogging the glass. Tension eased from his muscles, but his mind wandered. To Shane. The ginger ale, that laugh, the way his hoodie clung to his shoulders. Cute. Endearing. Attractive. Thoughts deepened, unbidden. Shane on the ice, powerful and precise. Shane in the bar, close enough to smell the faint citrus of his shampoo. Ilya's hand moved of its own accord, soap-slicked, tracing lower. He closed his eyes, imagining—Shane's touch, firm and warm; his voice, low and encouraging like at the gym. The fantasy built, sparks from the afternoon igniting into heat. Release came swiftly, shuddering, leaving him breathless against the tile.

Guilt followed, sharp but fleeting. This was harmless, a private indulgence. But in his world, even thoughts could be dangerous. The night stretched, Toronto's lights winking outside. Ilya dried off, slipped into bed, phone silent. Tomorrow, back to shadows. 

But tonight, the spark lingered.

Chapter 5

The morning unfolded with a crisp bite in the air, the kind that hinted at winter's approach even as autumn leaves clung stubbornly to the trees. Ilya, under the ever-present guise of Christopher Martin, woke to the soft chime of his civilian phone. The screen lit up with a message from Shane: Team's heading out tomorrow. Want to grab one last hang tonight? Pub with some guys. Low-key.

Ilya's pulse quickened, that familiar giddy flutter returning uninvited. The previous day's bar meet had left an indelible mark—small sparks, lingering glances, the endearing simplicity of Shane's ginger ale. Agreeing to another meet, especially with teammates, was risky. Crowds meant exposure, alcohol loosened tongues. But the assignment in Toronto was progressing smoothly: the engineer, Dr. Raj Patel, had shared preliminary code snippets over coffee, oblivious to the malware Ilya had embedded in a shared document. SVR was pleased, no immediate red flags. One night off couldn't hurt.

He typed back: Sounds good. Where and when?

Shane's reply was prompt: The Loose Moose, 8 PM. See you there.

Ilya set the phone down, his mind shifting gears. The day ahead held its own demands. SVR had flagged a secondary target—a courier suspected of ferrying sensitive blueprints between Patel's firm and a government contractor. Ilya needed to intercept him at a downtown drop point, a routine tail that should wrap by evening. Simple enough.

He dressed for the part: dark jeans, a nondescript jacket with hidden pockets for his tools—a compact camera, a signal jammer, and the ever-present pistol tucked in an ankle holster. Breakfast was a quick coffee and muffin at a Tim’s, where he reviewed the courier's dossier on his encrypted tablet. The man, Viktor Kowalski, was Polish-Canadian, mid-forties, with a predictable routine: office in the financial district, lunch at a falafel cart, afternoon deliveries via subway.

By 10 AM, Ilya was positioned across from Kowalski's building, blending with the commuter crowd. The tail began smoothly—Kowalski emerged at noon, briefcase in hand, heading to the falafel stand as expected. Ilya followed at a distance, snapping discreet photos. But as Kowalski veered into a side alley near Union Station, things escalated.

The alley was narrow, shadowed by towering condos. Kowalski met a contact—a burly man in a leather jacket, exchanging the briefcase with hurried words. Ilya edged closer, feigning interest in his phone, but the contact spotted him. "Hey! You following us?"

Adrenaline surged. Ilya turned to leave, but Kowalski lunged, grabbing his arm. "Who sent you?"

The scuffle erupted fast. Ilya dodged the first punch, countering with a sharp elbow to Kowalski's ribs. But the contact was bigger, landing a solid hook to Ilya's cheek. Pain exploded, stars bursting in his vision. Ilya retaliated with a knee to the groin, followed by a jab to the throat. Kowalski swung wildly, his fist connecting with Ilya's lip, splitting it open. Blood tasted metallic on his tongue.

They grappled, crashing into dumpsters. Ilya used his training—quick, efficient strikes—but the numbers were against him. He jammed the signal device, disrupting any calls for backup, then broke free with a shove that sent Kowalski sprawling. Grabbing the discarded briefcase—now his prize—he bolted from the alley, weaving through pedestrians until he lost them in the subway tunnels.

Back at the apartment, panting and bruised, Ilya assessed the damage in the mirror. His cheek was swelling, a purple bloom forming under the skin; his lip was busted, crusted with blood. Not ideal for a pub night. He iced it, applied concealer from his kit—meant for disguises, not vanity—but the marks were visible. An excuse was needed. Tripped on the sidewalk during a jog. Clumsy, relatable. No one would probe deeper.

The briefcase yielded gold: blueprints for adaptive AI drones, dual-use tech SVR coveted. He scanned them, uploaded to a secure drop, then stashed the case in a hidden compartment. Mission accomplished, but the fight left him rattled. Close calls like this reminded him of the fragility of his existence—one wrong punch, and it could be over for him.

Evening descended, the city lights flickering to life. Ilya changed into a fresh shirt, the bruises throbbing under the fabric. He arrived at The Loose Moose a few minutes early, the pub already buzzing with after-work revelers. Hockey memorabilia adorned the walls—jerseys, signed pucks, flat-screens tuned to pre-game highlights. Shane's choice made sense; it screamed sports bar.

Shane spotted him from a corner booth, waving him over. The table was packed: five teammates, all broad-shouldered and boisterous, nursing pints of beer. "Chris! Over here!"

Ilya approached, forcing a smile despite the sting in his lip. Shane's eyes widened at the sight. "Whoa, what happened to your face?"

The table quieted, curious gazes turning his way. Ilya shrugged casually. "Tripped on the sidewalk this morning during a jog. Face-planted right into the curb. Clumsy as hell."

A chorus of sympathetic winces and laughs erupted. One teammate, a lanky defenseman named Riley, clapped him on the back. "Ouch, man. That's rough. Ice it with a beer—best medicine."

Shane's concern lingered, his brow furrowed. "You sure? Looks pretty bad. We can grab some ice from the bar."

"I'm good," Ilya assured, sliding into the booth beside Shane. "Just embarrassing more than anything."

The group accepted it, diving back into chatter. Beers arrived—pints of lager for most, but Shane stuck to his ginger ale, sipping it with the same unassuming poise as before. Ilya noted it again, that quiet discipline amid the rowdiness. Cute, he thought, the word resurfacing. While teammates pounded drinks, Shane nursed his soda, laughing along but never overindulging.

The night unfolded in waves of hockey talk and banter. Ilya, nursing a light beer to blend, listened intently. Shane's knowledge shone through—not just surface stats, but deep insights. "See, the Leafs' power play is lethal because of their puck movement," Shane explained during a lull, gesturing animatedly. "Matthews draws the penalty killers low, opening lanes for Marner. But our penalty kill counters by collapsing the box. It's all about reading the room."

Teammates nodded, chiming in. Riley, already buzzed, slammed his pint. "Yeah, but remember that game in Vancouver? Shane here sniped the winner from the hash marks. Kid's got hands like Gretzky!"

Shane waved it off modestly. "Team effort. The pass from Jenkins was perfect."

The rowdiness escalated as drinks flowed. Another teammate, a burly winger named Brock, launched into a story about a road trip prank—swapping hotel room keys, leading to hilarious mix-ups. Laughter roared, fists pounding the table. Someone ordered shots; Shane politely declined, sticking to his ginger ale. "Gotta stay sharp for morning skate," he said with a grin.

Ilya found himself drawn in, the normalcy intoxicating. He shared fabricated stories from his "tech life," careful omissions keeping his cover intact. But beneath it, sparks flickered—Shane's knee brushing his under the table, a shared glance during a particularly rowdy toast. The bruises throbbed, a reminder of the day's violence, but here, amid the chaos, Ilya felt a rare ease.

As the night wore on, the teammates grew louder—arm-wrestling challenges, debates over the greatest Senators players. Brock nearly toppled a chair in excitement, spilling beer that drew cheers rather than complaints. Shane mediated with calm humor, his ginger ale ever-present. Ilya marveled at his depth: not just a player, but a student of the game, quoting advanced stats like Corsi and expected goals with ease.

By midnight, the group thinned. Riley and Brock stumbled out, hailing cabs with slurred goodbyes. Shane and Ilya lingered, the pub quieter now. "Sorry if they were a bit much," Shane said, swirling his half-empty glass. "Guys get hyper after a win."

"No, it was fun," Ilya replied truthfully. "You're good with them—keeping things steady."

Shane shrugged. "Someone's gotta. And hey, seriously—your face. You sure it's just a trip?"

Ilya's heart skipped. Shane's eyes held genuine worry. "Yeah. Jogging hazard in the city."

They parted outside, the cool air sobering. Shane pulled him into a hug, longer than necessary. "Safe travels back to Ottawa. Text when you're around."

"You too," Ilya said, the spark lingering as Shane walked away.

Back home, bruises aching, Ilya reflected. The fight, the lie, the night—it all blurred. Duty clashed with desire, but for now, the memory of Shane's ginger ale and steady presence warmed the shadows.

Chapter 6

The months following Toronto blurred into haze for Ilya. His SVR assignments pulled him across Canada’s vast expanse like a shadow chasing the sun - Vancouver for a cyber infiltration, Calgary for surveillance on energy executives, Winnipeg for a dead drop involving encrypted financial data. Each city was a temporary visit and his alias as Christopher wore like a well-fitted mask. He rented short-term apartments, ate at anonymous diners, and maintained the facade of a tech consultant. The burner, however, dictated his moves, moving him from city to city like a chess piece. And that's all Ilya really was - just a pawn in the game. 

Through it all, the casual texting with Shane became a digital thread that held together his fractured world. It really started after the night at the pub: game recaps from Shane, photos of his travels from Ilya. The exchanges were light and infrequent, but enough that it gave Ilya some grasp on reality. A reminder that his way of life was very abnormal in the eyes of others. Shane’s attention carried a warmth that pierced Ilya’s isolation.

Shane: Missed a goal tonight. Thinking of the gym in Montreal. 

Shane: Spot me next time you’re out east?

Ilya would grin at the text, giddy that Shane still thinks of that innocent encounter. 

Ilya: Deal! Keep those assists coming.

It was dangerous, yes, the SVR demanded detachment. But Shane’s presence offered a slice of normalcy that Ilya couldn’t deny himself. The attraction simmered beneath, unacknowledged in texts but vivid in Ilya’s mind. He rationalized it as a harmless crush, just a fascination with a hansom guy who was willing to give Ilya attention sometimes. That was until St. John’s.

By SVR standards, his Newfoundland assignment was low-key: monitor a fisheries executive suspected of leaking maritime data to Chinese interests. The city, capital of the province, perched on the rugged Atlantic coast like a weathered guard. Ilya arrived in late January to the city covered in snow, accompanied by piercing winds that came off the water. He rented a modest flat overlooking the downtown core of Water Street’s colourful row houses. Out in the harbour he could see the grey waves break into whitecaps on the shore. Another picture he had sent to Shane. 

The first week passed with routine. Morning jogs along the Signal Hill trail, afternoons tailing the target along foggy streets, and evenings intercepting emails. This isolation suited him - Newfoundland’s remote aura mirrored his internal state. Locals were friendly but reserved, their accents thick with Irish lilt. Fishermen would recant their tails of winter storm and summer catches over pints of beer at shabby pubs. It gave Ilya a weird sense of home. He had no ties here, and not a lick of Irish blood in him, but the locals welcomed him anyway. 

One blustery afternoon, Ilya ducked into a Tim’s on Duckworth Street for respite from the cold. Snow flurries fluttered down outside as he sipped on his coffee. He scrolled casually on his civilian phone, scoffing at what these outlets considered to be breaking news. One article however caught his eye.

Metros Star Shane Hollander Cozzied Up With Rose Landry - New Romance On The Rise? 

Ilya’s stomach twisted. Shane wasn’t his. Shane would never be his. Yet he couldn’t help but scroll through the article with dread. Photos of Shane holding hands with the stunning red head, strolling through the streets in delight. Her head on his shoulder. Captions speculated hwo they met and how long they had been involved with each other. 

Jealousy rolled through his gut like a rogue wave. He tightened the grip on his coffee, denting the cup. Shane - his Shane - holding hands with someone else. Doing something so intimate yet innocent out in public. His racked his brain over the texts, sure they were innocent in nature, but had he imagined something more? The attraction he had, fueled by gym spots and ginger ales, now felt foolish and one-sided. Rose was real. Rose was normal. Rose wasn’t a spy living a life of lies. 

He set the cup down, breath shallow. Jealousy wasn’t rational, it clashed with his training, but boy did it burn. Shane deserved normalcy and a partner with no secrets. Yet the thought of Shane holding her hand, sharing laughs that Ilya craved…it stung. 

Pushing it down, Ilya finished his coffee and stepped into the wind. The assignment waited - a meet with the target at a harbourside bistro. But the emotions festered. By evening, back in his flat, the jealousy morphed into relentlessness. He needed release, something physical. 

Svetlana came to mind. She was another SNR sleeper stationed primarily in Halifax but with assets in St. John’s. They had crossed paths years ago in Toronto and maintained a casual relationship ever since. No string attached, just the occasional hookup to burn off steam. She was sharp, beautiful, and embraced the sleeper life in a way Ilya never really could. There was no illusion of romance between the two of them; just mutual understanding. 

He pulled out his phone again, bringing up her number. It rang twice. 

“Ilya,” her voice purred, “It’s been a while. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m in St. John’s,” he said with a steady voice. “I thought we could grab a drink and catch up.”

A soft laugh. “Catch up huh? Okay, Quidi Vidi Brewery at eight?”

“Perfect.”

He hung up, the decision settling like fog. Jealousy wouldn't control him; this would purge it.

Quidi Vidi Village nestled on the city's edge, a quaint fishing enclave turned tourist spot. The brewery overlooked the gut - a narrow inlet where waves crashed against cliffs. Snow blanketed the ground, lights strung along wooden buildings casting a warm glow. Ilya arrived early, scanning for threats out of habit. The air smelled of salt and hops.

Svetlana appeared at eight sharp, bundled in a black coat, her dark hair cascading over shoulders. She was striking - high cheekbones, sharp eyes that missed nothing. Mid-twenties, but ageless in the spy way. "Ilya," she greeted, embracing him with familiar warmth. No surprise in her tone; their history made this routine.

They grabbed a table inside, the space cozy with exposed beams and brewing vats visible behind glass. Ilya ordered a local IPA; Svetlana, a stout. "So," she said, clinking glasses, "what's new in the shadows? Last I heard, you were in the Prairies."

"Winnipeg wrap-up," he replied, easing into shop talk. "Grain export data - nothing flashy. You?"

"Halifax humming. Naval intel, mostly. But St. John's? Quiet posting. What's the play?"

"Fisheries leak. Chinese angle." He sipped, the beer bitter on his tongue. Catching up flowed naturally - no need for pretense. They traded war stories: a botched drop in Vancouver (hers), a close call with CSIS in Calgary (his). Laughter punctuated the tales, a rare release in their world.

"You look tense," she noted, eyeing him over her glass. "More than usual."

He shrugged, the headline flashing. "Personal stuff. Nothing mission-related."

Her eyebrow arched. "Personal? In our line? Spill."

He hesitated, then: "A civilian. Hockey player. We've been texting. Saw him in the news with some actress."

Svetlana leaned back, amused. "Jealousy? From you? Ilya, you're human after all."

"It's stupid," he admitted. "But yeah."

She reached across, her hand on his. "We all need distractions. That's why we're here, no?"

The subtext was clear. They finished drinks, the conversation shifting to lighter memories - Toronto nights, shared training drills. By nine, they left, walking the snowy path to her nearby rental - a cozy cottage overlooking the ocean.

Inside, the space was warm, fire crackling in the hearth. Svetlana shed her coat, revealing a fitted sweater and jeans that hugged her curves. "Make yourself comfortable," she said, pouring whiskey from a decanter.

Ilya sat on the couch, the day's jealousy ebbing in her presence. She joined him, close enough for their thighs to touch. "To old friends," she toasted.

They drank, the liquor burning pleasantly. Talk turned intimate - past hookups recalled with fond smirks. "Remember that safe house in Ottawa?" she teased. "We nearly blew cover with the noise."

He chuckled. "Worth it."

The air thickened, charged. Svetlana set her glass down, her hand tracing his arm. "So, what do you need tonight, Ilya?"

He met her gaze, the jealousy fueling desire. "You."

She smiled, leaning in. Their lips met - familiar, urgent. Her mouth tasted of stout and whiskey, her hands pulling him closer. Ilya responded, his fingers in her hair, the kiss deepening. They stood, shedding clothes in a trail to the bedroom.

The room was dim, moonlight filtering through curtains. Svetlana pushed him onto the bed, straddling him. Her sweater came off, revealing lace beneath. Ilya traced her skin, hands roaming her back, unhooking her bra. She gasped softly as he kissed her neck, nipping lightly.

"You're tense," she murmured, grinding against him. "Let me help."

She slid down, unbuckling his belt, freeing him. Her mouth enveloped him - warm, skilled. Ilya groaned, head back, the sensation blotting out everything. Shane's image flickered, but he pushed it away, focusing on her rhythm, her tongue teasing.

After minutes of bliss, he pulled her up, flipping positions. Now atop, he kissed her breasts, sucking nipples until she arched. His hand dipped lower, fingers finding her wet, circling her clit. She moaned, Russian curses mixing with English pleas.

"Inside me," she demanded.

He obliged, grabbing a condom from his wallet - always prepared. Sheathed, he entered her slowly, savoring the tightness. They moved together, hips syncing in practiced harmony. Svetlana's nails raked his back, urging faster. He thrust deeper, the bed creaking, their breaths ragged.

Positions shifted - her on top, riding him with abandon, breasts bouncing. Ilya gripped her hips, matching her pace. Then doggy, his hands on her ass, pounding as she pushed back. Sweat slicked their skin, the room filled with gasps and slaps.

Climax built. Svetlana came first, clenching around him, crying out. Ilya followed, spilling with a guttural moan. They collapsed, entangled, hearts pounding.

Post-sex, they lay talking - more catching up. "Moscow's pushing harder," she said, tracing his chest. "Heard about the Arctic ops?"

"Yeah. Risky." They shared intel, the hookup blending with trade-craft.

By midnight, Ilya dressed. "Thanks, Sveta."

"Anytime." She kissed his cheek. "Stay safe."

Outside, the wind howled and jealousy purged. But Shane's texts waited, a reminder of complications.

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Since AO3 was doing and I was MIA due to a surgery, I figured I’d feed yall with two chapters instead of one.

The return to Ottawa felt like stepping into a half-forgotten dream for Ilya. After the whirlwind of assignments that had dragged him from coast to coast—Vancouver's misty harbors, Calgary's endless prairies, Winnipeg's biting cold, and finally the raw isolation of St. John's—the SVR had ordered him back to the capital. Stand by, the burner phone buzzed in an abrupt message. Ottawa safe house. Await activation. No timeline, no details. Just waiting, the spy's eternal companion.

He settled into a modest apartment in Centre town, a stone's throw from the Rideau Canal, where winter's grip had turned the waterway into a frozen ribbon for skaters. The place was functional: neutral walls, basic furnishings, a view of snow-dusted streets that could have been any Canadian suburb. Ilya swept it for bugs, stashed his gear, and adopted the rhythm of idle surveillance—morning runs along the Ottawa River pathway, afternoons in coffee shops scanning for anomalies, evenings reviewing encrypted dossiers on potential threats. But with no immediate op, time stretched, leaving room for distractions he'd long suppressed.

Shane was top among them. The casual texting had evolved into a lifeline during Ilya’s travels: quick check-ins after games, shared memes about brutal road trips, even a voice note from Shane after a win in Edmonton. Wish you were here for the post-game beers. Ginger Ale for me of course. Ilya had listened to it twice from his hotel room in Winnipeg, a smile shamelessly plastered on his face. Now back in Ottawa, the proximity amplified it. Shane was here, playing home games at the Canadian Tire Centre, living his life unaware of Ilya’s shadow. 

Attending the games started as preliminary surveying - blending in with crowds, practicing evasion - but quickly it became a habit. Ilya bought tickets anonymously, nosebleed seats where he could watch without drawing eyes. The Montreal Metors were mid-season, fighting for a spot in the playoffs, and Shane was a standout. His two-way play earned him more ice time allowing his number of assists to pile up. Ilya watched from afar, the roar of a crowd a distant echo to his internal calculations. Shane’s grace on skates mirrored the discipline Ilya admired. After one overtime win against the Raiders, Ilya texted.

Ilya: Solid game! That breakaway was amazing.

Shane: Thanks! Spot me tomorrow at the gym? 

The gym reunions sealed it. They met mid-mornings at the familiar Centre Sportif Claude-Robillard equivalent in Ottawa - a no-frills facility near Shane's Kanata home, though Ilya drove the extra distance to maintain separation. Sessions were intense: bench presses, deadlifts, circuits that left them sweat-soaked and laughing. Shane's tips sharpened Ilya's form; Ilya's quiet encouragement bolstered Shane's off-ice regimen. "You're getting stronger," Shane noted one day, clapping Ilya's back after a personal best squat. The touch lingered - a firm pat, innocent but electric. Ilya nodded, masking the jolt. Touch. He hadn't realized how starved he was for it. Years of isolation, fleeting contacts in ops, no real intimacy. His parents' hugs were distant memories; SVR training emphasized self-reliance. Shane's casual bro-hugs, high-fives, filled a void he hadn't acknowledged.

Days blurred into weeks. Games every few nights: Ilya in the stands, anonymous amid red jerseys, cheering internally as Shane notched points. Post-game texts evolved to quick coffees at Tim Horton's, where Shane vented about coaches and Ilya shared vague "work" stories. The jealousy from St. John's - the Rose Landry headline - had faded, rationalized as media fluff. Shane never mentioned her; their chats stayed platonic, safe.

Then, after a grueling practice one Thursday, Shane invited him over. They were cooling down at the gym, towels around their necks, when Shane said casually, "Hey, want to come by my place later? Order pizza, watch some highlights. Been meaning to show you my setup."

Ilya's hesitation was brief - risk assessment: Shane's apartment meant deeper entanglement, potential exposure. But the standby order left him flexible. "Sure. Text me the address."

Shane's place was in a sleek condo tower in Kanata, overlooking suburban sprawl and distant Gatineau Hills. Ilya arrived at 7 PM, buzzing up with a six-pack of ginger ale as a joke. Shane answered the door in sweats and a Metts  tee, grinning. "Chris! Come in, man."

The apartment was nice - modern, open-concept with high ceilings, leather couches, a massive flat-screen dominating the living room. Hockey memorabilia dotted shelves: signed pucks, a framed jersey from his draft day. The kitchen gleamed with stainless steel; a balcony offered city views. It felt lived-in but polished, not the bachelor pad mess Ilya expected.

"Nice place," Ilya said, handing over the ginger ale. "Did your girlfriend decorate? Looks too put-together for a hockey player."

Shane chuckled, but it was sheepish, his cheeks flushing slightly. He popped a can, gesturing to the couch. "Nope, it’s all me.”

They settled, the TV flickering to NHL Network. Small talk flowed - game breakdowns, gym goals - but Shane seemed distracted, fiddling with his can. Finally, as the pizza arrived (pepperoni for Shane, veggie for Ilya), he set it down and met Ilya's eyes. "Rose... she's not my girlfriend. It's a PR thing."

Ilya paused mid-bite, surprise rippling through him. "PR? Like, fake?"

Shane nodded, leaning back. "Yeah. Team suggested it - good for image, distracts from rumors. Truth is, I'm gay."

The admission hung in the air, heavy yet relieving. Ilya set his slice down, processing. He'd never known a hockey player to be gay - not openly, anyway. The sport's macho culture, the locker room banter... it didn't align. "Wow. I... didn't expect that. But it makes sense, I guess. The hiding part."

Shane exhaled, relief evident. "There’s more of us than it looks but yeah, we hide it. The league is not nearly as bad as it used to be but there’s still a big risk to career paths, sponsors, loss of fans…Rose is cool, and she’s in on the PR stunt. Really she is just a friend I kiss in front of cameras sometimes.”

Ilya nodded, the jealousy from St. John's resurfacing as context. "I saw the headlines. Holding hands in the market. Got a little... smitten, I guess. Hated the idea of you with her."

Shane's eyes widened, then softened. "Smitten? With me?"

"Yeah," Ilya admitted, voice low. The words tumbled out, vulnerability cracking his facade. "The gym, the texts, the games... you're more than a friend to me."

The room quieted, tension electric. Shane leaned in, his hand brushing Ilya's. "Me too, Chris. Been feeling it since Montreal."

Their lips met tentatively at first, but quickly deepened. Shane’s mouth was warm, tasting of ginger ale. Ilya’s hands cupped his face and lit sparks that were long dormant. Ilya was touch starved, he just hadn’t realized how deep it had run. Years without affection, now shadowed by Shane’s hands wandering his back. 

“Stay tonight.” Shane whispered into the kiss.

lya nodded. No sex - just kissing on the couch, hands exploring clothed bodies, cuddling as they watched a movie neither paid attention to. Shane's head on Ilya's chest, fingers intertwined. Ilya marveled at the simplicity, the warmth seeping into his skin. Touch-starved, yes - craving this connection, this humanity.

They migrated to bed, fully clothed, spooning under covers. Shane's breath evened into sleep; Ilya lay awake, savoring the moment, dread creeping. The burner could buzz anytime.

It did, at 5 AM. Vibration under the pillow: Activation. Montreal rendezvous. Depart immediately.

Ilya slipped out, heart heavy. Shane slept peacefully. He scrawled a note: Had to run—work emergency. Last night was amazing. Talk soon. -Chris

Out into the pre-dawn city, snow falling softly. Ottawa receded, assignments calling. But the touch lingered, a new ache in his chest.

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

I wasn't expecting to have this chapter up so soon but that's just a bonus for you all.

Shane woke to the soft glow of dawn filtering through his bedroom curtains. The bed beside him was empty, the sheets cool where Chris had been just hours before. The note Chris has left caught his eyes, scrawled in his neat handwriting. 

Shane sat up, rubbing his eyes, a mix of warmth and disappointment settling in his chest. Last night had been a revelation - the kiss, the confession, the simple act of holding someone who understood the weight of secrets. Chris’s admission of being smitten had mirrored Shane’s own feelings, bubbling up from those early gym sessions in Montreal. Gay in the NHL wasn’t something you broadcasted. It was a carefully guarded truth he only shared with a trusted few like his agent and Rose. But with Chris, it felt different…Real and unforced. 

He texted Chris immediately. Missed you this morning. Safe travels? The reply came quickly. You too. Back soon. No details, just the vagueness that Shane was starting to notice. Chris’s job in tech pulled him away often on cryptic trips to Montreal or wherever. Shane didn't pry as he wasn't one to push. Hockey life was chaotic enough, who was he to pry into someone else's madness?

As the days turned to weeks, their relationship bloomed in secrecy. Chris returned to Ottawa sporadically, slipping into Shane's life like a shadow. They’d meet at the gym first, spotting each other on lifts as the tension built. Then, they'd hide out in Shane’s condo with takeout and a movie they never paid attention to. Shane savoured the kisses and cuddles. He hadn’t realized how lonely the athlete-life could be until Chris came around. 

Rose knew of course, she had been the first person he had told. As long as you’re happy, she said, just keep the handholding coming for the cameras. It was easy with Rose: she didn’t care that Shane was gay - if anything she supported it, and he’d gladly gush about this hot tech support guy he gets to kiss. 

But Chris’s absence gnawed at Shane. A week here, two there, gone to Vancouver or Calgary for client meetings. Shane didn't get tech - his world was ice and goals and stats. But coding? That had always struck him as a desk job, not the demanding occupation it clearly was for Chris. It bothered him a little, that itch of uncertainty, but he never brought it up. What would he even say? Stay here with me? That sounded needy and unfair. Chris always came back and that's as much as Shane could ask for. 

One evening, after a home win against the Leafs, Chris showed up at Shane's door unannounced. Shane pulled him inside, kissing him fiercely against the wall. "Missed you," Shane murmured, hands roaming Chris's back.

"Missed you more," Chris replied, but Shane noticed the wince when he squeezed too hard. Pulling back, he saw it - a faint bruise blooming along Chris's jaw, a small cut on his lip scabbed over.

"What happened?" Shane asked, thumb tracing the mark gently.

Chris shrugged, that easy smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Clumsy me. Tripped on some ice during a jog in Montreal. Face-planted like an idiot."

Shane frowned, but let it go. Clumsy? Chris moved like an athlete—sure-footed in the gym, balanced. But what other explanation could there be? A bar fight? Didn't fit Chris's low-key vibe. "Be careful out there," Shane said, kissing the bruise softly. They tumbled to the couch, the night dissolving into laughter and touches that made Shane forget his doubts.

The pattern repeated. Chris vanished for ten days to Winnipeg - "urgent project deadline" - returning with a split knuckle, bandaged haphazardly. "Cut it on a door handle," Chris explained, waving it off. Shane accepted it, though suspicion flickered. Door handles didn't leave knuckles raw like that. But pushing felt wrong; trust was the foundation of their secret.

Shane threw himself into hockey as a distraction, now traded as a Centaur. The Centaurs were pushing for playoffs and his personal stats were climbing. Teammates ribbed him about Rose: When's the wedding, Hollander? He'd laugh, deflect, but inside, thoughts of Chris anchored him. Their texts kept the flame alive: Chris's Watched your game—killer backcheck, Shane's Hurry back, bed's cold.

When Chris was in town, it was bliss. Gym sessions turned flirtatious—Shane spotting Chris on bench presses, their faces close, breaths mingling. "You're distracting," Chris teased once, Shane's hand steadying the bar.

"Good," Shane replied, leaning in for a quick kiss when no one watched.

Evenings at the condo deepened their bond. Shane cooked—simple pasta, salads—Chris praising his efforts. They'd talk for hours: Shane's fears about career-ending injuries, Chris's vague tales of "high-stakes coding." Shane sensed omissions but didn't probe. Tech was mysterious; maybe bruises came from late-night stress, clumsy accidents in unfamiliar cities.

One night, after a loss to the raiders, Chris returned from a short trip to Toronto with a black eye, swelling turning purple. Shane's heart clenched. "Chris... what the hell?"

"Slipped in the shower," Chris said, avoiding his gaze. "Hotel tiles were slick."

Shane pulled him into a hug, but doubt festered. Slipped? Again? Chris wasn't clumsy—he navigated weights with precision, dodged Shane's playful jabs effortlessly. But what else? Fights? Another guy? The thought twisted Shane's gut, but Chris's kisses dispelled it. "Just be safe," Shane whispered, holding him tighter.

Rose noticed during a staged dinner photo op. "Your boy's looking rough," she murmured between smiles for the paparazzi. "Everything okay?"

Shane nodded. "He's clumsy. Travels a lot for work."

She raised an eyebrow but dropped it. "As long as you're happy."

He was—mostly. The secrecy added thrill, but the absences wore on him. A month into the relationship, Chris disappeared for two weeks to the West Coast. Shane's texts went unanswered for days, then: Sorry, buried in code. Back soon. It bothered Shane more than he admitted—the empty bed, the quiet condo. Hockey filled days, but nights echoed with questions. What was tech work really like? Endless flights, hotel mishaps? He googled it once—articles on startup life, travel for clients—but it didn't explain the bruises.

When Chris returned, they fell into routine. A game against the Flames: Shane scored, glancing to the stands where Chris sat anonymously. Post-game, they met at the condo. Chris had a fresh cut on his forearm, bandaged. "Paper cut from files," he claimed.

Shane sighed inwardly. Paper cuts didn't look like that—jagged, deep. But he accepted, pulling Chris to bed for cuddles that soothed the unease. Chris's touch—fingers tracing Shane's arms, lips on his neck—reminded him why it was worth it.

Teammates sensed his distraction. "You good, Hollander?" Riley asked in the locker room. "Y’seem off."

"Just focused," Shane lied. How to explain a secret boyfriend who vanished and returned marked?

As spring thawed Ottawa, the relationship hit six months. Chris's trips intensified—St. John's again, then Halifax. Bruises became routine: a limp from "twisted ankle on stairs," a scrape from "bumping a table." Shane's suspicion grew, but confrontation risked everything. What if Chris was hiding something darker? Debt collectors? Underground fights? But Chris's eyes held no deceit, just affection.

One rainy evening, Chris came back from Halifax with a bruised rib—"fell off a curb"—Shane finally voiced a sliver. "You travel so much. Tech must be brutal."

Chris tensed, then relaxed. "Yeah, deadlines don't wait. Sorry it bothers you."

It did, but Shane dropped it. Understanding tech? He barely grasped his own analytics. Better to cherish the moments.Their secret deepened—stolen weekends, Rose covering outings. Shane fell harder, bruises be damned. Clumsy or not, Chris was his.

Chris had been back in Ottawa for three days this time—a rare stretch without a sudden "work emergency" pulling him away. But the injuries kept coming. Shane had learned to accept the excuses—clumsy jogs, slick hotel showers, bumped tables. He told himself it was nothing. Tech work could be stressful; maybe Chris pushed himself too hard, didn’t sleep enough, tripped more than most people. Shane wasn’t naïve—he knew the world wasn’t always safe—but Chris’s calm demeanor, his easy smiles, made the explanations feel plausible. What else could it be? A secret fight club? An abusive ex? The ideas were absurd when he lined them up against the man he knew: quiet, thoughtful, always careful with his words.

Then came the night that broke the pattern.

It was a Thursday, two days after a hard-fought win over the Maple Leafs. Shane had the evening off—no practice, no media obligations—and Chris had texted earlier: Coming over around 8. Miss you. Shane had spent the afternoon tidying the condo, ordering Chris’s favorite Thai takeout, even lighting a couple of candles because why not? He wanted tonight to feel normal, ordinary, like they were just two guys in a relationship instead of one pro athlete and one mysterious tech consultant who vanished for weeks at a time.

When the buzzer sounded, Shane opened the door with a grin. Chris stood there in his usual dark jacket and jeans, hood up against the late-winter chill, but something was off. His face was pale, his movements careful, like he was favoring his left side.

“Hey,” Shane said, pulling him inside and into a hug.

Chris stiffened for a split second—barely noticeable—then relaxed into it. “Hey yourself.”

They kissed in the entryway, slow and familiar, but Shane felt the tension in Chris’s body. When they pulled apart, he noticed the dark stain on Chris’s gray shirt, low on his right side. It looked wet, spreading slowly.

“Chris… what the hell is that?”

Chris glanced down, expression flickering—annoyance, maybe, or resignation. “It’s nothing. Just… bled through a little.”

Shane’s stomach dropped. He tugged Chris toward the living room light. “Take off your jacket.”

Chris hesitated, then sighed and shrugged out of it. The shirt beneath was worse: a crimson bloom soaking through the fabric over his ribs. Shane’s heart hammered.

“Jesus. Sit down.” He guided Chris to the couch, then knelt in front of him. “Lift your shirt.”

Chris complied slowly. Underneath was a makeshift bandage—gauze taped haphazardly over what looked like a deep gash, maybe four inches long. Blood had seeped through the edges, staining the skin around it. The wound was fresh, angry red, the kind that needed stitches, not tape.

Shane stared, breath shallow. “This isn’t a paper cut. Or a trip. Or a door handle. This is… what the fuck, Chris?”

Chris met his eyes, steady but tired. “Shane—”

“No.” Shane stood, pacing a tight circle. “Don’t. Don’t give me another excuse. I’ve let it slide for months because I didn’t want to push, because I figured you’d tell me when you were ready. But this? You’re bleeding through your goddamn shirt. You’re hurt, and you’re acting like it’s nothing. I’m done pretending.”

Chris leaned back against the cushions, wincing as the movement pulled at the wound. For a long moment, silence stretched between them. Shane stopped pacing, arms crossed, waiting.

Finally, Chris spoke, voice low. “My job… isn’t really what I’ve told you.”

Shane’s pulse thundered in his ears. “What does that mean?”

“It means the tech consulting thing is a cover. A good one, but a cover.” Chris exhaled slowly, like the words cost him. “The real work is dangerous. High-risk. And for your sake—for both our sakes—I can’t go into detail. The less you know, the safer you are.”

Shane felt the floor tilt. “Dangerous how? Like… corporate espionage? Hacking governments? What?”

Chris shook his head. “I can’t say. Not because I don’t trust you—God, Shane, I trust you more than anyone—but because knowing puts a target on your back. If something happens, if someone comes looking… ignorance is protection.”

Shane sank onto the coffee table, facing Chris. “So all the bruises. The cuts. The black eyes. That’s… what? Job hazards?”

“Yeah.” Chris’s voice was quiet. “Sometimes things go sideways. I’m trained to be careful but it’s not always enough.”

Shane rubbed his face, trying to process. Part of him wanted to laugh at how absurd it sounded—like something out of a spy movie. But the blood on Chris’s shirt was real. The pain in his eyes was real. “You’re telling me you’re some kind of… secret agent? For who? The government? A company?”

“I can’t—”

“Answer that, yeah. I get it.” Shane’s voice cracked. “But you expect me to just… accept this? That you disappear for weeks, come back hurt, and I’m supposed to smile and say ‘okay, babe, be safe’?”

Chris reached out for his hand, fingers brushing Shane’s knee. “I don’t expect anything. I just… I don’t want to lose this. Us. And I don’t want to drag you into my mess.”

Shane looked at their joined hands—Chris’s knuckles still scarred from whatever had happened last time—and felt a wave of helplessness. He hated secrets. Hated the way they echoed his own years of hiding. But Chris wasn’t lying; Shane could see it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his gaze didn’t waver.

“I don’t like this,” Shane said finally. “I hate it. But if the alternative is you walking out that door and never coming back… I’ll take the half-truth. For now.”

Chris’s shoulders sagged, relief evident. “Thank you.”

Shane stood, grabbing the first-aid kit from the bathroom. “Come on. Let’s clean that properly before you bleed all over my couch.”

They moved to the kitchen. Shane helped Chris peel off the soaked shirt, wincing at the sight of the gash—clean but deep, probably from a knife or something sharp. He cleaned it with antiseptic, re-bandaged it with fresh gauze, hands steady despite the tremor inside. Chris watched him the whole time, expression soft.

“You don’t have to do this,” Chris murmured.

“Shut up,” Shane said gently. “You’re staying here tonight. No arguments.”

Chris didn’t argue.

They ended up in bed, Chris propped against pillows to keep pressure off the wound, Shane curled against his good side. No heavy making out tonight—just quiet breathing, Chris’s fingers carding through Shane’s hair.

“I’m sorry,” Chris whispered after a while. “For the secrecy. For the worry.”

Shane pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “Just come back in one piece. That’s all I ask.”

“I will.”

Shane believed him. Or wanted to. In the dark, with Chris’s heartbeat steady under his ear, it was easier to pretend the world outside didn’t exist. That tomorrow wouldn’t bring another disappearance, another bruise, another half-truth.

But deep down, Shane knew the questions weren’t gone. They’d just been postponed.

The next morning, Chris was gone before Shane woke—another note on the pillow: Had to go. Back soon. Love you. -C Shane stared at the words, chest tight. Love. It was the first time either of them had said it, even in writing. He folded the note carefully, tucked it into his wallet. Then he got up, dressed for practice, and went on with his day—because what else could he do?

The secret relationship continued, deeper now, shadowed by truths half-revealed. Shane didn’t push again. He couldn’t. But every time Chris left, every time he returned marked, Shane felt the weight grow heavier.

Patience has its limits, and Shane was starting to wonder how much longer his would hold.

Chapter End Notes

spelling/grammar/continuity errors corrected

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

Sleep is my enemy. Here's the next chapter!

A month had passed since that tense night in Shane's apartment, where Ilya had spilled half truths much like the blood from his wound. Ilya had navigated the delicate balance with the precision of a high-wire act. His SVR assignments had been light during this Ottawa interlude: Low-level surveillance on a diplomat's aid, a few dead drops, but nothing that demand prolonged absences. It allowed him to sink deeper into the relationship, a secret oasis among the shadows of his life. 

Their days fell into a rhythm that felt almost normal. Mornings at the gym, where Ilya's eyes lingered on Shane's form as he powered through reps, the sweaty muscles a reminded of the physicality they shared in stolen moments. Afternoons were for errands or quiet walks along the Rideau Canal, hoods up against the lingering whiter chill, hands brushing but never holding in public. Evenings were for Shane's condo: good food followed by hours of talking, kissing, and exploring each other with a tenderness that surprised Ilya. They hadn't crossed over into full sex yet, but Ilya didn't mind. He quite liked this withholding of intimacy, it allowed him to savour Shane in a much more tender way. 

Shane's acceptance of the half-truth had been a blessing, though Ilya saw the cracks. Shane's eyes would narrow at fresh bruises - no longer disguised by a clumsy accident Ilya had supposedly had. And through it all, all Shane wanted was for Ilya to come back alive. Ilya hated the deception, it tainted their moments. But the alternative would shatter everything. Shane - although a public figure, - was just a civilian in the eyes of the SVR. Knowing the truth would put him at risk of God knows what. 

But oh how he did crave that closeness with Shane. This presence in his life - once believed to be a lost cause - now became a fixation for Ilya. A way for him to decompress after a long day like a cigarette or glass of wine. Ilya's cigarette was Shane. Sadly, buried secrets have a way of coming to the surface. 

It was subtle at first, Ilya noticed the lady during a Centaurs game at the Canadian Tire Center. Ilya was anonymous in the stands, blending in with a sea of fans sporting merchandise. Shane's focus was sharp on the ice, but Ilya's was sharper. This woman screamed blending in but to Ilya, she stuck out like a sore thumb. She lingered too long near the players entrance, phone in hand but not scrolling. Ilya chalked it up to a crazy fan - hockey players attracted them and given Shane's good looks, Ilya shouldn't be so surprised that his boyfriend had a groupie-wannabe. He texted Shane later: Good game. Saw a fan eyeing you. Groupie alert?

Shane laughed it off in response: Happens. You jealous? ;)

But she appeared again two days later, outside Shane's condo tower. Ilya was arriving for dinner when he spotted her across the street. Paranoia flared, but Ilya dismissed it. Fans stalked and paparazzi lurked in the shadows. He entered the building without incident and the evening unfolded with warmth. But the pattern escalated. 

At a coffee shop meet-up, she was two tables away, earbuds in but no music playing - lip-reading, perhaps? Ilya tested: he whispered nonsense to Shane about "quantum algorithms," watching her reaction. Nothing overt, but her posture shifted. Fan? Or something more?

Doubt planted its seed deep. Ilya used his training to add variety to his routes - doubling back on walks and adding roads that didn't necessarily lead to Shane. But she persisted. This woman was a professional tail if he had ever seen one. The thought of Shane being followed chilled his blood. 

The realization hit during a home game against the Flames. Ilya sat in the lower bowl this time, closer for better vantage. Shane was on fire - two assists in the first period, the crowd chanting his name. But Ilya's focus split: the woman was there, section over, phone pressed to her ear. He read her lips through binoculars: "...target acquired... Hollander... leverage for Rozanov..."

Rozanov. His real name. And this woman was putting a hit out on his Shane. 

When intermission hit, Ilya moved quickly, slipping through the crowd like a gust of air. He positioned himself near her exit path, bumping into her "accidentally", spilling her drink. "Sorry", he muttered, eyes meeting hers. "Let me buy you another one." She hesitated - perhaps out of arrogance - nonetheless she did follow him outside. He backed her into a corner away from cameras and prying eyes. "Кто вас послал?" Who sent you? He demanded. 

She smirked, hand dipping toward her coat. "You know your handlers don't like distractions." Fuck, Ilya thought, They know about Shane. 

She lunged; Ilya sidestepped and disarmed her with a swift twist. The knife clattered. He struck her in the throat once, then finished with a chokehold, listening to her gasp until her body went limp. Clean up was quick, he simply dumped her body in a dumpster and vowed to dispose of her later. 

Heart pounding, he re-entered the arena, slipping back into his seat as the third period started. Shane scored the winner in overtime, and Ilya was proud. However his enteral turmoil persisted. He had killed for Shane and that was a crossed line he could not return from. 

The burner buzzed: Montreal extraction. Respond. 

And for the first time...Ilya did not respond. 

The aftermath of the parking lot kill left Ilya Rozanov in a haze of adrenaline and dread. The woman's body, concealed in the dumpster under layers of garbage bags and snow, would be handled by a cleanup contact he'd pinged anonymously through a dark web drop—standard protocol for such messes. But the act itself weighed on him, a stark reminder of the life he led. She'd been SVR-sent, no doubt, a warning shot for his growing attachment to Shane. Ignoring the assignment notifications had been a reckless gamble.

That night, after the Centaurs' win over the Flames, Ilya met Shane outside the players' entrance. The arena buzzed with exiting fans, red jerseys flooding the lots. Shane emerged freshly showered, duffel over his shoulder, his smile lighting up when he spotted Ilya—Chris—leaning against a lamppost.

"Man of the hour," Ilya said, pulling him into a quick bro-hug, mindful of prying eyes. "That goal was filthy."

Shane laughed, clapping Ilya's back. "Thanks. Felt good out there. You sticking around? Team's heading to a bar, but I could skip."

Ilya hesitated. The kill's residue clung—blood under his nails, scrubbed clean but phantom. He needed normalcy, connection. "Your place? Quiet night?"

Shane's eyes softened. "Yeah. Let's go."

The drive back was silent, Ottawa's lights streaking past. Shane sensed the mood. "You okay? Seem tense."

"Just a long day," Ilya lied, hand on Shane's thigh once they were alone in the car. Touch grounded him—Shane's warmth seeping through jeans.

At the condo, they shed coats and boots, the space welcoming with its familiar scent of Shane's cologne and fresh laundry. Shane grabbed ginger ales from the fridge—his staple—handing one to Ilya. "To wins," he toasted.

They clinked cans, settling on the couch. The TV flickered to highlights, Shane's goal replaying: a slick deke past the goalie, net rippling. Ilya watched Shane's profile, the pride in his eyes. This man—strong, kind, oblivious to the shadows—had become his anchor. The unanswered job loomed; this could be their last night before another absence. Defiance surged. He'd protect this, whatever the cost.

Shane turned, catching Ilya's gaze. "What's really on your mind?"

Ilya set his can down, leaning in. "You. Us." He kissed Shane, soft at first, then deeper, hands cupping his face. Shane responded, pulling Ilya closer, the kiss igniting.

They'd danced around this edge for months—kisses turning heated, hands wandering under shirts, but always stopping short. Tonight felt different. The kill's adrenaline, the impending departure, fueled urgency. Ilya's fingers traced Shane's jaw, down his neck, eliciting a soft moan.

"Chris..." Shane breathed, breaking for air. "I want you. All of you."

Ilya paused, searching his eyes. "You sure?"

Shane nodded, standing and offering his hand. "Bedroom."

They moved there, the room dim with city glow through blinds. Shane flicked on a lamp, soft light casting shadows. He peeled off his shirt, revealing the chiseled torso Ilya knew from gym sessions—broad shoulders, defined abs, a faint scar from a high stick last season. Ilya mirrored, shedding his own shirt, self-conscious of his own scars—souvenirs from ops, not games.

Shane stepped close, hands on Ilya's chest. "You're beautiful," he murmured, kissing a scar over his ribs. Ilya shivered—touch-starved no more, but craving this intimacy.

They kissed again, tumbling onto the bed. Shane on top, grinding slowly, erections straining through pants. Ilya groaned, hands roaming Shane's back, nails digging lightly. "Off," he whispered, tugging at Shane's belt. Shane obliged, unbuckling, shimmying out of jeans and boxers. Naked, he was stunning—thick thighs from skating, cock hard, pre-cum beading. Ilya stared, desire pooling. He stripped too, vulnerability mixing with want.

Shane's eyes darkened. "God, Chris..." He pushed Ilya back, kissing down his chest, nipping nipples until Ilya arched. Lower, tongue tracing abs, dipping into navel. Ilya tangled fingers in Shane's hair, guiding gently. Shane reached Ilya's cock, kissing the tip, then taking him in—warm, wet mouth enveloping. Ilya gasped, hips bucking involuntarily. Shane's technique was skilled—slow bobs, tongue swirling, hand stroking the base.

Pleasure built, Ilya's breaths ragged. "Shane... fuck..." Shane hummed, vibrations sending shocks. He worked deeper, throat relaxing, until Ilya hit the back. Tears pricked Shane's eyes, but he didn't stop, hollowing cheeks for suction. Ilya pulled him up before tipping over. "Your turn." He flipped positions, kissing Shane's inner thighs, teasing. Shane's cock twitched; Ilya licked the length, savoring saltiness, then swallowed him whole.

Shane moaned loudly, hands fisting sheets. "Chris... yes..." Ilya bobbed, hand cupping balls, rolling gently. Shane's hips thrust shallowly, chasing. "I'm... close," he warned.

The week blurred in paranoia. Ilya stayed close to Shane, shadowing him discreetly - gym, practices, home. No more tails visible. Their nights intensified: desperate kisses, as if Ilya sensed the end. Shane noticed his tension. "You okay? Seem on edge."

"Just work stress," Ilya lied, pulling him closer. Touch anchored him - Shane's arms became a refuge.

The burner pinged relentlessly: "Respond." "Overdue." He powered it off, buried it in a drawer. Should he run with Shane? Would they even make it out of the country before the SVR found them? They'd be hunted like animals. 

A week later, grocery store in Orleans. Ilya pushed a cart, mundane cover: milk, bread, Shane's favorite cereal. A man sidled next, fifties, unremarkable suit. "Nice day," he said casually, reaching for apples. Ilya tensed. The man whispered, "If you don’t respond, they will have to kill you. And the hockey player."

Threat clear, he had no choice. Ilya nodded subtly. The man vanished.

He pulled the burner from his pocket and typed out one word: Accepted.

Chapter 10

Ilya stared at the burner phone screes, the acceptance message glaring back at him like a death sentence. He'd respond to the next assignment out of necessity, the grocery store warning had been enough to scare him back into action. It was kill or be killed and Ilya wasn't about to gamble with Shane's life. 

Reluctance burned in his gut as he packed hi go-bag: fake IDs, cash, his tried and true 9mm, and a variety of pocket sized tools. Toronto was a short flight and the job was straightforward - plant a virus in a university's network, extract data. It was easy money this time, fast and hopefully not dirty. But of course his mind was consumed with Shane. Killing your boyfriends tail and fucking him for the first time within a 24-hour time frame took gumption that Ilya was glad to have. 

Ilya was in Shane's bed when the text came through. They had sex again but this time it was slower - tender in a way that filled Ilya's guarded heart with affection. He relished in the way Shane's hands felt on his skin and the whispered I love you's in the after glow. But duty called and Ilya must answer. He left before dawn, note on the pillow as he always had done. 

The Toronto op went off without a hitch. Ilya posed as a maintenance tech and uploaded the malware via a rigged USB port. His work would set back research for months. He made a clean exit and caught the first flight back to Ottawa. 

He swept his Centertown apartment for bugs - as per usual - the checked the cameras he had installed around Shane's. It was routine paranoia but at this point it was necessary. The feeds showed nothing amiss at first: Shane at practice, gym sessions alone, evenings at home...until the third day out. 

The man was subtle - middle aged, casual dress, yet seemed to loiter near Shane's place with a coffee cup that never emptied. Ilya zoomed in on the video. the man had an ear piece that was visible and a gaze that focused on the building entrance a little too much for Ilyas liking. This was not the markings of a fan. 

Ilya tailed him discreetly that afternoon. The man followed Shane on a coffee run, then to the arena for a morning skate. The guy was certainly professional - he kept a safe distance and watch through window reflections. Ilya confirmed his suspicion at the game that night: the man sat loomed in the stands with a phone in hand. Ilya's blood ran cold. This wasn't going to stop, and Ilya's first kill may very well have started a war he wasn't prepared for. 

But he was determined to protect Shane. After the game Ilya lured the tail. He "accidentally" crossed paths with the mane outside the arena, pulling the same coffee stunt he had the first time. Ilya got him in a secondary location away from the crowd, strangling the man and dumping the body at a construction site near by. This was the second time in one week that Ilya had killed for Shane. 

 Back home, Ilya paced his small apartment. This wasn't sustainable. The SVR would send more people and eventually Ilya wouldn't be the successor. His reluctance to commit had made him a liability. Defection weighted on his mind and Shane was the catalyst. 

Ilya had to end it. It was the only way to keep Shane safe. 

He arranged the meet two days later, after confirming no new tails.

Chris: Need to talk about something. Your place tonight?

Shane: Sure. Everything ok? Miss you.

Ilya's heart ached. 

Shane's condo felt like a sanctuary turned trap. But the beautiful smile that opened the door for him always had him coming back. Only this time it would be the last. 

"Chris? What's wrong?" They sat on the couch, ginger ale untouched.

Ilya took a breath. "My name isn't Chris, it's Ilya Rozanov."

Shane blinked, conffussion knitted his brows. "What like a nickname?"

"No." Ilya met his eyes. "The tech job isn't real, I'm an intelligence agent. It's dangerous and that's why I come back with so many injuries. I can't tell you anymore than that."

Shane leaned back, processing. "Intelligence? Like...CIA?"

"Something like that." Ilya hesitated. "The point is, it's caught up to me. There have been people watching you in an effort to get to me."

Shane's face paled. "Watching? What like stalking?"

"Yes. I've handled two already. But it wont stop Shane, they will keep coming."

"What do you mean handled?" Shane asked sharply.

Ilya looked down. How could he tell Shane the truth? "It means what it has to."

"Jesus Chris- Ilya, did you kill people?"

"It was to keep you safe." Ilya's voice cracked. "But I can't keep up with it. Being with you puts a target on your back. I can't put you through that anymore."

Shane's face feel. "So you're breaking up with me? We can figure this out you don't have to-"

"No." Ilya interrupted. "Shane you don't understand how bad this is. The police can't touch this, nobody can. It's not just a stalker ok? These are trained killers watching you. the only way to keep you safe is for me to walk away...disappear from your life."

Tears welled in Shane's eyes. "But I love you, you can't just..."

"I love you too," Ilya's throat tightened. "that's why I need to leave."

Shane pulled him into a hug, soft sobs shaking his body. "This can't be real. We were doing good."

"We were." Ilya held him, memorizing the feeling. "But my world is a poison Shane, and you deserve normal. You need to forget me."

Shane shook his head. "That would be impossible."

Ilya kissed his forehead. "You'll heal with time." He left before crumbling, trying desperately to ignore Shane's heartbroken pleas. 

Out in the cold night, Ilya walked aimlessly, snow kissing his tear stained cheeks. He felt the crushing weight of his decision in his chest. Shane - the first person he allowed himself to truly love - was now apart of his past. But Ilya wasn't done. The SVR wouldn't let him get away with this. They will hunt him down, they will kill him.

But if Ilya could stay one step ahead, he might just live. 

Ilya stepped off the plane at Dulles international Airport under a new alias - Alexander Petrov; a nondescript Canadian businessman attending a tech conference in Washington DC. The win whipped across the tarmac, carrying that faint scent of jet fuel and distant rain. It was Valentine's Day, ironically enough. No chocolates or flowers for him. No waking up to Shane and kissing him tenderly.

Instead, he was carrying a go-bag and preparing to blow up his entire life. He'd left Ottawa in the dead of night, no goodbyes and no traces. Shane's heartbroken face from the night before haunted him, but the breakup was necessary to end the cycle. 

Contacting the FBI had been a calculated risk. From a burner from a Toronto motel, he did his research. He found public sources on past defectors like Sergi Tretyakov who walked into a U.S. consulate and spilled secrets. Ilya opted for a similar approach: an anonymous email to an FBI tip line, hinting at high value Russian intel without specifics. The attached proof: a redacted file on a minor op, enough to hook their attention without exposing too much. The response came within hours in the form of an encrypted link to a secure chat. A message gave instructions for a dead prod in DC to verify bona fides. 

The defection process, as Ilya knew from SVR counterintelligence briefings, was a labyrinth of verification, debriefings, and bureaucracy. It wasn't a quick handover; it took weeks, sometimes months, to weed out double agents or plants. The Interagency Defector Committee—IDC, comprising CIA, FBI, NSA, and State Department reps—would assess his value, his credibility. If approved, he would be resettled with a new identity, a new job, and perhaps a stipend under the CIA's defector program. 

He checked into a mid-tier hotel in Arlington under Petrov's name, sweeping the room for bugs out of habit. The dead drop was set for midnight: a park bench in a quiet suburb, a USB under the seat. Ilya arrived early, no tails that he could see. He left a drive with more intel and vanished into the night. 

The next day, a ping on his secure app: "Meet at coordinates. Come alone. Unarmed." A coffee shop in Georgetown, neutral ground. Ilya complied, pistol stashed in a locker en route. Inside, two agents waited—plainclothes, one male, one female, badges flashed discreetly.

"Mr. Rozanov," the man said, voice low. "We've reviewed your submissions with high interest. But we need to talk."

The initial interview lasted three hours in a back room. Ilya outlined his role—SVR sleeper, activated for cyber ops, sabotage—omitting specifics on kills or Shane. "I want out. Full defection. In exchange, everything: networks, handlers, ongoing plots."

The agents nodded, recording. "This isn't instant. Vetting takes time—polygraphs, background, corroboration. You'll be in a safe house. No contact with outsiders. It will be weeks at minimum."

Ilya agreed. They blindfolded him, drove to a nondescript townhouse in Virginia—CIA safe house, he guessed. Stripped of devices, given basics. The process began: daily debriefs, FBI agents probing his history, CIA analysts verifying intel. Polygraphs twice a week, questions looping: "Are you a double? Any loyalties to Moscow?" Ilya passed, truths laced with omissions. The IDC reviewed remotely; approvals trickled in slowly with asylum pending. 

The weeks dragged. Ilya was confined to the house but made the best of his time. He worked out in the basement, watched news in a monitored tv, and took up taking care of the lawn with the few tools he found in the shed. The isolation alone would have been fine had he not gotten messaged from Shane. Texts piled in: Ilya please talk to me/ i get that its dangerous but we can work it out/ i love you/please come back. 

The voicemails were even worse because at least with texts, Ilya didn't have to hear the pain in Shane's voice.  Ilya listened to them at night, when the longing was at its worst. He couldn't respond but dammit did he almost cave once or twice. 

The SVR hunted defectors relentlessly and Tretyakov's case proved it. He had spent years in hiding, forced to give up who he was as a person in the name of morality. 

Ilya always deleted the messages from Shane. He couldn't bare to look or listen twice. 

It was mid-March when the accident happened. Ilya had caught the news covered one morning during breakfast: NHL's Shane Hollander is in critical condition after a head-on collision in Ottawa. Authorities are looking for a black SUV without visible plates." Footage of the crumbled car flashed across the screen. 

Ilya nearly dropped the coffee mug he was holding. It was one thing for the SVR to send tails, it was an entirely different problem to actually hurt Shane. And the the worst of it all? Shane not dying at the scene was intentional. They could have easily killed him. Hell, they could have made away with Shane without the public spectacle. But this was for Ilya. This "accident" was to let Ilya know that they would not stop until Ilya was dead.  

He demanded details from his handlers: "It's them. My people."

The FBI agent, Ramirez, nodded grimly. "We're checking. If it's linked, strengthens your case."

Ilya seethed in his isolation. Poor Shane, probably hurt and scared, not understanding why Ilya wouldn't respond to him. The texts stopped post-accident. Ilya tried to convince himself that Shane was just taking his time to heal but fear of the worst lingered in the air. 

It took five weeks before Shane was released from the hospital. News headlines photographed him leaving with Rose, bruised and limping, but alive. Ilya watched every update, gut wrenching from guilt. Shane's voicemails started again. 

"If you get this..." Shane sighed, "I really need you right now."

Ilya nearly broke. He drafted a message quick message: Alive and safe. Can't come back. But he deleted it.

Week six came with asylum approval for Ilya. He would head to the Southeast with a new name and a job in tech consulting, ironically enough. 

Witness protection would keep Ilya safe...and that kept Shane alive. 

Chapter 11

Two years blurred past in a quiet, colourless have for Ilya - now legally Alexander "Alex" Petrov in America. Though the name still felt like a costume to him. The FBI and CIA had handled his resettlement efficiently, finding him a modest one-bed apartment in a sleepy suburb of New Orleans. Monthly check-ins came with his handler Ramirez, and thankfully his life had become incredibly boring. No loose ends, no traces back to Ottawa. 

The boringness of his life was deliberate. He kept routines: morning runs along the cracked pavement, grocery shopping at the small markets, nightly readings of technical journals and hockey highlights. Ilya didn't socialize. Neighbours waved but he only nodded. Coworkers invited him for beers to which he would politely decline. The isolation became his armor. He dressed plain, acted plain, and became nearly faceless. His only indulgence was hockey. 

Shane had become captain of the Centaurs during this time. They made the playoffs once, and lost, but Shane's stats never declined. Ilya watched every game he could, memorizing new lines and new scars. Shane looked older - lines around the eyes, a perpetual tiredness when he walked. But he still managed to move with grace. Rose Landry faded from from the world of hockey after the "breakup" a few months prior. Shane's personal life stayed in the dark from thereon out. 

Ilya told himself this was all for the better but the ache never dulled. Shane's last voicemails from two years ago still sat un-answered. Ilya had kept a few on a hard drive, occasionally listening when he was at his worst. It was his punishment - reminding himself that he could never have what he truly desired. 

It was a grey morning in 2028 when Ilya finally cracked. He woke from a dream of Shane's condo, the taste of ginger ale and skin, and the decision hit him like a punch to the gut. New Orleans was safe but empty. Monitoring from the FBI had kept him off of the SVR's radar, there had been no new threats in nearly a year. He could risk one visit. Watch Shane from afar, just to confirm that he is alive and thriving before leaving again.  

He booked a one-way flight to Ottawa under a secondary alias, month-to-month lease on a furnished studio in Centretown—close to the arena, easy to abandon. Departure was clean: no forwarding address, no loose ends in Louisiana. Ramirez got a vague "personal travel" notice; the handler grumbled but approved short-term monitoring.

Ottawa felt like stepping into a memory. The Rideau Canal thawed early that spring, skaters gone and paths muddy. Ilya settled into the empty studio. He bought a cheap TV for games and kept his blinds drawn. His bed was a sleeping mat in the floor next to an old dresser he picked up at a thrift store. 

The first game pitted the Centaurs against the Leafs. He sat in the nosebleeds, hood up, and heart hammering against his chest. Shane skated out, adorning the captains C on his jersey. Ilya watched every shift, every face off win, every blocked shot. Shane looked confident carrying the weight of leadership. Ilya left before the final buzzer, slipping into the crowd. 

He attended whenever he could—home games mostly, occasional road trips to Toronto or Montreal when work allowed. Always distant, always anonymous. Shane's play had matured: more assists, smarter defensive reads, occasional goals that lit the building. Ilya felt pride, guilt, and longing in equal measure. He never approached. Never texted. Just watched.

Months passed. Summer came and went—Shane's off-season quiet, no public sightings with anyone. Ilya walked familiar streets but avoided ones that would take him to Shane. The pull grew unbearable. One rainy October evening, after a Centaurs win over the Bruins, Ilya sat in his apartment, phone in hand. Shane's number stared back at him.

He typed, deleted, typed again. Fingers shook.

Not sure if you still have this number…can we talk in person? - Ilya.

Sent.

He started at the screen, breath shallow. Minutes crept by, then an hour, and two. Ilya began to doubt his decision. Shane had moved on, changed his number and finally forgot about Ilya. It was past midnight when a response finally came through. 

You know my address.

There was no warmth, no love that Shane once used to text with. Ilya's chest tightened. He knew the risk but the pull towards Shane was too strong. he grabbed his coat and walked the rain-slick streets to Shane. The condo loomed over Ilya as if judging him for staying away for so long.

The elevator up was painfully quiet. Shane stood in the entryway, arms crossed, and eyes tired. 

"Ilya." The name hung between them. Ilya stepped inside, softly closing the door behind him. They stood in silence for a moment. "So, two years of silence and you just decide to come back?"

"I couldn't—"

"Couldn't what? Risk it? You left me with nothing."

Ilya looked at the floor. "I defected with the FBI. Got relocated in Louisiana. Contact any sooner would have gotten you killed."

Shane's laugh was bitter. "I almost died anyway. You think I wouldn't put two and two together? I know it was them."

"I know." Ilya's voice cracked. "I watched the news and a blamed myself every day."

Shane stepped closer, anger spread through his eyes. "You watched? While I recovered alone?"

"I couldn't come back."

"Oh but now is fine?! Now's convenient for you?"

"I couldn't stay away Shane!" Ilya insisted. "I tried. God I tried the boring life and the boring job but I needed to see you at least once." 

Shane exhaled, tension easing fractionally. "You look the same. Tired."

"You look good." Ilya swallowed. "Captain now."

Shane shrugged. "Team needed someone. I stepped up." Silence again. Shane finally spoke. "You want coffee? Or...?"

Ilya nodded. "Coffee." They moved to the kitchen which had not changed - same layout, same mugs. Shane poured with steady hands. they sat at the island with distance between them. 

"I never stopped loving you," Shane said quietly. "I tried. I dated around but nothing stuck...always wondered if you were watching me play on tv."

"I was." Ilya admitted. "I watched every game that I could."

Shane looked at him deeply, as if searching for something. "What now?"

"I don't know." Ilya set his mug down. "I'm still monitored. I'm still a target, I just couldn't pretend anymore."

Shane reached across, fingers brushing Ilya's. "Then stay tonight. Just stay and talk to me."

Ilya nodded. They talked until dawn - about Shane's recovery, the team, the quiet years. Ilya spoke of his resentment, the isolation and his guilt. There was no touching beyond the brush and Ilya didn't push for more. 

As light crept in, Shane stood. "you can stay the night. Couch. Bed. Whatever. But if you leave again without saying goodbye..."

"I won't."

Shane nodded. "We'll see."

And Ilya did stay. He'd stay until Shane no longer wanted him. It was no grand reunion, but it was something.

The rain had eased to a soft patter against the windows by the time the clock on Shane’s microwave turned past 2:30 a.m., but the apartment still felt heavy with everything they hadn’t said.

Ilya lay on the couch, one arm folded behind his head, staring up at the ceiling fan that spun slow lazy circles. He hadn’t bothered to pull the spare blanket all the way up; the room was warm enough, and the weight of the last two years pressed harder than any fabric could. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the same loop: Shane’s face when he’d walked out two years earlier, the way his voice had cracked on “I love you too,” the crumpled car on the news footage, the hospital updates he’d read in secret from motel rooms. He kept replaying the conversation from earlier tonight too—the guarded hurt in Shane’s eyes, the careful distance he’d kept between them, the way he’d said “we’ll see” like he was testing whether the words still fit in his mouth.

Sleep wouldn’t come. His body was exhausted from the flight, the walk up to the condo with his heart hammering loud enough to drown out the rain. But his mind refused to shut off. Every small sound in the apartment made him tense: the hum of the fridge, the occasional creak of the building settling, the faint tick of the wall clock in the hallway. He kept waiting for sirens, for a knock that wasn’t Shane’s, for the universe to remind him that defectors don’t get happy endings.

Across the hall, in the bedroom, Shane wasn’t sleeping either.

He’d tried. Lay on his back staring at the same ceiling fan he’d stared at for two years, listening to the quiet that used to feel peaceful and now felt like accusation. The sheets still smelled faintly of the cedar candle he’d burned earlier, trying to make the place feel less empty before Ilya arrived. He’d changed them anyway—fresh linen, the blue set Ilya used to like—then hated himself for the instinct. He’d tossed for an hour, flipped the pillow, punched it once like that would help. Nothing worked.

At 2:47 a.m. he gave up. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the cold hardwood. The hallway light was off but the living-room lamp still glowed soft orange through the half-open door. Shane paused in the doorway, arms folded tight across his chest like he was holding himself together. Ilya hadn’t moved. Eyes open, staring at nothing. The blanket was bunched at his waist; one sock had come half off. He looked smaller than Shane remembered—leaner, sharper around the edges, like the last two years had carved away anything soft.

“You’re not sleeping,” Shane said quietly.

Ilya’s gaze shifted to him. “Neither are you.”

Shane rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah.” A long beat of silence. Rain tapped the glass. Shane took one step into the room, then another. “Come to bed.”

Ilya’s throat worked. He sat up slowly, elbows on his knees, blanket pooling in his lap. “Shane…”

“I’m not asking for anything,” Shane said before Ilya could finish the refusal. His voice was low, careful. “Not sex. Not promises. Not even talking if you don’t want to. Just… come lie down. I can’t sleep with you out here and me in there and both of us pretending we’re okay with twenty feet of hallway between us.”

Ilya looked down at his hands—still callused from gym sessions two years ago, still scarred from things he’d never fully explained. “I don’t know if that’s smart.”

“None of this has been smart since the day we met.” Shane gave a small, tired half-smile. “Doesn’t seem to have stopped us before.”

Ilya exhaled through his nose. He knew the smart thing: stay on the couch, keep the physical distance, remind himself why he’d walked away in the first place. But the pull was stronger than reason. Two years of waking up alone, of watching Shane’s games through a screen, of replaying every touch and every goodbye—he was starving for it. For the simple animal comfort of Shane’s warmth, his heartbeat, the rise and fall of his breathing.

He stood. Shane didn’t smile, didn’t say anything else. Just turned and walked back to the bedroom, leaving the door open behind him. Ilya followed.

The room smelled faintly of Shane—clean laundry, the mint of his toothpaste. The lamp on the nightstand was on low, casting long shadows across the bed. Shane had already pulled the covers back on the side Ilya used to sleep on with muscle memory. Ilya’s chest tightened.

Shane slid under the sheets first, lying on his back, one arm bent behind his head. He didn’t look at Ilya—gave him space to change his mind. Ilya kicked off his remaining sock, hesitated, then climbed in wearing the T-shirt and sweatpants he’d traveled in. The mattress dipped with a familiar give and smelled of the familiar scent of Shane's detergent.

They lay there, side by side, not touching. The rain had picked up again, drumming steadily on the window. After a minute Shane rolled onto his side, facing Ilya. Their eyes met in the dim light.

“I’m not going to push,” Shane said quietly. “But if you want to be held… I still remember how.”

Ilya’s throat closed. He nodded once—small, almost imperceptible. Shane shifted closer, slow enough that Ilya could stop him. He didn’t. Shane’s arm came around Ilya’s waist, careful, testing. Ilya let out a shaky breath and turned into him, tucking his face against Shane’s collarbone. Shane’s hand settled between his shoulder blades, warm through the cotton, thumb tracing slow circles. Ilya’s arm slid around Shane’s ribs, fingers curling into the back of his shirt. Shane’s heartbeat thudded steady under his ear. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

Ilya felt the tension bleed out of his shoulders inch by inch, like a knot finally loosening after years of being pulled tight. Shane’s breathing slowed and deepened. His hand kept up the same gentle rhythm on Ilya’s back—up, down, up, down—like he was soothing a child, or maybe himself.

"i missed this," Shane whispered eventually, voice rough with exhaustion and something deeper. "Just this."

Ilya swallowed hard. "Me too."

Shane's fingers slid into the short hair at the nape of Ilya's neck, cradling his head. "You don't have to explain tonight. Whenever you're ready...or not...just stay."

Ilya closed his eyes and sighed. "I'm trying."

"That's enough."

The rain softened to a murmur. Shane’s hand eventually stilled, resting heavy and warm between Ilya’s shoulder blades. His breathing evened out into the slow rhythm of someone finally slipping toward sleep.

Ilya stayed awake longer, listening to the rain and to Shane’s heartbeat, memorizing both. He didn’t know how long they had—days, weeks, maybe only hours before the past caught up again. But right now, in this bed, with Shane’s arm around him and the world shut out, he let himself believe it could be longer.

He pressed his lips once, very lightly, to the hollow of Shane’s throat. Not a promise. Just acknowledgment.

Then, for the first time in two years, he let himself fall asleep in someone else’s arms.

The rain had stopped sometime before dawn, leaving the windows streaked and the city outside hushed in that peculiar post-storm quiet. Sunlight filtered through the half-open blinds in thin pale bars, striping the bedroom floor and the rumpled sheets. 

Ilya woke first. He hadn't meant to sleep deeply. Actually he hadn't meant to sleep at all. But Shane's arm was still draped across his waist, heavy and warm, and the slow steady rhythm of Shane's breathing against his skin had pulled him under like gravity. For the first time in two years, the nightmares hadn't come. No dark alleys, no watchers, and no blood on his hands. Just the soft sound of rain and Shane's heartbeat against his chest.

He lay still for a long minute, catalog sensations he'd tried to forget. He shifted carefully, half expecting Shane to wake and pull away, or for the spell to break the moment daylight hit them both. 

Shane didn't wake. His breathing stayed even, face half-buried in the pillow, one leg hooked over Ilya's calf like an anchor. Ilya allowed himself to look. Shane's hair was a wreck - tousled from sleep and from the way Ilya's fingers had run through it earlier when they'd finally stopped talking and just held each other. There were new lines at the corners of his eyes, faint but visible in the morning light, and a small scar on his left cheekbone that hadn't been there two years ago. His weight had settled into Ilya, and in this moment, he was just the man who had helped Ilya at the gym so long ago. 

Ilya’s chest ached. He moved slowly, easing Shane’s arm off his waist, sliding out from under the covers. Shane stirred, made a low unhappy sound in his throat, but didn’t wake. Ilya stood beside the bed for a moment, barefoot on the cool hardwood, watching Shane’s face smooth out again into sleep.

The kitchen was quiet. Ilya moved through it on autopilot—coffee maker, filters, the same dark roast Shane had always kept in the cupboard. The machine gurgled to life while he leaned against the counter, arms folded, staring at the fridge. A few new magnets had appeared over the years: a Centaurs logo, a tiny red canoe from some team trip, a photo booth strip of Shane and a couple teammates making stupid faces. No trace of Rose, no other names or faces. Just hockey. Just Shane.

The coffee finished brewing. Ilya poured two mugs and carried them back to the bedroom. Shane was awake now, propped up on one elbow with wild hair and sleepy eyes. He watched Ilya walk across the room like he was afraid the sight would vanish before his eyes. 

"Morning." Shane said. Voice rough from sleep.

"Morning." Ilya set the mugs on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the mattress, close enough that their knees brushed. "Still milk no sugar right?"

Shane gave a small huff of laughter. "Yeah. Some things don't change."

Ilya handed him the mug. Their fingers touched—deliberately this time—and neither pulled away. Shane took a sip, eyes never leaving Ilya’s face.

“You didn’t leave,” Shane said quietly.

“I told you I wouldn’t.”

Shane looked down into his coffee. “I half expected to wake up and find the couch empty. Note on the pillow. Same as before.”

The words landed like stones. Ilya winced. "I almost did." He admitted. "I thought about how easy it would be to slip out and be a ghost again."

Shane's jaw tightened. "Why didn't you?"

"Because I'm tired of running." He said lowly. "From you. From what I want."

Shane set the mug down carefully. "And what do you want?"

Ilya met his eyes. "You. this. Even if it's just mornings for a while...even if it's dangerous."

Shane exhaled slowly. "It's always dangerous with you." 

"I know." A long silence stretched. Shane reached out to brush his finger tips along the inside of Ilya's wrist. The touch was light, as if Shane were testing the waters. Ilya turned his hand over, letting Shane lace their fingers together. 

"I'm not the same person I was two years ago," Shane said. "I accident changed a lot, and I spent a lot of time trying to come to terms with the fact that you might not be good for me."

Ilya's throat closed. "I'm sorry."

"Don't." Shane shook his head. "I know you did it to keep me safe but that didn't make it hurt less." Ilya nodded. He understood the pain, he had lived it for two years. "So what now? you're here but for how long?"

"i don't know," Ilya said honestly. "I'm on a month-to-month lease just incase shit hist the fan again."

Shane's jaw worked. "And if it doesn't?"

Ilya looked down at their joined hands. "That I stay. Until you tell me to leave."

Shane nodded and leaned in, giving Ilya time to pull away if necessary. he didn't. Shane softly pressed his forehead to Ilya's and caressed the man neck with his free hand.

"i missed you." Shane whispered.

"I miss you more."

The kiss was slow, nothing like the desperate heat of the night before. Just lips brushing and remapping terrain that had been lost over their separation. Shane's hand threaded through Ilya's hair, pulling him closer until they were chest to chest, breathing each other in. 

In that moment, the icy two years of silence began to thaw out. 

Chapter 12

The Canadian Tire Centre was louder than Ilya had ever heard it. Game seven was the Eastern Conference Final and pitted the Centaurs against the New York Admirals. The building shook with every hit, every save, every goal that they sunk. Twenty thousand voices fused together in one solid roar. Red cloths whipped in the air like a war cry. The ice gleamed under the lights, slick and unforgiving. 

Shane was on the bench between shifts, dripping sweat from his temples.  He wore a frown on his face. The series has been brutal with five overtimes, injuries piling up, and poor sleep. Ottawa had clawed its way back when an opponent tipped the puck into their own net. It was a bullshit way to score but it did count. Now it was 3-2 for the Admirals with two minutes left in the game. 

Ilya sat five rows up behind the visitor's bench - close enough to see the strain in Shane's shoulders but far enough to stay invisible. He hadn't told Shane he was coming tonight. They were still navigating the fragile new ground between them, still learning how to exist in the same city again without everything exploding. 

The puck dropped and Admirals dominated. Ottawa's defense bent but did not break - Shane jumped on for a late shift, blocking a one-timer with his shin pad, and limped back to the bench grimacing. Ilya's stomach clenched. He knew that limp was from the accident. It lingered like a ghost. 

With one minute and forty-two left, Ottawa pulled their goalie. They faced-off in the New York zone and Shane lost it. The puck hit the corner seconds before the players did. Shane fought for it and squeezed it out ot his winger. 

It was a breakaway and the building detonated. The winger deked and scored, bringing the score to 3-3 with fifty seconds left. Ilya's hands were fisted to hard his nails bit into his palms. he watched Shane skate to the bench, helmet off for a quick drink and eyes a blaze. 

Overtime was a knives-out fight. Both teams traded chances pulling their goalies. two minutes into overtime, New York's Scott Hunter took a stretch pass and sunk a goal top shelf. 4-3 Admirals. The game was over. 

The building deflated. Silence, then boos, then the slow, defeated shuffle toward the exits. On the jumbotron, the Admirals mobbed Hunter at center ice. He ripped his helmet off, hair wild, grin splitting his face. Then he turned toward the stands behind the Ottawa bench.

A man stood up—mid-twenties maybe, dark hair, wearing an Admirals hoodie and a shy, stunned smile. Hunter skated to the glass, reached up. The man leaned over the railing. Hunter grabbed his jersey, pulled him down, and kissed him—hard, unapologetic, right there in front of twenty thousand people and the national broadcast.

The arena erupted again—half cheers, half gasps, a wave of noise that was equal parts shock and joy. Both Ilya and Shane froze. For a bright second, Shane's face lit up. A small, involuntary smile that filled his heart with happiness.  But it faded quickly. He watched Scott lift the man over the glass onto the ice. They kissed again, laughing, and oblivious the the crowd. 

Shane's expression shuttered and Ilya saw it. The way his shoulders tightened, jaw locked, and how his gaze dropped to the ice as if watching became to painful. 

Ilya stayed in his seat until the building was almost empty. He waited outside the player's parking garage, hood up and collar against the wind. Shane emerged last and alone. He spotted Ilya immediately, as if he had know Ilya were there all along. They didn't speak until they reached Shane's car.

Shane unlocked the door but didn't get in. "You saw?" He asked.

"yeah."

Shane laughed once, short and bitter. "Scott Hunter just kissed his boyfriend in front of the whole fucking world and the sky didn't fall." Ilya stayed quiet for he knew what was coming. Shane looked at him with tired, red eyes. "I was really happy for a second. Finally someone had the balls to do it. Then it hit me that you and I can't have that."

The words hit Ilya like a punch to the gut. He stepped closer. "Shane-"

"No," Shane interrupted. "I know it's not possible, and I'm learning to be ok with it. I just wish the circumstances were different."

Ilya swallowed the lump in his throat. "I'm not asking you to come out."

"But I want it." Shane's voice cracked. I want to kiss you after a win, and hold your hand at the grocery store. And God I want to stop pretending that Rose and I were more than just friends." They stood there in the cold garage, breath fogging between them. "I don't know how to do this Ilya. I don't know how to love you in secret."

Ilya reached out, slow, giving Shane time to pull away. He didn’t. Ilya cupped the side of Shane’s face, thumb brushing the scar on his cheekbone.

“Then don’t stop,” he said quietly. “We go slow. We stay quiet. We figure it out day by day. But I’m not leaving again. Not unless you tell me to.”

Shane closed his eyes, leaned into the touch. “I don’t want to tell you to leave.”

"Then I'll stay."

Shane opened his eyes. They were wet, but steady. “Okay.”

He stepped forward, wrapped his arms around Ilya’s waist, buried his face in his neck. Ilya held him tight, one hand in Shane’s hair, the other flat against his back. They stood like that for a long time—two men in an empty garage, holding on to something fragile and furious and theirs.

Eventually Shane pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against Ilya’s.

“Take me home?” he asked.

Ilya nodded. “Yeah.”

They got in the car and drove in silence. Outside, Ottawa glittered under streetlights, wet and quiet. Inside, something settled between them - unspoken but firm. 

Nothing was fixed, but they were damn willing to try. 

Chapter 13

Epilogue

Three years slipped by the way good years do - quiet, steady, and without fanfare. 

The Centaurs had made the playoffs twice more in Shane's career. He had captained both runs with the same steady presence he always had. He never missed a shift, never asked for the spotlight, and never complained when his body took another hit. But y the spring of 2031, the limp from the car accident had become more pronounced. The doctors were clear: another season would lead to permanent damage to his spine. It was hard news to hear but Shane was not stubborn enough to risk it. 

It was mid April when he made his retirement announcement. The lights in the Canadian Tire Centre media room were hot, and cameras from every sports network in the country were on him. Shane sat at the table, dressed in a suit preparing to live his truth openly. 

"I've loved this game since I was old enough to hold a stick. It gave me purpose, a family, and a place to belong. I put my everything into it but in light of my health I am officially announcing my retirement."

The room stayed quiet, as reporters sensed there was more. Shane took a deep breath and looked straight into the cameras. 

"But unfortunately the world of hockey is not always so kind to those who are different. And by that I mean...I'm gay. I'm gay and I've been dating a man for the past three years. He couldn't be here today, but he is the reason I found the courage to tell you all this. I spent my career hiding, but I wont do it anymore. Not for my teammates, not for the league, not for myself."

he paused and smiled softly. the same smile he had given Ilya in that Montreal gym all those years ago. 

"That's all I've got. Thank you for everything."

The room erupted. Questions flew. Phones lit up. Twitter broke. But Shane stood, shook hands with the PR staff, and walked out. No tears. No drama. Just Shane being Shane.

The new cottage sat quietly by the lake. Big windows allowed sunlight to kiss nearly every inch of the place. Shane and Ilya had started building it nearly six months after Ilya had returned. It was done with no particular rush, just weekends spent together watching what would one day be their retirement home. 

Their wedding happened on a Saturday in late June, eight weeks after the press conference. It was a small affair with just a few folding chairs on the lawn and a simple wooden arch draped in wildflowers overlooking the water. 

Hayden and Jackie had flown in, leaving the kids back home. Shane's parents were there as well, of course. Yuna had been near tears the moment she saw her son in his suit. David shook Ilya's hand so hard it nearly hurt, pulling him into a bear hug and whispering welcome to the family. 

Svetlana arrived last, stepping out of a rental car in a sleek black dress. Ilya had asked Shane if she could come, as she was really the closest thing to family that he had. Shane was delighted to know that Ilya even had someone to consider. 

She kissed Ilya on the cheek and turned to Shane. "you are lucky man, Hollander." she said in her low, accented English. "Take care of him."

Shane laughed - the real one that crinkled his eyes. "I promise I will."

It was a short ceremony with a local justice of peace and vows they had written themselves. No grand declarations, just promises of love. 

"Ilya," Shane started, "I promise to love you through the good days and the bad. To hold space for you when you need it, and to stand beside you when asked. I promise to give you a home that is full of love, and maybe a couple of dogs."

Ilya chuckled with a tight throat. He unfolded the piece of paper in his pocket. "Shane, I promise to stay, and to choose you every day even when it scares the hell out of me. I promise to build a life with you, and be the man that you deserve."

The rings were placed, and they kissed to a soft applause from the six people that mattered the most. Afterwards they ate on the porch and cut a cake that Jackie insisted on bringing. Svetlana told stories about old training days in Moscow that made Shane laugh until he couldn't breath. Hayden and Jackie toasted with raised glasses. Yuna took photos on her phone between drying her eyes. 

As the sun dipped low, painting the river gold, Ilya found Shane on the dock. They sat side by side, feet dangling over the water, shoulders touching.

“Happy?” Shane asked quietly.

Ilya looked at him—really looked. The lines around his eyes were deeper now, but the eyes themselves were bright, unguarded.

“Very,” Ilya said. “You?”

Shane leaned his head on Ilya’s shoulder. “Yeah.”

Two months later they brought home Anya—a three-year-old rescue mutt from the Ottawa Humane Society. Black and tan, floppy ears, one blue eye and one brown. She claimed the couch the first day and never left.

One year later, the adoption agency called. 

Irina arrived in early spring of 2032, eight months old with a head of blonde curls - much like Ilya's. She came from a small orphanage outside St. Petersburg, and when the case worker dropped her off, she immediately reached for Shane. 

Shane fought back tears and gently held her. "Hey little one."

Ilya watched them—Shane cradling Irina against his chest, Anya circling their legs, tail wagging like a metronome—and felt something settle inside him. Something that had been restless for decades.

They raised her in the cottage. Shane coached youth hockey part-time, ran a small foundation for LGBTQ+ kids in sports. Ilya consulted remotely, took on fewer contracts each year. Monthly check-ins with Ramirez continued—secure video calls, routine questions, no alarms. The SVR had gone quiet after the defection dust settled; defectors who stayed low rarely made headlines.

Life became ordinary in the best way.

Some nights Ilya still woke at 3 a.m., heart racing, old instincts flaring. Shane always woke with him, pulling him closer, hand splayed over Ilya’s heart until the rhythm slowed.

“I’m here,” Shane would whisper.

“I know.”

And Ilya truly did.

Chapter 14

Join Ilya on another adventure in the sequel My Daughter's Keeper.

[Preview]

Ilya sat at the kitchen island, phone in hand, staring at the Find My Phone app. It was 11:57pm and Irina had exactly three minutes to walk through the door before she was past curfew. But the little blue dot on Ilya's phone had not moved from the same spot for twenty-three minutes. Ilya was trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, but what was his daughter doing at an industrial lot two miles always from the house party he had taken her to?

Chapter 1 now available as a separate works!