Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Yuna Hollander, Farah Jalali, Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Autistic Shane Hollander, Anxious Shane Hollander, Panic Attacks, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Anxiety Disorder, Passive Suicidality, Suicidal Thoughts, Unreliable Narrator, Shane Hollander Whump, POV Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Bashing (Game Changers), Homophobia, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Protective Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of Everything is fine

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-10 Completed: 2026-05-17 Words: 21,556 Chapters: 4/4

Everything is definitely not fine

Summary

“You handled it well. You flunked a bit the questions we had prepared, but you did well.”
“Flunked?” Shane asked, voice pitching up as the words salted over the open wound, the infected gutting from the top of his throat down to his stomach.
“You should have rectified and make your position clear about Scott Hunter. We don’t want you to sound like you’re antagonizing him,” Yuna added, matter-of-factly, her eyes narrowing on the knot of his tie, adjusting it like it still mattered.

Shane’s body shook violently against his will, dislodging from under her touch. Yuna looked up, surprised by his reaction.
Surprise that shifted to horror immediately.

“No, that’s not what I meant–”
“I need to–” he gasped, bringing a hand to cover his mouth, while Yuna tried to grab his arm. Any other time, he could have avoided her, but Shane was falling.

Notes

If you decide to read one author’s notes, let it be this one: THIS FIC IS COMPLETE.
It is completely written, and even edited at like, 85% (still editing chapter 2. Yes, chapter 3 is edited – don’t ask).
I will post throughout the next week or two, which sounds extreme for a four chapters fic (two of those posted on the same day) but my nervous system cannot tell the difference between posting a chapter and being held at gun point.

When I originally wrote Everything is fine (the first part of this series), I didn’t intend to make it a series, but I guess I can be peer-pressured into it…
I’m kidding, all the comments were really nice about it and really motivating, so much so I know I’m gonna write at least another part, including the Centaurs this time – yes, sorry, they are not present in this one, but this part is already pretty dense.

Also, I have seen the first part of this series shared on social media (in a nice way), and people said it sounded like English is my second language (true), meant as a compliment, in which, thank you.
I’m pointing it out because one of my biggest fears lately is being accused of using AI (no one has, but you know, I don’t write anxiety in so much depth without a reason).
I am NOT and NEVER WILL use AI. I despise it with all my might and the thought of it put me in a rage.

What I’m trying to say is that, I am aware, because of English being my second language, that I can write a bit weirdly. Also, I have learnt the use of em dashes pretty recently, and I’m still not sure I’m doing it the right way, but I want to use them to reclaim them from being associated with AI. Also, aesthetically speaking, I feel they look better in a text than the hyphen or en dashes (don’t know the keyboard difference between the two).

Anyway, all that to say: fuck AI, English is hard, and I hope you enjoy this fic!

Chapter 1: Shane

Everything was going to be fine.

All Shane had to do was get through the press conference, answer the questions carefully curated by his mother and his agent. They had practiced for weeks, and he had been rehearsing them for days, either in a mirror or to Ilya.

That had not been his initial choice, shame and humiliation burning deep in the pit of his stomach, but upon the occasions they happened to be together, Ilya sought his presence and wouldn’t let Shane hide in the bathroom for hours on ends to practice.

It actually helped, because Ilya took his role as a journalist to heart and asked hard-hitting questions with a blank expression that was eerily accurate. Of course, there were exceptions.

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya would purr, “would you admit now that Ilya Rozanov is better hockey player?”

“Obviously not. The stats speak for themselves. Even if Rozanov is holding its own in his category, he is behind in goals this season. But it is still remarkable he is placed second ahead of everyone else while playing with the Centaurs.”

“Wow, Hollander, you are so mean,” Ilya had said with glee, almost foaming at the mouth. “Another question then. Between Scott Hunter, Troy Barrett and now you, do you think liking cock makes for better hockey player?”

“Well, obviously. Rozanov likes both, and he is only second, so I guess–” Shane was already laughing as Ilya had roared and leaped to tackle him.

Shane felt somewhat prepared.

“Remember the three second rule,” Yuna cut through his thoughts. She was holding three fingers up at him like he was still learning his ABCs’.

“I know, Mom. Believe it or not, it’s actually not my first press conference,” he replied, slightly petulantly, but it got a tiny smile from Farah Jalali, his agent. Her eyes remained on her phone though, not involving herself in the mother-son conversation.

Yuna looked a lot less impressed by his reply.

“I know, but this press conference is not like any other. It’s not like one after a game. You’re a captain that’s going after the team that drafted him because of discriminatory behaviour.”

The words got stuck across Shane’s throat as his heart tripped over itself. He hid the deep inhale he needed to take, his gaze shifting to the side, onto the door that led to the conference room.

“Yeah, I’m aware of that, mom, thanks.”

Yuna dropped her manager’s façade, and stepped closer to grab his face in between her hands. She leaned to catch his eyes, before bringing her forehead to his.

“I know you know. And I know it has been hard, that’s why I want everything to go right. There has been a lot of speculation, and you deserve to say your truth.”

Shane closed his eyes, his breathing picking up slightly, but he nodded.

“I know, you’re right. It’s just… I know it’s very important, and I know everything that I will say will be used against me. I have been working hard to prepare for this, and you reminding me again what I am supposed to do, it makes me feel incompetent, like maybe I can’t do it.”

That was new, but it had been a necessity to implement between Shane and his parents. Well, mostly his mom, but he had to pretend his dad was involved too so he didn’t offend her.

Apparently, it was called boundaries. Shane wasn't familiar with the term, but Rose said it was important to set some, even with parents. You were also supposed to have some in your relationship, but Shane thought Ilya and him had had enough barriers throughout the years, he didn’t want to put some for himself.

“Of course you are not incompetent. I’m sorry that I made you think you were. I just… sometimes, the limit between mother and manager is blurry, and because I know I can’t go have that press conference for you, that I can’t physically fight any of the people outside that don’t treat you well myself, I want to make sure you are properly equipped. I now realise it is definitely counter-productive and maybe causing more damage than I intended,” Yuna admitted softly.

The thing was… it was actually the perfect segue into mentioning it was maybe time for Yuna to step down from being his manager. He had been thinking about it for a while now, and the last few weeks and months had kind of highlighted that. There had been that moment where it had crossed his mind that she might force him to return to the Metros and how he wouldn’t have known how to refuse.

He had not talked about it with anyone yet, but between his conversations with Rose, and the look Ilya gave him everytime Shane stopped himself from mentioning the worries at this memory, he knew they knew. Or they tried to imply it, at least.

“Thirty seconds!”

Except now was probably the worst time, as the stage manager for the conference called for Shane to get ready.

After long discussions, both Yuna and Farah had agreed a Thursday in the late afternoon was the best time for the press conference, to allow the press time to talk about it, but also hoping most of the conversation would have died down by the weekend, with a new news cycle by Monday morning, so it wouldn’t drag on for days.

As for the decision to hold the conference in Montreal, well… they didn’t have that many options. Sure, the NHL covered both the US and Canada, but Shane was Canadian and the Metros were Montreal’s team. Also, Shane had lived his entire adult life here, he felt Québécois.

So Le Westin hotel in Montreal it had been, and here there were right now.

Yuna let go of Shane and wiped her eyes elegantly, Shane’s own breathing deep before fiddling with the seam at the end of his suit jacket’s sleeve.

He was about to fall into position and wait for the green light to step on the stage once the door opened, when he heard a gasp behind him.

“Oh my fucking god,” Farah rushed out, eyes on her phone. He turned in time to see his mom look at her own phone, face falling.

“Fuck,” she said, sharp and clear. “Shit. Fuck!”

“What?” Shane asked, hesitating between taking his position at the door or going to her. He patted at his pockets, looking for his phone, but it was in his mother’s bag.

“Montreal just released the results of their investigation,” Farah stated, and the world around Shane started to melt.

“Internal review,” Yuna spat out angrily, eyes roaming over her screen, going at a speed that could be terrifying.

“What does it say?” Shane asked, barely hearing himself.

“Ten seconds!” the stage manager called.

“Wait,” Yuna said to him with a firmness that didn’t leave room for argumentation. The middle-aged guy looked contrite, eyes shifting between Yuna and Shane.

“Should we cancel?” Farah asked.

“What do they say?” Shane asked again.

“Exactly what we were expecting,” Yuna replied with disgust so thick it came out venomous. “They knew what they were doing by releasing it now,” she added, before turning to face Shane. Her expression was set in a deep, angry frown, but something on his face must be visible, because her traits softened. She took a deep breath. “What do you want to do?”

Shane wanted to teleport out of the room, away from the prying eyes of his manager and his agent, as well as the stage manager, back into his apartment, where he knew Ilya was waiting with his dad.

He wanted people to stop looking at him and expect an impossible decision from him, he wanted to beg to be left alone and just let him be. He wanted to slide under his bed, cover his ears and clench his eyes to the point of pain and never open them again.

He wanted to disappear, vanish into the world, return to sand and dust and never have existed so no one would be sad when he was gone.

“You want me to still do it,” Shane stated, and he knew it was true.

“Only if you feel ready for it. They are not gonna be kind out there. It’s gonna be a lot, and it’s not about hockey. It’s you, Shane. So if you need more time, we reschedule.”

This wasn't fair.

“They’ll find something else then if we reschedule. I’d rather get it over with,” he shrugged, his face getting numb and a weird tightening in his throat to keep the voiding pit in his chest locked away.

He had to do it. It would never be easier. It would never not hurt.

So he would take a step back from his body, let the muscle memory of years of media training take the wheel. He would let his mouth move and his vocal cords vibrate while his ears rung deafeningly, unable to even understand the questions, but his body would know.

And he would do well. He was going to step on that stage and be the most professional, the most hockey player he ever could be. He would give a three second delay response, let his eyes go from left to right as he gathered his thoughts and he would remain clear-headed. He would scrounge up the most appropriate answer for the most inappropriate questions he was about to be asked.

He could deal with the consequences later.

“Should I read it?” he asked Farah, but she was already shaking her head.

“No. Any questions they asked directly related to the statement you don’t know the answer for, you say exactly that, so you don’t have to lie. Remember the parameters of your answers, stay inside of it. Trust yourself and don’t panic.”

Shane answered with a curt nod, then followed through the door the stage manager just opened.

Game on.

~~~

The electrical buzz of flashes started before he even came through. His name was called as he climbed the couple of steps leading to the podium, as he sat behind the small table. Behind him, the wall was a light muted blue, no logos.

Shane let his arms rest on the tabletop, already pinching the tips of his fingers, lifting the cuticles at the corner of his nails.

Between the lights looking severely down on him, straight into his eyes, and the dancing flashes imprinted on his eyelids, Shane couldn’t distinguish anyone in any other way than a dark mass of moving limbs, not unlike shadow puppets, each trying to get his attention like he was anything else than poorly human.

“Shane, here!”

“Over here, Shane!”

They all called him like it meant anything. Shane couldn’t see. Shane couldn’t hear.

He looked at the stage manager, who seemed to have been waiting for confirmation.

“Shane, William Meurice for Hockey Illustrated. Did you and the Metros’ coordinate the release of their investigation?”

“No, I didn’t know they were going to do that.”

“Shane! Shane!”

“Shane! What do you have to say about Montreal saying you owe them your career?”

Shane batted his eyes before rubbing them, the lights starting to burn at them.

“Playing for the Metros had always been a dream my mom and I shared, and it has been an honour to participate in making history with them. I will always be grateful for that.”

“What about the accusations of poor sportsmanship–“ someone started, before being interrupted by someone shooting across the room.

“If that’s the case, why suing them for discrimination then?”

Shane took a second to answer this one, eyes fixed on the edge of the table, were the white tablecloth creased. He let his hands exactly where they were but rubbed in that direction.

“My management team thought it was important, not just for me, but for everyone else. If they can be so public about treating me like that, I didn’t want someone with less power put in the same position. It needs to set a precedent.”

“What about the emotional distress that the investigation allegedly caused? Some say the Metros are setting ground for a defamation case.”

“I don’t know enough to answer that question.”

“Shane, anything to say about the allegations you are an intense captain?”

“I don’t know what they mean by that, but my only goal in hockey has always been about sending pucks into opposite teams’ nets while keeping them from going into ours, improving team’s cohesion, and being able to make it to the playoffs to win the cup, hopefully more than once. I put a lot of myself into my job as a captain, and it’s true I have been putting similar expectations on my team. It paid off, I think,” Shane said, finally looking up, only to be met by a wall of black shadows and burnt eyelids.

“Shane, about–“

“As for the accusations of poor sportsmanship… I don’t know. I thought being call une folle and a fag so publicly by members of my team was poor sportsmanship too. Maybe they didn’t find anything in their investigation, but the messages are out there for everyone to see, whether the Metros’ organisation knows how to read or not.”

A wave of chuckles crossed over the journalists, but Shane didn’t try to look. He was back looking at the pale pink arch of his nail, the surface smooth. One corner of the cuticle had started lifting off.

“Shane, Melissa Morrisson for ESPN. What is your honest thought about Montreal releasing this statement just before your first press conference since the messages became public? Do you feel this is an attempt to silence you from talking about them?”

“I think this is cruel,” Shane answered too fast, voice shaky. He tried to look up but the lights made his eyes water, and he could just bat them to look down and away. “This wasn't supposed to be about– it derailed the first press conference from an outed gay hockey player that didn’t happen on winning ice or at an award show.”

“Are you saying your treatment is unfair compared to the one Scott Hunter received?”

“I wish there wasn't a treatment at all–”

“–sources say you came out to your team and is what caused the chasm in the first place.”

Strangely enough, for the first time today, Shane felt boiling resentment and anger in his chest.

“Well, they were supposed to be my friends. I’ve known my team for ten years, I have been a groomsman to some of their weddings. I planned to come out to my close circle, not to the entire world. And me coming out to anyone doesn’t make it alright to be outed to the public. That wasn't something I was comfortable to share then.”

“Sam Hutchinson for Hockey Magazine. Just to confirm, but you were the one to post a coming out statement.”

“I was being called a faggot for everyone to see!” Shane exclaimed for the first time, his voice leaving the territory of flatness that it was so used to, while waving in a non-descript direction.

“You could have deny it!” someone called.

“Well, my life was ruined anyway,” Shane replied flippantly, knowing he was losing the edge. “And it’s not like you guys wouldn’t have spent the rest of my career bringing it back at any chance you’d get to ask. Might as well get it over with.”

A brief silence followed.

“Shane,” Melissa Morrisson from ESPN called again, “people have been guessing from the start of the Metros’ internal investigation that it would be inconclusive. Does you and your team have a plan of action for what happened next?”

“Yes,” Shane said. “I’m not surprised, and my team isn’t either, probably. We didn’t really have time to talk about it between the release and this–“ he waved at the room, which caused more laughs. “But no one expected cooperation. My team had seized the NHL, but they preferred to let the Metros’ handle it first.”

“Robert Lamy for Hockey News. Discrimination cases are notably hard to follow through because they are so hard to prove. Is it something you are prepared for?”

Shane took a deep breath before releasing it slowly.

“No. I don’t know. Before the messages were leaked, no one else knew. I didn’t keep any record, because I felt ashamed. And I thought it was my fault and that somehow, I deserved it. I also thought that they would come around and we could keep playing and my jersey would hang in the rafters of the Bell Centre. But it is not just about me, because it’s about the other gay athletes that came before me and had to hide or quit their favourite sport, and all the other ones that will come after me, some who are kids right now, and think they will have to choose between who they are and the sport they love. In all this bad situation I am in, I am lucky to be Shane Hollander,” Shane said his name like it was a brand name and not the person himself.

On the virginal white tablecloth, a drop of red spread through the threads, as blood sipped from what was left of the skin around his thumbnail. “Even though I am currently not allowed to do my job and play hockey, I’m still the number one hockey player in the world right now. Me being gay, me being thrown in the boards by my team, being called slurs, humiliated for everyone to see, my stats are the same this season as they always have been. So I’ll carry on, I guess, and we’ll see what the conclusion of all this will be. Thank you.”

The pit in his chest grew even wider as he stepped off the stage. His name was shouted, more flashes followed, but Shane didn’t linger on any of it.

Yuna and Farah both stood right behind the door, both their faces closed off.

“You did really good, Shane,” Farah said first, while Yuna’s hands found the lapel of his jacket, flattening them down while nodding.

“You did handle it well. You flunked a bit the questions we had actually prepared, but you did well.”

“Flunked?” Shane asked, voice pitching up as the words salted over the open wound, the infected gutting from the top of his throat down to his stomach.

“You should have rectified and make your position clear about Scott Hunter. We don’t want you to sound like you’re antagonizing him,” she added, matter-of-factly, her eyes narrowing on the knot of his tie, adjusting it like it still mattered.

Shane’s body shook violently against his will, dislodging from under her touch. Yuna looked up, surprised by his reaction.

Surprise that shifted to horror immediately.

“No, that’s not what I meant.”

“I need to–” he gasped, bringing a hand to cover his mouth, while Yuna tried to grab his arm. Any other time, he could have avoided her, but Shane was falling.

Shane was drowning, Shane was chocking, Shane was dying.

He didn’t fall to his knees, but his back hit the wall as he slid down until he was sitting, legs bent. He was vibrating, all the atoms in his body shaking and rubbing against each other, on the verge of bursting into steam.

One of his hands wrapped around his throat because maybe it would help the mind-to-muscle connection and he would remember how to breathe.

It would help if his hands weren't numb, if his skin wasn't prickling and he could feel touch, but the only thing intertwined with the absence of sensation was pain. His skin hurt, so did his flesh, and he was pretty sure his bones as well.

A hand that wasn't his came to rest on his leg, and he jolted so violently he hit the back of his head against the wall but let go of his throat so both his hands came to cover his ears, pressing as hard as he could, eyes squeezing so tight stars exploded behind his eyelids.

Surely, it was the end of him. Surely it was good enough of a reason to be put out of his misery.

What if he stayed stuck like that forever? What if the hurt never went away, what if he was stuck in a loop, what if, what-if, what-if, what-ifs–

“Shane, you are hurting yourself!”

He opened his eyes, the scene dancing in front of him. His mother on her knees on the ground, her hands wrapped around each of his wrists, trying to pull them apart, away from the vice-grip over his head. With her nails digging into his skin to get his attention, she still wasn't strong enough to stop him.

Shane let go. His hands dropped to his side, too heavy to hold them up.

Yuna didn’t let go of his wrists, and the two of them watched each other, panting like they had been running. Or fighting.

Everything rushed back to Shane, as his attention wandered around the room, Farah at the door, talking in a low voice to someone on the other side, her back turned to them.

Absolute mortification washed over Shane, closing his eyes again at the realisation of what had just happened, what he had done.

“Eh, no, you’re alright, honey. You’re okay, everything’s fine,” Yuna said, leaning closer to him, trying to get his attention all while Shane was trying really hard not to start crying. The tears were burning in his nose, and he didn’t know if he was about to scream or throw up. “It’s okay, Shane. It’s gonna be okay. Yes, it will be, honey, I promise,” she insisted when he realized he was shaking his head.

He needed to get back in control of his own body at least, if he couldn’t have any over his life.

Inhale–

Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale, exhale.

He nodded.

“Okay.”

“Yeah?” Yuna was nodding too when he reopened his eyes. She had a wobbly smile on, and tears freely running down her cheeks. He couldn’t meet her eyes.

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Okay,” she replied again with a relieved sigh.

“You’re right,” he sniffed, lifting a hand she was still holding the wrist of to rub his eyes. “I’ll send a message to Scott Hunter to apologize.”

“Shane, baby, it’s fine–”

“No, it’s not. You were right, and he’s always been nice to me. He doesn’t deserve to be caught in the middle of my mess.”

He shook her grasp off him as gently as he could, while also trying to get his feet underneath him to up. Yuna did let go of him, her hand hovering around his elbow in case he’d need help.

He didn’t.

Once up, Shane rolled his neck around and from side to side, before rubbing his face energetically, bringing himself back into the moment. Someone was at the door and he needed to look like himself. Plain, unaffected, unemotional. Good ole’ Shane.

~~~

He wished he could have gone to the bathroom before leaving, but maybe it was better if he didn’t. He wasn't sure how he would have ever come out from it.

As expected, there was press waiting outside, asking the same questions that had been asked earlier, just in different ways, everyone convinced theirs were better. It was easy to let Yuna and Farah answer for him, the right PR and legal jargon for the press to not do anything with it.

The three of them piled in the back of the rented car, Shane’s body fully turned away, leaning against the left door.

Yuna was the one in the middle, with Farah on the right.

“Where to?” the chauffeur asked.

“I think you should come back with us,” Yuna said to Farah, “so we can start planning for what comes next. I’ve been in communication with the lawyers, they are available to call them when we get home.”

Shane lifted his forehead away from the window before softly hitting it back.

“Shane, honey? Is that alright with you?” Yuna asked, her tone softening from manager to mother.

Do I have to be involved, he wanted to ask.

“Yes, that’s alright,” he said instead.

“I think the quicker we react the better,” Farah confirmed.

“Okay, great, then let’s do that,” Yuna said determinedly.

Shane took a deep breath.

“Mom?” he called softly, hoping to not be heard in the small space of the car.

“Yes, honey?”

Inhale.

Exhale.

“I think after all that, having someone else as my manager would be better.”

Inhale.

Ex–

“I think so too, honey.”

~~~

The sun had long set by the time they made it back to his Montreal’s apartment.

Shane was last to come in.

He wished he would leave his corporal form at the entrance, sit down on the bench and leave his body next to shoes, coats and the toque Ilya had left there, while his shadow would take off, slide along the wall and up the ceiling to disappear towards his bedroom, where he could hide in the high left corner, behind a side lamp or into the drawer of his bedside table. Somewhere he could make a space for himself in between trinkets he didn’t want to clutter his space but was unsure if he wanted to get rid of like dog-eared books, old lube and condoms.

Somewhere no one would think to look for him apart from Ilya.

Maybe not even Ilya would find him. After all, his side was for emergencies. The lube and condoms they actually used were in Ilya’s table.

But of course, Shane couldn’t do that. It wasn't something anyone could do. It wasn't possible.

No, instead, reality was both his dad and Ilya standing in the living room as Farah and Yuna made their way out of the foyer, while Shane tried to toe his shoes off unsuccessfully and did end up having to sit on the bench.

His fingers were still numb and his vision blurry on the edges, his mind trying to wander off somewhere, making the untying and loosening harder than it needed to be.

He could feel eyes on him as voices started to cover the background noise of the TV set to ESPN.

Struggling to fit a finger at the back of his shoe to remove it, Shane could still leave. He was by the door, he was still mostly dressed, he could simply go. He didn’t see why that wasn't possible.

But possibility wasn't the problem here.

Go where, anyway?

Where would he go, exactly? There was nowhere he wanted to be. Nothing he was looking forward to. They were supposed to spend the next couple of days in Montreal to deal with the repercussions of the press conference, and now the Metros’ statement before they could head back to Ottawa on Sunday.

Ilya had asked why they couldn’t head to the Cottage earlier, but Shane knew his mom wanted him around, as long as his future wasn't sorted out.

He wasn't sure if he was mentally ready to go to the Cottage anyway. Maybe he’d offer for Ilya to go by himself, if he wanted to.

“Shane?” his mother called, making him realise he had stopped trying to remove his shoes and was just sitting there, doing nothing.

He looked back, only for Ilya to be the only one still standing exactly where he had been since the door first open, his body fully turned towards the foyer, towards Shane, his eyes not having left him.

The other three probably had migrated to the kitchen and started coming up with a plan.

Shane hurried to finish removing his shoes, somewhat frustratingly at the difficulty of the task. He would put them back in their box later, leaving them aligned by the bench for now.

He didn’t meet Ilya’s eyes.

Finally making his way further inside the apartment, he kept his head low, angled high enough to see mouths moving, but not enough to risk looking at any faces.

“Is it alright if we set up here?” Farah asked.

“Yes. Can I go?” the words stumbled too quickly out of him.

Everyone tensed up.

“Go where?” Yuna asked.

“To my room,” Shane said, his cheeks burning as he realized he sounded really like his teenager-self right now. “Alone,” he added, this time glancing briefly to Ilya, who was now closer, but still giving Shane space. He hoped that Ilya would understand with the look that his request didn’t apply to him.

“I think it’s fine,” Farah replied after Yuna let it go for too long without answering. “And if we really need to check or confirm something with you, we’ll just let you know.”

“Or it can wait tomorrow,” David said. His father’s voice hit him straight in the chest, after what happened in the car with his mom.

Did he feel the same as her? Had they talked about it? Did Shane disappoint him too?

“It can’t, really,” Yuna said with a twist of her mouth. “A quick response can make a big difference in the public’s perception. It wouldn’t be for very long, the lawyers are waiting–“

“I can’t,” Shane inhaled. He had started shaking.

The atmosphere in the room shifted. Ilya took a step closer but Shane tensed up, stopping him in his tracks.

“No, of course not,” Yuna exhaled. “That’s fine, we’ll handle it. And as Farah said, if we really need to check something with you, we know where to find you.”

Please don’t.

“Yeah,” Shane nodded. “Yes.” He kept his head low, his chin almost touching his chest when he finally got himself to move, stepping around the kitchen island, collecting Ilya on the way. Like a magnetic pull, they didn’t need to touch for his boyfriend to fall into step and follow him.

The distance from the kitchen to his bedroom was not enough for Shane to shake off everything that had happened so far.

Stepping inside and turning the light on, he moved to his dresser as he started unbuttoning his shirt. His tie in the way made it complicated, but the seam on the side had started chaffing against his skin. He didn’t know how he was supposed to fix the problem after already removing all the tags.

“Shane,” Ilya said. Not a question, not calling for him. Simply his name, the first word Shane had heard from the love of his life tonight.

“Did you read it?” he asked, sincerely curious.

“Metros’ shit piece?”

When Shane darted a look back at him, Ilya had his disdainful expression face on, and a shaky laugh escaped Shane.

“Yeah,” he breathed out while still smiling, returning his attention down to the shirt. His fingers were not cooperating and Shane had barely got two buttons out yet.

Hands settled on his hips, guiding him to turn around so he faced Ilya. He didn’t look up. Ilya started to slide his tie undone.

“Did you?”

“No,” Shane gave a brief shake of his head.

“No?”

“No. Didn’t have time. Farah also thought it was better if I didn’t so that I wouldn’t have to lie.”

Ilya looped the tie around his hand before sliding it off and putting it down on top of the dresser. He then joined Shane in the undoing of his shirt.

“Oh,” he said. Shane hummed in agreement. To what, he didn’t know, but Ilya’s tone was definitely right. “Okay,” Ilya concluded quite casually. “Do you want to read it?”

“I think I gathered the main points through the questions. What did you think?”

Ilya had to fully take over because Shane’s hands were shaking too much to do anything. Ilya neither moved them or comment on it, simply carried on.

“The statement? Very funny. Svetlana sent me a video of the line about how you owe them your career and her phone was shaking because she was laughing too hard.”

Shane gasp-laughed at that, his hands dropping to his sides as Ilya undid the last button before sliding the shirt off of Shane’s back. In the same movement, he removed his own t-shirt, now the two of them were topless and facing each other. Ilya carefully folded both their clothes, putting them down next to the tie on the dresser.

Then he turned his attention to Shane’s belt and trousers.

“I don’t know if–“ Shane started, teeth clacking against each other like he was cold even if he didn’t feel cold.

“We’re not. We’re going to have shower, you are going to do skincare so your freckles are shiny tomorrow morning.” Shane let out a small chuckle. “Then we are going to bed– to sleep,” he said pointedly, and Shane had to close his eyes while smiling so that he didn’t do something stupid like cry.

“I might need to stay awake, in case they need me for something.”

“Not tonight. There was a plan, a list of things you had to do and you did all of it and more. You handled change of plans very well, you did really good.” Ilya slid the belt out of the belt loops. Shane inhaled.

And… nothing else came out. He wasn’t even sure what he was supposed to say. He didn’t even know what he was thinking, thoughts swirling around his mind in a daze, undistinguishable. It was loud, it was bright, it was obvious and in his face, but he just couldn’t get a grasp of it.

So he just stood there, in the eye of the cyclone, empty-handed.

Shane didn’t think he did very well, not just with the press conference, but in general. It felt like an eternity since he thought he had done anything well at all, not even hockey. It was easy to quote stats at journalists but Shane wouldn’t consider himself proud of this season. He had to reverse to his old habits, unlearn how to be a team player as most of his passes and assists ended up ignored and sabotaged, plummeting his assist stats. So even if he had maintained the same amount of goals as he had from previous years, most of them were played alone and against better tactical decisions. Overall, Shane wouldn’t consider himself a good hockey player at the moment.

And maybe, it would be the lasting memory he would leave behind if he had just played his last season ever.

“Hey,” Ilya called for his attention, cradling his face in his hands. “Talk to me. Tell me what your brain is saying and let me tell you how wrong he is.”

That got a trembling uptick of Shane’s mouth, but he could only shake his head, as his eyes dropped closed. Ilya pressed their foreheads together, his breath fanning over Shane’s lips.

“Okay, maybe not now then. Maybe now, we shower, you do skincare and we go to bed. Yes?”

Shane nodded and let Ilya guide him.

Half of what happened next didn’t register with him. Shane was floating in a liminal space, hanging above a roiling volcano, or paralyzed as a sword hung over his head. He just couldn’t focus on anything, even when it was time to do his skincare, the only thing Ilya couldn’t do for him. Until then, he had undressed him, led him under the showerhead, washed his body, his hair, tried to keep him in the moment, but it turned out to become more and more complicated as time passed. And when he stood in front of the mirror, Ilya next to him, brushing his teeth while glancing at him, Shane just looked at his reflection and thought about to either punch it, or take it down. He settled on the next best thing and threw the towel around his neck over it.

Ilya didn’t say anything, but he had stopped brushing, toothbrush halfway to his mouth after he had spat some toothpaste in the sink. He resumed only when Shane finally grabbed his first serum. And that would be his only, as doing those menial tasks felt like being ripped apart. He still put some moisturizer on his face because just the serum made his face feel tight, and Shane didn’t need more encouragement to tear at his own skin.

He found himself on his back in the bed, eyes on the ceiling with the duvet tucked under his armpits. Ilya was on his side, turned towards him and Shane could feel him staring.

Ilya had asked him to tell him what his brain was telling him, but Shane had so many things to say, none he could say out loud.

Not just because they were wildly inappropriate – how do you say to someone that lost their mom to suicide when he was twelve, who left his country when he was seventeen, who learned a complete different language, was made fun of for it, regarded as an asshole by everyone, held to standards higher than most, took the risk of falling in love with an anxiety-riddled closeted hockey player, to then quit the only place he had managed to make his home away from home, place where he was regarded  as a hero, a god almost  to move to the most dead city in the most boring country, to the worst hockey team known to man, just to be closer to that stupid hockey player, who wasn't even a good boyfriend, by the way, and all that made you really sad, all while being haunted by both your dead mother and the depression in your DNA, and for that stupid hockey player to not even have a team anymore so you did all that for nothing – and now this loser had the audacity on top of it all to tell you that he felt like dying too, all that because people have been a little mean to him and he just couldn’t take it –

A knock, at the door.

Ilya was out of bed in the blink of an eye, and Shane was right behind him.

Except when Ilya went for the door, Shane went to the bathroom. He didn’t know what was his plan once he was there, looking at the window that didn’t fully open, before turning back towards the shower and deciding to get inside and close the glass door behind him.

Voices came from the bedroom, so he turned the shower on, before stumbling in the furthest back corner, half falling on his ass.

Between the heat, the steam and the pressure around his ribcage, Shane couldn’t catch his breath, pressing against the tiles at his back, while his clothes were getting soaked, the sensation of wet fabric sickening.

Trying to open his eyes only made him realise he had closed them at one point, and maybe for good reason, because it was all too much. His bathroom, the water, the shower, everything on the other side of the door, the too-small opening window, all of it was just unbearable.

Stars exploded behind his eyelids as he kept his eyes shut and the pressure of his hands over his ears hurt and helped.

As he had told Ilya once, there was no counting. Right now, there wasn't even breathing.

He just had to survive this one.

~~~

The shower turned out to not be so much of a stupid idea as Shane initially thought. It was partially a sensory nightmare and a salvation. Being splashed literally made him nauseous, so did the sensation of wet clothes, but at least he was warm, and the noise– the noise was the best. And with the right pressure over his ears, muffling just enough, it was overwhelming but also an unwavering constant.

It was a small enough comfort to release the constrict over his chest, loosen the grip over his throat, and a wave of relief washed over Shane.

He was shaky when he dropped his hands and reopened his eyes, only surprised by the light in the bathroom. He had no recollection of actually turning it on, but he thought it had been bright – too bright – when he had entered. Now, the ceiling light was off, only the one above the mirror – still covered – turned on.

A bit confused, Shane looked around the room, everything hazy behind the waterdrop-covered glass, but he could recognize the shape of Ilya anywhere, in the dark and with his eyes close.

The love of his life was sitting parallel to Shane, his back to the cabinet, the only thing separating them being the glass wall.

Ilya wasn't looking at him, his own legs bent at the knees, resting his arms on them with his head hanging low.

Shane didn’t know how long he had stayed there, but they had been on the verge of sleeping, it wouldn’t be that crazy for Ilya to be tired.

With a deep breath for courage, he stood up, leaning heavily against the wall to do that, his legs too wobbly for his comfort.

Next to him, Ilya was also getting up, but Shane focused on the task at hand, which was turning the shower off. Keeping a hand on the wall at all times – it would really be the cherry on top if he fell and injured himself. What would the press say now? – he twisted the knob and the water stopped, leaving just a heavy and humid atmosphere behind.

He wasn't sure he liked the sudden silence, but as he went to open the door, Ilya met him halfway, and the two of them made a quick move of getting him on the bathroom rug. He was wrapped tightly in a large bath towel, one that Ilya preferred rather than the microfibre one that Shane used for practicality.

Ilya was right in his space but kept the touching to a minimum.

“Hold onto me,” he said, voice gruff and accent thick. Shane had not been looking at his face, couldn’t, but he was worried what he would see if he did.

He closed his eyes, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s shoulders, refraining from pressing close, both his t-shirt and sweatpants soaking wet.

But Ilya had apparently thought about that too, because he divested Shane of the wet clothes, leaving him naked, not paying any attention to it as he tightened the towel around him. That dislodged Shane’s arms from holding onto Ilya, and he gasped in panic, somehow feeling like it was Ilya’s last gesture before he stepped back and away for good.

“I’m here,” Ilya said instantly, stepping close as he grabbed onto him, wrapping him in such a tight embrace Shane felt like he could breathe for the first time tonight. A full-body shiver ran through him, and Ilya hummed. Shane wanted to return the touch, but he was stuck inside the towel, and all he could do to show his feelings was drop his cheek on Ilya’s shoulder, face and nose turned towards his throat, taking in the faint smell of Shane’s laundry detergent that Ilya had taken over, as well as his cologne, mostly a soft memory at this point of the day, and finally something just inherently Ilya that Shane adored. So if he was caught sniffing his boyfriend now, rubbing his nose against his pulse point, he wouldn’t even deny it.

Ilya had turned his face so his lips pressed against Shane’s temple, letting him feel the soft smile widening, before he pressed a kiss above his browbone. Shane kissed his throat in retaliation, which did get a slight ticklish shiver from Ilya. 

“Pest,” Ilya’s voice rumbled against Shane’s face, making Shane smile tiredly.

“I love you,” he mouthed into the skin.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya replied.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane repeated, in the most horrid accent he had no control over, which made him grunt disapprovingly.

“I love you,” Ilya sighed hoarsely.

Shane wanted to say something, like I’m sorry. Like, you deserve better. Or, I should be the one there for you, not the other way around.

But his throat didn’t allow any of the words to come out. Instead, he seemed stuck with only one thing to say. So he’ll just keep on saying it, in all languages he knew.

“Je t’aime.”

Chapter 2: Montreal Metropolitans’ official statement

Chapter Notes

I decided against including the statement in the first chapter. I wanted you reading being in the dark with Shane, going into the press conference blind too.

Montreal Metropolitans’ official statement

The Montreal Metropolitans have always prided themselves as leaders of inclusivity and diversity, as well as making a priority fighting prejudices and discrimination within hockey and its community.

So it is with no surprise that, after a comprehensive internal review, the Montreal Metropolitans did not find any concluding evidence of harassment or discrimination from either its players or management.

The investigation has caused great distress and pressure upon everyone here at the Bell Centre, an abhorrent scrutiny in making the already diverse team questioned harmless behaviours even in day-to-day interactions, from equipment managers to physical therapists, as well as coaches and general managers.

The organisation was deeply saddened by the poor sportsmanship displayed by a member of the team, someone who had been with the Metros since the beginning of his career, to whom he owes it to, some may say.

Shane Hollander has always been an intense but hardworking captain to this team, so in spite of the emotional distress caused, we wish him to find peace outside of his vendetta’s endeavours.

Read statement in French here…

Chapter End Notes

I did some research to get inspiration for the way these kinds of statements are written. I feel they follow certain patterns that media-trained and people on PR probably can notice. I obviously couldn’t see those patterns, but that’s alright. I need to remember I’m writing a fanfic, not a scientific paper. I was having fun with it, and I hope you enjoyed it too.
Thank you for reading!

Chapter 3: Ilya

Chapter Notes

This chapter has some of my favourite bits of dialogue, and I hope you'll enjoy it too.

There are some therapy talk in there, and I am not a therapist myself, but I've been in therapy for a while now haha. But yeah, no, don't take any thing said here as a professional statement, and if you struggle with any issues similar to what the characters are going through, I would recommand professional help.
Same regarding medication for mental health management.
I think Shane would be hesitant about taking antidepressants (for himself, at least, not for Ilya), but his opinions do not reflect my own and I am not telling you to not get help if you are struggling, the opposite. Just as a reminder, I have put "unreliable narrator" in the tags...

Alright, I think it covers it all.

Enjoy!

Ilya knew this corridor. By heart, at this point. It didn’t even look like the real one, back in his childhood house, in Moscow.

The walls were taller, the paintings on the walls undistinguishable, stretched into horrific gaping maws rather than the original portraits of Rozanovs that came before him. The shadows moved on their own, the corners dark and inviting, in the same way standing on the edge of a cliff called for you to jump in.

Ilya walked down, towards the only door ajar, blinding light coming from around it.

A tall shape appeared, like it melted off the wall, but her long, curly blond hair didn’t scare Ilya. He kept on walking towards her, until she turned around, her haunted eyes meeting his.

She looked gaunter than in his memories, than when he had found her on the bed, her eyes presently sunken and cheeks hollowed. He had never dreamt of her like that before, and that scared him. Was his memory twisting reality, slowly making him forget how beautiful she was, even in death?

“Mama,” he mouthed, not a sound coming out of him.

“Lisichka,” she extended a hand towards him, and he ran the last distance between them to grab onto her.

She didn’t let him hug her though, instead turning his attention towards the door. Holding his wrist loosely in one of her hands, she pushed gently against his back. Ilya put a hand on the door.

He didn’t want to open it, the same way he had not wanted either the day he had found her, even before he knew.

She pressed on. He pushed in.

Light did blind him; the room basked in white, a bed right in front of it, and a window directly opposite the door. If Ilya had known to look at the bed first, the same way he did every dream, this time it was empty, instead his attention calling at the shape standing at the window, his back to Ilya.

“Shane?”

Ilya didn’t startle awake, instead blinking back into consciousness, the remnants of the dream – nightmare – sticking to the edges of his mind.

He was on his side, turned towards Shane, who was lying awake on his back next to him.

His boyfriend had an arm thrown above his head while his other hand was wrapped loosely around Ilya’s wrist, the same way they had fallen asleep in, more for his sake than Shane’s.

Or at least, Ilya had fallen asleep. He wasn't sure sleep ever found Shane.

He didn’t say anything, just observed the perfect profile of the man he loved more than life for a while.

No, he couldn’t say that, anymore. He refused to love him more than life, because if he wasn't alive, he couldn’t love Shane, and where did that leave him, hm? Exactly. So he loved Shane so much he could live for him. So much so he was going to.

Galina would be proud of him.

No, she wouldn’t.

She would be neutral, make an appreciative moue, and moved on to the next step of his depression management.

When Shane’s life had fallen apart, it didn’t fix Ilya’s issues, to the contrary. But his priorities were clear: Shane. He was the priority. Shane had always been and would always be. Because there wasn't any point if there wasn't Shane.

He had told Galina as such, expecting push back. Expecting her to tell him it wasn't healthy, that he needed to learn to live for himself, blah blah blah.

Ilya had a full rebuttal prepared, ready to ditch her without even looking back.

She didn’t, though. She had hummed and nodded, writing something in her notes.

“Makes sense,” she had said, before looking back up at him, waiting on him to continue.

“Does it?” Ilya had replied, confused and weary, feeling like he was about to be caught in a trap.

“Does it not? He is your primary source of emotional support. You said it yourself, as long as he is around, you didn’t feel like you needed any professional help. He is your motivation to get better and to manage your depression. If his world crumbles, as of right now, so does yours.”

Ilya had been left speechless, because, yes, exactly.

“So you’re gonna help me… help him?”

She had taken a deep breath through her nose, putting down her pen.

“Are you familiar with the plane allegory?” she had asked in English for the first time during the conversation.

“Plane allegory?” Ilya repeated, tasting the last word for the first time. “No.”

“It’s a quite simple one. When a plane cabin is depressurized, oxygen masks fall from the ceiling. The rule is,” she said firmly, her own accent cutting the syllables as she looked pointedly at Ilya, “to put your mask on first before helping anyone else around you.

“I like this allegory for patients who live normal lives. I even liked it for you when you mentioned last time that you were worried about Shane’s eating habits. As I said then, yes, he sounds like he needs help, but you are not equipped to be the one providing it, he needs professional help.

“But circumstances change. What Shane is going through, and sounds like he will be for the foreseeable future, is more significant than something that has been going on behind the scenes for a while, maybe even before you came in his life. Of course, you are still not equipped to handle the situation he finds himself in now, but no one is. I would definitely recommend for him to still seek professional help to get through this quite traumatic event, but that won’t be enough. That is something he simply cannot go through alone. He will need a strong support system, and that support system won’t necessarily be the best at handling it, might make mistakes, and might feel weighed by the responsibility, and that’s where I come in. I help you manage your own worries to what is happening to him, I give you tools to handle the pressure so that you can help him through this hard time in his life. If it’s what you want, that is.”

“Is what I want,” Ilya had nodded, throat tight and nose stuffy.  

So, in some ways, Shane and Ilya were doing both better and worse.

They spoke more freely than they ever did, Ilya revealing parts of his upbringing than no one else knew about, some things even Svetlana had not been privy too by simply not living inside the Rozanov residence, while Shane shared how he saw things and how things worked in his head, things he didn’t think anyone should or needed to know.

They weren't easy conversations, and both talked with a detachment that didn’t feel ideal, but it wasn't so much about how they felt about sharing it, but how the other took the information in.

And it was working.

Shane was not only curious about Ilya’s childhood, but how it made him feel, asking hard-hitting questions that he wasn't even aware of. Without even knowing it, he was forcing Ilya to put words on emotions that had been bottled so deep down, they were load-bearing walls to his entire personality.

And Shane would come in, down to the basement of Ilya’s mind, fingernail chipping at the plaster, knocking it to test the hollowness, and once he was sure that this thing was about to fall down, bringing the entire house down with it, he would start pouring cement at the foundations and add some supporting beams, rebuilding Ilya from the inside out.

The job was a bit sloppy, messier than if actual builders did it, but it did what it was supposed to be there for: stabilizing the collapse of Ilya’s mind, reinforcing the bases.

God did Ilya love this man. In the throes of learning about each other, reopening wounds and throwing salt over them, Ilya didn’t as much forget than become complacent. Yes, he loved Shane, he knew. His body knew, his house knew, his garden, the patio and the Rideau river too. He would lay his life for him, throw away everything and start over again for this man.

But when everything was quiet, just the two of them, arguing over how to fold the laundry or how to store the butter – “if you put butter in fridge one more time, Hollander, I swear!” “It’s gonna go bad!” “Butter don’t go bad. And you don’t even eat it, leave my butter alone!” “Fine, see if I care if you get food poisoning, asshole.” “Oh but you caaare.” “Fuck you.” “No, fuck you.” “Ok then do it.” –

Ilya was so in love, it felt like dying and being born again, all while lifting the Stanley cup and having the best orgasm of his life, all at once.

That was the thought dancing in Ilya’s mind as he took in the man lying there, half of his face obscured by shadows, the other illuminated by the eery blue of the night life of Montreal, the side Ilya couldn’t see properly.

No instead, he had the hidden part of Shane’s face, and Ilya thought it might be poetic, that he was the only one to get to see this angle of Shane. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness but it wasn't enough to see all the receded corners, just enough to get an idea of what was going on behind the pretense.

Because Shane was particularly good at hiding how he felt in the way that he hid it in plain sight. Since the things with Montreal came up, leading to his coming out, Ilya was mad at himself for missing the signs because they were there all along.

When it was only the two of them in Ottawa, there was a lightness to his boyfriend.

That was as long as the outside world didn’t try to come inside their bubble. Then Shane would turn into a ghost, haunting Ilya’s house and dreams.

They had prepared long and well for the Montreal visit.

Not just practicing questions in the middle of the night, when he caught Shane walking up and down the living room, in the dark, rehearsing answers.

It was also in anxiety management, as much it was possible as long as Shane resisted medication.

Yuna had said that it would be good for Shane to see a doctor at least, for the testimony of a medical professional on the impact of the harassment on Shane.

Ilya wasn’t allowed to go, which had been torture, but apparently, it had been torture there too, for Yuna at least, when the doctor had decided to speak to Shane alone.

“I’m just worried he might have asked leading questions,” Yuna said, lips pinched together. David refrained from smiling, but the crows’ feet at the corner of his eyes appeared nonetheless.

Shane had gone to get change, while the three of them had settled in Ilya’s kitchen.

“Hm. Maybe the doctor was worried about that too,” David said, nonchalantly.

“What?”

“Shane is an adult and he can answer for himself,” David added as he poured her tea.

“I know but–”

Ilya tensed, his hackles rising up.

“But?” David looked at Yuna with his eyebrows high on his forehead. It seemed to get Yuna out of her thoughts then.

“No, you’re right. No but. He can– of course he can. It’s just that he didn’t tell us about what was going on. I just didn’t want him to omit anything that would skew the doctor’s perspective.”

“He is still an adult and can decide what he’s willing to share. None of us get to decide that for him.”

The definitive tone that David used left Ilya frozen, his mouth dropping slightly, while he observed quietly the exchange happening.

The Hollanders never yelled. They never screamed, or fought, or even argued. They could disagree, but it was always polite and respectful.

And that was what this was too, but Ilya watched Yuna open her mouth with a frown, the look of someone ready to argue, but she stopped herself.

“Yes, of course. It’s just… I wish he didn’t have to take all of the responsibility upon himself,” she replied, slower. “I wish I could take that weight off of him.”

“I know, I feel guilty too,” David said with a gentle smile as he put a hand over his wife’s, and Ilya felt like he got shot in the chest.

“Me too,” Ilya admitted while getting choked. The two Hollanders turned towards him.

“Oh, no, sweetie, no,” Yuna said, rubbing his arm comfortingly. “You are the best thing that could have ever happened to Shane.”

“I didn’t see it–”

“You had your own things occupying your mind, Ilya,” David said, a hand over Ilya’s shoulder, squeezing it. “Shane is very good at hiding, as we keep finding out, and he’s definitely not holding it out against you. Or any of us, for that matter, but this is our job as parents to see these kinds of things.”

“I see Shane more than anyone else,” Yuna sniffed, still rubbing his arm. “I should have noticed.”

“He loves you more than anything,” Ilya said, not knowing what else to say.

“It doesn’t mean I haven’t failed my son once again, Ilya,” Yuna said with a wobbly smile, until she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “But enough. I can help him now, and I will get him out of this situation.”

Ilya loved Yuna, and he thought she was probably one of the best parents he ever met in his life.

But he wasn't sure he agreed that making Shane go through a lawsuit was the best way to help right now. But she was his mother after all. And his manager. She probably knew better.

“He prescribed me muscle relaxant,” Shane scrunched his face when Ilya had, later that day, enquired about the appointment.

“Okay. Did you get them?” Ilya asked nonchalantly, coming to sit at the end of the bed as Shane put his Rolex away, like he would have needed it in case he had been caught by paparazzies or something.

“No,” Shane frowned. “I don’t need my muscles to be relaxed.”

Ilya knew he had to school his face and took a moment to find the right words, and not just blatantly disagree.

“Are we sure is only for muscles or does it do something else?”

Shane sighed, turning back around to face Ilya, a furrow between his brow forming as he crossed his arms over his chest.

Protecting. Defensive. Distancing.

“They use it for anxiety, too. But I can’t, because common side effects are like tremors and loss of coordination.”

“Okay,” Ilya nodded slowly. “I understand.”

Shane dropped his arms to his side but still looked hesitant.

“Do you have side effects?”

The air in Ilya’s lungs was swallowed out, not unlike a punch to the stomach. But like, in a good way.

“Well, you know I had to change twice,” Ilya said, and Shane was nodding, seemingly eager to learn from Ilya’s own experience. “The first one, I couldn’t sleep and I was sweating like heatwave in the middle of Canadian winter.” Shane smiled at that, reassuring Ilya it was safe to continue. “Then second one, I still couldn’t sleep, but I wasn't sweating anymore. Instead, my dick stopped working. I didn’t tell you because effect was instant, so I panicked and made myself vomit, even if I had taken it ten hours ago. I had it changed immediately and said I would throw it in toilet if I ever came near it again.”

“Did it even make you feel better, at least?” Shane asked, not smiling anymore.

“Made me feel worse when we facetimed and I realized after we hung up you were wearing your glasses and I didn’t even notice it,” Ilya tried to joke. But that was as far he could make it, because he continued, “I think it was the worst I ever felt in my life.”

Ilya said it with a lightness that didn’t reflect how he truly had felt at the time. Because it had been true that it was the worst feeling ever, and it was the first time ever a plan had started to etch itself in his mind on how he could end it. Because the medication didn’t just kill his libido, it muted everything else. Suddenly, he didn’t care about hockey, didn’t care about winning anything, and his love for Shane was… quiet. The call that day, it left Ilya as empty as he had started it, when Shane had always been the silver lining. And still was, after he got rid of the medication.

If his love for Shane was intertwined with the depression, then Ilya would stay depressed, he didn’t care. He couldn’t believe it was true, but he wasn't going to take the risk.

Galina had reassured him. No, it wasn't normal, medication shouldn’t make him feel this way. No, his love for Shane wasn't a produce of his depression. It was simply the wrong one for him, maybe the wrong dosage, so they would carry on looking for the right one. All wasn't lost.

“And the one now… is good. Is alright, I guess. My mouth is dry and I get sleepy by 7pm even when I nap, but that could be also from catching the boring from all the time I spend with you,” he shrugged. “But I feel like myself. It doesn’t always make me feel better, but it helps not getting worse, you know. It works for me for now.”

Shane was nodding, listening intently, his beautiful eyes shiny with unshed tears. Then he pushed away from the dresser and came to sit next to Ilya. There, he took Ilya’s hand in his, Ilya intertwining their fingers before bringing Shane’s hand to his lips to kiss it.

Shane sniffed, leaning against him.

“Is there anything else I can do to help?” Shane had asked then, not what Ilya had expected. “So you feel better, and not just, you know, not worse?”

“You do everything already, Hollander. I don’t know what else you want to be doing. They say to have healthy lifestyle with medication, no drinking, no smoking, eat your greens and carbs and proteins, but just having you in my life is doing the real heavy lifting of antidepressant. They only work as long as I have you.”

“You have me, Ilya,” Shane had said, a lone tear at the corner of his eye that Ilya kissed away. “You will always have me. I’m glad the medication is helping, even a little. I hope that one day it can help a lot and you feel better.”

“But?” Ilya enquired gently.

“I don’t know if I can do this right now,” Shane admitted. “The trials and errors of finding the right medication, I don’t think I can… I can’t handle not feeling right, you know? Just now, it’s… everything is already out of my control.”

Ilya swallowed as he nodded slowly, throat tight.

“I know, sweetheart. I know,” Ilya murmured the words against his temple.

“Hey,” Ilya called in a breath, the word barely above a whisper, bringing his hand to caress lightly over Shane’s cheek.

Ilya watched him blink once, twice, before realising Shane had not been doing that all the while he had been lying there.

Seemingly coming out of his torpor, Shane glanced at Ilya, before starting to move his body around, squirming a bit and bringing his arm back down, joining the other one over the duvet.

“Can’t sleep?” Ilya asked uselessly, already knowing the answer.

A lot of the things he said lately felt empty and useless, because he didn’t need to ask. He didn’t need to question, or try to understand, because Ilya already knew perfectly well what was going on through Shane’s mind, and it killed him. Absolutely agonizing.

Shane shook his head, swallowing loudly in the quiet of the bedroom. He had barely been able to utter more than a couple of words, those being I love you in three different languages. Which broke Ilya’s heart and put it back together at the same time.

He shuffled closer, pressing a kiss to Shane’s shoulder. Then, he lifted the t-shirt sleeve so he could reach the skin there, and to his horror, Shane heaved a gasp, closing his eyes.

“Sorry, sorry,” Ilya rushed to apologize but Shane was shaking his head, turning onto his side so they were now facing each other, and it was his turn to inch closer to Ilya, their bodies touching. He took it as an offer to wrap the arm Shane wasn't holding around his body, pulling them even closer, their foreheads pressed together. Shane swallowed again, his eyes remaining closed.

“Tell me again how you thought Czech team was better than Canadian team. In 1996? Or was it 1999,” Ilya said, his memory providing him with the right answer but he pushed it at the back of his mind. Shane shook his head. “Okay, then what about the 2009 World Junior Hockey Championships,” Shane snorted, and Ilya felt emboldened to carry on, “memorable game, one for the library.”

Shane chuckled softly, eyes still closed, but his nose rubbed against Ilya’s, and Ilya was no coward admitting to the butterflies in his stomach.

“For the books,” Shane mouthed, and Ilya would have missed it if their lips weren't almost pressed together.

“Hm?”

“Books, not library,” Shane whispered, or actually, even below that. If Ilya had a hand around his throat, his vocal cords wouldn’t have made a move.

“Meh, library has books, no? Makes more sense to go to library. Your mind is library, full of memories, yes?”

Ilya tangled their legs together and Shane let him, actually hooking one of his legs over Ilya’s hip, before rubbing his face against Ilya’s, up and down.

“We could watch YouTube highlights of me, if you prefer. Top 20 plays of Ilya Rozanov’s career. Ilya Rozanov greatest fights compilation.” Shane’s body was shaking with quiet laughter now as Ilya tightened his arms around him. “Yes? Sounds good?”

“Ilya Rozanov being a rat for eight minutes,” Shane then said, hoarsely, but there was a smile in his voice. Ilya had to rein himself from vibrating.

“Ilya Rozanov savage mode,” Ilya said, feeling himself grinning wide.

“Ilya Rozanov most annoying moments on ice,” Shane added, finally opening his eyes to look at Ilya. Their noses were still touching, but Ilya could still see the beautiful smile scrunching Shane’s freckles.

“Is same video, Hollander, you should know that. I thought you’re my biggest fan.”

“You are your biggest fan,” Shane said, and Ilya couldn’t help it, breaching the last small distance separating them to kiss him dirty, tongue and spit and biting lips. Shane pulled him even closer, their chests pressed against one another, fingers tangling in Ilya’s curls. Then he hummed, and Ilya replied in a similar manner, questioningly. “Maybe you’re right.”

“I am?” Ilya didn’t expect this one.

“Yeah, I’m a pretty big fan of you,” Shane said, but before he could react other than just physically and his dick getting even harder than it already was, Shane continued. “Do you still want to go to the Cottage early? Because you mentioned you wanted to go, I had it ready just in case. We could leave in the morning and be there for lunch. Or maybe, we could go somewhere else. Australia is quite big and probably doesn’t care about NHL players. We would have to travel separately, but–”

“Hey, hey, Shane, slow down.”

Ilya rolled over to turn the side lamp on before he sat up, guiding Shane on his back so he could get a better look at him. His face was blank.

The relief Ilya had felt earlier when he had managed to make Shane smile was short-lived, brought back to the reality that his boyfriend’s mind was never distracted.

“If you want to go to Cottage, we can. But you said you wanted to wait and see… and didn’t you have plans with Pike–”

“He hasn’t replied to me,” Shane shrugged flippantly in a way that was unbeknownst to him. “And we’re technically not allowed to talk to each other while the investigation was going on, and that didn’t get resolved with the Metros’ statement.”

Every fucking day, Ilya thought his heart couldn’t break furthermore for the situation Shane found himself in. It wasn't pity, not at all, but a strong sense of unfairness and injustice that ate at him.

And fucking Pike–

“I think it’s better, I wouldn’t even know what to say to him anyway. I don’t even know if I want to say anything. To him or anyone. Being around people that aren’t you, it’s quite… unpleasant, at the moment. And Montreal is not going to let me go easily, they might even grill my chances to get a team for next year.”

Ilya didn’t even disagree with him. But… it didn’t sound like Shane. Something was off in the way he said things.

“Is this… really what you want?”

Shane shrugged.

“You’re the one that mentioned going to the Cottage earlier this year.”

“Because I thought is something you might want but wouldn’t allow yourself to do.” Shane looked taken aback by Ilya’s words, blinking repeatedly in quick succession. “But what do you actually want, Lyubimiy?”

This time, Ilya watched frustration appear on Shane’s face, as if Ilya shouldn’t have asked a question he wouldn’t like the answer of.

“Play hockey. Not be gay,” Shane replied, the frown back between his brows, like he disapproved of his own words, while Ilya was shot straight in the chest. “Or like that it wouldn’t matter. Be out with you without putting you in danger. Not have to go to Australia. Maybe Europe. Play hockey,” he repeated. “With you or against you. It doesn’t matter, as long as I can go home to you every night. Make people forget I came out. Say no to my mom when she said we should fight Montreal. Not care about what might happen to other gay athletes, not feel guilty about not wanting to represent gay hockey players.” He was silent for a moment there, Ilya getting ready to say something, anything to comfort him, when Shane spoke again. “Not feel sick all the time, like my stomach is being shredded to bits inside of me, everything in my head hurting for real everywhere. Not feel out of breath, for once. Yes, breathing normally would be nice, might be first on the list actually. Sorry. Being with you safely is close second, though. Then the not hurting inside. But hockey too. I guess I’ve been playing hockey even when it hurts. But hockey doesn’t stop it anymore anyway, like it used to. So maybe stop the pain before hockey. So hockey in fourth. If you want it in order.”

Ilya had watched a multitude of emotions cross over Shane’s face, only to settle on nothing. Shane’s expression was back to blank, the same as when he listed the grocery list. His eyes, turned towards Ilya, unseeing.

Ilya had to admit, it was the first time that he was really scared.

“Okay,” he said, trying to control the shake in his voice. “Okay,” he repeated. “Well, some of this can be done.”

“Hm?”

Shane still didn’t see him.

“We could get married. Now, I mean, and not wait. Then, I could ask for Canadian citizenship and we could both come out. That’s an easy fix,” Ilya said, rubbing his nose, unable to look at Shane when he spoke.

“No.”

Ilya had not been expecting that.

“No?” he tried not to sound too offended.

“No. We’re not getting married like that. We have a plan. I have a plan.” Shane’s eyes had lost their edge and he was now frowning disapprovingly. “We’re not getting married in the middle of this mess. This– us, this is good. This is the only good thing I have, I am not tainting it with what’s going on. And a marriage is two people. We’re not getting married just because my life has gone to shit. That is if you even still want to get married to me.”

“Hollander, that is the only thing I have ever wanted. If you had said let’s get married in hospital with concussion, we would be celebrating our two-year anniversary right now.”

Shane’s laugh surprised the both of them, especially Shane, because before he was done with it, he brought a hand to cover his eyes, and a sob wrenched out of him.

Ilya leaned over, covering his boyfriend with his body, notching his face against his throat as Shane shook with tears. Ilya held and pressed onto him, waiting patiently. The absolute silence in the room, apart from the muffled ragged breaths that escaped Shane sometimes broke Ilya’s heart more than the situation already did, but he preferred Shane crying than the other alternatives, which was either the shutdown or panic attack. Ilya couldn’t settle on which one was worse.

Probably the shutdown, with the uncertainty Shane would ever come out of it. But he knew the panic attack scared Shane more, so… yes. Still undecided.

For a while, they stayed like that, pressed against one another as Ilya held onto Shane. The tears didn’t subside as much as Shane grew tired. Ilya was still propped on his arm and leaning over him. Even with his eyes closed, Shane was still heaving, not really asleep yet but not far from it. Ilya needed him to sleep more than he needed him to talk for now.

They couldn’t fix things right away, and the stupid statement probably had set them back and delayed Shane’s ability to move on, but his boyfriend was also exhausted beyond comprehension and starved to death.

But that was a problem for tomorrow, because Ilya knew if he offered food to Shane now, it would be the last straw.

So he let him cry himself to sleep, the back of his hand caressing his cheek that Shane nuzzled into unconsciously, his breathing slowing down progressively, with soft heaving gasps in between.

This man was going to be the death of him.

~~~

The second time Ilya woke up, the light coming from behind the blinds was a lot brighter, and his phone told him it was almost nine o’clock in the morning.

That wasn't the only surprise, as he noticed Shane was still fast asleep in his arms, his nose pressed against his throat and one of his hands resting in the middle of Ilya’s chest.

Contrary to popular’s belief, Ilya was the early riser while Shane could sleep late in the morning. Not that it ever happened, his boyfriend very serious about his routine, never allowing himself a moment of leisure, especially during the season: alarm set at 4:45am on practice days and 5:45am on game days. On off-days, he would stay in bed until 6am, never deviating from any of it.

But if the alarm wasn't set up, nothing would stop Shane from sleeping until late, no matter what time he had gone to bed the previous night.

Ilya’s body worked like clockwork and would naturally wake up between 5:30 and 6am every day that God made, even during the off-season. He didn’t complain about it, even before he could take advantage of it by watching the sun rise over the lake or count each freckle on Shane’s face.

When they weren't a thing yet, Ilya couldn’t stay in bed by himself for too long before his mind started whispering scary thoughts to him, which would make him get up immediately and go workout as soon as possible.

His mind still whispered scary things to him, but now he had someone who would get up at the same time as him, a bit grumpier, definitely not a morning person, and Ilya didn’t have time to linger on those thoughts when he could annoy his boyfriend and poke at his bad morning mood. Shane was very easily riled up and aggravated, which made the morning sex that usually followed even better.

Nine o’clock was an indulgence for the both of them, but Ilya wasn't that surprised after the day and night they had. He was more surprised no one tried to wake them up yet.

Last night, he really had expected Yuna to come get Shane for something, anything, dreading when it would happen, which was then confirmed when there had been a knock at the bedroom door.

Shane had moved at the same time as him, but instead of answering like Ilya had expected, he went to the bathroom.

Ilya had briefly hesitated following him, but if they needed something from Shane now, he’d rather redirect than let them bang at the door indefinitely.

To Ilya’s surprise, David had been the one standing on the other side.

“I was just wondering if Shane would maybe like something to eat. He barely touched anything at lunch, and I… I have one of his smoothies, if he’d like that,” David had presented the shaker with the off-white liquid in it.

And that was a fantastic idea, Ilya thought, but also, unconceivable right now. Shane had looked… bad when they had briefly talked before going to bed, and Ilya knew if he offered Shane food right now, it might cause more harm than good.

“I don’t know if he’ll want it now, but I’ll take it and offer when it’s the right time,” Ilya had said, and David nodded with a small sad smile on.

“Thank you, Ilya. Is he…?” David had glanced briefly inside the room.

“He went to bathroom when you knocked. I want to check on him, if is okay.”

“Yes, no, right, you are absolutely right. I’m glad– I’m glad he has you. If you boys need anything, let us know, okay?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“No, thank you,” David had said with the same smile, before he turned around and left.

Finding Shane in the shower afterward had been kind of scary, but when he had opened the glass door, Shane had only been stimming and not actively dying. His breathing had been heavy and measured, but he was calming himself on his own, and Ilya didn’t want to ruin the process.

He had closed the door back behind him, not without first testing the temperature to make sure that Shane didn’t scald himself, but let him come back on his own time.

Sitting down on the bathroom floor then, and watching Shane sleep now, Ilya didn’t think it was fine. Nothing was fine and what the Metros did made it ten times worse. Their cruelty was beyond words, and Ilya vowed for eternal pay back and revenge. Beating them at hockey and never allowing them to come near the playoffs in his lifetime wasn't enough.

But it would be fine. While he’d patiently watch Shane like a hawk as the love of his life rebuilt himself, Ilya would come up with cosmic punishment for the Montreal team. And maybe for the city too, just because, to deter anyone to even consider supporting them ever again.

Shane stirred awake in his arms, tilting his head to nuzzle against Ilya’s cheek, pressing a mindless kiss along his jaw.

Ilya’s chest hurt at the love he had for this man, before muscling up for the next thing he needed to do, which would probably send the entire status quo into the trash.

“Hi,” Shane sighed, his breath tickling at Ilya’s throat. He even offered a small smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes still bruised by all the previous sleepless nights.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya replied, his lips against Shane’s forehead, who burrowed closer into his body, soft and pliable as Ilya tangled a hand into his hair, so they could look at each other. “I love you,” he repeated in English this time, “and I want you to remember that.”

Shane frowned.

“What?”

Ilya let his eyes close as his fingers scratch his boyfriend’s scalp.

“You need to eat something, sweetheart.”

And as expected, Shane tensed in his arms. Ilya remained still, loose-limbed, breathing deeply, still not looking, waiting for a fight they had more often than not. But Shane used food as a punishment more often than not too.

But to his surprise, Shane relaxed and let out a deep, long exhale.

“Yeah, okay.”

Ilya didn’t rush.

“Okay,” he replied with a small nod.

“Okay,” Shane sighed again, in defeat.

Ilya dislodged from under his boyfriend, pushing said boyfriend on his back to pepper kisses all over his face, down his throat, reaching the collarbone and shoulders.

Shane let out a breathy chuckle, but before he could try to convince him (very easily) to stay in bed, Ilya was climbing out, fingers loosely around Shane’s wrist to pull him after him.

With no resistance, Ilya considered putting on clothes, but he couldn’t be bothered and didn’t want to break the stride they were in, so he made his way to the door without looking back, just able to hear Shane coming out of bed after him.

“Ilya, you don’t even have pants on!” Shane called as the door was open, and Ilya simply waved him off, and once again, Shane was easily rage-baited after waking up. “What if Farah is still here,” Shane hissed as he was rushing after Ilya.

“We are both supermodels, Radost’ moya. Hugo Boss paid a lot to have me in jockstrap on Times Square.”

Shane grumbled behind him, and Ilya wanted to glance back, but he trusted. He had to.

The kitchen was clean and empty when they made their way in it. There was no trace of the crisis centre held right there the previous night.

“Your dad made salmon and rice bowls for dinner last night. He also made a smoothie but I don’t know if is still good. I can cook egg whites, or oatmeal with ice cubes. It worked well last time, no?” Ilya listed as casually as possible while leaning inside the fridge. At the last question, he couldn’t help but look back, just to make sure Shane was still there.

It felt wrong, like maybe he shouldn’t or something terrible would happen.

But Shane was standing there disapprovingly, not much more dressed than Ilya was, holding a pile of their clothes in his arms, hair spiking in all direction and looking like he was breakfast himself. Ilya wanted to devour him.

“I’ll tell you if you put some clothes on,” Shane frowned.

“Urgh, Hollander, don’t pretend you don’t want to have me around naked all the time,” Ilya grunted over dramatically, but he was already reaching for the clothes Shane handed to him.

“Yes, when there might not be someone else in the place with us. Especially if it might be my parents,” Shane mumbled as he hopped on one leg to put some joggers on himself. Ilya held him by the elbow to stabilize him after he had slid his adidas sweatpants on.

“It wouldn’t be most compromising thing they’ve seen of us,” he grinned. Shane scowled.

“See if I do the laundry naked ever again.”

“No, Hollander! I want to fuck you on washing machine again,” Ilya said as he pulled Shane closer, hands on his ass and squeezing.

At least that made Shane chuckle as he batted at Ilya’s hands. Ilya spun them around, trapping Shane between his body and the island, a hand moving to his lower back so it didn’t dig into Shane painfully. His boyfriend had a bruise there once because of it, and Ilya wasn't going to let it happen ever again.

Shane draped his arms over his shoulders, the two of them meeting halfway for a languid kiss.

Ilya knew he wasn't supposed to get distracted; he was a man on a mission here. But Shane was so soft, so tender in his arms, and when the kiss broke, his breathing was shaky, but not in an anxious way.

“I love you,” Shane said, meeting his eyes, their noses touching. “So much.”

“I know,” Ilya pressed a kiss at the corner of his mouth, tightening his hold around him. “I love you too, sweetheart. More than anything.”

“More than anything,” Shane confirmed, returning the kiss for a brief moment, before he leaned back and sighed. “Okay. Alright.”

“Okay?” Ilya repeated, a bit unsure.

“Yeah, okay. What are you having for breakfast, then?” Shane asked while unable to hold Ilya’s gaze. Ilya only wanted to make it easier on him, so he averted his eyes away from Shane.

“Hm, I want something to bite into,” he said casually, nibbling at Shane’s throat, right under his ear. That made Shane raised his shoulder and chuckled softly. “So maybe toast, maybe pancake. Depends on what you want, if you want me to cook you something.”

Shane still wasn't looking at him, but he seemed to consider Ilya’s words carefully.

“I kind of want the salmon,” he admitted, and Ilya hoped his heart kept quiet in his chest and Shane didn’t feel the jump, pressed against him. “But maybe it’s better to keep it for lunch or dinner, don’t you think?”

Ilya shrugged.

“Breakfast is most important meal, no? Fish is good to start the day.” Shane hummed, still thinking and Ilya was getting worried he was going to get lost in there. “Whatever you want, moy lyubov. If you want salmon now, have salmon now. If you want breakfast food later, we have breakfast food later, anything is fine.”

“Would you…” Shane started but then made a face like the thing his mind came up with was a bad idea.

“Yes, anything,” Ilya repeated, starting to sound desperate.

“Are there ingredients for a tuna melt?”

Somewhere along the way, Ilya must have died and ascended.

“I will check,” he rushed, letting go of Shane, praying to whomever God was listening, he wasn't picky, that there were indeed the ingredients for tuna melts in the fridge and cupboards. “Is that mayonnaise?” he said as he started to pile up everything he needed on the counter. It looked like mayonnaise from tube, but the writing on it wasn't English or any language Ilya knew, so not in Cyrillic either.

“Yeah, it’s Kewpie mayo,” Shane said with a soft smile as he watched him.

“Is good for tuna melt?”

“It’s– yeah, it’s good for tuna melt.”

Ilya tried to hide his relieved sigh.

“I’ve got everything. You still want?” he offered casually, and Shane’s smile widened.

“I still want.”

The tuna melt was probably his best one so far.

“This mayonnaise is good,” he said as he skimmed over what he assumed was the list of ingredients. When he looked over the bottle, Shane was still looking at him, something so tender and fond in his eyes, as he slowly chewed his food.

“It’s my dad’s favourite. My mom and I don’t really eat mayonnaise, but he gets it everytime he sees it. He probably got this one from the Asian market five blocks down. They have the best daikon radishes, the only ones my mom likes.”

“You like?” Ilya enquired.

“The tuna melt?”

“The radish, dye-con radish.”

Shane smiled.

“I’m fine with it. It’s nice pickled.”

“Oh?” Ilya perked up at that.

Shane chuckled, before taking another small bite of the tuna melt.

“We could try pickling stuff,” he offered. “I know you like pickles.”

“You like pickles too.”

“I do.”

“So we could pickle stuff. Together,” Ilya said, almost holding his breath. He probably wasn't discreet enough because Shane arched an eyebrow at him.

“Did you ever picture yourself pickling foods with me, when we were fucking every few months?”

Ilya recognized a bait if he saw one.

“Not while I was putting my cock in your ass–” Ilya said crassly, making Shane grunt and shove him lightly, “but I did imagine doing stuff like that with you. Domestic things.”

“Domestic,” Shane repeated, eyes glazed over with the brightest smile Ilya had the pleasure to witness lately. He needed to bite him.

“I knew I wanted to cook for you, even before I invited you to stay,” he continued. “I imagined making you my favourite food from when I was growing up, mostly because I wanted a reason to remember it and you were the only person I wanted to share it with.”

“Ilya, I’m sorry–”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I like what we do now. It wasn't fair, anyway, to expect you to like everything. And you like what matters, draniki, blinis, pirozhki,” Ilya was smirking. “I like making them for you and you floating around me to ask what I put in everything.”

“I’m just checking–”

“I know, moy lyubov. Is very hot, I like it,” Ilya said, taking one of Shane’s hands in his so he could bring it to his mouth and kiss it.

“I’m annoying,” Shane stated, looking at Ilya.

“You’re perfect.”

Shane took another bite.

“What if one day you found those annoying parts of me less endearing?” he asked casually, like they were talking about the weather.

“You call them annoying, but I don’t. If you ever stopped, what would be left for me to love? You take the best part away.”

“Me nagging you is the best part of me?”

“I don’t know what is nagging, but if it is what you do then I love it. Because when you do nagging, you notice things and you remember. First time I tried to do borscht like my mother’s, I just put a little pit of this, a little bit of that. I didn’t measure, I was throwing stuff in, and you were nagging me to be precise and watch I was doing. I didn’t listen because I loved how angry looking little kitten you looked. And I was in your face when it turned out so good and almost perfect. But when I tried to recreate it, I had no idea what I’d put in there, and it made me feel like shit, because I had been lazy and careless, and maybe I would never get as close to her ever again.

“But then you saw, you noticed, and even if you didn’t like borscht when you tried it, you remembered. You went to the store and got the ingredients we were missing. You remembered what I threw in there, the quantities, the spices. And it was the same. Not the same as my first try, but the same as my mother’s, like what it had been missing was you. And then you wrote the recipe down with very important instructions so I would never forget ever again. Or even if I did, you would remember for me.”

They were still holding hands, and Shane’s lash line was wet with unshed tears, but he also had a soft, shaky smile while looking at Ilya.

Ilya himself felt overcome with something so big, beyond words.

He had been in love with Shane Hollander since the first time he had shaken his hand, maybe. But everyday that passed, this love kept growing, and everyday Ilya was pretty sure it was it, it couldn’t get any bigger than that.

Everytime, it did.

“I still wish I was easier to be around,” Shane said in a whisper, like he didn’t trust himself any louder.

“I want things easier for you because it is really easy for me to be around you. I don’t want to be anywhere else and I don’t want you any different.”

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for all the comments and engagement with this fic. I'm glad I didn't disappoint you (yet).

Hope you enjoyed this chapter!

Chapter 4: Shane

Chapter Notes

And this is it for the second fic of this series!

I want to make a disclaimer before you go any further: there are romanticized legal stuff in there lol. Like, I research all those little things like contract negociations, PR management, discrimination laws, etc., but I have to extrapolate from there. Also, I'm not from the US/Canada, so any knowledge in labour law do not relate.
So if by any chance, there are actual specialists and professionals reading this, I'm sorry and I'm asking for your suspension of disbelief.

Enjoy!

They finished eating in a comfortable silence, their tangled hands never coming apart.

Shane would be gripped at the throat by emotions from time to time, everything he needed Ilya to know, but as if he already knew it all, Ilya would pull his hand to his lips and keep it there, not even needing to kiss it.

I know. I know and I’m here.

Even after the darkest night, the morning would always come, Shane reminded himself.

Lately, he had come to dread the nights, what was hiding in the shadows. And more often than not, it was just himself, Shane and his own thoughts.

It had started way before the whole thing with his team came down. Way before him and Ilya became something more.

But it had started with Ilya, as far as Shane could remember. His now-boyfriend, then… whatever-they-used-to-be had been on his mind for an indefinite amount of time.

First, it was the idea of being with a man and the implications that had kept Shane awake at night, but at the time, it was easy to drown the noises with a hypothetical future solution: it didn’t matter, it was just physical, he would meet a woman, he would be normal.

Then came something else, that Shane realized now, had kind of been there from the beginning, but he didn’t have anything to compare it to.

Feelings. Urgh, gross.

It wasn't even just that, it was also the pain that came with it. That shit hurt, like, physically. Shane was familiar with pain from the mind spreading to the body, the crushing pressure in his head swallowing his appetite and squeezing his heart. But it had never been as blatant as thinking about Ilya, or worse, watching him walk away, and the absolute gutting that came with it. That, Shane had been unable to justify with anything else.

At least, at the time, he still thought it was just regular heartbreak, and he would get over it when he would meet the right person, the right girl.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t.

So then, he had to deal with both the absolutely annihilating disappointment of being gay and stuck without a solution, and heartbreak on top of it.

Great, two-for-two for Shane Hollander.

Nowadays, the sleepless nights looked a bit different, with his eyes on the ceiling as he imagined his life going to hell, the three most-likely scenarios haunting him:

• Keeping hockey, losing Ilya (he’d retire when his body couldn’t take it anymore and didn’t plan to go on any further than that) ;
• Losing hockey, keeping Ilya (that seemed doable, he could probably survive this one, if Ilya didn’t lose interest in him since he wasn't doing the most interesting part about Shane Hollander, which was admittedly the hockey. Also, see grief) ;
• Losing hockey, losing Ilya (what was even the point?)

The conclusion of the night would depend on his headspace at the time. The longer he was apart from Ilya, the darker it got.

Weirdly enough, since September and his life was progressively descending through the Nine Circles of Hell, the scenarios didn’t occupy his mind as much as they used to, instead replaced with the absolute loathing he had for himself, his mind and his body.

The meaner the Metros were, the more pain Shane needed to inflict upon himself physically, because it felt wrong to hurt so badly inside and have no proof for it on the outside.

Hunger tearing at his stomach helped centre him when they snickered behind his back. Letting them throw him into the boards realigned his mind and body.

Ilya’s slow descent into depression ruined all that, unfortunately. Suddenly, the worst-case scenario felt the most likely and Shane couldn’t go to bed anymore. In the worst week of his life, the one after the Boxing Day debacle, Shane stayed up all night and slept between the hours of 5 and 10 am after the sun rose, only indulging because he knew sleep wasn't like food and the lack of it would impact his performance. And it was the only thing left, right?

Even after they had talked it out, came out with a plan to work through it, after Ilya had told him about his therapist and what they came up with to help him, things didn’t get better.

Actually, in a way, it got worse, as now, a clock had started ticking down over Shane’s head. He was running out of time. About what, he didn’t know, but the impending sense of doom was taking more and more space as the days went on.

Now, in the kitchen of his Montreal apartment, sitting with Ilya as they finished the tuna melts, and as keys were jostling in the lock at his door, indicating someone, most likely his parents – his mother – were making their way into his place, the clock was still ticking, loud and clear. It only ever quieted down when Ilya talked, silent only when he smiled one of his real, terrible grins that made Shane want to implode his life from the inside out.

Waiting for reality to catch up with him inside of his own home, or what was left of it, Shane didn’t think about death. Not like that, at least.

If he had considered the thought of not existing, in a cease to exist way that didn’t impact the other people in his life, in a never been born way, he didn’t want to actually die. Even if his life sucked, he was still Shane Hollander, the best hockey player of his generation, and maybe one day, ever.

And he was loved. Oh, he was so loved.

But the clock made it sound like a countdown to it. To him dying. To his death.

He felt like he was in one of those old animated shows his dad liked and showed him when he was a kid – the one with the doctor bunny and the hunting duck? – When they walked down the street and you could hear the whistling of a grand piano or an anvil falling from the sky before you could see it, the character unknowing of its future demise while the watchers knew what was coming.

Well, Shane was both the unknowing character and the bystander, hearing the piano hurtling towards him while unable to do anything to stop it.

His mother was the first one to make it to the kitchen, looking put together as always, in her brown tailored pants and white silk shirt. Her hair was up in a claw clip and she was holding her vintage briefcase under one arm, the Hermes bag he got her for her first birthday after getting signed with the Metros, resting on her opposite shoulder.

She stopped in her tracks, her eyes widening, not in surprise, more like she was trying to read him better, taking in the scene she had come in, which was Shane and Ilya still holding hands over the island, both at a corner so they could be as close as possible while still looking at each other, empty plates in front of them.

Yuna schooled her face as David followed, going through the same steps, but he smiled instead of hiding it.

“Hello, you two,” he said warmly, coming further inside, putting a gentle hand on Yuna’s back.

“Hi, dad,” Shane said, overcome with the need to get wrapped in his father’s embrace.

Shane decided to do something out of the ordinary, coming down from the barstool he was sitting on, Ilya letting go of his hand but not without a sweet caress of his thumb. Shane squeezed his shoulder in passing, before making his way to where his parents stood.

If his first intention had been to hug his dad, his mom was close enough that he managed to awkwardly shuffle to envelop the both of them. And his dad was more than happy to help, getting closer while bringing Yuna with him.

The confusion was short-lived, because the next moment, Shane was wrapped tightly in their arms, his father pressing a kiss to his temple and his mom guiding his head with a shaky hand at the back of it so he could rest on her shoulder.

Someone talked, the rumbling echoing inside of Shane, and he was worried for a moment one of them was expecting an answer. But before he could ask them to repeat, another body pressed at his back as Ilya rested his forehead on the nape of his neck.

“Alright, enough,” his mom’s words cut through the temporary quiet of his mind. She dislodged him gently but firmly, not giving him the possibility to argue.

He wouldn’t have anyway, as he stepped back with heat rising on his cheeks. He wasn't left untethered as once her hands left him, his father patted him on the cheek, and Ilya’s hands found his hips, as if to hold him upright.

Yuna wiped her eyes rimmed with red, but she shook her head and batted her eyelids, until she looked back up at him with resolution.

“Let’s chat.”

The nausea gripped Shane at the throat instantly, and he had to stop himself from moving for a second there as she bypassed him while his dad followed her, the sounds of dishes and cutlery coming into contact as they seemingly cleaned up their lunch.

Ilya didn’t move, didn’t let go of him, and even stepped closer, propping his chin on Shane’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he whispered, his breath fanning over Shane’s cheek, while Shane was taking small inhales, his mouth filling with spit. “Hey,” Ilya repeated, a bit firmer and Shane caught his wrist so he could hang onto something. Ilya pressed even closer, the two of them plastered back to front together, and Shane could feel Ilya’s deep breathing behind him. “You okay?” he asked, just for the two of them.

“I think I might throw up,” Shane admitted.

His body was run by shivers, sweating through his clothes. Ilya let go of his hip with his free hand, coming to rest on his stomach, rubbing slowly over it.

“You didn’t like tuna melt?”

Shane heaved a breath, bordering on gagging.

“Don’t talk about–”

“Yes, sorry,” Ilya said, pressing a kiss against his cheek. “Is it food or panic? Or panic because of food?” Shane nodded, and Ilya hummed, nuzzling closer. “Raised your arms.”

“What?”

“Raised your arms up.”

Shane wanted to argue, but the shivers were intensifying and he already had to tip his head back to manage the saliva pooling in his mouth, so he did what Ilya asked him and waited.

Ilya’s hand didn’t leave his abdomen, continuing the circling movement over it.

Shane felt stupid but was surprised when the tension and cramping of his stomach started to fade. He tried to lower his arms, but that only brought back the sensation ten folds, so he lifted them even higher.

He could breathe better like that too. It didn’t really stop the shivers and the nausea, but the spit in his mouth receded and the need to vomit felt less urgent.

After a while, when his shoulders started to get numb a bit, Ilya stopped rubbing his belly and brought both hands to his arms, starting to lower them slowly. For a brief instance, everything returned, and Shane thought he was done for, but it passed as quickly as it had come back and his arms were down to his sides, Ilya rubbing them energetically.

He was still a bit shaky, but he recognized the familiarity of his body.

“Okay?” Ilya asked into his skin, and Shane nodded.

Slowly, Shane turned around to face him, Ilya never really letting go of him, and he nodded slowly but a bit more assuredly. He convinced himself that he could look Ilya in the eye and he was comforted by what he saw there.

Ilya wasn’t pitying him, or looking worried, just satisfied with his solution. But over his shoulder, his parents were looking, the two holding onto each other, worry unmistakable. Shane inhaled shakily.

“Good trick, uh?”

Shane snorted at that, his attention back onto his boyfriend.

“Where did you learn that?”

“Is good for stomach pains. Indigestion,” he said slowly through clenched teeth like the word was resisting him personally. “Also, Jackie made Arthur do it when he fell on his back. I wanted to see if it worked on Big Arthur.”

“Big Arthur?” Shane exclaimed, his laugh caught between surprise and offense.

“You are right, you were there first. He is Mini Shane.” Shane let his forehead drop on Ilya’s shoulder, chuckling. “It worked, didn’t it?” Shane nodded. “Good, moy lyubov.”

“I love you,” Shane mumbled as he turned his face against his throat.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya replied as he kissed his temple. “Are you ready for talking or do you want to go watch movie on my phone?”

Shane couldn’t help smiling, even if a spike of panic speared him through the chest.

“I can talk,” he said, leaning back, feeling a bit disoriented and suddenly very sleepy, but he couldn’t stay in the liminal space of not knowing. Decisions probably needed to be taken. He had to power through.

He glanced at his parents, watched his dad squeeze his mom’s hand as she started to pull out papers from her briefcase.

Shane and Ilya gathered around the island as Yuna carefully set paper stacks around.

“We don’t have to do this now,” David said gently. Shane looked at his father, before glancing at his mother, who wasn't saying anything. When their two pairs of identical eyes met, Yuna pursed her lips before sighing.

“We kind of do,” she said.

“Yeah, I know. It’s fine.”

It really wasn't, but Shane couldn’t keep living like this.

“Alright,” she clasped her hands together, back into manager mode. “Last night, Farah managed to get a meeting with some of the league’s representatives.”

Shane tensed up immediately at the thought of having to face Roger Crowell anytime soon.

“When is it?” he asked so he could mentally start preparing himself.

Yuna and David exchanged a look.

“We just came back from it.”

Shane blinked.

“Shane didn’t need to be there?” Ilya asked instantly.

“Well, ideally yes,” Yuna nodded, “but… after last night, your father, Farah and I weren't sure it was sound for you to be present.”

“You think I would have messed up?” Shane asked, and he hated how weak his voice came out.

“No,” his father replied. “No, no one doubted you would have done exactly what would have been expected from you. We were more worried they would mess up.”

“How?” Shane asked, teeth clacking as the shivers came back. Ilya stepped closer to him, his hand finding its way to the back of his neck.

“We weren't sure of their position. They wouldn’t express any opinion by mail or phone. We didn’t know if they would be receptive to our complaint, and after the Metros’ poor handling of their statement’s release, we didn’t think it would be a good idea for you to be in the room if the league decided against pursuing any actions against the Metros,” Yuna said in one setting.

Shane was taking the news like it was meant to be delivered, with a form of detachment.

Right, he had been expecting it. The Metros was the league.

“And that’s it?” Ilya asked after a floating moment of silence passed. “They can decide that and we move on; we’re just fine with it?”

“Of course not,” Yuna said matter-of-factly. “We would just sue them. The whole thing is merely for their own sake, to try to resolve the issue amicably before we start dismantling the entire thing. It would be a long process, but that is not a problem.”

Well, it would have been a problem for Shane. It wasn't just for the league’s sake, really, but also his. If he sued them, he would be done with the NHL, he could never play for them again, probably. He would get discrimination lawsuit money, but they’d probably put a close that he was banned or something. Not like any team would want him anyway.

“But we’re not there yet,” Yuna continued.

“No?” Shane scoffed desperately.

“No, because last night, the Players’ Association reached out to us. We had been in contact from the beginning, but they also wanted to see if the issue could be sorted internally. Obviously, that is not what happened, so now, they are involved as well. Some of their representatives managed to make it to the meeting this morning, even though some came from all across North America.”

“Scott Hunter was there,” Shane’s dad said with a reassuring smile.

“Not just him,” Yuna said pointedly. “And… it’s not just the Players’ Association reacting, but also other teams, online, have made their opinions known.”

Shane pushed a barstool with his foot so he could climb on it and lay his upper body across his kitchen island, papers and documents be damned.

“Shane, the public opinion is on your side. The hockey world is on your side. And those who aren’t, are minor league level players. No one cares what Joshua Hill from Utah has to say, he’s married to his cousin. And we were worried for nothing because the first thing the league’s representatives said when the meeting started was that they already had started an investigation.”

“And what happens when like the Metros, they find nothing?” Ilya asked, rubbing Shane’s back rhythmically.

“They said due to the messages that were made public, the results of the Metros’ investigation didn’t stand. Listen, they didn’t say it that clearly, but their own investigation is not so much to find out if the discrimination accusations are true or not rather than to get a degree of misdemeanour. The investigation will show if the discrimination came with harassment.”

Ilya snorted humourlessly at that.

“Is it their words against Shane again? Pike won’t even testify–”

“Well, the thing with hockey and playing in the NHL is that it’s a high visibility sport. As in, a lot of it is recorded. They are going to review the tapes of all the games and recorded practices, retroactive up to twelve months.”

“It started when I came out, in September,” Shane said, voice muffled by his face pressed into the countertop.

“Then it will highlight the change, and underline the shift post-coming out. You know, to make the distinction between discrimination due to sexuality, or due to race,” Yuna said, and even without seeing her, Shane heard the hesitation. He lifted his head up to look at her. She raised her hands. “That’s one of the angles the Players’ association and our lawyers have discussed about. Some of their representatives presents were players themselves, and they notice how they are treated. Also, Scott Hunter mentioned that his coming out wasn't received the same way by his team, and maybe it wasn't just because the Admirals are better than the Metros, but that he’s also a white man.”

Shane wanted to go back to bed, flip the duvet over his head and never have to come out ever again.

“I should have send him an apology last night,” Shane said mostly to himself.

“No, Shane. He really didn’t hold it against you,” his dad said. “Like all of us, he can see your treatment is not fair when the only difference between the two of you is that he’s white and you aren’t.”

“And even bigger difference is that you are better player than him,” Ilya added. “Is harder for you than any mediocre white man.”

“Scott is not mediocre,” Shane said.

“No, but if Dallas Kent came out as gay tomorrow, they would use it as an excuse for his behaviour,” Yuna said, and Shane blinked at her again.

“Did you say that in front of anyone else?”

“I did not, because it was actually Victor St-Simon from the Raiders that said it. And he had a good point that everyone agreed with.”

“Oh my god,” Shane whined as he burrowed back into his arms.

“St Vicky was always the smartest one,” Ilya commented.

“Oh my god,” Shane repeated, trying to breathe and not cry. “But wouldn’t it have been easier if I was there?”

His parents exchanged a look.

“Having only your own representatives there isn’t unusual practice,” Yuna said, a bit too casually.

“But now, they’ll what– think I’m incapable and I let my mommy fight my battles for me? I thought you would want me to defend myself and show them it didn’t affect me.”

Shane wasn't blaming his mother. From the beginning, he knew she had a point, he knew she was right. Everything she ever did or said about his role, and his job, and his attitude, she had been right. She only had his best interests in mind, even if he struggled to shoulder said interests on at time. And the last few months had proved it true.

“Actually, it was my decision.”

Shane turned his head to look at his father. David’s stance had not changed, standing tall and comfortable by his wife’s side, and he had spoken in the same conniving tone he used with Shane, like they were a team, and his dad never deviated from his side.

And he never did.

“Your mother thought you would want to be involved in the narrative, have a say in how you would be perceived, and I disagreed. Well, not with the plan, because of course you should have a say in how the world perceives you. But I didn’t think that was a priority right now. I didn’t think it was safe for you to do so, and that we should,” his dad explained, hands waving to include both himself and his mom, “be a buffer. If it was bad news, if there was anything we could do before bringing you in. To avoid causing anymore preventable distress.”

For a while, no one said anything, as Shane just looked at his dad.

“What do you mean?” he asked with a frown, confused. Yuna took a deep inhale, steeling herself to answer him, but his dad was faster.

“We’ve been worried. I’m worried. About you. I’m scared for you. I know how much everything means to you, how much of yourself you’ve put into hockey, and not just the physical part. Even if that’s a worry in itself,” he chuckled humourlessly.

“I’m fine,” Shane said with a frown, even if his own voice was muffled over the buzzing in his ears. Everyone in the room had somewhat of a reaction to that. “It’s true. I’m… dealing with it, I just need–”

He didn’t even know what he needed. Time? He was running out of it. Space? What for? A hug?

Shane burst into tears, but before he could let himself crumble, he was enveloped by a set of arms or two, maybe even three.

“Oh my baby,” his mom whispered in his hair.

“We’re here, sweet boy,” his dad added.

“Is okay, moy lyubov. Is going to be okay,” Ilya mouthed against his cheek.

“It is,” Yuna said with a sniff. “It’s going to be okay, I promise you that, Shane,” she said, leaning away from him, before pulling his face up to look at her but Shane couldn’t do that. She pressed a kiss on his forehead. “I promise you, honey, we’re gonna fix it. I’m going to fix it, no matter what I have to do for it, okay?”

“I don’t– I know it means a lot to you,” he said, tears still running freely even through his closed eyelids.

“You mean a lot to me. More than anything. I just want to give you back what was yours in the first place, that’s what I’m doing. Hockey will never matter as much to me as you do. I’m only doing it because the way you are treated is unbearable to watch, and the way it’s hurting you is killing me,” she hissed. “I cannot simply stand to the side and witness what’s going on. I don’t even care how it will affect others, it’s how it affects you that I cannot stand, what it does to you, how sick it makes you. I cannot let it go unpunished.”

He knew that even if his father and Ilya weren't touching him anymore, they were still close by, in arms’ reach if needed, but it was a conversation between him and his mom.

She kissed his forehead once more, lingering for a moment.

“But,” she continued, “if you need me to let it go, if you want to stop… I would honour your wish. And that wouldn’t change one thing about my love for you.”

With a shaky breath, close to a gasp, Shane opened his eyes to meet hers.

“I–” he started, but it seemed to take more out of him than he thought, squeezing his eyes as he tried to get his voice back.

“Take your time,” his dad said softly in his periphery.

“I… don’t want to give up,” he managed to articulate, even it costed him more than necessary. “And I want to be doing what you need from me. I just… I don’t know if I can. I don’t even know if I still could play hockey right now,” he admitted both to her but also to himself for the first time. “Mom… I think I need help.”

The clock ticked.

Instead of the world collapsing around him like he had been expecting it to, the pressure in the room around them seemed shifted.

Even through all the time he had felt himself fraying at the edges, ready to come apart, the puppet strings kept holding him up.

But now, the strings were cut, and he was only held by the people that were surrounding him, and loved him no matter what.

His mother wrapped her arms back around him, and pulled him against her, her hand carding through his hair to scratch his scalp. He could feel her nod above him.

“It’s perfectly fine, honey. It’s perfect, everything is going to be okay. You won’t have to worry about anything.”

Well, easier said than done.

But Shane really tried to look on the bright side.

They eventually moved to the couch. His parents were sitting next to each other, his mom’s laptop on the coffee table, while he and Ilya were wrapped around each other. His dad would glance at them every now and then with a warm smile and a pat to Shane’s knee.

Ilya kept Shane’s head pressed to his chest while rubbing along his back, coming to rest warmly at the nape of neck every now and then.

“Did you tell them that?” Shane eventually asked, getting both his parents’ attention. “That the reason I couldn’t be there was that you were worried about me?”

Yuna and David exchanged a look again.

“Not in so many words, but yes,” his mother replied. “Well, the lawyers did. We met with them before to agree on the course of action, and Farah reported her own observations.”

“And they just agreed to it?” Shane asked, unconvinced.

“Farah is not your father or I telling them our little boy can’t go to school because he doesn’t feel well,” Yuna said non-committedly. Shane grunted while Ilya’s snort echoed loudly in his ear, amplified by the echo in his chest. “But she judged you couldn’t be there today, and that was enough for them. For now, at least.” She inhaled deeply and held her breath, before she continued. “We’ve already talked about a psych assessment in the past, and you were against it and that’s fine. The fact you weren't present today did help press the matter and the angle the legal team wants to push.”

Shane frowned.

“What angle?” Ilya asked before he could.

“That no matter what the NHL investigation concludes, due to the distress the harassment caused, we could already plead for at least what is considered medium level discriminatory harassment. Keep in mind that the highest level being a fear of violence.”

“Oh.”

“Yep, oh,” his dad said with a wince.

“But it’s hockey. It’s supposed to be violent.”

“On the ice, against another team, maybe. Violence against your own teammates, not really,” Yuna said.

“I don’t think they’ll find anything concluding on the tapes.”

“We’ll also have a witness’ testimony,” she added with a shrug.

“Wha– who?”

“Pike?” Ilya asked.

“No–”

“I told him to not get involved. He doesn’t have the same sponsorships as me and he has a family he needs to take care of,” Shane hurried to reply before Ilya could go on an angry tangent. “But if it’s not Hayden, who…”

“J.J. Boiziau,” his mom answered.

His mouth dropped.

“J.J.?”

“He’s one of the player representatives for the Metros,” his dad said.

“And he was there. I wasn't happy about it, but we couldn’t keep him out of the meeting. I was worried he was a snitch. Instead, he filled out a testimony about your treatment by Montreal, from both the players and management. He isn’t on the group chat that leaked, so we didn’t get anything new, but he let the league have access to his phone.”

“He was very helpful, Shane,” David added gently. “He asked about you, apologized a lot. He said he’s tried to contact you, but we told him you weren't on your phone at the moment,” Yuna made a pointed face at that, “but that we’ll pass on the message. He wasn't the only one, every player there reached out to know how you were doing, all of them agreeing that the Metros’ treatment has been really cruel and unfair. As your mom said, even online, people agree. Like, even Twitter–”

“Dad, I told you to not use Twitter, it’s really bad–”

“It is, but not for you. People love you, they worry about you, and not just your fans. Montreal fans are insurging about missing on another back-to-back cup just because their team is homophobic. Hockey fans in general are really mad about this playoff season, because the two best players of the league are out.”

“That’s me,” Ilya whispered in his ear, making Shane smile and relax just a smidge.

“There is a lot of pressure on the league to deal with the situation appropriately,” Yuna continued, looking at Shane from over her glasses. “The final games of the playoffs are not selling well on top of that. I have refrained from mentioning it, but your sponsors are standing behind you. Some like Reebok and Speedo made a statement supporting you when you came out, and others like Rolex and Adidas, they didn’t pull back their sponsorship. I received an email last night from the representatives from Rolex about appreciating you were wearing one of their most recent models during the press conference, before confirming their new line is making their way to you.

“I know I bore you with that,” Yuna continued, waving her hand at him. “What I’m saying is that this situation is a mess, but sponsors are not dropping you. All they see is that one of their brand ambassadors is out, not even because of well-played games, but because of blatant homophobia, and maybe even racism. And if there is one thing big corporations hate, is to be accused of is racism. Accusations of racism cause boycotts, and boycotts make them lose a lot of money. And that cannot happen. They will always side with what bring them the most of it. You.”

“Me,” both Ilya and Shane said at the exact same time. Shane snorted, elbowing Ilya. David also laughed while Yuna smiled.

“Absolut Vodka will never drop you, even if you were revealed to be a Russian spy,” Shane pointed out.

“They would prefer if I was,” Ilya said, pressing a kiss behind Shane’s ear.  

“Do you really think big sponsors would drop the league?” Shane asked, unsure.

“CCM did.”

“Oh.”

“Well, not the league as a whole, but as of this morning, they dropped the Metros. Said they were your first sponsors and that would follow you in any team or any other endeavours you wished to pursue, that sexual orientation shouldn’t influence how one is perceived.”

“Hum, that doesn’t sound very rainbow,” Ilya pointed out grimly.

“I think they are trying to make a point in the way that their choice of brand ambassadors cannot be accused of being diversity hires. They are saying we chose Shane Hollander, hockey player, and not because he is Shane Hollander, gay hockey player.”

Silence followed as Shane processed all the information.

“And so, is that good?” he asked, addressing his mom directly. “Are you happy with it?”

“Am I… happy with it?” she repeated, gaze shifting between him and his dad. “I mean, yes, that’s the kind of response I was hoping for. It’s not news to me, I’ve reached out to all your sponsors when everything went down when you came out. I had everything ready anyway, and they all reacted as I expected. I think regarding the circumstances, it’s definitely the best outcome.”

Shane nodded slowly. For now, he wouldn’t need to sell any of his real estate which was good. He couldn’t really imagine planning a move right now.

“So, what now?” Ilya asked. “We just wait?”

Shane’s mom inhaled deeply, before let it out a sigh.

“Mostly, yes. We have to wait the conclusions from the investigation conducted by the league.”

“And Shane still cannot be transferred.”

“Ah– no. Everything is on stand-by, even for the Metros. They cannot scout for players, and if they had any negotiations going on for transfers, they are suspended until the end of the investigation.”

“It’s really bad for them,” David mumbled.

“Well, yes, but if you gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough,” Yuna shrugged. “They brought it upon themselves. There were many ways they could have handled the situation in a better way. Anything else would have been better. A statement, transferring problematic players–”

“Getting rid of Theriault.”

“That too, and settlement money, everyone would have been on their merry way right now. I mean, if they had stood behind Shane, tried to keep him, you know, their captain and the only reason they could even get to the playoffs again, they wouldn’t be in this predicament. Their reputation is ruined at least until Shane retires. They will be considered, with Toronto, the sister-wives of homophobic NHL teams. And it will be great, homophobes will have their own teams, I guess. But actually, I’m not even sure, because Montreal as a city is a big LGBT supporter, so I don’t know if the city itself will accept their team to be that way. And if Montreal doesn’t support its team…” she winced. “They might as well scrap it and start over. I just don’t… I don’t know how they let this happen. Tactically, they approached the situation the worst way possible. But they’ll pay for it,” Yuna concluded with a shrug.

“I’m sorry,” Shane said softly.

“No, honey–”

“I know they were your team. And I ruined that for you,” Shane said with a tight voice.

“They ruined that for me. You are my son, my child. How you are being treated will always be more important than anything else. I would be happy to support Boston if I knew they’d treat you like a king.”

“They would,” Ilya said mindlessly, half lost in thoughts.

“I don’t want to go to Boston. There wouldn’t be any point for me, now that Ilya’s not there. The only team I want to go to is the Centaurs.”

“Or any team that will have us together,” Ilya said softly.

“The Centaurs,” Shane repeated. “And if they don’t want me, I’ll just… I don’t know. I’ll wait. I’ll find something else.”

“That’s not gonna happen,” Ilya said, with another kiss to the back of his neck. Shane looked at his mom.

She didn’t say anything.

The clock ticked another notch.

Chapter End Notes

Hi, hello, thank you for reading up to this point, I hope you enjoyed it.
I can already tell some might have complaints, like this is a quite bittersweet ending, or that a lot of plot points are left hanging. I understand, but it's also on purpose, so hope you don't get too mad about it.
As I said previously, there will be a third part to this series, and I knew going into writing this part, so I treated it as a transition period.

Anyway, let me know if you enjoyed this chapter/fanfic, and see you next time!

PS: please, no Yuna slander. She is a multi-dimensional character with both qualities and flaws. We can absolutely have a nuanced conversation around her without disparaging her.
Also, remember, the real villain of these stories is the NHL/MLH/misoginy/homophobia, not a supportive mother that loves her child but still makes mistakes.

Thank you!