Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, original characters (teammates)

Additional Tags:

Teammates to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, no rivalry, Minnesota Nomads, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Hospitalization, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Hurt Shane Hollander, character death (not MC), Caretaking, Original Character(s), NHL, Mutual Pining, Everyone is Supportive, HEA, Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Angst, Major injuries

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of The Minnesota Nomads

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-05 Completed: 2026-04-20 Words: 41,181 Chapters: 17/17

Team Building Activities

Summary

What if Shane and Ilya had been drafted to the same team and fell in love as teammates instead of rivals?

Shane and Ilya are both drafted to the Minnesota Nomads. What begins as new teammates building a friendship slowly deepens into a quiet, intense love neither of them expected.

A story of teammates-to-lovers, found family, tragedy, and a love strong enough to survive even the coldest nights.

Notes

This fic is complete and will be updated regularly!

I am a lifelong hockey fan, but I’ve never been drafted to the NHL so I did my best with details pertaining being drafted. In this fic Shane is a center and Ilya is left wing so that they can play on the same line together. They are both 18 at the start of the fic. Shane's parents are not in this fic, even when things get rough. I just wanted to make that clear upfront in case anyone is really looking for fics with them in it. The Minnesota Nomads are made up of completely original characters (other than Shane and Ilya).

I sincerely hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1

The air in the Staples Center was thick with the desperate, vibrating energy of two hundred teenagers waiting to have their futures decided.

Ilya Rozanov didn’t breathe. He sat in the front row, his suit jacket pulling tight across his shoulders. He didn’t bounce his leg anxiously. He didn’t fidget. When the Commissioner stepped to the podium and announced that the Minnesota Nomads held the first overall pick, Ilya’s world narrowed to a single point.

"From the Moscow Dynamo... Ilya Rozanov."

The roar was a wall of sound. Ilya stood, buttoned his jacket with steady fingers, and ignored the cameras swarming his face. He was first overall. The best. He climbed the stairs, pulled the deep forest-green and burgundy Nomads jersey over his head, and shook the GM’s hand. He felt like a king.

On the stage for the photos, chest out, he wore a sharp, victory-drunk smirk. He was prepared to be the face of the franchise. He was prepared to lead. He was not prepared for the Commissioner to return to the microphone thirty seconds later.

"We have a trade to announce," the Commissioner said, over the fading cheers. "The Minnesota Nomads have acquired the second overall pick from the New York Harbors in exchange for…” He rattled off the names of three Nomads players including their captain, Jayden Jeffries.

Ilya froze. Beside him, the Nomads’ GM was grinning like a shark.

"With the second overall pick," the voice boomed, "the Minnesota Nomads select, from the Montreal Wildcats... Shane Hollander."

The arena erupted into a confused, ecstatic frenzy. Two generational talents. One team. The two kids everyone had already crowned "Rivals of the Century" were now teammates.

Shane stepped onto the stage, pulling on an identical jersey. He looked at Ilya, then at the GM, then back at Ilya. Ilya studied the him, all straight teeth and polite "thank yous", and felt a sudden, sharp jolt of interest. He’d seen Hollander in highlight reels for years and played against him once or twice. He knew the kid was fast, but he hadn't realized he was quite so... polished.

As they stood for a photo, the GM squeezed both their shoulders. "The future of the Nomads, boys. Right here."

Ilya leaned in, his shoulder bumping Shane’s with intentional weight. "You must be very popular, Hollander," he murmured, his voice humming with a playful sharpness. "They traded half the team to get you. I hope you are worth the trouble."

Shane laughed, a little breathless from the adrenaline. "I’ll try not to let you down, Rozanov."

"Do not worry," Ilya said, his eyes crinkling as he gave the cameras a devastating smirk. "If you are terrible, I will just score all the goals myself. It will be fine."

***** 

Four days later, the cabin of the Nomads’ private jet felt more like a moving five-star lounge than an airplane. It was just the two of them in the back, surrounded by soft leather and the steady hum of the turbines.

Shane was vibrating. His untouched ginger ale sweated on the table. He was staring at the "Welcome to the Nomads" folder like it contained the secrets of the universe.

"You are going to burn a hole in that paper," Ilya said from across the aisle. He was sprawled out, one long leg draped over the armrest, looking entirely too comfortable for a teenager whose life had just been upended.

Shane looked up, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just want to be ready. Fans are already tweeting about us. I don't want to show up and look like I'm lagging."

Ilya watched him. He liked how Shane’s hair was finally losing its draft-day hairspray stiffness, starting to fall messily across his forehead.

"Mmm. Very serious. Very Canadian.” Ilya clicked his tongue. “You probably have your socks organized by color."

Shane narrowed his eyes. "And you’re not worried at all? You’re the first overall pick. There’s a target on your back the size of a Manitoba."

"I am Russian," Ilya said with a shrug, as if that explained everything. He reached across the aisle, snatching the folder out of Shane’s hands and tossing it onto an empty seat. "I am too talented to worry. And you are too talented to be shaking.”

Shane dropped his gaze to his lap. His fingers were indeed twitching with nervous energy. 

"We are in the NHL," Ilya said, his voice dropping into a low, conspiratorial silk. "We are young. We are very good at hockey. We are going to own that city.” He winked and leaned back, closing his eyes. “Relax, Hollander. Try to sleep. If you have bags under your eyes for the press conference tomorrow, I will tell everyone I had to carry you through the airport.”

*****

The press room at the Nomads' training facility was packed wall to wall, the air thick with warm camera lights and low chatter. Shane and Ilya sat side by side behind the draped table, nameplates gleaming, water bottles untouched. The "Minnesota Nomads" backdrop framed them like a shared spotlight.

Shane wore a crisp navy suit, his tie straight and posture perfect. Ilya’s charcoal suit was tailored sharp, top two buttons undone, collar open just enough to look effortlessly rebellious. He leaned back slightly, one arm draped along the back of his chair, looking more amused than intimidated.

The Star Tribune reporter leaned forward. “Shane, the hockey world has been building up the Hollander - Rozanov rivalry for the past couple years. Now you’re teammates. How do you shift that mindset? Is the rivalry over before it even begins?”

Shane adjusted his mic with a small smile. “The rivalry was always more hype than reality for us. We’ve only played against each other a handful of times. Ilya’s an incredible player. I’m excited to be on the same side now, setting him up instead of trying to shut him down.”

Ilya listened, his eyes flicking between the reporter and Shane. He understood the words, but the rapid pace of questions always took a second to settle. He took the mic smoothly, voice low and accented, confident. “Rivalry is for media,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. He turned to Shane, that slow, wolfish smirk spreading. “In Russia, we have a saying. Derzhite druzey blizko, vragov yeshcho blizhe. Means keep friends close, keep…” He paused for half a beat, searching for the translation.

“Enemies closer?” Shane supplied, a thread of amusement in his voice.

“Something like that.” Ilya nodded, satisfied. “But Shane is not an enemy.” He reached over without hesitation and clapped a firm hand to the back of Shane’s neck, squeezed quickly, then let go. “He is like… new favorite toy. We play together. We win. Easy.”

The room erupted in laughter, cameras flashing. Shane’s ears went faintly pink at “favorite toy,” but he just shook his head with a half-grin and rolled with it.

The moderator wrapped things up soon after. They were ushered out the side door into the quiet hallway, the sudden drop in noise almost startling.

Ilya let out a long breath, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off the spotlight. “Too many lights,” he muttered. “American press is… loud.”

Shane glanced at him, noting the subtle drop in energy. The way the cocky edge softened when the audience was gone. “You handled it great. ‘Favorite toy’ is gonna be everywhere by tomorrow. Fans are gonna love the soundbites.”

Ilya stopped walking, turning to face him in the narrow corridor. His presence filled the space without him even trying. “You helped,” he said, tone matter-of-fact. “With the words.”

Shane felt a small, unexpected warmth at the acknowledgment, the quiet satisfaction of clicking as teammates. “Anytime, Rozanov. That’s what teammates are for.”

Ilya studied him for a second, then smirked and gave Shane’s shoulder a light punch. “Good. You help with English bullshit. I help you score so you don’t get embarrassed.”

“I’m not gonna get embarrassed,” Shane shot back as they started toward the elevators again.

*****

The elevator dinged open on the 12th floor of the downtown St. Paul hotel. It was the kind of place with marble floors in the lobby, a doorman who called everyone "sir" or “madam,” and views of the Mississippi. The league had roomed them together temporarily, a suite with a shared living space and two separate bedrooms. Ilya stepped out first, duffel slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing, key card already in hand. Shane trailed a step behind, wheeling his suitcase with the careful precision of someone who had packed exactly according to the team's checklist. Compression socks folded, protein bars counted, extra tape just in case.

Ilya glanced back, smirking. "You look like you are moving into a war zone, Hollander. Relax. Is only hotel."

The hallway smelled faintly of expensive carpet cleaner and room service coffee. Ilya found their door, Suite 1204, and swiped the card. The lock clicked green. He pushed it open and stepped inside like he was claiming territory.

The shared living space was a wide open area with a leather sectional couch long enough for three people to sprawl, a glass coffee table already stocked with bottled water and fruit, floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city lights, and a sleek kitchenette with a mini fridge humming softly. Two doors branched off. One left, one right. Bedrooms, presumably.

Ilya dropped his bag in the middle of the floor with a dramatic thud. "Not bad. I have seen worse in Moscow.”

Shane set his suitcase neatly by the wall, already scanning the space like he was memorizing escape routes. "They said we have an onboarding day tomorrow. Logistics, gear fitting, and some nutrition meeting at the rink. No ice until the day after."

"Okay," Ilya flopped onto the sectional, legs spread wide, arms draped along the back like he'd lived there for years.

"Which room do you want?”

Ilya waved a hand dismissively. "Doesn’t matter. I’ll take the one with bigger bed. You can have the baby one."

Shane rolled his eyes. He cracked open the right door and saw a king bed and a bathroom with a rainfall shower. "Pretty sure they’re identical."

"Then I’ll take left anyway. Is closer to the door. Easier escape if you snore."

"I don't snore."

Ilya reached for the remote. "Go unpack. Organize your socks. I will watch TV and try not to judge you too loud.”

Shane hesitated in the doorway to his room, gripping the handle tight. The whole thing - the draft, the trade announcement, the jet, the presser, now this - crashed over him in a quiet wave. His whole life had been building to the NHL with every drill, every early-morning skate, and every sacrifice. He'd prepared for pressure, for scrutiny, for competition. He hadn't prepared for this. Sharing space with the cockiest bastard on the planet, who somehow made everything feel like a game he was already winning. A cocky bastard whose voice now dropped a notch as he asked, almost hesitantly, “Are you good, Hollander?”

But Shane had been raised to put on a brave face. So he did. He straightened his shoulders, gave a small nod. "I'm good. Just... need a minute to settle."

Ilya tilted his head, studying him. The smirk softened a fraction. "You are thinking too much. This is a good problem. Two best players. One team. One suite. We will destroy everyone."

Shane huffed a quiet laugh, the tension in his chest loosening just enough. "Okay, yeah. Let’s destroy everyone. After I unpack."

He disappeared into his room. Ilya heard the zipper of the suitcase open, the soft rustle of clothes being folded. He shook his head, amused. So Canadian. So serious.

Ilya kicked off his shoes, propping his feet on the coffee table. He flipped to a hockey channel playing some replay of last season's playoffs. The sound of commentators filled the space, familiar and grounding.

A few minutes later, Shane emerged in sweats and a Nomads hoodie, already wearing team gear like it was armor. He paused at the sight of Ilya taking up half the couch.

"Room service menu is on the table," Ilya said without looking up. "Order whatever. Team pays. We eat like kings tonight."

Shane picked up the menu, scanning it. "Are you always this comfortable everywhere you go?"

Ilya finally glanced over, eyes glinting. "Yes. It is my talent. Being comfortable. And scoring goals. And making you blush when I say things like 'favorite toy' on TV."

Shane's ears went pink again, right on cue. "That was not blushing. That was... lighting."

"Sure, lighting." Ilya patted the cushion next to him. "Sit. Watch. Or stand there looking overwhelmed. Your choice."

Shane sat. On the far end, but still on the couch. He stared at the screen, arms crossed, trying to look casual. "I'm ordering a burger. You want anything?"

"Steak. Rare. And vodka. But they probably have only beer. Americans."

Shane snorted. “We’re not old enough to drink in America, but I'll see what I can do about the steak, your majesty."

Ilya leaned back, eyes on the TV but attention fully on the guy next to him. This was going to be interesting. Very interesting.

The night stretched ahead. Room service, bad TV, quiet trash talk, and Ilya felt something like anticipation that had nothing to do with hockey.

Or maybe it did.

He wasn't thinking about that yet.

Not tonight.

Chapter 2

The equipment room was a cathedral of carbon fiber and high-grade leather. When they stepped inside, the usual chatter from Ilya died down. He moved through the racks with the quiet, intense focus of an artist choosing a brush.

The Head Equipment Manager, a man named Mac, paced around them with a clipboard. He handed Ilya a pair of the new team-spec gloves. Ilya slid his hand in slowly, feeling the tension of the seams, then snapped his wrist three times.

"The thumb," Ilya said, his voice missing the playfulness. He pointed to the bridge of the glove. "Is too stiff. I cannot feel the top of the stick when I transition to the backhand. Can you shave the plastic insert? Just two millimeters."

Mac looked impressed. "Most rookies just take what we give 'em, Rozanov."

"I am not most rookies," Ilya said, but it wasn't a boast this time. He was looking at the glove with a strange, quiet reverence. "If the hands are wrong, the game is wrong."

He turned to Shane, who was currently obsessing over a spreadsheet of skate blade hollows. Ilya walked over and picked up one of Shane's custom sticks. He held it by the knob, balanced it on one finger to find the center of gravity, and then ran his thumb along the tape job.

"You use too much wax," Ilya noted softly. "It is good for control in the corners, but you will lose the feel on the long pass. The puck will slide too much on the heel."

Shane paused, looking at his stick, then back at Ilya. This was the first time he'd seen Ilya's "hockey brain" fully engaged. The cocky, teasing tone that Shane had come to know was entirely absent.

"You think?" Shane asked.

Ilya handed the stick back, his expression serious. "I know. You are a playmaker, Hollander. You need the puck to talk to you. Too much wax makes it... whisper."

He gave Shane's shoulder a firm, lingering grip. It was a gesture of genuine respect between two people who lived for the same thing. Then, as if realizing he was being too sincere, he winked. "Also, the green tape is ugly. But we can fix your style later. First, we fix your pass."

Next was the nutrition meeting. They sat in a high-tech lounge with a team dietitian who projected a slide deck about "Macro-Optimization".

"We track everything," she said, pointing to a chart. "Your hydration levels will be tested via sweat patches. We expect a 3:1 carb-to-protein ratio in the four-hour window post skate."

Ilya was staring at a bowl of kale chips on the table like they were a threat. "Is there... no chocolate? In Minnesota?"

"Dark chocolate, 85% cacao, in moderation," the dietitian corrected.

Shane was nodding, scribbling notes into a small leather notebook he'd produced from his tracksuit pocket. "And for back-to-back games? Should we increase the electrolyte load during the second intermission?"

Ilya leaned over, whispering loudly in Shane's ear. "She is going to take away your burgers, Shane. Stop encouraging her."

Shane ignored him, but his pen stayed poised. "I just want to make sure I don't crash in the third period."

"You crash because you worry," Ilya whispered back, his breath warm against Shane's neck. "I will bring you a Snickers bar. We will be outlaws."

The day ended in the empty locker room. Their names were already etched into silver plates above two adjacent stalls.

24 HOLLANDER 

81 ROZANOV

The room was silent, the air cool. The Nomads logo was embroidered into the carpet in the center. Shane stood in front of his stall, staring at the space where his gear would soon hang. The weight of the onboarding finally hit him. This was his office for the next decade. Longer, if he was lucky.

Ilya walked over, his usual swagger dialed down to a quiet, steady presence. He didn't say anything snarky. He just looked at the names side by side.

"They put us together," Ilya said, his voice echoing slightly. "Even in the room. They want us to be a pair."

Shane looked at him. "Are you okay with that? Being part of a set?"

Ilya turned his head, his eyes searching Shane's face. He reached out and let his hand rest briefly on the nameplate above Shane's head. "In Russia, they say you cannot have two bears in one den. But they have never seen us play." He smirked, the familiar spark returning. "I think we will be very crowded bears, Hollander. But we will be the loudest."

Shane felt the tension in his shoulders drop slightly. "I'm not a bear," he muttered, though he was smiling.

"You are a very stressed-out Canadian bear," Ilya corrected, heading for the exit. "Come on. We have to find that dark chocolate before I starve to death."

Shane followed him, the sound of their footsteps rhythmic and synchronized on the rubber flooring.

***** 

After an afternoon of on-ice practice that left their legs burning and their lungs raw, the prospects were cut loose early. Coach Harlan had blown the final whistle with a gruff "Good enough for day one. Hydrate, stretch, don't be idiots tonight."

The ice had been fast and chaotic in the best way. Shane and Ilya had ended up on the same line for half the scrimmage, and the passes had started clicking almost immediately. The kind of chemistry that made the other forwards stop and stare. By the end, a couple of the louder guys had started chirping the new power couple every time one set up the other. Ilya had leaned into it with a shameless grin. Shane had just shaken his head, cheeks flushed under his visor, and skated harder.

Now they were back in the suite, hair still damp from quick showers in the locker room, both in matching Nomads sweats.

Ilya kicked the door shut behind them with the heel of his sneaker and immediately collapsed face-first onto the sectional. "I am dead," he groaned into the cushion. "Who invented suicide sprints? A sadist?"

Shane dropped his gym bag by the wall with careful precision and headed for the mini-fridge. "You're the one who kept calling for the puck every shift. Maybe if you didn't hog it…"

"I do not hog. I dominate." Ilya propped himself on one elbow, smirking. "You passed to me six times in a row. Admit it. You like feeding me."

Shane pulled out two water bottles and tossed one to Ilya without looking. "It was a 3-on-3. I didn't have many options."

Ilya caught the bottle one-handed, cracked it open, and took a long drink. "Lies. You were showing off. Perfect little saucer passes. Very pretty."

Shane dropped onto the far end of the couch, still giving space, but noticeably less than the first night. He rolled the cold bottle across his forehead. "Pretty doesn't win games."

"Pretty helps," Ilya countered, stretching his legs until his socked foot nudged Shane's thigh. He left it there, casual, teasing. "Especially when the pretty guy is also fast and has hands like yours."

Shane glanced down at the contact, then back up, eyebrows raised. His ears went predictably pink, the flush creeping up. He met Ilya's eyes for a beat

Ilya grinned sharply. "Ah, there's that blush."

Shane shoved Ilya's foot off his leg with his knee. "I'm not blushing. It's post-practice flush. There's a difference."

"Sure, Hollander. Flush." Ilya sat up properly, leaning forward with elbows on knees. "We should eat. I'm starving. Room service again?"

Shane hesitated, rolling the bottle between his palms. "Nah. Let's go out. There's a place two blocks over I saw on my phone.."

Ilya looked warily at Shane. "Kale chips and grilled chicken?" 

Shane shook his head. "What's one more burger before our NHL careers begin?"

Ilya's eyes lit up like Shane had just suggested stealing the Cup. "You want to break the nutrition plan on day one? I'm impressed. You're becoming dangerous."

"Don't get used to it," Shane muttered, but he was already standing, grabbing his phone to double-check directions. 

They threw on hoodies and headed out. The St. Paul evening was warm but not sticky, the kind of air that felt good after hours in the cold rink. The burger place was small and dimly lit, with red vinyl booths and a jukebox in the corner playing something classic rock. They slid into a back booth and ordered. A double cheeseburger for Shane (extra pickles), a bacon cheeseburger for Ilya (extra everything), and fries to share. Coke for Ilya, ginger ale for Shane.

Ilya leaned back, arms spread along the top of the booth like he owned it. "This is better than room service. You're welcome."

Shane snorted. "I picked the place."

"Yes, but I agreed immediately. That's teamwork."

Shane dipped a fry in ketchup, considered, then pointed it at Ilya. "You were chirping me the whole scrimmage today. Pass faster, Hollander. Don't think so much, Hollander. You ever shut up on the ice?"

"Only when I'm scoring," Ilya said, snatching his own fry. "And even then, sometimes I celebrate loud."

Shane shook his head, fighting a smile. "You're impossible."

"You keep saying that. Yet here you are, sharing fries with me."

Shane paused mid-bite, then shrugged. "You're my teammate. And you're… not terrible company. When you're not being a dick."

Ilya laughed, low and pleased. "High praise. I will put it on my resume."

They ate in comfortable silence for a minute, the kind that didn't feel forced. Ilya watched Shane methodically work through his burger. Neat bites, napkin dabs, no mess. Ilya's wrapper was already a crumpled disaster. He liked the contrast. Liked how Shane could look so serious about ketchup placement and still have that quiet spark when they talked hockey.

"So," Ilya said eventually, wiping his hands. "What's your deal off ice? You always this organized?"

Shane leaned back, wiping his mouth. "I like knowing what's coming. Makes the chaos easier."

"Chaos like me?" Ilya grinned, leaning in just enough that the table felt smaller.

Shane met his eyes for a beat longer than necessary, then looked down at the fries. "You're not chaos. You're just… a lot."

"A lot of talent," Ilya supplied, teasing.

"A lot of mouth," Shane corrected, but there was no bite in it. Only amusement, warm and quiet. 

Ilya laughed again, louder this time, drawing a glance from the waitress. He didn't care. He reached across and snagged another fry from the plate. They kept eating and talking. About junior hockey stories, worst coaches, favorite goal songs. Just two guys, new teammates, figuring out the rhythm off the ice the same way they were starting to on it.

When the check came, Ilya snatched it first. "Team pays for onboarding. I got this."

Shane rolled his eyes but didn't argue. "Next one's mine."

"Next one," Ilya echoed, liking how that sounded.

They walked back to the hotel slowly, shoulders brushing, the city lights reflecting off wet pavement. The air was cooler now, carrying the faint smell of the river. Neither said much. Neither needed to.

Back in the suite, Ilya flopped onto the couch again. Shane headed for his room but paused in the doorway. "Good practice today," he said quietly.

Ilya looked up, his smile soft around the edges. "Yeah. We were good together."

Shane nodded once. "Night, Rozanov."

"Night, Hollander."

Ilya stared at the ceiling for a long minute, feeling a low, pleasant hum in his chest. He didn't think about it too hard. But he didn't mind it, either. 

Chapter 3

The summer was a slow accumulation of small habits and shared moments that stitched them together until it started to feel as natural as breathing. 

Development camp had been brutal. Long days, harder nights, their bodies pushed until they ached in places they didn't know could ache. By the final scrimmage, though, something had clicked. The other prospects started calling them the duo without irony, half-joking, half-impressed by how cleanly their passes found each other, how one seemed to anticipate the other's next move before it happened.

Coach Harlan had pulled them aside afterward, wiping sweat from his brow. "You two look like you've played together for years. Keep that chemistry. Don't slack off this summer."

They scattered briefly. Shane, home to Montreal for family time and local workouts. Ilya to Moscow for a short visit before the team flew him back for "voluntary" conditioning.

The separation lasted only a couple of weeks, but the texts didn't stop. At first, they were simple. Clips of off-ice drills, complaints about the heat, and memes they just thought were funny. Shane sent a photo of his color-coded workout log one morning. Ilya replied ten minutes later with a shirtless gym selfie captioned "Catch up, Hollander."

The chirps escalated from there. Daily, almost competitive.

One afternoon, Shane texted during a break.

Shane: Just finished 4x4s in this humidity. Felt like skating through soup. How's Moscow treating you?

Ilya: Like shit. Too hot, too many old men yelling at rinks. You surviving the Canadian summer?

Shane: Barely. My trainers are trying to kill me with hill sprints. Sent you a clip. Check the stick handling.

Ilya: Looks boring, but clean. I'll send you mine later. Try not to fall asleep watching it.

They started sending voice notes between sets or during long drives. Ilya's were usually loud and hectic. Shane's were calmer, drier, but he'd slip in the occasional line that made Ilya bark out a laugh loud enough to echo in whatever gym he was in.

By early July the tone had shifted, just a little. The memes were still there, but so were longer messages, less guarded.

One night, after a brutal leg day, Ilya texted.

Ilya: Leg press today... 300kg. You dead yet, pretty boy?

Shane: Congrats on not snapping your spine. I did mobility work instead. My knees thank me. Also, don't call me pretty boy.

Ilya: No. Your passes are prettier than your face, though. Send video of your edge work tomorrow. I will judge.

Shane: Only if you send yours. Fair's fair.

The next morning, a grainy video arrived from Ilya of him carving tight turns on a patchy outdoor rink somewhere in Moscow, breathing hard but grinning at the camera. "Beat that, Canada."

Shane replied with his own clip from a Montreal practice facility. The back-and-forth became a ritual.

Then, mid-July, Ilya texted from the airport:

Ilya: Back in MN tomorrow. Suite still open. Team says we can keep it through preseason if we want. Why move when it's free and you already know I'm a legendary roommate.

Shane: You're not legendary. You're loud. But... yeah. Makes sense. 

Ilya: Smart Canadian. See you at the rink. Bring your pretty passes.

The first night back in the suite felt strangely easy, like slipping back into a rhythm. Mornings became routine almost without discussion. They'd head to the empty rink by 8 AM, skating laps in comfortable silence before gradually adding edges, passing drills, and one-on-one battles that left them both grinning and out of breath. Afternoons were for the gym or film study in the team's facilities, where they'd sit side-by-side critiquing their own shifts from camp, then arguing good-naturedly about whose fault that one bad turnover really was.

Evenings were when their friendship deepened in quieter ways. They'd sprawl across the big sectional couch, arguing over takeout orders, Ilya always pushing for the greasiest options, Shane insisting on at least one vegetable. Ilya was ruthless with the remote, putting on whatever chaotic YouTube rabbit hole caught his eye. Shane retaliated by organizing the mini-fridge with military precision, labeling everything by expiration date. Ilya mocked him daily, but never removed the labels.

One evening, halfway through a pizza that was 80% vegetables and 20% regret, Ilya muted the TV and leaned back, eyes glinting with challenge.

"Okay, serious question, Hollander. You always play so… safe. Don't you ever just want to say fuck it and light someone up? End-to-end rush, toe-drag, top shelf, no regrets?"

Shane wiped his hands on a napkin, smirking. "Not really. I like winning more than I like highlight reels. Dirty plays get you in the box or on the injury report. Why risk it when you can set up your linemate for the same goal without the penalty?"

Ilya laughed, loud and genuine. "Because it feels fucking good, that's why." He waved a hand dismissively in Shane's direction. "So Canadian. Polite even when you score. Me? I want them to feel it when I beat them. Make the goalie look stupid, and the defenseman look slower."

"Yeah, well, your 'make them feel it' style almost got you tossed in camp scrimmage," Shane shot back, but there was no heat in it. "I bailed you out with that stretch pass, remember?"

"Exactly. That's why we work. You be the brain, I'll be the chaos. Together we're unstoppable." Ilya grinned, tossing a pizza crust at him. "Admit it. You love watching me go end-to-end."

Shane caught the crust and lobbed it back. "I love watching you when it works. When it doesn't, I'm the one explaining to Coach why my safe play turned into your circus act."

They kept arguing like that for another hour. Playful and stubborn, neither backing down, until the pizza box was empty and the conversation drifted into laughing about the worst calls from development camp.

There were other nights they stayed up later than they should have, trading stupid superstitions, arguing about the best goalies in the league, or just sitting in comfortable silence, exhausted but content, the TV flickering in the background.

By the time September hit like a body check, the suite no longer felt like temporary housing. It felt like theirs.

Media Day was a whirlwind of cameras and the same recycled questions about "the new core." Shane handled it with his usual polite precision, while Ilya turned every microphone into a stage, grinning like he'd been born in a spotlight. 

But the real shift, the moment it felt undeniably solid, happened that night at the first full-team dinner.

The back room of the steakhouse felt less like a restaurant and more like a cathedral of dark wood and low, amber light. Forty-plus people - roster, staff, and front office - filled the space with the heavy, masculine hum of an NHL team on the brink of a season. The air was a thick, mouth-watering mix of seared ribeye, expensive bourbon, and the faint, bitter scent of craft hops.

Shane and Ilya walked in together. 

Zach Kowalski spotted them first. The tall defenseman let out a low, appreciative whistle that carried over the noise. "Well, damn. The power couple finally decided to grace us with their presence."

Ilya didn't break stride. He clapped a hand on Kowalski's broad shoulder as they passed, the impact solid enough to jostle the beer in Zach's fist. "Jealous, big man? We can adopt you. We need a dog."

Kowalski's laugh was like gravel, shaking the table nearest him.

Ilya steered them toward two empty seats near the center of the table, his hand lingering on the small of Shane's back, a grounding, steady pressure that Shane found himself leaning into rather than shrugging off.

Knox Whittaker looked up as they sat. Even in street clothes, he carried the quiet gravity of someone the whole room already treated like the next captain. He gave them each a single, measured nod. "Hollander. Rozanov. Glad you could make it tonight. Suite still in one piece?"

"Barely," Shane said dryly. "Ilya's laundry situation is now a biohazard, but we're managing."

Phil Moretti leaned forward on Knox's other side. Affectionately nicknamed "The Butcher", Phil was the enforcer on the team. His crooked nose and scarred knuckles caught in the light. He looked like he'd been carved out of a granite quarry in New York. "I saw the tape from the 3-on-3 tournament. You two play like you're sharing a brain. So who's the one doing the thinking?"

"Shane thinks," Ilya answered, casual and comfortable as ever, slinging an arm over the back of Shane's chair so his fingers brushed the fabric of Shane's shoulder blade. "I just do the beautiful things."

The GM rose then, wineglass in hand, and lifted it toward the room. "To new blood mixing with the old. Welcome, boys."

Shane clinked his water against Ilya's Coke. Their eyes met for half a second. Quick and private. We're really doing this.

Plates arrived, conversation fractured. Down at the far end, the Nomads' goalie, Oskar Englund, was already deep into a passionate explanation of some Swedish off-season protocol while quiet defenseman Finn Thorne listened with polite, obvious skepticism. Maksym Volkov leaned toward Ilya, switching to rapid Russian, his grin wide and genuine. Another Russian on the roster clearly felt like a gift.

Cash Sullivan swung his fork toward Shane from across the table, his Boston accent thick. "So, guys, those dev-camp clips? Filthy. You two are gonna be a nightmare for the rest of the league."

Shane gave a small shrug, voice even. "We're still figuring each other out."

Ilya's arm tightened slightly along the chair back. "Hollander is being humble. We are already a problem. A very big problem."

More laughter. Kowalski raised his beer. "To problems, then. May you cause a shit-ton of them."

Shane nudged Ilya lightly in the ribs. "Don't jinx it."

"Jinx?" Ilya leaned in closer, voice dropping so only Shane could hear. "No jinx. This is destiny, Hollander."

Shane bumped his shoulder against Ilya's affectionately, but he didn't move away. He listened as Ilya launched into a heavily embellished story about skating on a frozen river in Moscow so fast that the friction made his blades smoke. The veterans roared. Sullivan nearly fell off his chair laughing, and Shane just listened, chin in hand, smiling small and genuine when Ilya landed the punchline.

***** 

When they finally stepped out into the crisp September air, the city felt different somehow. Lights glittered off the Mississippi nearby.  Neither rushed to call a car.

"Walk?" Ilya asked, tilting his head toward the river path.

"Yeah," Shane breathed. "Walk."

They fell into step, their strides matching automatically. For a while, there was only the sound of gravel under their shoes and the dark, slow pulse of the Mississippi. Ilya watched the way the streetlights caught the tight line of Shane's jaw.

"You're thinking too hard again," Ilya said softly.

Shane didn't look up. "It felt real tonight. Everyone looked at us like... like we're the ones who have to fix everything."

Ilya stopped walking. The path was empty, lit in pools of hazy gold. 

"I'm not scared of the pressure," Shane clarified quickly. "I've been ready for it since I was twelve. But tonight… sitting there with all those guys, hearing them talk about the Cup like it's already on the table… it hit different. Like it's not just my dream anymore. It's ours. The whole team's. And we're the ones they're betting on."

Ilya felt a strange, protective ache in his chest. He took a step closer, cutting the distance until he could feel the radiating heat of Shane's worry. "In Moscow, I was always the one who had to carry the team. But here? It's not just me. It's not just you. It's us. You and me. And the rest of the team, too. We're not supposed to fix it alone."

Shane searched his face. "You okay with that? Sharing the load?"

Ilya let out a short, breathy laugh, surprised at himself. "I thought I'd hate it. But…" He shrugged, looking out at the water for a second before meeting Shane's eyes again. "I like skating with you. I like knowing when I cut to the net, you're already looking for me. I like that when I fuck up a shift, you're the one who skates over. I like… having someone who really gets it."

Shane's expression finally softened. "I like that too."

They stood there for a heartbeat longer, breathing the same sharp autumn air. Something settled between them, a silent vow of shared weight.

*****

When they finally made it back to the suite, the quiet felt different. Ilya kicked off his shoes, the thud echoing in the dark living room. 

"I'm sleeping until noon," Ilya announced, though they both knew he'd be up at six. He flopped onto the sectional and patted the spot next to him. "Sit. Stop being a statue."

Shane sat. He leaned forward, head in his hands, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up. "Tomorrow's the first real one. Full roster practice."

Ilya didn't make a joke. He sat up, his knee knocking against Shane's, grounding him. "It's just noise, Shane. Everything outside the glass is just noise. Inside, it's just us. Like it has been all summer."

Shane looked at him, and the intensity in Ilya's gaze was enough to make his heart stutter.

"Yeah," Shane whispered. "Just us."

Shane didn't get up to go to his room. Instead, he let his head drop back against the cushions, closing his eyes. A moment later, he felt the weight of Ilya shifting closer, until Ilya's shoulder was a solid, warm pressure against his own.

Ilya didn't say anything. He just reached over, snagging the remote with one hand while his other arm settled naturally, heavily, over the back of the couch behind Shane's neck. He didn't move to leave, and Shane finally felt the weight of the world lift, replaced by the simple, grounding reality of the person beside him.

They didn't go to bed. They stayed right there, anchored to each other in the glow of the TV, waiting for the sun to rise on the rest of their lives.

Chapter 4

The sun hit the suite with unforgiving brightness. Shane woke first, his neck stiff. He was still on the couch, and Ilya's head was a solid weight against his chest. Shane froze, hyperaware of the rhythmic rise and fall of Ilya's breathing and the way his own heart thudded a frantic rhythm against Ilya's temple. Shane was a creature of habit, of neatly made beds and 7 AM alarms. Waking up fully clothed on a sectional with his teammate was… not in the playbook.

Ilya stirred, letting out a sleepy groan, but didn't pull away immediately. He actually burrowed closer for a second, turning his face into Shane's chest, before his eyes snapped open. He stayed there, staring at Shane's collarbone for a beat, then slowly looked up through his lashes. 

"Good morning, sunshine," Ilya rasped, his voice thick with sleep. 

He caught the look of pure, concentrated panic on Shane's face and grinned, finally sitting up fully and stretching his arms above his head in a move that exposed a sliver of his toned stomach. Shane's eyes flicked to the spot automatically, then back to Ilya's face just as fast.

 "Don't look so worried, Hollander," Ilya murmured, rolling his neck. "I didn't steal your kidneys. Though you are a very comfortable pillow. Five stars. Would recommend."

"We fell asleep on the couch," Shane said, his voice sounding thin to his own ears.

"Sharp as a skate blade," Ilya chirped, standing up and heading for the kitchen. He opened the coffee maker, spooning grounds into the filter. "If I don't get caffeine in me soon, I will forget how to cross-check."

And just like that, the awkwardness of waking up together on the couch was forgotten. 

*****

The atmosphere at the practice rink was electric. It was no longer a development camp full of hopeful kids. This was the real show. The veterans moved with a heavy, effortless power that made the air feel thick.

Coach Harlan put the lines up on the board.  Rozanov - Hollander - Torres.

On the ice, it was like someone had flipped a switch. Shane, the precision-engineered center, and Ilya, the explosive, unpredictable winger, were like two heads on one monster. They anticipated each other. Shane would lay a pass into a pocket of empty ice, and Ilya would be there before the puck even landed. During a 3-on-3 drill, Ilya pulled a defender out of position, then back-handed a blind pass onto Shane's tape.

Snap. Goal.

Kowalski leaned over the boards, shaking his head. "It's like they have a psychic link. It's disgusting. I love it."

After practice, they were ushered into a small media room. A PR rep leaned in, whispering, "The fans are obsessed with the 'Duo' thing. Don't be afraid to lean into the bromance, okay? Give them something to talk about."

Ilya caught Shane's eye and winked, and Shane felt an increasingly familiar flicker of heat behind his ribs.

"So," a reporter from the St. Paul Pioneer Press started, leaning forward. "First day of full camp. You two seem inseparable. What's the secret to that chemistry?"

"We developed a lot of trust this summer," Shane said, falling back on his professional training, though his voice was sincere. "We spent almost every day together. We know each other's rhythms."

"You've been labeled 'The Duo'," Another reporter chimed in. "You've been living together all summer. What's the hardest part about being roommates? Give us the dirt."

Ilya jumped in before Shane could breathe. "He folds his socks! Truly. Who has time for this?"

Shane laughed, the sound genuine and bright. "I like organization. It's efficient. Ilya leaves his things wherever he drops them."

Ilya turned to him, gesturing wildly. "He says I am messy. I am not messy, I am an artist." 

"He leaves his damp hockey socks on the counter to dry," Shane countered, looking at the reporter gravely.

"We live in a hotel!" Ilya shouted over the laughter. "Where else should I put them?"

Shane looked at Ilya, real humor in his eyes, and Ilya's chest tightened.

"But," Ilya added, his voice suddenly dropping into something softer, more serious as he held Shane's gaze, "he also makes the best coffee. And he listens. That is the connection. On the ice, I know he is there. Off the ice… I know he is there, too."

The room went quiet for a second, the PR rep grinning and giving them a thumbs up. Shane looked away, his heart hammering, trying to ignore the way the cameras were capturing this moment that felt like something important. 

*****

When the lights dimmed at the Xcel Energy Center Arena a few days later, and the Nomads logo was projected onto the ice in a swirl of burgundy and green, Shane felt a shiver go down his spine.

"Ready?" Ilya asked as they stood in the tunnel. The rhythmic thump-thump of the stadium bass punctuated the dark.

"Ready," Shane said.

The puck dropped, and the world narrowed down to the white of the ice and the black of the puck. Shane won the draw, a clean snap to the back, and took off.

It was 14:02 in the first period. Shane carried the puck over the blue line, two Nashville defenders closing the gap. He could hear the heavy breathing of the defenseman to his right, felt the pressure of the body check coming. He didn't look. He didn't have to. He felt a presence on his left wing. A familiar, explosive energy.

Shane feinted a shot, drawing the goalie toward the near post, then slid a blind, backhand saucer pass into the high slot. It was a risky play, the kind of pass that looks brilliant if it connects and catastrophic if it doesn't.

It connected.

Ilya was exactly where he was supposed to be. He leaned into a one-timer, the crack of his stick echoing like a gunshot. The puck buried itself in the top shelf before the goalie could even blink.

The horn wailed, a deep, guttural roar that shook the glass.

Ilya didn't even look at the net. He veered toward Shane, his face split by a manic, beautiful grin. He hit Shane at full speed, wrapping him in a bear hug that nearly knocked them both over. Shane gripped the back of Ilya's jersey, the adrenaline screaming through his veins, his heart hammering against Ilya's chest protector as the rest of their teammates on the ice swarmed them.

"I told you!" Ilya yelled over the roar of the crowd, his visor pressed against Shane's helmet. "Destiny, Hollander!"

*****

The locker room was a chaotic mess of shouting, music, and the smell of victory. Music thumped from Bluetooth speakers, courtesy of Ozzie, who was currently dancing in his goalie pads. Even for preseason, the win felt like a proof of concept.

"The Duo lives up to the hype!" Kowalski bellowed, thumping Shane so hard on the shoulder he nearly stumbled. "Hell of a pass, kid. I didn't think you saw him."

"I didn't," Shane admitted, catching Ilya's eye across the room.

Ilya was sitting at his stall, peeling off his jersey. He was drenched in sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead in clumps. He looked exhausted and triumphant. He caught Shane watching him and didn't look away.

There was a moment, just a heartbeat, where the noise of the room faded. The locker room talk, the clatter of sticks, the celebratory shouts... it all fell away. Ilya's gaze was intense, searching, and Shane felt that strange, magnetic pull again. It was a connection that went deeper than a line pairing, something that felt both terrifying and inevitable.

Ilya raised a Gatorade bottle in a silent toast, his smirk returning, but softer this time.

Shane smiled back, finally letting the feeling settle. They were Nomads now. They were The Duo, but it was more than a 'bromance' for the cameras. It was a fuse waiting to be lit, but capable of burning the whole league down if they let it.

And as Shane looked at the pile of gear Ilya had already started to leave scattered on the floor, he realized he didn't mind the mess at all.

***** 

The goal in the preseason opener wasn't just a point on the scoresheet, it was the spark that lit the fuse. By the time Shane and Ilya reached the parking garage after the game, the internet had already branded them.

Shane's phone wouldn't stop vibrating in his pocket. He pulled it out as they waited for their ride, his screen a waterfall of notifications.

"Ilya, look," Shane said, holding the phone out.

On Twitter, a clip of the goal was already sitting at ten thousand retweets. The caption from a prominent Nomads fan account read: Total blackout for the Archers' defense. The Cold Front has arrived in St. Paul. Underneath, the hashtag #ColdFront was trending locally. Fans were already photoshopping the two of them into blizzard-themed posters. One meme showed Shane as a stoic lighthouse and Ilya as the churning, icy sea surrounding him.

Ilya leaned over Shane's shoulder, his chin practically resting on Shane's collarbone as he scrolled. He let out a loud, delighted bark of laughter. "The Cold Front? It sounds like a bad action movie. I love it."

"It's better than The Duo," Shane admitted, though he was secretly focused on how close Ilya was standing. He could still smell the lingering scent of citrus soap on him.

The team group chat was even less merciful. As they rode the elevator up to their suite, the messages started flooding in.

Sully: Blizzard Boys? Please. If they're the Cold Front, does that make Shane the High Pressure System? Kid's got a spreadsheet for his shoelaces.

Butch: They can call themselves whatever they want as long as they keep putting the puck in the net. But if I see a Cold Front t-shirt in the locker room, it's going in the industrial shredder.

Finn: I like the name. 

Kowalski: Finn in the group chat! The prophecy is fulfilled! The Cold Front is so powerful they made Finny type a whole sentence.

Knox: Enjoy the hype, boys. Just remember the forecast changes fast in this league. Get some sleep. Heavy legs tomorrow.

Ozzie: I'm already making a playlist for the Cold Front warmup. Lots of EDM and wind sound effects. ❄️🏒💨

Ilya: (Sends a selfie of him and Shane in the elevator. Ilya is sticking his tongue out. Shane is looking at the camera with a look of long-suffering patience.) 

Ilya: Forecast for tomorrow… 0% chance of Kowalski keeping up with us in practice. Stay safe, big man.

Sully: Careful, Rozanov. Keep talking and Kowalski will weather you into the boards tomorrow morning.

Torrey: I'm just here to see if Hollander's organized sock drawer survives the blizzard.

Shane: The socks are fine. Ilya is currently trying to eat a frozen pizza without a plate. Send help.

Back in the suite, the high of the game finally started to settle into a warm, heavy exhaustion. The living room was dark, lit only by the golden glow of the city lights reflecting off the river outside. Ilya kicked off his shoes, one landing by the door, the other near the TV, and flopped onto the sectional. Shane, out of habit, picked up the stray shoe and set it by its mate before sitting down on the opposite end of the couch.

"Stop that," Ilya murmured, his head resting back against the cushion.

"Stop what?"

"Trying to make everything perfect. Just let it be messy for one night, Hollander. We just won."

Shane leaned back, letting his head drop. The silence of the suite felt intimate after the roar of the arena. "The Cold Front," Shane repeated softly. "It's a lot to live up to."

Ilya turned his head, his eyes fixed on Shane. The playfulness was still there, but underneath it was that same steady intensity from the river path. "We don't need to live up to a name, Shane. The name is just trying to keep up with us."

Shane met his gaze. In the dim light, the space between them felt charged, like the air right before a lightning strike. He thought about the way Ilya had tackled him on the ice after the goal. The desperate, joyful strength of it. He thought about the way they'd woken up that morning a week ago, Ilya's head on his chest, and how it hadn't felt nearly as wrong as he'd told himself it should.

"I trust you," Shane said, the words coming out more like a confession than he intended. "On the ice. I've never had that before. Knowing exactly where someone is going to be."

Ilya's expression shifted. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Shane's knee, just a brief, grounding touch that sent a jolt of electricity straight up Shane's spine.

"I know," Ilya said, his voice dropping an octave. "It's because we're the same, Shane. Different countries, different styles, but same hockey heart. You want it as bad as I do. And you'd do anything for the win."

Shane didn't pull away. He couldn't. "Yeah," he whispered.

Ilya's smirk returned, but it was smaller, more private. "Good. Because the Cold Front is only just moving in. But tonight?" He grabbed the remote and tossed it into Shane's lap. "Tonight, you pick the movie. Even if it's one of those boring documentaries about bridges you like."

Shane laughed, the tension breaking just enough for him to breathe again. "That was one documentary, Ilya. It's not like I have a thing for bridges. But it was interesting."

"See? This is why I have to be the cool one," Ilya sighed, but he shifted closer, his shoulder pressing into Shane's as they settled in.

Chapter 5

The air inside the locker room before the home opener carried a different weight entirely. The loose, easy chatter of preseason had vanished, replaced by something sharper. Silence pressed against the walls, thick and expectant, as Coach Harlan stepped into the center of the circle and let the room settle around him.

"Listen up," he said, his voice cutting through cleanly, no need to raise it. "We've spent the last month talking about who we are. Identity. Every team needs a compass. Someone who doesn't blink when the lights get bright."

He reached into the plain cardboard box resting on the folding table and drew out a forest-green home jersey. The capital ‘C’ on the left breast was stitched in thick, raised lettering that caught the light and held it. Harlan didn't speak again. He simply walked the few steps to Knox and placed the jersey in his hands.

The room ignited. Kowalski unleashed a full-throated roar and slammed his stick against the rubber floor in a staccato rhythm. Butch let out one sharp, approving whistle that sliced the air. Knox accepted the moment without theatrics. He pulled the jersey over his head, smoothed the ‘C’ against his chest with a steady palm, and lifted his gaze to sweep across every one of his teammates.

"We don't just play to win," he said, his voice low but carrying the quiet certainty of someone who had already decided what the night would mean. "We play for each other. Let's go give this city a reason to scream."

*****

Warmups unfolded beneath the bright wash of arena lights, the arena already transformed into a swelling sea of green and burgundy jerseys, waving flags, and homemade signs. Shane could feel the crowd's energy thrumming up through the steel and concrete, vibrating into the blades of his skates with every stride. They circled their end of the ice in loose formation, firing pucks at Ozzie in the net, the sharp crack of stick on rubber mingling with the easy, cutting banter that kept nerves at bay.

"Look at the Captain," Ilya chirped, gliding past Shane. "New 'C' looks good on you, Cap. Don't let it go to your head too fast."

"Focus, Roz," Knox answered without turning, snapping a wrist shot that pinged cleanly off the crossbar and dropped into the net. "I'm counting on you to backcheck tonight instead of posing for the Jumbotron."

"I only move in one direction, Cap," Ilya shot back, "and it's always toward the net." He drifted closer to Shane, nodding toward the upper deck where an enormous banner had just been unfurled: THE COLD FRONT IS HERE in bold white letters against black. Ilya bumped Shane's shoulder with his own, a spark of contact. "You good, Hollander?"

"Just locking in," Shane replied, his gaze still tracking the Currents players as they warmed up across the center line, noting how their top-pair D liked to gap up early. "Don't get caught puck watching out there, Ilya. Get to your spot."

Ilya's grin widened, the arena lights flashing off his visor. "Always."

The captain ceremony came just before puck drop, brief but heavy with emotion. The lights plunged to black. A single spotlight found Knox standing alone at center ice, jersey gleaming, head bowed for a heartbeat. When he raised a fist to the crowd and skated around the center circle, the roar erupted. The city loved its team.

When the puck finally dropped against the St. Louis Currents, the game settled into a grinding, physical war of endurance. The Currents played heavy hockey, clogging the neutral zone, crowding lanes, trying to smother speed with size and structure. But the Cold Front line answered with relentless pressure, refusing to yield an inch. Whenever a Currents forward tried to force a turnover or finish a check too hard, Butch appeared like a sudden wall, shoulders squared.

Early in the second period, the Currents generated their best chance yet. Their top-line center slipped behind the defense on a stretch pass and carried the puck hard toward the net on a partial break. Shane angled to cut him off, but the center pulled up at the last second and passed to his trailing winger cutting across the high slot. The pass was crisp, dangerous.

Finn, the quiet defenseman, had been shadowing from the blue line. He didn't announce himself with a big wind-up. Instead, he exploded forward in two powerful strides, closing the gap with startling quickness. At the exact moment the winger loaded up for the one-timer, Finn extended his stick in a perfect poke-check and deflected the puck cleanly off the tape. It skittered harmlessly into the corner. Finn didn't celebrate. He didn't even glance toward the bench. He simply retrieved the puck, made a short, accurate breakout pass to Knox, and skated calmly back to his position as though he'd done nothing more than tie his skates.

Ozzie, meanwhile, was a fortress. Late in the second, the Currents' leading scorer broke completely free on a shorthanded rush. The arena held its collective breath as he deked once, twice. Ozzie slid across in a full-split desperation, glove hand flashing high to snatch the puck out of the air in a save that seemed to defy physics.

"Not today!" Ozzie roared, shaking the trapped puck at his own bench, eyes wild behind the mask.

The breakthrough arrived late in the third. Shane stepped into a lazy outlet pass in the defensive zone, intercepted it cleanly, and surged up ice. He didn't have to look at his wing. He felt Ilya's presence the way a compass feels North. Shane carried deep, drawing both defensemen toward the boards, then lifted a high, spinning saucer pass that floated over the outstretched stick of the covering man.

Ilya took it in full stride, shifted to his backhand in one fluid motion, and slipped the puck through the goalie's five-hole.

1–0.

When the final horn sounded, the Nomads' logo lit the scoreboard and the building erupted into a wall of sound. Ozzie had preserved the shutout with a performance that earned him the first star.

Shane and Ilya drifted to the hash marks near center ice, chests heaving, jerseys dark with sweat. They didn't speak at first. They simply leaned in until their helmets met with a dull, resonant thud that carried between them like a shared pulse.

"Shutout," Shane managed, still catching his breath. "The goalie's a goddamn god."

"And we're his prophets," Ilya answered, a grin breaking through the fog on his visor.

They skated to Ozzie, who was already disappearing under a swarm of teammates. Shane offered a respectful tap of glove to pad. Ilya launched himself forward, wrapping both arms around the goalie's neck in a tangle of green and burgundy that spun slowly in the roaring light.

Back in the locker room, music throbbed through the speakers, a steady bass pulse that matched the lingering adrenaline in Shane's veins. Ozzie stood on a bench, still wearing his massive leg pads, leading a hoarse, joyful chant while Torres sprayed him with a water bottle, soaking him in celebration.

Ilya had dropped into his stall, helmet off, hair plastered and wild in every direction. He watched Shane with an expression that was unguarded and almost too intimate for the chaos around them.

"We won," he said, voice barely carrying over the music.

Shane met his eyes. "We did."

The celebration in the locker room eventually spilled out into the players' lounge and the parking garage. The veterans headed to a nearby bar to properly christen the new captaincy, but Shane and Ilya found themselves making a quiet exit.

"I am too wired to sit in a bar and listen to Kowalski tell stories," Ilya said as they reached their car, his breath hitching in the sharp night air. "My skin feels like it is vibrating."

"Me too," Shane admitted.

They went to a 24-hour diner on the edge of downtown that looked like it hadn't been renovated since 1985. They sat in a corner booth. Ilya ordered a mountain of chocolate chip pancakes and a side of bacon. Shane stuck to an omelet and a cup of fruit.

"Your eyes," Ilya murmured, pointing a fork at him. "You're replaying the second period, aren't you?"

"The turnover at the blue line," Shane said, his brow furrowing. His finger tapped restlessly against the table. "If Ozzie hadn't made that save, the game is completely different. I was half a second late on the gap."

Ilya reached across the table and pressed his palm flat against the back of Shane's hand, pinning it to the laminate tabletop.

"Stop," Ilya said, his voice low and firm. "We won. You made the pass. I made the shot. Ozzie did his job. Enjoy for five minutes, Hollander. Please."

Shane looked down at Ilya's hand on his. The heat of it was grounding. He took a breath, the tension in his shoulders snapping. "Okay. Five minutes."

They stayed for an hour, talking about how it felt to hear eighteen thousand people scream their names. 

The next day was an official off day. No practice, no meetings.

Shane woke up at his usual 7 AM, but instead of heading to the rink, he went for a slow mile-long walk along the river path, enjoying the way the crisp Minnesota fall air cleared his head. On the way back, he stopped at the coffee place a block from their hotel and ordered one for each of them.

When he got back, the suite was a disaster zone. Ilya had clearly woken up, made a half-hearted attempt at breakfast, and then collapsed back onto the sectional. There was a trail of discarded gear left over from the night before. A stray sneaker, a team hoodie, and a single hockey sock.

"Ilya," Shane said, appalled. "The kitchen is a crime scene."

A groan emerged from under a pile of blankets. Ilya's head popped out, his hair a catastrophic nest of curls. "I am a warrior in recovery. Do not judge my process."

"Your process involves leaving eggshells on the counter?"

Ilya scrambled out of the blankets, squinting at the coffee. He took the cup from Shane, his fingers lingering against Shane's as he took it.

They spent the rest of the morning doing low-impact recovery. In the afternoon, Shane finally caved and let Ilya put on a Russian action movie with terrible subtitles. They sat on opposite ends of the couch, but as the movie went on, the distance between them closed. By the second act, Ilya's feet were tucked under Shane's thigh, and Shane didn't even think about moving them.

Later that evening, the team group chat started humming again.

Ozzie: Recovery update: I am currently in a bathtub full of Epsom salts. I can no longer feel my legs, but my soul is at peace. 

Butch: Saw the highlights on the news. They used the Cold Front graphic again. @ShaneHollander @IlyaRozanov, hope your heads still fit through the door. 

Ilya: Shane's head is same size. My head is growing. I need bigger helmet. 

Knox: Flight leaves at 10 AM tomorrow. First road trip.

Shane looked at the message, then at Ilya, who was currently trying to toss popcorn into his own mouth and failing miserably.

"Chicago," Shane said. "First real road trip."

Ilya stopped, a piece of popcorn hitting his chest. He looked at Shane, then bumped their knees together. "I'm ready if you are."

"I'm ready," Shane said. 

Somehow, he felt like he was agreeing to more than he realized.

Chapter 6

The team charter was a world of its own. High-stakes card games unfolded in the back, accompanied by the low hum of guys snoring. While Kowalski and Butch were locked in a heated game of poker with Sully, Shane and Ilya were tucked into a window row, the world passing by in a blur of grey clouds at 30,000 feet.

Between them, Shane's iPad was propped up on the tray table. They were halfway through a documentary about the greatest playoff comebacks in history, but Shane was finding it impossible to focus on the screen.

They shared a single pair of wired earbuds, a relic Shane kept because they never ran out of battery. The cord was just short enough to force their shoulders together, pressed close in the narrow seats. Halfway through the flight, Ilya's head began to tilt, eventually settling fully against Shane's shoulder.

Shane stiffened for the briefest moment before his body overruled his brain and he relaxed into the contact. Ilya's hair felt impossibly soft against his cheek, carrying the faint, clean scent of citrus shampoo. Every time the plane dipped through a pocket of turbulence, Ilya's weight shifted more solidly against him, and Shane felt a slow, steady heat bloom in his chest.

He's just tired, Shane told himself, eyes locked stubbornly on a grainy clip of a 1994 game-winning goal. Teammates do this. It's the "duo" thing. It's the Cold Front.

But his heart hammered against his ribs in a rhythm that had nothing to do with hockey. He glanced down at Ilya's hand, resting loose and lazy on the armrest between them, and felt a terrifying urge to reach out and lace their fingers together. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second as a quiet wave of anxiety washed over him. This wasn't in the plan. The plan was the NHL, the Cup, and a professional partnership. This… this felt like the ice giving out beneath him.

***** 

The hotel room was a standard upscale box. Two queen beds, heavy blackout curtains, and an atmosphere that felt significantly more pressurized than the suite they shared back home.

Shane moved through his pre-game routine with practiced, focused movements. He was confident. He knew his assignments, knew his lines, but the silence of the room made every sound feel amplified. The click of his suitcase, the rustle of his suit jacket, the sound of Ilya's breathing.

Ilya sprawled on the bed nearest the window, watching Shane with a look that was far too observant. He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. "You are always moving, Shane. Just sit down. We have three hours."

Shane sat on the edge of his own bed, only a few feet away, but kept his gaze fixed on his socks against the carpet. The proximity was the real problem. Back home, there were walls and separate rooms. Here, there was just a nightstand.

"I'm just locking in," Shane said.

"No," Ilya said, his voice dropping into that low, melodic register. He sat up fully, closing the gap between them until he could reach out and catch the edge of Shane's sleeve. He tugged gently, drawing Shane's attention upward. "You think if you stay focused on the game, you don't have to look at me."

Shane's gaze moved to Ilya's hand on his arm, then lifted to meet his face. The usual playful arrogance was there, but it was softened with something real. Shane felt his professional mask slip, replaced by a daring sort of confidence.

"I'm looking at you, Ilya," Shane said softly. He didn't pull his arm free. "Is this what you wanted?"

The smirk flickered, giving way for a heartbeat to genuine, wide-eyed surprise before he schooled his features again. His fingers brushed deliberately over Shane's as he held his gaze. "It's a start, Hollander."

***** 

The United Center felt like a pressure cooker. The air was thick with the scent of stale popcorn and the biting chill of the ice, while the Chicago crowd formed a living, roaring wall of noise.

The hit came midway through the third period. Shane was flying, chasing a loose puck along the left boards with that explosive speed that usually left defenders grasping at air. But Hayes. a veteran Chicago defenseman notorious for living on the edge, had him lined up perfectly.

Hayes ignored the puck entirely. He stepped up and drove his shoulder straight into Shane's ribs just as Shane stretched for the rubber. The collision rang out. A sharp, unmistakable crack of shoulder pads slamming into bone, audible even over the thunder of eighteen thousand fans. Shane's stick flew from his hands and he dropped hard, sliding into the boards in a crumpled heap.

The whistle blew instantly, but the ice was already a riot. Butch didn't even look for the puck, he dropped his gloves with a heavy thud and launched himself at Hayes.

"You're dead, Hayes! You're dead!" Butch’s gravelly roar sliced through the fray as he yanked Hayes's jersey over his head and unloaded a barrage of heavy, unprotected rights. A tangle of green and red jerseys collapsed into a shoving, shouting scrum around them.

Ilya didn't spare the fight a glance. He ignored the gloves, the screaming fans, the pushing bodies. He carved a deep, snowy arc across the ice and skidded to a stop beside Shane, dropping to both knees. His gloved hand slid immediately behind Shane's neck, cradling him as Shane curled tight into himself.

"Shane. Look at me," Ilya commanded. His voice was steady, but his knuckles were white where he gripped Shane's jersey.

Shane let out a ragged gasp. He finally opened his eyes, blinking against the bright arena lights, and his hand shot out to grab Ilya's forearm.

"I’m okay," Shane rasped, his voice thin. "Just... knocked the breath… out of me."

Ilya didn't move until the trainer reached them. He stood guard over Shane, his eyes locked on Hayes as he was escorted to the penalty box.

Shane vanished down the tunnel for assessment but returned ten minutes later. Nothing broken. That was something. The game sat tied 2-2 with two minutes left in the third, and the atmosphere had turned outright poisonous. Hayes was back on the ice, hunting for another target, when he bobbled a cross-ice pass at the blue line.

Ilya didn't hesitate. He exploded into the gap, using his stick like a lever to lift Hayes's hands and strip the puck with a vicious aggression that sent the veteran crashing to his knees.

Ilya was gone.

On the breakaway, the United Center tried to scream him off the puck. Ilya didn't hear them. He locked into the rhythm of his skates and the puck, drew the goalie out, executed a lightning deke to the backhand, and tucked the puck home with a clinical, vengeful snick into the corner.

He skipped the celebratory lap. Instead, he skated straight toward the Nomads bench, eyes finding Shane, who sat there with an ice pack wedged under his jersey. Ilya raised one gloved hand and pointed a single, steady finger directly at him.

That was yours.

*****

The hotel room was dim when they finally returned, lit only by the neon bleed of the Chicago skyline seeping through the curtains. The silence felt heavy, still thrumming with the ghost of the crowd's roar

Shane moved with a pained hitch, his usual fluid grace replaced by careful, deliberate steps. He sat on the edge of his queen bed and began the slow, agonizing process of unbuttoning his dress shirt. When he pulled it over his head, Ilya, standing by the desk, froze.

The bruise was brutal. An angry purple-black welt that wrapped around Shane's ribs like a dark map of the hit, stark and ugly under the low light.

Ilya felt a surge of protectiveness so sharp it was almost physical. He crossed the narrow space between the beds, his shadow falling over Shane. Without a word, he reached out. His fingertips brushed the very edge of the bruise, fingers feather-light.

Shane froze. He sucked in a breath that hitched halfway, his entire body going rigid. But he didn't pull away. Instead, he turned his head, looking at Ilya with eyes that were dark and wide.

They stayed like that for a long, vibrating moment, Ilya's fingers tracing the damaged skin, their uneven, frantic breaths the only sound in the room.

"I'm going to get ice," Ilya said at last, his voice a low, rough whisper.

He practically fled into the hallway. At the ice machine, cold air hit his face as he leaned his forehead against the metal. His hands shook as the cubes clattered into the bucket.

Fuck, I am so into him, Ilya thought, the admission finally crashing through his defenses. It wasn't just the chemistry on the ice or the shared jokes. He was drawn to Shane in a way that went far beyond the game. Steadier than lust. Something terrifyingly permanent.

He gathered the ice and walked back. Shane hadn't moved an inch.

Ilya sat on the edge of the bed beside him and pressed the ice, wrapped in a plush hotel towel, gently to the bruise. Shane hissed, a small sound of pain, but then he leaned into Ilya, his shoulder resting against Ilya's chest.

"He shouldn't have touched you," Ilya said, his voice dropping into that dangerous, protective register.

"It's hockey," Shane murmured, though he didn't move away. He looked up, his face inches from Ilya's. "It happens, Ilya. Why are you so angry?"

Ilya met his eyes. His hand shifted, almost accidentally, resting against Shane’s thigh. Shane glanced at it, then back up, and something in his expression changed. 

"You know why," Ilya said.

When Ilya leaned in, it was slow enough that Shane could’ve pulled away.

He didn’t.

The first kiss was soft. Careful. Just a brief press of lips, like they were both testing it. They stayed there for a second, barely moving. 

Then Shane’s hand came up, fingers settling lightly at the side of Ilya’s neck, and he kissed him with a little more intention. 

Ilya exhaled against his mouth, shifting closer on the bed. Their thighs pressed together fully now, and his hand on Shane’s leg tightened just slightly, thumb moving without thinking.

The kiss deepened by degrees. Shane’s fingers slid from Ilya’s neck into his hair, holding him there a little more firmly.

Ilya’s free hand came up, settling at Shane’s chest, fingers curling into his shirt. He pushed closer on the mattress, close enough that Shane had to brace slightly with one hand behind him to stay balanced.

It didn’t stop him. He leaned into it.Their mouths met again, more certain now, tongues sliding together deliciously. Their breathing started to break. Shorter and uneven between kisses.

When Ilya finally drew back, it was slow, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

He didn’t go far. Just enough that their foreheads touched, their noses brushing as they both tried to catch their breath. Neither of them moved their hands. Neither of them leaned away.

"Come here," Ilya whispered.

He pulled back the heavy duvet. Shane moved carefully, his breath catching as he settled into the pillows. Ilya climbed in beside him, moving with a gentleness that felt entirely new.

Ilya pulled Shane against his chest, careful of his ribs, and Shane tucked his head under Ilya's chin. They lay there, legs tangled. After a moment, Shane pulled his head back just enough to meet Ilya's eyes. They didn't speak. Didn't move. Ilya ached to kiss him again, god he wanted to, but this time he wanted Shane to lead. Ilya had laid his cards on the table. Did Shane feel the same, or was panic starting to creep in? It certainly seemed like he had been into it, but Ilya needed to know. He searched Shane’s face, but Shane's eyes were wide, pupils blown, and if Ilya was being honest, he looked…

Shane kissed him.

…oh.

All of Ilya's thoughts dissolved as he carded his fingers through Shane's hair, holding him steady. He pushed his tongue into Shane's mouth, and Shane made a noise that sent heat flooding through him. Ilya couldn't stop the groan when Shane's teeth grazed his lower lip. They broke apart, panting.

"Fuck, Shane," Ilya panted, thumb tracing over Shane's freckles.

Shane swallowed hard and nodded shakily. "Yeah."

Shane's hand settled over Ilya's heart, and Ilya dropped his own hand to tangle their fingers together. He wanted to stay like this forever. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of Shane's head. "Go to sleep, Hollander," Ilya murmured into his hair.

"Okay," Shane whispered, voice already thick with exhaustion.

Ilya held him close, letting the steady beat of Shane’s heart under his palm lull them both toward sleep.

Chapter 7

Ilya woke up first. For a second, his brain went through the usual check-list. What's on the agenda today. What time do I need to be at the rink, or the airport? Then he registered the solid, warm weight pressed against his chest and remembered everything.

Shane was still asleep, his face tucked into the crook of Ilya's neck. Ilya stayed perfectly still, afraid that if he moved, the fragile reality of the situation would shatter. He looked down at Shane's hair, dark and sleep-tousled, and felt a fierce surge of possession.

Shane stirred, a low hum vibrating against Ilya's skin. He shifted, his hand sliding lazily up Ilya's chest until his fingers curled around the curve of Ilya's shoulder. When his eyes finally fluttered open, they were heavy-lidded and dark with sleep, blinking slowly up at Ilya.

"Hey," Shane whispered. There was no panic in his voice. No sudden bolt for the other bed. Shane looked at him, and a small, sleepy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Morning," Ilya whispered, still afraid that the bubble of calmness would burst at any second. His thumb traced the line of Shane's jaw. "How are the ribs?"

Shane took a cautious breath, his brow furrowing slightly. "Stiff. But they feel better." He paused, his gaze dropping to Ilya's lips before meeting his eyes again. "Everything feels better."

Ilya didn't need any more of an invitation than that. He leaned down and caught Shane's mouth in a slow, lingering kiss. Shane hummed softly into it, his hand sliding from Ilya's shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers threading into the curls there to tug him closer. 

As the kiss deepened, Shane shifted, rolling onto his side to press closer to Ilya. His leg hooked over Ilya's hip, pulling their hips into alignment, the heat of him unmistakable through the thin layers of his sleep pants and boxers. Ilya let out a low groan against Shane's mouth, hands sliding down to settle firmly at his waist, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just above the waistband.

"We have a flight in two hours," Shane murmured against Ilya's lips, though he made no move to pull away. Instead, he nipped lightly at Ilya's bottom lip, a sharp spark of playfulness that made Ilya's heart skip a beat.

"Plenty of time," Ilya rasped, voice rough with want. He shifted his weight carefully, mindful of the bruise, and pinned Shane gently into the pillows. His hands slipped under the hem of Shane's shirt, palms flattening against the warm, smooth expanse of Shane's back, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing.

Shane's breath hitched, his eyes fluttering shut as Ilya began to trail kisses down his neck, finding a sensitive spot just below his ear that made Shane's fingers tighten in Ilya's hair. Shane's own hands grew bolder, sliding under Ilya's shirt, palms roaming over the hard planes of Ilya's chest and down his sides. 

"Ilya," Shane breathed, his head lolling back against the pillow, exposing more of his throat.

"I've got you," Ilya whispered, his voice thick and low. He pulled back just enough to look at Shane, his eyes searching. "You are okay?"

Shane reached up, cupping Ilya's face in both hands. His thumbs brushed over Ilya's cheekbones, steady and sure. For a man whose carefully constructed life plan had just been blown apart, he looked remarkably certain.

"I think," Shane said, his voice dropping to a low, steady register, "that we're exactly where we're supposed to be.”

Ilya grinned and dove back in, kissing Shane deeper, hungrier. Their mouths moved together in a slow-building rhythm, tongues sliding. Hands began to wander lower. Shane's fingers traced the waistband of Ilya's boxers, hesitant at first, then bolder as Ilya groaned encouragement into his mouth. Ilya mirrored him, slipping his hand beneath the elastic of Shane's underwear, fingertips brushing the coarse hair at the base of his cock before wrapping around the hardening length with careful pressure.

Shane gasped sharply against Ilya's lips, hips jerking forward into the touch. "Fuck," he breathed, voice wrecked already.

Ilya stroked him slowly, thumb circling the head on each upstroke, spreading the slickness that was already beading there. Shane's hand fumbled in response, pushing Ilya's boxers down just enough to free him, then closing around Ilya's cock and easing into perfect strokes that matched Ilya's rhythm.

Ilya’s breath hitched, sparks racing up his spine as Shane’s callused palm dragged over sensitive skin, thumb brushing the underside in a way that made his hips stutter forward involuntarily. Every slow stroke sent liquid heat pooling low in his belly, tightening the coil of pleasure that had been building since their mouths first crashed together.

He kept working Shane with the same steady rhythm, savoring the way he felt against his fingers, the velvet heat of him, the way Shane’s hips jerked like he couldn’t help chasing more. Ilya’s free hand roamed up Shane’s back, fingers splaying wide to pull him closer, their chests pressing together so he could feel every shaky breath Shane took.

In Russian, low and rough against the damp skin of Shane’s neck, he murmured, “Ty sovershenna... tak prekrasna v moikh ob yatiyakh.” not caring if Shane understood the words, only that the tone might say enough.

Pleasure built in heavy waves, each stroke winding him tighter. His thighs trembled with the effort of holding back, but he didn’t want it to end yet. He wanted to feel Shane fall apart first, wanted to watch and feel every second of it.

The moment Shane came, a broken sound ripping out of him, hot pulses coating Ilya’s fingers, Ilya’s control snapped. The sight of Shane’s face twisted in ecstasy, the sudden clench of his hand, the wet heat between them, it all crashed through him like lightning. Pleasure slammed into him hard, white-hot and overwhelming, ripping a deep, guttural groan of Shane’s name from his throat as he spilled over Shane’s fist in thick, shuddering ropes. His hips jerked helplessly into the grip, chasing every last pulse until the world narrowed to nothing but the slick mess between them and the pounding of his own heart against Shane’s chest. For a long moment he just clung there, panting, forehead pressed to Shane’s shoulder as aftershocks rolled through him, sweet and lingering.

Shane let out a soft, breathless laugh against Ilya's mouth. "Shit," he breathed. But his voice was fond, and Ilya could hear the teasing edge to it.

Ilya huffed a quiet laugh, pressing a kiss to Shane's temple. "Da."

*****

An hour later, the hotel lobby hummed with the familiar low-key chaos of road trip checkout. The Nomads were scattered in various states of caffeine-deprivation, hunched over coffee cups and plundering the continental breakfast for stray carbs. Shane and Ilya stepped off the elevator together,shoulder to shoulder, same as always.

"Hollander!" Torres barked, looking up from a banana he was peeling with aggressive focus. He gave Shane a blunt, sweeping look. "Bom dia. How're the ribs? You look like you're made of glass this morning."

Shane forced a smile, keeping his posture carefully neutral despite the dull throb in his side. "Just stiff. I'm fine."

"He's full of shit," Knox said, joining them with two coffees in hand. He eyed Shane's ribs. "Hayes caught you flush. If you need to sit out the skate tomorrow, you say so. Don't be a hero and end up on IR because you're stubborn."

"I'm not being a hero," Shane said, his neck heating up. He felt the weight of the room. The eyes of the trainers, the coaches, the guys who had been in the league for a decade. He felt like a neon sign was flashing over his head. I know what Ilya's hands feel like. I know what his lips taste like. 

He caught Ilya's reflection in the glass of the lobby partition. Ilya was wearing his usual armor, that lazy, lopsided smirk that suggested he found the entire world mildly hilarious. But his eyes, when they met Shane's in the reflection, were steady. I've got you.

Ilya stepped into the circle, invading Torres's personal space just to be annoying.

"Leave him alone," Ilya drawled, his accent thick and dismissive. "He is tougher than you, Torrey. You go down if someone breathes on your neck too hard. Shane takes the hit, I score the goal. This is the system. It works."

Torres snorted, tossing the banana peel toward a trash can. "The system? Merda, you two are joined at the hip. I'm surprised you don't hold his hand across the street, Roz."

"I would," Ilya said, his voice dropping into a teasing lilt as he looked at Shane. "But he is very fast. Hard to catch."

The group dissolved into easy, overlapping chirps and Shane felt the tension in his shoulders ease a fraction. This was familiar. This was normal. He grabbed a couple of peanut-butter energy bars from the pile on the table, tore one open, and offered the second to Ilya without thinking.

Ilya took it, fingers brushing Shane's deliberately for a split second. When Shane glanced up, Ilya gave him a soft, private smile, gone in an instant before anyone else could clock it. Shane's heart did a slow, heavy roll in his chest. Maybe everything could stay normal on the surface, just with this one ground-shattering change underneath. That he and Ilya were... what? He didn't have a word for it yet, but as he met Ilya's eyes again across the small circle of teammates, a surge of certainty hit him square in the chest. Whatever it was, he wanted to keep it. 

The bus ride to the airport was the usual rolling locker room. Music blared from someone's phone, half-hearted debates carried on about last night's game, Kowalski snored in the back row before they even hit the highway. Shane sat near the middle, window seat, and Ilya dropped in beside him without a word. Their thighs pressed together from knee to hip, and Shane had to fight the urge to rest his hand on Ilya's leg right there in front of God and the team.

At the gate, the trainer, who everyone called Doc, caught Shane before they boarded.

"Here." Doc pressed a fresh ice pack into Shane's hand, wrapped in a thin towel. "Keep it on for twenty, off for twenty. Take it easy on the plane. You feel any shortness of breath, you tell me immediately."

"Got it," Shane said, tucking the pack under his hoodie against the bruise. It was already throbbing less than it had that morning.

The charter was a quiet sanctuary. As the plane climbed over the Chicago skyline, the cabin lights dimmed, and the low hum of the engines acted like a privacy screen.

Shane propped the iPad on the tray table, pulling up the game film from the night before. Ilya settled in beside him, his long legs brushing against Shane's under the seat.

As they hit cruising altitude, Ilya's head tilted, coming to rest on Shane's shoulder. It was a move they'd done a dozen times, but now, it felt electric. Shane could feel the heat of Ilya's temple on his shoulder. He could smell the citrus and the faint, lingering scent of hotel soap.

He wanted to kiss him. Right here, in the middle of the cabin with the team scattered around them. He wanted to turn his head, catch Ilya's mouth, taste the coffee on his tongue and feel that low hum of want build again. He couldn't, of course. Not yet. But the want sat heavy and sweet in his chest anyway.

Ilya must have felt it too. His hand, resting on the armrest between them, shifted so the backs of their fingers brushed, then stayed, pinkies linking in the smallest, secret touch. Shane exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the iPad screen, but his focus was entirely on the point of contact, the quiet promise of it.

"Watch the screen, Hollander," Ilya murmured, voice so low only Shane could hear. "Or people will think you are distracted."

Shane huffed a quiet laugh. "Whose fault is that?"

Ilya's thumb grazed the side of Shane's hand in response. "Mine. Always mine."

Shane looked at the screen, watching a digital version of himself take the hit from the night before. The ice pack chilled Shane's ribs while Ilya's warmth seeped in from the side. The irony wasn't lost on him. He had spent his whole life trying to be the most prepared person in the room, but no amount of film study could have prepared him for the way he felt right now.

Nothing was the same anymore. And Shane was okay with that. More than okay.

He turned his head just enough to feel the softness of curls against his cheek, and Ilya let out a soft, contented sound against his shoulder.

Yeah. This was worth whatever came next.

Chapter 8

The heavy door of their hotel suite clicked shut, cutting off the hum of the hallway and the distant chime of the elevator. The tall windows offered a panoramic view of the Mississippi River, the twilight reflecting off the water in shifting shades of charcoal and violet.

Usually, the first thing they did after a road trip was drop their bags and head straight for the kitchen or the PlayStation. This time, they stood in the entryway for a beat too long, bags still slung over their shoulders. The silence between them felt thick and charged.

Shane set his keys on the counter with a sharp clack that echoed louder than it should have. He felt the space between them vibrating, every inch of the open living room suddenly feeling high stakes without the familiar teammate-roommate script to hide behind.

"I'm going to... put my suit in the dry-clean bag," Shane said, his voice a little too formal for their own home.

Ilya stayed by the door, his hands buried in his hoodie pockets. He watched Shane with an unreadable expression. "Okay, Hollander. I will... check the fridge for things that have died since Wednesday."

It was awkward. It was agonizingly, strangely polite. Shane made it three steps toward his bedroom before he felt Ilya's hand snag the back of his shirt.

"Shane," Ilya said, his voice dropping the pretense entirely.

Shane turned, and Ilya was right there, closing the gap in one step. He didn't say anything else, he just reached out, cupping Shane's face and pulling him into a kiss that shattered the tension instantly.

Shane's hands found Ilya's waist, pulling him flush against him, ignoring the dull protest of his ribs. He let out a low, shaky breath against Ilya's mouth. "I thought we were going to be weird for a second."

"I am never weird," Ilya murmured, his lips brushing Shane's jaw. "You are the one who overthinks. Stop doing that."

Ilya steered them backward with gentle but determined pressure, hands sliding down to Shane's hips, guiding, until the backs of Shane's knees hit the edge of the deep, oversized sectional in the living room. Shane sank down onto the cushions, pulling Ilya with him so Ilya straddled his lap, knees bracketing Shane's thighs, weight settling warm and solid.

The kiss turned slower, deeper. Shane's hands roamed up under Ilya's hoodie, palms flat against the hard planes of his back, feeling the shift of muscle under skin. Ilya groaned softly into his mouth, hips rocking forward in a slow, instinctive grind that made Shane's cock twitch hard against the confines of his pants.

Ilya pulled back to look at him, pupils blown. "Do your ribs hurt?"

Shane shook his head, though there was still a twinge  when he breathed too deep. "Not enough to stop."

"Good." Ilya's voice was rough. He slid off Shane's lap and dropped to his knees between Shane's spread thighs, hands already working the buckle of Shane's belt with practiced ease. "Because I have been thinking about this since the plane."

Shane's breath hitched as Ilya tugged the zipper down, easing the fabric open. Ilya's fingers brushed over the hard length straining against Shane's boxers, deliberately teasing, before hooking the waistband and pulling everything down just enough to free him. Ilya made a low, appreciative sound in the back of his throat.

"Fuck," Shane whispered, head falling back against the cushions as Ilya wrapped a hand around the base, stroking once, slow and firm.

Ilya leaned in, breath hot against sensitive skin, and dragged his tongue along the underside in one long, wet stripe. Shane's hips jerked up involuntarily, and Ilya pressed a forearm across Shane's thighs to hold him steady, then took the head into his mouth. He sucked gently at first, tongue swirling around the slit to taste the bead of precome there.

Shane's hand flew to Ilya's hair, fingers threading through the soft curls, just holding on. "Ilya, oh my god."

Ilya hummed around him, and Shane groaned. He sank lower, taking more of Shane in, cheeks hollowing as he bobbed slowly. His lips stretched wide, his tongue working the underside with every pull. Wet, filthy sounds filled the quiet room, mingling with Shane's ragged breathing and the occasional low groan when Ilya's throat relaxed and he took him deeper still.

Shane watched through half-lidded eyes. The sight of Ilya on his knees, hair falling forward, lips wrapped around him, was almost too much. He felt the coil in his gut tighten, heat pooling low and insistent.

"Ilya… I'm close," he rasped, fingers tightening in Ilya's hair. "Fuck, I'm…"

Ilya pulled off with a wet pop, hand stroking fast and slick where his mouth had been. "Come for me, Shane," he murmured, voice wrecked and commanding all at once. "I want to taste you."

That did it. Shane arched, a choked sound tearing from his throat as he came hard. Hot pulses spilled over Ilya's tongue and lips. Ilya didn't flinch. He took it all, swallowing around the head, drawing out every last shudder until Shane collapsed back, chest heaving, ribs protesting faintly under the strain.

Ilya kissed the inside of Shane's thigh, then crawled back up to straddle him again, kissing him deep so Shane could taste himself on Ilya's tongue. Shane's hands slid under Ilya's hoodie again, tugging it up and off in one impatient motion, then palming the hard bulge still trapped in Ilya's sweats.

"Your turn," Shane breathed against his mouth, voice hoarse. "Let me." Shane flipped their positions, easing Ilya down onto the cushions while Shane knelt between his legs.

Shane took it slower. He started lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the inside of Ilya's thigh, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to make Ilya's breath hitch. His hands roamed freely, one sliding up Ilya's chest to thumb over a nipple, rolling it until it peaked, the other cupping the heavy weight of Ilya's balls, rolling them gently, feeling them tighten under his palm.

Ilya's cock lay thick and flushed against his stomach, the head already glistening. Shane looked up through his lashes, holding Ilya's gaze as he dragged the flat of his tongue from base to tip in one slow, broad lick, tasting salt and clean skin and something uniquely Ilya. He did it again, slower, letting spit trail messily, then sealed his lips around the head and sucked with gentle pressure, tongue flicking at the slit in quick, teasing strokes that had Ilya's hips twitching.

"Fuck, Shane," Ilya groaned, one hand threading into Shane's hair, thumb stroking the shell of his ear. "Like that. Da, just like that."

Shane hummed around him, the vibration pulling another low curse from Ilya in Russian that sent heat rippling through Shane’s body. He took more, sliding down gradually, lips stretched, jaw working, until he couldn't go farther without gagging. He pulled back, hand wrapping around the base to twist on every upstroke while his mouth worked the head, spit slicking everything, messy and eager. 

Ilya's thighs tensed around him, breathing ragged. "Shane…eyes on me."

Shane looked up again, holding that dark, blown-out stare while he hollowed his cheeks and sucked harder, hand stroking in perfect rhythm. Ilya's fingers tightened in his hair, hips rocking shallowly, chasing the heat.

"Close," Ilya warned, voice wrecked. "You don't have to-"

Shane answered by sinking down as far as he could, swallowing around the head, tongue pressed flat. Ilya came with a choked groan, pulsing hot across Shane's tongue in thick, steady spurts. Shane took it all, swallowing through the pulses, a little spilling at the corner of his mouth because it was too much and not enough at once. He kept sucking gently until Ilya was trembling and oversensitive, then finally pulled off, pressing one last open kiss to the softening length before crawling up to collapse against Ilya's chest.

They stayed tangled on the sectional for a long minute, breathing hard, skin damp, the river lights flickering across their bodies through the windows. Ilya's hand stroked lazily through Shane's hair, the other tracing idle circles over the bruise on his ribs with feather-light care.

*****

Later, the room was dark except for the glow of the city lights below. They had made their way to Shane's bedroom and were now wrapped around each other in the sheets.

Shane traced a random pattern on Ilya's forearm. His mind, as always, drifted toward the future.

"Coach mentioned the housing deadline again today," Shane said quietly. "In the terminal. He said the front office wants our permanent addresses by the end of the month."

Ilya's hand, which had been idly playing with Shane's hair, stilled for a second. "Right. The free ride is over. They are ready to stop paying for this suite and start making us pay for our own walls."

"Exactly," Shane sighed. "They've already sent over a list of real estate agents who handle high-profile clients."

Ilya let out a dry, mocking snort. "High-profile. They mean people with no time and too much money."

Shane shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look at Ilya. The blue light from the window caught the sharp line of Ilya's nose and the dark mess of his hair.

"I was thinking," Shane started. "It's a business decision, really. St. Paul isn't cheap. If we both get two-bedroom places, we're paying double for space we don't use. And we already know our schedules match. We have the same commute. We... work well together."

Ilya raised an eyebrow, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "Are you making a financial pitch to me, Hollander? Or are you asking me to move in with you?"

"We already live together," Shane countered, feeling that familiar heat rise in his neck. "I'm just saying... why change it? We could find a bigger place. Something with a private entrance, maybe. A penthouse further down the river. We split the rent. It's efficient."

Ilya reached up, catching Shane's chin and pulling him down for a quick, firm kiss.

"Efficiency," Ilya repeated, his eyes sparkling with something warm. "You are the only person in the world who would use a budget argument to stay in my bed."

"Is it a yes?" Shane asked.

Ilya pulled Shane back down against his chest, wrapping his arms around him securely. "It is a yes. But I want a room for my PlayStation. And you are not allowed to organize my closet."

"Deal," Shane whispered, closing his eyes.

"Good," Ilya murmured, his voice thick with sleep. "Now shut up and be efficient at sleeping, Hollander. We have practice at nine."

Chapter 9

They hired a realtor. A high energy woman named Linda who specialized in discreet luxury. She'd figured out fast that Shane and Ilya were a package deal, their availability squeezed into narrow slivers between games, practices, video sessions, and the endless orbit of team obligations. Linda rolled with it like a pro, scheduling viewings around their chaos with military precision.

"We have an hour," Shane said, checking his watch as they pulled up to the first house. He was still in his team tracksuit, his hair damp from the post-practice shower. His brain hovered halfway between the power-play breakdown for St. Louis and the sudden, surreal question of square footage in a kitchen he might actually cook in someday.

The first stop was a hyper-modern glass cube in a trendy neighborhood, all sharp angles and transparency.

"This place looks like a dentist's office, Linda," Ilya announced the moment they stepped into the foyer. His voice bounced off the polished concrete floors. "I do not want to live in a place where I feel like I am waiting for a root canal."

"It's award winning architecture, Ilya," Shane countered, already drifting toward the sleek, minimalist kitchen with its floating islands and hidden appliances. 

"It is a fishbowl," Ilya called after him, his voice echoing. "People will watch me eat my cereal and judge my brand of flakes. No."

They had to scrap the second and third listings because practice ran long on Thursday, and a mandatory team meeting on Friday ate up their lunch hour. It wasn't until Saturday morning, three days later, with a few hours to spare before they had to head to the arena for a home game, that they finally reached the last two houses on Linda's list.

The first house was a "rustic chic" loft near the North Loop.

"Too much exposed brick," Ilya announced within thirty seconds. "If I trip I will get a concussion. Also, why is the bathtub in the middle of the bedroom? This is for people who have no secrets."

Shane looked at the tub, then at Ilya, catching the way Ilya's eyes flicked back to him with a knowing glint, and felt a flush of heat that had nothing to do with the central heating. "It's... open concept, Ilya. Very modern."

"It is a hazard," Ilya insisted, already heading for the door. "Next one."

The final house was different. A cozy but spacious home tucked away on a private wooded lot overlooking a gentle bend in the Mississippi. It had been renovated with a clean, masculine touch, with dark wood floors, heavy stone accents, and massive windows that let in the crisp Minnesota light.

"This one has a gym in the basement," Linda said, leading them through the massive kitchen with its dark soapstone counters. "And a separate wing that could be a media room. The previous owner was very keen on privacy."

"Privacy is good," Shane murmured, running his hand over the cool, smooth soapstone. 

Linda's phone buzzed in her pocket. "Oh, excuse me. That's the listing agent for the loft. They have a competing offer. I'll just be a moment."

As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, the silence of the house settled over them. Ilya didn't bother pretending to inspect the cabinets or the appliances. He walked straight to the floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over the river, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed for the first time all morning. The late morning sun was hitting the water, turning the current into a moving ribbon of gold.

"Shane," he said softly.

Shane crossed the room, stopping just behind him. "The commute to the rink is twelve minutes. The gym is top-tier. It fits the budget."

Ilya turned around to face him fully. He reached out, his hands finding Shane's, lacing their fingers together in the middle of the empty room. It was the first time they'd touched like this all day.

"Forget the gym," Ilya whispered, his eyes searching Shane's. "Can you see it? Morning coffee right here. Watching the snow fall on the river when we get back from a long road trip. Just us."

Shane looked around the empty space, and realized that he could see past the sterile listing. It felt like a place where they could close the door and just breathe. Where the secret they carried didn't have to be carried quite so tightly.

"Yeah," Shane said, his voice thick with a sudden certainty. "I can see it."

Ilya pulled him closer, grip tightening on their joined hands. He leaned in until their foreheads touched. Then Ilya tilted his head and kissed him. Shane hummed into it, fingers squeezing back, the weight of the season and their hidden life suddenly feeling lighter, more manageable, in this sunlit room.

They broke apart just as they heard the click of the door in the entry.

By the time Linda stepped back in, Shane was inspecting the crown molding with feigned fascination, and Ilya was pointing at a recessed light fixture like it held the secrets of the universe.

"Sorry about that," Linda said, smoothing her blazer with a brisk smile. "So, what do we think? It's a lot of house for two single guys."

Ilya caught Shane's eye, a private, wicked spark of joy in his gaze.

"We like the efficiency, Linda," Ilya said, his voice perfectly casual.

Shane cleared his throat, fighting back a smile. "We'll take it."

*****

The driveway of the new river house was a gridlock. Forest green team hoodies everywhere, trucks backed up at awkward angles, and the faint smell of diesel mixing with the crisp fall air off the Mississippi. Kowalski had appointed himself Logistics Coordinator, which mostly involved standing on the back of the moving truck and shouting orders while eating a bagel.

"Careful with the mattress, Roz! If you drop it, Hollander will make us all run laps for lack of discipline!" Kowalski roared, crumbs flying.

Inside, the living room was a maze of cardboard. Sully and Knox were struggling with a massive leather sectional through the wide doorway, the couch fighting back.

"Lift, Sully ! Lift!" Knox grunted, his face turning a shade of red that matched the team logo.

"I am lifting!" Sully shot back. "This thing has the structural integrity of a tank. Why do you need a couch this big, Shane? Planning on hosting a literal pack of nomads?"

Shane, carrying a stack of "Fragile" boxes that were meticulously labeled by room, just smiled. "Ilya says he needs space to sprawl during film study."

"Sprawl is polite word for becoming human starfish,'" Maksym chimed in, effortlessly hoisting a heavy crate of kitchen gear. He looked at Ilya and launched into a rapid-fire string of Russian.

"How many pairs of shoes did you bring, Ilya? You are a hockey player, not a czar's daughter. Half of these look like they cost more than my first car."

Ilya, balancing a floor lamp in one hand and a box of PlayStation cables in the other, didn't miss a beat. "At least my shoes don't smell like a Siberian locker room, Maks. And don't drop that crate. Shane's espresso machine is in there. If it breaks, we will all suffer."

In the middle of the chaos, Finn moved like a shadow. While the others shouted and clattered, he'd slipped into the kitchen and was quietly unboxing glassware.

Shane walked in, startled to find the quietest man in the NHL carefully lining up tumblers with mathematical precision.

"Finn, you don't have to do that," Shane said. "The guys are still wrestling with the bed frames."

Finn didn't look up. He adjusted a glass by a fraction of a millimeter. "They're loud. I like quiet." He paused, his pale eyes finally flicking to Shane. "It's a good house, Shane. Thick walls. Good for keeping the world out."

It was the most words Shane had ever heard Finn say at once. He went back to the glasses, moving with a grace that explained how he could shut down the league's fastest forwards without breaking a sweat. "You two work better when you're together. This makes sense."

Before Shane could process the weight of that statement, Finn had vanished toward the basement, presumably to organize the gym.

By sunset, the trucks were empty. Boxes still littered every room, but the house was officially theirs. Out back, the massive stone fire pit by the river had been stoked into a roaring bonfire. Flames licked high against the darkening sky, sparks drifting toward the river like fireflies. The team sprawled in folding chairs and on blankets, beer cans cracking open, the smell of woodsmoke and pine thick in the crisp air.

Kowalski leaned back, propping his boots up on a log. He looked from Shane to Ilya, then back to the house.

"Look at you two," Kowalski chirped, a wicked glint in his eye. "Matching hoodies, shared mortgage, arguing over where the rug goes. You're like an old married couple. Next thing you know, you'll be getting a golden retriever and bickering about who forgot to buy the milk."

The team laughed, and Shane felt that familiar, cold spike of panic in his chest. He took a long pull of his drink, trying to keep his expression neutral. Is it that obvious?

Knox, who had been quiet, shifted in his chair next to Shane. He watched the flames for a second before speaking, his voice steady and grounding.

"Nothing wrong with a solid roommate, Killer," Knox said, throwing a glance at Kowalski. "Finny and I lived together for our first two years in the league. Shared a two-bedroom in South St. Paul. I did the cooking. He did the cleaning."

Shane looked at the captain, surprised. "You lived with Finn?"

"Every day," Knox nodded. "Best thing for us. When you're young in this league, the road is lonely. Having someone who knows exactly what the locker room feels like when you get home... it keeps you sane. Makes the game easier when you've got a partner off the ice, too."

Across the fire, Finn raised his beer toward the captain, silent as always.

Knox clapped a hand on Shane's shoulder, a firm, supportive weight. "You guys have something rare. Don't let the chirps get to you. It's a long season. You're gonna need each other."

Shane felt the tension leave his shoulders. It wasn't an admission of their secret, but it was a validation of their closeness. On his other side, Ilya's foot nudged Shane's in the dark, a quick tap of solidarity.

"I am not getting a golden retriever," Ilya announced to the group, grinning as he tossed a marshmallow at Kowalski. "Goldens are too polite. Too much like Shane," Ilya continued, his eyes sparking. "I want an Ovcharka. I will name him Boris and he will shed all over the living room just to make Hollander's eye twitch."

Maksym grunted in approval, raising his beer. "Ya vyp'yu za eto."

"The hell he will," Shane jumped in, the banter feeling easy and natural now. He pointed an accusing finger at Maksym. "I don't know what you just said, Maks, but don't encourage him."

The laughter that followed was warm, echoing out over the dark river. Shane looked at the house that was theirs now, and the team scattered around the fire like a mismatched family, and felt like he was home.

*****

The last truck rumbled down the long driveway just after midnight, taillights fading into the dark line of trees. The fire pit had burned down to glowing embers, chairs folded and stacked against the garage, empty beer cans collected in a recycling bag by the back door. The house was quiet for the first time since the moving trucks had rolled in that morning.

Shane stood in the kitchen under the soft glow of the pendant lights, still wearing his team hoodie, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He was half-heartedly wiping down the soapstone counter with a damp cloth. His movements were slow, more habit than purpose. The day's adrenaline had drained away, leaving him hollowed out and heavy.

Ilya watched him from the doorway for a long minute, arms crossed, shoulder against the frame. He could see it in the slight slump of Shane's shoulders, the way his eyes stayed shut a fraction too long with every blink. Exhaustion written in every line.

Without a word, Ilya pushed off the doorframe and crossed the kitchen. He stepped up behind Shane, sliding his arms around Shane's waist and pulling him back against his chest.

Shane stilled. The cloth dropped from his fingers to the counter with a soft wet slap. He let out a long breath and leaned into the contact, his head falling back to rest against Ilya's shoulder. His hands came up, covering Ilya's forearms where they wrapped around him, fingers curling tight.

Ilya pressed his lips to the side of Shane's neck. "Enough," he murmured. "You are done for tonight."

Shane let out a small, tired laugh. "There's still so much…"

"Tomorrow." Ilya's voice was low, steady. "The boxes will wait."

Shane turned slowly in his arms. He looked at Ilya, eyes shadowed with fatigue but soft and unguarded. The kitchen light caught the freckles across his nose and Ilya reached up, unable to resist, and brushed a thumb along Shane's cheek.

Shane's gaze dropped to Ilya's mouth, then lifted again. Ilya closed the small distance and kissed him. There was no urgency to it, just a quiet, lingering press of lips. The simple relief of being allowed to do this in their own kitchen with no one watching.

"Come to bed, Hollander."

Shane nodded, too tired to argue. Ilya took his hand, their fingers lacing together, and led him through the still-unfamiliar halls.

They passed the first bedroom, the one the team had dubbed "Shane's room." It was fully furnished, the heavy oak dresser Shane had picked out standing against the far wall, a box marked Books sitting in the corner. To any teammate walking by, it looked like it would be a lived-in space. 

But they kept walking. 

They headed to the end of the hall, to the room overlooking the river. It was the master suite, the one Ilya had claimed during the tour. It was tucked away at the back of the house, further from the stairs, offering the kind of privacy they both craved. They'd had the guys carry furniture earlier that afternoon, laughing off Kowalski's chirps about Ilya wanting the king sized suite for himself.

Finn had been in here last. He'd not only assembled the bed frame but had quietly made the bed, the sheets crisp and the pillows stacked with a precision that only Finn possessed. Moonlight spilled through the tall windows, painting strips of silver along the dark wood floor.

Ilya flicked on the bedside lamp and turned back to Shane. He tugged the hoodie over Shane's head with careful hands, then peeled off his own. They moved without hurry, shedding the rest of their clothes until they were skin to skin, cool air raising faint goosebumps that Ilya chased away with slow strokes of his palms. 

Ilya pulled back just enough to look at Shane, his hands framing Shane's face with a tenderness that made Shane's chest ache. The bedside lamp cast a warm, golden pool of light over them.

"Lie down," Ilya whispered, his voice husky but unbearably gentle. "On your side. Let me take care of you."

Shane's breath caught. He searched Ilya's face for a long moment, then nodded, a small, trusting smile curving his lips. He settled onto his side facing away from Ilya, the sheets cool against his skin. Ilya moved behind him, pressing the full length of his body along Shane's back, one arm sliding under Shane's head like a pillow while the other hand rested over Shane's heart.

For a while, they simply breathed together. Ilya pressed slow kisses along the nape of Shane's neck, the curve of his shoulder, the sensitive spot just behind his ear. "You are so beautiful," Ilya murmured against his skin, the words vibrating through Shane like a promise. "Every part of you. I want all of you tonight… if you want it too."

Shane shivered from the weight of those words. "I do," he breathed. "I want everything with you, Ilya. Just like this."

Ilya's hand began a languid journey down Shane's body, skimming over his ribs, the dip of his waist, the rise of his hip, leaving trails of heat in its wake. He reached for the small bottle of lube he'd tucked into the nightstand earlier that day, warming it between his palms before slicking his fingers generously.

Ilya pressed a kiss to Shane's shoulder. "Tell me everything you feel. Stop me if it's too much. I only want to make you feel good."

The first touch was feather light. Just the pad of one finger circling Shane's entrance with infinite patience, teasing and soothing at once. Shane exhaled shakily, pushing back the tiniest bit.

"Like that?" Ilya asked, voice low.

"Yes… God, yes," Shane whispered. "Don't stop."

Ilya took his time, working him open with one finger, then two, all while murmuring soft praises in a mix of English and Russian. Words like "perfect," "mine," "so good for me," "so beautiful." Every thrust of his fingers was deliberate, curling just right to brush that spot inside Shane that made him gasp and arch. Ilya kissed every inch of skin he could reach, his free hand stroking Shane's chest, his stomach, occasionally wrapping loosely around his hard cock to give slow, lazy pulls that matched the rhythm of his fingers.

When Shane was trembling, open and desperate, Ilya withdrew his fingers and rolled away only long enough to slick himself thoroughly. He returned immediately, pulling Shane back against him, chest to back, and guiding one of Shane's legs slightly forward for better access.

The blunt pressure of Ilya's cock against him made Shane's breath hitch. Ilya froze, nuzzling into his hair.

"Breathe, baby. We go as slow as you need. If it's too much, we stop."

Shane reached back, finding Ilya's hip and squeezing. "I trust you. Keep going."

Ilya pressed forward with aching slowness, the head of his cock breaching Shane in the gentlest possible push. They both groaned, Shane from the stretch and burn that quickly melted into something deeper, Ilya from the overwhelming heat and tightness that felt like coming home.

"Fuck, Shane," Ilya rasped, voice breaking with emotion. "You feel… incredible."

He didn't move at first, just held still, buried only partway, one hand splayed wide over Shane's heart while the other stroked his cock with light touches. "Talk to me, baby. How does it feel?"

"Full," Shane managed, voice thick. "So full of you. It burns a little… but it's good. Don't stop. I need more of you."

Inch by careful inch, Ilya rocked forward, pausing occasionally to kiss Shane's shoulder, whispering how perfect he was. When he was finally seated to the hilt, they stayed locked together, breathing in sync, hearts hammering in unison.

Then Ilya began to move. Slow, rolling thrusts that dragged deliciously, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in with the same reverent care. Every thrust was accompanied by soft words, soft kisses, Ilya's hand working Shane's cock in perfect time.

They moved together like that, unhurried, wrapped in each other, the world narrowed down to warm skin, whispered endearments, and the steady, building rhythm of their bodies.

Ilya's hand stroked Shane with the same slow, loving pace as his thrusts, coaxing him higher and higher. Shane was trembling, gasping softly with every deep, rolling movement inside him.

"Ilya…" Shane breathed, voice raw with need.

Ilya pressed a lingering kiss to the back of his neck, then gently eased himself out. Shane let out a small sound of protest at the loss, but Ilya was already turning him with careful hands.

"On your back for me," Ilya murmured. "I need to see your face when you come."

Shane's heart stuttered. He let himself be guided onto his back, legs parting naturally as Ilya settled between them. Their eyes locked. Ilya braced himself on one forearm, the other hand cupping Shane's cheek as he leaned down to kiss him, slow and deep.

With the same exquisite care, Ilya pushed back inside. Both of them groaned at the new angle, the deeper connection, the way their bodies fit so perfectly. Ilya began to move again, never rushing. His gaze never left Shane's face. 

Shane's hands roamed over Ilya's back, fingers pressing into muscle, then sliding up to thread through Ilya's  hair. Their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling as the pleasure built in slow, powerful waves.

Shane’s release built like a slow, inevitable tide, every thrust tightening the coil in his belly until it was almost unbearable. Their eyes locked in the dim light of the room. Ilya’s gaze never wavered, dark and intense and so full of quiet wonder that it made Shane’s chest ache in the best way.

His thighs tightened around Ilya’s hips, heels digging into the backs of his legs to pull him impossibly closer. 

“Ilya,” The name slipped out on a broken exhale. Shane’s body seized around him, inner muscles clenching in rhythmic pulses that drew a low groan from Ilya’s throat. Pleasure rolled through Shane in long, shuddering waves, each one deeper than the last, stealing his breath and blurring the edges of the world until nothing existed but the heat of Ilya’s body against his, inside him, surrounding him.

He came hard, spilling warm and slick across his own stomach as his back arched off the bed. His fingers dug into Ilya’s shoulders, not to push away but to anchor himself, to keep this moment from slipping through his grasp too soon. Every pulse felt like it was pulling him apart and putting him back together at the same time, more intense than anything he’d imagined.

Ilya followed only heartbeats later, as if Shane’s climax had been the final spark he needed. His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering forward in one last, deep thrust that buried him to the hilt. A soft, ragged sound escaped him as he pressed his face into the curve of Shane’s neck, arms wrapping around him with a strength that felt protective and possessive in the gentlest way. They rocked together through the aftershocks, slow and uncoordinated, bodies trembling in sync. Ilya’s breath was hot against Shane’s skin, his heart hammering so hard Shane could feel it echoing in his own chest.

Neither of them pulled away. They stayed tangled like that, chests rising and falling in the same unsteady rhythm, the air between them warm and heavy with the scent of sweat and sex and something softer. Something that felt like it could be the start of everything. Shane’s hand slid up to cup the back of Ilya’s head, fingers threading gently through damp strands of hair as he held him close. No words were needed in the quiet, lingering closeness, the way Ilya’s thumb traced idle circles on Shane’s hip, the way their lips brushed in the faintest, exhausted almost-kiss.

Some time later, after cleaning up and more lazy kissing, they slid under the covers together. Shane curled immediately into Ilya's side, head on his chest, one leg hooking over Ilya's thigh. Ilya wrapped both arms around him, one hand settling at the small of Shane's back, the other carding gently through his hair.

Shane pressed a soft kiss to the center of Ilya's chest, right over his heart. "This is ours," he whispered, voice thick with sleep and satisfaction.

"Da," Ilya murmured, lips brushing Shane's temple. "All ours."

Shane's breathing evened out quickly. Ilya stayed awake a little longer, listening to the quiet house settle around them. The faint creak of settling wood, the distant murmur of the river, the steady thump of Shane's heartbeat against his ribs.

He kissed the top of Shane's head one last time, then closed his eyes.

The house was quiet. They were home

Chapter 10

The Nomads' core - Knox, Butch, Kowalski, and Finn - had been together for years in the league, a veteran group that moved with a synchronized, effortless ease. They didn't have to learn how to be a family, they just had to decide if Shane and Ilya were worth letting in.

The answer had come in small, quiet gestures. It was the little things that built the walls of their team.

In mid-November, the group chat, usually a chaotic mess of chirps, memes, and game clips, went dead silent for four hours. Then it exploded with a photo from Torres. It was a tiny, wrinkled hand clutching his calloused thumb. Sarah had given birth to a daughter, Elena.

For the next two weeks, the Nomads operated like a logistics firm. Shane, with his inherent need for order, took charge of the "Dad-Duty" spreadsheet. He coordinated the meal train so the Torres family wouldn't have to cook for a month. Ilya was surprisingly intense about it. He dragged Shane to a high-end baby boutique, looking profoundly out of place among the pastels. 

"She is a Nomad, Shane," he had insisted, picking out a faux-fur blanket that cost more than their coffee maker. "She cannot be cold. Minnesota is cold for babies." 

Watching Ilya later that week, his big hands cradling the baby while Sarah beamed, had made Shane's heart ache with a secret, prideful warmth.

Then came the heavy hit. In early December, Sully walked into the locker room, and the air just... left. He didn't have to say it, the grief was etched into every line of his face. His father, diagnosed with cancer only months earlier, was gone.

The response wasn't a card or flowers. The entire roster booked tickets for the 3-hour flight to Sully's home town in Massachusetts. Twenty-three men in dark suits stood in the back. A silent, charcoal-gray wall that didn't move for the entire service. They didn't talk about toughness that day. They just stood there so Cash Sullivan didn't have to stand alone.

Now, with the three-day Christmas break finally in sight, the grind had reached a fever pitch. The night before the final game against Dallas, the living room was dim, lit mostly by the towering pine they'd hauled in together. Shane sat cross legged on the floor, tongue poking out in concentration as he wrapped a custom weighted training vest for Kowalski, who was notorious for destroying gym equipment.

"You are over-using the tape, Shane," Ilya called from the kitchen, tea kettle whistling behind him.

"It's a heavy gift, Ilya! If the bottom falls out and breaks his foot, then Finn has to play thirty minutes a night until February, and Butch will actually murder me."

Shane glanced over at the pile of gifts they'd organized. Half of them for the veterans' kids, half for the guys who had basically adopted them over the last few months.

Ilya emerged with two mugs of tea, steam curling into the air. He dropped down behind Shane, legs bracketing him, and became a human backrest. Strong hands settled on Shane's shoulders, working out the knots with heavy, familiar pressure honed from months of shared post-game recovery.

"Knox asked if we're coming early to the party tomorrow," Ilya murmured. "He said Torrey and Sarah are bringing the baby and he needs the fast rookies to help keep the toddlers away from the Christmas tree."

Shane smiled, leaning back into the heat of Ilya's chest. "He really just wants us there to help move the extra tables."

"Probably," Ilya laughed. "But it is good, yes? To be needed for more than just a power play?"

Shane reached back, lacing their fingers together. He thought about the way the room sounded after a win, the way the guys had helped them move without being asked, and the way Knox looked at them now, not as assets, but as brothers.

"Yeah," Shane whispered, the weight of the secret relationship feeling a little lighter in the face of so much communal love. "It's the best thing that's ever happened to me."

Ilya squeezed his hand, then nipped at his ear. "Finish the vest, Hollander. Then we go to bed. I want to get as much sleep as possible before we have to go out there tomorrow and survive a house full of Nomads and their children."

Shane laughed, the sound bright in the high ceilings of their sanctuary. "And what about the game before the children? Dallas is sitting two points ahead of us in the Central. Spindler is on a tear, and their power play is lethal right now. You aren't worried about the game?"

Ilya leaned down, his nose brushing against Shane's temple, his voice dropping into a low register. "I am not worried about the game, Shane. We are the Cold Front. I have the best center in the league, and I am the best winger. We will play our game, and we will win. Dallas is just a speed bump on the way to Christmas."

***** 

Knox’s home was less a house and more a high-volume containment zone. The air buzzed with the adrenaline of a 4-2 win over Dallas.

"Did you see the look on Spindler's face?" Kowalski roared over the sound of a toddler shrieking in the hallway. He was currently standing by the kitchen island, gesturing wildly with a chicken wing. "Butch, I thought you were going to actually put that kid through the glass. I heard the boards groan from the blue line!"

Butch, known as The Butcher for reasons that had become very clear at the ten-minute mark of the second period, just shrugged as he topped off his drink. "He touched Finn. You don't touch Finn. First rule of the Nomads handbook."

Finn sat on a footstool in the corner, methodically peeling an orange for Sully's three-year-old, entirely unbothered by the hard hit he'd taken earlier. "I was fine," he said, voice cutting through the noise like a low hum. "But the goal felt good."

"Felt good?" Maksym barked, clapping Finn's shoulder. "You took it coast-to-coast like they were stuck in wet cement! Unassisted! I almost cried, was so beautiful!"

Across the room, the women formed a fortress on the sectional around Sarah and the baby, passing Elena, cooing over tiny socks and "She has her dad's nose, poor thing."

Shane and Ilya hovered near the drink station, leaning against the counter in that easy, mirrored way. Shane finally relaxed, game tension replaced by the warm, chaotic hum of family. He felt the surge of gratitude again, deep and steady.

"Hey! Hollander! Roz!" Kowalski yelled from the dining room. "Get over here! We're doing the Secret Santa, and if you don't show up, I'm stealing your gifts!"

Ilya nudged Shane's shoulder with his own. "Come on, Hollander. Let's go see if your wrapping holds up." 

Kowalski went first, tearing into Shane's meticulously wrapped package with the grace of a wood chipper. When he pulled out the heavy, custom-weighted training vest, the room erupted.

"A weighted vest?" Kowalski roared, holding it up like a trophy. "Hollander, you saying I'm slow?"

"I'm saying you broke the cable machine last week," Shane shot back over the laughter. "Maybe if you wear the weight, the equipment will survive you."

"I love it," Kowalski declared, immediately strapping it on over his Christmas sweater. "I'm wearing this for the rest of the night. Someone get me a beer, I'm training!"

The room went hushed when Finn reached for a small, silver-wrapped box. The card just said, From Knox.

Finn opened it to find an expensive, hand-carved wooden dice set for the tabletop games he played in total silence on the plane.

Finn looked at the dice, then up at Knox. He didn't smile, Finn didn't really do that, but he gave a single, slow nod that carried more weight than a three-minute speech. "The balance is perfect," Finn murmured. "I like the sound of wood."

"Only the best for my D partner," Knox said easily.

Maksym's gift to Ilya was predictable. A massive, gold-plated framed photo of... Maksym.

"So you never forget what a real goal-scorer looks like," Maksym announced in a dramatic voice.

Ilya snorted, clutching the frame. "I will put this in the guest bathroom, Maks. Right above the toilet. It will be very inspiring."

But underneath the joke, Maksym had tucked a bottle of high-end vodka from a specific distillery near Ilya's hometown. Ilya's expression shifted for a fraction of a second, a flash of genuine, quiet appreciation, before he went back to chirping Maksym about his ego.

Butch's gift to Torres was no prank. He pulled out a miniature, custom-made leather Nomads varsity jacket.

"For the kid," Butch grunted, looking slightly embarrassed as the wives cooed. "Can't have her going to her first game looking like a civilian."

Torres clapped Butch on the shoulder, his eyes a little misty. "Obrigado. Thank you, Butch."

Ilya's gift to Sully arrived in a small, unassuming box wrapped in plain brown paper.

Sully opened it slowly, the room quieting around him. Inside was a single official-weight black hockey puck, laser-engraved on one face with his father's name and the date of passing, and on the other a simple phrase. In memory of a man who raised a warrior.

Sully turned the puck over in his hands, thumb tracing the words. The room stayed hushed, the only sound the soft crackle of the nearby fireplace and the distant sound of kids laughing in another room.

Ilya spoke quietly. "Had it done custom. Figured you could keep it in your stall, tape it up for warm-ups sometimes, or just hold it when you need to. Every game, he is with you."

Sully swallowed hard, set the puck down carefully on the table like it might break, then stood and pulled Ilya into a quick, hard hug. When he stepped back, his voice was rough but steady. "This goes in my stall. Thanks, man. Really."

Shane's gift was in a flat, rectangular package wrapped in comic strip Sunday funnies. The tag said To: The Brains of the Operation. From: The Guy Who Cleans Up Your Messes.

Shane laughed, already knowing it was from Torres, the third man on his and Ilya’s line. He tore it open to find a framed, high-definition photo from their game against Chicago. It wasn't a standard action shot, it was a candid moment after a goal where the three of them were huddled together. Shane and Ilya's foreheads were pressed together in that split-second of shared intensity, and Torres was right there, his arms thrown around both their shoulders, pulling them into a three-way headlock.

But it was the silly addition that made the room roar. Torres had commissioned a local artist to doodle little thought bubbles over their heads.

Ilya's bubble: "I am a Golden God and also I want a snack."

Shane's bubble: "According to my calculations, that puck entered at a 42-degree angle."

Torres's bubble: "I feel like I should have knocked before joining this huddle."

Shane felt his face heat up, but he couldn't stop grinning. He looked at Torres, who was currently bouncing his baby daughter on his knee. "Thanks, Torrey. It's going on the mantle."

"It better," Torres joked. "Do you know how hard it is to get a photo where Ilya isn't making a stupid face? That's a rare specimen."

The night wound down as the adrenaline faded into the heavy, comfortable sleepiness of a long day. As Shane and Ilya finally made their way to the door, laden with gift bags and leftover cookies, Knox caught them in the foyer.

He stood between them, leaning back against the doorframe, watching as they bundled into their heavy winter coats.

"Hell of a game tonight, boys," Knox said, his voice dropping into that steady, captainly register. "The way you two connected on that second goal... it's more than just a system. It's rare to find that kind of alignment with someone. On the ice, sure. But off it?"

He paused, his eyes lingering on the way Shane was naturally holding Ilya's discarded scarf while Ilya zipped his jacket.

"A man needs a partner he can trust," Knox said, his tone perfectly even. "Someone who knows the play before you even call it. I'm glad you guys found that. It's a long life after the cheering stops, and it's better when you aren't doing it alone."

He gave Shane's shoulder a firm, lingering squeeze and gave Ilya a sharp nod. "Get some rest. See you on the 27th."

The interior of the SUV was silent as they pulled out of Knox's driveway, the tires crunching over the fresh dusting of snow. The heater hummed, slowly chasing away the bite of the midnight air.

Shane stared out the window at the passing streetlights, the framed photo from Torres sat in the backseat. He thought about Torres's caption again. I feel like I should have knocked before joining this huddle.

Shane's heart did a slow roll in his chest. "Did that feel... weird to you?" he asked quietly. "What Knox said? And the photo from Torrey?"

Ilya kept his eyes on the road, his hands steady on the wheel. "Knox is the Captain, Shane. He sees everything. He sees the way we look at each other on the bench. And Torres... Torres is on the ice with us every game. He’s our linemate. He hears us when we aren't even talking."

"You think they know?"

Ilya reached over the center console, his hand finding Shane's and squeezing hard. "I think they know we are important to each other. And I think Knox was telling us that as long as we take care of each other... he doesn't care about the rest. They're our family, Shane. They protect their own."

Shane exhaled, a breath he felt like he'd been holding for longer than he realized. He leaned his head back against the seat, watching the frost creep across the edges of the window.

Long minutes later, Ilya turned the car into their long, private driveway. The river house stood waiting for them, dark and quiet against the winter sky. "Let's go inside," Ilya said, turning off the ignition. "I have a gift for you that does not involve the entire roster watching us."

Chapter 11

The fluorescent hum in the visitor's locker room felt louder than usual. Normally the pre-game ritual ran like a well-oiled machine. Tape snapping, Velcro tearing, one of Ozzie's playlists thumping through the speakers. But today, the air was thick, like the pressure right before a storm.

Shane sat in his stall, methodically checking the tension on his skates. Beside him, Ilya was uncharacteristically quiet, his eyes fixed on the floorboards.

"Vibes are weird," Ilya murmured, leaning in so only Shane could hear. "Everyone is acting like a funeral director."

Shane glanced around. Butch was gripping his stick tight enough to snap the graphite, and Maksym wasn't chirping. Their eyes kept drifting toward the captain's stall. 

Knox sat there, fully geared except for his helmet. He wasn't studying the tactical board or talking to the trainers. He was perfectly still, head bowed, staring at the stitched ‘C' on the left side of his jersey. His thumb hooked under the edge of the fabric, rubbing the embroidery like he was trying to peel it away.

Kowalski landed a hand on Knox's shoulder, squeezing hard. "You're the Captain now, Knox," he said, his voice low but carrying in the quiet room. "Your room. Your team. Lead 'em out."

Knox didn't look up. He gave one sharp nod that looked like it cost him everything.

"It's Jeffries," Shane whispered to Ilya as the pieces clicked. "He was the Captain here for six years. It's a lot of history to face across the red line."

On the ice, the tension crystallized. The unspoken rule of ignoring the opposition during warm ups dissolved. One by one the Nomads, Butch, Torres, even Finn, skated toward the red line.

Jayden Jeffries was already waiting, leaning casually against the boards with that familiar smile that had carried the team to three playoff runs. The exchanges were warm, almost tender. Sticks tapped against shin guards, Jeffries reaching out to touch Torres’s helmet affectionately. It looked like a family reunion staged on a battlefield.

But Shane's eyes were on Knox.

The Captain stayed at the far end of the ice, firing pucks at the empty net with a violent, jarring precision. He never looked toward the red line. He never looked at Jeffries. He looked like a man trying to outskate a ghost.

The puck drop was a physical reset, but the weirdness followed them into the play. The Nomads were playing a heavy, desperate game, but the logic was fractured.

Shane noticed it right away in the first period. Knox was flying down the wing, hunting the puck, and he had Jeffries lined up for a textbook finishing hit against the boards. It was the kind of play Knox could have made in his sleep. 

At the last millisecond, Knox flinched.

He didn't just miss, he pulled back hard, his skates digging into the ice to spray snow as he intentionally veered off course. Jeffries spun away with the puck, unscathed. Knox looked physically pained, his head hanging for a split second before he chased the play.

"Did you see that?" Ilya hissed on the bench, his chest heaving. "Cap just gave him the lane. He gave it to him."

"I saw it," Shane said, his stomach twisting. Maybe it was just respect for an old teammate. But in this league old teammates faced each other all the time. This looked like something deeper. Something that looked a lot like fear.

By the end of the second the score was knotted at 2-2. The Nomads trudged into the tunnel, the silence in the room was deafening.

Knox didn't sit. He paced the center of the room, his skates clicking rhythmically on the rubber matting. He looked like he was vibrating.

"Listen up," Knox growled.  "I know who's over there. I know what he meant to this room. But we are the Nomads. We play for the crest on the front, not the names on the back of the other guys' jerseys."

He stared at the floor, his jaw tight, his words sounding more like a desperate mantra to convince himself than a command to the room.

"JJ is a great player. He was a great captain. But he's the opposition now. He is the obstacle between us and two points. The league doesn't care about your history or who you sat next to on the bus for six seasons. It's a business. It moves on, with or without you." He slammed a gloved palm against a locker, the sound echoing like a gunshot. "If we want to walk out of here with the win, we stop playing like we're at a reunion and start playing like our jobs are on the line. Because they are. They always are."

He looked up, his eyes dark and glassier than usual. "Play for the man next to you. Not the one in the blue jersey. Do you understand?"

They lost 4-3. 

After the showers, Shane leaned against the concrete wall of the hallway, waiting for Ilya. The drafty corridor was filled with the sound of equipment trunks being slammed shut.

Knox emerged from the coaches' room looking a decade older. His hair was damp, his expression completely blank. He looked like a man who had just watched his house burn down and was trying to remember where he'd parked his car.

"Rough one, Cap," Shane said softly. "We'll get 'em in the rematch at home."

Knox stopped. He didn't look at Shane. "Yeah. Rematch."

Ilya stepped out then, swinging his bag over his shoulder. He saw Knox and slowed his pace, the usual cocky tilt of his head gone. "Hey. We played hard. Bounces just didn't go our way."

It was a standard, comforting teammate platitude. But Knox finally looked up, his gaze flickering between them, the way they stood a fraction too close, the way Ilya's eyes tracked Shane's smallest movement.

"It's not about the bounces," Knox said, his voice dropping to a register that raised the hair on Shane's neck. He stepped into their space, forcing them back against the wall, out of sight of the lingering equipment staff.

"You two," Knox murmured. "You're young. You think you have all the time in the world to figure out how to balance the brand with reality. You think the league will let you keep both."

Shane opened his mouth, but Knox held up a hand.

"The game is a thief, boys," he whispered. His stare was intense, almost pleading. "It's a business, and it's hungry. It'll take your knees, it'll take your youth, and it'll gladly trade away the things that actually matter for a few more jerseys sold or a better playoff seed. It wants the Cold Front. It doesn't want you."

He glanced toward the home locker room, where faint laughter leaked through the walls.

"If you find a rhythm with someone, someone who makes the hits feel lighter and the losses hurt less, you protect that," Knox said. "Don't let the professional side of this life dictate what you keep for yourselves. Because once the league decides it's done with you, all you're left with is what you were brave enough to hold onto in the dark."

He reached out and gave Shane's shoulder a firm, lingering squeeze, then gave Ilya a sharp, knowing nod.

"Don't wait until you're playing against the only person who actually understood you before you realize what you had," he finished, his voice cracking just a hair. "Keep it safe. Whatever the cost."

He didn't wait for a reply. He turned and walked away, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hall toward the exit.

Shane stood frozen, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looked at Ilya, whose face was uncharacteristically pale.

"He definitely wasn't talking about hockey," Ilya whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the building.

"No," Shane agreed, feeling the weight of Knox's words. The secret they'd been guarding, that maybe wasn't as hidden as they thought. "He was talking about us. And why he's so far away from everyone else in that room tonight."

Ilya's fingers brushed Shane's for a fleeting, dangerous second. "We aren't going to be like that, Shane."

*****

After the flight home, the drive back to the river house was quiet. Snow had started again, soft and steady, muffling the world outside the truck's windows. By the time they pulled into the gravel drive, the porch light was the only warm thing in sight.

Inside, they shed coats and gear bags in the mudroom without speaking. Shane flicked on the lamp in the living room. Low golden light spilled across the worn leather couch and reflected in the dark windows.

Ilya came up behind him, his arms circling around Shane's waist. His chin rested on Shane's shoulder. "What Cap said tonight," Ilya started, murmuring the words against Shane's neck, "I don't want to lose this."

Shane turned in his hold, hands finding Ilya's hips. "We won't lose it."

Ilya's eyes searched his. "Promise."

"I promise."

The kiss started careful, almost tender enough to ache, then deepened. Mouths opened, tongues sliding together, hands roaming. Shane's fingers slipped under Ilya's hoodie, tracing the hard planes of his back. Ilya's palms dragged up Shane's ribs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just under his pecs.

Ilya pulled back just enough to speak against Shane's lips. "Let's go to bed."

They moved down the hall together, fingers linked, then sliding apart to tug at shirts. In the bedroom, moonlight spilled silver across the quilt. Ilya flicked on the bedside lamp, then turned back to Shane.

They stripped each other unhurriedly. Hoodies and undershirts hit the floor. Sweatpants shoved down and kicked aside. Ilya's mouth found Shane's again as they stood skin to skin, kissing deep and messy, hands everywhere. Ilya's fingers dug into Shane's hips, guiding him backward until the backs of Shane's knees hit the mattress.

Shane went down willingly, scooting up the bed. Ilya followed, crawling over him, caging him with arms braced on either side. He nudged Shane's knees up and apart, settling between them. Shane's breath hitched when Ilya's mouth started its slow descent, kissing down his chest, across his stomach, then lower.

Ilya hooked Shane's thighs over his shoulders and licked a long, deliberate stripe up the underside of Shane's cock before pressing his tongue flat against his hole. Shane arched, a broken sound tearing out of him. Ilya worked him open with patient strokes of his tongue. Circling, pressing inside, then pulling back to suck gently at the rim until Shane was trembling, hips jerking up in helpless little thrusts.

When Shane was panting, thighs shaking, Ilya reached for the nightstand drawer. He slicked his fingers generously, then slid one inside slowly, watching Shane's face the whole time. Shane's head tipped back, mouth open on a silent gasp. A second finger joined the first, curling and stretching, finding that spot that made Shane's whole body jolt.

"Fuck, Ilya - "

Ilya kept going until Shane was writhing, hips rolling, chasing the pressure, whispering broken pleas. Only then did Ilya pull his fingers free, slick himself with more lube, and line up.

They both groaned as Ilya sank in slowly. Shane's hands flew to Ilya's shoulders, nails biting skin. The stretch was intense, perfect, filling him inch by inch until Ilya bottomed out, hips flush, forehead pressed to Shane's.

For a moment they just breathed together, locked in place.

Then Ilya started to move with deep, rolling thrusts that dragged against every sensitive place inside Shane. Shane hooked his legs around Ilya's waist, pulling him closer, harder. Ilya's rhythm built, steady at first, then faster, hips snapping with controlled force. One hand braced beside Shane's head, the other wrapped around Shane's cock, stroking in time.

Shane was close, dangerously close, back arching, breath coming in short, desperate pants. Ilya's control began to fray. His thrusts turned uneven, hips stuttering as he fought to hold on.

"Come with me," Ilya rasped against Shane's mouth, voice raw. "Shane, come with me."

Shane shattered, back bowing, his cry muffled against Ilya's shoulder as he spilled over Ilya's fist, clenching hard around him. The sight and feel of it snapped Ilya's restraint. He drove in deep one last time, groaning Shane's name as he came, pulsing inside him, hips jerking through the aftershocks.

They rode it out together, mouths crashing in messy, breathless kisses. Ilya stayed buried inside, rocking gently until the last tremors faded.

Ilya's chest felt too full, too tight. Three words sat right behind his teeth, ready to spill. He wanted to say them. Needed to. But something kept them locked inside. He didn't know why. Not yet.

Instead he kissed Shane's temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Slowly he pulled out, both of them hissing at the loss. They cleaned up with the box of wipes on the nightstand, lazy and gentle, trading soft touches.

Then they slid under the covers. Ilya pulled Shane against his chest, arms wrapping tight around him, one leg thrown over Shane's. Shane tucked his face into the crook of Ilya's neck, breathing him in.

They would keep this. Whatever the cost.

Chapter 12

The text from Coach had gone out at 4:00AM.

FLIGHTS GROUNDED. ALL CHARTERS CANCELLED. REPORT TO ARENA 0700. WE ARE BUSING TO CHICAGO.

By the time they reached the arena, the Twin Cities disappeared under a relentless, blinding white. The kind of Minnesota blizzard that turned the world into a smudge of grey, snowflakes swarming like static on an old television.

"Team building," Kowalski grumbled, his gravelly voice sounding even deeper in the sub-zero air as he shoved his duffel into the undercarriage. "That's what Harlan called it. Says the Original Six didn't always have private jets and heated seats."

"Harlan just wants to see if we'll kill each other before we hit the border," Shane muttered, pulling his tuque lower over his ears. He looked at Ilya, checking to see if he was as annoyed as the rest of them.

Ilya only shrugged. "This is nothing. You should see the snow in Russia, eh Maks?" 

Maksym grunted in reply, clearly not sharing Ilya's forced joviality.

The interior of the bus smelled like coffee and stale heater air. Shane made his way down the narrow aisle toward the back, Ilya following close behind. Up front, the usual chaos had already ignited.

"I'm just saying, if we get stranded, we eat the young guys first," Kowalski announced from three rows up, twisted around in his seat with a wicked grin aimed at Torres. "Torrey, you're lean, but there's enough muscle there for a decent stew."

"Eat Maks first," Torres shot back, not looking up from his tablet. "He's got that young, tender energy. He's basically veal."

Maks threw his hat at Torres. "I am sitting right here, you vultures. Eat Knox. He is captain. It's his duty to provide."

"Hey, keep me out of it," Knox called, nudging Finn gently with his elbow across the aisle, voice low and easy. "Finn, back me up. If we're eating the young guys first, Torres is definitely the appetizer. Too much mouth, not enough substance."

Finn shifted slightly, his arms still crossed, but the corner of his mouth lifted. He gave a small nod toward Torres. "Yeah. He talks too much. Definitely first."

Knox let out a quiet chuckle. "See? Told you he'd be useful in a crisis."

From two rows back, Ozzie's Swedish lilt drifted forward. "If we are eating people, I vote for the goalie to be last. We taste better. Good for dessert."

Torres snorted. "You just want to watch the rest of us get stewed while you sit there looking pretty in net."

Ozzie grinned, unrepentant. "Exactly. Goalies have priorities."

Shane shook his head, leaning closer to Ilya as they settled into the very back row. Their shoulders brushed. "See?" he whispered, amusement warm in his voice. "We haven't even left the parking lot and they're already picking out seasonings."

The heavy hiss of the bus's air brakes cut through the laughter, followed by the heavy stomp of boots on the ribbed metal steps. Coach Harlan appeared at the front of the aisle, grabbing the overhead rail to steady himself. He looked tired, but his eyes were sharp as he scanned the rows of his players.

"Listen up!" Harlan barked, and the bus went silent. "I know nobody wants to be on a bus for six hours. But the radar shows the front stalling over Iowa for the next few hours. We've got a window to get ahead of the heavy stuff if we move now. State Patrol says I-94 is clear to the border, but it's going to be slow going. We get to Chicago, we get to the hotel, and we get the points tomorrow night. This builds character, boys. It's old-school hockey. Save the chirping for the ice. Get some rest."

As the bus finally lurched into gear and began its slow, cautious crawl onto I-94, the banter gradually faded. The storm outside swallowed the world in white, and the cabin lights dimmed. By the time they crossed into Wisconsin, the bus had settled into a heavy, private hush. Only the low drone of the engine and the occasional gust of wind rocking the frame remained.

Ilya sat low in his seat, his head resting heavily on Shane's shoulder. They shared a pair of earbuds. An old movie played on the ipad screen, but Ilya wasn't paying attention to it. He was focused entirely on the weight of Shane's arm against his, and the way Shane's thumb was tracing slow, absentminded circles across the denim of Ilya's knee. Every pass sent a jolt through him, tightening the knot that had been growing in his chest for weeks. It felt like pressure building behind his ribs. Something vast and inevitable.

On screen, a character delivered a dry line. Shane huffed a soft laugh, his chest rising against Ilya's side. The simple warmth of it made Ilya's heart ache.

Ilya turned his head, studying the familiar line of Shane's jaw and the way faint daylight from the snow-reflected sky played across his face. He stayed like that, quietly watching, until the weight of his gaze finally pulled Shane's attention away from the screen.

Shane turned, brow furrowing slightly. "Ilya?" he murmured, voice barely carrying over the rumble of the bus. "You okay?"

The pressure in Ilya's chest crested and broke.

"I love you," he whispered.

The words were small, nearly lost beneath the engine's drone, but between them they landed like thunder. Shane froze. His thumb stilled on Ilya's knee. For a long heartbeat, the only movement was the flickering light of the movie on the tiny screen.

Then, Shane's expression softened into something so tender it was almost painful to look at. He leaned his forehead forward, resting it against Ilya's, their breaths mingling.

"I love you too," Shane breathed, a shaky smile touching his lips. Then he let out a tiny, frustrated breath. "But fuck you for saying it for the first time where I can't even kiss you."

Ilya didn't hesitate. He leaned in and pressed his mouth to Shane's in a quick, careful kiss. When they pulled apart, they didn't go far. Ilya reached down and laced their fingers together firmly, holding on like it was the only solid thing in the storm.

Shane squeezed back, his eyes searching Ilya's with quiet triumph. In the back of the bus, hurtling through the endless white, everything finally felt perfectly, terrifyingly right.

Then the world shattered.

A sickening crunch of metal tore through the cabin as the bus lurched violently to the right. Tires screamed against black ice. Up front, Coach shouted a warning that came too late. The bus fishtailed hard, then slammed into something unseen with bone-jarring force. The back end swung wildly, throwing bodies like ragdolls. Glass shattered. Metal groaned and twisted. The bus skidded sideways before tilting sharply and slamming onto its side with a final, deafening crash.

Ilya's head cracked against the window frame. Pain flared hot and white, but it was nothing compared to the sudden, crushing weight that pinned him against the seat and the terrifying silence where Shane's laughter had been.

"Shane," Ilya gasped, his voice raw with pain.

Ilya's hands scrabbled through the wreckage, ignoring the sharp stab in his ribs. His fingers found Shane's hoodie first, then the heavy, limp weight of his shoulder. Shane wasn't moving. His head had struck something. A line of blood ran from his hairline down the side of his face.

"Shane. Shane, wake up." Ilya's voice cracked. "Talk to me…"

The cabin was a chaos of groans, shouts, and the howl of wind whipping snow through broken windows. Blood and diesel and cold air flooded Ilya's senses. Maksym was cursing steadily in Russian, his voice thick with shock. 

"Sound off!" Coach Harlan's voice cracked through the dark. It was hoarse, strained with a pain he was clearly trying to suppress. "If you can hear me, speak up! Knox!"

"Here," Knox's voice came from the front. "I'm here, Coach."

"Kowalski!"

"Yeah," the big defenseman rumbled, sounding dazed. "Think I'm… yeah. I'm here."

"Butch! Maks! Ozzie!”

One by one, the names echoed through the wreckage. A chorus of broken, shaking voices. "Here." "Yeah." "I'm okay."

"Rozanov!"

"Here," Ilya called out, his hands finally finding Shane in the dark. His fingers brushed Shane's cheek. "But Shane is not waking up!"

The silence that followed was heavy.

"Check his breathing, Ilya!" Harlan barked, though his own voice wavered. "Sully!" he shouted.

No answer.

"Cash Sullivan!" Harlan's voice rose, edged with a new kind of panic. "Sully, talk to me!"

Ilya looked around the mangled interior. He could see the twisted metal of the seats several rows ahead where Sully had been sitting just moments ago, but the space was empty. The window next to Sully's seat was gone, the entire frame warped outward.

"Does anyone have eyes on Sully?" Harlan roared. "Ozzie?"

"I don't… I don't see him, Coach," Ozzie called back from his spot near the center. "His seat is empty."

"Where the fuck is Sully?" Harlan roared, the sound ending in a pained wheeze.

The wind howled through the gap where the window used to be, the only answer to the question. Ilya shivered, pulling Shane closer to his chest, shielding him from the snow that was already starting to pile up on the upholstery.

A shadow crawled through the debris. Finn appeared, face pale and streaked with blood from a cut over his eyebrow, but his movements were steady. He wedged himself into the tilted space beside them, glass crunching under his knees.

"Ilya," Finn said, voice low and calm despite the shouting continuing up front. "You okay?"

Ilya nodded jerkily, never taking his eyes off Shane. "Yes, but Shane… He won't wake up."

Finn reached past Ilya and pressed two fingers firmly against the side of Shane's neck. After a tense second, he exhaled. "He's breathing. His pulse is steady."

Relief crashed through Ilya so hard his vision blurred, but it was razor thin. Up front, Coach Harlan's voice cut through the din, hoarse but commanding. "Everyone stay where you are! Call out if you're trapped! Ramirez, emergency kit!"

Finn's gaze flicked forward, jaw tightening. "Torrey is pinned up there. The seat frame collapsed on his leg. He's losing blood fast. Knox and Coach are trying to lift it, but we need more hands. Ozzie's got a busted shoulder but he's helping hold pressure. I need your help."

Ilya's stomach dropped. He looked down at Shane's still face. Leaving him felt impossible.

Finn's hand landed on his shoulder, firm and grounding. "He's stable for now. Torrey isn't."

Ilya swallowed hard. He leaned close to Shane's ear, voice cracking. "I'll be right back. I promise, Shane. Don't you dare go anywhere." 

Crawling forward through the mangled aisle was a nightmare. Every movement sent fresh pain stabbing through his ribs, but he pushed through. He passed Maks, who was holding a piece of his own shirt against a gash on his arm while trying to keep a dazed Kowalski upright. Kowalski's eyes were glassy, blood matting the hair at his temple and dripping steadily onto his collar. He kept muttering "I'm fine, I'm fine" like he could will it to be true.

Knox knelt near the front, face streaked crimson from a cut somewhere behind his hairline that wouldn't stop flowing. Coach was next to him, barking orders, voice hoarse, gripping the twisted seat frame.

And then Ilya saw Torres.

Torrey was trapped beneath a collapsed row of seats, his left leg bent at a sickening, unnatural angle. Blood had already soaked through his jeans and pooled on the tilted floor, bright and terrifying. His face was gray, his eyes squeezed shut against the pain. The guy who had passed around pictures of his newborn daughter with a proud grin just weeks ago looked impossibly small now.

"Ready?" Knox grunted as Ilya reached them. "On three. Lift."

Ozzie was already there on the other side, one arm hanging useless at his side but his good arm pressing a towel tight against Torrey’s leg. Butch crouched nearby, broad face pale and sweating. Every breath a shallow wheeze, maybe a punctured lung, but still trying to add what little leverage he could. 

Together, they heaved. The metal frame groaned and shifted upward an agonizing inch, then two.

Torres let out a guttural scream that tore through the bus before going suddenly, terrifyingly limp. Fresh blood surged from the wound.

"Fuck, he's bleeding bad," Ozzie snarled through gritted teeth.

Ramirez, the team trainer, limped over immediately, his own face ashen, but hands steady. He dropped beside Torres and pressed a fresh towel firmly to the wound, voice clipped and professional despite the blood on his own face. "I've got him. Someone get the trauma kit from the front compartment if you can reach it. Now!."

The second the frame was braced, Finn turned to Ilya. Blood dripped from his eyebrow, but his voice didn't waver. "Go back to Shane. We've got this for now."

Ilya nodded once, gratitude and guilt and fear twisting so tight in his chest he thought it might crack him open. He crawled back through the wreckage, the voices of his teammates following him like a lifeline. Coach Harlan was still calling out, checking on everyone. Ozzie muttered something in Swedish that sounded like a prayer. Butch wheezed, "We're good, we're good," as if trying to convince all of them.

When Ilya dropped down beside Shane again, he carefully cradled his head, brushing snow and glass from his hair with trembling fingers. Shane was still unconscious. He was breathing, but the blood on his face had frozen into thin red lines and his skin felt far too cold.

"I'm back," Ilya whispered. He laced their fingers together again, squeezing hard like he could hold Shane here by sheer will. "I'm right here. I love you. Stay with me, Shane. Please."

Up front, the frantic noise had settled into a grim, rhythmic struggle. Ramirez was still working on Torres, his breath coming in visible puffs of white. 

The silence of the bus was heavy, broken only by the whistling wind. And then the wind shifted. A gust of snow blew directly through the gaping hole where Sully's window used to be. It coated the empty, twisted seat in a fine layer of white, making the vacancy look like a ghost.

The blizzard howled on, indifferent, and inside the mangled bus, the Nomads clung to each other in the cold, waiting for help that felt impossibly far away.

Chapter 13

The transition from storm to catastrophe happened in the space of a dozen breaths.

When the bus first tilted, the snow had been a nuisance. Now, it was a physical weight, piling in drifts across seats. The wind shrieked, a high, thin whistle as it whipped through the shattered window frames and drove the temperature inside the cabin down to a lethal, bone-deep cold. Visibility outside had vanished completely. Beyond the edges of the windows there was no road, no sky, only an opaque white wall that made the world feel ten feet wide and closing in.

"The heater's dead," Butch rasped from the middle of the bus, his teeth chattering so hard the sound was almost audible over the wind. His breath bloomed in thick, frozen clouds.

"Check the emergency blankets in the overheads," Knox commanded. He was pale, a makeshift bandage wrapped around his head, but he was still moving with purpose. He began tossing thin, crinkling silver sheets toward the guys. "Double up. Share body heat. No one sits alone."

Up front, Ramirez finally pulled back from Torres. The trainer's hands were stained dark with blood, and his face carried an exhaustion that went beyond the physical. Torres was still limp, his breathing shallow, his skin ghostly pale.

"The bleeding has slowed, but he's in shock," Ramirez called out, his voice tight. "If we don't get him to a trauma center soon..." He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.

Ramirez wiped his hands on a towel and crawled stiffly toward the back. He dropped down beside Ilya and Shane.

Ilya didn't look up. He was curled protectively around Shane, his chin resting on the top of Shane's head, his hands rubbing Shane's arms with a frantic, rhythmic desperation, trying to force warmth into skin that felt far too cold. "He is not waking up," Ilya whispered, his voice cracking.

Ramirez gently moved Ilya's hands aside to check Shane's pupils with a small penlight. He lingered there for a long time, his jaw tight. "He's got a severe concussion. Maybe worse. We can't move him. Not with a possible neck injury. We just have to keep him warm."

"How?" Ilya's eyes were wild as they searched the trainer's face. "He is like ice."

"Share your body heat," Ramirez said softly, placing a hand on Ilya's trembling shoulder. "It's all we have until the sirens come."

But the sirens weren't coming. Not yet.

"Coach!" Kowalski's voice boomed from the center of the bus. He was standing by the empty, snow-dusted seat where Sully had been sitting, face set in a grim, stubborn mask. "We can't just sit here! He's out there! If the snow is this bad, he's going to be buried in minutes!"

Kowalski reached for the emergency exit handle, his face set in a grim, stubborn mask. "I'm going out. I'll stay within sight of the bus, I'll - "

"No!" Harlan's voice was a whip crack, stopping Kowalski in his tracks. Coach was slumped against the dashboard, clutching his side, his face a map of agony and guilt. "Look out that window, Zach. What do you see?"

"Nothing," Kowalski barked. "That's the fucking point!"

"If you step out there, you're gone," Harlan said, his voice dropping into a hollow, haunting register. "The visibility is zero. You'll walk ten feet and lose the bus, and then I'll have two men dead instead of one. No one leaves this vehicle. That is an order."

The silence that followed Harlan's words was as violent as the crash itself.

Two men dead. 

Up until that moment, Sully had simply been missing. A teammate displaced, a problem to solve. By pairing him with the hypothetical death of anyone who stepped outside, Harlan had unintentionally moved Sully from the active roster to the casualty list.

Kowalski's hand, which had been white-knuckled on the emergency handle, dropped as if the metal had burned him. He stared at Harlan, jaw working, his eyes wide with a raw, unshielded hurt. 

"Don't say that," Kowalski rasped, his voice cracking. "He's just… he's Sully. He's probably just dazed. He's tough. He's a Boston kid, he's lived through snow before."

Harlan blinked, the weight of his own words crashing down on him a second too late. "I didn't mean… Christ, Zach, of course he's alive. I just meant… we can't risk losing anyone else. We have to wait for help. We stay together."

A heavy silence followed, broken only by the collective shivering of twenty men. Ilya could feel the morale fracturing in real time, the fragile thread of hope that had been holding them together snapping under the weight of Coach's words.

If Sully was already a lost cause in the coach's mind, what did that mean for the man lying unconscious in Ilya's lap? Was Harlan already bracing himself, already preparing for Shane's heart to stop beating too?

Ilya tightened his grip, pulling Shane's limp weight higher against his chest, shielding Shane's face with his own chin. "No," he hissed, the word directed at the empty air, at the blizzard, and at Harlan all at once.

Finn stood nearby, staring at the gaping hole where the window had been. "He's not dead until we find him that way," he said. It wasn't a comfort, it was a cold, hard fact. He looked at Knox. "We light the emergency flares for extra visibility. There's rope in the emergency kit. We tie one end to the bumper and I go as far as the line reaches."

Knox hesitated, blood still seeping through the makeshift bandage on his forehead. He glanced at Coach Harlan, then back at Finn. The captain's usual steady confidence was cracking under the weight of pain and exhaustion. "It's suicide in this storm. We'd be guessing every step."

"It's a calculated risk," Finn replied quietly, already uncoiling a length of thin emergency rope. His hands were steady even as his breath clouded white. "It's about twenty feet. We sweep in an arc. Better than sitting here doing nothing while he freezes."

Harlan pushed himself up straighter against the dashboard, wincing sharply as he clutched his side. "Finn, that's not happening. We wait for the plows or State Patrol. Someone will find us."

"And how long until they get here?" Kowalski demanded, voice rough with barely contained fury. "An hour? Two? Sully doesn't have that kind of time, Coach. None of us do if the temperature keeps dropping."

The argument hung heavy in the freezing air. Ilya barely heard it. He was focused entirely on Shane. On the terrifying shallowness of his breathing, the way his skin felt like marble under Ilya's palms. Every minute they spent debating felt like another minute Shane was slipping further away. He kept rubbing Shane's arms, his own cracked ribs screaming with every movement, but he refused to stop.

"Shane," he whispered against Shane's hair, voice so low it was almost lost under the wind. "Stay with me, you hear me? I just told you I love you. You don't get to leave now. Not like this."

Torres let out a weak groan from the front, the sound cutting through the tension like a knife. Ramirez immediately turned back to him. "He's fading. We're losing him if we don't get warm fluids and real pressure soon."

The reality of it hit the bus like another crash. Butch's wheezing had grown worse, each breath a labored rasp. Ozzie sat silent, cradling his shoulder, face gray. Maksym had gone quiet, staring at the blood on his own hands.

Knox rubbed a hand over his face, smearing blood. "Finn's right about one thing, we can't just sit here. But Coach is right too. Visibility is zero, and we can’t risk losing anyone else…" He trailed off, eyes flicking toward Shane and Ilya in the back.

Ilya felt the weight of that glance like a physical blow. They were already writing Shane off too. The thought ignited something fierce and desperate in his chest. He lifted his head, voice hoarse but loud enough to carry. "We do something," he said desperately. "We cannot sit here and wait for everyone to freeze or bleed out."

Harlan met his eyes across the wreckage, something pained and conflicted flashing there. For a long moment, no one spoke.

Finally, Knox nodded once, decision made. "Alright. Finn, I'm coming with you. Kowalski, Ozzie, Butch, you're on warming duty with Ilya and Ramirez. Maks, you're on rope anchor. We go ten minutes out, no more. If we don't find anything, we come back to warm up."

Harlan opened his mouth to argue, then closed it, shoulders slumping in defeat. "Ten minutes," he rasped. "Then you get your asses back inside. And do not let go of that rope.”

Finn was already tying the rope securely to the front bumper, movements efficient despite the cold biting at his fingers. He lit one of the flares, the bright red light cutting a harsh glow through the swirling snow. The color looked too much like blood.

The wind screamed as the emergency door cracked open. Snow blasted in like a living thing. Finn and Knox disappeared into the whiteout almost instantly, the rope rolling out slowly behind them, the red flare glowing like a dying heartbeat against the storm.

Inside the bus, the waiting began. Twenty men huddled together, sharing what little heat they had left, listening to the wind and praying for sirens that still refused to come.

Ilya pulled Shane even closer, tucking the silver emergency blanket tighter around them both. His own body ached, ribs screaming, head throbbing, but none of it mattered.

"Come on, baby," he murmured into Shane's ear, lips brushing cold skin. "Please - "

Shane stirred.

It started with a faint twitch of his fingers against Ilya's palm, then a weak, confused groan that barely rose above the howling wind. His eyelids fluttered, struggling against the weight of unconsciousness, and then, slowly, they cracked open.

Shane's gaze was glassy and unfocused, drifting around the ruined interior of the bus without recognition. Snowflakes clung to his lashes. His breathing hitched as confusion clouded his face.

"Ilya…?" The word came out slurred, barely a whisper, thick with disorientation. His voice sounded wrong. "What… happened? Why’s it so cold?"

Ilya's heart lurched with a fierce mix of relief and terror. He cupped Shane's face gently with both hands, thumbs brushing away the frozen blood on his cheeks. "You're okay. You're with me. The bus crashed. There was ice… we went off the road. But I've got you. Just stay still, alright? Don't try to move."

Shane blinked slowly, trying to process the words. His eyes roamed over Ilya's face, lingering on the worry etched there, then drifted to the twisted metal and snow drifting in through the broken windows. "Crashed? Is everyone…." He tried to lift his head, but a sharp gasp escaped him and he sagged back against Ilya's chest, face draining of what little color it had. "My head."

"Easy, baby. Easy." Ilya kept his voice low and soothing, even as his own pulse hammered. He pulled the silver blanket higher, pressing his body against Shane’s to share as much heat as he could. "Just focus on staying awake for me, okay? Talk to me. Tell me what you remember."

Shane's fingers tightened weakly in Ilya's shirt, clinging like a lifeline. He was conscious, but clearly struggling. His breaths came shallow and uneven, his body trembling from more than just the cold. Ilya kept rubbing slow, steady circles on his back, murmuring softly, anything to keep him grounded and calm.

"You're safe with me," Ilya whispered, pressing a careful, private kiss to Shane's temple. "Just breathe. In… and out. That's it. Good. You're doing so good."

For a few precious minutes, Shane stayed with him. He was hazy, repeating questions in a confused loop. "What happened?", "Is everyone okay?" But he was there, eyes open, responding to Ilya's voice. Ilya kept him talking, kept him warm, kept the panic at bay by focusing only on the man in his arms.

Then Shane's expression shifted.

His grip on Ilya's shirt suddenly tightened, almost painfully. His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of fear cutting through the fog. "Ilya… something's wrong," he rasped, voice trembling. "My head… it feels like… like it's going to explode. I… I think…"

He didn't finish the sentence.

Shane's body suddenly jerked in Ilya's arms, violent and uncontrolled. His back arched hard against the tilted seat, limbs stiffening then thrashing in sharp, rhythmic spasms. His head snapped back, eyes rolling white beneath half-closed lids. A low, choking groan tore from his throat as his muscles locked and released in waves.

Ilya's heart stuttered.

"Shane!" The cry ripped out of him, raw and terrified. He tried to cradle Shane's head, to hold him steady, but the convulsions were too strong. Shane's arm slammed into Ilya's cracked ribs, sending white-hot agony shooting through his chest, but Ilya barely felt it. "Shane! No, no! Ramirez!"

The bus erupted.

What the fuck," Butch wheezed, half-rising before falling back with a pained grunt. His face went even paler. "Is he…?"

"Hold him!" Ramirez barked, scrambling over debris toward the back. "Don't let him hit his head again! Protect his airway!"

Maksym's deep voice cut through the chaos, thick with shock. "Shit. Shane!"

Ilya's hands shook violently as he tried to keep Shane from slamming into the twisted metal around them. Shane's body bucked, teeth clenched. The seizure felt endless. Thirty agonizing seconds that stretched into forever.

"Shane," Ilya whispered frantically, voice breaking. "Stop. Please stop. I'm here. I've got you. Just stop."

When the convulsions finally eased, Shane went terrifyingly limp again, breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. His face was even paler, a fresh trickle of blood from his nose mixing with the dried streaks already there. Ilya pulled him close, rocking him instinctively, tears freezing on his lashes before they could fall.

Ramirez dropped beside them, checking Shane's pulse and breathing with quick, grim efficiency. "Post-traumatic seizure," he muttered. "Common with head trauma like this. His brain's swelling or there's irritation from the impact. We've got nothing to give him here. No meds, no IV. Just keep him on his side if it happens again. Keep him warm. That's all we can do."

Ilya couldn't speak. He just nodded, curling around Shane as if his own body heat could somehow hold the damage at bay. The fear was a living thing in his chest, bigger than the crash, bigger than the cold. Shane had been slipping away before. Now it felt like the ground had opened beneath them.

The emergency door cracked open. Snow and wind blasted in like a living beast as Knox and Finn stumbled back inside, coated in white, faces raw from the cold. It had felt like hours to Ilya, but Maksym was looking at his watch, jaw tight.

"Ten minutes," Maks announced flatly. "Almost exactly."

They hadn't found Sully. The rope was still tied off, the flare outside sputtering weakly in the whiteout.

Knox took one look at the back of the bus, at Ilya's hunched shoulders, the grim expressions of his teammates, the unnatural stillness of Shane's body, and his face hardened.

"What is it?" he asked, voice low but urgent.

Ramirez answered softly, not wanting to panic the others any further. "Shane had a seizure. Post-traumatic."

"Fuck," Knox growled, the word low and guttural, full of helpless rage. For a second the captain looked utterly lost. He took a slow breath, jaw locking. "We can't do shit for him here except keep him warm. Same as Torres. Same as the rest of us." 

Knox glanced at Finn, then at the shivering team. "Ten minutes. Everyone get as warm as you can. Share blankets, share body heat. Then Finn and I go out again. Different angle, from the rear of the bus this time. We'll sweep wider if the rope allows."

Harlan opened his mouth, but Knox cut him off with a hard look. "Ten minutes to warm up, Coach. Then we go. I'm not sending anyone else out there. Just us."

Harlan stared at him for a long moment, then gave a single, exhausted nod. The fight had gone out of him.

Ilya barely registered the decision. He kept his forehead pressed to Shane's, whispering desperately. "Please, Shane… stay with me."

The red glow of the flare they'd left outside continued to fade into the blizzard. Inside the mangled bus, the Nomads huddled closer together under crinkling silver blankets, sharing what little heat remained, while the wind screamed on.

Ten minutes passed in a haze of shivering bodies and whispered encouragement. Silver blankets crinkled as men pressed closer. Maksym sharing heat with a wheezing Butch, Ozzie pressed against Kowalski’s side while trying not to jostle his ruined shoulder. Ilya never moved. He stayed wrapped around Shane, breathing warmth against his neck, counting every shallow rise of Shane's chest like it was a prayer.

"Time," Knox said finally, voice rough. He and Finn stood, re-tying the rope with stiff, half-frozen fingers. "Different angle this time. We'll head out from the rear emergency door, sweep toward the ditch side. Stay sharp."

Harlan didn't argue. He just nodded once, eyes haunted.

The wind nearly ripped the door off its hinges. Knox and Finn vanished into the white almost instantly. Inside, the bus settled back into its grim rhythm of waiting. 

Agonizing minutes later, Knox and Finn stumbled back through the door, empty-handed, faces raw with cold and defeat. Snow and ice clung to their gear like a second skin. Finn collapsed to his knees the moment they were inside, gasping for breath. Knox leaned heavily against the wall, chest heaving.

“Nothing,” Knox rasped, voice cracking with exhaustion. “We followed the rope out as far as we could. Searched in every direction the wind would let us. But… nothing. No sign of Sully at all.”

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Hope didn’t die, but it took a brutal hit.

“God damn it,” Ramirez muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “He’s still out there. Somewhere in that mess.”

Ilya felt the knot in his stomach twist tighter. Butch let out a low, wheezing curse, his shoulders slumping. Coach Harlan’s face tightened with fresh guilt, eyes distant. They hadn’t brought him back. Sully was still missing in the frozen white hell outside. 

As the quiet stretched, Ozzie began whispering something fervent in Swedish, eyes closed tight in prayer. Maksym stared at the floor, jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped, one hand flexing uselessly at his side. Kowalski slammed a fist against the seat in front of him, the sharp sound cutting through the hush, before he dragged in a shaky breath and spoke, voice rough with forced conviction. “He’s tough. Sully’s one of the toughest we’ve got. He’s got to be hanging on out there.”

Knox nodded, ice melting from his eyelashes. “He’s fighting. He has to be.”

Quiet, desperate murmurs filled the bus.  Half-prayers, half-promises that help would reach him in time, that Sully was stronger than the cold, that they’d see him again once the blizzard broke. No one spoke the worst possibilities out loud. They couldn’t. Not while there was still a chance he was alive and waiting for rescue.

But then, without warning, the fragile tension inside the bus shattered for a different reason.

Ilya felt Shane’s body tense again in his arms, tighter than before. Then it hit.

Shane convulsed harder this time, his entire frame seizing with violent, rhythmic jerks that slammed him against Ilya's chest. His back arched so sharply Ilya heard something crack in protest. Shane's limbs thrashed uncontrollably, his breathing turning into short, terrifying gasps that sometimes stopped entirely for several agonizing seconds. Fresh blood trickled at the corner of his mouth. 

"Shane, no, no!" Ilya's voice broke into a raw shout. "Ramirez! He's not breathing right! Help him!"

The chaos erupted again, worse this time.

"Jesus Christ," Kowalski's voice cracked with real fear. 

Maksym, who had been sitting closest, was there in an instant, hands gentle but firm as they steadied Shane's head while Ilya tried to keep his torso from slamming into debris. Ozzie's quiet Swedish prayer grew louder. Butch wheezed, "Come on, Hollander. You're tougher than this."

The seizure stretched on, nearly a minute, far longer and more intense than the first.

It finally began to ebb, but Shane didn't relax fully. His breathing stayed dangerously shallow and irregular, his skin taking on an alarming gray pallor. Ilya cradled him desperately, rocking him, tears freezing on his face.

"He stopped breathing for a few seconds," Ilya choked out. "Twice."

Ramirez checked Shane's pulse and airway, his own hands shaking slightly now. "Status epilepticus territory. Prolonged seizure activity. The cold isn't helping. It's stressing his system. Swelling in the brain is likely worsening. We're running out of time here, guys."

The words landed like another crash. The fragile hope for Sully was already strained. Now Shane was slipping away right in front of them.

Then, faint at first, almost swallowed by the wind, came the sound of sirens. Distant, but growing. Red and blue lights flickered weakly through the blinding white, cutting through the storm like a miracle.

"Sirens," Knox breathed, head snapping toward the front. "Help is coming."

Ilya pressed his forehead to Shane's, whispering fiercely as the wail of emergency vehicles grew louder. "You hear that? Help is coming. Stay with me. I love you.”

The blizzard still howled, but the sirens were growing louder now, cutting closer through the white. Inside the bus, the Nomads held desperately to the hope that it wasn’t already too late. 

Chapter 14

The hotel room was too quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavy and abrasive, like the endless white that had pressed in on them from all sides. Ilya stood before the full-length mirror, his fingers fumbling with the silk of a black tie. His hands, usually so steady on a stick, were trembling now, the fine fabric slipping through his grip again and again. The suit jacket hung open over his broad shoulders, the crisp white shirt beneath it a stark contrast to the bruises still fading along his ribs.

I'm here. I'm alive. I'm putting on a suit.

The thoughts spiraled, dark and intrusive. He closed his eyes, and for a second, he wasn't in a hotel room at all. He was back in the mangled frame of the bus, the smell of diesel and copper filling his lungs, snow whipping through the shattered windows like knives. He could still feel the terrifying rhythm of Shane's body seizing against him. Shane's skin had gone that awful, translucent gray in the icy wind, his breaths shallow and irregular, stopping for agonizing seconds that stretched into eternity. Ilya had held him, rocking desperately, whispering stay with me, baby, please stay while the cold tried to claim them both.

He opened his eyes, breath catching. I'm here… but not everyone is. The tie was crooked again. He left it that way.

His phone buzzed on the dresser, the screen lighting up with a message from Knox.

Knox: Car is here. We're in the lobby.

Ilya took a sharp breath, the movement pulling painfully at his ribs, and grabbed his heavy wool overcoat. He shrugged it on, the fabric settling like another layer of armor. In the lobby, the air was thick with the somber presence of the team. Knox stood near the entrance with Finn and Maksym, all three of them looking older than they had just a week ago. Their faces were lined with a weariness that no amount of sleep would touch. Hollow eyes, tight jaws, shoulders carrying weight that hadn't been there before the blizzard.

"Ilya," Knox said, stepping forward. He reached out, hovering a hand near Ilya's shoulder as if wanting to offer comfort but sensing how fragile that space between them felt right now. His hand dropped. "You okay?"

"Fine," Ilya lied, his voice sounding like it belonged to someone else.

They stepped out into the biting Boston winter. The wind whipped off the Atlantic, a sharp, salty cold that made Ilya's chest tighten instantly. It felt too much like the relentless, bone-deep air that had howled through the bus, driving the temperature down until every breath came out in visible puffs and frost formed on eyelashes. No one spoke during the ride to the church. The city blurred past the tinted windows until the imposing gray stone of the cathedral loomed ahead, its spires cutting into the overcast sky.

A small crowd of players had already gathered near the entrance, suits blending into the wintry gloom. Ilya spotted the massive frame of Zach Kowalski immediately. The big defenseman's face was crumpled, his eyes rimmed with red, his shoulders slumped in a way that made him look smaller despite his size. 

"Roz," Kowalski grunted, pulling him into a brief, crushing hug that made Ilya's ribs scream in protest. When he pulled back, his voice was a gravelly whisper. "How's Shane?"

"He's recovering," Ilya said, the words sticking in his throat like shards of glass. "Still in the hospital back in Minnesota. Stable, but they're still monitoring the brain swelling. The seizures… they hit him hard. He really wanted to be here."

"Tell him we're thinking of him," Kowalski said, wiping a hand roughly across his nose. His eyes glistened. "I talked to Torrey this morning. Poor kid was losing it on the phone. He's stuck in Minnesota with that cast on his leg. Doctors wouldn't let him on the plane. He's devastated he couldn't say goodbye to Sully."

Torres. The chirpy, friendly forward who had been on a line with Ilya and Shane, the one who had just welcomed a newborn daughter a couple of months ago. He had been pinned under collapsed seats that night, bleeding heavily, in and out of consciousness, while Ramirez fought to stem the flow. Ilya remembered the shallow, pained gasps and graying skin as shock set in. The image of Torrey on a stretcher, leg bent at a grotesque angle, flashed through Ilya's mind unbidden.

They moved inside. The church was cavernous and cold, the kind of chill that seeped into the bones and refused to leave. Stained glass windows filtered weak winter light across the pews, casting muted colors on the stone floor. At the front, a polished casket rested on a stand, draped with a Minnesota Nomads jersey, Sully's number bold and green against the dark wood. Photos surrounded it. Sully as a grinning kid beside his father at a Raiders game, Sully in his first junior uniform, arms raised in triumph, Sully laughing in the locker room with Torres' arm slung around his neck, the two of them looking unbreakable. 

Ilya slid into a pew near the middle, the wood hard beneath him. His mind drifted immediately back to the moments after the crash, and then further, to the rescue that had come too late for one of them.

The wind had been screaming when Knox and Finn went out the second time, rope tied to the rear emergency door, flare glowing red like a dying heartbeat in the whiteout. Ilya had stayed curled around Shane, rubbing warmth into skin that had felt impossibly cold, lethally cold, counting every shallow rise of his chest. The first search had returned empty-handed, as had the second. "Nothing," Knox had gasped, exhausted. "Swept wider toward the ditch. No sign."

Later, the rescue itself had been chaos. Sirens growing louder, red and blue lights flickering weakly through the blinding white like a miracle that arrived too late. Paramedics and firefighters forced their way through the twisted metal, flashlights cutting jagged beams through the swirling snow still drifting in. Strong hands had pulled Ilya away from Shane despite his protests. "He's stable enough to move," one medic had said, but Ilya had seen the worry in their eyes when they checked Shane's pupils under the harsh lights. The second seizure had been worse, longer, Shane's back arching so sharply something had cracked, his breathing stopping for terrifying stretches while Ilya had held him and begged him to stop, to breathe, to stay.

They had moved Shane carefully, stabilizing his neck, loading him onto a backboard while Ilya stumbled after on legs numb from cold and exhaustion. Outside, the plows had finally broken through, creating a narrow path of relative safety that their rescuers had followed. But then the walkie-talkie had crackled, a searcher's voice, small and hollow against the wind. "We've found something in the drifts… twenty-five yards out." 

The silence that followed had been worse than any scream. When the confirmation came - Sully, half-buried, glass cuts frozen in his skin, body cold and unresponsive -  the relief of the sirens had been extinguished like a candle in a blizzard. He's gone. Hypothermia. Massive internal injuries. The snow that had packed some of the wounds couldn't save him from the cold. 

He was most likely unconscious the moment he went through the window, they had said, trying to comfort. He didn't feel the cold. He didn't suffer.

Ilya blinked hard, pulling himself back to the present. The jersey on the casket seemed to blur. It could have been two. If the rescue party had been twenty minutes later, if the blizzard hadn't begun to ease even slightly, if Shane's seizures had continued without the warmth and medical intervention that finally arrived… Ilya would be sitting here for a different funeral. The thought lodged in his chest like a puck to the sternum.

Coach Harlan rose to speak first. The man looked diminished, shoulders hunched under a suit that seemed too big for him now, the weight of guilt carving deep lines into his face. As he spoke about Sully's grit, his loyalty, the way the kid from Boston had stepped up after losing his own father, Harlan's voice cracked. His eyes kept drifting to the team scattered in the pews, the agonizing knowledge that he had made the call to take the bus, chasing that narrow radar window. Instead, he had lost a son.

Other teammates followed, Knox speaking quietly about brotherhood, Maksym muttering a few words that carried the heaviness of shared history, Ozzie offering a short, pained Swedish prayer. Kowalski stood but could barely get words out, his massive frame shaking as he whispered about Sully always having his back on the blue line.

The service stretched on, each story another knife twist. Ilya sat rigid, the dread building with every passing minute. His mind kept circling back to the hospital, to Shane's pale face propped against pillows, EEG leads attached to his scalp, monitors tracking the fragile electrical activity in his brain. Shane had been awake more in the last day, voice raspy but present, squeezing Ilya's hand when the headaches or fog threatened to pull him under. But what if it had all been a cruel delay? What if something happened while Ilya was a thousand miles away?

The nausea rose again. He gripped the edge of the pew until his knuckles whitened. Please, he thought, the prayer silent and desperate. Let Shane still be breathing when I get back.

After the final prayer and the quiet strains of a song Sully had loved, the service ended. The team lingered on the sidewalk outside, small groups forming and dissolving in the cold Atlantic wind. Knox drifted toward Ilya, moving them a few paces away from the others.

"You heading straight to the airport?" Knox asked, his voice low.

"Flight's in three hours," Ilya said. "I need to get back."

Knox nodded, gaze steady but tired. "Go. He needs you there. And Ilya… the team has your back. We take care of our own."

Before Ilya could respond, a figure approached. Knox stiffened, eyes widening in genuine surprise.

"Captain? You got a minute?"

It was Jayden Jeffries, wearing a dark suit that pulled slightly tight across his shoulders. His expression was tentative, raw vulnerability in the set of his jaw. Jayden had been Sully's close friend, but for Knox, he was something far more complicated. The former teammate whose trade had left a hole in the locker room and in Knox's life that had never quite closed.

"JJ," Knox breathed, voice uncharacteristically soft.

Ilya watched as the two men stepped away, the silence between them beginning to thaw as JJ spoke, head bowed. It was a small, private moment amid the larger grief.

Ilya turned away, chest tight, and headed for the car that would take him to the airport. The flight back to Minnesota felt endless, turbulence jostling his sore ribs, every bump a reminder of the bus lurching on black ice. He stared out the window at the clouds below, his mind replaying the rescue again and again. The paramedics swarming, the moment they confirmed Sully was gone, the grim efficiency as they loaded the survivors into ambulances while the storm finally began to loosen its grip.

By the time he landed, the hospital in Minnesota felt like the only place left in the world that made sense.

He didn't go home to drop off his bag. He went straight to the ICU, the familiar sterile smell of antiseptic hitting him like a wave. Nurses nodded in greeting. They had seen him here constantly over the last few days.

Shane's room was dim, curtains half-drawn against the light that still bothered his sensitive eyes. The only sounds were the rhythmic beep-hiss of the monitors and the soft whir of the IV pump. Shane was propped up in bed, various leads attached to his scalp for continuous EEG monitoring. He looked pale, his face thinner and wearier than before the crash, bruises fading to mottled yellows and greens along his jaw and temple. A fresh bandage covered the laceration where his head had struck the armrest. But his eyes, those steady, warm eyes Ilya had feared he might never see clearly again, were open.

"Hey," Shane whispered, voice still raspy and thin from the initial intubation.

Ilya dropped his bag with a dull thud that echoed in the small room and was at the bedside in a second. He took Shane's hand, warm now, thank god, and brought it to his lips, kissing the knuckles, then the palm, holding it there against his cheek as if he could transfer every ounce of his relief through touch alone.

"Hey," Ilya said, his voice breaking on the single syllable. A tear escaped, trailing down his cheek and landing on Shane's thumb. His chest hitched, the bottled-up terror of the last few days, the funeral, the endless what-ifs, finally cracking wide open.

Shane moved slowly, his movements still stiff and pained from the concussion and residual effects of the seizures, but he reached up. His fingers brushed a stray curl away from Ilya's forehead, thumb lingering against Ilya's skin with a devastating tenderness that made Ilya's breath catch.

"It was… it was hard, Shane," Ilya managed, voice thick. "All the stories about Sully..."

Shane's hand stilled for a moment, then continued its gentle path through Ilya's hair. "Come here," he murmured.

Ilya didn't hesitate. He kicked off his shoes carefully, mindful of every bruise and IV line, and climbed onto the narrow hospital bed. The monitors beeped a soft protest at the shift in weight, but the nurses had long since stopped objecting to these moments. Ilya maneuvered onto his uninjured side, curling carefully around Shane without putting pressure on the leads or the tender spots along his ribs and head. He tucked his face against Shane's shoulder, one arm draping lightly over his waist, fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns on the thin hospital gown.

They lay like that for a long time, the quiet hum of the machines the only sound at first. Ilya's fingers moved up and down Shane's spine, grounding himself in the steady rise and fall of Shane's chest, the warmth that had returned after days of fighting hypothermia and swelling.

After some time, the words spilled out, raw and guilty.

"I kept thinking… what if it had been you," Ilya admitted, voice barely above a whisper against Shane's shoulder. "All through the service, sitting there staring at that casket, I kept imagining your number on the jersey instead of Sully's. Your photo up front. Your family… god, Shane, I feel sick even saying it. I should have been focused on Sully. I miss him. God, I miss him. But I couldn't stop thinking… what if the rescue had been slower? What if I'd lost you on that bus while they were still searching for him?"

Shane turned his head slightly, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Ilya's head. His voice was gentle, tired but steady. "Hey… listen to me. It's okay to feel that. You're allowed to be scared. You held on. You kept me here. That doesn't make you a bad person for being grateful I'm still breathing. Sully… we'll carry him. All of us will. The team's fractured right now, but we'll figure out how to keep going. And you… You don't have to feel guilty for being scared of what could have happened."

Ilya's shoulders shook with a silent sob. He pressed closer, forehead resting fully against Shane's shoulder now, breathing in the faint hospital scent mixed with the familiar warmth of the man he loved. Shane's hand continued its slow path through his hair, grounding and patient, the same thumb that had traced circles on Ilya's knee in the back of the bus before everything shattered.

"I love you, Shane," Ilya whispered.

"I love you too," Shane whispered back. "Thank you for not letting go."

They stayed curled together like that as the afternoon light shifted outside the window, grief and relief tangled so tightly they could hardly tell which was which. The monitors beeped on, steady proof that at least one prayer had been answered.

Chapter 15

The hospital room had become its own small universe. The mid-January cold snapped at the Minnesota sidewalks and the NHL schedule pushed forward despite everything, but inside room 412, time moved differently. It was measured in the steady beep of monitors and the gradual lifting of fog behind Shane's eyes. Doctors spoke in careful, measured tones about the delicate balance of recovery. No skating. No travel. Shane needed rest and monitoring. The quiet hope hung in the air that the brain swelling would continue to subside without another crisis.

Ilya had made the room his own. A duffel bag sat permanently in the corner, filled with clean clothes and the thick wool socks Shane liked. He slept in the recliner most nights, or carefully curled on the edge of the narrow bed while the nurses pretended not to notice. His ribs still ached occasionally, but he ignored them. The only thing that mattered was being here each time Shane woke from a nightmare, or when the headaches spiked.

They watched the outside world through the small television mounted on the wall and updates from the team group chat.

The NHL's response had been swift and respectful, the way the league handled tragedy when it couldn't be ignored. A league-wide memo had gone out the day after the funeral. Moments of silence would be observed before every game for the remainder of the month. Teams were encouraged, but not required, to wear helmet stickers with Sully's number 92. The Players' Association issued a statement expressing condolences and offering support for mental health resources. Sully's family received private messages from commissioner's office representatives. It was all very official, very polished. From the sheltered quiet of the hospital, it felt both distant and strangely intimate.

The Nomads organization moved fast on the ice side too. With most of the core roster sidelined - Shane out indefinitely, Torres still recovering from surgery on his leg, Butch's broken ribs, Ozzie's shoulder, and others nursing various injuries - the front office called up a wave of players from their AHL affiliate in Iowa. Young faces filled the locker room, eager and wide-eyed, stepping into skates that suddenly felt much heavier. The coaching staff adjusted lines on the fly. No one expected a playoff push anymore. The season had become something else. Survival, remembrance, and the stubborn refusal to let the bus define them completely.

On the evening of the first home game since the crash, Shane and Ilya watched from the hospital bed. Shane was propped up against extra pillows, a blanket pulled up to his chest. Ilya sat on the edge of the bed, one arm carefully around Shane's shoulders, thumb tracing slow circles on his bicep. 

The pre-game broadcast opened with a long, respectful segment. The camera panned slowly over the rafters of the Nomads' arena, where a new banner now hung beside the retired numbers of franchise legends. Number 92 - Cash "Sully" Sullivan - in bold green and white, simple and permanent. Below it, a small plaque read Forever a Nomad. Forever missed.

Shane's breath hitched.

On screen, the arena lights dimmed. The crowd rose as one. A single spotlight hit center ice where Knox stood alone, dressed in a suit rather than pads. His face looked drawn under the bright lights, the cut above his eyebrow still pink and healing.

Knox's voice carried clearly through the arena microphones, steady but thick with emotion.

"Cash Sullivan wasn't just a teammate. He was the guy who made the locker room louder, who showed up for each of us when we needed it. He was Boston tough and a Nomad through and through. Tonight, and every night going forward, we play with 92 in our hearts. This one's for Sully."

The arena erupted in applause that rolled like thunder. Players from both teams tapped their sticks against the boards. The moment of silence that followed felt heavier than any Ilya had experienced at the funeral. On the television, young call-up players stood respectfully along the bench.

Ilya felt Shane tremble beside him. A single tear slipped down Shane's cheek, catching the dim light of the hospital room.

Without thinking, Ilya reached up and wiped it away with the pad of his thumb, the touch gentle and lingering. Then he leaned in and kissed Shane softly. Shane's lips were warm and slightly chapped from days of dry hospital air, but they parted just enough to answer the kiss before they both pulled back, foreheads resting together.

"He should be out there," Shane whispered, voice rough.

"I know," Ilya murmured. 

They stayed close as the game began. The Nomads looked ragged but determined, skating hard for a man who wasn't there. The call-ups brought energy, even if the chemistry wasn't quite there yet. Every time a Nomad player scored or made a big hit, the broadcast cut to the new banner in the rafters. The crowd chanted Sully's name. It wasn't a perfect game. It wasn't even a particularly good one. But it was theirs.

When the final horn sounded, Shane let out a shaky breath and turned his face into Ilya's shoulder.

"I'm glad we watched," he said quietly.

"Me too," Ilya answered, pressing another kiss to his temple.

The visits from teammates began the next afternoon, coming in ones and twos so they wouldn't overwhelm Shane's still-fragile system.

Kowalski was first, lumbering in with a bouquet of flowers that looked ridiculous in his huge hands and a takeout bag from Shane's favorite smoothie place. He filled the room just by standing in it, but his voice was uncharacteristically soft when he saw Shane awake and aware.

"Look at you, kid," Kowalski rumbled, setting the flowers on the windowsill. "Scared the absolute shit out of us on that bus.” His voice dropped lower. "It's okay that you're here and he's not, you know? We'd rather have you both. God, we would. But… we're glad you're here, kid. Real glad."

The words landed heavy and kind at the same time. Shane's eyes glistened. Kowalski stayed another twenty minutes, telling a couple of terrible Sully stories that made them all laugh through the ache, then left with a gentle clap on Ilya's shoulder and a quiet "Take care of each other."

Knox came the following morning, still moving carefully from his own injuries but carrying the steady captain energy that held the team together. He brought two coffees from the place they all liked near the arena and sat on the edge of the visitor chair like he had all the time in the world.

"You look better than the last time I saw you," Knox told Shane. "Everyone misses you." His eyes flicked to Ilya, who was perched protectively close. A small, knowing smile touched Knox's mouth. "You've got good company here, though."

The nod toward Ilya was subtle but unmistakable, a quiet acceptance, and Ilya felt something warm and terrifyingly hopeful settle in his chest.

Maksym and Ozzie came together later that day, slipping in during the quiet hours after lunch. Maks carried a container of homemade borscht.

"You look like shit, Hollander," Maksym announced cheerfully, setting the soup on the tray table. "Need to eat more like Russian. Build strength. None of this weak American broth."

Shane laughed, and the sound eased something tight in Ilya's shoulders.

Ozzie, quieter, studied the two of them for a long moment as Ilya helped Shane sit up enough to taste the soup. His Swedish lilt was soft when he finally spoke. "You two," he said simply, gesturing between them with his good hand. "It's good. We see it."

The words were plain, almost casual, but they carried the weight of the entire team behind them. Maks grunted in agreement, clapping Ilya on the back hard enough to make his ribs protest, then launching into a story about Sully trying to pronounce Russian swear words during a road trip last season. The room filled with low laughter, the kind that hurt and healed at the same time.

More teammates trickled in over the following days, Butch hobbling in with a bag of contraband snacks, Finn stopping by with quiet updates on the call-ups and how the young guys were holding up, even a couple of the newer AHL players who seemed awed to be in the same room as the injured stars. Each visit carried the same gentle undercurrent. Chirps about Ilya's constant presence mixed with quiet, knowing support. No one made it awkward. No one asked for explanations. They had all seen Ilya refuse to leave Shane's side in the wreckage. They had watched him hold him through the seizures while the snow tried to bury them. In the bus that night, something had shifted. The team wasn't just teammates anymore. They were brothers who had survived hell together.

By the end of January, the doctors finally cleared Shane for discharge.

It wasn't a dramatic moment. Shane still moved carefully, headaches lurking behind his eyes, light and noise still needing to be managed. But he was stable enough for outpatient therapy, daily monitoring, and, most importantly, going home.

Ilya handled every detail with quiet determination. He had the car waiting at the side entrance to avoid cameras. He had stocked their apartment with easy meals, blackout curtains for the windows, and extra pillows. When they finally stepped inside the familiar space together, the relief was so profound Ilya had to pause in the entryway, one hand on the wall, just breathing.

Shane noticed. He always noticed.

"You okay?" he asked softly, leaning against Ilya's side for support.

"I'm supposed to be asking you that," Ilya muttered, but he wrapped an arm around Shane's waist anyway, guiding him slowly toward the couch. "Sit. I'll get you water. Or tea. Are you hungry? I saved some recipes. I can -"

"Ilya." Shane caught his wrist, tugging him down gently until they were both seated. "You've been taking care of me for weeks. Let me just… be here with you for a minute."

They sat in the quiet of their living room, late afternoon light slanting through the windows. Shane leaned his head on Ilya's shoulder, and Ilya instinctively pulled him closer, careful of every lingering bruise.

After a long silence, Shane spoke.

"I don't want to hide this anymore," he said quietly. "Not from them. Not after everything. It feels wrong to keep pretending when they already know."

Ilya's chest tightened, but it wasn't fear this time. It was something warmer. Steadier.

"I feel the same," he admitted. "On the bus… when I said it, when you said it back… everything became real. I don't want to hide you. Not from our team."

Shane smiled, small and tired but genuine. "So how do we do it? Big serious meeting? Locker room speech? That feels too heavy right now."

Ilya huffed a quiet laugh, the sound rusty but real. "No. Not a meeting." He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over the team group chat. "This. Simple. From me. They deserve to hear it without ceremony."

Shane watched as Ilya typed, then read the message over his shoulder.

Ilya: Shane and I are in love. You're family. We're not hiding it anymore. No big deal.

Shane let out a soft laugh and pressed his face into Ilya's neck as Ilya hit send. "You're ridiculous."

"You love it," Ilya murmured, setting the phone aside and pulling Shane closer.

The responses started coming in almost immediately.

Kowalski: FINALLY! 

Butch: About damn time. My ribs still hurt from laughing at how obvious you were.

Butch: Or maybe that's the bruising.

Maksym: Good. Eat more, Hollander. You are basically Russian now.

Shane: Ilya's already offering to cook meals. Send help. Or more Swedish meatballs.

Ozzie: Meatballs incoming.

Torrey: I ship it. 

Ilya: What the fuck are you talking about Torres?

Torrey: It means I support it, Roz. 

Torrey: Miss you assholes. 

Knox: We've got you. Always. No judgment, no bullshit. Sully would've chirped you relentlessly though.

The last one made both of them pause. Shane's thumb hovered, then he typed.

Shane: Yeah… he really would have. 

The chat went quiet for a beat. Then Finn's message appeared, simple and steady as always.

Finn: Happy for you both.

Ilya felt something loosen in his chest. He set his phone aside and turned to Shane, brushing hair from his forehead. "See?" he murmured. "They knew. They've known."

Shane nodded, leaning into the touch. "Feels better saying it out loud."

More messages trickled in. Lighter ones now. Someone sent a gif of two cartoon hockey players kissing on the ice. Maksym doubled down on the offer for Russian food. Ozzie sent a photo of actual Swedish meatballs he apparently already had in his freezer with the caption Delivery pending. Eat like a Swede.

Shane laughed again, real and warm. A sound that made Ilya's ribs ache in the best way.

"They're ridiculous," Shane said, but his voice was fond.

Ilya set both phones on the coffee table and carefully maneuvered them so Shane could lean fully against him, head tucked under his chin. He kissed Shane's hair and laced their fingers together. 

"They're ours," Ilya replied softly.

Chapter 16

The practice rink was exactly the same. Rubber flooring, fresh ice, and that faint, metallic tang of sweat and tape. Ilya pushed through the players' entrance with his duffel slung over one shoulder, ribs wrapped tight under his Nomads hoodie. Over the last three weeks, the bruise had faded from an angry purple to a sickly yellow-green, and the team doc had finally cleared him for full contact that morning.

Behind him, Shane followed at a slower pace, hands buried in his pockets. He wasn't cleared yet for anything more than walking on flat ground. The neurologist had been crystal clear. No skates, no exertion, no risks. Still, Shane had woken up restless, pacing the house like a caged animal until he announced he was coming to watch practice. "I miss the guys," he'd said, shrugging it off. "And the house is too quiet."

As they hit the main hallway, the low hum of sticks on ice and the rhythmic scrape of blades drifted toward them. Ilya paused at the double doors, glancing back. Shane's cheeks were still pale, but his eyes were bright. Ilya's chest did that stupid, fluttering flip it always did lately.

"You good?" Ilya asked, his voice dropping an octave.

Shane nodded. "Yeah. Just… weird not being able to go out there with you."

The locker room doors banged open before they could reach them. Maksym stepped out first, stopping dead when he saw them. His face split into a grin. "Well, shit. Look who finally decided to stop playing house and come back to work."

Ilya snorted. "The rest of you haven't even been back a week."

Kowalski's tall frame filled the doorway. "Roz! Hollander! Jesus Christ, the prodigal linemates return." He clapped Ilya on the shoulder, unusually gentle, and then pulled Shane into a careful one-armed hug that still managed to lift him an inch off the floor.

"Easy on the brain," Ilya warned, joking but with a sharp edge of sincerity.

Shane laughed, breathless. "I'm just here to watch. Doc hasn't cleared me for the blades yet."

Butch shouldered past Kowalski. "About damn time." He jerked his chin at Ilya. "Ribs good? 'Cause if you're out here at half-speed, I'm gonna hit you just to make sure you're not faking."

Ilya smirked, his cocky confidence sliding back into place like muscle memory. "Try it, Butch. See how fast I make you look slow."

The team formed a loose half-circle in the hallway. The same group that had been on the bus that night. The ones who'd seen the worst of it. For a heartbeat, the air felt thick, heavy with the phantom weight of the crash. Then Kowalski broke the tension in the way only he could.

"So," he rumbled, folding his arms. "The group chat was cute and all, but we gotta know. Does this mean we can stop pretending we didn't see you two making heart eyes at each other for the last six months?"

Butch barked a laugh. "The just bros act was a solid seven out of ten. Needed less obvious necking in the locker room to really sell the lie, though."

Shane's ears went pink instantly. "We did not -"

"Relax, Hollander," Knox cut in, his eyes twinkling. "We're just giving you shit. You two coming out the way you did, after everything? That took guts. We've got your backs. Both of you." He paused, his expression turning serious for a beat. "But yeah… we're also gonna chirp you mercilessly. Fair warning."

Ilya felt a grin stretch across his face. This was why he loved this stupid, loud, ridiculous team. No weird stares or careful distance. He and Shane would receive the same rough, brotherly bullshit they gave everyone else.

He turned to Shane, who looked equal parts mortified and relieved. The hallway had cleared as the rest of the squad headed for the ice.

Ilya didn't overthink it. He hooked two fingers into the front of Shane's hoodie, tugged him in, and kissed him, slow and deliberate, right there in the hallway. It was a solid kiss. The kind that claimed ownership without needing a single word. Shane made a small, surprised noise, half-sputter and half-laugh, but he didn't pull away. His hand came up to fist the fabric of Ilya's hoodie, holding on tight.

When Ilya pulled back, Shane was flushed crimson. "Asshole," he muttered, though his voice was full of that fond, exasperated warmth Ilya lived for.

The hallway exploded. Kowalski let out a roar of laughter. "There it is! The Cold Front finally makes it official on our ice!"

"Get a room, rookies!" Butch yelled, slapping his stick against the floor.

Knox chuckled, waving them toward the rink. "Alright, move it. Hollander, park your ass on the bench and try not to coach from the sidelines. We know you will anyway."

Shane flipped him off with a grin. "I'm injured. I'm allowed to be annoying. It's a perk."

Ilya squeezed the back of Shane's neck one last time, a silent check-in, then followed the others. At the tunnel mouth, he glanced back. Shane was settled on the bench, his Nomads cap pulled low, looking happier than he had in weeks.

Ilya tapped his stick twice on the boards as he stepped onto the ice. "Watch this, Hollander. I'm gonna make you proud."

Shane's voice carried over the noise of the rink. "You always do, Rozanov."

*****

The press box at the arena felt like a luxury skybox for the walking wounded.

Shane sat in the front row, elbows on the padded rail. Torres was sprawled to his left, crutches propped against the wall and his braced leg taking up two seats. Ozzie was on Shane's right, his arm in a bulky sling.

"Feels weird up here," Torres said, tossing popcorn into his mouth. "Like we're retired or something."

"Speak for yourself," Ozzie muttered. "I'm a spy. I'm here to make sure this call-up goalie doesn't embarrass himself in my crease."

Below them, the arena lights caught the forest-green jerseys and the small white #92 stickers on every helmet. Sully's number.

The house lights dimmed. A single spotlight hit the new banner hanging in the rafters. Cash Sullivan, #92. Forever a Nomad. Forever Missed. The crowd rose as one. Eighteen thousand people stood in a silence so heavy it felt physical.

Shane felt his throat tighten. Torres went still. Ozzie's good hand gripped the rail until his knuckles turned white.

The moment of silence stretched heavily. Then, the PA announcer's voice rolled out, low and steady. "We remember Cash Sullivan. We play for him tonight."

"Miss that loud bastard," Torres said quietly, his voice rough. "He'd be chirping us up here right now. Telling us we look like we lost a fight with a bus."

Ozzie let out a weak laugh. "He'd be right. Still can't believe he's gone."

Shane nodded, not trusting his voice to answer. On the ice, Ilya was skating slow loops, his helmet gleaming with that #92 sticker. Even from this height, Shane could see the set of his shoulders, focused and a little feral.

The anthem ended. The puck dropped.

Ilya was out for the first shift with two call-ups, Rives and Ellison, who had been filling in since the accident. Torres let out a theatrical groan. "Oh, come on. Roz is out there with the JV squad? Without us? It's like watching your ex date someone way less hot."

Shane laughed, the sound loosening the knot in his chest. "He hates it. He told me this morning that trying to find a rhythm with anyone else feels like skating in sand."

"Good," Torres grumbled. "He better miss us."

The game was a battle. In the second period, Ilya set up Rives for a beauty of a goal. A one-touch saucer pass from behind the net that had the building on its feet. The #92 stickers flashed as the team swarmed the rookie.

During a TV timeout, Ilya glanced up toward the press box. He tapped his chest twice, right over his heart. Shane responded by covering his own heart with a hand. 

Torres fake-gagged. "Disgusting. I love it."

By the third period, the Nomads were grinding out a 3–1 lead. Ilya took a brutal-looking hit along the boards that made Shane jump out of his seat, heart hammering against his ribs. But Ilya popped right back up, grinning at the defenseman, and proceeded to strip the puck and feed Ellison for a tap-in.

The final horn sounded. A win for the Nomads. A win for Sully. As the team did their lap, the Jumbotron showed a final shot of Sully's smiling face. 

When the three of them finally made it down to the locker room level, the hallway was a controlled chaos of media, trainers, and equipment managers. The air was thick with the frantic, buzzing energy of a post-game win.

Shane leaned heavily on the wall, flanked by Torres and Ozzie. They were a conspicuous trio. Torres with his crutches, Ozzie with his arm bound in a sling, and Shane looking pale under the fluorescent lights.

The press spotted them instantly. A cameraman pivoted, clicking on a high-intensity LED light that cut through the dim hallway like a blade. The light hit Shane full-force and he felt the familiar, sickening spike of a headache beginning to bloom behind his eyes. His hand went up instinctively to shield his face, his breath hitching as the hallway suddenly felt too loud and far too bright.

"Shane, what did you think of the game tonight?" The reporter pushed, thrusting a mic toward him. "How does it feel to watch your team win without you from the press box?"

Torres's hand landed on Shane's arm, but before anyone could react any further, the locker room door swung open. Ilya stepped out, looking like a storm in a suit. His hair was still damp from the shower, his tie was hanging loose and crooked, and his eyes were locked directly on the camera light blinding Shane. He didn't hesitate. He stepped into the gap, his large frame physically eclipsing the reporter and the camera.

"Whoa, whoa," Ilya said. His voice wasn't his usual cocky drawl, it was low and commanding. He held up a hand, flat and firm, forcing the cameraman to tilt the lens down. "You have enough light. Turn that off before you blind me." 

Startled by the bluntness, the cameraman lowered the rig. The reporter pivoted her mic toward Ilya, who stepped away from Shane and the others, putting them out of the reach of the cameras. 

"Great game tonight," the reporter said, focused now on the star of the game. "But we have to ask, how was it out there without Hollander and Torres on your line? It looked like a different game for you."

Ilya didn't give his usual sharp smirk. He let out a long, heavy breath and looked directly into the lens, his expression uncharacteristically raw. He looked at Shane, who was now, at least, out of reach of the swarm of reporters. But the tension in Shane's shoulders only fueled the sincerity in Ilya's voice.

"It was quiet," Ilya said, the words falling like stones. "You look for the guys who have had your back through everything… and you realize the ice is a very big, very empty place without them."

The hallway went dead silent, everyone seemingly caught off guard by the vulnerability from the league's most notoriously guarded player.

"Tonight wasn't about stats," Ilya continued. "It was about proving we are still standing. Every shift I took without Shane and Torrey was a reminder of what we've gone through. I wasn't just playing for a win tonight. I was playing for my family."

*****

The quiet of the concrete garage was a stark contrast to the roar of the arena. Shane leaned against the side of Ilya's SUV, the cool night air helping to settle the lingering buzz in his head. A few minutes later, the heavy metal door creaked open.

Ilya stepped out, his gait still a little stiff, but the second he saw Shane, his shoulders dropped. The mask fell away. He didn't say a word as he closed the distance, stopping right in front of Shane. He reached out, sliding his hand into the crook of Shane's neck, his thumb brushing over Shane's jawline.

"You're shaking," Ilya murmured, his voice low and private. "Are you okay?"

"Just the adrenaline," Shane said, a half-truth. "You played like a maniac out there, Ilya."

Ilya let out a huff of a laugh, leaning in until their foreheads rested together. In the shadows of the garage, with no cameras and no teammates to chirp them, it was just them. "I had to. I knew you were watching."

He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Shane's forehead, right at the hairline. "Let's go home. I'm starving."

By the time they stepped through the front door, the adrenaline had burned down to something warmer. Ilya kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, leaving it draped over the back of a chair. Shane watched him, the way the dress shirt pulled across his broad shoulders.

"Come here," Shane said softly, reaching for him.

Ilya met him across the room, capturing his mouth in a kiss as his hands roamed up Shane's back and into his hair. They made their way to the bedroom where Ilya guided Shane backward until the backs of his knees hit the mattress. 

Shane's breath caught as Ilya eased him down onto the bed, hands sliding under his hoodie to peel it off, then his t-shirt, careful over the fading bruises that still marked both of them. When Shane was bare from the waist up, Ilya paused, just looking, thumbs brushing over the sharp cut of his hips. "You're so beautiful," Ilya whispered, leaning down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the center of Shane's chest, right over his heart. 

He worked Shane's sweats and boxers down together, slow and deliberate, until Shane lay completely naked on the dark sheets. Ilya undressed and knelt between Shane's spread thighs like he was memorizing every inch of him.

Then he lowered his head.

The first touch of Ilya's mouth was warm and wet, a slow drag of tongue from base to tip that made Shane's hips jerk. Ilya hummed, one hand pressing Shane's thigh wider, holding him open as he took him deeper, lips stretching around the head before sliding down, tongue working the underside with practiced, devastating skill.

"Fuck, Ilya," Shane gasped, one hand fisting the sheets, the other threading into Ilya's hair.

Ilya didn't rush. He sucked him slow and thorough, cheeks hollowing on the upstroke, tongue swirling on the down. Every so often he'd pull off just enough to drag the flat of his tongue over the sensitive head, tasting the way Shane leaked for him, before sinking back down until his nose brushed the trimmed hair at Shane's base.

Shane's breath came in ragged pants. When Ilya's free hand slipped lower, slicking a finger with spit and teasing at his entrance, Shane's head fell back with a broken moan.

"I should be, ah, taking care of you tonight," Shane managed, voice wrecked. "You won the game."

Ilya pulled off with a wet pop, lips shiny and swollen, eyes dark as he looked up at Shane from between his thighs. He pressed one finger inside, slow and careful, crooking it just right until Shane's back arched.

"There is nothing," Ilya said, voice low and rough with sincerity, "nothing in this world that could possibly be better than watching you fall apart from my touch." He added a second finger, scissoring gently, stroking that spot inside him while his mouth returned to Shane's cock, sucking him deep again.

Shane's thighs trembled. The dual sensation, wet heat around his dick, the steady press and curl of Ilya's fingers, built fast and relentless. Ilya's other hand worked his own cock in tight, urgent strokes, the wet sound of it filthy in the quiet room. He was rock hard, flushed dark at the tip, leaking steadily as he focused on Shane.

"Ilya. I'm close, fuck -"

Ilya moaned around him, the vibration shooting straight through Shane's spine. His fingers moved faster, deeper, perfectly in sync with the rhythm of his mouth. Shane's hips stuttered, trying to chase the heat, and then he was coming hard, spilling over Ilya's tongue with a choked cry, body going taught as pleasure crashed through him.

The sight of it, the way Shane's stomach tensed, the way his cock pulsed and throbbed in Ilya's mouth, the raw, open expression on his face, snapped the last of Ilya's control. He pulled back, stroking himself through the peak as he came with a low, guttural groan. Thick ropes of cum striped Shane's cock and stomach, mixing with the mess already there.

Ilya didn't stop. He wrapped his slick hand around Shane's oversensitive length and stroked him through the aftershocks, slow and almost gentle now, drawing out every last shiver and whimper until Shane was trembling, boneless, and gasping Ilya's name.

Only when Shane was utterly spent did Ilya finally release him. He collapsed half on top of him, both of them sticky and breathing hard, hearts hammering against each other.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their slowing breaths and the faint creak of the bed as Ilya shifted. He reached up, cupping Shane's flushed cheek, thumb brushing over his lower lip.

Shane turned his head just enough to kiss the pad of that thumb, then tilted up to find Ilya's mouth. The kiss was sweet and impossibly tender, all soft presses of lips and the occasional brush of tongue. Nothing like the heat from minutes earlier.

"I love you," Ilya whispered against Shane's mouth. "More than I know how to say."

Shane's hand found the back of Ilya's neck, holding him close. "I love you too. Always."

Chapter 17

Chapter Notes

Two years later, the arena still smelled like home.

Ilya stood at the tunnel mouth in full gear, the forest-green jersey heavy on his shoulders and the big white C stitched over his heart. Captain. The word still felt new, like borrowed skates he was still breaking in. Knox had pulled him aside the day after they'd hoisted the Cup last spring, clapping him on the back with a grip that felt like a blessing. "I told management you've been a leader in this room since the day you arrived, Roz,"  he'd said. "You've earned this. Time to make it official."

Ilya had argued, Knox still had good years left, but Knox had just offered that quiet, certain smile. He hadn't gone far, though. Once JJ's retirement was official, he moved back to Minnesota and the two of them had started building something real together, tucked away from the spotlight. Ilya couldn't complain about the transition. Not when JJ was one of the best guys he knew, and Knox looked happier than Ilya had ever seen him.

The arena lights hit the ice, and the roar of the crowd rolled over him like a wave. Home opener. Sold out. Small #92 memorial patches still adorned every helmet, a tribute that would never fade. The team had learned how to carry Sully's memory without letting the grief crush them. They played harder because of it, but they laughed louder, too.

Ilya skated out for warm-ups and found Shane already waiting at the hash marks, stretching like he'd never been away. Fully cleared. No more headaches, no more cautious laps. Just Shane Hollander, star center, number 24, moving the way he was always meant to. Their eyes met across the ice and Ilya felt that same stupid, electric spark in his chest that had been there since the draft. Two years together. Public to the team, still private to the world, though the clock was ticking on that, and it still hit him every single time.

The game started fast. Ilya won the opening draw clean, fed a quick pass to Shane, and watched his linemate carry it end-to-end like the puck was on a string. New faces filled the roster, kids who had earned their spots, but the core was unshakable. Kowalski barked from the blue line, Butch threw clean hits, and Finn read the play three steps ahead. Torres was back on the wing and Ozzie was back in net like they'd never been gone. Torrey's wife had given birth to a baby boy last June, right in the middle of their Cup run. They'd named him Cash. The whole locker room had cried when Torrey showed the first photos.

They won 4–1. Ilya got two assists. Shane scored the empty-netter. The building shook when the final horn sounded.

In the locker room, the music was deafening. Ilya yanked Shane in by the jersey the second the cameras were gone and kissed him right there in front of everyone, slow and proud. Shane laughed against his mouth, his ears turning pink, but he kissed back with everything he had.

Kowalski whistled. Someone yelled, "Save it for the after-party, Cap!"

Ilya pulled back, smirking. "What after-party?"

Torres grinned too wide. "The one at The Loon. Private room. You know, team bonding."

Ozzie was suddenly very interested in his phone. "Yeah. Bonding. Very important."

Ilya kept his face neutral, but inside, his pulse was racing. He'd given the guys strict instructions, but seeing them actually try to be subtle was like watching a toddler insisting they're being sneaky.

"The Loon," Ilya said, leaning into Shane's space. "I suppose I can be talked into one drink."

*****

The Loon was packed with familiar faces. They took over the back room, new guys mixed in with the old guard, stories flying, beers flowing (non-alcoholic rounds for the rookies who were still too young to drink). 

Ilya was halfway through a conversation with a rookie defenseman when a heavy, familiar hand landed on his shoulder. He turned to find Knox standing there, looking relaxed in a plain sweater, stripped of the pressure of the jersey.

"Hell of a first game as Captain, Roz," Knox said, his voice warm. "You looked like you were born for it."

"I'm just keeping the seat warm for the next guy," Ilya joked, though he leaned into the praise.

"Doubt it," Knox smiled. JJ was standing right beside him, an arm slung comfortably around Knox's waist. JJ turned, pressing a quick, affectionate kiss to Knox's temple before looking at Ilya with a wink.

"Don't let him lie to you, Ilya," JJ teased. "He spent the whole third period yelling at the TV like he was still on the bench."

Knox laughed, a deep, easy sound, and squeezed JJ's side before they moved off to greet the rest of the team.

Ilya kept Shane close the whole night, his arm slung around Shane's shoulders, thumb tracing idle circles on the back of his neck. Every time Shane laughed at something one of the guys said, Ilya felt it in his ribs like a good hit. He was so in love it was stupid. He didn't even try to hide it anymore.

But as the night wore on, a few of the guys started acting twitchy. Ilya caught the sly glances and bit back a smile. They were terrible at secrets, but he loved them for trying.

Finn caught Ilya's eye and gave a sharp, single nod before disappearing toward the back exit. A few minutes later, Ozzie "accidentally" spilled half a drink and used the cleanup as an excuse to vanish. When Kowalski slipped out without even finishing his wings, Shane frowned.

"Where is everyone going?" Shane asked, looking around the thinning room. "Is there a different party we weren't invited to?"

Ilya just tightened his grip on Shane, pulling him flush against his side. He could feel the steady, healthy thump of Shane's heart. "They're getting old, Shane. Their knees probably started aching at the same time and they've gone to find a bag of ice and a quiet place to complain."

Torrey raised a glass from across the table, a grin tugging at his mouth that was far too knowing. Ilya just blinked back, his own heart starting to pick up speed.

Around midnight, Ilya stretched and kissed Shane's temple. "I'm ready to go. But I'm an idiot. I forgot to sign the lineup cards for the league office. Knox used to say that was the quickest way to get a fine. Come with me? It'll take two minutes."

Shane raised an eyebrow but stood anyway. "The first game with the C and you're already looking for a way to get suspended. I'm starting to think Knox gave you that letter just so he could watch the chaos."

"Everything's better when you're around to keep me out of trouble, Hollander."

The arena was dark when they let themselves in through the players' entrance. Only the emergency lights glowed, casting long, blue shadows across the concrete. Ilya led them toward the locker room, his heart hammering harder than it had during the final minutes of the third period.

Just before they reached the room, Ilya stopped short, peering through the glass toward the rink.

"Wait," Ilya murmured, nodding toward the ice. "Did someone leave a spotlight on? We should probably check it. Facilities will have my head if we leave the house lights burning all night."

Shane sighed, but there was a smile in his voice. "Since when did you become responsible for the electric bill?"

"Since they gave me the jersey," Ilya said, his voice a little thick. He didn't let go of Shane's hand. Instead, he tightened his grip and pulled him toward the tunnel mouth. "Come on. Two minutes."

They stepped onto the ice.

Battery-operated candles lined the boards in soft gold circles. Hockey pucks, dozens of them, were arranged in a giant, slightly lopsided heart at center ice. 

Ilya stopped. "A puck heart?" he murmured. "Really?"

Shane's breath hitched in the quiet. "Ilya... what is this?"

Ilya tugged him out to the middle of the ice. He turned, took both of Shane's hands, and kissed him softly under the single spotlight Finn had left on. When he pulled back, his voice was rough.

"Two years ago, I thought the best thing that ever happened to me was getting drafted first overall. Then management went and traded half the team just to get you." Ilya's lips quirked into a soft, vulnerable smile. "But the second you joined me on that stage, I was done for. You became my linemate. My roommate. My best friend. And then you became the love of my life."

Shane's eyes were wide, shining in the candlelight.

"I don't want another season, another Cup, another anything without you right beside me. Not just on the ice. For everything else, too."

Ilya dropped to one knee on the cold ice, right in the middle of the puck heart. The ring box felt small and heavy in his palm.

"Shane Hollander. Marry me?"

A shaky, wrecked laugh broke out of Shane, half-sob and all joy. "Yes. God, yes."

Ilya stood and slid the ring onto Shane's finger. It was simple platinum with a thin green inlay that matched their jerseys. He kissed him again, hard and perfect. They were both crying a little, foreheads pressed together, laughing between breaths.

"You better let the group chat know," Ilya whispered. "They've been impatiently waiting for two hours."

Shane laughed again, shaky and bright, and pulled out his phone. He snapped a quick photo of the ring on his hand with the glowing candles behind it and hit send. The replies were instantaneous.

Kowalski: HOW DO YOU LIKE THE PUCK HEART? THAT WAS MY IDEA.

Torrey: Congrats, boys. I'm officially the third wheel on our line now. About damn time.

Butch: FINALLY. We've been dying waiting for this.

Finn: Happy for you both. Well done, Cap.

Ozzie: You have no idea how hard it was to keep this a secret. I almost told him three times at the bar.

Maks: Congratulations. Since you are marrying a Russian Captain, I have filed the paperwork to have your passport changed. Do not argue. It is done.

Knox: I've never been more proud. Love you, boys. Congratulations.

Ilya read them over Shane's shoulder, grinning so wide it hurt. The whole team, his family, was lighting up the screen with nothing but pure, loud joy.

He kissed Shane again, slow this time, right there at the center ice that had brought them together.

Two years ago, the world had cracked open on a snowy highway. Tonight, it felt brand new. And the future, whatever came next, already looked like the best shift of their lives.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you SO MUCH for reading! It was so much fun writing the Minnesota Nomads. I’ve honestly fallen in love with the whole team, and I really hope you enjoyed spending time with them too. Thank you for following along on this journey!