Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Original Character(s)

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Time Travel, Time Loop, Alternate Universe - Groundhog Day (1993) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Russian Doll (2019) Fusion, sort of., what if there was a god of hockey and if you fucked with the game it killed you., Episode: s01e04 Rose (Heated Rivalry), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, shane sleeps with women but it sucks, References to House of Leaves - Mark Z. Danielewski, unintentionally published the day before real groundhog day., Internalized Homophobia, Sexual Experimentation, slightly more evil second time loop that ilya is stuck in that’s more slay the princess than groundhog day, Angst with a Happy Ending

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of HR Time Loop

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-02 Completed: 2026-02-05 Words: 24,663 Chapters: 2/2

fall in love again and again

Summary

Shane wakes up on Tuesday at 5:26 AM on game day in Boston, four minutes before his alarm goes off. Shane wants it to be Wednesday. But no matter what, Shane wakes up on Tuesday at 5:26 AM on game day in Boston, four minutes before his alarm goes off.

”Fuck,” he croaks. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Chapter 1: Shane wakes up on the same Tuesday over and over again after leaving Rozanov in a rush. Tuesday is his second least favourite day of the week, so he's not really happy about it.

Chapter 2: Ilya notices Shane acts strangely. He just never remembers.

Notes

Happy Groundhog Day!

Some changes that were made to episode 4 for the sake of my sanity: Shane goes to Ilya's house after the game, not the day before. Hockey is minimal because I don't know puck.

See end note for specific warnings (with spoilers).

If the coloured text is too difficult to read, toggle "Hide Creator's Style"! :-)

EDIT 09/06/2026: A side-by-side version with columns version is available.

Chapter 1: there's that familiar taste

Chapter Notes

001

Shane wakes up on Tuesday at 5:26 AM on game day in Boston, four minutes before his alarm goes off. His shoulder twinges when he moves it from practice two days ago and his athletic tape is peeling. His mouth is full of cotton. He takes his four minutes, banked, and pushes himself out of bed at 5:30 AM on the dot.

Hayden is still asleep when he comes out of the shower so he gets dressed quickly and nudges him awake.

”Nghngh,” Hayden greets, still somehow terrible at waking up on time after all these years of needing to do it two hundred times a year.

”Get up, man,” Shane says. “You’re late.”

”Wh’tme’sit?” he mumbles, stretching for his phone.

”Six-oh-four,” Shane informs him.

”S’not’late,” Hayden groans, pulling the blanket over his head.

”Yes, it is,” he retorts, unimpressed, and rips the blanket off Hayden. “Get up.”

—

Hotels always make the routine more annoying but the routine is the routine for all but two to four weeks a year. The Game Day Routine (Hotel Var.) goes like this: Shane mixes electrolyte powder into his water while his teammates chug gatorade instead of coffee. He has a meal prepped vacu-sealed bag with his portioned breakfast burrito (four egg whites, a whole grain tortilla, spinach, and feta) which he microwaves in the hotel room, along with three clementines, a banana, and a small handful of vitamins. He reviews a tape when he eats. He replies to emails for about eleven minutes (he loses track of time thinking of a good response to a brand rep he’s in touch with). He takes a short shower because he takes long ones in the evening, shaves, and applies a generous amount of chapstick. He double checks his bag (in order). He checks if he has any texts from Rozanov (there are none). If Hayden isn’t awake, wake up Hayden. He checks Hayden’s bag while Hayden rolls his eyes (disordered but everything important is there).

He gets the same predictable seat near the front left of the bus. He checks his phone. One text from mom — Good luck today! We’ll be watching. — and then — Not that you need it. Rozanov doesn’t know what’s coming ;o) — and he smiles before replying — Haha, thanks, Mom. Love you. — and she responds with a heart.

—

Rozanov throws a wrench in the mix when he sends an address instead of asking for Shane’s hotel room, or sending a hotel number that he’d booked himself, or something else. Shane looks up the address and it’s a remote residential address up in North Boston. He blanches.

Shane: Is that your place?

Lily: yes

Shane: Isn’t that kind of fucking risky?

Lily: not like i’ll be giving u a ride home

Lily: more like you’ll be giving me a ride

(Shane quickly gives this a thumbs down.)

Lily: just take uber after game

Shane: What if I get recognized?

Lily: make dropoff a short walk idk. uber driver will not care

Shane types, and deletes, several responses. In that time, Rozanov says:

Lily: if it worries you so much i can book a room in a hotel

Shane considers it, worries at his lip, and decides, Fuck it.

Shane: No, that’s okay. I’ll be there.

Lily: see you soon ❤️

—

Warmups go as usual — drills, stretches, a few chirps here and there, pucks flying across the ice, waving at fans and signing things people throw over the plexiglass. Rozanov finds him when they make it to centre ice and can legally stand side by side before the game.

”Ready to lose, Hollander?” he chirps.

Shane rolls his eyes. “You wish.”

”What do I get if I win?” Rozanov teases, barely low enough to not get caught. It’s not incriminating but Shane bristles anyway.

”Don’t be a fucking asshole,” he hisses, skating away.

”You’ll regret saying that!” Rozanov calls after his back.

—

They lose the game 3-2. Shane stands on the ice, feeling the sweat drip down his lashes, running over every mistake in his head, before Hayden bumps his back so they can shake hands and make it back to the lockers. The tape on his shoulders is starting to seriously piss him off and he’d like it off as soon as humanly possible.

—

(Rozanov’s house is nice — really nice, all glass and an expanse of property facing the woods. Rozanov and Shane kiss, then they fuck, and Rozanov asks Shane to stay the night. Shane says yes. They nap. Rozanov makes Shane a tuna melt. They watch hockey. They have more sex. Shane leaves.)

—

Hayden is, of course, a complete nuisance when Shane gets back to the hotel. It’s as though he can sense the frenetic energy on Shane as he comes into their shared room, and keeps asking if Shane is “fine” or if Boston Lily broke up with him (impossible, because he and Rozanov weren’t the kind of thing that could be broken up in the first place). It’s so aggravating that Shane finally snaps, “Just fucking leave it, Hayden,” and Hayden is so taken aback that he backs off completely.

Shane feels guilty and disgusting — he’d rinsed off after the first round with Rozanov, but not their second go on the couch and there’s definitely come on his stomach — so he drags himself to the shower to take a midday rinse and scrubs his skin red.

Hayden is quiet when Shane emerges forty minutes later, and Shane can definitely feel Hayden’s eyes on him every few seconds. He’s so concerned and Shane is equal parts annoyed and guilty because really, he never snaps at Hayden, even when Hayden is really annoying.

”I’m sorry,” he chokes out flatly. “I… Me and my friend, we—“

”Hey man,” Hayden interrupts, voice warm and understanding, even though he doesn’t understand anything, “it’s okay. Whatever happened… do you want to talk about it?”

Shane looks at Hayden for a long minute, and imagines spilling his guts about everything that’s happened to him these last few years. I’m gay, he imagines saying, and Hayden-in-his-imagination says, just shy of patronizing, That’s okay buddy, I’m here for you. He imagines instead saying, I just got back from being fucked by Ilya Rozanov and he crossed every line and so did I so I freaked out and left, and Hayden-in-his-imagination says, What the fuck are you talking about?

Shane-in-real-life says, “No, there’s nothing to talk about. I shouldn’t have snapped, man. Just having a bad day.”

Hayden nods, and Shane doesn’t try to figure out if he believes him. “Cool man. I’m all ears if that changes.” And then he talks and talks about his wife and kids and Shane tries not to be the bad kind of friend who envies and wants and doesn’t get at all. His eyes keep landing on Rozanov’s shirt and pants, folded on the hotel chair.

—

Shane is dragged to a pity party at a bar that evening and he drinks two beers and takes three shots on a half empty stomach. The midday sandwich during the season has so perturbed his schedule he could barely stomach the idea of dinner but that might be anxiety. He checks his phone intermittently, sees the last text from “Lily” is see you soon.

He pretends he doesn’t see Hayden whisper to JJ. Someone bumps into his shoulder and he spills his third beer over the counter, narrowly missing his phone.

”Shit,” he curses, and something about the bump just tips him over — or maybe it’s the drinks? — and he starts tearing up, pressing his palms into his eyes and taking a long breath in, and letting a shaky breath out. It’s just beer on the counter, he thinks to himself, rattled. Calm the fuck down. And he does.

When he’s got his emotions in check, blinking harshly, he leaves a cash tip for the bartender and apologizes for the mess, voice mumbled and slurring, and stumbles over to find Hayden.

”Going to the hotel,” he says.

”You sure, man?” Hayden asks, half-yelling over the noise of the bar.

Shane tries not to flinch back at the sudden noise but does anyway. “Yeah. Long fucking day.”

”Alright, you want me to come with?” Hayden offers, and it’s nice, but—

“Nah,” Shane says, trying for nonchalant. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

He pats Hayden on the arm, good natured, and turns away to leave before Hayden can placate him even more.

—

He’s lying in bed and the whole day runs through his mind in a loop. They had—they had a fucking system, him and Rozanov. They had a system and it had been working for years, ever since the fuckup with Sochi and the Six Months of Silence, ever since Vegas. Hotels and Shane’s apartment were fair game but Rozanov had never ever ever invited him over. What changed? They didn’t linger, they didn’t cuddle, they didn’t talk, and they definitely did not share a meal or sleep over. What changed? It’s all Shane can ask himself — What changed? What changed? What changed?

Exhausted, he falls asleep at something past 2 in the morning, when he’s absolutely certain that Rozanov hasn’t texted him.

—

002

Shane wakes up on Wednesday at 5:26 AM the day after game day in Boston, four minutes before his alarm goes off. His arm twinges the same as yesterday. His athletic tape is still peeling. They have an afternoon bus so there’s no rush to get out the door but he doesn’t like to be in the habit of sleeping in.

Shane waits until quarter to before pushing himself out of bed, going about his travel day routine. It’s the same breakfast and vitamin slurry but he reads a chapter of his book instead of watching a tape. It’s nearly half-past six when when he scrolls through more emails than he does on a game day and sees — huh. Nothing new. The emails from yesterday, except they were sent last night, and not two nights ago, and they were unanswered. He double checks his sent folder twice, logs out of his email and syncs his inbox, and nothing. They were definitely still there and he definitely didn’t answer them.

Every physical wrongness hits him all at once — these are not the clothes he slept in, but they are what he slept in two nights ago. The feeling of athletic tape on his back is definitely wrong because he remembers taking it off after the game to shower. His hangover that should be there is entirely absent. There had definitely been two burritos this morning and not the one he should be left with.

He looks at his phone: it’s Tuesday at 6:42 AM on game day in Boston, and Shane is unbelievably late.

—

Shane has had that sort of dream before and writes it off — that sort of vivid, premonition-like dream where you dream your whole day ahead of you and when you wake up it’s like a whole day has passed. Each moment that doesn’t align sends you off kilter. It’s definitely a shit way to start a game day against Boston but Shane’s had worse setbacks before a game and sets his resolve.

The trouble starts not in the hotel room, where he and Hayden scramble to get their shit together and Shane can’t check everything so he’s all nerves when they board the bus, frazzled and taut wire, but on the bus itself. He’s in his usual spot, staring out the window and trying to regulate how fucking weird this day feels when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket.

Mom: Good luck today! We’ll be watching.

He stares at the message, then the next one. Blinking hard through the surprise, he just types back “Thanks, mom.” and turns his phone off.

—

Shane wants to have a strong resolve but he doesn’t. In the locker room, he turns his phone on and the damning text comes in right away: an address to a remote residence in North Boston. He swallows the lump in his throat and with shaking fingers does the same text conversation he had in his dream, word for word — Is that your place? — yes — Isn’t that kind of fucking risky? — not like i’ll be giving u a ride home — more like you’ll be giving me a ride — (a thumbs down) — just take uber after game. — What if I get recognized? — make dropoff a short walk idk. uber driver will not care — if it worries you so much i can a book room in a hotel.

He stares at his phone for a long time. Dreams aren’t premonitions. Game days are pretty predictable most of the time (that’s what the Game Day Routine is for) but this is not the Game Day Routine, this is something else. He scrolls back through his texts, and sees nothing to indicate that they’ve had this conversation before. His emails. His texts with other people. He tries to think back to when he checked his things that morning and can’t remember if he saw his white t-shirt and chinos, the same ones he’d left at Rozanov’s by accident.

Maybe this was some sort of… religious gift. Some sign from the universe. Shane feels like a taut rubber band. He’s never been religious — what the fuck is he thinking? He shakes his head a little, and thinks about how complicated the human subconscious is. Maybe he subconsciously picked up on things shifting dangerously these last few times with Rozanov and his dream was his brain’s alarm system to say that the lines in the sand are fading and in desperate need of a touch up.

Shane: If you could. Or I can book one? I’m sharing with Hayden this time.

Rozanov types and deletes. Types and deletes. Shane doesn’t get an answer before they’re called on the ice for warmups.

—

Warmups are a little weird — Rozanov is perfectly normal with him but doesn’t seem as into it as he did yesterday. The game is somehow worse than yesterday’s; Shane is thrown off by the way everyone moves how he dreamt — passes are the same, defense moving the same, line changes in the same way around the same time. He feels clumsy with it, not knowing when the illusion will snap and the game continues anew.

—

After the game, Shane opens his phone to a single text from Rozanov, “1532”, and the address of a nearby Hilton.

—

Shane has the same awkward conversation with Hayden before he leaves his own hotel room, and all but runs out the door before he realizes he’s wearing the same outfit as in his dream. The realization is both jarring and crushes him with relief — no one went through his phone and decided to pull the world’s strangest prank on him. His clothes smell like his clothes, not Rozanov’s, who uses a different detergent.

He arrives at the hotel, the dream-memory of Rozanov’s apartment already half-gone. He barely raps on the door once before the door is open and he’s let inside. Rozanov is in a t-shirt and dark jeans. The curtains in the room are drawn shut and midday sun just barely peaks through the edges. Shane thinks about the broad daylight of Rozanov’s house in his dream, and shakes it off.

Shane can’t help but feel apprehensive, trying to measure real-Rozanov against dream-Rozanov. Does he look more inclined to offer to make Shane food? Or ask him to stay? Shane doesn’t think so, because he looks as apathetic as ever.

”Hollander,” Rozanov says.

”Hi,” he says, and why does he sound breathless? He starts toeing his shoes off. “Sorry about earlier, I just—“

Rozanov is shrugging him off. “It is no big deal, Hollander,” he says, “I understand.”

”You do,” Shane says, relieved.

”Yes,” Rozanov says solemnly, “the price of Uber to my place is far outside the budget of poor Metros players. It is sad, really.”

Shane barks out a laugh, biting out a, “Fuck you,” before he lunges to take Rozanov’s mouth against his.

—

Shane can’t have slept with Rozanov yesterday, he finally reasons, because he always feels different the day after, loose and pliant and just shy of satisfied, instead of endlessly hungry for it. Rozanov finally presses into him and it’s as tight as it always is the first time, and he’s writhing against these too scratchy, sterile hotel sheets, thinking about the blue duvet he’d dreamt of, and then of nothing except the feeling of Rozanov inside him.

—

Shane is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, gasping for air, before he pushes himself out of the bed to rinse off. He ignores the way Rozanov frowns at his back — they usually do stay in bed after for at least a few minutes in the come down, kissing and maybe working up to a second round. Shane, today, would rather rinse off.

The hot shower helps bring him down to earth. He’s being fucking weird, and now he’s the one changing the routine. His dream is getting to his head, irrationally, and now he’s in the shower after one round of sex and they’re not going to see each other for another four weeks. He’s being ridiculous. He hadn’t even kissed Rozanov after he’d crawled off his back, and pulled Shane under his chin.

He comes out of the shower after a few minutes and sees Rozanov, frowning at his phone.

”What, bored already?” he asks, trying to sound lighthearted and casual. Teasing, even.

Rozanov looks up and watches Shane cross the room, crawl back on the bed (avoiding the wet spot) to straddle him. Shane grabs either side of Rozanov’s face and kisses him.

There’s something hesitant about the way Rozanov kisses him back at first, a moment of stillness before it’s business as usual. There’s not a lot of things that top Rozanov kissing him. He can’t believe he almost let a stupid dream ruin it for him.

Shane drags his mouth to Rozanov’s ear, enjoying how ragged his breathing is. He can feel Rozanov’s semi from where they’re pressed against each other. “Let me ride you?”

Rozanov lets out a gutted noise, reaching blindly for the condoms and lube, tearing a packet open and rolling it on.

”Fuck, Hollander,” he breathes, stretching Shane open out of courtesy for the second time that afternoon, “I thought you were done for the day.”

”No,” he huffs, pushing himself further down on his fingers. “Just—needed a quick rinse.”

”You will need another, after,” Rozanov is saying, and Shane is baffled this is even a conversation they’re having when Rozanov’s dick could be in him by now.

”Can we please skip the logistics of showering so you can—ngh—just fuck me already? Please?”

Rozanov’s eyes are dark. “Say it again.”

Shane squeezes his eyes shut. “Please fuck me, Rozanov. Please.” He sounds whiny and wrecked even to himself, and feels just shy of overstimulation where Rozanov circles his prostate, scissoring him open.

Never let it be said that Rozanov kept him waiting, when he’d asked. His dick replaces his fingers in a practiced motion and Shane is sinking down, until their hips are flush together.

”Fuck,” Shane gasps, clutching Rozanov’s shoulders. “Fucking hell.”

”Yes,” Rozanov is agreeing, though to what, Shane has no idea. He doesn’t care.

Shane would like to feel a little in control today. He’s spent every minute of today, before this precious shared time with Rozanov, beholden to a dream-version of himself and for the first time he’s actually doing something that his dream self hadn’t done at all, in a place he hadn’t been to yet. A totally new location. The relief alone is enough to motivate him to start moving in earnest.

They’re panting against each other’s mouths more than any honest definition of a kiss, and Rozanov gets the familiar glassy-eyed look he always gets when he’s close, muttering in Russian and Shane can’t understand. Shane isn’t far behind him, and doubles down his efforts, wanting to bring them both closer to the edge. He focuses on the feeling of Rozanov inside him—and when had Shane decided to hold Rozanov’s wrists by his head?—and is so intent on listening to the sounds they make when they meet each other that he almost misses it—“Shane.”

He stutters, spilling over Rozanov’s stomach with a wordless groan, and then Rozanov is taking over because Shane has slumped over him, shaking, and finishing not far behind.

Shane tolerates about ten seconds of Rozanov sweetly patting his hair before he pulls back, wide eyed.

”You should stay,” Rozanov is saying, and Shane’s ears fill with cotton.

”What?”

”Stay,” Rozanov says softly. “Your flight is not until tomorrow afternoon, yes? Plenty of time.”

Shane hauls himself off of Rozanov, getting dressed without rinsing off again, but this time he feels even more disgusting than last time. Last time? His dream.

”Hollander?” Rozanov asks, sounding completely thrown off.

”Shut up,” Shane is spitting, refusing to look at him. “Just—shut up.”

He doesn’t see what Rozanov’s face must look like. It doesn’t matter, because he’s outside in two minutes flat, uber already on the way.

—

Rozanov texts him, unlike in his dream. Premonition? Fuck.

Lily: are u okay?

Shane turns his phone off and leaves it that way.

—

Shane tells Hayden he’s in a pissy mood and that he doesn’t want to talk, takes a long shower, and eats dinner at a normal time in a normal quantity because there was no fucking sandwich to ruin things this time. He resolutely refuses to go to any bars, and at a healthy 10:00 PM, he crawls under the covers and goes to sleep, leaving his phone off.

—

003

Shane wants it to be Wednesday. Shane wakes up on Tuesday at 5:26 AM on game day in Boston, four minutes before his alarm goes off. His shoulder twinges and he’s still got this half peeled athletic tape and he doesn’t take his four minutes. He just scrolls through his emails and his texts, checks himself for bites or scratches or bruises he knows should be there, from hockey or sex or both, and finds nothing out of the ordinary for that Tuesday. He googles the date and it comes back correct for the Tuesday on game day in Boston.

”Fuck,” he croaks. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He has two burritos. His vitamins are in order. Hayden oversleeps. He has no new texts from Lily. There is nothing new at all.

—

Shane ignores everything and turns his phone off. He ignores Rozanov at warmups, Hayden’s concerned looks, and everything except the game. He thinks, logically, that the way out of the loop is clearly to win the game, because Montréal was destined to win and that’s what caused the rift in the first place.

The new anxiety, which feels laughable in the face of how fucking scary it is to wake up on your third Tuesday in a row, concerns whether he can get done for cheating if he knows exactly how the Raiders are going to play before they play.

Any investigation would draw up nothing. They got predictable, he would say truthfully. Just a lucky guess, he would lie. I saw their line changes in a dream, he would say, and then would get carted off to some facility. When he tests his theory, reacting to strategies he’s experienced but shouldn’t know, they win a game that they should have lost.

The win brings up no positive emotions. A nausea, bone-deep, rattles him, and through his team’s excited cheering and thumping and head-bumping, Shane throws up on the ice.

—

Shane asks Hayden to tell his mom he’s okay, and nearly bites his head off when he starts to ask questions about why he can’t use his phone to do it himself. This makes two Tuesdays where Shane snaps at Hayden.

Shane does not have sex with Rozanov on this Tuesday, which he calls Tuesday-003. It makes sense to number the Tuesdays because then he can look back on them and draw conclusions, or lessons. He has a notebook where he writes, and distantly realizes he will have to re-write, every Tuesday, what he did and what lessons he learned. He writes down as much as he remembers from Tuesday-001:

001: wake up at 05:26AM tues. nov. 2016 // eat burrito // make drink // watch tape // shower (s) // wake hayden // check bag // bus // text from mom // text from lily // warmup // game (lose) // press // lily house // sex // nap // sandwich // sex // leave lily house // party (drink) // sleep

The lesson from Tuesday-001 was not to go to Rozanov’s house. The lesson from Tuesday-002 was not to sleep with Rozanov (today? ever? who knew). The lesson from Tuesday-003, current Tuesday, was not to cheat at hockey.

Shane has so much free time on his hands now that he’s ignoring Rozanov and not fucking him, and definitely not going to a bar, that he starts to consider his exit strategy. If he’s in some horrible Groundhog Day scenario, he knows that there’s some perfect combination of things he can do to get out. If the rules are something else, well, he hasn’t seen an older or younger version of himself yet, so fuck it. It’s probably just Groundhog Day.

He’s got too many goddamn variables. Fucking Rozanov or not, at his house or not, nevermind whether it gets weird by the end. Winning the game or not, going out to drinks or not, getting along with Hayden or not. There may even be others he hasn’t thought of.

The exit strategy has to be to have the most normal, bog standard Boston-home-game day possible. Because Tuesdays 001 through 003 have been bizarre nightmare versions of what a typical Boston game looks like, and the universe is telling him to get back on track. So be it.

—

004: Sex with Rozanov in hotel // no shower after round one // Rozanov says my name while I suck his dick // I leave

005: Sex with Rozanov in hotel // no shower after round one // Rozanov sucks my dick so can’t say my name // Rozanov says my name when I jerk him off after // I leave

006: Sex with Rozanov in hotel // I leave after round one

007: Sex with Rozanov in my hotel room // Hayden nearly catches us // Rozanov has to hide under bed until Hayden leaves for bar // kick him out

008: Sex with Rozanov in hotel // shower after round one // make Rozanov suck my fingers while I ride him so he can’t say my name // asks me to stay anyway

—

009

Shane had always distantly wondered what it would be like, to be able to play the perfect game of hockey, or to be able to repeat a game with the exact same variables over and over again. Turns out, when it’s a game you’re destined to lose, it’s pretty fucking boring.

Shane is starting to go insane passing to Pike when he knows passing to JJ would make more sense, or vice versa. He wants to scream when their goalie leaves the net when he knows that staying put would be better. He wants to mess around and tinker with this game until it’s a work of art, but he can’t, because—

Nothing so far, no variable change, had felt as wrong as winning this game had. Shane doesn’t believe in God, or the powers of the Universe, or any great force except the power of free will and determination, but he believes in Hockey, and Hockey is telling him that this game isn’t theirs. On Tuesday-006 he’d chanced it by pushing the game into overtime (still losing) and found his hand coming away from his lip covered in blood, a nasty nosebleed. He hadn’t had a nosebleed in years.

Point taken. No need to learn that lesson a third time.

—

010–017

Shane lives through Tuesdays 010 through 017 in a sort of manic haze. He plays hockey like an absolute animal, but throws the game at the last second. He fakes an injury when a game is going too well. He actually gets a concussion on Tuesday-011, which sucked. He doesn’t know what the rules are but every time the game changes he feels this sickness take over; a metallic taste in his mouth, crusted blood in his nose, the beginnings of a headache. Minutiae hurt, and winning is… bad. Really bad. Shane shouldn’t try to win.

—

018

He’s tried every variant in the hotel by now, surely. They’ve fucked on the bed, the small couch, gagged, facing towards each other, away, one round, two rounds, three rounds, roleplaying like they actually hated each other (Shane had really had hope in this one — it doesn’t work but it’s so hot he tucks it away for later anyway), and of course, in the shower. Tuesday-018 is the last ditch effort for this hotel room, which Rozanov has probably spent at least ten grand on in total over the last eighteen Tuesdays.

When Rozanov is close, but not quite close enough, Shane lets himself say, “Ilya,” in that same breathless voice he’d used on Tuesday-001. Ilya’s eyes widen, and he comes prematurely. Momentarily embarrassed, Ilya does the worst thing he can do, which is surge up to give Shane a deep kiss, wrapping his hand around Shane and bringing him off, mumbling Shane, against his mouth.

For the first time since Tuesday-001, Shane apologizes when he leaves abruptly. It seems only fair. This one wasn’t Ilya’s fault.

—

019–023: No sex with Rozanov

024: No sex with Rozanov // Feigning sick to miss game (DO NOT REPEAT)

—

Addendum to 024

Shane can’t believe he’s saying it, but he’s fucking sick of this game. This game where he has to lose to the Raiders over and over again and can’t fix all the little mistakes that cost them. So on Tuesday-024, he sticks his fingers down his throat when he knows Hayden is in earshot of the bathroom and feigns being sick for the first time in his life.

He regrets it as soon as Hayden closes the door behind him, leaving Shane alone in the hotel. Shane turns on the channel to watch the game — has to pay for it, whatever — and has to endure the pre-game bullshit on T.V. that he hasn’t ever had to watch for his own games, letting it fall into the background.

Rozanov texts — you are sick? — and he ignores it. There’s a pressure behind his left eye when the game starts and he just… watches. The pressure gets worse. It’s a migraine, probably, if the way he can’t move his head and his jaw hangs slack is any indication. The blur on the screen keeps moving and Montreal leads. Between the second and third period, he gets another text from Rozanov — are you okay? — and he finally texts back.

Shane: I’m sick.

Lily: ???

Lily: what the fuck are you saying

Shane scowls in frustration. What’s so confusing about what he just said? He types it again.

Shane: I’m fucking sick, asshole.

Lily: i don’t understand. you are not making sense

Shane wants to cry. His head hurts and he can’t bring himself to sit upright. The third period starts. He lets the phone drop onto the bedspread and stares at the T.V. instead. Montreal wins the game. Boston leaves the ice and Shane’s phone starts buzzing. Shane closes his eyes, and stares at the starburst behind his eyelids, feeling the taste of iron behind his teeth.

—

025

Shane wakes up gasping on Tuesday at 5:26 AM on game day in Boston. He didn’t even get the rest of the day. Alright, no skipping games, either.

—

026–035

Twenty-five Tuesdays in and Shane is starting to feel just a little crazy. But around the fourth rotation of his burrito in the microwave, it hits him that this could be a gift: a perfectly predictable day with absolutely no surprises and quite literally no pressure to win the game.

Okay, so “no pressure to win the game” isn’t true — he always feels the pressure, and knowing that he can win, even if by a method so absurd as being Groundhog Day’d, is so tempting it makes him want to throw up. But if Hockey wants Montréal to lose; will go so far as killing Shane to make sure that that’s the case, well. So be it.

(Shane considers, with horror, that maybe this isn’t a loop but him creating a series of branching paths, and that he’s now left three dead Shanes in other timelines because he wanted to win a game of hockey. He decides that that idea is too unbearable and dashes it from his mind completely.)

He’s not sure what it’s supposed to solve, exactly, but he takes a vacation from trying to solve the loop for ten consecutive Tuesdays to let it play out exactly as it did the first time. Surely the sex at Rozanov’s house can’t stay interesting, but it does (or at least, it keeps feeling good). Surely it doesn’t hurt to leave after doing it so many times, but it does. It always does.

By the last perfect run, he feels like dead weight. He’s had his fill of predictability. He finds himself zoning out when people talk. The game is rote. Nothing in this run of runs is worth experiencing. Tomorrow’s today has to be different.

—

036

Shane ignores Rozanov on Tuesday-036 and goes to the party with his team to drown out their sorrows at losing the game. Well, everyone else is drowning their sorrows about the game. Shane has accepted the loss and is instead accepting that he’s going to live through this day for the rest of his life. It’s been over a month of Tuesdays. Over a month of his second least-favourite day of the week.

The party is vibrant. His teammates are hiding in some corner because they’re identifiably Montréalers and want to avoid the city’s ire. Shane doesn’t want to talk and sits at the bar.

Shane doesn’t remember the specifics of what happens next — the bartender tells him he’ll be getting off soon. Shane says something like, “Oh, okay,” and continues to sip at his beer. The bartender rolls his eyes or something, and next thing Shane knows he’s in a stranger’s apartment and there’s a stranger’s dick in his mouth.

It’s fun. Probably. Shane enjoys himself. He comes, the other guy comes — he doesn’t even get his name. Or if he doesn’t he doesn’t retain it. The guy invites him to stay until morning and he doesn’t.

—

037: ignore Rozanov // stay the night with the bartender.

038-042: ignore Rozanov // sleep around. Fuck it.

—

Shane isn’t unattractive and sleeping around isn’t that hard. He finds five people other than the bartender willing to sleep with him that night though it does involve venturing beyond the confines of the bar to other venues down the street. He only half keeps it in his mind to not give out his real name. They’re all just fine; one handsome man after another who doesn’t know what makes him tick, and he doesn’t know what makes them tick either. He’s only slept with a few people other than Rozanov and that was years ago. It’s nice enough but it’s just not—

—

043

It’s been over a month and a half of Tuesdays. Shane doesn’t really find it in him to care, a sort of bone-deep exhaustion settling in. It’s not like he needs to care, because they have to lose this fucking game.

Rozanov texts him his address and Shane gets so angry he can’t help himself.

Shane: Can’t tonight, other plans.

He knows Rozanov will understand what that means and watches the little speech bubble pop up over and over again.

Lily: With team?

Shane: Nope.

There isn’t a speech bubble. Instead, he sees a call screen appear. That’s never happened before. Shane answers almost by instinct, even though they’re on the bus to the stadium.

”Hello?” he says, voice flat.

”You’re seeing someone else tonight?” Rozanov asks, sounding flabbergasted.

“Yep,” Shane says. He is, probably. There’s no one set in stone, but Shane has at least six people that could work and that’s what he’s planning on doing, so it’s not a lie, really.

”But, I thought…” and Rozanov sounds uncertain, like he really had nothing in his tool belt to deal with Shane fucking someone else when they were in each other’s cities.

”Thought what?”

”It’s Boston versus Montreal today,” he says, like that’s self explanatory. Maybe it would have been twenty Tuesdays ago.

”I want to try something different,” he says.

”Ah,” he hears, and there’s some clicking noise like Rozanov is swallowing. “I… Okay. I thought we had an arrangement. For game days.”

”What, like you don’t fuck other people?” he says, within earshot of his teammates. He doesn’t care, because this can’t be the run. Before Rozanov can respond, he hangs up.

There’s uncharacteristic quiet around him and he turns to find the front half of the bus staring at him.

”Damn, Hollander,” JJ says, whistling.

”Pretty harsh, don’t you think?” Hayden asks. He seems concerned.

”Fuck off, Hayden,” Shane says, anger flaring. Hayden doesn’t get it. Never will. “Mind your own business. All of you.” Everyone is too surprised to say anything back, and they do.

It’s a shitty tone to set before the game. Whatever. They’re going to lose anyway.

—

Shane zones out when the girl — it’s a girl this time — puts his dick in her mouth. She’s making a lot of noise and it’s sort of performative and he can’t keep it up and he just wants to cry. He pulls her off after several unsuccessful minutes and attempts to keep him hard and says, “Let me…” and waves vaguely at her crotch, “you, okay?”

She looks uncertain. “Are you sure? Are you not, like… into me?”

Not at all, he thinks. He tries his press smile. “I can make you feel good. Return the favour.”

She purses her lips. “I think I’m okay. Sorry, I just— I don’t think—“

He shakes his head, tired but relieved. It’s hard to place why. “I get it. I’ll go.”

—

(He sees several texts from Rozanov, later, that he doesn’t read. When he wakes up on Tuesday-044, he gets the ache that he’ll never know what Rozanov said without repeating their awful conversation on the bus, but it’s for the best. Whatever’s gotten into Rozanov is dangerous, and whatever Rozanov texted him is dangerous too.)

—

044–047

Consolidated among the five Tuesdays, he sleeps with two women and fails to sleep with three. On both successful attempts, he had to think of Rozanov fucking him or sucking his dick to keep it up at all. On one of the three failed attempts, he’d brought his partner for the night off but failed to finish. It was embarrassing but at least he didn’t feel like he’d wasted their time that much. They were all only vaguely insulted by him and he was rest assured that the entire experience would be erased the next today.

—

048

He had heard the jokes about men whose girlfriends fucked them and decides he’s willing to give it a last hoorah — willing to be a joke if it means he might be straight or at the very least, like women, because hope is dwindling. Maybe he just needs something that most women don’t give.

He is deeply, horrifically out of place in a hoodie and light chinos in this kinky fucking bar he found on a random webpage. This is also his last bet, he thinks. He orders three shots from the bartender and tells the bartender who was also some kind of matchmaker, who gives a fuck, that he really needs a woman to fuck him.

She gives him a sort of bewildered look, before squinting at him. “You prepped?”

He laughs, mortified. “Yeah, obviously.”

”Well, not obviously,” she says. “But good. Sit tight.”

—

Okay, so it’s definitely… better. The woman — Sam — is introduced to him, they make nice over a drink he buys her and he takes in her short hair, small chest, wide hips. She’s wearing… a lot of leather. He thinks, vaguely, that she’s hot. It’s okay if she’s not perfectly his type, he thinks, because casual sex doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to work and he has to not be thinking about Rozanov when he does it.

There’s no illusion that this is anything other than sex. After enough idle chatter, Sam says, “Right, so you wanna go to a room, then, Sean?”

He forgot he’d introduced himself as Sean. He blinks, before saying, “Like, your hotel?”

She looks at him like he’s stupid. “No, like one of the rooms here?”

”Oh,” he says, and then wrinkles his nose. Okay, so the online search should have been a bit more thorough. “Is that like, sanitary?”

She rolls her eyes. “There’s always sani products in the room if you want to give it a wipe down yourself.”

He very much does. She leads him to the room, which they split the cost of even though he insists (“I don’t split on first dates,” she says, and when he stammers something about this not being a date, she says, “I’m just kidding. Obviously not.”) and he takes a solid five to ten minutes to wipe the place down while she gets her gear in order.

”You like doing more than just getting pegged, or just straight sex?” she asks him, adjusting a buckle.

Straight sex is sort of the whole point. “Uh, just… regular, thanks.”

Sam looks down at a paddle in her hand and sighs, putting it away. “Alright.”

Riveting foreplay aside, when Sam (fully naked) kisses Shane (fully clothed), it’s fine. Nice, even. The feeling of the fake dick poking his leg leads to him making some pretty embarrassing noises, and soon enough he’s facedown on the now freshly sanitized leather… bed? Something that reminds him of going to the doctor. Either way, he’s facedown and she’s doing something downright abusive to his prostate.

”Such a brat,” she purrs. “Look how wet you are for me, baby.”

Something about her voice pulls him out of it, and he clamps his jaw shut immediately. She pulls out and lines up, giving his ass more of a pat than a smack, and he feels completely emasculated. His face is half warm from the experience of getting fingered and stretched and half warm from just pure shame.

When she presses in, it’s agonizingly slow. He can feel that he’s resistant to it and tries to breathe through his nose and relax. She’s cooing something at him and he just wants to tell her to stop talking because it’s distracting but he’s also not, like, an asshole, and she’s seriously doing him a favour, so he bites his tongue and lets her fuck him.

It’s better than Tuesdays 043–047. It is. Physically, it’s more pleasurable and the fake dick he’d picked was bigger than whatever he’d taken in the past so the burn and stretch is intense and when she grabs the back of his head to press it into the leather, he can almost pretend that the hand is—

The thought of Rozanov comes unbidden into his mind, and before he can cast it away, he’s spilling onto the bed, gasping wetly. When did he start crying? He doesn’t remember.

—

He courteously eats Sam out, which is something he’s done before but never that well. She pulls him off eventually and says, “I need a toy to finish, sorry,” and lets him watch while she brings herself off with what is truly a contraption. He’s not sure if it’s a lie but the toy she uses is so involved he thinks it must be at least a little true.

They clean up the room together, and a lot of the tension that he sits with has left now that he’s come. Once they’re both dressed, Sam says, “Wanna grab a quick drink?”

He wants to go back to the hotel. He feels tired. And the world is going to reset when he falls asleep. But this random woman did him a favour. “Sure, I owe you.”

”No you don’t,” she says, confused. “Like I said—“

”No, I sort of do,” he says, laughing. It’s not funny but it just bursts out of him. “Seriously.”

She shrugs. “Alright, sure man. But I don’t owe you anything after.”

He shakes his head in agreement. “C’mon.”

—

They’re in a corner booth sitting like she wasn’t fucking him twenty minutes ago. She’s sipping some kind of fruity drink and he’s got an honest to goodness chocolate milkshake. He’s living a little.

”So I’m definitely gay,” he says, because he needs to tell someone, and this woman won’t remember him in a few hours. “Sorry about that.”

“Oh,” she says. “Well, that’s fine. I fuck a lot of gay guys.”

”Huh?” he asks.

”Not everyone is that strict,” she shrugs. “It’s fun to fuck around. Usually their boyfriends are watching, though.”

Okay, well that was more than he knew what to deal with. “Oh, uh… okay?”

”So, what, did you just figure it out in there?” she asks, pointing her thumb behind him.

He nods.

”Daaamn,” she whistles. “That’s kind of crazy. That bad?”

Shane flushes. “No, it was—it was probably the best it’s ever been. With, uh, a woman.” He wonders briefly if he’s gone insane, and if forty-eight Tuesdays is too few Tuesdays to go insane. “That’s how I know, I guess. I thought—“ and his eyes get hot like he’s going to cry again and not even from sexual overstimulation or something else reasonable, “—shit, sorry.”

“That’s okay, nothing to be sorry about. Happy to be the best and last, I guess, cheers,” she says, lifting her cup.

He laughs wetly, raising his back and clinking them together. “Yeah, cheers.”

”And no hard feelings, I really have fucked a lot of gay guys. Comes with the territory,” Sam says, pointing where her strap would be.

”Right,” he chokes.

They part ways with a handshake and she actually does laugh at that, though it doesn’t feel mean. Sleep comes easy when he finally makes it back to his hotel room.

—

049–062

Tuesdays forty-nine through sixty-two are a veritable mishmash of experiments, from cutting his burrito to changing his warmups to making small talk to Rozanov without fucking him to going on a long rant to the press to tying his skates differently to to to. Minute details change here and there to keep the days interesting and he barely keeps track. No matter what, he wakes up on Tuesday at 5:26 AM on game day in Boston.

—

063

Coming out to Hayden the morning of a game is a weird choice but Hayden is fine with it, supportive even, asks if Lily is a guy and connects no further dots. It feels… gross, to know that he can just test people like this and see if they’re safe. He keeps doing it anyway.

—

064

Coming out to JJ is different. They’re not roommates, so he waits until the pity party the night of the game (he has not slept with Rozanov in this run, ignoring his texts completely). JJ is confused to be pulled aside to a private corner of the bar, but seems supportive enough. Pats him on the shoulder. Says it’s not that surprising when he thinks about it. It’s not the same almost-too-supportive schtick that Hayden did, but it feels genuine. Until—

“Wait, so Boston Lily is a guy?” he asks.

”Yeah,” Shane admits.

JJ squints at him. “Shane,” he says slowly. “Is Boston ‘Lily’ fucking Ilya Rozanov?”

Shane’s mouth goes dry and his stomach falls out from under him. He thinks about denying it. But what would the point of that be? “Please don’t tell anyone.”

JJ looks furious. “Today’s game, you—you played like shit, Hollander. Everyone saw that. You were barely trying. Please tell me you did not throw the fucking game for your—“ before he can say anything, his face scrunches up like the idea of labelling Rozanov as anything other than Rozanov disgusts him.

Shane didn’t throw the game, but he didn’t exactly try, either. Who would, after sixty-three goes? That’s almost a full season of just one game. Just one shitty fucking game. He doesn’t say this.

”No, we—I promise. No,” Shane says, voice thick. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

”Caliss, Hollander,” JJ breathes, shoulders dropping. “I believe you, fuck. I won’t tell anyone.”

”Thank you,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut with relief.

”Who else knows?” JJ asks, tentative. He doesn’t sound happy, but…

”No one,” Shane says, because Hayden was the sixty-third Tuesday.

”I’m the first person you told?” JJ asks, and the tension leaves him because he sounds almost touched. Guilt crawls its way up Shane’s throat because that’s not really true either.

”Sort of,” Shane says, looking away.

JJ makes a confused noise, before laughing. “I guess Rozanov knew first, hein?”

Shane laughs weakly instead of responding.

”Is it…” JJ seems at a loss of what to say. “Are you two…?”

”God, no,” Shane denies immediately.

JJ raises his eyebrows. “Oh, so it’s a casual thing? You fucking dog, Hollander,” he says congratulatorily, bumping his shoulder with his fist.

“It… it’s not—“

”I can’t really wrap my head around it. Rozanov is such an asshole,” JJ says, and that look of disgust comes back to his face. “And he’s on the fucking Raiders, Hollander.”

Shane nods, smiling a little to himself. “Yeah, he is.”

JJ sees right through him. “Oh god, Hollander.”

”What?” Shane asks, bristling.

”I do not think you are just ‘casual’,” he says, making air quotes around it.

”We are,” Shane says defensively.

He clicks his teeth. “Long time?” It’s a lot of questions to be packed into two words.

Shane’s eyes sting and he answers all of them. “Since rookie year, so… I guess.”

JJ freezes. “Rookie fucking year?” he says.

Shane nods. “Yeah.”

“What an asshole,” JJ hisses.

He shakes his head. “I mean, kinda, but… no. It’s both of us.”

JJ gives him a pitying look and pats his shoulder firmly. “Why don’t we drink about it, yeah?”

Shane agrees.

—

He gets the reckless urge to try tweeting it out — I’m professional MLH-player Shane Hollander and I’m coming out as gay — the next experiment Tuesday but something holds him back, some fear that this will be the Tuesday that sticks makes it feel like the jenga tower that is his life will come crumbling down in one fell swoop. Maybe that’s the sign that he should do it, maybe this is the universe telling him something, but it’s the same feeling he gets when he wins this game, so he doesn’t do it.

—

065

Telling Rozanov he’s gay goes poorly. They’re at his house, and he asks if Shane likes girls. This time, Shane honestly answers, no, I don’t.

”Oh,” Rozanov says, surprised.

”You do, right?” Shane asks, staring at the fucking sandwich. He doesn’t move to take any bites.

”Yes, I do,” Rozanov confirms.

”Good for you,” he says, needlessly pissy.

”How did you… figure that out?” he asks.

”How else?” Shane asks, rolling his eyes. “I slept with people. With men it’s good, with women it’s bad.”

”You slept with people,” Rozanov says flatly. “Other men.”

”Yes, Rozanov, I figured you’d be familiar with the concept, since you do it so much. Not sure why you’re getting so fucking weird about it.”

It’s nothing more than a statement of fact. Rozanov is, in fact, acting weird. His face is shut down like he never considered Shane might also sleep with other people, too.

”You can sleep with whoever you want, Shane,” he says, and his voice is so measured, overly calm, but it doesn’t take the sting out of his first name in any way.

Shane’s eyes sting. “What the fuck do you want from me?” he asks, and he’s talking to every Rozanov at once. “What the fuck is this?” and he gestures at the tuna melt like it’s going to bite him.

“It’s a fucking sandwich, Hollander,” Rozanov defends, looking like a caught kid.

”You never—“ Shane starts, and then he’s pressing his palms into his eyes. All at once, the idea of dealing with Rozanov making up some bullshit about just having the ingredients lying around even though after enough runs even Shane can see that it’s all pre-portioned to make exactly two sandwiches, and that Rozanov never ever goes for the ginger ale he keeps in his fridge — it makes him want to throw up. “You’re confusing me. I—I have to go.”

”Hollander,” Rozanov tries, but this day is a failure. Shane goes in his own clothes this time.

—

066

”You slept with people. Other men.”

”Yeah,” Shane says calmly. This one was worth revisiting. He was too emotional last time.

”Were they good?” Rozanov asks, with a forced casualness as he searches Shane’s face for something.

”Yeah,” he says honestly. “They were.”

”As good as me?” Rozanov asks.

Outside of the context of sex, the question is too honest. They’re five feet apart on the couch and Rozanov has asked him to stay and there are sandwiches on the table that Rozanov made just for them. He notices the bread is 12-grain this time.

“They were different,” Shane says, “but sex isn’t the only thing, you know?”

It’s a terrible answer. The worst thing he could have said. For the first time, Rozanov looks away from him, and says, “Maybe you should go, actually.”

Shane blinks. “What?”

”I have something tomorrow. I forgot,” Rozanov says dully, and doesn’t bother coming up with an excuse. “Maybe best if you left.”

”What?” Shane repeats. This is the first in several dozen iterations where Rozanov kicks him out. “You’re kicking me out?”

”No,” Rozanov says. “Yes. I’m asking you to leave, Hollander.”

Shane is so taken aback that he doesn’t register until he’s halfway back to his hotel that this is the first time he hasn’t heard Rozanov call him Shane when he goes to his house.

—

067

The first thing Shane does when he wakes up is throw a few things in his bag and take a cab to the airport. By some miracle, there’s a direct, early morning flight to Moscow. They tell him once he arrives that he needs a visa that he should have started getting weeks ago and they don’t let him board. His impromptu trip dashed, he takes a cab back to the hotel and ignores the barrage of questions from Hayden and the team about where the fuck he was that morning. He ignores Rozanov.

—

068

Estonia is close enough, right? He’s not really thinking straight. There’s a connecting flight so the whole trip is going to take fifteen hours, give or take. He makes it to the thirteenth hour and change, before he feels a warm burst of wetness over his mouth. His hand comes away red. His head hurts. Oh, he thinks distantly, the game must be over. Somewhere far away, a woman is shouting for help in a language he doesn’t recognize — it doesn’t sound anything like Russian. He was never that good at geography.

—

069

Ottawa sucks in November — it’s grey and the pretty colours of fall leave even the Glebe behind. He watches the landscape pass dully by and makes the cab driver stop so he can chuck his phone in the river, because it started ringing nonstop when he landed.

The flight cost him an arm and a leg but three hours after he left the hotel, he’s back in his hometown and in front of his parents’ house. It’s midmorning on a Tuesday. His parents aren’t home because they have work. It doesn’t occur to him until he’s already in front of the door.

”Shit,” he mutters to himself. He didn’t bring his spare key and he doesn’t know where his parents keep theirs.

”Shane?” he hears, and whips his head around to see his neighbour, Ms. Molson, a portly retired woman who used to teach him math in grade four. “What the hell are you doing here?”

”Hi Ms. Molson,” Shane says, waving. “I wanted to see if my parents were here.”

”They’re at work,” she says. “It’s Tuesday.”

Like he doesn’t know it’s Tuesday.

”Oh,” he says, like it’s a surprise. “My mistake.”

”Are you alright, Shane? I thought your mum mentioned you were playing hockey in the States for the next couple weeks.”

”No,” he lies, because Ms. Molson was always pretty vocally against hockey for taking him out of so much math class, even though he had perfect tests in her class, “I’m in Ottawa this week. No game today. Thought I’d surprise mom and dad.”

”Oh,” she says, put off. “I… that’s sweet of you.”

”Mhm,” he says, looking at his watch. It’s eleven. He only has a few hours. “Hey, I hate to ask, but can I borrow your car?”

—

Shane goes to his childhood rink, not too far from his childhood home, which his parents moved out of when he was thirteen. It’s a U9 game and it’s two Ottawa teams. There’s something calming about listening to a bunch of kids cheer at each other, making shitty passes (and sometimes good ones). He can tell no one on this team is draft quality. All of these kids will go on to do something other than play in a pro league.

He just sits and watches, and most of the parents are too wrapped up in watching their kids and chirping each other to notice him. Of course, he’s a weird guy in a hoodie in the corner of the room watching a kids’ hockey game that no one recognizes, so eventually he notices some parents point at him and whisper among themselves, and then there’s a guy in front of him.

The guy is maybe in his early thirties at most, so only a little older than Shane’s twenty-four, really. And he’s a parent. Of a kid who’s playing U9. It kind of makes Shane feel sick even though half his team are dads. It almost distracts him enough that he doesn’t hear the guy say, “Hey, man, do you know any of the kids here?”

”Uh,” Shane says, pulling back his hood sheepishly, because some things are worse than others. The guy’s mouth drops open and he points, bug-eyed. “Sorry, no, this was the rink I practiced at as a kid. I just wanted to… pop by, I guess.”

”You’re Shane Hollander,” the guy says.

”Yeah,” Shane sighs. “Nice to meet you.”

”Kevin,” he says automatically, taking Shane’s extended hand. “Holy shit. You’re Shane Hollander.”

”Uh-huh,” Shane says. “Sure am.”

”You’re my—you’re my kid’s fucking hero,” Kevin says. “You’re the reason he plays hockey.”

Shane feels uncomfortable like he always does when people say things like that. “Well, I’m sure he would have picked up skates on his own—“

”No, seriously,” Kevin says seriously. “He loves you.”

”Right,” Shane says, eyeing the group of parents that can see him and can see Kevin getting increasingly energetic. “I’m trying to be a bit lowkey,” he says pointedly.

Kevin looks confused, before going, “Oh!” and turning around to give the other parents an enthusiastic thumbs up. They don’t seem to recognize Shane from where they are and turn back to the game. “Mind if I sit?” Kevin asks, pointing at the seat next to him.

Shane is too polite to say no so now he has an unwanted seat-mate. He holds back a sigh.

”Which one is yours?” he asks eventually, to fill the silence that Kevin clearly wants to fill.

”Micah’s jersey number thirty-eight,” he says proudly, pointing to the black jerseys. Shane sees him. One of the better players, he’d thought earlier, making good passes and encouraging his team. Would probably do well in juniors, might even do well in college-level. The name on the back of the jersey, hyphenated: Mason-Wang.

”Oh,” Shane says, throat tight. He hates how much responsibility he has all of a sudden. “He’s really good,” he says, because it’s true even if only relatively. “You should be proud.”

”Yeah, I am,” Kevin says, and then turns to Shane with a look of confusion. “Aren’t… the Metros playing the Raiders today? In Boston?”

Shane nods without thinking. “Yeah.”

”Aren’t you supposed to be in Boston, then?” Kevin asks, shocked.

”Maybe. Probably. Kind of going through something. Wanted to go home.” Shane feels like a kid saying it.

”Oh,” he says. A long pause. “I’m sorry, man.” It’s earnest.

”It’s okay,” he says roughly. “It’s just been a bad couple months.”

”You wanna… talk about it?” Kevin offers. “My wife is a therapist—“ he points at a tall, athletic looking woman with a slicked back black ponytail, cheering for Micah, “—but I have good listening chops.”

The guy reminds him of Hayden. Shane laughs a little. “You don’t need to do that. I can sign a jersey or something.”

Kevin looks tempted to take the offer, looking with genuine excitement back where their things are. “I mean it,” he says, after much internal consideration. “I’m a great listener. Lay it on me.”

Shane thinks about it for a couple seconds, hesitating.

”C’mon,” Kevin says, apparently comfortable enough to nudge Shane with his elbow. “It can’t be that bad.”

”It is that bad,” he says grimly. “But I appreciate it.”

Kevin chews his lips. “I know I’m a stranger and I kind of came up to you really aggressively, so I won’t push. But I hope you figure out whatever’s bothering you, man.”

Shane smiles a little. “Thanks.”

”We’re going out for lunch after the game, if you want to join us and the other parents and kids? It’s just Popeyes, but y’know,” Kevin offers.

Shane genuinely thinks about it. “I probably shouldn’t. But I’ll go down and say hi to everyone before you go.”

Everyone is out of the rink by a little past one, and Shane has signed a lot of jerseys and pucks by now. Micah, in particular, bursts into tears when he meets Shane, and Shane is so overstimulated by the whole thing he doesn’t even register the tight hug he gets. Micah’s mom, Cynthia, says something to him that he doesn’t register at all and gives him a hug, too. It’s all very sweet.

He has until about 6:42 before the Hockey rules get him. He spends nearly all of it at the rink, watching a U13 practice this time, and no one pays him any mind. His head starts to hurt at six-ish so he makes his way out of the rink and exits through a back door, letting himself pass out where no kids or parents will see him.

—

070

Shane tries not to cry when he wakes up on Tuesday-070. It’s a bad way to start his day. He hasn’t played hockey in three Tuesdays so he makes up for it by playing really good hockey this time. They lose the game anyway.

He’s just tired of this game. He’s tired of this day. He’s tired of his team and ignoring the press and trying iterations of the same bullshit over and over again with no end. Tomorrow couldn’t come faster.

—

071

Rozanov chirps him on the ice and Shane lunges at him, throwing off his gloves and throwing messy, clumsy punches at Rozanov’s chest while Rozanov, completely bewildered, barely fights back.

Of course, Rozanov is an experienced fighter, and the fight is a good excuse for a pileup. Someone — maybe Rozanov, maybe someone else — clips Shane in the side of the head and he crumples like a sack of potatoes.

—

072

That was fucking stupid, he thinks when he wakes up at 5:26 AM on Tuesday on game day in Boston. Today he runs through straight, just like Tuesday-001, just for old time’s sake.

—

073–075

For three runs, he just watches Rozanov in his home. Watches the way he walks through his house, prepares food, drinks a coke with his tuna melt. He logs every touch, at this point familiar to the point of chronic deja-vu, and notes how strong Rozanov is when he touches his hips, how careful he is when he touches Shane’s waist.

He watches Rozanov watch him. Tries to find malice in it and can’t. He sinks into the couch when he watches Rozanov get up to answer a call from his brother. It has never occurred to Shane to use his time in these loops to learn Russian or translate the call.

He hasn’t learned anything about Rozanov at all in these past Tuesdays except that a lot of this day is way more planned than he initially thought it would be, almost choreographed, and that Ilya is unhappy at the idea that Shane sleeps with other people. It’s a dangerous combination of things to know already.

Every Tuesday, Rozanov wakes up knowing the exact same things he knew about Shane yesterday, as in, Monday. Monday was ages ago, he literally can’t remember what happened on Monday. Shane felt weird — bad, even, testing Hayden and JJ. Sleeping with people who won’t have slept with him anymore tomorrow, because he won’t have really slept with them either. The idea of learning Russian to sneak into the parts of Rozanov’s life that he hasn’t opened for Shane yet, though, make him feel like less than the scum of the Earth. The idea sits with him so poorly he doesn’t consider it for another second.

—

076

He plays today. He tries to treat it more like a practice than a game. His body isn’t tired, but mentally—

His coach chews him out for piss-poor playing. He nods absently, staring at Rozanov on the ice, who’s getting checked into the boards. Keeps staring.

After the game, he pushes past the media and walks steadily towards the opposing team’s locker room. Everyone is sort of too surprised to make any moves to stop him and suddenly he’s in the Raiders’ locker room and there’re journalists there and he doesn’t care.

”Rozanov,” he calls out, and everything stops to focus on him. Rozanov looks at him like a deer in headlights, the cocky grin he had from answering the question being asked sliding off his face.

”Uh,” he hesitates.

”Let’s grab dinner, yeah? After you're done here. Captain to captain,” he says, giving the room a tight lipped smile and walking away before he can get an answer. There’s a clamour of journalists following him and he ignores them, going so far as to push one of their cameras down hard enough that it falls to the floor and breaks.

”Oops,” he says unapologetically. “Sorry, everyone, I have to take a shower.”

—

He waits for Rozanov outside the back entrance for players. He brushes off his team and his coach and his manager and journalists and everyone else just for Rozanov to appear in broad daylight with his hockey bag, looking at him like he’s lost his fucking mind.

”Dinner?” is all Rozanov can say.

”Yeah,” he says. “I’m thinking burgers.”

—

Rozanov drives them to a diner that he apparently likes downtown in something like a fugue state. “What the fuck was that?” he asks eventually.

”No one asked us questions, right?” Shane says.

Rozanov laughs a little hysterically. “People asked many questions, Hollander, what the fuck?”

”Yeah, but none of the ones we’re afraid of,” Shane retorts.

”You lose one November game and lose your mind as well, Hollander?” Rozanov barks.

”Maybe, yeah,” Shane says. “Excited about the burger, though.”

—

Shane doesn’t say a word before the food arrives. The diner itself is busy and yes, people definitely stare because anyone with an eye for the thirty flatscreens will see that the 7PM game in Winnipeg was on (Edmonton was winning), so everyone and their mother had seen what happened in the Raiders locker room. No one seems to want to interfere, though, like there was a bubble around Shane and Rozanov that might burst if they’re not careful.

Shane’s burger is disgusting and loaded with so much fat and carbs that if Shane did wake up and tomorrow was Wednesday he’d probably feel like utter shit. Today is Tuesday, though, and tomorrow is probably also Tuesday.

”Hollander,” Rozanov says, when Shane starts digging in. “What are we doing here?”

”Have you ever seen the movie Groundhog Day?” Shane asks, and Ilya scowls.

”I—what? No. What are you talking about?”

Shane sighs, pulling out his phone and using his not-greasy ring fingers to type, before turning his phone around to show Rozanov the Russian poster.

His eyes spark with recognition. “Oh, yes, I have seen this movie. A few times.”

”Good,” Shane says around a mouthful of food. “Because it’s happening to me.”

Ilya looks at him with wide eyes, before laughing uncomfortably. “Very… very funny, Hollander.”

”You’ve got a bunch of sandwich stuff in your fridge, right? To make tuna melts. You were gonna make tuna melts if I came over today.”

Rozanov looks around in case anyone is listening, before zeroing back in on him. “How—?”

Shane taps his phone. “Movie. Time loop. We’ve done this before. I need to eat something that’s not a burrito or bananas or a fucking tuna melt today.”

”That’s… you—“

”Your bed is blue. You have this weird abstract geometric painting over your couch. You have six cokes left in your fridge. You use the front right burner to cook the tuna melts,” he says in rote recitation. “Every day I wake up on Tuesday at 5:26 AM and it’s game day in Boston and every day I lose this game.”

Rozanov has this blank look on his face that Shane hates.

”You were going to ask me to stay the night,” he says flatly, because he can’t stand it. “You have clothes folded on your bedside chair that you were going to have me wear.”

Ilya’s face shifts into one of utter mortification. “I was not going to do any of this.”

”Don’t fucking lie, Rozanov,” he says sharply, and he can’t help it.

Rozanov flinches, staring at his untouched food. He has to be starving after the game but he looks nauseous.

“Ilya,” he tries, softer. “I haven’t told anyone else.”

”Told anyone what, Hollander,” Ilya says, “that you’ve lost your mind?”

Shane purses his lips, wipes his hand on a napkin, and says, “I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” and doesn’t hide when he leaves the building completely. Rozanov doesn’t follow him.

—

077

After the game, and ignoring Ilya’s texts, Shane sits in a park somewhere around where Ilya lives with a packet of cigarettes in his hands and a bic lighter. He doesn’t know how to use either of these things. He pulls one out, tests holding it and fumbles it. It lands on the ground in a patch of mud. He pulls out another, and laughs. The cigarette is kind of like Tuesday, he thinks dumbly.

Instead of fumbling holding it he just puts it between his lips and starts going at the lighter to try to get something going. It takes several attempts and his thumb fucking hurts but then he has a lit cigarette.

He takes one puff and starts coughing, gagging at the taste and the intrusion. He has no idea why Ilya does this. It’s utterly disgusting.

Shane takes puff after puff, coughing subsiding, and feels his nerves just… quiet. Not completely but he feels a sort of headrush and sees that the cigarette has been smoked to the filter. He tosses the butt and pulls out another.

He’s maybe on his third cigarette when he hears a shocked, “Hollander?” from behind him on the path.

Shane whips around and sees none other than Ilya on the path. “Oh, hello,” he says nonchalantly.

”You are smoking,” Ilya says.

”Yeah, I wanted to see what it’s all about,” Shane sighs. “I didn’t know you went running if you and I don’t have sex today.”

Ilya comes around to look at Shane on the bench. He’s in compression pants and a long sleeve compression shirt under a t-shirt and shorts, flushed from running, still panting. He’s holding his loose wireless earbuds in his hand. Shane wants to crawl all over him.

”You… you didn’t answer my texts,” Ilya says, and he sounds unsteady. “Ignored me on ice. What are you doing here?”

”Can you stop talking?” Shane asks. “You always ruin it when you start talking. Just sit here with me. Please.” And he pats the seat next to him for good measure.

Ilya’s face scrunches, insulted, but settles into something more like concern. “Did you hit your head? Are you okay?”

”I didn’t. I’m okay. Just sit down and shut the fuck up, Rozanov.”

Ilya looks behind him like someone might jump him. “Okay,” he says, with the wide-eyed confusion of someone who has no idea what’s going on.

He doesn’t quite settle next to Shane, but does sit. Shane smokes and smokes, eventually offering Ilya one. Ilya shakes his head.

”I quit,” he says. Shane’s stomach clenches.

”No talking,” Shane whispers, because if Ilya talks he’ll say something that makes Shane leave.

Ilya nods, looking at a point on the ground. Maybe where Shane’s been littering.

—

078

Shane doesn’t remember when Tuesday-077 ended, or where, but he thinks he nodded off on the bench. He wakes up at 5:26 AM on Tuesday on game day in Boston. He takes his phone and pajamas and all, walks into the hotel stairwell for a bit of privacy, and calls his mom.

She picks up after a couple rings. “Shane, honey?” she asks, sounding groggy. “Is everything okay?”

”Hi mom,” he greets, and his chest aches. “I miss you.”

She laughs, surprised and waking up quickly. “‘Miss’ me? You saw me last week, I thought you were excited to get some time away.”

He can’t tell her he hasn’t seen her or dad or heard their voices in nearly three months. It’s the longest time he’s spent away from them in ages. They usually see each other at least once a month.

”I know,” he croaks instead. “I’m sorry.”

”It’s okay, baby,” she says, sounding worried. “Are you okay?”

”Yeah,” he sniffs. “I’m just… It’s been really hard.”

”The season’s only just started, Shane,” she says, hockey mode all the way. “And you’ve been doing well, too, so unless it’s not hockey…?”

She’s leaving room for him to open up. He shakes his head like he can see her.

”No, I just… I think the pressure is just high. I’m sorry. I just wanted to hear your voice.” His voice is all fucked up and wobbly.

”Oh, Shane,” she says, and she sounds heartbroken. “I can probably take a few days off and come down to visit you on tour? Why don’t I do that.”

Normally he would jump to turn the offer down, but there’s no point. She’ll never get the chance. “Sure, mom,” he says. “That would be nice.”

—

079

He repeats Tuesday-043, against his best interests, to see what Rozanov texted him. He feels like an asshole, because he is one. He wishes he didn’t.

i don’t understand hollander

did i do something?

Then, several minutes between texts.

i don’t fuck other people when we are in the same city

you don’t have to but i don’t understand. did you meet somebody?

Another long pause and a couple missed calls later:

talk to me, please

shane

He throws his phone in the toilet and goes to sleep.

—

080

It’s 5:26 AM on a Tuesday on game day in Boston and Shane wakes up. He moves his shoulder and winces, and takes a cab to Ilya’s house, bright and early.

He knows the code now, but opts to call Ilya. He gets voicemail three times before a groggy, “Shane?” greets him on the line.

Shane wants to cry. “Ilya,” he says. “I’m outside your house. Let me in, it’s fucking cold.”

There’s a hitched breath, and the repeated crackle of heavy breathing, but Ilya doesn’t say anything.

”Ilya,” he repeats. “I’m serious. Let me the fuck in. It’s like ten degrees.”

There’s the sound of rustling and muffled curses and a few seconds later, Ilya is in front of him in boxers, blinking sleep from his eyes. “What the fuck?”

”Hi,” Shane says, and shoulders his way in. “Nice place,” he says, without looking around.

”How did you—?”

”You gave me your address a couple months ago,” Shane says, opening the fridge to pull out the ingredients for the goddamn tuna melts. “I’ll make you breakfast, sit.”

Ilya, bewildered, sits. “We have a game at four, Hollander,” he says slowly.

”Mhm,” Shane agrees. He knows where everything is by now and pulls it all out to start assembling. He’s never actually done this but he’s seen Ilya do it and he knows how to make a sandwich.

”What are you doing here?” Ilya asks.

”I wanted to talk,” Shane says. “And make you a sandwich.”

”Okay,” he says, sounding overwhelmed.

”Kind of scary, right? When it comes out of nowhere like that?”

”What?” Ilya croaks.

”Nevermind,” Shane says hastily. “We’re skipping the game today.”

That wakes him up. ”What? No we fucking are not.”

”Yes we are,” Shane says. “I’m not asking.”

”Hollander,” Ilya says slowly, starting to stand. “We are not skipping the game.”

”Fine,” Shane says haughtily, because he’d thought—maybe if he asked. But no. It was too much, even for Ilya. “You can go. I’ll stay here.”

”I—You are skipping a game? You. Shane Hollander. Is this some kind of trick? To fuck up the game for us?”

”No,” Shane says, shaking his head. “You’re going to win today. Nothing I can do to change that. Or, well, I can, but—“ and he snorts. Ilya looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “Just sit down and let me make you a sandwich, okay? How long until you have to go?”

”I have to leave at two,” he says eventually, staring at Shane while he works.

”So we have about seven hours,” Shane says, nodding. “That’s good.”

”Hollander,” Ilya says. “What is happening?”

“I want to talk,” Shane shrugs. “Let’s wait till the food is done, okay?”

“Okay,” Ilya says helplessly, while Shane holds him hostage in his own house.

—

They eat. This is a weird breakfast food.

Shane ignores the way Ilya stares at him and eats. “This is good,” he says.

”I am dreaming,” Ilya says, resolutely. “This is not normal.”

Shane barks out a laugh. “No, it’s not. But you’re awake.”

”Why are you here?” Ilya asks again.

Shane wipes his hands on his pants and leans back on the couch. He wants to say it. He wants to say that he’s in love with Ilya. It took him nearly eighty runs of the same day to realize it. He’s miserable thinking about Ilya fucking other people. He knows it bothers Ilya that he might do the same and he wants to know why. He wants Ilya to just be honest with him. He just wants this to be over. He wants it to be tomorrow. He can’t keep leaving and being left by Ilya Rozanov.

”I’m just… having a bad day,” he says eventually. “And I can’t play today. I just wanted to see you.”

Ilya is stock-still next to him. “You said you wanted to talk.”

Shane shakes his head, closing his eyes. “No. There’s nothing to say.”

”Hollander,” Ilya says, crossing the couch to him, taking his face in his hands. “What’s the matter? Why are you here?”

”You wanted me here, right?” Shane asks, voice low. He chances a look at Ilya.

Ilya looks wrecked. Confused, too. He’s looking between Shane’s eyes like they might tell him something, searching. “Of course.”

”That’s what all the ginger ale was for, right?” Shane pushes.

Ilya looks constipated at the question. “Well—“

”Don’t deflect, Ilya. Just tell me,” he insists.

”I know you like them,” Ilya mutters.

Shane sighs breathily, and leans over to kiss Ilya.

It’s different. The slide of their mouths is soft and dry and Ilya tastes like fucking tuna and cheese. And morning breath. It’s gross. He loves it.

He kisses Ilya for a long time before Ilya pulls him back. “Let us brush our teeth, Hollander, please,” he begs, and Shane laughs.

”I didn’t bring a toothbrush,” he says.

”I have a spare for you,” Ilya promises, and when Shane sees the spare, identical to the one he keeps in his bathroom at home, nothing like Ilya’s, it’s all he can do not to start crying right there.

—

Every time Shane has come to Ilya’s house, it’s about the same. And look, he loves riding Ilya, but when Ilya pushes his back into the mattress and works him open until he’s completely boneless, a near useless participant in his own pleasure, it’s hard to beat.

Ilya doesn’t feel half as careful with him now as he usually does on the Tuesdays where Shane goes to his house. He thinks back and recollects the tentativeness, the forced casual touches and pretend-spontaneity that he hated before, saw as some kind of manipulative trick, and sees now as endearingly careful. It’s almost funny how bad of a job Ilya did at it.

Shane pulls Ilya down for a sloppy open-mouthed kiss when he starts feeling close. He loves the feeling of gasping into Ilya’s mouth, sloppily pressing their tongues together. He focuses on the electric feeling of Ilya’s dick hitting his prostate and doesn’t take his eyes off Ilya as he moans through his release.

Ilya slows down once he’s worked through it and Shane pats his thigh. “Keep going,” he gasps, and Ilya squeezes his eyes shut, tucking his face into Shane’s neck and groaning when he comes after only a few short thrusts. Shane is sensitive and hisses when he pulls out, but welcomes the pressure of Ilya on his chest. He has about thirty seconds before the come starts to piss him off.

He barely opens his mouth before Ilya is pushing himself up shakily, and saying “I will clean, wait here.”

Shane never lets Ilya wipe him down because it’s always a little too embarrassing. He does this time, letting Ilya wordlessly make passes with a rag until he’s satisfyingly not gross. “Thanks,” he whispers hoarsely.

Ilya gives him a long look. “Is no problem, Hollander.”

—

They make their way through a second round, a couple hours of television and cuddling, a handy in the shower, and lunch (cereal), when Ilya asks, while they’re spooning on his bed, “Are you really not playing today, Hollander?”

Shane is quiet for a second. “No, I’m not.”

“I don’t believe you,” Ilya says, laughing. “This is a dirty tactic from you, to freak me out before the game. Worse than sexting before, you know,” he teases.

”I’m serious,” Shane says. “I’m not going. It doesn’t matter.”

The air is tense. “What doesn’t matter?”

”This,” he says, and Ilya stiffens. “Not—not you. Not.” Shane’s throat feels tight. “Tuesday. This Tuesday doesn’t matter. None of them do.”

”What are you talking about?” Ilya asks carefully, like he’s walking on eggshells. “Is this an English thing I don’t know?”

Shane shakes his head. He tells Ilya exactly what he’s observed from the Raiders’ strategy these last seventy-odd games. How he moves, how Marleau moves, how they plan on swapping their goalie out, whatever. “It doesn’t matter,” he finishes, “because the Metros have to lose today.”

Ilya sounds on edge when he next speaks, “How do you know any of that, Hollander?”

Shane shakes his head. “Nothing matters. Even here, nothing matters.” His cheeks feel hot. He’s crying.

”Hey,” Ilya says, pulling his face towards his again. He looks worried. “Shane, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

”It’s nearly two,” Shane tells him.

”I don’t care,” Ilya says. “Tell me what’s wrong with you, Shane.”

Shane shakes his head. “I don’t know what will happen if you don’t go to the game. You need to go.”

Ilya looks conflicted.

”I’m okay,” he says. “My coach knows I’m not playing,” he lies.

”He does?” Ilya says, skeptical.

”Yeah,” Shane promises, feeling guilty for it.

”Okay,” he says, shoulders dropping. “Shane,” he says, for the first time since that morning, “promise me you will be here when I come back.”

”I will,” Shane agrees, and Ilya kisses his shoulder, then his mouth.

”You will tell me what’s wrong when I come back?” Ilya asks, voice hoarse.

Shane nods, looking at the wall. “Yeah, I will,” he says.

”Okay.” Ilya sounds relieved. “We will talk later.”

”We will,” Shane says. “I love you.”

Ilya’s eyes widen. Before he can say anything, his eyes dart to Shane’s mouth. “Fuck, Shane, you’re bleeding.”

”Huh?” Shane says, and pain blooms behind his left eye.

Ilya is pulling down his lip, launching himself back to get a better look. He says something in Russian, but Shane is already fading. He’s asking questions that Shane tries to answer but the words come out garbled. He doesn’t remember what Ilya asked. He seems panicked. That’s silly, though, because tomorrow is today. We all get second chances.

Huh, he thinks. Two things he’s not allowed to do today.

—

081

It’s Tuesday at 5:26 AM on game day in Boston. Shane wakes up. He follows the Game Day Routine to a tee. He wakes up Hayden at the same time, mixes his electrolytes the same way, answers the texts the same way on the bus, even though his heart isn’t really in denying Ilya’s house anymore. He chirps back like he did, all those Tuesdays ago. Warms up the same way. Plays the same way. Loses the same way. Peels off his athletic tape. Goes to Ilya’s house.

Ilya is pretending to be casual today, like he’s done on every Tuesday except for Tuesday-080. That’s okay. Shane knows Ilya is taking a risk, doing this. Shane has rejected him something like fifty times. Maybe a little more. He was right to be nervous. But Shane is used to the idea of staying with Ilya overnight on the eighty-first Tuesday. Routine has always comforted him but this one is a bit stale by now.

Shane straddles Ilya, licks into his mouth, lets Ilya call him Shane, calls him Ilya back. He tucks his face into Ilya’s neck and they just sit there, not saying anything at all.

He doesn’t know when he’ll get to tell Ilya he loves him. It’s obviously not today. Maybe he has to wait for Ilya to say it first. The uncertainty that he never will makes him sick. But the idea that he might not know what will happen tomorrow is such a relief he almost prays for it. Maybe eighty consecutive days of staring at Ilya’s cross is getting to him.

Ilya pets his hair while they lay in bed, trying to sleep. They haven’t had anything resembling a proper conversation and the anxiety that he’s going to wake up and tomorrow is going to be Tuesday again hits him harder than it did on Tuesday-003. But he focuses on the feeling of Ilya’s hand in his hair. The minutiae of Tuesday on Game Day in Boston after Shane decides to stay hasn’t had a chance to be dissected because he’s only lived it once. There’s probably a million ways he could tweak things and find a way out. Or maybe he can just enjoy Tuesday evening after the game in Ilya’s house selfishly, over and over again; as many times as the universe will let him.

—

???

Shane wakes up at 9:18 AM on Wednesday in Boston, in a California king bed, sunlight streaming over his face. The relief is so palpable that he isn’t ashamed to admit that he sobs while Ilya, confused, cradles his head against his chest and mutters soothingly in his still-incomprehensible mother tongue.

”What is wrong?” he asks, sounding frightened.

”Nothing,” Shane hiccups between gasps of air. “Fuck, Ilya, it’s fucking Wednesday.”

”Yes, it is,” Ilya confirms. “Wednesday comes after Tuesday. They teach you this here, yes?”

If Ilya never understands why Shane bursts into a new set of tears, it doesn’t matter. He pulls Shane against him again, shushing him and petting his hair.

”I’m so glad I stayed,” Shane says after a long time, exhausted.

”Me too,” Ilya says, sounding surprised himself. “Are you okay?” Ilya asks.

”Yeah, fuck. I’ve never been better,” he says honestly.

”Are you going to do that every time you stay over?” Ilya asks tentatively. “Not that it would be a problem, but… I would like to know.”

Shane laughs into Ilya’s neck, who shivers at the puffs of air, and snakes his arms around Ilya as tight as either of them can tolerate. “No, no. Today is special. Total one-off. Never happening again.”

Chapter End Notes

please let me know if you liked it or if you spotted time loop inconsistencies hah. i did my best; this is one of my favourite genres and it's so fun but so hard to write. Also, imagine if every time, house of leaves style, the word “Tuesday” was blue and the word “Hockey” was red. Edit - i think im hilarious.

Shane can’t say he loves ilya because some things are sacred (the cottage)

Chapter 2: all the times i've waited patiently for you

Chapter Summary

Rozanov notices Shane acting strangely, dozens of times. He never remembers, because they never happened.

A coda to chapter one.

Chapter Notes

WARNINGS: Essentially the same warnings as last time, but the character death is more explicit. It's impermanent because of Loop Logic but still. More detailed descriptions of what happens to Shane in his loops.

002

Shane definitely seemed off. Insisting they met at a hotel had definitely been a bit painful — he’d pitifully stared into his meticulously organized fridge that morning before leaving the house — but not out of the question. But, still — Ilya had seen Shane’s apartment. What was so weird and risky about seeing Ilya’s place? It was a nice place.

He’d played like shit, too, missing easy passes and seeming distracted on the ice. In the hotel room, now, he seems less able than usual to let go. He doesn’t seem to be having a bad time (far from it) but he seems to be wrestling with something. As soon as they finish, instead of their usual come-down cuddle, Shane leaps from the bed to take a shower, leaving Ilya alone with his thoughts. It’s just long enough to make him self conscious but then Shane is back and crawling into his lap and kissing him, so he tries to forget about it.

He’s pinning Ilya’s wrists above his head and that’s enough to make Ilya’s head spin. They didn’t do that. He wanted to ask if Shane would do it again, next time. Maybe.

He’s half delirious when he mumbles Shane’s name. Shane’s eyes go wide and he comes, quivering against Ilya’s chest as he finishes, too.

Ilya doesn’t expect Shane’s reaction to being asked to stay. They’re both sweaty and tired, it’s cold out, and it would be nice. If he stayed. He doesn’t expect Shane to back off like a scared animal, grabbing his clothes, telling him to shut up. Shane never said that in earnest. Ilya obeys, jaw clamping shut. Ilya can only watch him put his things together and rush out the door.

He texts Shane later and gets no response. Ilya’s not much of an early sleeper and he wants to get the discomfort out of his skin, maybe go to a club or bar or something, but by 10:00 PM, it’s lights out. His eyes are closed before his head even hits the pillow.

—

003

Ilya watches Shane throw up on the ice. Asshole. First he wins and then he can’t even be celebratory about it?

Concern nags at him anyway. Shane had never answered his text earlier and dodged him at warmups but they’d passed back hotel numbers for years and they always showed up. Until Shane throws up he assumes they’re still going to fuck.

Shane doesn’t respond to any of his follow up texts. He must be really sick. Rozanov thinks about the tuna stacked in his fridge. He’d spent too long looking for an elevated recipe compared to what he usually made himself and now it was going to go to waste. He’d still be eating it, obviously, but what was even the point?

If Shane isn’t going to come over he may as well go for a run. The pub was fruitless and not the best place to pick up — he has to make sure their goalie isn’t the one picking the pity party spot if they’re going to wallow — so he went home alone. The air is sharp and cold, and there’s no one in the parks.

—

005

It’s not like Ilya has never sucked Shane off before, but Shane’s not usually this insistent about it. No need to ask him twice, though. It’s Ilya’s pleasure.

—

007

Ilya Rozanov is going to strangle Hayden Pike to death. Shane is so spooked he kicks Ilya out even though neither of them have come. He jerks off in his shower, alone, after the world’s worst and most humiliating uber ride home, and goes for a run.

—

009

The Metros rush around one another, high in the reverie of winning. Whatever. Fuck them. Ilya had been sure the game was theirs.

Shane isn’t standing with his team. He’s staring at the net where the game winning puck still sits, and he’s just… staring at it. He watches Shane for a minute before he goes inside, and sees him wipe at his face roughly before turning to skate quickly towards his own locker room.

Shane ignores his texts that night.

—

011

Hollander is playing with a reckless abandon that would almost make Ilya proud if it didn’t scare the hell out of him. Ilya is the one between the two of them who checks every chance he gets; Shane is the one who takes the strategic route, winding around on fast skates. They’re barely into the second period when Hollander is dragged off the ice with a concussion, throwing up on the way. The game is paused to clean the ice, which always throws their momentum off.

—

015

Ilya skates up to Hollander. The Raiders won and he should be celebrating with them but Hollander is still on the ice, staring at the net where he had narrowly missed a goal by shooting the puck just a smidge to the left. Hollander’s shoulders are heaving like he’s breathing heavily.

”No need to cry, Hollander,” Ilya calls out as he skates. “Always next game, though of course we will beat you then, too.”

It’s not his best work but it gives him an excuse to get up close, and then he’s stopping in his tracks. Shane is staring glassy-eyed at the net, clearly breathing shallowly, and there’s a thin trickle of blood coming out of his nose.

”Hollander?” he prompts, getting ready to call for a medic.

Shane’s head whips towards him. He blinks, and the glassiness goes away. Then he’s glaring at Ilya like Ilya said something really nasty, instead of doing good sportsmanship or whatever. “Fuck off,” he’s spitting, and then he’s gone faster than Rozanov can tell him that his teeth are red.

Ilya barely celebrates, going to the lockers to grab his phone before the press barrage him.

Ilya: are you fucking okay???? you were bleeding

He answers immediately.

Jane: Fine. Bit my tongue.

Ilya: your tongue is in your nose now??

There’s a long pause. And then:

Jane: I get them sometimes. Leave me alone.

Ilya can’t leave him alone but he doesn’t have much of a choice, because Shane never shows up and never responds to another one of his texts that night.

—

018

Why did he leave? Ilya doesn’t understand. He knows he’s not easy to like. But for just a second, he thought—

—

024

Jane: I ii s

Ilya stares at his phone, typing out a quick ??? to communicate to Shane that that was nonsense. Something was wrong. He’s sweating, and the clock is ticking down, but something is wrong with Shane.

Ilya: what the fuck are you saying

Jane: On ducking ssik ;a shle

Nonsense. Ilya is called back to the ice and he’s forced to put his phone back in his cubby. Montreal knows Shane is sick, he thinks. Someone is probably with him.

(Ilya never hears the news that Hayden found Shane keeled over in an odd position on his hotel bed, white duvet stained red. He’s too busy falling asleep.)

—

037–042

Ilya sits in his apartment alone and stares at unanswered texts. Shane has never ghosted Ilya like this. Maybe he’s a hypocrite for it but they’ve been good — for two years, it’s been really, really good. He looks at his fridge. He looks at his phone again. He feels a bit ridiculous. Normally he’d just go to a club or bar or something but Shane just ignoring him set a deep pit in his stomach. He just wanted the day to be over, which wasn’t fucking fair, because Boston had won. He should be celebrating. He goes for a run instead.

—

043

Ilya sends an absolutely pathetic barrage of texts after the call. The image of Shane with someone else on their day makes him sick with jealousy. It’s — they had an arrangement. Ilya was a flexible guy. He never cared about plans changing. But Montreal and Boston games were sacred. He looked forward to them for weeks on end. He loved teasing Shane over text. He loved how literally Shane responded to it.

The phone call was uncharacteristic. Cruel, even. Shane had never thrown Ilya’s promiscuity in his face before, not even once. Ilya can’t sort out how he feels about it; whether Shane using his own behaviour as an excuse to bail was deserved or whether he was right to feel the ugly pit of jealousy sink in his stomach.

Is Shane going out with a man? A woman? Plans scream “date” — it’s even worse than if he was just flaking for a different hookup. If Shane is dating, why is he dating in fucking Boston? Of all places?

He has a game in a few hours. He needs to focus on the fact that they have a game together in just a few hours. Maybe he can catch Shane on the ice. The timing is just so awful. He had wanted to try and change things between them a little, open up the possibility of them doing a little bit more than fucking and running. What happened? Shane was flirting with him over text just yesterday. He considers sending another text.

Ilya looks at his fridge.

—

048

”Did you hear?” Marly says, laughing already.

”Hear what?” he all but snaps.

Ilya is pissy because Shane is fucking ignoring him. Asshole. He’s supposed to be celebrating his win today by fucking Shane into next week but instead he’s drinking shitty vodka at an Irish pub with his team. He loves his team but he had other plans. At least the shitty drink is tamping down the uglier, more hurt feeling that Shane had booked himself busy on the day they were supposed to meet. They had talked about today; teased what they would do. Or, Ilya had teased — Shane had said, “I want to try being on top this time.” And then, almost immediately after, “I mean, like cowgirl. Or boy. Whatever.” It was so unsexy and shouldn’t have turned him on as much as it did.

Anyway. He was looking forward to it. An explanation would have been nice.

Marly rolls his eyes and shows him — papped pictures of what was definitely Shane Hollander walking into a decently well known and expensive BDSM club. According to the headline. He was in day clothes, making no attempt to hide.

Ilya can’t even form words, just taking the phone to gape at the article.

”Fucking crazy, right?” Marly is cracking up. “Who knew Shane Hollander was a goddamn freak?”

St-Vincent, to Marly’s left, snorts, “Hard loss today for those fuckers, maybe he’s getting punished by mommy.”

Ilya sees red, just a flash, hissing, “Shut the fuck up.” He must sound really serious, because they back off. He can’t get the image of Shane Hollander, bent over a table in a fancy club, tied up, ass red. He wishes the vague image of a woman with a paddle wasn’t also there, unavoidable.

His team opts to leave him alone on account of his aforementioned pissiness, moving away to laugh at Shane’s expense. Ilya wonders if this was Shane’s plan in the first place, to blow him off to get, what, dommed by some dominatrix in Boston? He could do that if Shane asked him to.

The more logical part of his brain kicks in to say that the loss today seemed to affect Shane more than losses against Boston usually did — he’d looked rattled after the game-ending buzzer sounded and had skated straight to the locker rooms. Maybe this was Shane’s version of a complete and total mental breakdown. He sends Shane a text — are you losing your mind hollander?? — you were spotted, now everyone knows you are secretly a kinky boy.

He types, and then deletes: if you wanted to be spanked tonight you should have said. no need to be embarrassed. He needs a fucking drink or ten.

—

058

Shane asks Ilya “how he’s doing” on the ice. Ilya is doing fine. Is Shane doing fine? It’s hard to say, because after that, and a piss-poor attempt at asking him about his “hobbies” (???) Shane ignores him for the rest of the day. It’s so out of character Ilya can’t even properly mourn not getting to fuck him, because Shane is clearly going through something and Ilya doesn’t know what kind of weird energy that will bring into the bedroom on what was supposed to be a pretty important day for them. He decides to go for a run instead.

—

065

Shane throws it in his face that Ilya is the one who sleeps around and doesn’t really try to hide it. He swallows the hurt, and says coolly, that Shane can sleep with whoever he wants.

Ilya doesn’t own Shane. They have no agreement. There is no reason to think that Shane takes this thing between them any more seriously than Ilya does should. Except for, of course, the way Shane looks when they’re together, or the way he kisses him on the mouth like he’s a fountain in a desert. Maybe this is why people impose those stupid rules for their fuckbuddies, that they don’t kiss or cuddle. It had never been an issue before. He wishes he could go back in time and tell seventeen year old Ilya Rozanov that Shane Hollander is different: do not kiss him. Knowing himself, he never would have listened. Who would, when Shane Hollander looks like that?

He doesn’t expect Shane’s explosive reaction. “What the fuck do you want from me? What the fuck is this?” he’s yelling, waving at the sandwich.

Ilya is not a hospitable person. He can host a party but he can’t host a guest, not really. But he knows that if you want to make someone feel welcome, you make them food. He remembers his mother, when she was more lively, would sit at their dining table, folding dough and humming for when her friends would come over. He can’t make pelmeni, or bread, but he can make sandwiches.

”It’s a fucking sandwich, Hollander.”

Shane’s face collapses, and he palms his eyes like Ilya is giving him a headache. The thing is, Ilya knows Hollander is easily spooked. He thought if they sat far away enough, talked about girls, ate a sandwich, drank sodas, that would be okay. That’s what friends do. He does all of those things with his team. Hollander is acting like he’s an alien from another planet; like he invented the concept of eating a tuna melt and watching Buffalo eat shit on a flatscreen.

Hollander rushes out with barely another word. Ilya can’t stop him. He sits for a while, a little broken hearted, before throwing his plates in the garbage and the pan for good measure, and gets his gear on for a run.

—

066

As good as me?

Ilya regrets it as soon as he asks. Shane’s face is carefully blank. He had expected at least a little surprise when he brought the topic up but gets none, like Shane expected this, even though they never talk about girls or who they see apart from one another. Ilya isn’t secretive but he is so, so curious about Shane.

He almost expected that Shane would shyly admit that Ilya was the only person he ever saw. The truth is much worse, even though Shane doesn’t owe him anything. He feels green with jealousy and hates himself for it.

Asking if they were good is an act of self punishment for caring. It must be, because Shane says, “They were different, but sex isn’t the only thing, you know?”

Ilya looks at the floor. He can’t stomach looking at Hollander’s too-casual face, his arms crossed over his chest. It’s the worst sort of confirmation of Ilya’s greatest fear — all he is to Hollander is a decent opponent and a dick. He can’t even take pleasure in the inadvertent admission that he’s the better of Hollander’s lays because he has all but said that he doesn’t really like Ilya. Not enough, anyway.

He tells Hollander to leave and doesn’t look at him when he does. He throws out the plates they ate off and the pan, too, and goes for a run.

—

067

Someone takes a video of Hollander at the airport that morning talking to a desk agent for a flight to Moscow that would have boarded about forty minutes after the video was taken. Hollander looks like he was arguing with the agent, hands gesticulating while he tries to say something. The audio isn’t there because the video was taken from a distance and the quality is too poor to lip read.

The Raiders are too baffled by the gossip headline to even make fun of Hollander about it. Like, seriously, what the fuck? Because he was at the game. He definitely played the game against them, looking pissed off the whole time and maybe a little nauseous because he doesn’t get a single point that night.

Ilya does mean to ask him about it, but Shane gives him the cold shoulder, and he never gets the chance. Why Moscow? he wants to ask. Why were you at the airport when we have a game? Does Shane even speak Russian? He realizes, with horror, that he actually isn’t sure. Like, he probably doesn’t, but the possibility, however remote, is there. Why fucking Moscow?

Ilya never finds out.

—

068

Hollander disappears off the face of the planet. No one knows where he is, he’s not at the game, his team seems to be rattled with concern. Ilya tries to ask Pike and gets nothing in response but profanity.

He’s worried. He wasn’t worried before, only a little hurt (a lot hurt), but seeing the Metros clearly shaken by the absence of Shane made him nervous.

It’s in the news, later that night, after their game. Shane Hollander, 25, Dies While on Flight to Estonia. Cause of death yet to be determined. The source was a representative for Air France. Ilya thinks it must be some hoax when his teammates go silent at the pub that night, staring at their phones. His throat is dry. The TVs switch to a dubbed over interview with a clearly shaken flight attendant who had been on that flight, saying, “It was sudden. The woman next to him started screaming. I won’t get into detail for his privacy but it was a sudden medical emergency. It’s up to the coroner but I don’t think he survived the landing—“ and then there are arms around her and the cameras are being waved off. Ilya barely registered that her hands were clean but there was clearly a dark substance staining her uniform that wasn’t supposed to be there.

“Holy fuck,” he hears someone say. He’s not sure who. He’s staring at the TV.

His last thought before the periphery of his world turns white is, Estonia?

—

069

Hollander disappears—

He’s worried—

On Twitter, in the locker room between periods, he sees a collage of images on his timeline of Shane and several families with small children, as well as two full teams of U9s. It’s trending under “Shane Hollander Missing From Game With Boston, Visits Local Ottawa Rink.” Fucking Ottawa?

The thought that Shane had skipped a game — it was obvious he had skipped — was foreign to Ilya. Unheard of. Shane never skipped a game. He played injured, sick, tired, everything. He played mildly concussed for half a season and still cleared most players. Clearly Shane was having some kind of mental breakdown.

There’s hushed and not-so-hushed gossip about it among the Raiders. The Metros, who’ve clearly gotten the memo that their captain abandoned them, play pissed off and messy. They lose 6-1 to the Raiders.

Shane’s phone goes straight to voicemail every time he calls. Pike gives an interview in clipped words about the game, “No comment” this, “No comment” that. He looks pissed, sure, but he also looks really worried.

When they go to the pub, after the game, Ilya is staring at his phone, scrolling his timeline and reading all of the speculation about the pictures. They were originally posted by one of the dads of the players — “So cool that @SHollanderHockey came to his childhood rink to watch our kids play their butts off! Definitely the highlight of my champ Oliver (#21)” — and innocuous alone. The speculation is addictive because there’s just no getting ahold of Hollander, and everyone is just a little worried and a lot baffled, and then a hush falls over the place when the bartender turns up the volume on the TV.

It’s a reporter at what’s clearly an ice rink’s parking lot. There’s police cars in the back, lights flashing, and caution tape being put up.

”… shocked to discover 25-year-old hockey phenom, Shane Hollander, deceased in a parking lot at the back of this local rink in Kanata. The coroner declared him dead on the scene after a 9-1-1 call was made by a local reporter looking to interview Hollander following his unexpected absence at today’s game between the Raiders and the Metros in Boston.

“No official statements have been made about the cause of death, and his parents have been reached out to for comment. Unofficially, the police have yet to rule out foul play, though one officer who wishes to remain off the record said he ‘wouldn’t be surprised if he — Hollander — overdosed’.” CTV remains on the scene…”

Ilya feels bile at the back of his throat. “Holy fuck,” he hears Marly say.

”There has to be some kind of mistake,” Ilya’s saying, and his voice is coming from somewhere else because there’s no emotion to it and it’s so far away. “Shane does not do drugs. He would not—“

”I mean, how do you know?” St-Vincent says. “It’s not like you knew him, and the guy was super tightly wound up. Maybe he just went freak-mode or something and finally lost his shit.”

”Shut the fuck up,” Ilya is snapping, and suddenly they’re both on the ground. Ilya doesn’t remember lunging at him. He’s clumsy and Marly easily pulls him off, even though he’s writhing and trying to make himself as difficult as possible. Security is on them quickly.

Something is wrong. Shane can’t be dead because that doesn’t make sense. He’s still struggling in Marly’s arms but he feels lethargic and weak — realizes he has since the game ended, really — and it’s not long before his head is lolling, and he’s falling asleep.

—

071

“Wow, Hollander, looks like you finally got the stick out your ass today,” Rozanov says, because Hollander’s been playing like a madman. But he has to add, “Too bad your game is shit and you will lose. Don’t worry, I can make it up to you later.”

It’s completely out of left field when Hollander drops his gloves and grabs at Ilya’s jersey. “Woah—“ he starts, barely able to follow.

He does make a semi-honest attempt to diffuse because he doesn’t want to knock out Hollander’s teeth — that will make the blowjob he wants later kind of gross and probably painful in a bad way for Hollander. But Hollander doesn’t give him much of a choice.

St-Vincent is a dickhead and gets himself a penalty for high-sticking and knocking Hollander in the temple. Ilya watches with horror as Shane just crumples. The fight quickly breaks up after that and Ilya does manage to knock out a few of St-Vincent’s teeth. He just can’t help it.

In the penalty box, Ilya watches the clock — ten minutes. Nine minutes. Eight minutes. Seven….

Ilya falls asleep around the six minute mark.

—

073–075

Hollander is watching him. He usually does, but there’s something calculating behind it that makes Ilya feel uncomfortable and flayed open. Whenever he offers something to Hollander—a drink, food, his bed, a seat, clothes to wear while his get washed—his eyes squint, just for a second, and Hollander takes too long to answer. Rozanov tries not to squirm.

—

076

Ilya’s team doesn’t even know what to say, or to chirp, when Hollander leaves the Raider’s locker room. The air is dead for a second, and then a reporter is asking him in a rush of words that Ilya can barely parse: “Will you be taking up Hollander on his offer?”

”Uh—“

”Is this a show of sportsmanship from Hollander, or do you think—“

”Hollander is very sportsmanlike,” he tries, but he’s not focused, and cameras are flashing in his face. “I think this is some trick by sore loser of embarrassing game.”

”Will you go?” someone asks again.

”Of course, if he is paying,” Ilya says, grinning in a way he hopes is convincingly casual. “Who would turn down free dinner? Not me.”

The reporters laugh, placated if only somewhat. They’re shooed out the room.

The tension in the air is still there from his team. “What the fuck was that, Roz?” Marly asks from his right.

”I can tell you, swear on my life, I have no fucking idea,” he says.

“Fucking freak,” someone mutters, and Ilya doesn’t catch who.

Outside, Shane is leaning against a wall and scolling his phone, looking like he’s answering emails. Who the fuck are you? is what Ilya wants to ask. Instead, all he can choke out is, “Dinner?”

Ilya’s the one with the car so he’s the one who drives them to a diner he likes at Shane’s request. Shane has asked him to dinner and they’re visible in a car that is famously Ilya’s because it’s orange and Shane had apparently broken a reporter’s camera and risked a multi-game suspension and fine and they were being photographed and he looked completely nonchalant. What the fuck?

—

No matter what Ilya tries, Shane is an impenetrable wall. Eyes are on them, and it’s nerve wracking watching Shane, who eats bird food most weeks a year, who turned down a protein bar once because it had too much sugar, orders a big, greasy fucking burger and a chocolate milkshake, and curly fries. The waitress is starstruck and Shane pays her no mind. He remembers, distantly, that he was voted hottest in the MLH a few years back.

Confident-Shane, who seems to have sprouted into existence a half hour ago, is hot. It’s usually a Shane that exists on the ice and the ice alone, and Ilya is only a man. He squirms in his seat because he’s wearing skinny jeans, like an idiot.

He can only be so turned on though, because Shane is acting objectively insane. He can’t even touch his food.

And then Shane is showing him the poster for Den Surka — “Groundhog Day” — a movie he thought was pretty good. And then Shane is saying that that’s what’s happening to him. Which is a weird idea for a joke, but—

“You’ve got a bunch of sandwich stuff in your fridge, right?” Ilya’s stomach sinks to the bottom of the ocean floor. “To make tuna melts. You were gonna make tuna melts if I came over today.”

The anxiety that someone will hear them and suspect seems to have passed entirely from Shane to Ilya, because Shane is speaking loudly enough for anyone to hear but doesn’t seem to care. It’s one thing to be confident and cool and sexy or whatever, but their jobs were still on the fucking line here.

”How—?” he tries, but Shane cuts him off, tapping his phone with impatience.

”Movie. Time loop. We’ve done this before. I need to eat something that’s not a burrito or bananas or a fucking tuna melt today.”

Ilya blinks. “That’s… you—“

“Your bed is blue. You have this weird abstract geometric painting over your couch. You have six cokes left in your fridge. You use the front right hob to cook the tuna melts. Every day I wake up on Tuesday at 5:26 AM and it’s game day in Boston and every day I lose this game.”

Ilya’s throat is dry. It’s all true. Shane has never been to his house before and there are no pictures of his home interior on his Instagram. He doesn’t have Shane on Snap. Something is deeply wrong with Shane. Has he been stalking Ilya? That doesn’t make sense either, but who would tell him any of that? He wants to leave the booth and leave Shane to his mental break or whatever this episode was, but he also definitely does not want to do that and feels shitty for the instinct. He’s halfway through weighing the pros and cons of asking for takeaway boxes to maybe let Shane go through this episode in his house, instead, even though there’s now a stalking risk, when Shane says,

”You were going to ask me to stay the night. You have clothes folded on your bedside chair that you were going to have me wear.”

Ilya has security cameras outside. There are none in his bedroom and no desktop with a webcam in there that someone could hack, either, that would show that little pile. There was no one in his life who knew about Shane. There is no one he would tell about wanting to invite Shane to stay the night. No one knows that Ilya wants this except Ilya. And—

“I was not going to do any of this,” he lies.

Ilya likes Shane. Shane is clever and funny and despite being one of the most antisocial people he knows can somehow see straight through his bullshit like Ilya’s made of glass. He always gets the sense that Shane knows when he’s lying. What Shane is bad at, thank fuck for Ilya, is knowing what he’s thinking. He’s only good at finding the mismatch.

“Don’t fucking lie, Rozanov,” Shane is hissing. There’s no hiding.

It’s proof enough. Ilya’s brain knows this. He feels sick to his stomach.

”Ilya, I haven’t told anyone else.”

Ilya’s breath hitches. Ilya. Told anyone what? That he’s repeating his days, or that Ilya’s a stupid fucking idiot that wants more than he can have?

Ilya’s haunches go up, and Shane’s face shuts down.

”I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” he says, and makes a clear move for the exit, footing Ilya with the bill. Ilya doesn’t follow him, and feels too numb to be angry. So much for a free meal.

He needs to go for a fucking run.

—

077

The park near Ilya’s house is usually empty around this time of night — it’s close to midnight and a great time to run after going to a pub and getting a little buzzed. The win today was good. Shane ignoring him wasn’t.

Running isn’t his absolute favourite exercise for cardio — he’s got an exercise bike and it’s good for watching movies and his personal favourite on days when he just wants to quiet his head: Hell’s Kitchen. Everyone is so shitty and angry with each other, and it’s so loud and everyone is just yelling at one another, so it’s easy to focus on that and not how much money Alexei is begging for that month.

Tonight it’s about forty-five degrees — seven degrees, his mind supplies — and he knows it’ll be nice on his skin when he works up enough of a sweat. He can listen to music and run and try to forget that Shane was ghosting him and he had a bunch of ingredients in his fridge that he didn’t want to use anymore.

Outside smells like cold and dirt and dying grass — classic November suburban park stuff — and then, suddenly, cigarette smoke.

He almost pays it no mind until the familiar silhouette of the smoker on the bench appears and it’s—

“Hollander?” he can’t help but say, pulling out his headphones and coming to an abrupt stop. His calves will punish him for it later.

Hollander whips around to look at him and says, too calm and casual considering he’s Hollander and he’s holding a cigarette and there’s smoke coming out of his mouth, “Oh, hello.”

Ilya must be dreaming. “You are smoking.” Ilya had dreamed of Shane many times and in many absurd situations: saving him from drowning and giving him sloppy mouth to mouth, giving him CPR after giving him the heimlich (and sloppy mouth to mouth), and kissing him sloppily, on the mouth. In none of his wildest dreams had Shane ever smoked. He thinks in many dreams Shane is telling him not to smoke.

“Yeah, I wanted to see what it’s all about,” he sighs.

What? Ilya blinks dumbly at him.

”I didn’t know you went running if you and I don’t have sex today,” Shane says, like it’s a sentence he’s supposed to understand.

Ilya walks around to face the bench properly and so Shane isn’t turning over to look at him over the back of the thing. He’s still catching his breath. The lights of the street lamps are behind Shane so he can’t read his expression anymore and it makes him uneasy.

”You… you didn’t answer my texts. Ignored me on ice. What are you doing here?” he says insecurely, and feels dumb for it. He had sent Shane his address that morning and gotten nothing. After enough waiting at home after the game, he’d expected he wasn’t going to have Shane that night. He didn’t expect Shane to be—

“Can you stop talking? You always ruin it when you start talking. Just sit here with me. Please.”

Ilya is two parts hurt and three parts confused. Ilya had been told to shut up his whole goddamn life, hated it more than most things, but other than some playful jabs that never felt serious, never by Shane. You always ruin it when you start talking. He didn’t want to ask what exactly he was always ruining.

”Did you hit your head?” he asks instead, because Shane is acting out of character. Too calm, too nonchalant. And fucking smoking. “Are you okay?”

“I didn’t. I’m okay. Just sit down and shut the fuck up, Rozanov.”

There is something wrong with Shane. Ilya looks around but the park is empty. He wonders if the cigarettes are laced with something but they smell normal and look like they’re coming out of a pack that looks freshly bought. He sits and can’t settle down. He stares at Shane, trying to read his face, but he can’t because he’s completely backlit by an orange halo.

Shane holds out the pack. “I quit,” Ilya tells him.

Ilya can’t see his face when he whispers, “No talking.”

Ilya clamps his mouth shut. He looks at the ground and sees at least four smoked down butts, and two full untouched cigarettes. Shane doesn’t smoke and he definitely doesn’t litter. Whatever this is, he’ll stay with Hollander until he can take them both to his house and get warm, because it’s cold and they’re both outside and the sweat is going from cooling to making him shiver. Maybe he can make them those melts after all.

He’s lost in his head, staring at the ground, when he hears the slide of fabric against rough wood, and Shane is nodding off on his shoulders, fast asleep. The cigarette in his hand falls limply to the ground.

Ilya moves to pick him up, carry him the half mile to his apartment (or call a cab, but this idea is more romantic) but his limbs feel sluggish and heavy, and he doesn’t feel cold. He might sleep, too.

—

078

Shane loses the game and bursts into tears, right there on the ice. He looks exhausted. Pike is there quickly enough, but if it were up to Ilya, it would have been him instead.

—

079

Ilya sends an absolutely pathetic—

The phone call was—

Is Shane—

He has a game—

Ilya looks—

—

080

It’s a little past six in the morning when he wakes up to his fucking phone ringing. It’s Jane. Ilya blinks past sleep and confusion and answers, barely noticing a barrage of missed calls.

”Shane?”

”I’m outside your house. Let me in, it’s fucking cold.”

He does need to be told twice, but he’s at the door in less than a minute, retching with how quickly he gets up and how groggy he is. Ilya has always needed a lot of time to wake up and he’s running on like, three hours at most.

”What the fuck?” he says, taking in Shane’s sleep rumpled frame.

”Hi,” Shane says, shouldering past Ilya. “Nice place.”

”How did you—?” —know where I live? he means to ask. He didn’t even tell Shane he meant to invite him over to his place today, and maybe ask him to stay the night if they were flying out later tomorrow. Shane didn’t have his address.

”You gave me your address a couple months ago,” Shane says, and that is not fucking true. He’s in Ilya’s kitchen, opening the fridge and pulling out the incriminating tuna melt prep he’d made yesterday. “I’ll make you breakfast, sit.”

It’s dizzying. He sits. He can barely process that Shane is effortlessly walking around his kitchen like he knows where everything is, and he clearly does, because he doesn’t have to check where the frying pan is or the cutting board or anything.

He must be dreaming. Shane sometimes did this, in his dreams — not make him a tuna melt for breakfast, but walk into his house and kiss him silly. That part hadn’t happened yet. Maybe if Ilya was patient.

But even in his dreams Shane still acted like Shane. This Shane moved with no awkwardness to him at all, like he knew exactly what he was doing and how he wanted to do it. Off the ice or outside of the bedroom, Shane was never like that.

”What are you doing here?” Ilya asks.

”I wanted to talk,” Shane says. “And make you a sandwich.”

”Okay,” he says, overwhelmed.

”Kind of scary, right? When it comes out of nowhere like that?”

”What?” Ilya croaks. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Of course this is scary. He thinks Shane might be having some kind of mental break but he’s too groggy to do anything about it.

”Nevermind,” Shane says quickly. “We’re skipping the game today.”

That wakes him up. The one thing they were on the same page about, always, was hockey, and how fucking seriously they took it. If this was a dream, this was not Shane. He half expected Shane to turn around from the pan to reveal a stranger’s face. ”What? No we fucking are not.”

”Yes we are,” Shane says. “I’m not asking.”

”Hollander,” Ilya starts, standing. “We are not skipping the game.”

”Fine,” Shane relents, sounding pissy. Ilya is surprised he gives up so quickly, because he’d just sounded so certain. “You can go. I’ll stay here.”

”I—You are skipping a game? You. Shane Hollander. Is this some kind of trick? To fuck up the game for us?” It’s the only thing that makes sense in Ilya’s mind — years ago, Ilya had sexted Shane before a game and that was before Ilya came over to his apartment in Montreal for the first time. Maybe this was some twisted way to give payback. But even thinking it he knows it’s not true because Shane is not a dirty player, and definitely not to this degree. Something is wrong.

”No,” Shane says, shaking his head. “You’re going to win today. Nothing I can do to change that. Or, well, I can, but—“ and he’s laughing out of nowhere, sounding delirious. Ilya’s concerns skyrocket. “Just sit down and let me make you a sandwich, okay? How long until you have to go?”

”I have to leave at two,” Ilya says after a few seconds, staring at Shane maneuver his kitchen easily.

”So we have about seven hours,” Shane says, nodding. “That’s good.”

”Hollander,” Ilya says. “What is happening?”

“I want to talk,” Shane shrugs. “Let’s wait till the food is done, okay?”

“Okay,” Ilya says helplessly, while Shane holds him hostage in his own house.

—

Ilya stares at Shane who eats the tuna melt with a sort of messiness he hadn’t really seen from Shane before. He can barely get a bite into his mouth — it tastes like sand.

”This is good,” Shane says suddenly.

”I am dreaming. This is not normal,” Ilya tells himself, staring at the plates. The Shane in front of him can’t be Shane. The sun is starting to peak over the horizon.

”No, it’s not,” Shane laughs. “But you’re awake.”

”Why are you here?” Ilya tries again. He searches Shane’s face, whose confidence just seems to slip away. The fidgety Shane he knows, the one who takes his time before looking Ilya in the eye, the one who chews his cheek when he needs to think about something, who sometimes chews his upper lip when he’s really lost focus, returns to Ilya. He’s almost relieved, until Shane is speaking.

”I’m just… having a bad day,” Shane says. “And I can’t play today. I just wanted to see you.”

Can’t play. “You said you wanted to talk,” he pushes. Maybe they were more on the same page than he had hoped. He had planned today, carefully, around the idea of bringing Shane into his life bit by bit without scaring him off completely. Maybe crawling into Shane’s life, too. It occurred to him sometimes that for all of their intimacies, he didn’t know small things like Shane’s favourite colour, or favourite cities to visit, or favourite flavour of ice cream.

Shane shakes his head, eyes closing. “No. There’s nothing to say.”

He’s is pulling away from Ilya quicker than he can react. The tone of Shane’s voice sets off alarm bells in his head. “Hollander,” he’s saying, moving to close the gab between them. In a gesture that’s too soft for where they are, Ilya’s hands cradle Shane’s face. Of course he’s done it before, but always with the intent to kiss Shane. Shane’s erratic behaviour is enough to move the plan forward a few dozen steps, even if it risks spooking Shane completely. “What is the matter? Why are you here?”

Shane’s eyes open, slowly, and Ilya feels Shane’s hot breath, tuna and cheese and morning and it’s fucking gross; Shane hadn’t even brushed his teeth before making his way over? he thinks, and the wrongness of it all makes the hairs on his neck stand up. Shane takes his time before looking at Ilya with wet eyes. “You wanted me here, right?”

Ilya stares at Shane. It’s his chance to laugh it off and push Shane back, and not to fall for the obvious trap that is admitting he wants Shane more than he’s allowed to. He looks for a trick and finds none, chancing it with, “Of course.”

“That’s what all the ginger ale was for, right?”

Ilya feels hot, fingers twitching. There are twelve — now eleven — cans of cold ginger ale in his fridge that he didn’t and probably wouldn’t ever drink. “Well—“

”Don’t deflect, Ilya. Just tell me,” Shane says, and his fingers brush Ilya’s waist.

Ilya doesn’t back down from a challenge. Even shitty, world-ending challenges. If he fucks this up, then Shane might leave him. He doesn’t know what will happen if Shane leaves. “I know you like them,” he says, because that’s all he can think to say.

Shane sighs, shoulders dropping with tension Ilya hadn’t noticed he was carrying, and he’s moving forward and sliding his lips against Ilya’s.

Shane always tasted like mint before they met. His mouth was probably the cleanest of anyone Ilya had ever kissed, except for an erratic hygienist he’d met once, years ago. He had always noticed it and appreciated it. In his quiet, embarrassingly fond moments, he’d imagined Shane standing over a sink with a toothbrush, floss, a waterpick, mouthwash, and a tongue scraper. He’d seen all of these things in Shane’s bathroom and took note of them. He’s not allowed to have that picture of Shane in his head, of course, because he’d never seen it — they’d never woken up together and wanting those slices of domesticity was too much.

This kiss is ga-ross. He can’t help but kind of love it, and knows all at once that he’s completely fucked.

”Let us brush our teeth, Hollander, please,” he begs, pulling back. Shane laughs at him.

”I didn’t bring a toothbrush,” Shane tells him.

Ilya drags him to his ensuite, which had a double sink. “I have a spare for you,” he admits, hoping Shane doesn’t say anything. The spare is exactly what he saw Shane had at his apartment — he’d stopped at a Pharmaprix after one of their meetups and bought four, just in case. He doesn’t look to see Shane’s expression.

—

Shane is needier even than usual. They’ve spent so long sitting and eating and having half of a conversation that Ilya’s not sure if it counts as the pliant kind of morning sex he’d been imagining having with Shane, but Shane seems almost exhausted, writhing lazily while Ilya stretched him open.

The invite to touch Shane had never been clearer. He barely needs to check in, can tell just by how Shane keens that he wants Ilya badly. He’s barely lined up and started to push in when Shane is dragging him down to practically pant into each other’s mouth, licking at each other sloppily, just like Ilya dreams sometimes. He feels drunk. Shane usually needs encouragement to make noise and not cut himself off, but needs none today. He’s louder and breathier and more desperate with it, and his eyes are glassy.

When they finish, Ilya gives himself a few seconds to enjoy the post-release haze before he gets up to get a washcloth to wipe Shane down before he starts complaining, like he always does. He tamps down his surprise when Shane doesn’t protest, for once, when he offers to wipe him off.

”Thanks,” he says instead, hoarsely.

Ilya takes him in — his flushed chest, his pouty mouth, his relaxed body in Ilya’s bed. “Is no problem, Hollander,” he says, around the frog in his throat.

—

Shane initiates a second round by pulling Ilya’s ear into his mouth and giving him a slightly more adept blowjob than usual. Shane suggests they watch TV:“There should be a rerun of last night’s game between Toronto and Ottawa,” he says, “or we can watch some Chopped reruns.” Like that isn’t one of Ilya’s favourites. Shane leans down and pulls Ilya’s arm around him to honest-to-God cuddle and even looks comfortable the whole time, making idle commentary about the show like he isn’t lighting Ilya’s brain on fire. They eat lunch (cereal: frosted flakes and whole-fat milk and Shane doesn’t complain) and shower and Shane gives him a slightly more adept handjob than usual, and then drags him to bed so they can spoon.

It’s everything Ilya had wanted from today and more, and they still had the entire day after their game and maybe tomorrow, if Shane stayed.

It’s nearly half past one. He’ll need to get ready to leave soon. It’s been a really good morning, objectively, but—

Something is wrong with Shane. He’s not himself. And Shane, who is clever, had distracted him with sex and cuddling and food and he felt oafish and silly for forgetting that Shane, at a little past six that morning had said—

“Are you really not playing today, Hollander?” he asks, accepting that he needed to break the fragile peace between them if he wanted to get somewhere.

Shane tenses under his arms. “No, I’m not.”

”I don’t believe you,” Ilya says, trying to see in a last-ditch effort if this is some kind of joke. “This is a dirty tactic from you, to freak me out before the game. Worse than sexting before, you know,” he tries.

”I’m serious,” Shane says. His voice sounds hollow. Ilya can’t see his face. “I’m not going. It doesn’t matter.”

The air seems to leave the room. “What doesn’t matter?”

‘It doesn’t matter,’ is what Irina Rozanova, his precious and now-dead mama would say on her bad days, before trying to placate him by sending him off to play or do a menial task for her, like buying eggs from the corner shop.

”This,” Shane says vaguely, and Ilya stiffens. “Not—not you. Not—“ Shane is trying to explain, like he can sense what Ilya must assume. Shane swallows audibly. “Tuesday. This Tuesday doesn’t matter. None of them do.”

Tuesday. Shane says ‘Tuesday’ like the word itself is evil. It doesn’t help Ilya’s earlier thought that Shane might be suffering a mental break of some kind. ”What are you talking about?” Ilya asks carefully. “Is this an English thing I don’t know?” It’s an opening for this to all be explained away as some kind of joke or language barrier.

Shane gives Ilya, without leadup, an overview of the Raiders’ strategy for their game today. Tells him about injuries their team had kept under wraps, that Ilya knew had no textual documentation. Tells him their line changes and what they were anticipating from Montreal that day. How he was going to play their faceoff. Where Marleau would be on the ice and when. It’s the most evidence-of-collusion speech possible.

Ilya feels himself go cold. Shane is not a cheater. There was nothing he believed in more than the integrity of the game, and he told Ilya basically as much by telling him that he “didn’t need to play so dirty” because Ilya was himself a great player. Even though most if not all of what Ilya did was perfectly legal and how the game was designed to be played. The idea that Shane had sought out Raiders game strategy was unthinkable.

But then he finishes by saying, “It doesn’t matter, because the Metros have to lose today.” And if Shane isn’t a cheater, he’s definitely not a cheater who would work on behalf of the fucking Raiders.

Ilya shifts uncomfortably. “How do you know any of that, Hollander?”

Shane shakes his head again, and his shoulders are shaking. “Nothing matters. Even here, nothing matters.” Ilya feels, where Shane’s cheek meets his upper arm, a burst of wetness. Shane is crying, and his voice sounds very far away.

Something is wrong with Shane. ”Hey,” he says, pulling Shane’s face towards his again. Shane’s eyes are glassy but he looks distant — it’s not a panic attack. Something uncharacteristic and strange is happening to Shane and he just wants to understand. “Shane, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

”It’s nearly two,” Shane tells him.

Ilya didn’t know a lot about what makes people snap or go mad. He knew a little — sometimes, someone sick might seem like they’re on top of the world, before crashing hard and fast. It had happened to his mother. In the days before she finally took her own life, she had seemed happy and floaty, more present than she’d been in years. They had all been relieved and no one had thought to ask why, after years of being practically bedridden half the time, she had found it in herself to take Ilya to the park to kick a football back and forth with him, to buy Alexei clothes, to cook their family dinner.

”I don’t care,” Ilya says. “Tell me what’s wrong with you, Shane.” He tries to say it as forcefully as he can to hide how much his voice is shaking.

Shane shakes his head. “I don’t know what will happen if you don’t go to the game. You need to go.”

Ilya doesn’t know what that means.

”I’m okay,” Shane assures him, seeming to come back to earth just a little to pet the side of Ilya’s face. “My coach knows I’m not playing.”

”He does?” Ilya says, skeptical. He’d come over so fucking early. Boston would have been told last night if Shane wasn’t playing, or he would have gotten some kind of notice from his coach.

”Yeah,” Shane promises.

Shane isn’t a liar, so despite his gut, Ilya tries to believe him.

”Okay,” Ilya says, relaxing a little, but not before saying, “Shane, promise me you will be here when I come back.”

It’s a childish fear. He doesn’t want Shane to sneak off. They don’t have time to talk, usually, and he’s said the most to Shane today than he ever had. Even though he could not, under any circumstances, skip today’s game — not even for a strange, uncharacteristically forward Shane laying naked in his bed — he wanted to get every minute he could with him and unpack whatever this was.

”I will,” Shane agrees, and he means it. Ilya can just tell.

Ilya kisses his shoulder, relieved, and then his mouth. ”You will tell me what’s wrong when I come back?” Ilya asks, throat clenched.

Shane nods, looking at the wall. “Yeah, I will,” he says. This, he believes less. But one step at a time. Ilya is only so greedy.

”Okay, we will talk later,” he breathes, kissing him again.

”We will,” Shane says. And then the atom bomb falls: “I love you.”

Ilya is—surprised. Shane has done a lot today that he wouldn’t expect, but nothing as earth-shattering as this. Ilya doesn’t even get the chance to be happy about it because he looks at Shane’s mouth, wanting to kiss him and kiss him and keep kissing him, and then he sees it.

A steady stream of blood is coming out of Shane’s nose. There’s a little trickle out of the corner of his cheek, too. “Fuck, Shane,” and he sounds wrecked, “you’re bleeding.” Instinctively, Ilya tilts Shane’s head up so it doesn’t pool back into the cavity of his head.

”Huh?” Shane gargles, and he doesn’t sound like he’s with Ilya at all.

Ilya is not certified for a medical emergency. He tries asking Shane a number of questions — Who is the president, Hollander? Please tell me. — Who is worst Metro? — What size blade do you wear? — What is your favourite brand of tape? — and gets nothing but mumbles and he sees one pupil as blown out, the other a pinprick.

”What the fuck is happening, Hollander,” he says in Russian, scrambling for his phone with shaky hands. He needs to call an ambulance. His hands are slick from holding Shane’s face, who seems to be fading from consciousness quickly. “Shane, stay with me,” he says.

”Oh-khhh,” Shane slurs, while Ilya dials the emergency line. He doesn’t care who sees them.

”9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

”My friend,” he’s gasping into the line, shaking Shane to keep him awake. “Something is wrong. Need ambulance quickly quickly quickly, he is bleeding. From mouth.”

Ilya hasn’t been this scared in a very long time. The woman tells him an ambulance will be five minutes to his location and he tells himself he’ll sell this stupid fucking house and get an apartment right next to the hospital even if the sirens keep him up all night for the rest of his life.

”He does not have five minutes! You have to fucking tell them to go faster.”

Shane, half-faded, laughs inexplicably. Ilya wants to cry. Probably is crying. “Shane,” he says. “Please stay awake, moy lyubov.”

The operator talks to him and gives him updates and instructions. Ilya feels heavy.

The paramedics arrive and find them both. Shane is, well. Ilya is fast asleep, fingers curled loosely around his cell phone where the operator is still asking if he’s on the line. Ilya can’t be woken up.

This world, spent, ends.

—

081

He doesn’t expect it, when he asks Shane to stay the night, to get no resistance at all. Shane had acquiesced to everything Ilya had suggested, seeming pleased about the whole thing. He kept catching Shane smile to himself, privately, when he thought Ilya wasn’t looking.

Shane is a little hesitant when they climb into bed properly, with the intent to sleep through the night, but settles against Ilya and Ilya can barely believe his luck, listening to Shane fall asleep against him. If he only gets this once, he wants to remember it forever, and doesn’t lose a second. When he does fall asleep, it’s peaceful.

—

Wednesday, November XX, 2016, at around quarter past nine in the morning

Ilya wakes up to Shane sobbing, full on. He’s crying so hard he’s retching and gagging like a kid who can’t catch their breath.

Ilya’s up quickly, wrapping his arms around Shane and pulling him against his chest. Shane had seemed content last night. Or as content as Shane ever could be. He’s worried now that the panic he’d been trying to avoid setting off in Shane just had a delayed response.

He tries asking what’s wrong. All Shane can say is that it’s Wednesday. Ilya agrees and the sobbing gets worse somehow.

(Shane never explains why he freaked out so badly that morning. Ilya eventually accepts that as much as Shane had enjoyed their Tuesday together, it was a lot at once for someone as routine-oriented as Shane. Too much unfamiliarity. He’d probably woken up, overstimulated and stressed, and a pit of guilt sits with Ilya. Even years later, he never really brings it up.)

“I’m so glad I stayed,” Shane says once he’s calmed down, boneless with exhaustion from crying himself out.

Ilya is carding his fingers through Shane’s hair, and is relieved to hear it. “Me too. Are you okay?”

”Yeah, fuck,” Shane breathes. “I’ve never been better.”

Ilya takes in how relaxed Shane is, nuzzling into his next and leaning into it when Ilya scratches at his scalp, pleased. He believes him.

”Are you going to do that every time you stay over?” Ilya asks, only realizing a little belatedly that ‘every time’ is pretty presumptuous. He charges ahead anyway. “Not that it would be a problem, but… I would like to know.”

Shane laughs, tickling Ilya’s neck with it. Then Ilya is being half-squeezed to death, and he huffs a breath of surprise.

”No, no,” Shane promises, mouthing at his jugular. “Today is special. Total one-off. Never happening again.”

Isn’t every day? he thinks, but then Shane isn’t really letting him think much at all. Ilya hopes, privately, that they’ll be able to do this every day one day. Endless days of waking up together. It’s not possible for people like them, but it’s a nice thought.

Chapter End Notes

Yeah, said it's alright
I won't forget
All the times I've waited patiently for you
And you'll do just what you choose to do
And I will be alone again tonight my dear.

let me know how you liked it! definitely more repetitive than chapter one if only because ilya does not know what already happened, ha. hopefully it was a fun read :)

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