Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Hayden Pike, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt, Episode Related, Canon Rewrite, Hockey Injuries, Hospitalization, Concussions, Angst, Secret Relationship, Hockey Captain Ilya Rozanov, Hockey Captain Shane Hollander, Panic, ilya makes one very bad decision, shane hollander has terrible luck, Nobody is having a good time, ilya rozanov is losing his mind, shane hollander deserves a nap, this was not the post-game plan, Long One Shot, One Shot, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Started as a one shot but people keep asking, so now it's not a one shot, Autistic Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Has an Eating Disorder, Eating Disorders, Depression, Nightmares, Ilya Rozanov Has Nightmares, Ilya Rozanov Has PTSD, Ilya Rozanov Has Good Gaydar, Troy Barrett & Ilya Rozanov Friendship, Troy Barrett - Freeform, Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Supportive Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Ottawa Centaurs Player Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Can Fight, Shane Hollander Leaves the Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-20 Completed: 2026-10-04 Words: 295,349 Chapters: 94/94

I Got Him

Summary

Now, for the first time in years, he found himself praying. Not caring who listened. Not caring if anyone listened.
Take anything.
Take the game.
Take my career.
Take whatever you want.
Just let him wake up.
Because Shane couldn't be gone.
~~~~
Cliff Marlow isn't the one who sends Shane Hollander to the hospital.
Ilya Rozanov is.
And when the worst thing Ilya can imagine happens, keeping their relationship a secret becomes impossible.

Notes

As always FUCK AI.
I got the idea from emyaistalking on tiktok! Watch her video about it!

Chapter 1

April 2017 — Montreal

Boston versus Montreal.

It was the matchup fans circled on their calendars every season. They came for the rivalry. They came to watch Hollander and Rozanov battle it out on the ice.

If only they knew.

Shane had spoken to Ilya a handful of times since Montreal had arrived in town, but only briefly. A few stolen conversations. A few texts. Nothing close to enough.

Now, as both teams warmed up before the game, Shane couldn't take his eyes off him.

He should have been focused on the ice. On the game. On his own teammates.

Instead, he found himself watching the Russian across the centerline.

Ilya's helmet was off, his brown hair damp from the warmup. He was listening to one of his teammates, nodding absently as they talked. From a distance, he looked perfectly normal.

Untouched.

Unbothered.

But the news about his father's death had spread quickly through the league. Reporters had asked questions. Analysts had speculated about whether it would affect his game.

At least that gave Shane an excuse.

If anyone noticed him staring, they would assume he was checking on a rival player going through a difficult time.

Nobody would suspect the truth.

Nobody would know that Shane had already skated to the centerline during warmups and quietly arranged to meet Ilya after the game.

Nobody would know that what looked like a brief exchange of condolences had really been two people making plans to spend the night together.

Because that was who Shane Hollander was.

Golden Boy Hollander.

The league's favorite son.

The captain who always said the right thing, did the right thing, and never gave anyone a reason to look too closely.

At least, that was what everyone believed.

On the other side of the centerline, Ilya pushed the thought away and skated back toward his teammates.

“What did Hollander want?” Cliff asked as the team resumed their stretches.

Ilya dropped onto one knee and reached for his skate. “To ask you on date.”

Cliff's head snapped up. “What?”

A few of the guys nearby snorted.

Ilya didn't even look at him.

“Get back to fucking stretching, Marlow,” he said dryly. “We need win.”

“Funny,” Cliff muttered.

“I know.”

The corner of Ilya's mouth twitched.

Across the ice, Shane was laughing at something one of his teammates had said. The sound didn't carry over the noise of the arena, but Ilya knew exactly what his laugh looked like.

For a brief moment, their eyes met again.

Too long.

Just long enough for Ilya to feel that familiar pull in his chest.

Then Shane looked away and skated toward the bench.

Ilya forced himself to do the same.

A few more hours.

One game.

Then he could stop pretending he didn't know him.

~~~

Ilya loved battling Shane for the puck in the corners almost as much as he loved having him all to himself.

Faceoffs were fun. There was something satisfying about lining up across from Shane in front of thousands of people and knowing none of them had any idea what existed between them.

But the corners were better.

Messier.

Closer.

A stolen shove. A shoulder pressed into the boards. A quick glance hidden behind cages and visors.

Little moments that belonged only to them.

Both of them wore mouthguards, despite half the league acting as though losing a tooth was some kind of badge of honor. Most players seemed eager to collect scars for the game.

Not Shane.

Not Ilya.

As they battled for possession, Shane glanced over his shoulder and flashed him a grin.

The clear mouthpiece made him look ridiculous.

Ilya felt laughter bubble up in his chest.

Дурачок

Idiot.

Shane won the puck battle and skated away with it.

That wasn't surprising. Shane's hands were better. His stickhandling was among the best in the league.

But Ilya was faster.

Always had been.

He pushed off hard and chased after him, closing the gap with ease.

A fact that carried over into their private life as well.

The thought nearly made him laugh as he reached out and poked the puck off Shane's stick.

Shane shot him an offended look.

Ilya only grinned and kept skating.

The puck changed possession twice before Montreal finally buried one in the back of the net.

The crowd erupted.

A whistle blew.

Ilya peeled away from the play and headed toward the Boston bench as the next line prepared to jump over the boards. Hockey moved fast. One second you were battling in the corner, the next you were catching your breath while someone else took your place.

As he skated toward the bench, he noticed Cliff watching Shane.

Not the puck.

Shane.

Ilya knew that look.

Cliff Marlow was an enforcer. He was one of the biggest players on the team and had built an entire career around protecting his teammates. If someone took a cheap shot at Boston, Cliff made sure they paid for it later.

The problem was that Cliff thought Shane Hollander was Ilya's biggest problem.

He wasn't.

Shane was the reason Ilya smiled during games.

The reason he looked forward to playing Montreal.

The reason he had a hotel room waiting after the final buzzer.

Most people saw a golden-boy captain. A media darling.

Cliff saw the guy constantly battling Ilya in the corners and stealing pucks from him.

To Cliff, that was reason enough.

Cliff leaned closer. “You want me to run him?”

Ilya nearly snorted.

If only Cliff knew.

Shane was probably the last person in the league Ilya wanted flattened into the boards.

Ilya immediately shook his head. “Back off Hollander. I got him.”

He chewed on his mouthguard as he spoke.

Cliff frowned. “What?”

“I said I got him.”

It wasn't unusual for a captain to give instructions during a game. Line matchups. Defensive assignments. Who to pressure and when.

Cliff might not understand the order, but he respected Ilya enough not to argue. “Whatever you say, Captain.”

Ilya nodded and settled onto the bench.

Across the ice, Shane was already hopping over the boards for his next shift. For a brief second, their eyes met. Then Shane skated away.

And Ilya found himself smiling around his mouthguard.

A few shifts later, they were back on the ice together.

Shane had the puck. Ilya immediately accelerated toward him.

There was no hesitation. No thought. Just instinct.

Shane saw him coming and tried to angle away, but Ilya caught him and drove him into the boards.

The impact rattled through both of them. Shane grunted. Ilya leaned his weight into him, pinning him there as he searched for the puck.

“Let me go,” Shane muttered.

“No.” The answer came automatically.

Shane huffed out a laugh. “The puck is gone.”

Ilya finally glanced away from him.

Sure enough, the puck had already squirted free, and Cliff was carrying it up the ice.

Their teammates were halfway to the opposite zone. Neither of them moved.

For one ridiculous second, they remained pressed together against the glass.

Close enough for Ilya to see the familiar dark brown of Shane's eyes through his visor.

Close enough to remember exactly what those eyes looked like when they weren't on a hockey rink.

When they were soft with sleep.

When they were dark with want.

When they were looking at Ilya and only Ilya.

“You are distraction,” Ilya said.

The corner of Shane's mouth twitched.

“Pretty sure that's your fault.”

Maybe.

Probably.

Ilya pushed off the boards first and skated after the play, unable to stop the grin tugging at his mouth.

Behind him, he could practically feel Shane smiling too. The feeling lasted all of thirty seconds. Then the game demanded his attention again.

By the end of the second period, Montreal was still ahead. The horn sounded, and Ilya's good mood vanished. He skated toward the tunnel with the rest of the team, his jaw tight.

Enough.

He'd spent too much of the game thinking about Shane. About later. About the hotel room waiting for them after the final buzzer. None of that mattered right now.

They were losing.

As soon as he stepped into the locker room, Ilya shoved everything else aside and became the captain his teammates expected.

The room was quiet except for the sound of equipment being adjusted and frustrated breaths.

Nobody was happy.

Good.

They shouldn't be.

Their coach was already pacing in front of the whiteboard, looking ready to tear into them.

Ilya welcomed it.

The team needed a fire lit under its ass.

They needed to remember they were the Boston Bears, not some junior team happy to be there.

The coach stopped pacing and looked around the room.

His gaze landed on Ilya.

A silent understanding passed between them.

The coach would start.

Then Ilya would finish it.

And if his teammates expected the easygoing version of him from warmups, they were about to be disappointed.

Because Captain Rozanov was angry.

And Boston still had twenty minutes left to fix this.

Meanwhile, the mood in Montreal's locker room wasn't much better.

Their coach was pacing in front of the room, picking apart every mistake despite the fact that they were leading.

Too much puck possession given away.

Too many sloppy passes.

Not enough pressure on Boston's defensemen.

“You're letting them get comfortable,” he barked. “And comfortable teams come back.”

Nobody argued.

Not even Shane.

Because every player in the room knew the truth. It didn't matter if you were winning or losing. Coaches were never happy until the final horn sounded.

A one-goal lead meant nothing in hockey.

Hell, a three-goal lead sometimes meant nothing.

Games could change in seconds.

One turnover.

One bad line change.

One lucky bounce.

One mistake.

And suddenly everything looked different.

Shane sat at his stall, listening to the lecture while stripping the tape from his stick.

Across the hallway, he had no doubt Boston was getting the exact same speech.

Maybe louder.

Especially from Ilya.

The thought made the corner of his mouth twitch.

Right now, Ilya was probably pacing around the locker room looking murderous.

His teammates would be nodding along while secretly wondering who had pissed him off.

If only they knew.

The coach's voice cut through his thoughts. “We have twenty minutes left. Twenty minutes to put this game away.” 

The room fell silent.

Shane leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

Twenty minutes.

Then the game would be over.

And if everything went according to plan, he'd be seeing Ilya shortly after that.

Aggressive.

That was the word both coaches had used during intermission.

Aggressive wasn't hard.

Both team captains knew how to do that.

The difference was that every player defined the word differently.

For some guys, aggressive meant dropping the gloves. Throwing a hit just because they could. Starting a fight to change the momentum of the game.

For Shane, aggressive meant chasing every puck like the game depended on it. It meant winning races. Finishing checks. Forcing turnovers. Making the other team work for every inch of ice. That was his version of aggression.

And if Boston wanted to come back in the third period, Montreal would need every bit of it.

The coach clapped his hands once. “Let's go.”

Players rose from their stalls.

The room filled with the familiar sounds of skates on concrete, sticks being grabbed, helmets snapped into place.

Shane pulled on his gloves and followed his teammates toward the tunnel.

On the other side of the arena, he imagined Ilya doing the exact same thing.

Probably with a much angrier expression.

The thought almost made him smile.

Almost.

The doors opened. The noise of the crowd rushed over them.

Third period.

Twenty minutes.

Anything could happen.

And somehow, Shane had a feeling it would.

Only a few minutes into the third period, Shane and Ilya were battling for the puck again.

Some things never changed.

Ilya was playing harder now. Meaner.

The coaches had spent days debating whether he should even be on the ice after his father's death. Whether they should give him time away from the game. Whether he was mentally ready.

Ilya had shut down every conversation before it could begin.

He wasn't fragile.

He wasn't broken.

And he sure as hell wasn't sitting in the press box.

So he skated harder.

Hit harder.

Played like he had something to prove.

Maybe he did.

Shane managed to win the puck battle and took off down the ice.

Ilya chased him automatically.

It was instinct at this point.

Ahead of them, Cliff Marlow changed direction.

And suddenly, Ilya's stomach dropped.

No.

Cliff had seen Shane with the puck.

Cliff was lining him up.

Fuck.

Ilya dug harder, pushing himself faster.

"Marlow! I got him!"

The roar of the crowd swallowed the words.

Cliff didn't hear him.

Or maybe he did and didn't care.

Shane kept skating.

Cliff kept closing in.

Everything seemed to happen at once.

Ilya pushed off with everything he had.

If he could get there first—

If he could separate Shane from the puck—

If he could stop Cliff from taking his head off—

The collision happened in an instant.

Ilya reached Shane first.

He drove into him.

Hard.

Too hard.

Much too hard.

Shane lost an edge immediately.

One skate slipped out from under him.

His body twisted awkwardly.

Wrong.

Everything about it looked wrong.

And then Shane crashed headfirst into the boards. The sound echoed through the arena. A sickening crack of helmet against glass.

The crowd gasped.

The puck skittered away unnoticed.

For one horrible second, Shane didn't move as he lays on the ice.

Ilya's heart stopped.

No.

No, no, no.

Not him.

“Shane,” Ilya whispered.

Not Hollander.

Not the Montreal captain.

Shane.

The name slipped out before he could stop it.

Before he could remember where he was.

His skates felt glued to the ice.

He couldn't move.

Couldn't breathe.

Couldn't look away.

“Wake up,” he muttered.

The words were barely audible beneath the noise of the arena.

“Wake up.”

Shane remained motionless.

And suddenly Ilya wasn't twenty-six years old standing in an NHL arena.

He was twelve.

Standing in a tiny house in Russia. Staring at his mother. 

Waiting for her to wake up. Waiting for someone to tell him this wasn't real.

That she was only sleeping. That everything would be okay.

But she hadn't woken up.

No matter how much he begged.

No matter how hard he cried.

No matter how desperately he needed her to.

The memory crashed into him with brutal force.

“Please,” he whispered.

His chest hurt. His vision blurred.

On the ice below him, trainers were already rushing toward Shane.

Players were gathering around.

Someone was blowing a whistle.

Someone was yelling.

Ilya couldn't hear any of it.

All he could see was Shane. All he could think was please.

He wasn't a religious man.

Not really.

But he wore the silver cross his mother had given him before she died.

It rested against his chest beneath his equipment every single game.

A habit.

A superstition.

A reminder.

Now, for the first time in years, he found himself praying. Not caring who listened. Not caring if anyone listened.

Take anything.

Take the game.

Take my career.

Take whatever you want.

Just let him wake up.

Because Shane couldn't be gone.

Not Shane.

Not him.

Then Shane moved.

It was barely noticeable—a twitch of his head, a small shift against the ice—but Ilya saw it immediately. His entire body locked onto the movement.

The trainers were already rushing onto the ice. Players from both teams were gathering nearby, their expressions ranging from concern to outright panic.

Ilya didn't see any of them.

His eyes never left Shane.

For a second, Shane's gaze seemed unfocused. Dazed. Then it landed on Ilya.

“Ilya,” Shane whispered.

The word was weak enough that maybe nobody else heard it.

Ilya did.

Relief hit him so hard his knees nearly buckled.

He's alive.

Shane was alive.

Confused. Hurt. Probably concussed.

But alive.

“I am here,” Ilya said automatically, taking a step forward before he even realized he was moving.

A referee skated into his path. “Rozanov, off the ice.” 

Ilya ignored him.

Shane was trying to sit up now. One of the trainers immediately stopped him, keeping a hand on his shoulder.

The sight made Ilya's stomach twist.

This was his fault.

If he had just let Cliff handle it.

If he had been half a second slower.

If he hadn't hit him so hard—

“Rozanov.” The referee's voice sharpened. “Get off the ice. Now.”

Ilya finally looked at him. “What?”

“The trainers need room. Get off the ice.”

Behind the referee, Shane winced and closed his eyes. “Ilya,” he said again, softer this time.

Not Rozanov.

Not Captain.

Ilya.

Like they were alone.

Like there weren't twenty thousand people watching.

Like none of it mattered.

The referee grabbed his arm.

“Rozanov, if you don't leave the ice, you'll be ejected.”

For the first time in years, Ilya couldn't have cared less about hockey.

The score didn't matter. The game didn't matter. His captaincy didn't matter. Shane mattered.

“Eject me, then.”

The referee blinked.

Ilya ripped off one glove and let his stick fall from his hand. It clattered loudly against the ice.

A collective murmur rolled through the arena.

He didn't care.

Let them talk.

Let them speculate.

Let them fine him.

Shane was hurt, and he had said Ilya's name.

Nothing else mattered.

Ilya skated toward him anyway.

The trainers looked annoyed when he dropped to one knee beside Shane, but nobody stopped him.

Not yet.

Shane's eyes were open now, unfocused but unmistakably awake.

Thank God.

"That was good hit," Shane coughed out.

For a second, Ilya just stared at him.

Then a disbelieving laugh escaped him.

Only Shane Hollander would compliment the man who had just sent him headfirst into the boards.

"You are idiot."

A faint smile tugged at Shane's mouth.

"I know."

The sight made something tight in Ilya's chest loosen.

Not completely.

Never completely.

The guilt was still there.

Heavy.

Suffocating.

Every time he looked at Shane lying on the ice, all he could see was his own shoulder driving into him.

His own mistake.

"I guess our plans are off for later," Ilya said quietly.

Shane huffed out something that might have been a laugh.

"Just a little."

A trainer stepped forward carrying a spinal board.

"We need to move him now."

Ilya didn't move.

Couldn't move.

His eyes remained fixed on Shane's face.

He needed to know he was really awake.

That this wasn't some cruel trick his mind was playing on him.

That Shane was still here.

The trainer cleared his throat.

"Rozanov."

Still, Ilya didn't look away.

If some higher power had appeared in that moment and offered to trade their lives, Ilya would have accepted without hesitation.

Take the hockey.

Take the money.

Take everything.

Just leave Shane here.

The guilt threatened to swallow him whole.

"You said my name," Ilya said.

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

For the first time, uncertainty flickered across Shane's face.

Then he nodded.

"Yes."

The arena suddenly felt very quiet.

Too quiet.

"You never say my name here."

A trainer shifted uncomfortably beside them.

Another glanced toward the referees.

Shane's eyes focused on him a little more.

"I know."

The realization landed between them.

Heavy.

Dangerous.

Neither of them had ever been this careless.

Not on the ice.

Not in public.

Not where thousands of people could hear.

But Shane didn't look sorry.

If anything, he looked confused about why Ilya was surprised.

As if waking up after slamming into the boards had stripped away every instinct to hide.

As if the only thing that had mattered in that moment was reaching for the person he loved.

And that terrified Ilya almost as much as the hit itself.

Because Shane had said his name.

In front of the referees.

In front of the trainers.

In front of twenty thousand people.

And somehow that wasn't the thing Ilya was thinking about anymore.

Shane was alive.

That was it.

That was the only thought left in his head.

Alive.

His hands were shaking.

He hadn't even noticed until now.

The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving behind nothing but relief and guilt and a fear so deep it made his chest ache.

He almost lost him.

One second.

One stupid decision.

One hit.

That was all it would have taken.

Shane watched him for a moment, his dark brown eyes clearer now than they had been a minute ago.

“Ilya.” The sound of his name broke whatever restraint he had left.

Before he could think better of it, before he could remember where they were, Ilya leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Shane's forehead.

It was brief.

Barely more than a second.

But it felt like the entire arena stopped breathing.

The trainers froze.

The referee froze.

Someone in the crowd gasped.

Ilya didn't care.

For years they had hidden.

For years they had lied.

For years they had pretended to be rivals whenever anyone was watching.

And for what?

For this?

For a moment where he thought Shane was dead?

No.

Never again.

When he pulled back, Shane was staring at him.

Not surprised.

Not angry.

Just looking at him with that same softness he only ever showed in private.

The look nearly undid him.

“I thought…” Ilya's voice cracked.

For the first time since he was a child, he didn't care who heard it.

“I thought I lost you.” 

Shane reached up slowly, his gloved hand brushing against Ilya's wrist. “You'd have to try harder than that.” 

The joke was terrible.

Absolutely terrible.

Ilya laughed anyway.

Then he lowered his head for a moment, pressing it against Shane's glove as relief finally crashed through him.

Around them, cameras flashed.

Nobody was pretending anymore.

Ilya lifted his head and found Shane already looking at him.

The arena had become a blur of noise and movement.

Referees.

Trainers.

Teammates.

Reporters waiting to write tomorrow's headlines.

None of it felt real.

Only Shane did.

Ilya leaned forward until their foreheads touched.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

They simply breathed the same air.

Shane was alive.

That thought kept repeating itself in Ilya's head.

Alive.

In another second, a trainer would pull him away. A referee would remember he was supposed to be ejected. Someone would start asking questions neither of them could avoid answering.

The world would come crashing back.

But not yet.

Not this second.

He had already made one stupid decision.

Then another.

And another.

He'd ignored the referee.

Thrown away the game.

Kissed Shane on the forehead in front of twenty thousand people.

Rivals don’t do that.

At this point, what was one more?

A small smile appeared on Shane's face, despite the pain he was obviously in.

As if he knew exactly what Ilya was thinking.

As if he had reached the same conclusion.

Ilya tilted his head forward just enough that Shane would have to meet him halfway.

A challenge.

An invitation.

A choice.

For years they had hidden.

For years they had waited.

For years they had convinced themselves there would be a better time.

There wasn't.

There was only now.

Shane leaned forward. And kissed him.

The arena erupted.

Gasps.

Shouts.

The rapid-fire click of cameras.

Somewhere in the distance, someone yelled something neither of them heard.

Neither of them cared.

The kiss was brief.

Soft.

Certain.

When they finally pulled apart, Shane rested his forehead against Ilya's again.

“You know this is going to be a mess, right?” he murmured.

A laugh escaped Ilya's throat. For the first time all night, it felt genuine. “Da.”

Shane smiled. “You still coming to the hospital with me?”

The question hit Ilya right in the chest.

After everything that had happened.

After the hit.

After the fear.

After the secret they had just shattered in front of the entire hockey world.

Shane still wanted him there.

Always.

“I am not leaving you.”

The trainers finally stepped forward. This time, Ilya let them.

As they carefully began securing Shane to the spinal board, Shane's hand found his one last time.

Ilya held on until he couldn't anymore.

Then he watched them wheel Shane away.

The game was over.

The secret was over.

The life they had built around hiding was over.

For the first time since he was nineteen years old, Ilya Rozanov had no idea what came next.

And standing there in the middle of the ice, with twenty thousand people staring and cameras pointed in his direction, he realized he didn't care.

Shane was alive.

Everything else, they would figure out together.

Chapter 2

Ilya followed the medics off the ice without a second thought.

The crowd was still roaring behind them. Reporters were already shouting questions. Arena staff were scrambling to keep people back.

None of it registered. His hand was wrapped around Shane's. That was all that mattered.

“Rozanov!” His coach's voice echoed down the tunnel.

Ilya didn't stop.

“If you leave with Hollander, you're benched for the rest of the season!”

That got his attention. Not because he cared. Because under any other circumstance, he would have. A year ago, the threat would have terrified him.

Now?

“Bench me,” Ilya said without looking back. “Ref already ejected me.”

The silence behind him was almost comical. Then hurried footsteps approached.

“Rozanov, what the fuck was that?” Cliff demanded as he caught up with them. “You kissed Hollander.”

Ilya glanced at him. There would be time for explanations later. Not now.

“Cliff.” Something in his voice must have communicated how serious this was because Cliff immediately stopped talking. “Get my stuff from locker room. Phone. Wallet. Everything.”

Cliff nodded.

“And get Shane's things from Montreal room.” 

“Okay.”

“Then meet me at hospital.”

Cliff blinked once before nodding again. “Yeah. Okay.”

They reached the loading area beneath the arena.

An EMT looked down at Ilya's skates. “You can't get in the ambulance wearing those.”

Ilya looked down as if noticing them for the first time.

Right.

Skates.

Cliff was already kneeling. “Give me your foot.” Without arguing, Ilya dropped onto a bench and yanked at the laces.

His hands were shaking too badly to do it quickly.

“Jesus Christ,” Cliff muttered, helping him.

A minute later, Ilya kicked both skates aside.

His socks immediately hit the cold concrete.

He didn't care.

By the time they reached the ambulance outside, Shane was already being loaded in. The flashing lights painted everything red and blue.

Standing nearby were Shane's parents.

His mother looked pale. His father looked furious and terrified in equal measure.

Neither seemed entirely sure what to do with what they had just witnessed.

Ilya understood the feeling.

“Family only in the ambulance,” one of the EMTs said.

Before Ilya could argue, Shane spoke up, already sounding loopy from the pain meds. “Ilya's family.”

The EMT hesitated.

Ilya didn't. “You cannot stop me. He is my lover.”

He stepped into the ambulance.

Beside him, Shane groaned. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“Not lover.”

Ilya frowned. “What is wrong with lover?”

“Everything.”

Despite the neck brace and obvious pain, Shane managed to look horrified.

In Russian, lover carried weight.

Importance.

Devotion.

Someone who belonged to your heart.

Apparently in English it sounded ridiculous.

Good to know.

“Shane! Honey!” Yuna yells. “We'll meet you at the hospital.”

“Bring my phone!” Shane yelled back.

“Absolutely not,” his father shouted.

The ambulance doors were still open when realization suddenly hit Shane.

His eyes widened. “Fuck.” The color drained from his face. “My parents.”

Ilya squeezed his hand. “What about them?”

“They saw that.” The panic in Shane's voice was immediate. “The kiss. You. Everything.”

His breathing quickened. “This is my nightmare.”

“What is?”

“My actual fucking nightmare.”

Shane closed his eyes. “My parents finding out. The media finding out. The league finding out.” He laughed weakly. “Pretty sure all three happened in the same five-minute span.” 

Ilya looked at him for a long moment. Then he reached over and brushed a strand of hair away from Shane's forehead. 

The gesture felt strangely intimate after everything that had happened. “Then maybe it is time to wake up.”

Shane opened his eyes.

Ilya held his gaze. “It is scary. Da.”

The ambulance doors finally began to close, shutting out the flashing cameras and shouting reporters.

“But you are brave.”

Shane let out a shaky breath. “Fuck, I'm scared.”

His voice was quieter now.

More honest.

The adrenaline was wearing off. The pain medication was kicking in. And for the first time since he'd hit the boards, he wasn't surrounded by twenty thousand screaming fans.

It was just him and Ilya.

“I feel like I'm going to die.” The words punched straight through Ilya's chest.

Without thinking, he tightened his grip on Shane's hand. “You are not dying.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I would not allow it.”

One of the EMTs snorted.

Another quickly looked away.

Shane managed a weak smile. “That's not how medicine works.”

“It should.”

The ambulance lurched forward.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The silence was filled by the hum of the engine and the steady beeping of the monitor attached to Shane.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Every sound felt like a gift.

Every heartbeat felt like proof.

“You are here,” Ilya said quietly. “I am here.”

He glanced toward the EMTs. “And many EMTs are listening to this conversation and probably twittering about it.”

One of the EMTs outright laughed.

Shane groaned. “Tweeting.”

“What?”

“It is tweeting for Twitter.”

“That is stupid.”

“It really is.”

Ilya nodded.

“English is ridiculous language.”

“You've been speaking it for like ten years.”

“And it still makes no sense.”

A tired laugh escaped Shane.

The sound immediately loosened something in Ilya's chest.

There it was.

That laugh.

The one he'd been terrified he would never hear again.

For the first time since the collision, he finally allowed himself to believe Shane was going to be okay.

Not because the EMTs said so.

Not because of the monitors.

Because Shane was arguing with him about social media vocabulary.

Which felt exactly like something a healthy Shane Hollander would do.

“Hey, Ilya?”

“Da?”

“If I'm actually dying, this is a really weird final conversation.”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “You are impossible.”

~~~

The hospital room was quiet when Yuna and David finally slipped inside.

Well past midnight.

Shane was awake, though barely.

The pain medication had taken the sharp edges off everything, leaving him sleepy and a little dazed.

Across the room, Ilya sat curled awkwardly in a plastic chair.

Still wearing his Boston Bears uniform.

Still wearing his shoulder pads beneath it.

Still barefoot.

His skates and belongings were piled haphazardly beside him.

He looked asleep.

Or at least he was pretending to be.

Shane couldn't tell which.

Yuna glanced between the two of them.

Then at Ilya.

Then back at Shane.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Yuna,” David warned quietly.

“This is not the time.”

“He kissed his rival,” Yuna whispered back.

Even her whisper somehow managed to sound dramatic.

David pinched the bridge of his nose.

“He is high on pain medication.”

“So?”

“So we can discuss this later.”

“Later?” Yuna hissed. “David, our son kissed his biggest rival in front of an entire arena.”

Shane closed his eyes. His parents were somehow more exhausting than a concussion. “Mom.”

Yuna immediately turned toward him. “Oh good, you're awake.”

“I was never asleep.”

“Perfect.”

David groaned. “Yuna.”

“No, absolutely not. I have questions.”

“Mom.” Shane groans.

“Shane.”

“Please stop interrogating me while my brain is bruised.”

Yuna looked entirely unconvinced. “Fine.”

She paused. Then pointed at the apparently sleeping Russian in the corner. “Is that your boyfriend?”

The room fell silent.

David looked horrified.

Shane looked horrified.

Even one of the nurses walking past the open door slowed down.

Across the room, Ilya remained perfectly motionless.

Too motionless.

The bastard was absolutely awake.

“Mom.” Shane says. 

“That's not an answer.” Yuna says. 

“Mom.”

“Shane.”

“Yuna,” David said.

“David.”

“This is not helping.”

“It is helping me.”

Shane dropped his head back against the pillow. His family was unbelievable. From the corner came a suspiciously muffled snort.

All three of them turned.

Ilya's eyes remained closed.

A miracle.

An absolute miracle.

“Was he laughing?” Yuna asked.

“No,” Shane said immediately.

“Yes,” David said at the same time.

Ilya finally opened one eye. “You are very loud family.”

Yuna pointed at him immediately. “See? He's awake.”

Ilya sighed. “Was trying not to be.”

Shane couldn't help it. Shane laughed. The movement immediately made his head hurt. Still worth it. Because for the first time since waking up in the hospital, everything felt strangely normal.

His parents were arguing. Ilya was being sarcastic. And despite everything that had happened, they were all still here.

“You hit my son and then kissed him,” Yuna said, sounding personally offended by the sequence of events.

“Da.”

“You do not seem sorry.”

Ilya frowned. “I am very sorry about hitting him.”

“Not the kissing?”

“Not the kissing.”

Yuna looked delighted by that answer.

David looked exhausted.

“You also called him your lover,” Yuna continued.

Ilya shrugged. “I say many things.”

“You certainly do.”

“Mom,” Shane groaned. Yuna ignored him. “Mom, can we talk about this later? I have a concussion and a broken collarbone. I'm out for the playoffs.”

That finally quieted the room.

For a moment.

Then Yuna pointed at Ilya. “Are you leaving Boston?”

Ilya blinked. “What?”

“You told your coach to go to hell.”

“I did not tell my coach to go to hell.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No.”

“You publicly chose my son over your hockey team.”

“That is not same thing.”

“It is very close.”

Ilya considered this. “Maybe.”

Shane laughed again and immediately regretted it. “Stop making me laugh.”

“Nobody is making you laugh,” David said.

Yuna waved a hand. “Answer the question.”

Ilya sighed dramatically. “I did not tell my coach to go to hell. I would remember that.”

“That's not a no.”

“No, it is not.”

Yuna looked unbearably pleased. “Would you leave Boston?”

The room fell quiet.

This time even David seemed interested in the answer.

Ilya looked over at Shane. Really looked at him. At the sling. At the bruises beginning to form along his jaw. At the hospital bed. All of it because Ilya had made one bad decision. The guilt hit him all over again.

“I would leave Boston for Shane.” The words came out simple. Matter-of-fact. As though there was no other possible answer.

Yuna's expression softened. “Loyalty is important.”

“He is trying to be loyal to me, not Boston,” Shane said. “Did you not see that?”

“I saw many things tonight.”

“Unfortunately.”

“I saw my son kiss his rival.”

“Boyfriend,” Ilya corrected automatically.

The room went silent. Shane stared at him. Yuna stared at him. David stared at him.

Ilya stared back. “What?”

A smile slowly spread across Yuna's face. “Oh, I like him.”

“Mom.”

“I am serious.”

“Please stop.”

“I was just trying to keep Shane from being hit by our enforcer, Marlow,” Ilya said, redirecting the conversation before it got even worse.

Shane groaned. “You realize that's somehow making the story less believable.”

“It is truth.”

“You hit me into the boards to protect me.”

“Da.”

“That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard.”

“Also truth.”

For a second, nobody said anything. Then David laughed. A real laugh. The kind Shane hadn't heard from his father in years.

Soon Yuna joined in.

Then Shane.

Even Ilya's mouth twitched.

The situation was awful.

The media was probably losing its mind.

The league definitely was.

Tomorrow would be a disaster.

The media was probably already dissecting every frame of the kiss.

The league office was undoubtedly fielding calls.

Boston and Montreal management were likely having simultaneous heart attacks.

But for tonight, Shane was alive.

And somehow, that felt like enough.

The room settled into a comfortable silence.

Then Yuna ruined it.

“How long has this been going on?”

Her voice was quieter this time.

Not accusatory.

Just curious.

Shane glanced at Ilya.

Ilya glanced at Shane.

Neither of them seemed particularly eager to answer.

“Rookie year,” Shane finally said.

Yuna's eyes widened.

“Rookie year?”

“No,” Ilya corrected.

“Before that.”

The room went still.

Shane groaned.

“Ilya.”

“What?”

“You did not have to clarify.”

“She asked.”

Yuna looked between them.

“Before that?”

“The summer before rookie year,” Ilya said.

David actually sat down. “You're telling me you've been together for years?”

“Off and on,” Shane muttered.

“Mostly on,” Ilya corrected.

“Not helping.”

“Still true.”

Yuna stared at them.

Years.

Not months.

Not a recent relationship.

Not some secret romance that had started after they became professionals.

Years.

Years of birthdays.

Years of holidays.

Years of injuries and surgeries and championship runs.

Years of secrets.

And she hadn't known.

Not once.

Not ever.

“Mom?” Shane's voice was cautious now.

Yuna stood abruptly.

Neither of them had expected that.

“Mom?”

She pressed a hand over her mouth. Her eyes were shining. “Oh.”

The single word sounded broken.

David immediately rose from his chair. “Yuna.”

“I just need a minute.”

“Mom.”

She looked at Shane. Really looked at him. At the man lying in the hospital bed. At the man she'd raised. At the man she thought she knew better than anyone. And suddenly she realized there were entire pieces of his life she'd never been invited into.

Entire chapters she had never read. Not because he didn't love her. Because he hadn't felt safe enough to tell her. The realization hurt more than she expected.

“You've been carrying this alone for a long time,” she whispered.

Shane's throat tightened. “So has he.”

Her gaze shifted to Ilya.

For the first time all evening, the room felt completely serious.

No jokes.

No teasing.

Just truth.

Yuna nodded once.

Then she turned and quietly walked out of the room.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Silence settled over the room.

David sighed heavily.

“Well.”

Nobody answered.

A moment later, Shane rubbed a hand over his face.

“I think I broke my mother.”

“You have concussion,” Ilya said.

“You are breaking many things today.”

Despite everything, David laughed.

And from somewhere down the hallway came the unmistakable sound of Yuna Hollander crying.

Shane's smile immediately vanished.

“I need to talk to her.”

He threw the blanket aside and started climbing out of bed.

“Absolutely not,” David said.

“You have concussion,” Ilya added.

“Broken collarbone.”

“I know what injuries I have.”

“Then why are you standing?”

“Because my mom is crying.”

He tried to take a step forward.

David moved to block him.

So did Ilya.

“Move.”

“No.”

“Move.”

“No.”

“Move.”

The two men exchanged a look.

Then, to Shane's surprise, both stepped aside.

“Thank you.”

“You are idiot,” Ilya informed him.

“Probably.”

Shane shuffled into the hallway wearing a hospital gown and stubborn determination.

Halfway down the corridor, he found his mother sitting alone beside a vending machine.

She immediately stood when she saw him.

“Shane.”

“Mom.”

“What are you doing out of bed?”

“Apparently making bad decisions is my thing tonight.”

That earned a watery laugh.

“Shane, you should be in bed.”

He swallowed hard.

The speech he'd been carrying around for years suddenly felt impossible.

“I want you to know something.”

Yuna's expression softened.

“Okay.”

“I really tried, Mom.”

The words cracked on the way out.

“I can't help it.”

His eyes dropped to the floor.

“I really tried.”

He hated how small his voice sounded.

“I really tried, Mom.”

He wasn't talking about Ilya.

Not really.

He was talking about every girl he'd dated.

Every lie he'd told.

Every night he'd spent staring at the ceiling wishing he were different.

Wishing he were normal.

Wishing life were easier.

Yuna's face crumpled.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

She crossed the distance between them immediately.

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

Her arms wrapped around him carefully, mindful of the sling and the bruises.

Shane buried his face against her shoulder.

For a moment, he was sixteen again.

Scared.

Lost.

Certain the truth would cost him everything.

Yuna pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.

“Look at me.”

Reluctantly, he did.

“I am sorry.”

“Mom—”

“No. Let me finish.”

Tears were streaming freely down her face now.

“I am sorry that I wasn't a safe place for you to tell me.”

The words hit harder than anything else that night.

Harder than the reporters.

Harder than the cameras.

Harder than the kiss.

“I should have been.”

“Mom—”

“I should have been.”

She took a shaky breath.

“And I am so proud of you.”

Shane blinked.

“What?”

“I am proud of you.”

Her voice grew steadier.

“Do you have any idea how much courage that took?”

She gestured vaguely toward the arena they had left behind.

“Loving someone that openly.”

Her gaze shifted toward the hospital room where Ilya was undoubtedly eavesdropping.

“The way you looked at him.”

“The way he looked at you.”

“The way neither of you cared who was watching.”

A laugh escaped her.

“You two practically declared war on professional hockey tonight.”

Shane groaned.

“That's what I'm afraid of.”

The reality came rushing back.

The league.

The sponsors.

The headlines.

The interviews.

“They're going to suspend us.”

“Shane—”

“They're going to bench us.”

His breathing quickened.

“The league doesn't exactly have a great history with this stuff.”

Yuna took both of his hands.

“Then let them try.”

The steel in her voice surprised him.

“We will fight back.”

“Mom.”

“I mean it.”

For the first time all night, Shane saw something fierce in her expression.

The same determination that had gotten him through junior hockey.

The same stubbornness that had taught him never to quit.

“You are not doing this alone.”

She squeezed his hands.

“Not anymore.”

Behind him, a familiar Russian voice drifted down the hallway.

“Also, I would like fight them.”

Shane turned.

Ilya was standing barefoot in the doorway of his hospital room.

David stood beside him looking deeply resigned.

“Ilya.”

“What?”

“You are supposed to be resting.”

“I am not injured.”

“You literally sent me to hospital.”

“Yes.”

Ilya nodded thoughtfully.

“That is fair point.”

For the first time all night, Shane laughed without thinking about the pain.

And for the first time since the kiss, the future didn't seem quite so terrifying.

Between Yuna fussing over him and Ilya hovering nearby, Shane was eventually shepherded back toward his hospital room.

“You are both impossible,” Shane muttered.

“Correct,” Yuna said immediately.

Ilya nodded.

“Da.”

Once Shane was settled back into bed, Yuna crossed her arms and shifted into full manager mode.

“Boston leaves tomorrow, right?”

“Da.”

“Okay.”

She was already thinking three steps ahead.

“Okay. We will pick Shane up tomorrow before you leave, but before that we need to figure out the media situation.”

Shane groaned.

“Mom.”

“No, this is serious.”

“It can wait until morning.”

“It absolutely cannot wait until morning.”

She was already pacing.

“The league is going to want statements. Reporters are going to camp outside the hospital. Someone is probably tracking your social media accounts right now.”

“Definitely tweeting,” Shane mumbled.

“Definitely tweeting,” Yuna agreed.

Ilya watched her for a moment.

Then, very simply, he said, “I trust you.”

Yuna stopped pacing.

The words clearly caught her off guard.

“Thank you.”

Ilya shrugged.

“You seem scary enough to handle reporters.”

David laughed.

“That might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to her.”

“It is.”

“David.”

“What?”

“Get some sleep, boys.”

He gently wrapped an arm around Yuna's shoulders and began steering her toward the door before she could start planning press conferences at two in the morning.

“We will handle this tomorrow,” he promised.

The door clicked shut behind them.

The room finally fell quiet.

For the first time all day, there were no reporters.

No teammates.

No coaches.

No parents.

Just Shane and Ilya.

The hospital bed was far too small for two grown hockey players.

Neither of them cared.

Ilya carefully climbed onto the edge beside him, trying not to jostle the sling or aggravate the concussion.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The steady beep of the monitor filled the silence. Shane was almost asleep when he felt Ilya's hand find his.

“I thought I lost you.”

The words were so quiet Shane almost missed them.

“I thought I killed you.”

The guilt in his voice made Shane's chest ache. 

“You would have to try harder next time.”

Ilya let out a short laugh. It sounded suspiciously close to a sob. 

Shane squeezed his hand. “Ilya.”

“I prayed.”

That got Shane's attention. “What?”

“I prayed.”

Ilya stared at the ceiling. “I told him to take me instead.”

Shane blinked. “You're religious?”

“No.” The answer came immediately. “My mama was.”

His fingers brushed the small cross still hanging around his neck.

“She gave me this when I was little.”

Shane had seen it a hundred times.

He'd never thought much about it.

“But when God could not take away her sadness, I stopped believing.”

The room fell quiet.

Shane turned his head. “What happened to her?”

For a long moment, Ilya didn't answer.

When he finally spoke, his voice was flat.

Careful.

As though the words had been buried for years.

“By accident. She accidentally took a whole bottle of pills.”

Shane's stomach dropped.

“I was twelve.” Ilya swallowed. “I kept trying to wake her up.”

The confession hung heavily between them.

“I thought if I shook her harder…” His voice cracked. “Or yelled louder…” He looked away. “But she never woke up.”

Everything clicked into place.

The panic on the ice.

The way Ilya had looked at him.

The desperate kiss.

The tears he had tried so hard to hide.

For a moment, Shane forgot about the pain in his shoulder.

Forgot about the concussion.

Forgot about everything except the man lying beside him.

Slowly, carefully, he reached across with his good arm.

“I woke up.”

Ilya closed his eyes.

Shane squeezed his hand. “I woke up.”

When Ilya finally looked at him again, his eyes were shining. “Da.”

“You didn't lose me.”

For the first time since the accident, some of the fear left Ilya's face.

Not all of it.

Maybe not ever.

But enough.

Enough for him to lean closer.

Enough for him to press his forehead against Shane's.

Enough for the knot in his chest to loosen, if only a little.

Shane studied him in the dim hospital light.

There were still traces of dried tears on Ilya's face.

He looked exhausted.

Older somehow.

Like tonight had dragged every buried memory to the surface.

“Tell me about your mom.”

Ilya was quiet for a moment.

Shane thought he might not answer.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft. “She was not weak.” The response was immediate. Fierce. “Do not think she was weak.”

“I don't.”

“Good.”

Ilya stared up at the ceiling.

Thinking.

Remembering.

“She was strong. Stronger than anyone I have ever known.” A small smile appeared on his face. “She was kind.” The smile grew. “She always wore this bright red coat in winter.”

Shane listened quietly.

“I would come out after hockey practice and look for it.” Ilya laughed softly.

“There would be hundreds of people. Parents everywhere.” His accent thickened the way it always did when he talked about home. “I never looked for her face.”

“No?”

“No.”

A shake of his head.

“I looked for the red coat.”

The image was so vivid Shane could almost see it.

A small boy weaving through a crowd.

Searching.

“I would run to her every time.”

The smile faded.

Not completely.

Just enough.

“She always pretended she did not see me until the last second.”

Shane smiled. “Why?”

“So I could tackle her.”

That earned a genuine laugh.

“I was very annoying child.”

“You're a very annoying adult.”

“Da.” The answer was immediate. They lay in comfortable silence for a moment. Then Ilya looked at him. Really looked at him.

The same way he had on the ice. The same way he had in the ambulance. Like he was making sure Shane was still there.

“She would have loved you.”

Shane's throat tightened. “Ilya—”

“It is true.”

There wasn't a hint of doubt in his voice.

“She liked people who were kind.” His thumb brushed across Shane's hand. “She liked people who made others feel safe.”

The room suddenly felt very small. Very quiet. “She would have liked how stubborn you are.”

“That's definitely not a compliment.”

“It is from Russian mothers.”

Shane laughed. Ilya smiled.

Then his expression softened. “She would have seen you one time and decided you belonged at our table forever.”

The words hit harder than Shane expected.

Because Ilya wasn't just talking about his mother. He was talking about family. About belonging. About being loved without conditions.

Shane blinked rapidly. “You really think so?”

“I know so.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Shane carefully shifted closer despite the protest from his shoulder.

Ilya immediately adjusted around him.

Instinctively.

Like he always did.

Outside the hospital, reporters were probably gathering.

Phones were ringing.

The hockey world was changing.

Tomorrow would be complicated. Tomorrow would be scary. Tomorrow would demand answers.

But tonight there was only the quiet hospital room. Only the steady beep of the monitors. Only the warmth of the man beside him. And for the first time in years, neither of them had to hide.

They lay there in silence, exhaustion slowly pulling them under.

Shane's eyes were already drifting shut. The pain medication wasn't helping him stay awake. Neither was the concussion.

“Don't go to Russia this summer.” The words were slurred enough that Ilya almost missed them.

“What?”

“Come to my cottage.” Shane's eyes remained closed.

His voice was barely above a mumble now. “Will you come to the cottage this summer?” A pause. “Don't go to Russia.”

The last part came out softer.

More vulnerable.

As if Shane were asking for something much bigger than a vacation.

As if he were asking Ilya to stay.

To choose something different.

To choose him.

Ilya felt something tighten in his chest.

For years, summer had meant returning to Russia.

Returning to memories.

Returning to ghosts.

But tonight, lying in a hospital bed beside Shane, the idea of a quiet lake and a little cottage didn't sound so bad.

Neither did the idea of waking up next to Shane without having to sneak out before sunrise.

Shane is too tired and on pain meds for Ilya to explain that the moment he kissed Shane, he could not return to Russia, so he just simply says,  “If I say yes, will you go to sleep, Hollander?”

A sleepy smile appeared on Shane's face. “Yes.”

Ilya shook his head. 

Even half-conscious, he was impossible. 

“Da.”

The smile widened. “Okay.” 

Within seconds, Shane was asleep.

Just like that.

His breathing evened out. The tension left his face. And for the first time all night, he looked peaceful.

Ilya watched him for a long moment. Just watched.

The man he'd almost lost.

The man he'd loved for years.

The man who had somehow become the most important person in his life.

Tomorrow would bring reporters.

Statements.

Questions.

Consequences.

The entire hockey world would be waiting for answers. But tomorrow could wait.

Carefully, Ilya reached over and laced their fingers together beneath the hospital blanket.

Then he closed his eyes.

For the first time since Shane had crashed into the boards, he let himself believe everything might be okay.

And as sleep finally pulled him under, one thought lingered above all the others.

No more hiding.

Never again.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

April 2017-Boston

The flight back to Boston was miserable. Nobody was sleeping. Not really.

A few guys had headphones on. Others stared at movies playing on the seatback screens without actually watching them.

Every television in the airport had been showing the same footage. Ilya hitting Shane. Shane going down. The kiss. Over and over.

The hockey world had apparently decided nothing else had happened that day.

Ilya sat in his seat near the front of the plane. His arms folded. His eyes closed. Pretending to sleep. It wasn't working.

He could feel people looking at him. Could feel the questions. Nobody had actually asked any of them. Not yet. The silence was somehow worse.

“So.” Cliff asks. 

Ilya opened one eye. Cliff Marlow was sitting next to Ilya. Looking deeply uncomfortable.

“What?”

Cliff rubbed the back of his neck. “So did Shane really ask me out?”

For the first time all day, Ilya almost smiled. “No.”

“Okay.” Cliff nodded. “I didn't think so.” A pause. “Would've been weird.”

“Yes.”

“Especially because he's apparently dating you.”

“Da.”

Cliff was quiet for a moment. “Seven years?”

Ilya looked out the window. “Something like that.”

“Holy shit.”

That seemed to be everyone's favorite phrase today.

Holy shit.

What the fuck.

Are you serious?

Nobody had come up with anything more original.

Cliff shifted in his seat. “You know, I thought you hated him.”

“Many people thought that.”

“You hit him.”

“I told you that I got him. You did not listen,” Ilya says. 

Cliff stared at him. Then started laughing. A few nearby players glanced over. “Okay, that's actually fair.”

Ilya closed his eyes again. The conversation should have ended there.

Instead, Cliff got quieter. “Is he okay?”

The question immediately wiped away whatever amusement Ilya had been feeling.

His chest tightened. The image flashed through his mind again. Shane hitting the boards. Shane not moving. The trainers running onto the ice.

“Concussion.” The word came out flat. “Broken collarbone.”

Cliff winced. “Shit.”

“Da.”

Guilt settled heavily in Ilya's stomach. It hadn't left since the moment it happened.

Cliff frowned. “I wasn't trying to hurt him.”

“I know.”

“Just separate him from the puck.”

“I know.”

Cliff looked confused. “Then why did you—”

“I do not know.” The answer came quicker than expected. More honest than expected. “I just saw you coming.”

His fingers tightened around the armrest. “I wanted to protect him.” 

Neither of them spoke.

For a moment, all that could be heard was the low hum of the plane engines.

Finally, Cliff sighed.

“You know nobody gives a shit that you're gay, right?”

That got Ilya's attention.

He turned his head.

Cliff shrugged.

“Okay, maybe somebody does.”

“Helpful, but I’m not gay.”

“I'm serious. Bisexual, gay, whatever you are.” Cliff gestured toward the rest of the team. “Half these idiots are just trying to figure out how the hell you kept a secret for seven years.”

A few players nearby immediately looked away.

Caught listening.

Cowards.

“I wasn't trying to keep secret from them.”

“No?”

“No.”

Cliff frowned. “Then who were you hiding from?”

The answer came immediately. “The league.”

Silence.

Nobody laughed.

Nobody argued.

Because everyone on that plane knew exactly what he meant.

Cliff stared at him for a long moment.

Then nodded.

“Yeah.”

Just one word.

Yeah.

And somehow that felt like the first real conversation Ilya had had since leaving the hospital.

Cliff shifted in his seat.

“Everyone on the team is just scared of you.”

Ilya snorted. “Good.”

“I am serious.”

“So am I.”

Cliff rolled his eyes. “People don't know what to say.”

“I am same person I was yesterday.”

“That's not really the point.”

Maybe not.

The plane fell quiet again.

Then Cliff sighed. “Coach is pissed, though.”

That got a laugh out of Ilya. A short one. Humorless. “Coach has always been pissed.”

“Not like this.”

No. Probably not. The image of his coach's face after the game flashed through his mind. The yelling. The threats. The disappointment. None of it had mattered. Not when Shane had been lying motionless on the ice.

“I will take suspension. I will take trade.”

Cliff looked at him. “You don't know if they're trading you.”

“I know nothing.”

That much was true. The league hadn't called. Management hadn't called. Nobody seemed willing to say what happened next. Only that there would be consequences.

“I do not regret my actions.” The words came out without hesitation. Without doubt.

Cliff studied him carefully. “None of them?”

For the first time, Ilya hesitated.

He thought about the hit.

About Shane's head striking the boards. About the blood draining from his face when he thought Shane wasn't waking up. That part he regretted. He would regret it for the rest of his life.

But the kiss?

Following him to the hospital?

Refusing to leave his side?

No.

Never.

“I regret hitting him.”

Cliff nodded. “Fair.”

“But not kissing him.”

The answer surprised neither of them.

A smile tugged at Cliff's mouth.

“Yeah. I figured.”

Ilya looked out the window.

Somewhere below them, the lights of a city glittered in the darkness.

Shane was still in a hospital bed.

Probably sleeping.

Hopefully sleeping.

“I spent seven years hiding.” His voice was quiet now. “Then I thought he was dead.”

The words hung heavily between them. Cliff didn't joke. Didn't interrupt. Didn't tell him everything would be okay. He just listened.

“I looked at him and thought he was gone.” Ilya swallowed. “And suddenly I did not care who knew.”

For the first time all night, Cliff didn't have an answer. Neither did Ilya. The only thing he knew for certain was that if he had to go back and do it all again—

Every consequence.

Every headline.

Every suspension.

Every angry coach.

Every uncomfortable conversation.

He would still choose Shane.

May 2017- Montreal

Shane had spent the last few weeks recovering at his parents' house.

Recovering was a generous word for it.

The headaches had finally started easing up, and bright lights didn't make him immediately want to crawl into a dark room anymore, but he was still a long way from feeling normal. His collarbone was healing slower than his patience, and every day seemed to bring a new article speculating about him and Ilya.

At least hockey had provided a distraction.

Unfortunately, Montreal had lost in the playoffs. Which meant today was locker clean-out day. One last trip to the practice facility before everyone scattered for the summer. The parking lot was already packed when Shane arrived.

Players were notoriously bad procrastinators. Every year, coaches gave them weeks to clean out their lockers, and every year most of them waited until the last possible day.

The facility buzzed with activity. Equipment managers hauled boxes through the hallways. Players carried armfuls of sticks and gear. Some lockers looked as though a tornado had ripped through them.

Shane's wasn't like that.

He'd never understood how guys managed to accumulate so much junk over the course of a season. He only had a few personal items to collect. 

Some clothes.

A couple pairs of shoes.

A framed photo his mother had given him years ago.

Nothing dramatic.

Nothing that should have made his stomach twist with anxiety.

“Hollander.”

Shane stopped. Coach Theriault was standing outside his office. The knot in Shane's stomach tightened immediately. Of course. 

The coach jerked his head toward the doorway. “Got a minute?”

Shane followed him inside.

The office looked exactly the same as it always had.

The same desk. The same whiteboard. The same framed photos from championship runs. For a moment, Shane felt twenty years old again. A rookie waiting to be lectured.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better.” Shane adjusted his sling. “Still broken.”

Coach snorted. “Your mother's been keeping me updated.”

Of course she had.

“Sorry about that.”

“I'm not.”

The room went quiet. Shane knew what was coming.

Coach leaned back in his chair. “I have to ask.”

“Okay.”

“Was it a joke?”

No point pretending he didn't know what Coach meant.

“No.”

Coach stared at him. “No?”

“No.”

A muscle jumped in Coach's jaw. “Jesus Christ.”

Shane looked at the floor. The silence stretched.

Finally, Coach asked, “How long?”

There was probably a correct answer here. A safe answer.

Shane didn't have the energy for either. “Years.”

Coach blinked. “Years?”

“Yeah.”

“How many years?”

Shane sighed. “Since before our rookie year.”

Coach leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. For a second, he looked like he wanted to laugh. Or scream. Possibly both. “Seven years?”

“Give or take.”

“Seven fucking years.”

“Yeah.” 

Coach looked at him. Really looked at him. Then shook his head. “I can't even get my wife to keep a secret for seven days.”

Despite everything, Shane laughed.

Immediately regretted it when his head started throbbing.

Coach noticed. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“Liar.”

“Probably.”

The corner of Coach's mouth twitched. Then his expression sobered. “What happens now?”

Shane frowned. “I was going to ask you that.”

Coach sighed heavily. “Management doesn't know.”

“The league?”

“They don't know either.”

That was somehow worse. 

“What about Boston?”

Coach shrugged. “No idea.”

The uncertainty sat heavily between them. For the first time since the kiss, Shane realized nobody had a plan.

Not him.

Not Ilya.

Not the teams.

Not the league.

Nobody.

Coach was quiet for a moment.

Then he asked, “Are you happy?”

The question caught Shane completely off guard.

“What?”

“With him.”

Shane stared.

Coach shrugged.

“Seems relevant.”

For the first time all day, Shane smiled.

A real smile.

The kind he couldn't quite stop.

“Yeah.”

Coach nodded once.

“Okay.”

And somehow that felt like the first good thing that had happened in weeks.

The moment passed.

“Now go fucking clean out your locker.”

“Yes, Coach.” He stood carefully. “Am I cleaning it out for the summer or for good?”

The question slipped out before he could stop it.

Coach's expression tightened. “That's still up in the air. I have to talk to management.”

Shane's stomach dropped.

Coach sighed heavily. “What you two did was stupid.”

Shane didn't argue.

Mostly because Coach wasn't entirely wrong. “Rozanov's benched.”

Shane already knew that.

Ilya had called him three separate times to complain about it.

Apparently being publicly outed to the entire hockey world had not improved his temper.

“They can't bench me for kissing a boy,” Ilya had ranted over the phone.

“They're not.”

“They are.”

“They aren't.”

“They are.”

The argument had lasted twenty minutes.

Eventually, the league had settled on a different explanation.

Officially, Ilya wasn't suspended for kissing Shane.

He was benched for ignoring a referee's orders, refusing to leave the ice, and getting ejected.

Which was technically true.

Just not the whole truth.

Ilya remained unconvinced.

“The timing is suspicious,” he'd said.

“The timing is very suspicious.”

Coach rubbed a hand over his face. “He gave them an excuse.”

“I know.”

“He can't ignore officials.”

“I know.”

“He definitely can't throw his stick on the ice and tell a referee to eject him.”

“Yeah.”

Shane thought back to the furious phone call two nights earlier.

“Now New York is going to win the Cup because I am benched.” Ilya says. 

“You don't know that.”

“I do know that.”

“You sound insane.”

“I am captain. I know things.”

Even concussed, Shane had laughed.

“He's taking it well.”

Coach barked out a laugh. “No, he isn't.”

“No.”

“Not even a little.”

For a moment, they shared the same exhausted amusement.

Then Coach pointed toward the door. “Go get your stuff, Hollander.”

Shane nodded.

This time when he stood, Coach didn't stop him.

And somehow that felt like a good sign.

The feeling lasted until he reached the locker room.

Shane paused with his hand on the door.

He wanted to keep his head down.

Grab his stuff.

Leave.

Simple.

Unfortunately, nothing about his life was simple anymore.

He stepped inside. The room went quiet. Not completely. A few conversations continued in hushed voices.

Equipment bags zipped. Tape ripped. But nobody looked at him. Which was somehow worse.

Guys he'd played beside for years suddenly found the floor fascinating. Or their phones. Or the inside of their lockers. Anything except him.

Shane sighed. His head was already starting to pound. “Okay.” Nothing. “Okay, you guys saw it.”

A few heads turned.

“I fucking kissed Rozanov.”

More heads turned.

“If you've got questions, ask them.”

The room remained silent. For about three seconds.

Then Cormac snorted. “It's fucked up.”

There it was. 

Shane nodded. “Helpful.”

Cormac shrugged. “No, seriously.”

“What?”

“It's fucked up.”

Shane dropped his equipment bag beside his stall. “Me kissing Rozanov?”

Cormac looked offended. “No.”

Shane blinked. “No?”

“He's your fucking rival.”

A few guys immediately nodded.

Shane stared. Then laughed. Which made his head hurt. Again. “Apparently not.”

The room actually chuckled at that. A little. Not much. But enough. Cormac pointed at him. “No, that's exactly what I'm talking about.”

“What?”

“You spent seven years convincing all of us you hated that guy.”

“I never said I hated him.”

“Bullshit.”

“Okay, maybe once.”

“Once?”

“Maybe more than once.”

Someone down the row laughed.

Cormac threw his hands up.

“You fought him.”

“We play hockey.”

“You chirped him constantly.”

“We play hockey.”

“You got suspended together twice.”

“We play hockey.”

“Jesus Christ.”

A few guys laughed.

Not many.

But enough.

Then J.J. spoke. “So you spent all this time lying to us?”

The room went quiet again. Shane looked over at him. The question hit differently coming from J.J. 

Cormac was confused. J.J. looked hurt. Hayden sat up straighter.

“You and that actress?” J.J. continued. “What was that? Just a beard or whatever you gay guys call it?”

Shane sighed. “No.”

J.J. frowned. “No?”

“Rose was real. I cared about her.”

He shrugged. “It was also during a time when Rozanov and I weren't together.”

“Jesus,” someone muttered.

The explanation didn't seem to help.

If anything, J.J. looked more frustrated. “How are we supposed to trust you as captain?”

The words landed harder than anything else.

Shane felt his stomach drop. “J.J.—”

“No.” J.J. shook his head. “You lied to all of us for years.”

Shane opened his mouth. Then closed it again. Because he didn't actually have a defense.

He had lied.

Not because he wanted to.

Not because he enjoyed it.

Because he'd been terrified.

But that didn't change the fact that he'd lied.

Hayden stood. “Just because you tell us about every girl you hook up with doesn't mean everyone else has to.”

“That's not the point.”

“It's exactly the point.”

J.J. looked ready to argue. Hayden didn't let him.

“Shane is our fucking captain.”

“He's a fucking liar.”

The room went silent.

Hayden took a step forward. “Just because Shane can't punch you right now doesn't mean I won't.”

J.J. blinked. “Seriously?”

“Very seriously.”

“Hayden.”

“I'm serious, Shane.”

A few players immediately moved closer. Not because they thought Hayden would actually swing. Because everyone knew there was at least a fifty percent chance he would.

Hayden pointed toward J.J.'s stall. “Now finish cleaning out your locker before I shove you into it.”

To everyone's surprise, J.J. barked out a laugh. “Fuck you.”

“I’m a married man, but thanks for the offer,” Hayden says. 

That earned a few reluctant chuckles.

The tension cracked.

Just enough.

J.J. looked back at Shane.

The anger was still there.

The hurt too.

“Just fuck off and go home.”

The words landed harder than Shane expected.

Not because they were particularly cruel.

Because they were coming from J.J.

Around the room, several guys muttered in agreement.

Nobody looked happy.

Nobody looked comfortable.

Most of them just looked confused.

And Shane hated that somehow.

Hayden immediately stood.

“Get your heads out of your asses.”

The room went quiet.

“You guys are acting like Shane murdered somebody.”

Nobody answered.

Hayden pointed around the room.

“And when you realize how fucking rude you've been, you're going to regret it.”

A few players looked away.

Others stared at their lockers.

J.J. didn't say anything.

That almost felt worse.

Shane looked around the room one last time.

At the men he'd spent years playing beside.

Men he'd won with.

Lost with.

Bled with.

Men who had become family.

And suddenly nobody seemed willing to look him in the eye.

The ache in his chest was worse than the collarbone.

Worse than the concussion.

Worse than all of it.

His locker was already empty.

There wasn't much to pack.

A few clothes.

Some personal items.

His backpack wasn't even full.

Still, he slung it over his shoulder.

Ready to leave.

“Everyone has my number.”

A few heads lifted.

“And everyone knows where I live.”

Nobody responded.

Shane nodded once.

“Okay.”

Hayden followed him toward the door.

Just before Shane stepped into the hallway, Hayden lowered his voice.

“Jackie says when you're feeling better, you should come over for dinner.”

The offer nearly undid him.

A normal invitation.

Like nothing had changed.

Like he was still Shane.

“Thanks.”

Hayden nodded.

“Anytime.”

Shane left before anyone could see how much that meant.

The walk through the parking lot felt longer than usual.

By the time he reached his car, his hands were shaking.

Whether from anger, exhaustion, or the concussion, he wasn't entirely sure.

Maybe all three.

He climbed into the driver's seat and stared through the windshield for a long moment.

Then he pulled out his phone.

Ilya answered on the second ring.

“Hello?”

Shane laughed bitterly. “So fucking stupid.”

Immediately, Ilya's tone changed. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

Something about the answer made Ilya suspicious.

“Shane.”

“Nothing.”

“Shane.”

The warning in his voice was familiar.

“Fine.” Shane leaned his head back against the seat. “They were assholes.”

A dangerous silence followed. “What did they say?”

“Doesn't matter.”

“What did they say?”

Shane closed his eyes. “Ilya—”

“Give me names.”

Despite everything, Shane laughed.

A real laugh this time. Of course that was Ilya's response. Not comfort. Not reassurance. Violence.

“Absolutely not.”

“I am making list.”

“You are not making a list.”

“I am.”

“You are twenty-six years old.”

“And captain.”

“That's not relevant.”

“It is very relevant.”

Shane could practically hear him sitting up straighter.

“Give me names.”

“No.”

“Coward.”

“Psychopath.”

“Give me names.”

“No.”

There was a long pause.

Then Ilya sighed dramatically.

“Fine.”

“Thank you.”

“I will figure it out myself.”

Shane groaned.

“That's somehow worse.”

“Probably.”

For the first time since leaving the locker room, Shane smiled.

And hearing that smile through the phone, Ilya smiled too.

The silence between them settled into something comfortable.

Familiar.

“Is your team taking it any better?”

Ilya barked out a laugh.

“No.”

That answer came far too quickly.

“Still icing me out.”

Shane winced.

“Seriously?”

“Da.”

“Everybody?”

“Mostly.”

A pause.

“Except Marlow.”

Shane laughed.

“Really?”

“He asked if you actually tried to ask him out from bad joke I make.”

“Oh my God.”

“I told him no.”

“Thank you.”

“Then he asked if I had been dating you for seven years.”

“That one's fair.”

“Then he said he thought I hated you.”

Shane smiled despite himself. “Also fair.”

A beat passed.

“He has one brain cell left and spends most of his time trying not to lose it.”

That got a genuine laugh out of Shane. The kind that made his shoulder hurt. Worth it.

“At least somebody's talking to you.”

“Da.”

The humor faded.

Neither of them mentioned how lonely the last few weeks had been.

How strange it felt walking into rooms full of people who suddenly didn't know how to act around them.

“How bad is it?”

Ilya was quiet for a second.

“Not terrible.”

Which meant it was terrible.

“Liar.”

“I learned from you.”

“Rude.”

“True.”

Shane stared out at the parking lot. “You know.”

“What?”

“We could go to Ottawa.”

The silence that followed was immediate.

“Ottawa?”

“Yeah.”

“You have concussion.”

“I do.”

“You definitely have concussion.”

“They're bad, but we could turn them around.”

Ilya laughed so hard Shane had to pull the phone away from his ear. “That's your solution?”

“It's a good solution.”

“It is terrible solution.”

“We'd be together.”

“We would also be playing for Ottawa.”

“Okay, that's fair.”

“Thank you.”

Shane smiled. “I can already hear my mom pitching it.”

“Exactly.”

“You sound like her, you know.”

Shane immediately grimaced. “I do not want to hear that.”

The laugh that escaped him was warm and familiar.

The sound settled something inside Ilya.

For weeks, everything had felt uncertain.

The league.

The media.

Their teams.

Their careers.

The future.

But Shane laughing? That still sounded exactly the same. And somehow that made everything a little easier.

“Hey, Hollander?”

“Yeah?”

“If we ever both end up in Ottawa, something has gone terribly wrong.”

Shane laughed. “Or terribly right.”

Ilya rolled his eyes even though Shane couldn't see it. “Goodbye, Shane.”

“Ilya—”

The line disconnected.

Still smiling, Shane tossed his phone onto the passenger seat.

Ottawa.

As if that would ever happen.

Chapter End Notes

I said this was a one shot and then my best friend and I will be like, BUT then I should do the hospital scene and then she was like also the locker room scene after they are outed. So, if you just say what about this scene it will probably happen.

Chapter 4

June 2017- Boston

Ilya watched New York win the Stanley Cup from the couch in his penthouse. He fucking knew it. The second Boston suspended him, he'd known exactly how the playoffs were going to end.

New York.

Of course it was New York.

A bottle of beer sat untouched on the coffee table. The television commentators were shouting over the roar of the crowd. Ilya wasn't really listening. Mostly he was sulking. Which, according to Shane, was one of his favorite hobbies.

“Idiots,” he muttered at the television.

New York's captain lifted the Cup. The crowd exploded. Ilya rolled his eyes. He should have been playing. Should have been competing.

Instead, he was sitting alone in Boston watching someone else celebrate. His phone buzzed with texts every few minutes. Most of them from Shane. Some from Cliff. One from his coach. He ignored all of them.

The penthouse felt too big these days. Too quiet.

The moment he kissed Shane on the ice, he had given up more than hockey. More than the playoffs. More than his reputation. Russia was gone too. Even if nobody had explicitly said it.

He knew. There would be no going back. Not really. Not anymore.

Shane had invited him to the cottage in Ontario weeks ago. Repeatedly. Yuna had started inviting him too. David had apparently joined the campaign. And yet Ilya remained exactly where he was.

Alone.

Watching hockey. Making bad decisions.

On the television, Scott Hunter skated another lap around the ice carrying the Cup.

Ilya narrowed his eyes. “Dinosaur.”

Hunter pointed toward the stands. The cameras followed. A man appeared at the tunnel entrance. The crowd erupted.

“What is happening?”

Hunter skated toward him. The man stepped onto the ice.

And then—

“Oh, fuck off.”

Hunter kissed him. Right there. Center ice. Stanley Cup Final. National television. The crowd somehow got louder.

Ilya stared. Hunter kept kissing him. The cameras kept filming. The commentators sounded like they were collectively having heart attacks.

“Unbelievable.”

His phone immediately started ringing.

The screen lit up with the name Jane.

Ilya answered. “Hello.”

“Holy shit.” Shane sounded delighted. “Holy shit.”

“I know.”

“Are you seeing this?”

“I am unfortunately seeing this.”

Scott Hunter was still kissing his boyfriend. The Cup sat forgotten nearby.

“I cannot believe it.” Shane was laughing now.

Actually laughing. The sound made something in Ilya's chest feel lighter.

“They actually did it.” Shane says. 

“Apparently.” Ilya rolls his eyes. 

“Scott Hunter just came out on national television.”

“I hate Hunter.”

That only made Shane laugh harder. “You hate everybody.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Ilya pointed at the television despite Shane being hundreds of miles away. “I hate Hunter specifically.”

“Why?”

“He stole my move.”

There was a long pause.

Then Shane laughed so hard he nearly dropped the phone. “Rozanov,”

“He did.”

“You do not own kissing.”

“I did it first.”

“You absolutely did not.”

“I did it first on ice.”

“That's not a thing.”

“It is now.”

Scott Hunter raised the Stanley Cup. His boyfriend stood beside him. The crowd kept cheering. For the first time in months, nobody in hockey seemed angry.

Nobody seemed scandalized.

Nobody seemed afraid.

They were just cheering.

Watching.

Celebrating.

And suddenly Ilya found himself smiling. Just a little. “Hollander?”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe hockey is not completely stupid.”

“Wow.”

“Do not make big deal of it.”

“Too late.”

And for the first time since that night in Montreal, the future didn't seem quite so impossible.

“Tell me about Ottawa.” Ilya settled farther into the couch and took a sip of his beer.

On television, Scott Hunter was still celebrating.

Show-off.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “You're actually considering Ottawa?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“I am considering making fun of Ottawa.”

“That's fair.”

Shane laughed. “Well, we'd be captains.”

Ilya immediately sat up straighter. “Da.”

“You would not be captain.”

“What?”

“You'd be alternate captain.”

“I am hanging up.”

Shane's laugh echoed through the phone. “Okay, okay. You can be captain.”

“Thank you.”

“I'll be alternate captain.”

“Good.”

“Wow. Power really goes to your head.”

“I already have power.”

“That's somehow worse.”

Ilya grinned into his beer. On television, Hunter was still talking to reporters. Still celebrating. Still existing. Unfortunately.

“Who else is there?”

“What?”

“On Ottawa.”

“I don't know.”

“You suggested Ottawa.”

“I was concussed.”

“Fair.”

Shane laughed again. “Oh. Hayden Pike would probably come with us.”

Ilya immediately made a face. “This is bad dirty talk.”

Shane nearly choked. “Oh my God.”

“No.”

“Hayden isn't that bad.”

“He is exactly that bad.”

“He's one of my best friends.”

“He is annoying.”

“You've met him twice.”

“That was enough.”

“You hated him before you met him.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“His face.”

Shane laughed so hard Ilya had to hold the phone away from his ear. “You are unbelievable. Hunter and Pike can be on the team.”

Ilya shook his head. “Now Ottawa sounds terrible.”

“You just wanted to play together.”

“Not if Hayden Pike is there.”

“That's rude.”

“It is accurate.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The easy laughter faded into something softer. Comfortable. “Hey, Ilya?”

“Da?”

“You should come to the cottage.”

There it was again. The invitation. Shane had been making it for weeks. Ever since the hospital. Every time they talked. Ilya looked around the empty penthouse. The empty rooms. The untouched guest room. The silence.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Maybe.”

“That's progress.”

“Do not get excited.”

“I am absolutely getting excited.”

Ilya rolled his eyes. But he was smiling. And Shane could hear it. Which, somehow, made him smile too. “Your dad seems boring though.”

“Excuse me?”

“It must run in family.”

“Hey!”

Shane sat up straighter. “My dad is not boring.”

“I met him.”

“You met him once.”

“And he seemed boring.”

“He's normal.”

“Same thing.”

“It is not.”

“It is.”

Shane laughed. “My dad works for the Treasury Board of Canada.” There was a pause. A long pause.

Then Ilya said, completely deadpan: “Sorry.”

“What?”

“I fell asleep halfway through that.”

Shane barked out a laugh. “Fuck you.”

“Very boring job.”

“My dad likes his job.”

“Your dad likes spreadsheets.”

“He does not.”

“He absolutely likes spreadsheets.”

“You don't know that.”

“I know many things.”

“You know nothing.”

“Wrong.” 

Shane could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

“I know your father owns at least six identical sweaters.” Ilya says. 

“Okay, that's actually true.”

“And he says things like 'let's look at all our options.'”

Another pause. “Also true.”

“And when somebody cuts him off in traffic he probably says, 'Well, that was unnecessary.'”

Shane was laughing too hard to answer.

“Tell me I am wrong.”

“You're not.”

“Exactly.”

“My dad is nice.”

“I did not say he wasn't.”

“He's a good person.”

“Da.” The answer came softer. More sincere. “He is.”

The joking disappeared for a moment.

Because David Hollander had shown up at the hospital.

Had defended Shane.

Hadn't yelled.

Hadn't judged.

Had simply stayed.

For a guy like Ilya, that meant something.

A lot, actually.

“He looked at me like he wanted to understand.”

Shane smiled. “That's Dad.”

“Very strange man.”

“He works in government.”

“Exactly.”

“That's not a personality trait.”

“It is in Canada.”

Shane groaned. “You're impossible.”

“Da.”

“Mom likes you, by the way.”

Ilya immediately looked suspicious. “That feels dangerous.”

“It probably is.”

“Good.”

“Why is that good?”

“Because your mother is terrifying.”

Shane laughed. “She likes that you're scared of her.”

“Wonderful.”

“And honestly?”

“Hmm?”

“I think my dad likes you too.”

Ilya was quiet. The television continued playing highlights from New York's celebration. Hunter and his boyfriend flashed across the screen again.

This time Ilya didn't even complain. “You think?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “You saved his son.”

The words hung between them.

Ilya looked down at the beer bottle in his hand. He still wasn't sure he deserved credit for that. Not when he was the reason Shane got hurt in the first place. 

Before he could say anything, Shane continued. “You know, if you come to the cottage, you'll probably get stuck fishing with him.”

“Absolutely not. I do not fish.”

“You grew up in Russia.”

“And?”

“You don't fish?”

“No.”

“You hunt?”

“No.”

“You ski?”

“No.”

“What do Russians do?”

“Play hockey.”

Shane laughed so hard he nearly dropped the phone. And for the first time all summer, neither of them talked about suspensions. Or reporters. Or the future. They just talked. Like they always had.

Finally, Ilya stretched out across the couch. “I am coming to cottage.”

Shane immediately smiled. “Really?”

“Da.”

“You promise?”

“I am not fishing with your father.”

“You don't even know if he's going fishing.”

“He is Canadian.”

“That's not how that works.”

“It absolutely is.”

Shane laughed.

“I'll tell him you're excited.”

“Shane.”

“I'll tell him you want quality bonding time.”

“Shane.”

“I'll tell him you asked for matching fishing hats.”

“Shane Hollander.”

The warning only made Shane laugh harder. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Shane said casually, “And then Ottawa.”

Ilya narrowed his eyes. “Do not.”

“With Pike and Hunter.”

“Stop.”

“We could all live in neighboring condos.”

“Stop.”

“Double dates.”

“Stop.”

“Game nights.”

“I am hanging up.”

“Hayden could teach you how to be likable.”

“Kill me now.”

Shane was practically wheezing. “Come on. It'd be fun.”

“It would be nightmare.”

“You don't even know Hunter.”

“I know enough.”

“You watched him kiss his boyfriend for three seconds.”

“He stole my move.”

“Still not your move.”

“It was absolutely my move.”

Shane shook his head. “I cannot believe this is your biggest issue with Scott Hunter.”

“It is very important issue.”

“Right.”

“I created romantic public hockey kiss.”

“You did not.”

“I inspired generation.” Shane laughed again.

The sound echoed through Ilya's penthouse.

For the first time in weeks, the place didn't feel quite so empty.

“Get some sleep, Rozanov.”

“I do not need sleep.”

“You absolutely do.”

“Maybe.”

A pause.

Then Shane's voice softened. “I'm glad you're coming.”

The teasing disappeared instantly.

Just like that.

Ilya stared out at the city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Da.” The answer came quietly. “Me too.”

Neither of them said goodbye.

Neither of them ever really did.

Eventually the conversation just faded into comfortable silence.

Two voices on opposite ends of a phone line.

One in Boston.

One recovering in Ontario.

Both suspended somewhere between the lives they'd had and the lives they were about to build.

And for the first time since that night in Montreal, neither of them felt quite so alone.

The television continued playing postgame coverage in the background.

Neither of them were really paying attention.

Until—

“First Rozanov and Hollander, now Hunter with this mystery man. When did hockey get so sexual?”

Shane immediately groaned. “Oh, for fuck's sake.”

Ilya's eyes narrowed at the television.

A second commentator laughed. “Well, Hollander had a head injury, so how do we know Rozanov didn't force himself on him?”

The room went silent. For a moment, Ilya genuinely thought he'd misheard. Then the commentator kept talking. Trying to sound reasonable. Trying to sound objective. Somehow making it worse.

“Are you seeing this?” Shane asked.

“Da.” Ilya's grip tightened around the beer bottle.

“So we're at conspiracy theories now.”

“Apparently.”

The commentator continued. “I'm just saying, we don't know all the facts.”

Ilya muted the television. Hard. “Coward.”

“Who?”

“Both of them.”

Shane sighed. “Yeah.”

The anger that had been simmering quietly inside Ilya for weeks suddenly flared.

Not because people thought he was gay. Not because people were talking about the kiss. But because they were talking about Shane. Like he wasn't there. Like he hadn't made his own choices. Like he hadn't leaned forward and kissed Ilya back. Like he hadn't spent seven years loving him.

“You said my name.” The words slipped out before Ilya could stop them.

Shane went quiet. “I know.” A pause. “I said your name.”

“You said my name.” Ilya stared at the dark television screen.

“You were hurt.” His voice was getting rough now. “You were on the ice and said my name.”

The memory still made his chest tighten. Still woke him up some nights. Still made him wonder what would have happened if Shane hadn't opened his eyes. “I did not force anything.”

“Hey.” Shane's voice softened immediately. “I leaned in.” 

Ilya closed his eyes. 

“I kissed you too.” The certainty in Shane's voice left no room for argument. “You did not force anything.”  Another pause. “You were crying, remember?”

“Was not.”

“You absolutely were.”

“Maybe little bit.”

“A lot bit.”

Ilya groaned.

Shane laughed. “Ilya, technically I kissed you.”

“That is not how I remember it.”

“You leaned in halfway.”

“Because you were injured.”

“You still leaned in.”

“Da.”

“You wanted me to finish it.”

“Obviously.”

Shane smiled. “There it is.”

“What?”

“Your ego.”

“It is healthy amount of confidence.”

“You think you invented kissing.”

“I practically did.”

The commentators were still arguing on the muted television. Speculating. Judging. Inventing stories.

Ilya pointed at the screen.

“Maybe I should fight him.”

Shane laughed immediately.

“No.”

“Maybe little bit.”

“No.”

“One punch.”

“No.”

“Half punch?”

“That's not a thing.”

“It could be.”

Despite himself, Shane smiled. There he was. His ridiculous Russian. Always one step away from committing assault.

“You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think they're jealous.”

Ilya barked out a laugh. “Of concussion?”

“No.”

“Broken collarbone?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

Shane settled back against his pillow. “Us.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Ilya smiled. Slowly. Dangerously. “Obviously. You are with me. Who would not be jealous?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I am very lovable.”

“That's not the word I'd use.”

“Too late.”

The tension eased. Not completely. The comments still hurt. The headlines still hurt. The uncertainty still hung over both of them. But for tonight, they had each other. And somehow, that made the noise a little easier to ignore.

A comfortable silence settled between them.

Then Ilya spoke again. Quieter this time. More vulnerable. “I did not take advantage of your head injury.”

Shane's smile softened. “I know.”

“I was scared.” The admission barely made it above a whisper.

“I know.”

“I thought you were dead.”

Shane closed his eyes. For a second neither of them said anything.

Then Shane said softly, “You didn't take advantage of anything.”

Ilya swallowed. “You are sure?”

“Yes.”

“Very sure?”

“Yes, Ilya.”

“Extremely sure?”

Shane laughed. “Extremely sure.” A beat passed. “Technically I kissed you.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“You leaned in halfway.”

“Is my move!”

The outrage in Ilya's voice was immediate. Shane laughed so hard he nearly dropped the phone. “You don't own leaning in halfway.”

“I absolutely do.”

“You absolutely don't.”

“Hunter steals public kiss. Now you steal dramatic leaning.”

“You are impossible.”

“Da.”

And hearing Shane laugh again, hearing him alive and teasing and completely himself, Ilya finally laughed too.

Chapter 5

July 2017- Ontario 

After weeks of speculation, Shane and Ilya finally released a public statement. A short one. Simple. 

They confirmed they were together. Confirmed that nobody had taken advantage of anybody. Confirmed that they wanted privacy. Then they turned off their phones. Neither of them had looked back since. The world could survive without them for a few days. They needed time to breathe. Time to exist without reporters shoving microphones in their faces. Time to be together. 

There had been paparazzi waiting when Ilya landed in Ontario. Dozens of cameras. Questions shouted from every direction. Questions about Shane. About hockey. About Russia. About the kiss. It had taken security and a lot of swearing in Russian for Ilya to make it to the car.

But now they were at the cottage. Hidden away between the trees and the lake. No reporters. No teammates. No league officials. Just them. The fire crackled softly in the stone fireplace.

The sun was beginning to set over the water. Ilya was stretched across the couch with his head resting in Shane's lap as they watched the fire. 

One of Shane's hands drifted through his hair. Slow. Absentminded. Comfortable. The way it always did when they were alone. For a long time neither of them spoke.

The silence wasn't awkward. It never was. Then Ilya broke it.

“I cannot go back to Russia.”

The words were so quiet Shane almost missed them. “What?”

Ilya kept his eyes on the fire. “The moment I kissed you.” His jaw tightened. “I cannot go back.”

Shane's hand stilled in his hair. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. “You don't know that.”

“Yes.” The answer came immediately. “I do.”

The fire popped softly between them.

Shane swallowed. “Ilya—”

“Do you know what they are saying about me over there?” His voice was calm. Too calm. The way it got when he was trying very hard not to feel something. “I have seen the articles.”

Shane didn't answer. Because he had seen them too.

“I was already careful before.” Ilya stared into the flames. “I never brought anyone home.” A bitter laugh escaped him. 

“Not that there was anyone to bring home.” The smile disappeared quickly. “But now?”

He shook his head. “Everyone knows.” The words felt heavy. Permanent. “I am famous.”

That was the problem.

Not just in a homosexual relationship.

Visible.

Recognizable.

Easy to identify.

“I cannot just walk through airport and hope nobody notices.”

Shane's chest tightened.

“People know my face.”

Ilya finally looked at him. “If I go back, I do not know what happens.” The honesty in his voice was devastating. “Maybe nothing.”

A shrug.

“Maybe somebody decides to make example out of me.”

The cottage suddenly felt very quiet.

“Maybe somebody decides they do not like what they saw.”

Shane's fingers tightened in his hair. “Ilya.”

“Maybe I am fine.” Another shrug. “Maybe I am not.” Neither possibility sounded acceptable.  “Maybe I am lucky and just go to jail.”

“I hate that.”

“So do I.”

For years, Russia had always been there. Even when Ilya complained about it. Even when he avoided talking about it. It had still been home. Now it felt like something else. A place he loved that no longer loved him back.

“I knew that before I kissed you.”

Shane looked down at him. “You did?”

“Da.” The answer came without hesitation. “I knew.”

A long silence followed.

Then Shane asked quietly, “Do you regret it?”

For the first time all evening, Ilya smiled.

Small.

Certain.

Not even a little.

“No.”

He reached up and took Shane's hand.

“I would choose you again.”

Shane's chest tightened.

The certainty in Ilya's voice was almost frightening.

As if there had never been another option.

As if losing everything else had never even entered the equation.

“We can figure it out.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow.

“Figure out what?”

“Citizenship.”

Shane shrugged.

“We can get you citizenship in America.”

“That takes forever.”

“Okay, then Canada.”

“Your solution to everything is Canada.”

“You're literally in Canada right now.”

“Unfortunately.”

Shane rolled his eyes.

“I'm serious.”

“I know.”

“We'll figure something out.”

The words were simple. But Shane meant them. The way he meant everything when it came to Ilya. There had to be a solution. There always was.

Ilya looked back toward the fire. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then he said quietly, “I sold my Moscow apartment.”

Shane blinked. “What?”

“I sold it.”

“When?”

“A few weeks ago.”

The answer surprised him. Not because of the apartment itself. Because of what it meant.

That apartment had always existed in the background of their relationship.

The place Ilya returned to every summer.

The place he complained about.

The place he never stopped going back to.

Until now.

“Alexei is…” Ilya's jaw tightened. “I do not want to talk about him.”

Shane immediately understood. “He called?”

A bitter laugh escaped Ilya. “Of course he called.”

The television interview.

The kiss.

The headlines.

There was no chance Alexei hadn't seen it.

“He saw everything.” The fire crackled softly. “He contacted me.”

Shane squeezed his hand. “What did he want?”

“What he always wants.”

Money.

Attention.

Control.

A reaction.

“I told him no.” Ilya stared into the flames. “No more money.” The words came out cold. Final. “I set up trust for his daughter.”

Because of course he had.

Even now.

Even after everything.

Because Ilya could never quite stop caring about people who didn't deserve it. “But that is all.” A pause. “He called anyway.”

Shane already knew how the conversation had gone. “Called me names.”

Another shrug.

This one looked heavier.

Older.

Like it had been weighing on him for years. 

“Nothing creative.” The attempt at humor fell flat.

Shane moved his hand from Ilya's hair to his cheek. “Ilya.”

For the first time, Ilya looked tired.

Not angry.

Not defensive.

Just tired.

“My brother will not speak to me.” Another pause. The firelight flickered across his face. “I have no apartment there.” No hesitation this time. No joking. No sarcasm. Just truth. “I have no one left in Russia.”

The words hung heavily between them.

For years, Shane had watched Ilya leave every summer. Watched him complain about Russia. Complain about his family. Complain about Moscow. And then go back anyway. Because no matter how complicated it was, it had still been home.

Until now. 

Shane looked down at him. At the man stretched across his lap. At the man who had chosen him. Chosen him knowing exactly what it would cost.

“You have me.”

Ilya closed his eyes. 

Shane threaded his fingers through his hair. “You have my parents.”

A faint smile appeared. “Terrifying.”

“You have my cottage.”

“Less terrifying.”

“You have Canada.”

“Debatable.”

Shane laughed. Then his voice softened. “You have a home.”

For a moment, Ilya didn't answer.

The fire continued to crackle.

The lake outside remained perfectly still.

Finally, he opened his eyes.

And for the first time all evening, some of the grief there seemed a little less sharp.

“Da.” His fingers tightened around Shane's. “I think maybe I do.”

The words settled warmly between them. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled. The lake sat quiet beyond the windows.

Then Ilya sighed. “Maybe Ottawa is not bad idea.”

Shane laughed. “Look at that. Progress.”

“I could get Canadian citizenship.”

“Sure.”

“Or.”

Immediately, Shane knew he wasn't going to like whatever came next. “Or?”

“I could marry Svetlana.”

Shane froze. Ilya continued staring at the sky. Completely serious.

“Then I could go back to Russia.”

“No.”

The answer came out so fast that even Shane seemed surprised by it.

Ilya looked up.

One eyebrow raised.

Shane immediately coughed.

Trying—and failing—to look casual.

“Uh.”

Another cough.

“Ottawa is way better idea.”

A smile slowly spread across Ilya's face.

“Interesting.”

“Not interesting.”

“Very interesting.”

“Not at all.”

Ilya sat up slightly.

“Tell me more.”

“There is nothing to tell.”

“You seemed upset.”

“I was not upset.”

“You sounded upset.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Shane groaned. “Because Ottawa is a better plan.”

“Da?”

“Much better.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Excellent argument.”

“I know.”

The grin on Ilya's face only widened.

For the first time all night, he looked genuinely amused.

Not sad.

Not worried.

Not grieving.

Just amused.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “Svetlana would probably say yes.”

Shane glared at him. “She would not.”

“She likes me.”

“Everyone likes you.”

“True.”

“That wasn't a compliment.”

“Still true.”

Ilya settled back into Shane's lap. Looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Maybe I should call her.”

“You are not calling Svetlana.”

“Maybe just ask.”

“No.”

“Maybe little marriage.”

“No.”

“Tiny marriage.”

“No.”

Ilya laughed. A real laugh. And suddenly Shane realized this wasn't actually about Svetlana. Or citizenship. Or Russia. Ilya was teasing him.

Because for the first time since arriving at the cottage, he'd managed to pull Ilya out of his own head.

Managed to make him laugh. Managed to make him forget, if only for a few minutes, everything he'd lost.

“You're ridiculous.” Shane says. 

“Da.”

“You know I'd help you stay.”

The teasing disappeared instantly. Ilya looked up at him. Shane's hand was still tangled in his hair. His expression completely serious now.

“You don't have to marry anybody.” Shane says.  A pause. “You don't have to figure this out alone.”

The warmth that spread through Ilya's chest felt dangerously close to happiness.

He'd spent years believing that eventually everyone left.

His mother.

His brother.

His family.

His country.

One by one.

But Shane was still here.

Still choosing him.

Still making room for him.

Even now.

Especially now.

So Ilya reached up and pulled Shane down into a kiss.

Slow.

Certain.

When they finally separated, Shane smiled. “Was that because of my immigration plan?”

“Maybe.”

“Good plan?”

“Terrible plan.”

Shane laughed. “Then why'd you kiss me?”

Ilya settled comfortably back into his lap. “Because Ottawa is better idea.”

“Wow.”

“Also.”

“What?”

A small smile appeared. “One lover is enough.”

Shane immediately made a face. “No.”

“What?”

“No, we cannot be using that word.”

“Why?”

“It's gross.”

Ilya looked genuinely offended. “It is not gross.”

“It absolutely is.”

“It is romantic.”

“It sounds like you're having affair with me.”

Ilya sat up slightly. “How can I have affair with person I am dating?”

“Exactly.”

“Then it makes no sense.”

“Welcome to English.”

Ilya frowned. “Terrible language.”

“You've been saying that for years.”

“Because it remains true.”

Shane laughed.

Ilya continued glaring at him. “In Russian we say lyubimy.” The word sounded soft coming from him. Familiar. Something he'd probably heard growing up. “Google says it means lover.” A pause. “Is that wrong?”

Shane thought about it. “A little.”

“A little?”

“It's not exactly wrong.”

“See.”

“But in English, lover sounds…”

“How?”

Shane searched for the right word. “Like a secret.”

Ilya blinked. “What?”

“Like somebody you're sleeping with.”

The confusion on Ilya's face deepened.

“But I am sleeping with you.”

“That's not the point.”

“I continue to think English is stupid.”

“That's fair.”

Shane laughed. Then his expression softened. “What's it mean in Russian?”

Ilya was quiet for a second. Thinking. Trying to translate something that wasn't meant to be translated. 

“It means…” His brow furrowed. “Beloved, maybe.”

Shane's smile disappeared. Not because it was bad. Because it wasn't. Because it was somehow so much worse. In the best possible way. “Beloved?”

“Da.” The word came easier. “Person you love most.”

Shane looked down at him. The firelight danced across Ilya's face.

“That's very different from lover.” Shane says. 

“I know that now.” A grin appeared. “Maybe that is why your mother looked horrified in hospital.”

Shane laughed so hard he nearly knocked Ilya off the couch. “Oh my God.”

“I told everyone you were my lover.”

“You did.”

“In front of doctors.”

“You did.”

“In front of your parents.”

“You absolutely did.”

Ilya groaned. “Terrible language.”

“That's not the language's fault.”

“It is little bit.”

Shane shook his head. Still laughing. Then he leaned down and kissed him. Quick. Soft.

When he pulled away, Ilya looked pleased with himself. “Beloved is acceptable?”

Shane smiled. “Beloved is acceptable.”

“Good.” A beat passed. Then Ilya smirked. “My beloved.”

Shane groaned immediately. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Yes.”

“You are never calling me that.”

Ilya's smile widened. “Too late.”

Shane groaned. “This is a disaster.”

“My beloved.”

“Stop.”

“My beloved Shane.”

“Absolutely not.”

Ilya looked delighted with himself. Which was usually a bad sign. “You are encouraging me.”

“I am literally doing the opposite.”

“Still counts.”

Shane rolled his eyes and leaned back against the couch.

The cottage felt warm. Safe. Far away from reporters and hockey and everything else waiting for them beyond the trees.

“Are we really going to go to a bottom-tier team?” The question slipped out before Shane could stop it.

Ilya looked up. “Ottawa?”

“Yeah.”

“They are terrible.”

“Thank you.”

“It is true.”

Shane laughed. “That's not exactly a glowing endorsement.”

Ilya shrugged. “They have potential.”

“They finished near the bottom of the standings.”

“Potential.”

“You sound like every general manager in sports.”

“Maybe I should become general manager.”

“You would be fired in twelve minutes.”

“Untrue.”

“You would trade everyone.”

“Not everyone.”

“Most people.”

“Many people.”

Shane laughed.

Ilya settled back against him. “You could turn it around.”

Shane immediately shook his head. “No.”

“Da.”

“No.”

“You are Shane Hollander.”

“That doesn't mean anything.”

“It means many things.”

“Such as?”

“You are annoyingly good at hockey.”

“Wow.”

“You wanted answer.”

Shane smiled. “No, you could turn it around.” The confidence in his voice was immediate. Certain. “You are Ilya Rozanov.”

“Excellent point.”

“See?”

“I am very talented.”

“You're impossible.”

“Still true.”

For a moment, they sat quietly. The joke slowly giving way to something more serious. Something neither of them had wanted to say out loud. Because Ottawa wasn't really about Ottawa. It was about starting over.

A new city.

A new team.

A place where they wouldn't have years of secrets hanging over them.

A place where maybe they could just be together.

“We could turn it around.” Ilya said it softly this time.

Not joking.

Not teasing.

Just honest.

Shane looked down at him. “We?”

“Da.” The answer came without hesitation. “We.”

The word settled warmly between them.

A future.

Not Boston.

Not Montreal.

Not rivals.

Not secrets.

Just them.

Together.

For the first time, neither of them laughed at the idea.

And somehow that felt like the biggest change of all.

Chapter 6

“Why am I more nervous to tell my mom that I'm going to sign with Ottawa than telling her I'm gay?”

Shane kept his eyes on the road as they drove toward his parents' house.

The lake disappeared behind them. Trees lined both sides of the highway. Beside him, Ilya had his feet up on the dashboard despite being told repeatedly not to.

It had been a few days since their conversation by the fire. A few days since Ottawa had stopped being a joke. Somewhere along the way, they'd started talking about it seriously. Not as a fantasy. Not as a what-if. As an actual possibility.

Which was probably why Shane suddenly felt sick.

“Probably because you had concussion when your mother found out you were gay.” Ilya didn't even look up from his phone. “She was distracted.”

Shane barked out a laugh. “Distracted?”

“Da.”

“You kissed your rival on national television. Then you went to hospital.”

“Because of you.”

“Details.”

Shane shook his head. “I am serious.”

“So am I.”

Ilya slipped his phone into his pocket. “I can give you concussion again if it helps.”

“No.”

“Small concussion.”

“No.”

“Tiny concussion.”

“Absolutely not.”

Ilya sighed dramatically. “Then I do not know how to help you.”

“That was hell of a recovery.”

“Fair.”

A comfortable silence settled over the car.

Then Shane groaned. “She is going to lose her mind.”

“Your mother already lost her mind.”

“That's not helpful.”

“She invited me into family group chat.”

Shane visibly winced. “Oh God.”

“Your father sends too many thumbs-up emojis.”

“Yeah.”

“And your mother somehow texts faster than you.”

“Also yeah.”

“And every morning she asks if I have eaten breakfast.”

“Welcome to being her child.”

Ilya considered that. Then smiled. “I do like breakfast messages.”

“Traitor.”

“I have been adopted.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Very fortunately.”

The smile lingered for a second.

Then Shane's expression became serious again. “What if she hates the idea?”

Ilya looked at him. Actually looked at him. “Your mother?”

“Yeah.”

“She is going to.”

Shane nearly swerved. “Not helping!”

“I am serious.”

“That is the problem!”

Ilya shrugged. “She is your manager.”

“She's also my mom.”

“She is both.”

Unfortunately, that was true.

“You want to leave Montreal.”

“Maybe.”

“You want to go to losing team.”

“Ottawa isn't that bad.”

“It is.”

“Okay, fair.”

“And why?”

Ilya pointed at himself. “Because I give you good dick.”

Shane groaned. “Oh my God.”

“She will absolutely think this is bad idea.”

“She doesn't know that's why.”

Ilya stared at him. Shane stared back. They both knew that was a lie.

“Your mother has eyes.”

“Unfortunately.”

“She will think I have corrupted you.”

“You corrupted me years ago.”

“True.”

Shane laughed despite himself.

Ilya continued. “She will question your loyalty.”

“To Montreal?”

“Da.”

“And yours to Boston.”

“Da.”

The joking faded.

Because underneath all of it, there was a real concern. Leaving a team wasn't just changing jobs.

Not in hockey.

Not when you'd worn a letter.

Not when you'd been captain.

It meant leaving teammates.

Coaches.

Fans.

A city.

A version of yourself.

“When we are being loyal to each other.” The words came out quieter than Shane intended. Ilya's expression softened immediately. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Because that was the truth of it.

Not Ottawa.

Not contracts.

Not hockey.

Each other.

After years of stolen weekends and secret hotel rooms and pretending they hated each other in public.

For the first time, they had the option of building their lives in the same place.

Of not having to leave every few days.

Of not counting down until the next time they saw each other.

“I know.”

Ilya reached over and squeezed his knee. “She may yell.”

“She definitely will.”

“Probably.”

“Definitely.”

“But she loves you.” The certainty in his voice settled some of Shane's nerves. “And she loves winning.”

“That too.”

“Maybe tell her Ottawa is future Stanley Cup champion.”

Shane laughed. “That's a terrible strategy.”

“Then tell her I will be there.”

For some reason, that made Shane smile.

Because as ridiculous as Ilya could be, there was something comforting about the confidence behind those words.

As if he genuinely believed they could walk into Ottawa and fix everything.

The team.

Their lives.

The future.

“That's an even worse strategy.”

“Maybe.”

Ilya grinned.

“But it is true.”

Whatever happened next, they weren't doing it alone.

“Come on, Captain.”

Shane smiled despite himself.

Together, they got out of the car and headed toward the front door.

Shane barely had time to unlock it before the smell of garlic and tomato sauce hit him.

Home.

Immediately, David's voice carried from the kitchen.

“Shane, are you still on your weird hockey diet?”

Shane closed his eyes.

“Hi to you too, Dad.”

David appeared in the doorway wearing an apron.

A very Canadian dad.

A very boring Canadian dad, according to Ilya.

“I said hello with my face.”

“That doesn't count.”

“It should.”

David pointed a wooden spoon at him.

“I just mean, I'm making chicken parm and I know you hockey players get weird about what you can and can't eat.”

“We're not weird.”

“You absolutely are.”

“We're athletes.”

“You've weighed pasta before.”

“That was one time.”

David stared at him.

Shane sighed. “Okay, more than one time.”

“Thank you.”

“I love chicken parm, David.” Ilya says. 

Both men turned toward Ilya. Who looked completely serious. 

David immediately brightened. “See? Somebody appreciates me.”

“I always appreciate food.”

“That is because you were raised correctly.”

“Dad.” Shane groans. 

“What?”

“You met him five minutes ago.”

“I've met him several times.”

“Not enough for this alliance.”

“Too late.”

David pointed the spoon at Shane now. “I like him.”

“Of course you do.”

“He likes my cooking.”

“I also like your cooking.”

“Not with the same enthusiasm.”

Ilya nodded. “Correct.”

Traitor.

David laughed. “Come in. Dinner's almost ready.”

As they kicked off their shoes, Shane noticed something.

For the first time since the kiss.

For the first time since the hospital.

For the first time since the media circus started.

Ilya looked relaxed. No tension in his shoulders. No guarded expression. No constant checking his phone.

Just Ilya.

Standing in his parents' house arguing about chicken parm. Like he'd always belonged there. The realization hit Shane unexpectedly hard.

Because maybe they weren't just talking about a future anymore.

Maybe they were already building one.

While Shane was having that realization, Ilya had wandered over to the bar cart.

Naturally.

He picked up a bottle of vodka and turned it over in his hands. Reading the label.

A small smile appeared. “Russian.”

David looked up from the kitchen. “That is not because of you, Rozanov.”

“Ilya.”

“What?”

“My name is Ilya.”

David pointed his spoon at him. “Right. Ilya.”

The correction sounded awkward. As though David was still getting used to the idea of calling the terrifying Boston captain by his first name.

“I only buy Russian vodka.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

David considered that. Then shrugged. “It's better.”

A beat passed.

“You are correct.”

“Thank you.”

The alliance was growing stronger by the minute.

Shane hated it.

Before he could comment, Yuna emerged from her office carrying a glass of wine and three folders.

Because apparently she couldn't simply walk from one room to another without paperwork.

Shane immediately groaned. “No.”

Yuna ignored him. “Shane, I think I finally got the fire put out after you and Ilya disappeared and turned off your phones after releasing your statement.”

“Mom.”

“No, seriously.”

She sat down at the dining room table. “The first forty-eight hours were rough.”

“Mom.”

“Then some idiot reporter started following Scott Hunter around instead.”

“Mom.”

“Which honestly helped us tremendously.”

“Mom.”

Yuna finally looked up.

“What?”

“Can we have one family dinner?”

“No.”

Shane sighed. “One family dinner without you being my manager?”

Yuna blinked. Then looked genuinely confused. “I don't understand the question.”

David laughed so hard he had to lean against the counter.

“Yuna.”

“What?”

“You are doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Managing.”

She looked down at the folders. Then at the wine. Then at her son. “I am his manager.”

“You are also his mother.”

“Those are not mutually exclusive.”

“They should be at dinner.”

Yuna opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

Nothing came out.

“Wow,” Shane said. “I think I broke her.”

“Impossible,” David said. “Nothing breaks your mother.”

“Tax law maybe.”

“Maybe.”

Yuna narrowed her eyes at both of them.

Before she could respond, Ilya glanced toward Shane.

“Maybe now.”

Shane immediately looked nauseous. “Right now?”

“Yes.”

That wasn't encouraging. Shane took a deep breath. Then another.

Beside him, Ilya's hand found the small of his back. Slowly rubbing circles there. Grounding him. Helping him push through the anxiety.

Yuna immediately noticed.

Of course she did. 

Nothing escaped Yuna Hollander. “What are you two hiding?”

“Nothing.” Shane says. 

“That's a lie.”

“Probably.”

“Shane.”

“Okay.”

Shane let out a long breath. Then looked directly at his mother. “Ilya and I are both free agents.”

Yuna nodded.

She knew that.

“We want to sign with Ottawa.”

Silence.

Complete silence.

Even David stopped moving.

The only sound was the sauce bubbling on the stove.

“Ottawa?” Yuna blinked. Then blinked again. “The Ottawa?”

“There is only one Ottawa.” Shane says. 

“The team that hasn't made the playoffs in forever?”

“Mom.”

“I'm asking.”

“Yes.”

“The Ottawa Centaurs?”

“Yes.”

“The hockey graveyard?”

“Mom.”

“The place careers go to die?”

“Mom!”

David started laughing. Yuna ignored him completely. She was staring at her son like he'd announced plans to join a traveling circus.

Finally, she sat down.

Slowly.

“Why?” The single word carried years of experience.

Years of contracts.

Years of negotiations.

Years of managing professional athletes.

Shane swallowed. “Because we want to play together.”

Yuna looked between them. Then back at Shane. “That's not enough.”

“It's part of it.”

“Shane.”

“Mom.”

“Where's your loyalty?”

The question landed exactly where Shane knew it would. “You've been with Montreal your entire career.” She pointed at Ilya. “You've been with Boston your entire career.”

“Da.” Ilya says. 

“You were captains.”

“Da.”

“You built those teams.”

“Mostly me,” Ilya said.

Shane kicked him under the table. 

“Ow.” Ilya says. 

“Shut up.” Shane mutters. 

“Very aggressive.”

Yuna wasn't amused. “I'm serious.”

“So am I.”

The humor faded from Shane's voice.

Because this was the real conversation.

The one he'd been dreading.

“The teams benched us.” Shane says. 

Yuna's expression shifted slightly. “Shane—”

“They can say it wasn't about us being together.” His voice remained calm. “But we both know it was.”

The room fell quiet.

“They benched us.” He looked down at the table. “At the worst moment of our careers.”

Neither Yuna nor David interrupted.

“They treated us like a problem.” A pause. “My teammates think I lied to them.”

The words still hurt.

Even now.

“Ilya's teammates say they don’t care, but they don’t talk to him.”

Across the table, David's expression darkened.

Shane felt Ilya's hand tighten against his back.

Steady.

Present.

“We gave everything to those teams.” The words came easier now. “Everything.”

Years.

Injuries.

Wins.

Losses.

Leadership.

Loyalty.

His entire adult life.

“And when things got difficult?” Shane shook his head. “They made it clear exactly where we stood.”

The silence stretched.

Then Ilya spoke. Quietly. “Why should we be loyal to organizations that do not want us?”

Nobody had an immediate answer.

Not even Yuna.

For the first time since the conversation started, she looked less like a manager.

More like a mother.

A mother realizing her son wasn't running toward Ottawa.

He was running away from something that had hurt him.

And that was a very different conversation.

Yuna sat quietly for almost three whole seconds.

Which might have been a personal record.

Then Shane watched the exact moment the manager side of her brain took over. “Okay.”

Shane immediately groaned. “No.”

“This could work.”

“Mom.”

“No, listen.”

Yuna was already reaching for one of the folders she'd promised not to touch. “From rivals to teammates.”

“Mom.”

“From captains to captains.”

“Mom.”

“Two franchise players choosing each other over organizations that abandoned them.”

“Mom.”

“Do you have any idea how good that story is?”

David sighed. “There she goes.”

“I am sitting right here.” Shane says. 

“I know.”

Yuna ignored him. Her eyes were already distant. Planning. Strategizing. Building media campaigns in real time.

“We missed Pride Month.”

“Mom.” Shane groans. 

“This would've been huge last month.”

“Mom.”

“The interviews alone—”

“Mom.”

“But we live and we learn.”

Shane dropped his head onto the table. “This is exactly why I didn't want to tell you.”

“Because I'm right?”

“Because you're terrifying.”

“Also because she's right,” David added.

“Thank you, David.”

“You're welcome.”

Shane groaned louder.

Next to him, Ilya looked fascinated. Like he was watching a dangerous animal at the zoo. “You really do this all the time?”

“All the time,” Shane said.

“Interesting.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Yuna pointed at both of them. “We could do charity work.”

“No.”

“Community outreach.”

“No.”

“Campaign photos.”

“No.”

“Matching jerseys.”

“No.”

“A feature story.”

“No.”

“A Pride event.”

“Mom.”

“What?”

“We are not putting on rainbow flags and running around Ottawa because you think it'll look good.” 

Yuna looked genuinely offended. “I never said run.”

“Metaphorically.”

“Maybe light jogging.”

“Mom.”

Before she could continue, Ilya spoke. “I would look good.”

The room fell silent.

Shane slowly turned toward him. “What?”

“I would.”

“Ilya.”

“You know this is true.”

“No.” Shane pointed directly at him. “You are not doing promotional photos wrapped in a bisexual flag because my mother tells you to.”

Ilya considered it. “Maybe.”

“No.”

“Maybe little bit.”

“No.”

“Depends on photography.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Professional lighting changes many things.”

Yuna nodded. “He has a point.”

“Mom!”

David was laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes.

“I like him,” he managed.

“Everyone likes him,” Shane complained.

“Not true,” Ilya said.

“Fair.”

For a moment, the conversation dissolved into laughter.

The tension from earlier disappearing completely.

No talk of suspensions.

No talk of teammates.

No talk of headlines.

Just family.

Just dinner.

Just the four of them sitting around a table arguing about hypothetical bisexual flag photo shoots.

And somehow, after everything that had happened, it felt wonderfully normal.

“I want my own car thing at parade.” Ilya says. 

Shane looked at him. “Your own what?”

“The car.” Ilya gestured vaguely with his fork. “The moving one.”

“A float,” David supplied.

“Da.” Ilya nodded enthusiastically. “I want my own float.”

Shane groaned. “He wants a float at Pride.”

“Not just float.” Ilya looked thoughtful. “All of me.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I want giant picture of me.”

“Oh my God.”

“With confetti.”

“Oh my God.”

“Maybe fireworks.”

“You're describing a dictator.”

“No.”

“A little.”

“I am describing celebration.”

Yuna had gone suspiciously quiet. Which never meant anything good. Finally, she spoke. “We can do that.”

Shane froze. “Mom.”

“A custom float isn't actually that difficult.”

“Mom.”

“We'd have to start planning early.”

“Mom.”

“Get permits.”

“Mom.”

“Find a designer.”

“Mom!”

Yuna blinked. “What?”

“You're encouraging him.” Shane groans. 

“I think it's a wonderful idea.”

“It is objectively a terrible idea.”

David took another bite of chicken parm. “I'd ride on the float.”

Shane stared at him. “Dad.”

“What?”

“You too?”

“It sounds fun.”

“You're both impossible.”

Ilya looked positively delighted. “I knew they would understand me.”

“They absolutely do not.” Shane says. 

“They do.”

Yuna was already mentally planning. “Ilya, do you want flowers?”

Ilya thinks and then says, “Maybe.” 

“Speakers?”

“Da.”

“A giant hockey stick?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely not,” Shane cut in. “A giant hockey stick at pride? Isn’t that a little on the nose?” 

Nobody listened.

David looked over at Ilya. “You know, if we're doing this, we should make it hockey-themed.”

“David.” Yuna says. 

“What?”

“You're helping.”

“I've committed now.”

Shane looked around the table. His father was brainstorming Pride float decorations. His mother was mentally organizing sponsorship opportunities.

His boyfriend looked like he'd just won the lottery.

He sighed dramatically. “I have made terrible life choices.”

Ilya reached over and squeezed his hand under the table. “The best ones.”

Shane looked at him. Then at his parents. Then back at Ilya.

Despite himself, he smiled. “Yeah.”

Maybe he had.

Chapter 7

“Please call before you come over!” Shane called as he and Ilya headed for the front door.

“We always call,” David said.

“Eventually,” Yuna added.

“Mom.”

Yuna smiled innocently. “Goodnight, boys.”

“Goodnight.”

They stepped outside into the warm July evening. The screen door shut behind them. The second they climbed into the car, Ilya let out a satisfied sigh.

“That went better than I thought.”

Shane started the engine. “You planned a Pride parade float with my parents.”

“Da.”

“One where you apparently wear a Speedo the whole time.”

Ilya looked confused. “Yes.”

“That wasn't supposed to be the takeaway.”

“Why?”

“Because that's insane.”

“No.”

“It absolutely is.”

“So, you love me being Eastern European until I want to wear Speedo?”

Shane stared at him. “That is not what I said.”

“It is implied.”

“It was not implied.”

“You implied.”

“I literally did not.”

Ilya folded his arms. “You discriminate against tiny swimwear.”

“I discriminate against you embarrassing me in front of my parents.”

“Your father supports me.”

“My father encouraged it!”

“Exactly.”

“My mother started planning sponsorships!”

“She is very efficient.”

“She terrifies me.”

“She terrifies everyone.”

Shane pulled out of the driveway, shaking his head. “You're unbelievable.”

“I know.”

“You've known my parents for, what, a few months?”

“Da.”

“And somehow they've both picked your side.”

“I am charming.”

“You're a menace.”

“Also true.”

Shane laughed despite himself. Then he glanced over. “You're seriously wearing shorts if this parade ever happens.”

Ilya gasped dramatically. “You would deny people this?”

He gestured broadly to himself. “My gifts?”

“Oh my God.”

“These legs?”

“Ilya.”

“This physique?”

“Ilya.”

“Years of professional training.”

Shane reached over and shoved his shoulder. “You're ridiculous.”

Ilya grinned. “But you are still looking.”

Shane opened his mouth.

Closed it.

“…Shut up.”

“I win.”

“You absolutely do not.”

“I absolutely do.”

The car filled with laughter as they drove back toward the cottage, leaving Shane's parents' house behind.

After a few miles of quiet, Shane sighed. “I need to tell Pike before the news comes out about me switching teams.”

Ilya looked over. “I think he already figured out you switched teams.”

Shane frowned. “What?”

“The other team.”

It took Shane a second. Then he groaned. “Oh my God.”

“When I kissed you.”

“I got it.”

“I switched you from Team Straight.”

“I got it.”

“Very dramatic trade.”

“You're not funny.”

“I am hilarious.”

“You're twelve.”

“Your father thinks I am hilarious.”

“My father also thinks spreadsheets are exciting.”

“Exactly.”

“That is not helping your case.”

Ilya smiled smugly out the passenger window.

Shane shook his head. “Best behavior.”

“What?”

“I am calling Hayden.”

Immediately, Ilya rolled his eyes. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“You are going to be nice.”

“I am always nice.”

Shane gave him a look. “You told him you hated his face before you even met him.”

“I was correct.”

“You called him an idiot.”

“He survived.”

“You've met him three times.”

“Three too many.”

Shane laughed. Then reached over and tapped the button on the steering wheel. The Bluetooth began dialing.

Ilya crossed his arms dramatically. “I refuse to participate.”

“You're literally sitting next to me.”

“I will participate silently.”

“That might actually be worse.”

The phone rang once.

Twice.

Then Hayden Pike answered. “Well, if it isn't Canada's favorite recently outed captain.”

Shane burst out laughing.

Across the car, Ilya muttered under his breath. “I still hate him.”

Hayden apparently heard him through the speakers. “Aw, Rozanov. Missed you too.”

“I did not.”

“You're adorable.”

“I hate him more now.”

Shane pinched the bridge of his nose. This was going exactly as expected. “Hayden.”

“Captain.”

“I wanted to tell you before it comes out. I'm leaving Montreal.” The line went quiet. “For Ottawa.”

Another beat of silence.

“My mom already talked to them over dinner tonight.”

“She what?”

“She works fast.”

Ilya snorted beside him. “Very fast.”

Shane continued. “They're going to start working on contracts for Ilya and I.”

This time the silence lasted longer.

Long enough that Shane checked the screen to make sure Hayden was still there.

Then—

“I'll come too.”

Shane blinked. “What?”

“I'll sign with Ottawa.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Hayden.”

“No, seriously.”

“You've got your family.”

“Ottawa is like a couple hours away.”

“You love Montreal.”

“I do.”

“You've built your whole career there.”

“So have you.”

Shane didn't have an answer for that. “And Ottawa is bad.”

Hayden laughed. “Yeah.”

“Really bad.”

“I know.”

“Like... really bad.”

“I know, Shane.”

“But with the three of us?” Hayden's voice carried the same confidence Shane had heard from Ilya a few days earlier.

“It could be good.”

Ilya looked over.

For the first time in his life, Hayden Pike had said something intelligent.

Shane sighed. “You don't have to do that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Hayden.”

“I refuse to stay on a team that's pushing you away.” The words landed heavily inside the car. “They can say whatever they want publicly.”

Hayden's voice hardened. “But I watched how they treated you.”

A pause.

“I watched the locker room.”

Another pause.

“I watched people you've bled beside for years suddenly decide they couldn't even look you in the eye.”

Shane swallowed. “That's not everybody.”

“No.”

“But it was enough.”

Silence settled over the call.

Then Hayden laughed softly. “You know what the funny part is?”

“What?”

“I spent years trying to get you to leave Montreal.”

“You absolutely did.”

“And now the second you finally decide to leave, you're telling me to stay.”

Despite himself, Shane smiled. “I hate when you're right.”

“I know.”

From the passenger seat, Ilya finally leaned toward the dashboard. “Pike.”

“What, Rozanov?”

“You are still annoying.”

“Aww.”

“But…”

Shane looked over.

Ilya rarely admitted things like this. “But you are good teammate.”

Hayden was quiet for a second. “Thanks.”

Another pause.

“You're still a dramatic Russian.”

“Da.”

“And I still hate your face.”

Hayden laughed.

“There he is.”

Shane shook his head. “You two are exhausting.”

“Captain?”

“Yeah?”

“You're not leaving alone.” The conviction in Hayden's voice surprised him. “You spent years taking care of everyone else.”

A pause.

“Let somebody have your back for once.”

Shane looked over at Ilya.

Ilya simply nodded.

As if to say, See?

Maybe Ottawa really wasn't such a crazy idea after all.

The call ended with a final click.

For a moment, the only sound in the car was the steady hum of the tires against the road.

Shane let out a long breath.

His knuckles were still white around the steering wheel.

Ottawa.

He was really doing this.

Leaving Montreal.

Leaving the only team he'd ever known.

Leaving the city where he'd become a man.

Where he'd won.

Lost.

Became captain.

Where he'd met Ilya.

It was terrifying.

“See?” Ilya broke the silence. “Pike not completely useless.”

Shane snorted. “Don't let him hear you say that.”

“I will deny it.”

“I know you will.” Shane managed a weak smile. “I still can't believe he's coming with us.”

“He likes you.”

“I know.”

“He is loyal.”

“So are you.”

Ilya looked out the window. “Da.”

Neither of them spoke for a while.

Ilya finally glanced over. “You are still scared.”

Shane didn't bother denying it. “Yeah… What if it doesn't work?”

Ilya didn't hesitate. “Then we make it work.”

The certainty in his voice made Shane smile. “You always make everything sound easy.”

“It is not easy.”

“No?”

“No.”

Ilya reached over and rested his hand on Shane's thigh.

“But it is worth trying.”

Shane covered Ilya's hand with his own.

“Yeah.”

“Besides,” Ilya added, “if Ottawa is terrible, we can always blame Pike.”

Shane laughed. “I think he'd actually accept that.”

“He probably would.”

Before Shane could respond, Ilya had already leaned across the console, his hand finding Shane's thigh. The car swerved slightly as Shane's attention divided between the road and the Russian's wandering hands.

“Ilya, what are you doing? I'm driving.”

“Was boring phone call,” Ilya murmured, his fingers already working at Shane's fly. “Need excitement.”

Shane's breath hitched as Ilya's hand slipped beneath his waistband. “Ilya, seriously. Not while I'm…”

The words died in his throat as Ilya's mouth replaced his hand, hot and insistent. Shane's foot pressed harder on the accelerator as his focus narrowed to the road ahead and the warmth surrounding him.

“Fuck,” he breathed, one hand tightening on the wheel while the other found its way into Ilya's hair. “You're going to kill us.”

Ilya just hummed in response, the vibration sending shivers down Shane's spine. The car veered slightly toward the center line before Shane corrected it, his heart racing with adrenaline and arousal.

“Ilya,” Shane gasped, “slow down.”

Ilya pulled back just enough to speak, his voice husky. “Is not me who should slow down, captain.”

Shane's head fell back against the headrest, his eyes half-closed. “God, you're impossible.”

“Da,” Ilya agreed before taking him in his mouth again, deeper this time.

The world outside the car blurred into meaningless shapes and colors as Shane struggled to maintain control. The highway stretched endlessly before them, dotted with other cars that passed obliviously. Each time they approached another vehicle, Shane would tense, his heart hammering against his ribs at the thought of being discovered.

“Ilya,” he warned, his voice strained. “There's a truck coming.”

Ilya didn't stop, his movements more deliberate now, more challenging. Shane's knuckles were white on the steering wheel as the truck passed, the driver giving a casual wave that had nothing to do with what was happening inside their car.

“You're going to be the death of me,” Shane breathed, his hips shifting instinctively.

“Good death, da?” Ilya murmured against his skin.

Shane laughed despite himself, a choked sound that was part pleasure, part exasperation. “Only you would find a way to make a blowjob existential.”

Ilya's response was to take him deeper, his tongue working in ways that made Shane forget all about existentialism and hockey teams and career changes. There was only the road ahead and the man beside him and the building pressure that threatened to overwhelm him completely.

When it was finally over, Shane had to pull onto the shoulder of the empty road, the car idling as he caught his breath.

“Ilya…”

His name came out like a prayer.

Like relief.

Like home.

Ilya sat up slowly, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth before settling back into the passenger seat. There was a smug, thoroughly satisfied look on his face.

“Better now?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

Shane just laughed.

“You're impossible.”

“Is why you love me.”

“That is unfortunately true.”

Ilya leaned across the center console and kissed him.

Slow.

Unhurried.

The kind of kiss that didn't need to prove anything.

When they pulled apart, Shane rested his forehead against Ilya's for a second.

“You're going to be the death of me.”

“No.”

Ilya smiled.

“I already promised you I would stop hitting you into boards.”

That earned another laugh.

“Good.”

“I keep promises.”

“You're ridiculous.”

“Da.”

Shane shook his head, smiling as he pulled the car back onto the road.

As they merged into the light evening traffic, his hand drifted over and settled on Ilya's thigh, almost unconsciously.

The same place it had been resting before they'd pulled over.

Ilya intertwined their fingers without looking.

Neither of them spoke.

They didn't need to.

The cottage was only a few minutes away now.

Ottawa no longer felt like an impossible dream.

It felt like the first page of a new chapter.

And for the first time in a long time, the road ahead belonged to both of them.

Chapter 8

August 2017- Ottawa

“Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are going to a dying team. You think their teams chased them off for being gay? I would hate to be in that locker room. Showering with two gay men.”

The sports channel droned on from the television mounted above the fireplace.

Shane wasn't really listening. At least, he was trying not to.

He was too busy unpacking the last of the moving boxes scattered around his apartment. Books went on the bookshelf. Kitchen supplies had to be arranged correctly. His framed photos needed to be perfectly straight. The movers had offered to unpack everything for him. He'd politely declined.

They would've done it wrong. At least according to Shane Hollander standards. Which, admittedly, were absurdly high.

Ilya hadn't shared that concern. He'd paid extra for the movers to unpack his entire apartment. Then he'd immediately left for a run before Shane could criticize where they'd put anything.

Typical.

The only thing either of them had insisted on was living in the same building. The last two penthouse apartments had been available.

Shane had argued with the real estate agent for nearly ten minutes.

“If there are two of them,” he'd said, “they aren't really the penthouse.”

The real estate agent had blinked.

Then changed the subject.

On television, the panel had thankfully moved on. “Hayden Pike also joined them. Maybe the three of them can turn this dying franchise around.”

“At least they're talking about hockey again,” Shane muttered.

It hadn't lasted.

“They've certainly become the NHL's most talked-about trio.”

“Because of the hockey?”

“No.”

Shane sighed. Of course not. The conversation drifted right back to him and Ilya. Back to the kiss. Back to speculation. Back to the same tired jokes.

“And Rozanov becoming one of the first openly gay stars in professional hockey—”

“Bisexual.”

Shane didn't even look up from the box he was unpacking.

“Bisexual.”

He slid another plate into the cabinet. Nobody on television corrected themselves. Nobody ever did.

A week ago, he'd started correcting the commentators every time. Now it was mostly out of habit.

“He's bisexual,” Shane muttered again.

The television ignored him.

As always.

Another commentator shrugged.

“Whatever label you want to use—”

“It is not whatever label.” Shane sighed like the tv could hear him. “They're different.”

He wasn't even angry anymore.

Just tired.

Tired of people deciding who Ilya was for him.

The front door unlocked.

A second later, Ilya walked inside wearing running shorts and drenched in sweat.

Without looking away from the television, he said,

“They still calling me gay?”

Shane laughed. “Yes.”

“I am beginning to think they are stupid.”

“I've been thinking that for months.” Ilya walked over to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, and drank half of it in one go.

Then he looked around the apartment.

“There are still boxes.”

“There are.”

“You have been unpacking for three hours.”

“I know.”

“You have unpacked four boxes.”

“I know.”

“You have problem.”

“I have standards.”

“You alphabetized your spices.”

“They deserve it.”

Ilya stared at him. “They are spices.”

“They have names.”

“They are spices.”

Shane smiled. “They're organized now.”

Ilya shook his head. “You are impossible.”

“And yet you moved into the apartment upstairs.”

“No.” Ilya grinned. “I moved into apartment above, my beloved.”

Shane looked up immediately. “We talked about that.”

“We did.”

“You're still not using that word correctly.”

“I absolutely am.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Shane sighed dramatically. “I've created a monster.”

“Too late.”

Ilya leaned against the kitchen island, smiling at him.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Ottawa stretched out beneath them.

A new city.

A new team.

A new beginning.

For the first time in years, they weren't counting down the days until one of them had to leave.

They were finally home.

Together.

Shane watched Ilya finish nearly half the bottle of water. “Is this what living in the same building is going to be like?”

Ilya looked over. “What?”

“You just come into my apartment and steal my water?”

“I did not steal.”

“You walked in without knocking.”

“Door was unlocked.”

“You still stole my water.”

Ilya glanced down at the bottle in his hand. Then back at Shane. “Are you going to label waters next?”

“Don't tempt me.”

“So everyone knows they belong to Shane Hollander?”

Shane shrugged. “If I have to.”

Ilya barked out a laugh. “You would.”

“I absolutely would.”

“With little labels.”

“Yes.”

“Monday water.”

“Maybe.”

“Tuesday water.”

“You're making fun of me.”

“I am.”

“Wednesday water.”

Shane crossed his arms. “Hydration is important.”

“So is sharing.”

“You have your own apartment.”

“I know.”

“You have your own refrigerator.”

“I know.”

“You have your own water.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you drinking mine?”

Ilya smiled like the answer was obvious. “Because yours tastes better.”

Shane stared at him. “It is literally the same brand.”

“Still better.”

“You're impossible.”

“Da.”

Ilya took one last sip before walking over and setting the half-empty bottle on Shane's perfectly organized kitchen counter.

Not on a coaster.

Not lined up with anything.

Just... there.

Crooked.

Shane looked at it. Then at Ilya. “You did that on purpose.”

“I do not know what you mean.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I am helping.”

“With what?”

“You need to learn flexibility.”

Shane walked over, silently straightened the bottle until it was perfectly aligned with the edge of the counter, then looked back at him.

“I hate you.”

“No.”

Ilya smiled. “I am your beloved. You cannot hate me.”

Shane tried very hard not to smile. Failed. “You're lucky you're cute.”

“I know.” 

“And that you give good dick.” 

Ilya looked incredibly pleased with himself.  “I also know.” 

Shane laughed, shaking his head.

Living in the same building, he realized, was going to be chaos.

Perfect, ridiculous chaos.

And he couldn't wait.

“I have to do my post-workout warm down, malysh,” Ilya said.

There was a particular look in his eyes.

The one that promised Shane the rest of the afternoon wasn't going to involve unpacking boxes.

Shane felt himself smile despite every intention of finishing the kitchen first.

“Speak more Russian,” he murmured.

Ilya's grin only widened.

“Ty khochesh' etogo, kapitan?” His voice dropped into that low, rough register that always made Shane's pulse jump. “You want this?”

Shane's answer was a breathless, “Yes,.”

The smile that spread across Ilya's face was slow and victorious. “Well,” he murmured, “good.”

He closed the distance between them and kissed Shane hard. The kind of kiss that stole the rest of Shane's thoughts.

One hand settled at Shane's waist while the other slid up his back, pulling him closer until there wasn't any space left between them.

Shane laughed softly against his mouth before kissing him again, his hands finding Ilya's shoulders almost by instinct.

Months of hiding.

Months of uncertainty.

Months of wondering if they'd ever get a future like this.

Gone.

Now they were standing in Shane's apartment, in a city where they were finally building a life together.

No hotel checkout times.

No flights the next morning.

No pretending.

Just them.

“Kukhnya mozhet podozhdat',” Ilya murmured against his lips.

The kitchen can wait.

Before Shane could protest, Ilya had already spun him around, his hands firm on Shane's hips as he guided him toward the living room.

Shane had been trying to learn Russian for months.

He recognized more words than he used to.

Could ask for coffee.

Could order dinner.

Could even understand the occasional hockey interview.

But when Ilya spoke to him like this—fast, low, with that unmistakable Russian cadence—Shane was hopelessly lost.

He rarely knew what Ilya was saying.

Only that he loved hearing him say it.

The couch—one Shane had spent weeks searching for before finally finding the perfect one—stood like a monument to the life they were building together.

In a matter of moments, it was about to be christened in a way Shane hadn't exactly planned.

“Ilya,” Shane started, but the protest died as Ilya's hands slid down to his ass, squeezing hard.

“Shhh,” Ilya whispered, his breath hot against Shane's ear. “Pozvol' mne pozabotit'sya o tebe.”

Let me take care of you. 

With a firm push, Ilya bent Shane over the arm of the couch. The position was vulnerable, exposed, and Shane's cock twitched in response. Ilya's hands made quick work of Shane's sweats, yanking them down to his knees along with his underwear.

“Posmotri na sebya,” Ilya murmured, running a possessive hand over Shane's exposed ass. “Tak gotovy ko mne.”

Look at you, so ready for me. 

Shane couldn't form words, only a desperate sound as Ilya's fingers traced the cleft of his ass, circling his entrance without quite breaching. The teasing went on until Shane was squirming, pushing back in silent invitation.

“Patience, lyubov',” Ilya chuckled, though his voice was strained with desire. "YA dam tebe to, chto tebe nuzhno."

I will give you what you need.

The first press of Ilya's finger inside had Shane gasping, his hands clutching at the couch cushions. Ilya worked him open methodically, adding a second finger, then a third, scissoring and stretching until Shane was a writhing mess of need.

“Please,” Shane finally managed, his voice ragged.

“Ilya, please.”

Ilya only smiled.

“No.”

His thumb traced a slow circle against Shane's hip.

“I know you've been practicing Russian.”

The amusement in his voice was unmistakable.

“Ask me in Russian.”

The challenge hung between them, and judging by the smug look on Ilya's face, he was enjoying every second of Shane's frustration.

“Uh…”

Shane squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to remember the lessons he'd been practicing.

“Pozhaluysta…”

The word came out mangled, every vowel in the wrong place.

“You are murdering my language.” Ilya breathes out, pumping his fingers inside of Shane..

“Please, Ilya, please give me more.” Shane begs. 

“In Russian.” He pronounced it slowly, each syllable careful and deliberate. “Po-zha-luys-ta.”

Shane looks back, watching his mouth as he spoke, then tried again.

“Po... zha... luys... ta.”

“Always so polite,” Ilya teased, but there was an edge to his voice now, a hunger that matched Shane's own. “Even when begging for my cock.”

The sound of a zipper, the crinkle of a foil packet, and then Ilya was lining up, his hands gripping Shane's hips hard enough to leave bruises. The first push was slow, deliberate, giving Shane time to adjust to the stretch.

“Fuck,” Shane breathed, his forehead pressed against the couch cushions. “Ilya…”

“Da,” Ilya grunted, seating himself fully. “So tight for me, kotonok.”

Ilya set a punishing pace from the start, his hips snapping forward with enough force to push Shane against the couch. The room filled with the sounds of their coupling—skin slapping against skin, Ilya's harsh breathing, Shane's choked moans.

“Eto to, chego vy khoteli??” Ilya growled, changing angles slightly to hit Shane's prostate with every thrust. “Is this what you wanted?” He repeats in English. 

Shane could only nod, his mouth open in a silent scream as pleasure overwhelmed him. Ilya's hand snaked around to grip Shane's cock, stroking in time with his thrusts.

“Come for me, Shane,” Ilya commanded, his voice rough with exertion. “Show me how much you need this.”

The combination of Ilya's cock inside him and his hand on his dick was too much. Shane came with a cry, spilling over Ilya's fingers and the new couch cushions. Ilya followed moments later with a guttural shout, his hips jerking as he emptied himself inside Shane.

For a long moment, they stayed like that—Shane bent over the couch, Ilya draped over his back, both breathing heavily. Finally, Ilya pulled out gently, disposing of the condom before collapsing onto the couch beside Shane.

“Best warm down ever,” Shane mumbled into the couch cushions, making Ilya laugh.

“Da.” Ilya pulled Shane into his arms, pressing a kiss into his messy hair. “I will help you unpack for distracting,”

Shane just groaned, burying his face against Ilya's chest. “Five more minutes.”

Ilya smiled. “Five minutes…” He let the silence hang for a beat. “…or I am going to help by putting your cups with your pans.”

Shane immediately looked up. “You would not.”

“I would.”

“You're bluffing.”

“I have keys.”

“You are not reorganizing my kitchen.”

“I absolutely am.”

“You don't even know where anything goes.”

“I will make new places.”

Shane gasped dramatically. “You're a psychopath.”

“I know.”

“You'd put my coffee mugs next to the pots.”

“Maybe.”

“You'd put my cereal bowls in the wrong cabinet.”

“Also maybe.”

“You're making me anxious.”

“That is little bit the point.”

Shane sighed. “I can't believe I'm dating someone who threatens my kitchen organization.”

Ilya grinned. “And yet I am your lover.”

“Unfortunately.”

“I know.”

Shane poked him in the chest. “If I come home and one mug is in the wrong cabinet, I'm changing the locks.”

“You will forget.”

“I absolutely won't.”

“You label your spices.”

“I do.”

“You will notice immediately.”

“I will.”

Ilya laughed. “Then I will not touch your kitchen.”

“You promise?”

“Maybe.”

“Ilya.”

“I promise.”

Satisfied, Shane relaxed again. “Good.”

“Besides,” Ilya said, stealing one last kiss before standing and getting dressed, “I have my own apartment to unpack.”

“You paid people to unpack it.”

“Da.”

“So you're done.”

“Also da. But I did not let them touch my hockey gear.”

Shane glared at him. “I hate you.”

“No.” Ilya smiled as he headed toward the front door. “You're just jealous.”

“I absolutely am.”

Ilya laughed, letting himself out into the hallway. “See you in ten minutes.”

“For what?”

“I am hungry.”

“You just ate.”

“I worked out.”

“You're impossible.”

“Da.”

The apartment door closed behind him.

Shane looked around at the sea of unpacked boxes still waiting for him. Then he looked toward the ceiling. Toward the apartment directly above his. He smiled to himself. Living in the same building was going to be dangerous. Mostly for his perfectly organized kitchen.

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

So, I know that canon wise not everyone on this list was on the team at this time in 2017, but I could not find much about who was on it during 2017. So, this is my list of who's on this team for my fic:

Forwards
Shane Hollander (C)
Ilya Rozanov (C/A)
Hayden Pike (LW)
Zane Boodram (LW/A)
Troy Barrett (RW)
Luca Haas (RW)
Tanner Dillon (RW)

Defense
Evan Dykstra
Nick Chouinard
Boyle
Holmberg
LaPointe
Young

Goaltender
Wyatt Hayes

September 2017—Ottawa

Shane and Ilya didn't drive to the rink together. Not today. They'd decided arriving separately would make the first day of training camp easier.

Less attention.

Less gossip.

Less opportunity for their new teammates to immediately start asking questions.

Besides—

They'd practically lived in the car together for the last week.

The drive from Boston to Ottawa had mostly consisted of transporting Ilya's absurd collection of European sports cars. The cheaper ones, anyway.

The truly expensive cars—the Ferraris, the Lamborghinis, the ones Ilya refused to put unnecessary miles on—had all arrived on enclosed transport trucks.

“Cars deserve respect,” he'd said.

Shane had rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. It was also during that road trip that Shane discovered something deeply concerning.

Ilya Rozanov believed speed limits were merely...

Helpful suggestions.

“Eighty means minimum,” Ilya had insisted.

“That is not what minimum means.” Shane groans.

“It should.”

“No.”

“You think too much.”

“You drive too fast.”

“I drive efficiently.”

“You nearly got us arrested in New York.”

“We did not get arrested.”

“Because I made you pull over.”

“Details.”

Now, standing inside the Ottawa Centaurs' locker room, Shane pushed those memories aside and focused on organizing his stall.

Fresh tape.

Practice jerseys.

Extra skate laces.

An extra roll of sock tape.

Everything had a place.

Everything belonged exactly where he'd left it.

First day.

Fresh start.

“Hollander!”

Shane looked up just as Hayden Pike wandered into the room with his gear bag slung over one shoulder.

“Hey.” He nodded toward Hayden's stall. “You guys get settled?”

Hayden let out the exhausted laugh of a man surviving entirely on caffeine and stubbornness. “Jackie's still unpacking.” He dropped his bag with a heavy thud. “But she's like eight months pregnant, so I kept offering to hire movers.”

“And?”

“She told me absolutely not. She said this was her house.” Hayden shook his head. “She said she was perfectly capable. She said she is a good mother and can handle this.”

A pause.

“Then she started crying halfway through the sentence.”

Shane laughed. “And?”

“She was eating peanut butter straight out of the jar.”

“With a spoon?”

Hayden looked horrified. “With her hand and with soy sauce.”

Shane burst out laughing. “Oh no.”

“I've lived through enough pregnancies to know better than to argue.”

“So…” Hayden shrugged. “I came to practice.”

“Smart man.”

“I choose life.”

“The correct decision.”

Hayden looked around the locker room. “So…”

Shane already knew where this was going.

“Where's Rozanov?”

“You actually care?”

“I think so.”

“Or are you just trying to be nice?”

Hayden looked offended. “I care.” A beat. “…I think.”

Shane laughed. “He's downstairs getting one of those protein smoothies.”

“Figures.” Hayden nodded toward the parking lot outside. “I knew he was already here.”

“How?”

“I parked next to his sports car.”

Shane closed his eyes. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

Hayden was already laughing. “I know the second he sees my dad van parked next to his precious European masterpiece, he's going to lose his mind.”

“He absolutely is.”

“I parked carefully.”

“He won't care.”

“I left like three feet between us!”

“He'll tell you it should've been six.”

Almost on cue, the locker room door swung open. Ilya walked in carrying a protein smoothie. His eyes scanned the room once. 

Then immediately landed on Hayden. “You.”

Hayden pointed at himself. “Me?”

“You parked next to my car.”

“I knew it,” Shane muttered.

Hayden threw both hands into the air. “I didn't hit it!”

“You parked next to it.”

“There were plenty of spaces!”

“There were not.”

“There absolutely were!”

Ilya took another sip of his smoothie. “You breathe too aggressively.”

Hayden blinked. “…What?”

“I do not trust you near my Ferrari.”

“You own, like, six cars!”

“Seven.”

Shane sighed. “That is not helping your argument.”

“It is important information.”

Hayden looked at Shane. “Does he always do this?”

“Yes.”

“Every day?”

“Yes.”

“I would also like to point out,” Ilya continued, “your van looks unstable.”

“My van?”

“Yes.”

“It has cartoon dinosaur sticker on back.”

“My daughter likes dinosaurs.”

“So do I.”

“Then what's the problem?”

“The sticker is crooked.”

Hayden stared at him. “You noticed that?”

“I notice many things.”

Shane laughed. “You're unbelievable.”

“I am observant.”

“You're dramatic.”

“I am correct.”

Shane shook his head. “You drive like you're qualifying for Formula One.”

“Because I am good driver.”

“You nearly got us arrested.”

“We did not get arrested.”

“Because I made you pull over.”

“Again…”

Ilya lifted his smoothie. “Details.”

Hayden looked between them. “How do you deal with him?”

Shane smiled to himself. “I ask myself that every day.”

“And yet…”

Ilya couldn't quite hide the corner of his smile. “You keep choosing me.”

Shane met his eyes across the locker room. “Yeah.”

Neither of them said anything else.

They didn't have to. This was the place they'd chosen together. The team they'd bet their careers on. The locker room they would help build. Whatever Ottawa became from this point forward, they would build it together. 

The silence stretched for exactly three seconds.

Then Ilya clapped his hands once. “Okay, okay.” He stepped into the middle of the locker room and looked around at every single one of his new teammates. “Get your fucking questions out now.”

The room stayed silent.

Ilya sighed dramatically. “Shane is your captain. I am your alternate.” He pointed between the two of them. “Yes, we are in relationship.”

Another beat.

“Yes, we have been together for years.” He crossed his arms. “No, we are not staring at you while you shower.” The room remained completely still. “None of you are attractive enough for me.”

A few of the younger players looked mildly offended.

Hayden barked out a laugh.

“I don't know, Rozanov,” he said. “Holmberg's kind of pretty.”

Holmberg looked up from unlacing his skates. “…Thanks?”

“No,” Ilya said flatly. “Still no.”

That finally broke the tension. A few chuckles echoed through the room.

Even Shane had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing.

Ilya wasn't finished. “If you have hockey questions, ask Captain.”

He jerked a thumb toward Shane.

“If you have relationship questions…”

He shrugged.

“Ask your right hand.”

“Ilya!” Shane groaned, already feeling his face warm.

“What?”

“You know exactly what you meant.”

“I do.”

A few players immediately started laughing.

Ilya sighed dramatically.

“Fine.”

He waved a dismissive hand toward Shane.

“Ask Hollander.”

One of the younger players cautiously raised a hand.

“So…”

Everyone turned toward him.

“…who asked who out?”

Shane smiled before he could stop himself.

Ilya answered without missing a beat.

“Which time?”

“Oh, come on,” Shane laughed.

“It is fair question.”

“You're impossible.”

“I know.”

Another player leaned forward. “Wait. You mean there was more than one?”

Shane rubbed a hand over his face. “It was... complicated.”

“We are dramatic people,” Ilya explained.

“Mostly him.”

“Mostly both of us.”

Hayden snorted. “That tracks.”

The room laughed again.

The tension that had been lingering since they walked into the locker room finally dissolved.

The questions kept coming.

“How long have you been together?”

“Who figured it out first?”

“Does everyone in the league know?”

“Did Boston and Montreal actually have no idea?”

Not whispered.

Not judgmental.

Just curious.

Exactly what Shane had hoped for.

For the first time in a very long time, talking about loving Ilya didn't feel dangerous.

It just felt...

Normal.

Ilya looked around the room one last time.

“Okay.”

He clapped his hands together.

“We are done talking about our relationship.”

He pointed toward the tunnel leading to the ice.

“We are here to make playoffs.” His expression hardened into the one Shane knew every opponent in the league feared. “Now get the fuck out there.” Nobody moved. “And one more thing.” The room went quiet again. “If I ever hear any of you using slurs in this locker room...” His voice stayed calm.

Which somehow made it more intimidating.

“...just remember what I did to Hollander in the playoffs.”

Shane immediately winced. “Too soon.”

“Very soon.” A few players laughed nervously.

Ilya didn't. “That will look like child play compared to how hard I hit you.” The threat hung in the air for exactly one second.

Then Ilya pointed across the room. “Pike.”

Hayden looked up. “What?”

“Move your dad van before practice.”

Hayden frowned. “Why?”

“Because it is still parked next to my Ferrari.”

“It is literally in a different parking lot!”

“I do not trust it.”

“It is a minivan!”

“It looks suspicious.”

Shane buried his face in his hand. “Oh my God.”

“You have five minutes.”

Hayden looked at Shane.

“Help me.”

“Absolutely not.”

Hayden muttered a curse under his breath, yanked the last skate lace tight, and jumped to his feet.

“Fuck!” He grabbed his helmet and sprinted toward the door. “I'll move the stupid van!”

“You have four minutes now,” Ilya called after him.

The locker room erupted into laughter.

Shane just shook his head. “You know he's never going to let that go.”

“He should have bought better vehicle.”

“He has, like, a million kids. He can't exactly drive a two-seater sports car.”

Ilya considered that. “Fair.”

“He needs the van.”

“I still do not like the van.”

Shane laughed. “You're unbelievable.”

“I will buy him condoms.”

The entire locker room went silent.

Shane slowly turned toward him. “You are not buying Hayden Pike condoms as a baby shower gift.”

“Why not?”

“Because that's insane.”

“It is practical.”

“It is horrifying.”

“It says congratulations.”

“It says you have lost your mind.”

Ilya shrugged. “Maybe.” He thought for another second. “Or...”

Shane narrowed his eyes.

“No.”

“I could neuter him like dog.” The room froze. “Ice skate very sharp.”

Half the locker room visibly winced.

Hayden, who had just come jogging back through the door after moving his van, stopped dead in his tracks.

“…I'm sorry, what?”

Shane buried his face in his hands. “No.”

“No?” Ilya asks. 

“No.”

“It would solve future problem.”

“It would solve absolutely nothing!”

Hayden took a cautious step backward, covering his crotch. 

One of the younger players muttered, “Should we be concerned?”

“Only if you park next to his Ferrari,” Shane said without looking up.

“I told you,” Ilya replied, sounding entirely reasonable. “Actions have consequences.”

Hayden pointed accusingly at Shane. “This is your fault.”

“How?”

“You're the one dating him.”

Shane sighed dramatically.

“I ask myself that every day.”

“And yet,” Ilya said, unable to stop smiling, “you keep choosing me.”

Shane looked up and smiled despite himself.

“Yeah.”

“Now,” Ilya said, pointing toward the ice, “go practice before I find another reason to threaten Pike.”

Hayden didn't wait for a second invitation. He was the first one out the locker room door.

~~~

The mood after practice couldn't have been more different. The jokes disappeared the second the team stepped back into the locker room.

Sweaty.

Frustrated.

Exhausted.

Ilya ripped off his gloves and threw his stick onto the rubber floor with a loud crack. “You guys fucking suck.” The room went silent. “How did any of you get fucking drafted?” Nobody answered. “My babushka skates better than you.”

He pointed around the room. “And she is fucking dead.”

A few of the younger players exchanged nervous looks. Shane had expected this. This was why they worked so well together. Ilya lit the fire. Shane made sure nobody got burned.

“There isn't any teamwork,” Shane said, his voice calm but firm. “You're all playing for yourselves.” He looked around the room. “This isn't Boston. It isn't Montreal. Nobody here is trying to prove they're the best player on the ice.” He tapped the Centaurs logo on his practice jersey. “We're trying to build something.”

Silence.

Then Luca Haas pulled his helmet off, his blond hair damp with sweat.

“Sorry.” He shrugged. “We're not all fucking each other, so we don't know how to make blind passes with one look.”

A few players snorted.

Ilya didn't miss a beat. “I will make you fuck a friend if it means you learn how to pass puck.”

The locker room erupted into laughter.

Even Shane had to hide a smile. “Ilya...”

“What?”

“That is not how coaching works.”

“It could.”

“No.”

“It is team-building exercise.”

“No.”

Hayden walked past them, shaking his head. “I've been here one day.” He pointed at Ilya. “And somehow that's still not the craziest thing you've said.”

Ilya looked genuinely offended. “I have many good ideas.”

“That's exactly what worries me,” Hayden muttered.

The laughter eased the tension enough that Shane stepped forward again. “Seriously.” The room quieted immediately. “We just need to play as a team.” He looked around at every stall. “I know we've got a lot of new faces. A lot of rookies. A lot of guys trying to prove they belong.” He nodded.

“I get it.”

“So do I.”

“But nobody wins this league by trying to beat their own teammates.”

He paused.

“We communicate. We trust each other. We make the extra pass. And eventually, we stop thinking and start knowing where the other guy is going to be.”

He glanced toward Ilya.

“You don't build that overnight.”

“No,” Ilya agreed. “You build it every practice.”

Shane nodded. “We can make this happen.”

The room was quiet again. Not because anyone was afraid. Because, for the first time, they were starting to believe him.

“I must know…” Ilya looked across the room toward one of the defensemen. “Chouinard.”

Nick Chouinard, a broad-shouldered defenseman from Québec whose accent somehow got thicker every time he was annoyed, looked up from untying his skates.

“Yes?”

“Were you combed with hammer as child?”

Nick blinked. “Quoi?”

From the stall beside him, Zane Boodram didn't even look up from peeling the tape off his shin pads. 

The veteran left winger had spent his entire career in Ottawa and had already become the unofficial translator for everyone who struggled with either Ilya's Russian-English or Nick's rapid-fire Québécois French.

“He's asking if you're stupid.” Zane says. 

Nick stared at Ilya for a second. Then shrugged. “My mother says no.”

“I think she lied.”

A few players snorted.

“I have won Stanley Cup of arguments already,” Ilya continued. “You lose puck every time someone looks at you.”

“That happened once,” Nick protested.

“It happened six times today.”

“Five.”

“Six.”

“Five and half.”

“There is no half turnover.”

Luca Haas laughed from across the room. 

The youngest player on the roster, the blond Swiss rookie had barely stopped smiling since the first day of camp.

“I like this team already.”

“You will not,” Nick muttered.

“You're right,” Ilya agreed. “Not if you keep passing puck to wrong jerseys.”

Even Shane laughed.

Maybe there really was hope for this team after all.

Shane clapped his hands once.

“All right.”

The room quieted.

“Shower and change. Then eat. After that, we've got weights.”

A chorus of groans echoed around the locker room.

“Welcome to Ottawa,” Hayden said to Luca. “The captains are insane.”

“I noticed.”

Players started peeling off equipment and making their way toward the showers.

Ilya shoved his gloves and elbow pads into his stall with considerably more force than necessary.

“They are so fucking dumb,” he muttered in Russian.

Shane, who'd been standing beside him unlacing his skates, didn't even look up.

“You're hangry.”

“I am not fucking hangry.”

“You are.”

“I am not.”

“You've insulted six teammates in the last ten minutes.”

“They deserved it.”

“You threatened to make Haas sleep with someone so he'd learn to pass.”

“It was motivational.”

Shane laughed.

“It was definitely something.”

“I am not hangry like I am twelve-year-old girl,” Ilya grumbled, slamming his shoulder pads into his locker.

Shane reached into his own bag, pulled out a protein bar, and held it out.

Ilya looked at it.

Then at Shane.

“No.”

“You're proving my point.”

“I refuse.”

“You've been grumpy since the second drill.”

“I was appropriately angry.”

“You almost challenged Nick to a fight because he missed a pass.”

“He missed seven passes.”

“Six.”

“Seven.”

Shane smiled.

“Eat the protein bar.”

“I do not want protein bar.”

“What do you want?”

“A steak.”

“At eleven-thirty in the morning?”

“Yes.”

Shane laughed again and tucked the protein bar into the outer pocket of Ilya's backpack while he wasn't looking.

“What's funny?” Hayden asked as he walked by with a towel draped over his shoulder.

“Nothing,” Shane said.

“He thinks I am hangry.” Ilya groans. 

Hayden didn't even hesitate. “You are.”

Ilya looked betrayed. “You too?”

“Absolutely.”

“You become mean when you're hungry.”

“I am always mean.”

“Exactly.”

The locker room burst into laughter. Even Ilya couldn't quite hide the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Shane caught it anyway. Maybe getting this team to the playoffs was going to take time.

But getting Ilya to admit he was hungry?

That was probably impossible.

After morning skates, lunch was already waiting for them.

One of the perks of professional hockey.

The team nutritionists worked with a local catering company to prepare meals before practice even ended, each plate carefully labeled with the player's name and nutritional requirements.

Extra protein.

Vegetarian.

Vegan.

Low-carb.

High-carb.

Recovery meals for injured players.

A row of industrial blenders lined one counter for anyone making post-practice smoothies, with tubs of protein powder, fruit, and vegetables neatly organized beside them.

It wasn't nearly as impressive as the setups in Boston or Montreal.

Those organizations had decades of success behind them.

Stanley Cups.

Deep playoff runs.

Money.

Sponsors.

Ottawa wasn't there yet. The dining room was smaller. The equipment wasn't as new. The food wasn't quite as extravagant. But Shane didn't really care.

He wasn't here for luxury. He was here to help build something.

He grabbed his plate and looked over at Ilya and Hayden doing the same. “We can't sit together.”

Hayden looked confused. “What?”

“We need to socialize.”

Ilya frowned. “Ew.”

“You're an alternate captain.” Shane says. 

“I know.”

“So act like one.”

“I am acting like one.”

“You've spent all morning threatening teammates.”

“They responded well.”

“They were terrified.”

“Also effective.”

Shane sighed. “We're trying to build chemistry.”

“I have chemistry.”

“With me,” Hayden pointed out “With Shane. With your Ferrari.”

“That is different.”

Shane pointed toward the tables scattered around the room. “Split up. We each sit with different guys. We learn names. We start conversations. We become teammates.”

Ilya looked genuinely horrified. “You want me to make small talk?”

“Yes.”

“With people?”

“Yes.”

“On purpose?”

“Yes.”

Hayden burst out laughing. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

Ilya looked at Shane like he'd suggested a prison sentence. “I hate leadership.”

“No, you don't.”

“I hate this part of leadership.”

Shane smiled. “Go make friends.”

“I already have friend.”

“You have one boyfriend.”

“And one Pike.”

Hayden looked oddly pleased. “I'll take that.”

Shane shook his head. “You're both hopeless.” Then he pointed across the room. “Go.”

Ilya sighed like he was marching toward his own execution. “This is worst punishment yet.”

“I know you'll survive.”

“I am not convinced.”

Still muttering under his breath in Russian, Ilya picked up his tray and wandered toward a table full of younger players.

Shane watched him go. Thirty seconds. That was his prediction. Thirty seconds before Ilya offended someone. Or somehow made a new friend.

With Ilya, it could honestly go either way.

Across the room, Hayden dropped into a chair beside Nick Chouinard.

“So, Nick, you have kids?”

Nick nodded proudly. “Oui. Three.” A smile spread across his face. “With my wife, Selena.”

Hayden whistled. “Man, that's awesome. I've got twin daughters, a son, and we're expecting a daughter any day now.”

“You have four?”

“Almost.”

“You are crazy.”

“My wife says the same thing.” 

Nick laughed. “Mine too.”

Within seconds, the two fathers were swapping stories about sleepless nights, diaper disasters, and toddlers who somehow possessed the strength of grown men.

Shane smiled to himself.

Perfect.

Hayden had found his people.

At another table… Things were going about as expected. Ilya stabbed a piece of grilled chicken with his fork and pointed it at the younger players sitting across from him.

“If you treated your stick with as much respect as you treat your dick, you would be much better hockey players.”

Luca Haas nearly choked on his smoothie. Holmberg burst into laughter. Young looked down at his plate, his ears turning bright red.

“I am serious.” Ilya gestured with his fork again. “You tape stick like idiot.”

“I taped it exactly how they taught me,” Holmberg protested.

“They taught you wrong.”

“They did not.”

“They absolutely did.”

Luca leaned forward. “So... are you going to teach us?”

Ilya shrugged. “Obviously.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Really?”

“No.”

The rookies groaned.

Ilya smirked. “You have to earn wisdom.”

Shane could practically hear them rolling their eyes.

Meanwhile, at his own table...

Things were considerably less successful.

He sat across from Wyatt Hayes, Ottawa's quiet starting goaltender, and Evan Dykstra, a defenseman from Manitoba whose playlist had already become a source of heated debate around the locker room.

Shane cleared his throat. “So...” Both of them looked up. “…How's lunch?”

There was a beat of silence.

Wyatt blinked.

Evan slowly looked down at his chicken. “…Good?”

Shane immediately regretted opening his mouth. “Right.”

Another awkward silence.

From across the room, Ilya glanced over. Their eyes met. Ilya looked at Shane's table. Then back at Shane. He gave him an unmistakable thumbs down.

Shane couldn't help laughing.

“I'm terrible at this,” he admitted.

Evan smiled. “A little.”

“I usually let him do the talking.”

Wyatt looked toward Ilya's table, where the alternate captain was currently explaining—with far too much enthusiasm—why everyone's tape job was offensive to hockey.

“…Yeah,” Wyatt said. “We noticed.”

For the first time all afternoon, all three tables were laughing.

Different conversations.

Different personalities.

One team.

Exactly what Shane had hoped for.

“I can talk,” Shane said. “I promise.”

Wyatt Hayes looked up from his lunch and shrugged. “It's fine.” The quiet goaltender smiled. “Silence is good too.”

Across from him, Evan Dykstra nodded in agreement.

Unlike most of the loud personalities in the locker room, Evan had always struck Shane as someone who thought before he spoke. The veteran defenseman was the type to ask questions, actually listen to the answers, and quietly do the work to understand people.

“Has the media calmed down about you and Rozanov?” Evan asked.

Shane laughed under his breath. “Not at all.” He picked at his chicken with his fork. “I really don't want everything this season to be about us when it could be about our team.”

Evan frowned. “I hated what they were saying after the kiss.”

Shane looked up. 

“They were basically accusing Rozanov of taking advantage of you.” He shook his head. “That crossed a line.”

“It did.”

“But your statement…” Evan nodded once. “It was good. It mattered.”

Shane smiled faintly. “Thanks. I wish I'd put it out sooner.” He looked down at his plate. “My concussion was so bad I couldn't look at a screen for weeks “I wanted the statement to come from me. Not my manager.”

Evan nodded. “That makes sense.” There was a brief silence before he spoke again. “I know you guys are probably sick of hearing people call you brave.”

Shane smiled. “A little.”

“But you are.” Evan shrugged. “It's fucked up out there. A lot of people would've kept hiding. You didn't.”

Shane glanced across the room. Ilya was currently lecturing three rookies about proper stick tape while eating grilled chicken. “I think we just got tired. Tired of hiding.”

Evan nodded. “Well…” He leaned back in his chair. “Everyone here seems pretty happy you're here.”

“That means a lot.”

“And…” His expression hardened slightly. “You give me the names of anyone who gave you shit in Boston or Montreal… and I've got your back.” 

Shane blinked. 

“Both of you.”

Wyatt looked over at Evan. “Careful.”

Shane raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Evan hunts.” Wyatt took another bite of his lunch. “So 'I've got your back' could mean checking them through the boards… or taking them into the woods.”

Evan rolled his eyes. “I meant on the ice. Mostly.”

Shane laughed. “Don't let Ilya hear you hunt.”

“Why?”

“He'll ask to come.”

“I probably would,” Ilya called from three tables away without even looking up.

Shane laughed harder. “See?”

Evan grinned. “Honestly…” He thought about it for a second. “Maybe that's what this team needs.”

“What?”

“A weekend at a cabin.” He ticked the ideas off on his fingers. “Fishing. A bonfire. A little target shooting. And a few beers afterward.” He quickly added, “Not at the same time. I don't let anyone touch a firearm after they've been drinking.”

Wyatt nodded approvingly. “Good rule.”

“I've got a place up in Manitoba.” Evan looked around the room. “Might not be a bad way to turn twenty-three strangers into teammates.”

Shane followed his gaze.

Hayden and Nick were still talking about their kids.

Luca was arguing with Ilya over stick tape.

Half the room was laughing.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

They were already becoming a team.

Chapter 10

The weight room echoed with the metallic crash of barbells hitting rubber flooring. Music pulsed through the speakers. Players shouted over one another between sets. Someone cursed after missing a lift. Another group argued over who had forgotten to rerack their plates.

“Don't touch the music,” Hayden warned as Evan Dykstra wandered toward the Bluetooth speaker.

“Come on.” Evan scoffed. “I play great music.”

“He plays country,” Troy Barrett announced dramatically, letting his loaded barbell thud onto the platform after finishing a set of deadlifts.

Several heads turned.

Troy was impossible to miss. At only five-foot-nine, he was shorter than most NHL players, but he carried himself like he owned every room he walked into. Glossy black hair fell perfectly despite the workout, and his striking blue eyes gave him the kind of face that looked better suited for magazine covers than hockey arenas. His teammates constantly joked that he looked more like a pop star than a professional athlete.

“I like country,” Evan defended.

“That's because you're from Manitoba,” Troy shot back.

“That's profiling.”

“It's accurate profiling.”

Hayden pointed toward Ilya.

“Just let Rozanov handle the playlist.”

“That seems dangerous,” Evan muttered.

“It is,” Shane agreed.

“No country shit in this house,” Ilya grunted from beneath a loaded squat bar.

Fight Night by Migos blasted through the speakers. The playlist was exactly what everyone had expected from him.

Latin pop.

Hip-hop.

Early 2000s throwbacks that somehow every player knew the words to.

A brand-new Bad Bunny song, Soy Peor, had already found its way into the rotation.

“You don't even understand half these lyrics,” Hayden called across the room.

“I understand enough.” Ilya says. 

“You're making that up.”

“I have rhythm.”

“That wasn't the question.”

Ilya racked the bar with a loud clang and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“Music is about feeling.”

“No,” Troy said. “Music is about not listening to whatever Evan downloaded.”

“I heard that.”

“You were supposed to.”

Shane laughed from the bench press station. “Do I need to make a sign up list for the bluetooth speakers?”

“No.” Hayden immediately says. “Because, he'll threaten us.”

“I would,” Ilya admitted.

“You threatened to neuter me this morning.”

“You parked next to my Ferrari.”

“That has nothing to do with music!”

“It has everything to do with music.”

Nobody understood that answer. Not even Shane. He wasn't entirely convinced Ilya did either.

As the last few players finished their lifts, Shane clapped his hands once to get everyone's attention. “All right.”

The room gradually quieted. 

“We do abs as a group.”

A collective groan rolled through the weight room.

Hayden immediately dropped his head back. “Oh, come on.”

Shane ignored him. “It builds team mentality.”

He started walking toward the open mat space in the middle of the gym.

“We start the day together.” He pointed at the floor. “We finish the day together.”

Another chorus of complaints followed him.

“I hate teamwork,” Troy muttered, grabbing a mat.

“I hate abs,” Luca added.

“I hate both,” Hayden said.

“You complain too much,” Ilya replied, stripping another plate off the squat rack.

“I learned from you.”

“Impossible.”

“You've complained about every single person on this team today.”

“They earned it.”

Shane smiled to himself. “Finish your last set.” He began rolling out exercise mats. “Then find a spot on the floor.”

Players slowly wandered over, still grumbling under their breath. Wyatt quietly claimed a spot in the back. Nick flopped dramatically onto a mat. Luca immediately copied him.

Hayden sprawled across two mats. “I need both.”

“No, you don't,” Shane said.

“I emotionally need both.”

“You physically get one.”

Hayden sighed with the exaggerated suffering of a man being deeply wronged. “Captain's abusing his power.”

“I learned from the best.” He nodded toward Ilya.

Ilya looked up. “I approve.”

“You approve of everything that makes my life harder.”

“Da.”

Within another minute, the entire team was spread across the floor.

Some stretching.

Some pretending to stretch.

Some very obviously hoping Shane would forget.

He didn't. 

“All right.”

Shane looked around the room, smiling.

“Everybody ready?”

“No,” half the team answered in unison.

“Perfect.”

Ilya grinned.

“Now we can begin.”

Everyone groaned as they lay back on their mats.

Shane glanced around to make sure everyone was actually participating.

“Legs up.”

Another round of dramatic sighs.

“Butterfly kicks.”

He waited until every pair of skates was off the floor.

“One.”

The room moved together.

“Two.”

Another kick.

“Three.”

By ten, everyone was already regretting every life decision that had led them to professional hockey.

Shane smiled.

Good.

“We.”

He called it out between counts.

The team answered automatically.

“Are.”

“Ottawa!”

“Centaurs!”

The chant echoed off the weight room walls.

Again.

“We.”

“Are.”

“Ottawa!”

“Centaurs!”

Even the younger players who'd looked confused at first were yelling now.

Hayden groaned through the exercise. “This feels cult-ish.”

“It is team building,” Shane corrected.

“It feels like a cult.”

“If cult wins Stanley Cup…”

Ilya shrugged as he continued the exercise without looking remotely tired. “…I join cult.”

Luca laughed so hard his legs dropped. “Nope.”

Shane pointed at him. “Legs back up.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Another round.

“We.”

“Are.”

“Ottawa!”

“Centaurs!”

The room was louder this time. Stronger. More confident.

Shane caught Ilya's eye across the mats.

Neither of them said anything.

They didn't have to.

This wasn't Boston.

This wasn't Montreal.

This was theirs.

And little by little...

It was becoming everyone's.

Shane and Ilya were heading down the hallway toward the locker room when a voice called after them.

“Hollander. Rozanov.”

They both turned.

Head Coach Brandon Wiebe stood outside his office, a coffee mug in one hand.

He was one of the youngest head coaches in the league, a former NHL player who'd retired less than a decade earlier. He looked like he could still lace up his skates and join practice if he wanted to. There wasn't much in his office yet—a few boxes still sat against one wall, and the shelves were mostly empty—but he wore the quiet confidence of someone comfortable in the role.

“Come in for a minute.”

Shane immediately shot Ilya a look.

“How did you already get us in trouble?” he whispered as they walked inside. “It's day one.”

“I am talented.” Ilya smiles. 

“You're exhausting.”

Brandon hid a smile as he closed the office door behind them. The office reflected how new everything was. A laptop sat on the desk beside a stack of scouting reports. A whiteboard covered in line combinations leaned against the wall, not even mounted yet.

A single framed photo from Brandon's playing days rested on a bookshelf waiting to be unpacked. “Have a seat.”

Shane and Ilya settled into the two chairs across from his desk.

Brandon leaned back in his own chair. “So… How do you think day one went?”

Shane answered first. “It could've gone better. There isn't much teamwork yet. Everyone's still trying to prove themselves instead of trusting the guy next to them.”

Ilya nodded. “Teamwork has to be created.” He folded his arms. “We can fix technique later.”

Brandon nodded thoughtfully. “I agree.” Then the corner of his mouth twitched. “Is that why you threatened to have one of the players sleep with another so he'd understand teamwork?”

Shane sighed. “I knew this was about that.”

“No.” Ilya shook his head seriously. “I said he could get fucked by another.”

Brandon pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly trying not to laugh.

Shane immediately jumped in. “Rozanov's just trying to apply Ancient Greek military philosophy.”

Brandon blinked. “…I'm sorry?”

“Greek city-states sometimes believed that warriors who loved each other fought harder because they were protecting someone they cared about.” Shane shrugged.

“He made me watch a documentary about it last week.” Ilya says. 

“I did.”

Ilya nodded proudly. “Very educational.”

Shane looked at Brandon. “So, technically, there is historical precedent.”

Brandon stared at both of them for a long moment. Then he laughed. A genuine laugh. “You know…” He shook his head. “That somehow isn't the weirdest explanation I've ever heard from a hockey player.”

“I was joking,” Ilya admitted.

“I know.” Brandon's smile lingered. “And honestly…” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “It was funny.”

Shane let out a relieved breath. “So we're not in trouble?”

“Oh, you're absolutely getting talked to.” Brandon's eyes twinkled with amusement. “But not because I think you're wrong.”

He pointed toward the practice rink. “You're both here to change the culture.” His expression became more serious. “Just remember there's a difference between challenging guys…and making the rookies think they're joining some bizarre hockey cult.”

Ilya considered that. “Little hockey cult.”

Shane buried his face in his hands. “Oh my God.”

Brandon laughed again. “This season is going to be interesting.”

“I hope so,” Shane said.

“No,” Brandon corrected with another grin. “I meant for me.”

The three of them laughed.

The humor faded after a moment, and Shane shifted forward in his chair.

“Seriously, though…” He glanced at Ilya before looking back at Brandon. “Thank you. For taking a chance on us. I know we're kind of the black sheep of the league right now.”

Brandon shrugged like it wasn't a big deal “I told both of you this when we met individually.”

He folded his hands on the desk. “I don't care who you sleep with. I don't care who you date. I don't care who you love.”

He pointed toward the rink. “I care if you show up on time. I care if you work hard. I care if you're good teammates.”

A beat passed.

“But if your relationship starts affecting what happens on the ice…” He raised an eyebrow. “…I'm a hockey coach. Not a couples counselor.”

Ilya nodded once. “Reasonable.”

Shane smiled. “It won't.”

“I know.” Brandon leaned back in his chair. “I wouldn't have named you two part of the leadership group if I thought it would.”

That settled something in Shane's chest. He hadn't realized he still needed to hear it.

“Actually,” Shane said, “Dykstra had an idea.”

“Oh?”

“He's got a cabin out in Manitoba. He suggested we take the team away for a weekend.” He counted it off on his fingers. “Fishing. Hunting. Team workouts. A bonfire. Just... getting everyone away from the rink. We need to bond.”

Brandon considered it for a moment.

Then nodded. “I like it.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

“The best teams trust each other before they trust the system.”

“If a weekend in the woods helps build that…” He shrugged. “We'll move practices around. Just let me know when.”

Shane smiled. “I'll talk to Dykstra. I think he'd be happy to organize it.”

“I already like him,” Brandon admitted. “He seems like the kind of guy who keeps a locker room together.”

“He is,” Shane agreed.

Brandon pointed between the two captains. “But…” His expression became mock serious. “Nobody gets injured. “If one of you tears an ACL trying to wrestle a bear…I'm personally skating both your asses until Christmas.”

Shane laughed. “There aren't bears where he's talking about.”

“There are definitely bears,” Ilya said. “That is why we hunt.”

“You're not hunting bears.”

“I was not planning to.”

“That wasn't convincing.”

“It convinced me.”

Brandon sighed dramatically. “Hollander.”

“Yes?”

“You're in charge of making sure Rozanov doesn't accidentally commit a felony.”

“I already do that.”

“Good.”

“Hollander will bring first aid kit,” Ilya promised.

“I always do.”

“And extra bandages.”

“For what?”

Ilya shrugged. “In case Pike parks next to wildlife.”

Brandon stared at him. “…I don't even know what that means.”

“Neither do I,” Shane admitted. “I don't think he does either.”

“I absolutely do.”

Neither of them believed him.

Brandon shook his head, laughing as he stood. “Get out of my office.”

“Yes, Coach,” Shane said.

As they reached the door, Brandon called after them one last time. “And Rozanov?” Ilya glanced over his shoulder. “Try not to threaten anyone with castration tomorrow.”

Ilya considered it. “I make no promises.”

Brandon just laughed. “Yeah…”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “That's about what I expected.”

The two of them stepped out into the hallway.

“I am telling you,” Ilya said. “Pike has too many kids.”

Shane sighed. “You cannot hand him vasectomy pamphlets.”

“Why not?”

“Because that's insane.”

“It is thoughtful.”

“It is absolutely not thoughtful.”

Ilya shrugged. “We do not need more of his boring genes in world.”

Shane laughed. “And your genes are somehow better?”

“I do not know.” A slow grin spread across Ilya's face. “We can test theory.”

Shane narrowed his eyes. “…What does that even mean?”

Ilya leaned closer as they continued walking down the hallway. “Let me give you some of my genes when we get home.”

Before Shane could react, Ilya gave him a quick slap on the ass.

Shane jumped. “Ilya!”

“What?”

“We are still at the rink.”

“So?”

“There are people here.”

“There are always people here.”

Shane glanced down the hallway, relieved to find it empty. “You're impossible.”

“I know.”

“And completely inappropriate.”

“I know that too.”

Shane tried to look annoyed. He lasted all of three seconds before smiling. “You're lucky I like you.”

“No.” Ilya slipped an arm around Shane's shoulders as they headed toward the parking lot. “I am lucky you love me.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “…Yeah.”

“Now come on, Captain.”

“I am hungry.”

Shane laughed. “So you finally admit you're hangry.”

“I did not say that.”

“You basically did.”

“I said I was hungry.”

“That's literally what hangry starts with.”

Ilya thought about it for a moment. “…I do not like this conversation.”

“I know.”

And still arguing over absolutely nothing, they walked out of the arena together.

Chapter 11

October 2017- Manitoba

The Ottawa Centaurs spilled out of the Winnipeg airport into the cold October air, every player dragging luggage behind him. Their breath fogged as they crossed the parking lot toward a row of rental SUVs waiting for them.

Shane stood in the middle of the organized chaos with a clipboard in one hand and his phone in the other.

He'd color-coded the weekend itinerary.

Naturally.

“All right, listen up!” Shane yells.  The conversations gradually died down as everyone looked toward him. “We've got four rental cars. Everyone already has an assigned driver, so don't switch around or we're going to lose somebody before we even leave Winnipeg.”

“You underestimate how easy it is to get lost out here,” Evan Dykstra said with a grin. The Manitoba native slung his duffel bag into the back of one of the SUVs. “There's a reason I sent everyone GPS coordinates.”

“That doesn't make me feel better,” Shane admitted.

“It shouldn't.”

A few players laughed.

Shane glanced back down at his list.

“Pike, Rozanov, you're with me. We're grocery shopping.”

Hayden groaned immediately. “Why do I always get stuck with you two?”

“Because you're the only one I trust to stop Rozanov from buying twenty steaks and forgetting everything else.”

“I would buy potatoes,” Ilya argued.

“Potatoes aren't enough.” Shane says. 

“They grow in the ground.”

“They're also not the only vegetable.”

Ilya looked genuinely unconvinced.

“Boyle, Boodram, Haas—you guys are getting the alcohol. I already texted you the list.” Shane says. 

Luca frowned. “That's... a lot of beer.”

“There are sixteen hockey players,” Shane said. “Trust me.”

“Fair.” Luca says. 

“Dillon, Dykstra, Chouinard—you three are on bait and ammunition.”

Nick Chouinard nodded once.

“Easy.” Evan smirked. “Finally, my hunting obsession becomes useful.”

Shane pointed a finger at him. “You are not teaching Rozanov anything irresponsible.”

“No promises.”

“I heard that,” Shane said without missing a beat.

Finally, he looked toward the last group.

“Hayes, LaPointe, Young, Holmberg. Pick up everything for lunch. Get to the cabin first and start cooking so everyone's got food when the rest of us arrive.”

Wyatt gave a quiet nod. “We've got it.”

Holmberg raised a hand. “What if we burn it?”

“You won't.”

“But if we do?”

Shane considered it. “Then... improvise.”

“There isn't exactly Uber Eats where we're going,” Evan said. Several of the younger guys looked alarmed. “No cell service either.”

Luca's head snapped up. “No Wi-Fi?”

“Nope.”

“No reception?”

“Nope.”

Hayden laughed. “Looks like we're actually going to have to talk to each other.”

Ilya sighed dramatically. “This team-building weekend keeps getting worse.”

“You're the one who wanted everyone to bond,” Shane reminded him.

“I wanted hockey.”

“You're getting hockey.”

“And fishing,” Evan added.

“Hunting,” Nick said.

“A bonfire,” Hayden chimed in.

“And friendship,” Shane finished.

Ilya made a face. “That one sounds exhausting.”

Shane couldn't help smiling. “That one's mandatory.”

Still grumbling under his breath, Ilya grabbed the grocery list from Shane's hand and headed toward their SUV.

Hayden fell into step beside him. “So... how many steaks are we actually buying?”

“At least twenty-four.”

Hayden looked over at Shane. “I think he's serious.”

“He is,” Shane sighed.

Ilya made it three more steps before stopping abruptly. “Haas!”

Luca froze halfway to his rental SUV. “…Yeah?”

Ilya slowly turned to face him. “If you buy shit vodka…” He pointed toward the endless stretch of forest surrounding the airport highway. “…just remember we are going into woods.”

The entire parking lot went quiet.

“I can make it look like accident.”

Luca blinked. Then looked at Shane. Then back at Ilya. “…Tito's?”

Ilya stared at him in complete horror. “Tito's?”

He sounded personally offended. “That is your first suggestion?”

“It was the first one I thought of!”

“It is American vodka.”

“So?”

“So?”

Ilya clutched his chest dramatically. “You wound me.”

“I don't drink vodka!”

“That is obvious.”

Luca held up both hands in surrender. “Okay! Can you just text me the brand you want?”

Without another word, Ilya pulled out his phone.

Thirty seconds later, Luca's phone buzzed. He glanced down at the screen. “…There's twelve brands on here.”

“Yes.”

“Which one do you actually want?”

“Yes.”

Luca looked helplessly at Shane.

“Captain?”

Shane didn't even look up from reorganizing the grocery list in his hand. “Just buy the first one.”

“Thank you.”

“And one bottle of Tito's.” Luca smiled. “For me.”

Ilya gasped. “And this is why you suck at taping. Shit taste in vodka equals shit taping skills.”

Shane finally looked up, unable to hide his grin. “You'll survive.”

“I am surrounded by people with no taste.”

Hayden clapped him on the shoulder. “You're surrounded by Canadians.”

“That explains everything.”

The three of them started toward their SUV again.

Behind them, Luca called out one last time. “So... twenty-four steaks?”

“Thirty,” Ilya answered without turning around.

Shane just closed his eyes.

“This grocery bill is going to bankrupt us.”

By the time they reached the grocery store, Shane already had a system. Of course he did.

Three shopping carts.

Three separate sections of the grocery list.

He handed each of them a page. “You two stay on your side of the store.”

Ilya looked offended. “You think I cannot grocery shop?”

“I think you'll come back with forty steaks and a cart full of sparkling water.”

“I need sparkling water.”

“You don't need forty steaks.”

“We have hockey team.”

Hayden snorted and pushed his cart toward the produce section. “I'll take that as my cue to leave.”

Shane caught up with him a moment later, tossing a bag of onions into his cart. “So...” He smiled. “How's it feel to be away with adults for once?”

Hayden barked out a laugh. “You have no idea.”

Jackie had gone into labor less than twenty-four hours after the first day of training camp.

Since then, Hayden's life had become an endless cycle of diapers, bottles, school drop-offs, and trying to convince toddlers that sleep wasn't a conspiracy.

For this weekend, his parents had taken the older three kids, while Jackie's parents were staying with the newborn.

It was the only reason Hayden had agreed to leave.

“I slept the entire flight.” He shook his head in disbelief. “The whole thing.” 

Shane asks.  “No interruptions?”

“Not one.”

“No crying?”

“Nope.”

“No tiny human climbing on your face?”

Hayden's expression turned almost dreamy. “It was beautiful.”

Shane laughed. “You're making fatherhood sound really appealing.”

“Oh, don't get me wrong.” Hayden smiled immediately. “I'd do it all again.” He reached for a bag of apples. “But sleeping for two straight hours?” He let out a content sigh. “That was bliss.”

From the next aisle over came Ilya's voice. “Hollander!”

Shane closed his eyes. “What?”

“How many jars of peanut butter do we need?”

“One. The big one!”

“What if Pike eats all of it?”

“I won't!” Hayden yelled back. “I have children, so I know how to share!”

“That is exactly why I ask!”

Shane rubbed a hand over his face. “One jar, Ilya.”

A pause.

“…Two?”

“One.”

“…Fine.”

Hayden grinned.

“He's definitely buying two.”

“He's absolutely buying two.”

“And probably another six steaks.”

“I heard that,” Ilya called from somewhere in the meat department.

“Good,” Shane called back.

“I wanted you to.”

He met Hayden back at the front of the store, where all three carts were slowly filling up.

Shane pulled the grocery lists back out of his pocket, comparing them against each cart with the seriousness of someone planning military logistics.

“Three breakfasts.” He crossed one item off. “Three lunches.” Another checkmark. “Three dinners for sixteen professional athletes.” He glanced over at the mountain of meat already sitting in Ilya's cart. “Plus snacks.”

Hayden peered into the carts. “I think we have enough.”

Shane immediately shook his head. “I don't.”

He grabbed another box of protein bars off the shelf and tossed it into Hayden's cart. “We're two hours from the nearest grocery store. If we forget something, we're stuck.”

Hayden watched as Shane added two more bags of pasta. “And if we have leftovers?”

“Then we have leftovers. But if we run out of food...”

Hayden nodded. “…we're feeding sixteen hungry hockey players.”

“Exactly.”

Ilya finally rolled his cart over from the meat department.

It was overflowing.

Shane looked inside. “…Why are there thirty-six steaks?”

“You said twenty-four.” Ilya says. 

“I did.”

“You also said three dinners.”

“Yes.”

“So I bought extra.”

“For what?”

“In case someone is extra hungry.”

Shane stared at him. “Ilya.”

“What?”

“There are enough steaks in your cart to feed a wedding.”

“There are sixteen hockey players.”

“I know.”

“They eat.”

“I know.”

“They eat a lot.”

“I know.”

“So?”

Shane sighed, then looked at Hayden. “I can't even argue with that logic.”

“You've given up?”

“Momentarily.”

Hayden leaned over to inspect Ilya's cart. “…Is that six cartons of eggs?”

“Da.” Ilya says. 

“Why?”

“Breakfast.”

“For an army?”

“For hockey team.”

Shane rubbed his forehead. “Honestly…” He looked around at the overflowing carts. “…I think we might actually have enough.”

Ilya smiled triumphantly. “I was right.”

“You were excessive.”

“There is difference?”

“With you?”

Shane laughed.

“Apparently not.”

As they started pushing the overflowing carts toward the checkout lanes, Ilya drifted closer until he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Shane.

“I got you something.” His voice was quiet enough that Hayden couldn't hear.

“What?”

Ilya subtly pointed toward the very bottom of his cart.

Tucked beneath the cases of sparkling water and enough steak to feed a small village sat a twelve-pack of ginger ale.

Shane smiled before he could stop himself. “That wasn't on the list.”

“No.”

“It was not.”

Ilya's lips twitched. “Is on my list.”

“What list?”

“My list of Shane Hollander's favorite things.”

Shane looked back down at the ginger ale. “You remembered.”

“You always drink it after games. And when your stomach hurts. And when you are stressed. You drink it while watching documentaries. You drank six after concussion.”

Shane blinked. “You remember all that?”

Ilya looked genuinely confused by the question. “Obviously.”

“You remember everything about me.” It wasn't a question. 

“No.” Ilya shrugged. “Just important things.”

For a second, Shane forgot they were standing in the middle of a grocery store.

Forgot Hayden was only a few feet away comparing barbecue sauces.

Forgot they were supposed to be shopping for fifteen other people.

He just looked at Ilya. “Thank you.”

“It was one box of ginger ale.”

“I know.”

“It still means something.”

Ilya reached over and quietly bumped his shoulder against Shane's. “I know.”

Hayden looked up. “Are you two flirting over soda?”

“No,” Shane answered a little too quickly.

“Yes,” Ilya answered at exactly the same time.

Hayden grinned. “I knew it.”

Shane just shook his head. “We're buying groceries.”

“Apparently that's foreplay for you two.”

Ilya looked thoughtful. “…Maybe.”

“Ilya.”

“What?”

“Stop helping.”

“I am helping.”

“You're making it worse.”

Hayden laughed as they rolled their carts toward the checkout. “You know…” He looked between them. “I think this is the healthiest relationship I've ever seen.”

Shane raised an eyebrow. “Because he remembered my favorite soda?”

“No.”

“Because underneath all the threats, insults, and ridiculousness…” Hayden smiled. “…he notices the little things.”

Ilya looked away, suddenly very interested in rearranging the cases of water in his cart.

Shane just smiled to himself.

Yeah.

He did.

Hayden watched the exchange from the end of the aisle, pretending to compare barbecue sauces.

There had been a time when he honestly believed Ilya Rozanov wasn't good enough for Shane.

Shane was his best friend.

The first person he'd told about Jackie after meeting her.

The guy who'd spent an entire Saturday helping him pick out an engagement ring.

The godfather to his kids.

Hayden trusted Shane with the most important people in his life.

And Ilya...

Ilya had been the arrogant Russian who chirped nonstop, threw bone-rattling hits, and seemed determined to piss Hayden off every single time Boston and Montreal played each other.

Hayden had wanted to body-check him through the glass more than once. Probably more than once a game. Back then, he'd only ever seen the version of Ilya everyone else saw.

Cocky.

Sharp-tongued.

Infuriating.

The villain.

He'd never seen this version.

The one who remembered Shane's favorite soda without being asked. The one who quietly paid attention to the little things. The one who'd noticed what made Shane comfortable long before anyone else had.

Hayden looked over at Shane. Shane wasn't even looking at the ginger ale anymore. He was looking at Ilya.

Like none of this surprised him. Like this had always been who Ilya was.

The rest of the world had just never been invited to see it. Hayden smiled to himself. Maybe he'd been wrong. Not about Ilya being an asshole.

He definitely was.

But he'd also been wrong about something much bigger.

Ilya didn't just love Shane.

He took care of him. In a hundred tiny, almost invisible ways. The kind of ways that only happened after years of paying attention.

“Okay,” Hayden said, tossing a bottle of barbecue sauce into his cart. “I officially get it now.”

Shane looked over. “Get what?”

Hayden nodded toward Ilya, who was now arguing with himself over whether they needed more sparkling water. “You two.”

Shane smiled. “Yeah.”

~~~~

The drive north took them farther and farther from civilization.

Cell service disappeared.

Then the paved roads.

Eventually, the convoy of SUVs turned down a long gravel driveway lined with towering pine trees.

When the cabin finally came into view, Luca slowed his SUV. “…What the fuck?”

“It is not cabin,” Nick muttered.

“It is castle.”

Calling it a cabin was almost insulting. The place was enormous.

Thick log beams stretched two stories high, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake. A massive wraparound porch circled the house, complete with rocking chairs, a fire pit, and enough space to host half the league.

Inside, it somehow got even bigger.

The game room held arcade cabinets, a pool table, foosball, air hockey, and a dartboard.

The living room had leather couches arranged around a stone fireplace large enough to stand inside, with every gaming console imaginable tucked beneath an oversized television.

The kitchen looked like it belonged in a restaurant, with two islands, commercial-grade appliances, and enough counter space to feed an entire hockey team.

The bedrooms stretched down two separate hallways.

“You built this?” Hayden asked, staring at Evan.

Evan shrugged like it wasn't a big deal. “Piece by piece.”

“Seriously?”

“Over a few summers.”

He looked around the room with quiet pride. “My wife and I always wanted to retire out here someday.”

“So I figured…” He ran a hand along one of the wooden beams. “…I'd build it myself.”

The room fell silent for a moment.

Luca looked around again. “You built... all of this?”

“Yeah.”

“With your own hands?”

“Mostly.”

Hayden shook his head. “Man. I can barely put together IKEA furniture.”

“That is because IKEA instructions are stupid,” Ilya said.

“They're pictures.”

“Exactly.”

The laughter broke everyone back into motion.

“All right,” Shane clapped once. “Groceries first.”

Without another word, everyone started unloading the SUVs.

Coolers. Duffel bags. Cases of water. Enough food to feed an army.

Shane stood in the middle of the kitchen directing traffic with the efficiency of an air traffic controller.

“Pantry on the left.”

“Fridge.”

“Freezer.”

“Protein bars go in that cabinet.”

“No, not that one.”

“That one.”

Within ten minutes, sixteen professional athletes had emptied every vehicle.

Shane looked around the now fully stocked kitchen with quiet satisfaction.

“See?”

He smiled.

“Teamwork.”

“Okay,” he continued, clapping his hands once. “The primary bedroom stays empty. That's Evan's room. It's his house.”

Evan waved him off.

“You don't have to—”

“Yes, we do,” Shane interrupted. “You built this place. You get the best room.”

Evan smiled but didn't argue.

“Other than that, go claim your rooms.”

Shane glanced toward the dining room, where Wyatt Hayes and the rest of the lunch crew were already setting food out on the long wooden table.

“Then everybody comes back down.”

“We eat together.”

“We socialize.”

“We work out together.”

“We fish together.”

He looked around at all of them.

“This weekend is about becoming a team.”

For a moment, everyone nodded.

Then Luca Haas raised a tentative hand.

“So...”

He frowned.

“Do we have to shower together?”

The room went silent.

Ilya slowly turned toward him.

“What the fuck? Luca…” He stared at the young Swiss winger. “Were you dropped on head as child?”

Luca blinked. “I was just following what Hollander said.” He gestured toward Shane. “He said we do everything together.”

Half the room burst into laughter.

Shane pinched the bridge of his nose. “That is not what I meant.”

“Oh.” Luca looked genuinely embarrassed. “I thought maybe it was... team bonding.”

“No,” Hayden said immediately. “Absolutely not.”

Nick laughed. “Mon Dieu.”

“Maybe Swiss hockey is different,” Boyle offered.

“It is not,” Luca said quickly.

“I was asking!”

“You ask too many questions,” Ilya muttered.

“I think it was fair.”

“It was not.”

“It was little fair.”

“It was zero fair.”

Shane sighed dramatically. “Just eat lunch.”

“That,” he pointed around the room, “is the kind of togetherness I was talking about.”

Hayden grinned. “So clothes stay on?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“I packed the wrong bag otherwise.”

The room erupted into laughter again.

Even Ilya couldn't stop himself. “You are all idiots.”

Shane smiled. “Yeah. But you're my idiots.”

For the first time since arriving in Ottawa, that statement felt true.

“But…” Luca pointed between Shane and Ilya. “You two are going to shower together.”

The room erupted.

“What?” Hayden barked out a laugh.

“Oh my God,” Shane groaned.

Ilya stared at Luca like he'd grown a second head.

“What Hollander and I do…” He pointed his finger at the young Swiss winger. “…is none of your business.”

“I was just following the rules,” Luca defended. “Hollander said we do everything together.”

“That is not what he meant,” Nick said through a laugh.

“I know that now!”

Hayden shook his head. “Kid, there are some questions you just don't ask.”

“I thought we were being open!”

“We are,” Shane said, unable to stop smiling.

“But there are still boundaries.”

Luca nodded seriously. “Okay.” A beat passed. “So... separate showers.”

“Yes,” half the room answered in unison.

“Good.”

Luca looked relieved. “I was worried this was some weird Canadian hockey tradition.”

Nick pointed at him. “I'm Canadian. And I would have gone home.”

The room burst into laughter again.

Ilya threw his hands into the air. “I cannot believe this is conversation we are having.”

Hayden clapped Luca on the shoulder. “Congratulations.”

“For what?”

“You're officially one of us.”

Luca frowned. “How?”

“You've managed to make Rozanov speechless.”

“That never happens.”

Ilya looked at Shane. “Can we trade him?”

“No.” Shane says. 

“Please?”

“No.”

Luca grinned. “I think he likes me.”

“I do not.” Ilya says 

“You smile every time you insult me.”

“I smile because you make life difficult.”

“That's basically friendship.”

Ilya looked genuinely offended. “No.”

Shane laughed. “Actually…” He picked up his duffel bag. “I think that's exactly what friendship looks like.”

Chapter 12

Shane and Ilya finally escaped upstairs with their duffel bags.

With sixteen players and only nine bedrooms—including the primary suite that belonged to Evan—everyone had to share.

Shane had offered to room with one of the younger guys.

It would've looked more professional.

More captain-like.

Ilya had shut that idea down immediately. “I am sharing with Hollander.”

Nobody had argued.

Mostly because everyone had already seen the look Ilya gave anyone who even suggested otherwise.

The room assignments were settled after that.

Their bedroom overlooked the lake, with a king-sized bed, a stone fireplace, and floor-to-ceiling windows framing nothing but pine trees dusted with fresh snow.

Shane dropped his duffel beside the dresser and looked around the room.

“You know,” he said quietly, “everyone's going to assume we're having sex in here.”

Ilya barely looked up as he unzipped his bag. “And?”

“And…” Shane lowered his voice even though the door was closed. “They're going to make fun of us.”

“They already make fun of us.”

“I know.”

“They made shower jokes downstairs.”

“I know.”

Ilya finally looked at him. “We are two grown men sharing room.” He shrugged. “They can assume whatever they want.”

Shane smiled despite himself. “You really don't care what people think, do you?”

“I care what you think.” The answer came so quickly it caught Shane off guard. “The rest…” Ilya waved a dismissive hand. “They are just teammates.”

Shane stepped closer until their shoulders brushed. “For the record…”

“I really did think we should've taken separate rooms.”

“I know.”

“But…”

A smile tugged at the corner of Shane's mouth.

“I'm glad we didn't.”

A matching smile spread across Ilya's face.

“Me too.”

There was a knock on the bedroom door.

“Hey!” Hayden called through the wood. “If you two are done being disgustingly in love, lunch is getting cold!”

Shane laughed.

“We'll be down in a minute!”

“Good,” Hayden called back. “Because Luca's already asking if captains get to eat first.”

“They do not!” Shane shouted.

“Worth asking,” Luca yelled from somewhere farther down the hall.

The footsteps faded toward the staircase.

Shane looked back at Ilya. “They're never going to let us live this down.”

“No.” Ilya smiled. “And honestly… I would be disappointed if they did.” A beat passed. “But if you want to give me a quick blowjob before lunch…” He shrugged. “…I would not complain.”

Shane let out an exasperated laugh. “Let's go before I fire you as alternate captain.”

“You do not have that power.” Ilya picked up his duffel and grinned. “I checked.”

“You actually checked?”

“Obviously.”

Shane shook his head. “You're unbelievable.”

“And yet…” Ilya opened the bedroom door. “You keep me around.”

“I ask myself why every day.”

“You know why.”

Shane rolled his eyes, unable to hide his smile. “Yeah. I do.”

The moment they stepped downstairs, Wyatt Hayes looked up from the dining table.

Relief washed across his face.

“I tried to hold everyone off, Hollander!” He pointed around the room. “Since you said we eat together!”

Several players were already standing around the kitchen island with empty plates in hand, clearly losing the battle against their appetites.

“You're all like starving golden retrievers,” Hayden muttered.

“We burn like six thousand calories a day,” Boyle argued.

“That is not my fault.”

Shane smiled at Wyatt. “Good job, Hayes.” He looked around the room. “Let's eat.”

That was apparently all the permission sixteen professional hockey players needed. The room exploded into motion. Plates were grabbed from stacks. Pasta disappeared into serving bowls. Salad was passed around the table. Someone stole a dinner roll before the basket even made it halfway around.

Within seconds, the kitchen was filled with the scrape of chairs, overlapping conversations, and the unmistakable sound of very hungry athletes attacking lunch. Shane watched everyone settle in around the massive dining table. Exactly what he'd hoped for.

No phones.

No headphones.

No disappearing to eat alone in bedrooms.

Just sixteen teammates sharing a meal.

Ilya slid into the chair beside Shane, immediately reaching for the parmesan.

He looked over at Wyatt, who had spent the last hour cooking with the lunch crew.

“You made salad.”

It sounded less like a question and more like an accusation.

“I did,” Wyatt replied.

“Why?”

Wyatt pointed his fork at Shane. “Hollander said we're having complete meals. Protein. Carbs.” Vegetables.”

He shrugged.

“I don't know. I just followed the list he gave me.”

Ilya looked at the bowl of salad as if it had personally insulted him.

“I already saw vegetables at grocery store today.”

“You have to eat them too,” Shane said, scooping some onto his own plate.

“I had potato.”

“If the potato comes in the form of vodka, it does not count..”

“It absolutely counts.”

Before Shane could respond, Hayden leaned across the table and dropped a generous spoonful of salad onto Ilya's plate.

“There. Problem solved.”

Ilya slowly looked down at the lettuce. Then up at Hayden. “I am beginning to regret convincing you to come to Ottawa.”

Hayden raised an eyebrow. “You convinced me?”

“No. But I regret it anyway.”

The table burst into laughter.

Luca pointed his fork toward Ilya. “You're still going to eat it.”

“I am not.”

“You're captain.”

“I am alternate captain.”

“Same thing.”

“It is absolutely not same thing.”

Shane reached over, speared a cucumber off Ilya's plate, and popped it into his own mouth. “You've already lost one vegetable.”

“You are thief.” Ilya says. 

“I learned from you.”

Ilya thought about that for a second. “…Fair.”

The conversation drifted almost immediately into hockey, fishing, and an argument over who would catch the biggest fish the next morning.

Shane sat back for a moment, listening to sixteen voices overlap around the table.

Laughter echoed through the cabin.

Someone knocked over a glass.

Nick and Luca had somehow started debating whether maple syrup belonged on breakfast sausage.

Nobody was checking their phones.

Nobody was sitting alone.

This.

Shane smiled to himself.

This was exactly why they'd come.

“Is the beer cold yet?” Tanner Dillon called from the other end of the table.

Evan looked up from his plate. “I threw a couple cases outside when we got here.” He shrugged. “It's cold as balls out there. It'll be cold enough.”

Holmberg glanced toward the windows overlooking the woods. “So… Is there actually going to be anything to hunt?”

Evan laughed “Probably. And worst case…” He took another bite of pasta. “…we shoot beer cans.”

Zane Boodram pointed his fork across the table. “Haas.” Luca looked up. “Go get everyone a beer.”

“Why me?” Luca asks. 

“Because you're the rookie.”

Luca frowned. “That seems unfair.”

“It is,” Ilya agreed. “You do as we ask.”

Luca looked around the table for support.

Nobody came to his rescue.

Even Shane just smiled. “Welcome to professional hockey.”

Luca sighed dramatically and pushed his chair back. “This league is full of workplace bullying.”

“It builds character,” Hayden said.

“It builds alcoholism,” Luca muttered as he headed toward the front door.

Nick laughed so hard he nearly dropped his fork. “He's learning fast.”

“He is,” Shane agreed.

“By Christmas he'll be making the next rookie get the beers.”

From the front hallway, Luca yelled back, “I heard that!”

“That means you're listening,” Ilya called.

“Good.”

The room dissolved into laughter once again.

Shane looked around the table.

A few months ago, most of these guys had been strangers.

Now they were already giving each other a hard time like they'd played together for years.

Maybe...

The culture they were trying to build had already started.

Luca returned from outside with his arms full of cold beer, passing bottles around the table.

Troy Barrett caught one and twisted the cap off.

“All right,” he said after taking a drink. “Worst hockey punishment you've ever gotten. Go.”

“That is easy,” Ilya said immediately.

“I played hockey in Russia.”

A few of the younger guys laughed.

“No, seriously.” He took a sip of his beer. “We believed punishment put hair on chest.”

“What kind of punishment?” Luca asked.

Ilya shrugged. “Bag skates until you throw up.”

Bag skates were every hockey player's nightmare. The coach would walk onto the ice carrying a bag of pucks, only to leave it untouched. There would be no drills, no scrimmages, no fun—just endless conditioning. Sprint after sprint, suicides from blue line to blue line, laps until your lungs burned and your legs threatened to give out. The bag of pucks was simply the warning that you were about to suffer.

“Push-ups in full equipment. Coach throwing tire at you because your backcheck was shit.”

The room went quiet.

“…He threw a tire at you?” Holmberg asked.

“It missed.”

“That doesn't make it better.”

“It was good motivation.”

Shane shook his head. “No, it wasn't.”

“It was little motivation,” Ilya insisted.

“It was assault.”

Nick laughed into his beer. “My junior coach made us shovel the rink parking lot after we lost.”

“In skates,” he added.

Hayden snorted. “That's Canadian as hell.”

Zane nodded. “My coach made us carry logs up a hill. I thought he was preparing us for hockey.” He paused for dramatic effect. “I think he was just building a cabin.”

Everyone laughed.

Wyatt raised a hand. “Our coach locked the locker room after a bad game.”

“So?” Troy asked.

“So we had to stand outside in January wearing nothing but compression shorts while he gave a twenty-minute speech.”

“Ouch,” Boyle muttered.

Luca looked around the table. “My punishment was just extra skating.”

Everyone stared at him.

“You had nice childhood,” Ilya decided.

“I guess.”

Shane smiled as he listened to the stories bounce around the table.

Different countries.

Different coaches.

Different leagues.

Somehow every hockey player had at least one story that sounded completely insane to everyone else.

“And now,” Hayden said, lifting his beer toward Shane and Ilya, “our punishment is a weekend of forced friendship.”

“I still think salad was bigger punishment,” Ilya muttered.

Hayden laughed. “You're never letting the salad go, are you?”

“Absolutely not.”

Shane nudged him with his elbow. “You ate it.”

“I survived it.”

“Barely.”

“I deserve medal.”

“You deserve another serving.”

Ilya looked horrified. “I take back everything nice I have ever said about you.”

“You've never said anything nice.”

“I bought you ginger ale.”

Shane smiled.

“…Fair.”

Boyle leaned back in his chair, balancing his beer bottle on one knee. “Okay, Hollander. What's on the schedule today?”

Shane swallowed another bite of pasta before answering. “Lunch first. Then Dykstra's going to check the lake and see if the ice is thick enough to skate on.”

Evan nodded from across the table. “It should be close.”

“If it isn't safe, nobody goes out. Not even Rozanov.”

Ilya looked offended. “I know ice.”

“You know hockey,” Evan corrected. “I know this lake.”

“That is fair.”

“If we can't skate,” Shane continued, “we'll do off-ice workouts instead. Nothing crazy.” He looked around the table. “I wanted today to be easy. No systems. No drills. No video sessions. Just us.”

He gestured toward the game room down the hall. “We've got arcade games. Every gaming console imaginable. Cards. A pool table. Air hockey. We'll have a few beers, relax, and actually get to know each other.”

He looked at the veterans. “One thing, though. I don't want all the older guys hanging out together while the rookies sit by themselves.” His eyes landed on Hayden, Ilya, Zane, and Nick. “Veterans, make an effort. Go talk to the younger guys. Get to know somebody you wouldn't normally sit beside.”

He glanced toward Luca, Holmberg, and the other younger players. “This weekend isn't just about getting away. It's about becoming a team.”

The room grew quiet.

Not awkward.

Just thoughtful.

Troy nodded first. “I like that.”

“So no rookie table?” Luca asks. 

“No rookie table,” Shane agreed.

Hayden grinned.

“Can we still make the rookies get us beers?”

“Yes,” Shane said without hesitation.

“That builds character.”

Luca pointed accusingly across the table.

“I knew this was all a trap.”

“It was,” Ilya replied.

“You are learning.”

Shane reached into the folder he'd brought from the rink and pulled out a printed sheet of paper. “I also created a chore chart.”

The collective groan around the table was immediate.

“Oh, come on,” Tanner complained. “We're on vacation.”

“This isn't a vacation,” Shane corrected. “It's team bonding. There's a difference.”

He set the paper in the middle of the table. “I'm not asking for much. After meals, the people who didn't cook will clean. Wipe down the table. Do the dishes. Sweep the floor. Take out the trash. Simple stuff.”

Zane raised a hand. “Can I pay a rookie to do it for me?”

“No,” Shane answered immediately.

“Yes,” Ilya said at the exact same time.

Shane turned toward him. “No.”

Ilya shrugged. “If rookie accepts money…”

“No.”

“It teaches economics.”

“It teaches laziness.”

“It teaches capitalism.”

Nick laughed into his beer. “I kind of want to hear him finish.”

Shane crossed his arms. “Nobody is paying anyone. We're all cleaning.”

Hayden leaned over to look at the chart. “…You color-coded it.”

“Obviously.”

“You made us different colors.”

“Obviously.”

“You laminated it?”

“I brought extra copies.”

The room erupted into laughter.

Luca stared at the chart in disbelief. “You made copies?”

“He made backups,” Ilya corrected. “He has backups for backups.”

“I like being prepared,” Shane defended.

“I know,” Hayden said. “I've known you for ten years.”

“You've probably got an emergency chore chart in your backpack.” Luca says. 

Shane didn't answer.

The table went silent.

“…You do, don't you?” Troy asked.

Shane slowly reached into his backpack. A second laminated copy appeared. The room exploded with laughter.

“I cannot believe I am dating him,” Ilya said, shaking his head.

Troy laughed. “You love him.”

“I do.” Ilya took another sip of his beer. “But this is still deeply concerning.”

“You're just jealous he's more organized than you,” Hayden said.

“That is impossible.”

“It really isn't,” Troy replied.

Wyatt looked around the table. “So… Who's on dish duty for lunch?”

Shane immediately reached for the laminated schedule. “Lunch was cooked by Hayes, LaPointe, Young, and Holmberg.” He ran his finger down the chart. So dishes are… Barrett. Dillon. And Haas.”

Luca groaned dramatically. “I knew there was a catch.”

“There is always a catch,” Ilya nodded.

“Everyone else,” Shane continued, “scrape your own plates, throw away your trash, and don't leave your bottles sitting around.”

He looked around the table. “And if you don't know how to do something— like what soap goes in the dishwasher. “Or where the cleaning supplies are. Or how to separate recycling. Ask. I'd rather answer a question than have somebody accidentally fill the dishwasher with dish soap.”

A few guys laughed.

Nick quietly slid his beer farther away from the dishwasher.

Shane noticed. “…You've done that before.”

Nick looked at the table. “…Maybe.”

“I knew it,” Hayden laughed.

Young raised his hand. “What's for dinner?”

Hayden blinked. “We literally just ate lunch.”

Young shrugged. “I like to plan ahead.”

Shane looked back down at the menu he'd printed. “Steaks. Grilled chicken. Baked potatoes. Salad.”

Ilya sighed dramatically. “Again with vegetables.”

“Yes,” Shane said without looking up. “Again with vegetables. And before you ask…” He reached into his folder and pulled out another laminated page. “The meal schedule will be taped to the refrigerator.”

There was a collective groan.

“You made a menu?” Troy asked.

“I made three. One for the fridge. One for the kitchen. One in case someone spills something on the first two.”

Hayden buried his face in his hands. “Jackie would absolutely love you.”

“I know,” Shane said proudly. “She already asked me to organize our pantry once.”

Ilya looked around the table. “See?”

“And yet,” Troy said with a grin, “you've got a color-coded life.”

Ilya looked at Shane.

Then at the laminated menus.

Then back at Shane.

“…I suppose there are worse things.”

Lunch slowly dissolved into smaller conversations as everyone drifted toward different corners of the cabin.

Exactly what Shane had planned. The veterans mixed with the younger players. Someone started a game of pool. A group wandered into the game room to argue over which console to hook up first.

Laughter echoed through the house.

Ilya had somehow gathered half the rookies around him and was attempting to teach them Russian drinking games.

From the amount of yelling, Shane wasn't entirely convinced he was teaching them correctly.

Across the room, Hayden had his phone out. “…And this is Emma when she was three.”

Nobody had escaped.

Every teammate who walked by was immediately shown another baby picture. Shane smiled to himself. This was good. This was exactly what he wanted. The team was talking.

Laughing.

Getting to know one another. He'd told everyone to socialize. As captain, he probably should've been out there too. Instead, he quietly slipped upstairs.

It had been a long day. The flight. The grocery shopping. Organizing sixteen grown men. Making sure everyone had eaten. Making sure everyone felt included.

He loved being around his teammates. He genuinely did. But after enough hours, the constant conversations, decisions, and noise became... a lot.

Sometimes he just needed ten minutes. Nothing was wrong. He simply needed to reset. He closed the bedroom door behind him and sat on the edge of the bed.

Downstairs, muffled laughter carried through the floorboards. Someone shouted in Russian. Probably Ilya.

Shane smiled.

He reached into his backpack and pulled out his noise-canceling headphones.

Most people assumed he listened to music.

He didn't.

Music had never really done much for him.

The only playlists he regularly listened to were the ones Ilya insisted on playing in the car.More  often than not, if he had headphones on, he was listening to Russian lessons. Trying to understand one more sentence. One more phrase. One more piece of Ilya's world. Not today.

Today, he didn't press play on anything.

He simply switched the headphones on. The cabin disappeared. The distant laughter. The footsteps overhead. The voices downstairs. All of it faded into silence. Shane closed his eyes. For ten minutes...

He let himself breathe.

Downstairs, the silence Shane was enjoying did not exist.

“Okay,” Ilya announced, clapping his hands together. “First game is called The Bear Has Come.”

Half the team looked intrigued.

The other half looked concerned.

“Everybody puts a small bill on the table,” Ilya explained. “Everybody takes a shot. Then the host says, ‘The bear has come!’” He crouched to demonstrate. “That means everybody crawls under the table.”

Luca blinked. “…Why?”

“Because bear came.”

“That doesn't answer the question.”

“After little while,” Ilya continued as if Luca hadn't spoken, “the host says the bear has left. Everybody crawls back out, pours another shot, puts another bill on table…”

He grinned. “…and the bear comes back.”

“How do you win?” Troy asked.

“When everybody else is too drunk to crawl back out.” Ilya spread his arms. “You are last man under table. You win all the money.”

The room was silent for a beat.

“…How is that fun?” Luca finally asked.

“It is Russia.”

“That also doesn't answer the question.”

“Fine,” Ilya sighed dramatically. “Another Russian drinking game.”

He pointed toward the staircase leading upstairs. “This one is called Staircase. For every step you take, you drink one capful. You go all the way up. Then all the way down. The goal is to make it back without falling.”

Luca stared at him. “Your drinking games are depressing.”

“They build character.”

“They build alcoholism,” Troy muttered.

Ilya pointed at the Swiss rookie. “Okay, rookie. You complain. What game should we play?”

Luca's face brightened. “Nageln.” Everyone looked at him. “The Swiss game.”

“You stand around a tree stump with a nail.” He mimed swinging a hammer. “Everyone gets one swing to drive their nail into the wood.”

“If you miss…” He shrugged. “You drink.”

Ilya frowned. “How is that less depressing?”

“Because there's a hammer.”

“…That is your defense?”

“Yes.”

Hayden looked between them. “So let me get this straight.” He pointed at Ilya. “Russia gets drunk and hides from imaginary bears.” Then he pointed at Luca. “Switzerland gets drunk while swinging hammers.”

“Yes,” they answered in unison.

Hayden looked at Troy. “…Canadians are weirdly normal.”

“Not after a few beers,” Troy replied.

Nick raised his bottle. “I'm voting for the hammer game.”

“So am I,” Zane agreed.

“At least somebody might accidentally hit Rozanov.”

“I would dodge.”

“You don't know that.”

“I absolutely know that.”

Luca grinned.

“I like this game already.”

Ilya nodded approvingly. He looked around the room. “What drinking games do Canadians play?”

Troy leaned back in his chair. “We start drinking once the temperature drops below zero. And we stop once it's been above zero for more than a week.”

The room laughed.

Zane took a sip of his beer. “Or we play a game called Drink Beer.”

Ilya waited. “…That's it?”

“Yeah. The rules are pretty complicated. You open a beer. You drink it. If you're feeling adventurous…” He shrugged. “You open another one.”

Hayden nodded seriously. “Takes years to master.”

Luca laughed. “I think I could learn that one.”

Ilya stared at all of them in disappointment.

He pointed at Troy. “Boring.” Then at Zane. “Boring.” He swept his finger around the rest of the Canadians. “All of you…”

“…boring.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “You literally suggested hiding under a table because of an imaginary bear.”

“Yes.”

“And that is culture.”

“No,” Troy said.

“That is alcoholism with extra steps.”

“Exactly,” Hayden agreed.

“At least our drinking games don't involve wildlife.”

“The bear is symbolic,” Ilya defended.

“Of what?” Boyle asked.

Ilya thought for a moment. “…Drinking.”

The room burst into laughter. 

Luca wiped tears from his eyes. “I don't think he actually knows.”

“He absolutely doesn't,” Troy said.

Ilya took another drink. “I know enough.”

Shane would've hated this conversation.

Which somehow made everyone laugh even harder.

Tanner Dillon leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. 

“Okay, okay. Let me show you how Americans do it. Drinking culture is basically a college major.” He started counting on his fingers. “Beer pong. Kings Cup. Rage Cage. Ride the Bus. Never Have I Ever. Flip Cup. And that's just off the top of my head.”

Ilya's eyes lit up. “Now that is culture!”

“America finally contributes something,” he declared.

Boyle laughed. “That's your takeaway?”

“Da.”

Hayden shook his head. “I can't believe you're impressed by frat parties.”

“They made sport out of drinking. I respect commitment.”

“You're impossible,” Troy said.

“No. I am open-minded.”

Luca grinned. “So what are we actually playing?”

Tanner pointed toward the kitchen. “I saw a bunch of red cups. We can play beer pong or flip cup.”

“No,” Shane's voice called from the top of the stairs. Every head in the room snapped toward him. Shane stood on the landing, headphones now resting around his neck. “You are not using my meal-planning cups for beer pong.”

The room went silent.

Hayden blinked. “…You have designated meal-planning cups?”

“I packed them separately.”

Ilya rubbed a hand over his face. “I forgot he was in house.”

“You forgot your boyfriend was in the house?” Troy asked.

“I got distracted by drinking culture.”

Shane sighed. “I'll find you different cups.”

He disappeared back upstairs before anyone could answer.

The room remained quiet for exactly two seconds.

Then Ilya smiled. “I told you. He has backup cups.”

Shane would've hated this conversation.

Which somehow made everyone laugh even harder.

“Dykstra!” Tanner yelled toward the living room. “Do you have a ping pong ball?”

“In the game room!” Evan shouted back. “Top shelf of the cabinet!”

Tanner disappeared for a moment before returning triumphantly with an unopened pack of ping pong balls.

Meanwhile, Zane cleared the dining table with one sweeping motion, stacking the empty plates off to the side.

“There,” he said. “Official arena.”

Ilya immediately pointed across the room. “Swiss!” Luca looked up. “You are on my team.”

“Why me?” Luca asks. 

“Because you understand suffering. And Hollander said veterans need to be nice to the rookies.”

“…I'll take that as a compliment.”

Tanner began arranging the red cups into triangles at either end of the table. “All right. Pretty simple. You get the ball in a cup, the other team drinks it. If the ball bounces on the table first, they can swat it away before it lands. And you've got two restacks whenever you want. House rules.”

Luca frowned. “What is a restack?”

Troy walked over and adjusted one of the cup formations. 

“When your cups get spread out, you can ask the other team to rearrange them into a tighter triangle. Makes the endgame less annoying.” Tanner explains.

“Ah.” Boyle says. “That makes sense.”

Ilya grabbed a ping pong ball and spun it between his fingers. “I am going to destroy all of you.”

Hayden laughed. “You've never even played.”

“I have athletic confidence.” Ilya says. 

“That isn't the same thing.”

“It is enough.”

Boyle cracked another beer.

“I call dibs on not having Rozanov as my partner.”

“Coward,” Ilya replied.

“No.”

“I've watched you throw passes.”

“I don't trust you with a ping pong ball.”

“Your loss.”

Zane looked around the room before pointing across the table. “LaPointe. You're with me.”

LaPointe shrugged. “Sure.”

Nobody thought much of it. After all, LaPointe had barely said a dozen words since arriving at the cabin.

Quiet.

Easygoing.

The kind of guy who blended into the background. What none of them knew was that before turning pro, LaPointe had played at the University of Minnesota, where the hockey house threw legendary parties.

And somewhere along the way...

He'd become the undisputed beer pong champion.

“Who's got next?” Hayden asked.

“Ilya and Swiss versus Zane and LaPointe,” Tanner declared.

“Oh,” Troy said. “This should be interesting.”

Ilya picked up a ball and bounced it confidently in his hand. “I have natural talent.”

The teams took their places.

Zane tossed LaPointe a ball. “You ready?”

LaPointe simply nodded. His first shot arced through the air.

Plunk.

Straight into the center cup. The room let out a chorus of surprised laughs.

“Lucky shot,” Ilya declared.

LaPointe shrugged. “Maybe.”

He picked up another ball.

Plunk.

Another cup.

Troy slowly turned toward Hayden. “…Uh-oh.”

By the time LaPointe sank his fourth shot without missing, the room had gone from amused to stunned.

Luca stared. “You never told us you were good.”

LaPointe smiled for what might've been the first time all weekend. “Nobody asked.”

Ilya looked at Zane. “You hustled us.”

“I honestly had no idea,” Zane admitted, trying—and failing—not to laugh.

Hayden pointed accusingly at LaPointe. “You've been sandbagging this entire trip.”

LaPointe shrugged again. “I thought we were just having fun.”

“You're terrifying,” Tanner said. “I kind of love it.”

Zane laughed, shaking his head. “Where the hell did you learn to play beer pong like that?”

LaPointe looked genuinely confused by the question. “Hockey house at college.” He shrugged. “We were known for our jungle juice and beer pong tournaments. I am the reigning champion.”

The room went quiet.

“…Of course you are,” Hayden muttered.

“What college?” Tanner asked.

“University of Minnesota.”

Tanner's eyes widened. “Oh, that's where I know you from!”

He pointed across the table. “University of Wisconsin.”

Recognition immediately flashed across LaPointe's face. “I body checked you in the Big Ten Championship!”

“You absolutely did!”

Tanner burst out laughing. “You knocked my helmet clean off!”

“You kept chirping.”

“You deserved it.”

“I probably did.”

The two of them laughed while everyone else looked between them.

“You two know each other?” Luca asked.

“College hockey is a small world,” Tanner said.

“You spend four years trying to kill each other. Then you get drafted and end up on the same team.”

Hayden shook his head. “So this whole time you've just been pretending not to know each other?”

LaPointe shrugged. “I don't hold grudges. Once I'm off the ice…” He bounced the ping pong ball in his palm. “…I usually forget who they are.” He looked over at Tanner. “I did, however, remember how annoying you are.”

Tanner laughed. “Likewise.”

Ilya looked between the two of them.

“So American college hockey is just fighting and drinking.”

Tanner shrugged. “…Pretty much.”

Ilya nodded in approval. “America continues to impress me.”

Tanner grinned before reaching into his mouth.

“Speaking of college…” He popped out a clear retainer with a single fake front tooth attached to it and held it up for everyone to see. “He is the reason this tooth is fake.”

The room erupted.

“No way,” Troy laughed.

LaPointe didn't even look guilty. “That was good punch.”

“You punched him?”

“He cross-checked me first.”

“I barely cross-checked you!” Tanner yells. 

“You definitely cross-checked me.” LaPointe says. 

“You definitely deserved it.”

Hayden blinked between them. “And now you guys are teammates.”

“That's hockey,” Zane said with a shrug. “You try to kill each other. Then one day you're sharing a locker room. And apparently beer pong.”

Hayden laughed. “Is this why Hollander wanted us to get to know each other?”

Zane looked around the room. “You know… Sometimes he actually has good ideas.”

There was a chorus of reluctant agreement.

“Don't tell him that,” Troy warned. “It'll go straight to his head.”

“Too late,” Hayden said. “He laminated a chore chart.”

Everyone groaned.

Zane picked up a ping pong ball and spun it between his fingers. “All right. Who wants to lose to LaPointe and me?”

Luca immediately pointed across the table. “Not me. I've seen enough.”

Ilya cracked his knuckles. “I want rematch.”

“You already lost once,” Hayden reminded him.

“Yes.” Ilya pointed dramatically at Luca. “Swiss. You are with me.”

Luca looked up from his beer. “…Again?”

“Yes. You are rookie. You hang out with veterans. That is how this works.” He narrowed his eyes. “And do not make me tie you to me.”

Luca sighed as he stood. “Fine.”

He walked back toward the table. “What happened to Young?”

Everyone turned toward the living room.

Young was sitting on the couch with a controller in one hand and a beer in the other, laughing hysterically as his Mario Kart character repeatedly drove into walls.

“He's playing drunk-driving Mario Kart,” Ilya said flatly. “…He is not mentally available.”

“I heard that!” Young yelled without looking away from the television. His kart promptly drove off Rainbow Road.

“See?” Ilya gestured. “Mentally unavailable.”

Luca laughed and took his place beside him. “All right. Let's lose again.”

“We are not losing,” Ilya said.

Then he looked at the cups on the table.

“Actually…” He frowned. “Beer is too easy.” A slow grin spread across his face. “Switch it to vodka.”

The room erupted.

“Absolutely not!” Hayden barked.

“We've got practice on Monday,” Troy added. “You're trying to kill us.”

“No,” Ilya replied. “I am trying to identify the weak.”

“You're Russian,” Zane said.

“Your definition of weak is anyone with a functioning liver.”

Ilya genuinely thought about it. “…Yes.”

Tanner reached for the vodka bottle before Ilya could. “No. We're using beer.”

Ilya folded his arms. “If LaPointe is really as good as everyone says…” He nodded toward the quiet Minnesotan. “…then he will not have to drink any.”

The room collectively turned to LaPointe.

He simply shrugged. “I don't care.”

Zane grinned. “Oh? You hear that, Dillon?” He pointed at the vodka bottle. “Pour the vodka.”

“Absolutely not,” Tanner laughed.

“I have faith in my partner.”

LaPointe looked between the two of them. “You're making this my problem.”

“It already is your problem.” Hayden leaned against the wall, thoroughly entertained. “I don't know who's dumber. The Russian for suggesting vodka…”

“…or the Canadian for agreeing.”

Nick lifted his beer. “My money's on the Canadian.”

“Traitor,” Zane muttered.

Ilya smirked. “He believes in LaPointe.”

“That is beautiful.”

“It is alcoholism,” Troy corrected.

“Sometimes,” Ilya replied solemnly, “those are same thing.”

Even LaPointe laughed at that.

About twenty minutes later, Shane wandered back downstairs.

The cabin was somehow even louder than when he'd left.

Someone had switched the music.

Young was still yelling at Mario Kart from the living room.

Hayden was now attempting to explain diaper blowouts to a horrified Luca.

And in the dining room—

Beer pong had become a full-fledged tournament.

Shane stopped in the doorway just in time to watch a ping pong ball bounce once before dropping cleanly into the final cup.

The room erupted.

Ilya threw both arms into the air.

“Yes!”

He pointed dramatically across the table at Zane and LaPointe.

“I need no rookie!”

Luca, who had apparently been replaced halfway through the game, looked up from the couch.

“Thanks.”

“You are welcome.”

“I don't think that was a compliment.”

“It was not.”

Zane shook his head in disbelief.

“I cannot believe we just lost.”

LaPointe laughed.

“To someone who'd never played before.”

“I am natural athlete,” Ilya said proudly.

“No,” Troy corrected. “You're just annoyingly competitive.”

“That also.”

Shane couldn't help smiling.

Ten minutes ago, he'd been worried about everyone getting along.

Now they were chirping each other like teammates who'd been together for years.

Exactly what he'd hoped for.

“I won!” Ilya spotted Shane across the room and immediately pointed at him. “I won American drinking game!”

“Good job,” Shane laughed.

“LaPointe is ringer…” He jabbed a finger toward the quiet defenseman. “…and I still won!”

LaPointe lifted his beer. “To be fair, he actually did.”

“I missed two shots.” Ilya says. 

Troy laughed from the couch. “Okay, kiss Hollander.” He waved a hand dramatically. “You know you're holding back.”

“I won beer pong,” Ilya announced as though he'd just lifted the Stanley Cup.

He marched straight over to Shane, wrapped an arm around his waist, effortlessly lifted him off the floor, and kissed him.

The room erupted into whistles and fake gagging noises.

“Oh, get a room!” Hayden shouted.

“They have one!” Tanner yelled back. “They're already sharing it!”

Shane pulled away from the kiss, laughing as Ilya finally set him back on his feet. “You're ridiculous.”

“I am champion.” Ilya says. 

“You're beer pong champion.”

“Exactly.”

Tanner looked around the room. “All right. I think we need an actual beer pong tournament this weekend.” He grabbed a legal pad off the kitchen counter. “I'll make the bracket.”

“No partners,” Ilya said immediately. “I carry myself.”

“You literally started with Luca,” Hayden reminded him.

“That was before I discovered my greatness.”

Luca rolled his eyes. “I helped.”

“You watched.”

“I made moral support.”

“You blamed me every time you missed.”

“That was coaching.”

Everyone laughed.

Shane looked around the room. “Everyone having fun?”

A chorus of yes answered him. Even LaPointe smiled.

“We're embracing American culture,” Ilya explained proudly.

Tanner nodded. “Beer pong.”

Hayden raised his bottle. “Friendly trash talk.”

Zane added, “Questionable life choices.”

“And somehow,” Troy said, looking around at the room full of laughing teammates, “it's actually working.”

Shane smiled.

Yeah.

It really was.

“LaPointe,” Ilya said, still riding the high of his victory, “teach me more American culture.”

LaPointe laughed. “All right. Rozanov. Let me teach you my beer pong flirting move.” He stepped behind Ilya to demonstrate. “So, if the person you're flirting with is about to shoot… You stand behind them.”

He gently reached around, miming holding someone's wrist. “And you go… 'Here, let me help you.' You guide their shot. It works every time.”

Ilya's eyebrows shot up. “Ahh. I get it. I can use this on Hollander.”

“Yes,” LaPointe said with a nod. “It helped me get plenty of girls in college.”

Ilya looked genuinely impressed. “This is valuable information.”

Troy snorted. “You're in a relationship.”

“I know. I still like flirting with him.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “I already know you're flirting with me.”

“That does not mean I stop.”

Before Shane could react, Ilya walked over, stepped behind him exactly as LaPointe had demonstrated, and wrapped one hand lightly around Shane's wrist.

“See?” He rested his chin on Shane's shoulder. “I help.”

Shane glanced down at the ping pong ball in his hand. “You're not actually helping.”

“I am emotionally helping.”

“That isn't a thing.”

“It is now.”

The room dissolved into laughter.

LaPointe folded his arms proudly. “See? Told you it worked.”

Shane turned just enough to look at Ilya. “You realize this only works because we're already dating.”

Ilya smiled. “Yes.”

“But now…” He looked back at LaPointe. “…I know why American college boys kept winning.”

“That's exactly why,” Tanner laughed.

“No,” Troy said. “They kept winning because the girls wanted them to stop talking.”

Even LaPointe laughed at that. “I have a long-term girlfriend from college.” He took a drink before looking at Troy. “And what do you have, Barrett?”

“Ouch,” Troy said, clutching his chest dramatically.

Hayden looked between them. “Wait. You have a girlfriend?”

LaPointe frowned. “Yes? You all know that.”

The room was silent.

“…No,” Hayden admitted.

“I don't think any of us did.”

LaPointe blinked. “I've mentioned Summer.”

“When?” Tanner asked.

“…Probably. I have a picture of her in my locker!”

Troy laughed. “You mumble one sentence every three days. You can't expect us to build a biography.”

LaPointe thought about that. “…Fair.”

Tanner shook his head. “He should really talk more.”

“I talk.”

“No,” Zane said. “You answer questions.”

“There's a difference.” Nick laughed. “I've done drills with you all of training camp. I don't even know your favorite color.”

“Blue.”

“See?” Hayden threw his hands up. “You answer the question. You never volunteer information.”

LaPointe shrugged. “I didn't think it mattered.”

“It does if we're becoming a team,” Shane said with a smile. “That means we actually have to know each other.”

LaPointe looked around the room.

“All right. My girlfriend's name is Summer. We've been together since junior year. She still beats me at Mario Kart. And she says I snore.” There was a brief pause. “…That's all I got.”

The room burst into laughter.

Hayden pointed at him. “That's already more than you've told us all weekend.”

“I am growing,” LaPointe said seriously.

“You're thriving,” Tanner replied.

Hayden looked around the room. “Actually… This is probably a good exercise.”

He pointed toward Wyatt first. “Hayes is married to Dr. Lisa. She somehow puts up with him.”

Wyatt grinned. “She has patience.”

“Boyle's married. Twelve-year-old twins.” Hayden continues. 

Boyle groaned. “They're twelve going on twenty-five.”

“Zane's wife is Cassie,” Hayden continued. “Nick's married to Selena. Three kids.”

Nick lifted his beer. “Pray for me.”

“Evan's wife is Caitlin. She works at a women's shelter.”

Evan smiled proudly. “She does way more important work than I do.”

Hayden nodded before looking around the rest of the room.

“And finally…” He pointed dramatically toward Shane. “Our captain.” Then at Ilya. “And the last WAG. Ilya Rozanov.”

“I am not the WAG,” Ilya said immediately.

“Yes, you are,” Shane laughed.

“I play hockey.”

“So do I.”

“I am big, strong man.”

“You're also the one who packed me ginger ale because you knew it was my favorite.”

The room immediately turned toward Ilya.

“Ooooh,” Troy said. “He got you there.”

“That is boyfriend behavior,” Hayden agreed.

“Elite WAG behavior,” Zane added.

“I hate all of you.” Ilya says. 

“You packed his favorite drink,” Luca pointed out.

“You're a hockey wife.” Troy said.

“I am hockey husband.” Ilya says. 

“You're the WAG.”

The room erupted into laughter. Shane couldn't stop smiling. For once, nobody was laughing at them. They were simply part of the team. Exactly where they'd always wanted to be.

“Any one else in a secret relationship we need to know about?” Hayden asks. “The time limit is seven years.”

“Hey!” Shane says. 

The room erupted into laughter. Shane couldn't stop smiling. For once, nobody was laughing at them. They were laughing with them.

It was the language of every hockey locker room. If they were chirping you, you belonged. And for the first time in a very long time...

Shane and Ilya did.

They were simply part of the team. Exactly where they'd always wanted to be.

Hayden leaned back in his chair. “All right. Anyone else in a secret relationship we need to know about?” He looked around dramatically. “The time limit is seven years.”

“Hey!” Shane protested, throwing a ping pong ball at him.

Hayden caught it one-handed. “What? I've learned to ask now.”

The room laughed again. There was a brief silence.

Then—

“Uh…” Luca slowly raised his hand. Everyone turned toward him. “I've been a fan of Ilya Rozanov since he was a rookie.”

The room immediately exploded.

“I knew it!” Troy shouted.

“I called that on day one,” Hayden said.

“Seriously,” Zane added. “You look at him like he's the second coming of Wayne Gretzky.”

Luca's face immediately turned bright red. “I do not.”

“You absolutely do,” Nick laughed.

“You watch him at practice more than the puck.”

“I am learning!”

“You're staring,” Troy corrected.

Ilya looked over at the flustered rookie with a grin. “You had poster of me?”

Luca froze. “…Maybe.”

Ilya's grin widened. “You had poster.”

“…Maybe two.”

The room absolutely lost it.

“Two?” Hayden wheezed.

“TWO?” Luca buried his face in his hands. “I was twelve!”

“You're making it worse,” Troy laughed.

Ilya looked impossibly pleased with himself. “I like Swiss more every day.”

Luca peeked through his fingers. “…Really?”

“Da.”

“You have excellent taste.”

The rookie looked like he might actually pass out.

Shane leaned over toward Hayden. “I think you broke him.”

“No,” Hayden whispered back. “I think Rozanov did.”

Ilya, meanwhile, looked completely delighted. “Maybe I teach you how to tape your stick.”

Luca's eyes widened. “I…”

He looked like he'd forgotten how to form a sentence. “I rewatched your interviews. I think I figured it out now.”

“You watched interviews to learn how he tapes his stick?” Troy asked.

Luca immediately realized what he'd admitted. “…Maybe.”

The room erupted again.

Tanner pointed at him. “You're an embarrassing fanboy.”

“I know.” Luca buried his face in his hands. “I've accepted it.”

“You're telling me,” Hayden laughed, “that you've been studying Rozanov tape tutorials?”

“They're not tutorials. They're interviews. I paused them.”

“Oh my God,” Boyle wheezed.

Troy shook his head. “He was probably so excited when Rozanov picked him for beer pong.”

Luca didn't even deny it. “…A little.”

“A little?” Tanner laughed. 

“When Rozanov threatened to tie you to him,” Tanner continued, “you looked disappointed when he didn't.”

Luca's face somehow turned an even deeper shade of red. “I did not!”

“You absolutely did,” Zane said. “I watched your face. You smiled.”

“I was nervous!”

“You were blushing,” Troy corrected.

Ilya folded his arms with an unmistakably smug expression. “I knew Swiss had good taste.”

Shane laughed. “This might be the most attention anyone has ever given your ego.”

“It deserves attention.”

“No,” Shane said. “It really doesn't.”

Ilya ignored him. “You know…” He looked back at Luca. “If you keep working hard… Maybe one day you tape stick almost as good as me.”

Luca looked genuinely honored. “…Thank you.”

Shane pinched the bridge of his nose. “You just made his entire year.”

“I know,” Ilya said proudly. “I am excellent mentor.”

Chapter 13

Chapter Notes

The wake-up call came far too early.

The cabin was filled with groans as sixteen hockey players dragged themselves out of bed, pulled on layers of workout gear, and stumbled outside into the bitter Manitoba morning.

The cold hit them like a body check. Their breath immediately fogged the air. A thin layer of frost covered the ground. Half the team looked hungover.

The younger guys who could still survive a night of drinking without consequences mostly just looked exhausted. Ilya, somehow, looked completely fine.

“Russian,” Hayden muttered when he caught Shane staring.

“That explains absolutely nothing,” Shane replied.

The team gathered in a loose semicircle while Shane stretched his shoulders.

“All right.” His voice carried easily through the crisp morning air. “We're starting with a dynamic warm-up.”

He led them through lunges, leg swings, high knees, and hip openers until everyone was finally moving instead of shivering. “After stretching, we'll do an easy warm-up run.”

A collective groan answered him.

“You'll survive,” Shane said.

“Then we're moving into our first team drill.” He pointed toward the winding trail that disappeared into the trees. “We'll be running in a single-file line. The person at the front controls the pace. The person at the very back sprints to the front every time I yell ‘Go.’ When they get there, they settle into the pace, and the next person waits for the next call.”

He looked around to make sure everyone was following.

“If the line stretches too far… If we lose people… If the group breaks apart…” He smiled. “We start over.”

Several players groaned even louder.

“Exactly.”

Shane nodded.

“The goal isn't speed. The goal is staying together. We finish together.”

He took his place at the front of the line. “I'll start up here. So I'll be the last one rotating.”

“This drill has a bunch of different names.” He glanced over his shoulder at the team. “But this weekend…” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “…we're calling it the Caterpillar Run.”

“I hate the Caterpillar Run already,” Tanner muttered.

“You haven't even started,” Troy laughed.

“I know.”

“I hate it proactively.”

Ilya stepped into line behind Shane. “I like it.”

Hayden looked over. “Why?”

“Because if Pike throws up…” Ilya smiled. “…I get entertainment.”

“I heard that,” Hayden groaned.

“Good.”

Shane shook his head, trying not to laugh. “Everybody ready?”

“No,” the team answered in perfect unison.

For some reason… That made Shane smile even more. “Good. Let's run.”

Zane frowned as everyone shuffled into a single-file line. “What exactly is the point of this? It sounds like a punishment.”

Shane shook his head. “Teamwork.” He looked over his shoulder at the line behind him. “If you get to the front and decide to screw everyone over by taking off at a sprint…”

He shrugged. “You're only hurting the fifteen guys behind you. You have to think about the group instead of yourself. The pace should be challenging. But sustainable.”

He pointed farther down the line. “And if you're at the back, your job is to work hard enough to catch everyone without making the group fall apart. You're responsible for the team. Just like the guy at the front.”

Nick nodded. “So everybody gets a turn leading.”

“Exactly,” Shane said. “There isn't one person responsible. Everybody is.”

“So if Pike dies…” Ilya smirked. “That is Pike's fault.”

“No,” Shane corrected.

“It is everyone's fault.”

Hayden sighed dramatically. “I knew agreeing to this trip was a mistake.”

“You have said that at least twelve times already,” Troy pointed out.

“And yet somehow,” Zane added, “you're still here.”

Hayden looked around at the line of teammates. “…Yeah. I am.”

Shane nodded once. “That's the point.” He looked from one end of the line to the other. “We don't leave anyone behind. If somebody's struggling… You adjust.”

“If somebody's having a great day… You don't make everyone else miserable trying to prove it. You match the team.” He smiled. “Because that's exactly how I want us playing hockey.”

The chatter died down.

Even the players who'd been joking a moment ago seemed to understand.

This wasn't really about running.

It was about trust.

“All right,” Shane called. “Everybody ready?” This time, nobody complained.

“Go.”

The line started moving.

Boots crunched over frozen dirt as they wound their way through the snow-covered forest. The morning air burned in their lungs, and the only sounds were steady breathing and the rhythmic thud of sixteen pairs of feet hitting the trail.

Shane deliberately kept the pace comfortable.

Not too slow.

Not too fast.

Just enough to warm everyone up.

After about a minute, he glanced over his shoulder. The line was still together. Perfect.

“Go!”

Hayden Pike, who had been bringing up the rear, immediately accelerated. He sprinted along the outside of the line, passing one teammate after another.

“Coming through!” He slipped past Troy.

Then Zane.

Then Ilya.