Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, side Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Groundhog Day AU, Getting Together, Coming Out, Internalized Homophobia, tuna melt scene, over and over and over again, Plot With Porn, Shane Hollander gets to have so much sex, he really goes oh no i'm stuck in a time loop, time to get fucked fifty ways from sunday, Shane takes an international flight every day for over 100 days in a row to get some dick, he is DEDICATED, Time Loop

Language:

English

Collections:

Looping (almost) Eternally, time loops and time loops and time loops and, Best of Hollanov, ✨ The Best of Hollanov✨🏒✨, fav Hollanov AUs

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-18 Words: 17,420 Chapters: 1/1

i've been stuck now so long (we just got the start wrong)

Summary

The second time Shane Hollander wakes up on November 16th, he has a panic attack.

The problem is — he tries to explain through gasped breaths after Hayden basically knocks down his door, shouting that they’re going to miss their flight — the thing is, Shane’s already woken up on November 16th. He’s already flown to Boston. He’s already been to practice, and he’s checked into the hotel, and he has lived this day before.

He doesn’t mention that he’s also already fucked Ilya Rozanov twice and had a fucking tuna melt that Rozanov made and drank the ginger ale that Rozanov bought specifically for him. He doesn’t mention that they’d snuggled on the couch watching TV like some kind of couple, like boyfriends.

He doesn’t mention that he fell asleep thinking about how Ilya — fuck, no, thinking about how Rozanov had called him sweetheart and Shane, and that, even now, he can’t quite get the cadence of Ilya’s voice out of his head.

Or: After the tuna melt fiasco, Shane Hollander wakes up in a time loop.

Notes

Hello! Welcome to my home. I live in the tuna melt scene now. It has consumed me. I don’t even like tuna.

A few notes before jumping in:
• While I have a blend of details and descriptions from the show and the book, this fic is based specifically on the book version of the tuna melt scene where, hilariously, Shane legitimately dumps his jacket with his shoes, throws his clothes on the floor, and loses his underwear. (He does not get it back). While TV!Shane folding his clothes before sex is SUCH a fun character choice, it is simply not one I went with when adapting the book chapter for this fic.
• If you have access to the book, I actually highly recommend rereading Chapter 13. This fic picks up immediately after it and I took a lot of inspo/direct details for the purpose of Narrative Parallels. I consider Chapter 13 Loop 1!
• title is from “Haven’t Had Enough” by Marianas Trench
• Transliterated Russian is courtesy of Google Translate. I’m so sorry for any fuck ups I may have made. I will include a translation in the end notes
• seriously, Shane walks all the way back to the hotel while going commando in JEANS, it’s a WILD choice

Thank you to my betas who supported me basically memorizing HR Chapter 13 instead of working on my other WIPs, to Rachel Reid for giving me sex choreo inspiration, and to all of you readers :) I hope you enjoy!

Edit: if half the fic was missing… that’s what I get for fixing typos. It’s fixed now! Full fic is present! Apologies!

November 16th, 2016

The second time Shane Hollander wakes up on November 16th, he has a panic attack.

The problem is — he tries to explain through gasped breaths after Hayden basically knocks down his door, shouting that they’re going to miss their flight — the thing is, Shane’s already woken up on November 16th. He’s already flown to Boston. He’s already been to practice, and he’s checked into the hotel, and he has lived this day before.

He doesn’t mention that he’s also already fucked Ilya Rozanov twice and had a fucking tuna melt that Rozanov made and drank the ginger ale that Rozanov bought specifically for him. He doesn’t mention that they’d snuggled on the couch watching TV like some kind of couple, like boyfriends.

He doesn’t mention that he fell asleep thinking about how Ilya — fuck, no, thinking about how Rozanov had called him sweetheart and Shane, and that, even now, he can’t quite get the cadence of Ilya’s voice out of his head.

Hayden already thinks he’s insane. There’s no need to make things worse.

“Give me your phone,” Hayden demands, holding out his hand expectantly. His Dad Voice is out in full swing and Shane, momentarily stunned by the sternness, sits down and hands him his phone without protest. “I’m calling your mom.”

By the time Hayden hands the phone back, Shane has somewhat come to terms with the fact that something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.

“Sweetheart?” Yuna’s voice is soothing, even over the phone. “Hayden said you’re acting strange. Did you hit your head at the game last night?”

Shane tries to think back to the match against Toronto. It had been rough, but no rougher than usual. “I don’t think so,” he says honestly. Nothing hurts. “I don’t remember being hit, at least.”

Hayden’s eyes widen in alarm, and Yuna sighs. To an outsider, Shane thinks, it might sound like frustration or disappointment, but he knows his mother. This sigh — the sigh she’s made since he was small and first started recklessly throwing himself across the ice — is a sound of concern.

“Confusion and memory loss are indications of a concussion,” she says as if he, a professional athlete in a contact sport, is not acutely aware of the symptoms of traumatic brain injuries. “I’m sending Dad. He’ll be there in two hours.”

A concussion would be the logical explanation, Shane thinks. He’s confused. He’s disoriented. He doesn’t remember hitting his head, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

Except…

Well, Shane is fairly certain he isn’t missing any memories.

It’s the extra ones that don’t make sense.

A few hours later, after Hayden has left and Shane has been scratched from the Boston game with strict orders to see a doctor, Rozanov texts.

LILY
what time does your practice end?

Shane sends him a picture of the hospital waiting room where he’s been held captive by his father for hours, then turns off his phone.

He wonders if Rozanov bought ginger ale. He wonders if he has enough tuna for two.

The doctor eventually sends him home after a series of tests, declaring him in perfect health, if a little bit stressed out.

“Take it easy for a few days, Mr. Hollander,” he says after signing the discharge papers. “Rest is best for a troubled mind.”

The rest of his day is uneventful. When they get home, his dad throws together a pot of soup using the leftovers in Shane’s kitchen before joining him on the couch to watch the Buffalo game.

“Anything interesting happen yet?” David asks as he sets the bowls on the coffee table. The puck has barely been dropped.

“Buffalo’s gonna lose,” Shane tells him, feeling cautiously confident in the hazy non-memory his brain has conjured. “And Price is going to end up in the penalty box for fighting by the end of the second period.”

It’s just common sense, he tells himself. A lucky guess. Buffalo sucks and Ryan Price is terrifying. The dim impression in his mind of watching this game from a different couch, in a different country, with a different man, is nothing but his imagination.

By the time Shane falls asleep that night, it’s almost easy to convince himself that yesterday — or whatever he thinks was yesterday — was a dream. An agonizingly realistic dream. Maybe even a nightmare. After all, where else would Rozanov actually call him Shane?

The next morning, he wakes up on November 16th.

He drives himself to the ER before Hayden even gets to his house.

November 16th, 2016

The fourth time Shane wakes up on November 16th, he does not panic. He does not call out sick. He does not check himself into the hospital.

He gets up with his alarm, eats breakfast, and sits down on the couch with his phone to wait for Hayden as calmly as possible.

‘what if i am living the same day over and over,’ he types into Google with the focus of a surgeon operating on a heart. Most of the results are articles and blogs about depression, or people trying to make their dull, boring days seem less metaphorically the same. He scrolls, a little desperate, all the way to the bottom of the seventeenth page of results, where a Reddit page catches his eye.

Shane clicks it.

u/punxsutawneyphillip

I swear I’m living in a time loop. Has anyone ever experienced this before?

This is the sixth time in a row I’m experiencing January 4th, 2007. I’m not crazy. I’m just fucking stuck. Help me get out of this! I only have a few hours before it all resets again.

I’ll update when I get the fuck out of here!!!!!!!!

Shane’s blood goes cold.

The comment section is sparse. A few people fully believe the poster, while others think this is some ridiculous attempt at creative writing. Some believers provide tips for breaking the loop or share their own experiences with being stuck. Shane reads them like a man possessed, screenshotting and saving each one to a locked folder on his phone. He realizes after a moment that the screenshots will disappear tomorrow if this is at all true, but he takes them anyway just in case.

He’s so entranced by one particular comment thread about a woman who claims she was locked in a loop of her wedding day until she conquered her fear of commitment that he doesn’t even hear when Hayden lets himself in.

“Shane! Dude!” he shouts, leaning over the back of the couch to smack him in the back of the head. Shane hurriedly locks his phone and tucks it away, startled. “Come on, man, quit texting your Boston girl and let’s go. You’ll see her tonight as long as we don’t miss this plane.”

A time loop. It’s the most sensible explanation for what’s happening to him, though Shane concedes that it sounds absolutely ludicrous. He buys the WiFi on the plane and streams Groundhog Day on his phone, taking fastidious notes on a napkin while Hayden snores in the seat beside him.

By the time the wheels touch ground, Shane thinks he’s figured it out: in order to break out of this cycle, he has to fix what got him stuck in the first place. He has to make a new choice. He has to make the right choice.

He goes through the motions at practice, muscle memory kicking in, and texts Rozanov as soon as it’s over; by the time he exits the shower, he’s got a response and a time.

“Go ahead. I’ll see you later,” he says to Hayden as he orders an Uber on his phone, careful not to let anyone see the screen in case they manage to connect the address to Rozanov. The hotel isn’t far from the arena, and most of the guys have already started to amble back, but Shane stands on the curb, looking anxiously for the silver Volvo.

Hayden raises an eyebrow and grins, a little playful and lecherous at the same time. “Boston girl? Have fun.”

“It’s not —“ Shane hesitates, blushing. “That’s not what this is.”

“Sure.” Hayden smirks and elbows him in the rib. “Sure.”

Truthfully, Shane doesn’t have a plan. He figures, best case scenario, he stumbles through what he needs to say to make this right, and tomorrow he wakes up on November 17th, the loop broken and everything as it should be.

Worst case scenario, he tries again the next time.

Weirdly, it’s kind of comforting to know he’s got as many shots as he needs.

I’m here, he texts once he’s outside Rozanov’s building, just like he did on his first November 16th. Butterflies swarm in his stomach as he remembers how it went that time — the fucking face-to-face, the tenderness, the tuna melts.

The door clicks open. Shane lets himself in and takes the elevator up to the top.

Do it right this time, he thinks to himself and promises he’ll follow through this time. Fix this.

Rozanov answers the door the same way he did last time: shirtless, his sweatpants slung low across his hips. For a second, all thought leaves Shane’s mind as he imagines dipping his tongue in the crevices of Rozanov’s skin. He steps inside, distracted, eager to get his hands on something, anything that’s being presented to him.

Shane hasn’t even started to slip off his shoes and coat before Rozanov, again, turns and heads wordlessly to the bedroom.

“Hey!” Shane tries not to follow him, tries not to fall into the same pattern as before. That pattern was wrong. He’s here to break it, finally, forever. “What the fuck, Rozanov? A hello would be nice.”

Rozanov stops at the threshold, his shoulders rippling as he braces himself against the doorframe with one arm. He smirks and, with his free hand, pulls on his chain, dangling the crucifix in a way that’s unfairly sexy. “I thought you like that I am not nice.”

Shane can’t argue with that; he’s half-hard already just looking at Rozanov like this. It doesn’t help that he’s remembering the way they’d kissed in the bedroom, the way the carpet had felt under his knees, the way Rozanov had felt on his tongue.

“I don’t — I don’t like you at all,” Shane snaps in spite of himself. “Can we —” This is more difficult than he had expected. No wonder he hasn’t managed to do it yet. The words stick in his throat like they don’t want to be free. “I think we need to stop.”

“Talking?” Rozanov asks. “Yes, I agree. Come suck my cock, is easier.”

The thing is, Shane really wants to.

“No,” he makes himself say. The butterflies in his stomach transform into a hornets’ nest, leaving him stinging and sore all over. “We need to stop whatever this is between us. We’ve gotten too reckless with it. We’re going to get caught.”

Rozanov looks around like he’s expecting paparazzi to pop out from behind his monstera plant.

“So. You come to my apartment,” he says slowly, his brow furrowed. It’s cute, actually, when he’s focused in thought. “You come here to tell me you do not want sex anymore?”

Shane’s mouth is unbearably dry. He doesn’t know why it feels like he’s shattering inside. Rozanov just does something to him. He’s got his own gravity that drags Shane helplessly into his orbit.

Shane nods.

Rozanov stares at him, blinks once. Blinks twice.

Shane realizes that he’s holding his breath. He lets it out in a huff, hoping it comes off as annoyance rather than anxiety.

“Okay,” Rozanov finally says, and Shane isn’t sure if the flood of cold rushing through his body is relief or terror.

“Okay?” Shane needs to make sure that Rozanov understands. “We’re done. You and me — it’s over.”

Rozanov disappears into his room for a second and emerges with a T-shirt that he pulls over his head. “Yes, I know. You said we need to stop fucking. We are not fucking.”

“Permanently,” Shane clarifies.

“Yes.” Rozanov shrugs. His nonchalance should be comforting; it feels like a knife instead. “This could have been email, you know.”

Shane flushes, deep and hot. “I thought you should hear it from me. In person. It seemed…rude. Not to.”

Part of him, honestly, had felt like he needed to do it face to face or it would never feel real. He’d always be waiting for the next time.

Rozanov nods a few times. The tension in the room shifts from awkward lust to just awkward. Shane backs up until he hits the door.

“I should…” Shane hugs his coat tighter around his body. Rozanov hasn’t moved from the bedroom door. “I’m gonna go. I’ll, uh.” His hand hovers over the knob. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

If Rozanov responds, Shane doesn’t hear.

“You’re back early,” Hayden comments when Shane stumbles into their hotel room. “Everything okay with Boston girl?”

He collapses on the bed, groaning and grateful for its warmth and comfort.

“We broke up,” Shane mumbles into his pillow, because that’s the closest equivalent to the situation that he can think of right now. “I don’t wanna talk.”

Hayden makes a small, sympathetic humming sound. “Want me to put on a game?”

Shane nods, still buried in his mattress, and falls asleep listening to the sports commentators discuss Ryan Price’s history of trades and fights on the ice.

Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow, they’ll play the Bears and kick their asses. Tomorrow, he’ll delete Lily from his phone. Tomorrow will be tomorrow.

November 16th, 2016

Shane wakes up to his alarm in Montreal.

“FUCK,” he screams at the too-familiar ceiling and flings his alarm clock at the wall. It breaks instantly, spilling wires across the floor.

If breaking it off with Rozanov wasn’t the right choice, he doesn’t know what is.

He calls Coach, tells him he’s got the flu, and stays home this round, nursing what feels suspiciously like a broken heart.

November 16th, 2016

The sixth time Shane wakes up on November 16th, he resolves to treat this loop like research. He is, to the best of his ability, going to do the day exactly like the first time.

It’s just common sense, he tells himself, as he digs a little notebook out of the depths of his nightstand drawer. It’s important to have a roadmap to follow, to analyze, to understand. He needs to develop a baseline.

And, well, if that baseline happens to include riding Ilya Rozanov again, Shane’s not going to complain.

He thinks he’ll avoid facing him this time, though.

He spends the flight to Boston writing out everything he can remember about the first November 16th. Hayden gives him a quizzical look at one point, but Shane just covers the page with his hand and tilts his body until he’s pressed against the window.

“It’s, uh, private,” he says, feeling his face go hot. “It’s my, um. My diary.”

Hayden smirks, then puts his headphones back on and returns to his nap without further comment, snoring softly.

By the time he gets back to the hotel that night to wash off the shame and guilt of his rendezvous with Rozanov, Shane thinks he has a pretty good handle on the day: he wakes up at 5 to his alarm, Hayden picks him up at 6:03, and the plane takes off at 8:47. They deboard at 10:34.

Going through customs takes longer than it should because one of the rookies keeps forgetting where he put his passport and another one gets lost after zipping through the American citizen line. After they finally collect everyone and retrieve their luggage, the team gets on the bus and heads to the hotel while everyone grumbles about hunger and lunch to no avail.

They arrive at the hotel around 11:53, where they are presented with soggy sandwiches, key cards, and room assignments, are hustled upstairs to throw their bags down, and then bundled back onto the bus. They head to the arena for practice, where they’re all in shitty moods. Mitty trips during drills, and JJ fumbles a pass during a scrimmage match, but Coach is overall pleased with their work; he releases them at 4:32 with stern instructions to rest and be ready for their afternoon game tomorrow.

He doesn’t bother writing down what happens after practice. That knowledge is burrowed into his skin like a scar.

Still, there is something… nice about getting to do it all again. Even with the stress of the situation, even as he frantically tries to stave off that tenderness in Rozanov’s eyes, there is a sense of relief and calm that settles over him as he whispers Ilya, as he lets himself be consumed in that raw, desperate kiss.

He jerks off in the shower thinking about it, somehow still unsatisfied, somehow still wanting more.

Maybe the next loop will be enough to get it out of his system.

November 16th, 2016

By the tenth time Shane wakes up on November 16th, he doesn’t think there’s any hope of getting Ilya Rozanov out of his system. If anything, the infection has gotten worse.

Shane falls asleep thinking of Ilya; he wakes thinking of Rozanov.

Even worse, nothing seems to be breaking the cycle.

Ever since his research mission, Shane has been even more convinced that the solution to the time loop is to end things with Rozanov. After all, why else would the universe put him in this situation? Clearly, this is the only way for Shane to be protected from himself.

But he’s tried to break it off a multitude of ways — via text, before the blow job, after the hand jobs — and none of them are working. None of them are right.

Maybe, Shane thinks as he boards the plane on loop ten, maybe Rozanov isn’t the problem at all. Maybe it’s the first half of his day that’s gone wrong somehow. Maybe it’s something about the hockey that needs to be fixed.

Shane spends so much of that loop thinking about the things he could be doing better on the ice, as a player, as a captain, as a friend, that he nearly forgets to blow Rozanov after following him into the bedroom.

Nearly.

“Hollander?” Rozanov says, snapping his fingers a few times, already sprawled across the bed with his sweatpants pulled down around his knees. “Earth to Hollander. Are you trying to torture me?”

Shane blinks, coming back to himself as he licks up Rozanov’s cock. Rozanov makes a punched out sound in response, head hitting the mattress with a thunk.

“Fuck, Hollander. Your mouth should be illegal, fuck.”

Shane hollows out his cheeks and sucks Rozanov until he comes, curious if the decision to spit or swallow will make any difference in the time loop.

Best case scenario, he wakes up tomorrow on November 17th and he’ll have the right to make fun of Rozanov for coming in under three minutes.

…Worst case, he’ll get to try again.

November 16th, 2016

It’s sort of nice, actually, to know what to expect time and time again. The predictability of the day is soothing; Shane finds that he doesn’t mind the monotony. The problem of breaking the loop is, of course, on his mind, but he decides that he might as well enjoy himself until he figures it out.

That’s why he spends loops eleven through thirteen deepthroating Rozanov until he masters the technique. Rozanov keeps up a steady stream of fucking filthy sounding Russian the entire time before he fucks Shane against the wall (eleven), on the floor (twelve), and over the back of the couch (thirteen).

It’s hot and it’s dirty and Rozanov doesn’t call him Shane once during those loops. They don’t fuck face-to-face. They don’t tenderly touch each other’s hair. They don’t exchange sweet pet names.

He sort of misses it.

Whenever he’s not at Rozanov’s, Shane is still trying to figure out a way to tomorrow.

On the fourteenth loop, he pulls Coach aside while they’re waiting in line at customs to ask if they can order food. Shane has taken to grabbing extra protein bars before leaving for the airport, knowing how hungry he is by practice, but that doesn’t help the perpetual crankiness of his teammates.

“We’ve got sandwiches arranged,” Coach tells him without even looking up from his phone.

“Coach,” Shane says in a tone he rehearsed with Rozanov last loop, while they were eating tuna melts and he couldn’t help bitching about how poorly the Voyageurs' training staff had prepared for this trip. “If you want us to beat the Bears tomorrow, we need more fuel than sandwiches.”

This seems to pique Coach’s attention — he does want to beat Boston. He goes to his maps app and frowns, zooming in.

“There’s a Mediterranean place near the hotel,” he says and drops Shane the link. “You got pen and paper? Of course you do. Have the boys give you their orders and I’ll make sure it meets us there.”

“And Caleb?” Shane had watched the kid rush through the customs line again and sworn. He should have remembered to tell him to wait.

Coach rolls his eyes. “He’s probably halfway into the city by now. I’ll call him.”

The team eats gyros and hummus and boatloads of grilled chicken in the lobby while squabbling over room assignments, and Shane feels properly full before practice for the first time in ages.

Everyone is in good spirits, their drills go much smoother, and as he exits the rink, Shane feels positive about their chances against the Bears tomorrow.

If tomorrow ever actually comes.

God, he hopes it does.

While he waits to find out, he goes to Rozanov’s and begs to be edged.

November 16th, 2016

By the twentieth loop, Shane is getting tired of this shit.

He’s tired of flying to Boston. He’s tired of trying out every restaurant in the hotel’s radius. He’s tired of doing the same drills and the same scrimmage and the same practice.

He’s even getting tired of fucking Ilya Rozanov.

It’s not that he’s not still enjoying it — he is, he really is, more than he’d like to admit — but there’s a part of Shane that wishes there could be something more. Rozanov has wrung more than fifty orgasms out of him by now, but some evenings, Shane just wants to fall asleep with Rozanov’s hands carded through his hair, the same shitty Buffalo game playing in the background.

It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything. Shane is just falling into routine, into comfort and reliability. It doesn’t mean he likes Rozanov. It just means he needs to shake things up so he can go back to enjoying the sex – and only the sex.

So, on the twentieth loop, Shane texts him before practice.

sorry, can’t come over, team bonding tonight

the guys want to go out. any recs?

Rozanov messages back an hour and a half later with a list of links to bars and clubs sans any kind of commentary.

Hayden and JJ are both confused and thrilled when Shane presents them with his top two.

“Shane Hollander wants to go out?” JJ teases as he pulls up the first club’s Yelp page and squints at the top review. He’s forgotten his glasses again; Shane resolves to text him a reminder the next loop before he leaves the house. “What Twilight Zone have I been dropped into?”

You have no fucking idea, Shane thinks to himself as he laughs.

Hayden, however, keeps quiet until they’re back in their hotel room getting changed. “I’m surprised,” he confesses, texting Jackie with one hand and combing his hair with the other. “I figured you were going to meet up with your Boston girl.”

“We’re not exclusive,” Shane says honestly. He’s fucked a few girls since starting this thing with Rozanov, and he knows Rozanov has done the same — maybe even some guys, too, though Shane realizes he never asked. No, he admits, it’s never been that good with a girl, but maybe…

Maybe he just needs to give it another try.

Maybe that’s what’ll break the loop.

As Rozanov had said the first time, there are beautiful women everywhere when you are rich and famous. It doesn’t take long for Shane to find one at the club, her blonde curls almost the same hue as Rozanov’s.

She smiles at him shyly and her cheeks go pink when he buys her a drink, but she’s a bold dancer, hips swaying against his in beat with the music. Shane is never quite sure where to put his hands when dancing with women — he can never figure out what’s the right distance from her breasts or her ass that won’t get him labeled as a creep — but this time, he hooks his thumbs through her belt loops and pulls her closer.

(Rozanov had done that to him a few loops ago and he’d nearly lost his damn mind, so he figures it’s a safe bet).

She seems to like it, at least, and Shane has been more confident lately. Thanks to all the loops, he feels like he finally has a good roadmap for seduction. This time, he’s sure, he can do it well.

When her quiet grin turns wicked and sharp while daring him to take a shot, he thinks he might even enjoy it.

JJ whoops and Hayden salutes him when he lets them know he’s calling a cab.

“Use a condom,” Hayden tells him seriously. “Make sure she comes first. Women like that. Oh, and don’t fuck on my bed.”

“I’m not sixteen, Jesus,” Shane complains, but takes the second piece of advice into account., He and Rozanov have been coming at pretty much the same time lately, so it’s good to have the reminder.

Back at the hotel, Shane automatically drops to his knees when she shimmies out of her jeans and underwear, perched on the edge of the bed. It’s a force of habit at this point — almost every encounter with Rozanov in this time loop has started with a blow job — but she seems charmed by it.

“Wow, you’re eager,” she says, blushing bright red even as she cards her hand through his hair to pull him between her legs. Shane goes easily, thinking of all the times Rozanov’s teased him for exactly the same thing.

The sex is… fine. She seems pleased enough, at least, though she pulls him onto the bed with her after only a few clumsy minutes of oral sex and starts encouraging him to touch her instead. Shane has a condom in his wallet, and it doesn’t take long until she’s rolling it onto him and telling him to fuck her. He braces himself with one hand on the headboard and the other gently cupping her breast. She throws her head back and moans as he sinks into her.

He thinks, maybe, it’s a little forced. A little theatric. Like she’s trying not to make him feel bad about being, well, really bad.

Then again, Shane knows his own groans are fake, so maybe it’s just projection.

At some point, when it seems like they’re both about to plateau and go nowhere, she pushes herself up with one hand on his thigh.

“Can I try something?” she asks breathlessly, and Shane nods, dizzy and hard and completely unsatisfied.

She pushes him onto his back in one smooth motion, and then she’s riding him, hands on his shoulders, blonde curls brushing against his face as her hips stutter against his own. Her eyes are squeezed shut; that gives him permission to close his own.

Shane likes riding Rozanov, but he’s never had a girl do it for him before. He wishes he’d tried it sooner. It’s almost easier like this, when he can focus on sensation, focus on how she’s holding him down, focus on thrusting up just enough to make her breath hitch.

The cold metal of her necklace brushes against his chest and he gasps, picturing Rozanov, remembering the feel of the other man’s crucifix scraping down his skin.

Shane comes with a shout.

November 16th, 2016

Shane wakes in Montreal to the blaring of his alarm, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

I don’t like girls.

The rest of the night hadn’t been terrible. He’d eventually managed to get the girl off with his hands before ordering room service. She’d been nice, too, and pretty funny. She didn’t know much about hockey outside of the Bears, but she’d made some witty commentary while they watched the tail end of a Western Conference game and shared a plate of fries.

“Give me a call if you’re ever bored in Boston again,” she’d told him and scrawled her number on a napkin. Shane had given her a Voyageurs sweatshirt from his own suitcase, concerned about her going out in just a tank top. “I’ll never get fucked in this city again if anyone finds out that I slept with the enemy.”

Shane had shrugged, not intending to call her ever. “Maybe Ilya Rozanov,” he suggested, even though the thought made his stomach churn with jealousy. “He’d probably be interested because you slept with the enemy.”

She’d laughed. “He would. He’d want to make sure I know that you Montreal fuckers can’t measure up.”

Shane rolls over, shuts off his alarm, and grabs his phone to text JJ about his glasses. Then, on whim, he opens up Google and searches ‘how to know if gay.’

The results, while slightly more relevant than the ones about the time loop, are overwhelming. He scrolls through them while brushing his teeth, opening up a few links as he goes, and stares at a Buzzfeed quiz titled “Am I Gay?” for a full forty seconds before closing the tab.

He’s pretty sure that asking the question means the answer is “at least a little bit.”

The fact that he’s looking forward to touching Ilya Rozanov again bumps it into “probably.”

He goes through the day in a fog, processing this newfound discovery at a speed run. He gets to Coach about lunch before takeoff this time, so the sandwiches they get are actually fresh and loaded with crispy vegetables and moist turkey, he makes Logan put his passport in a sensible spot this time, and he catches Mitty before he trips; other than that, Shane is on autopilot, thinking about Ilya Rozanov’s dick.

Shane has known for ages that he’s not straight — it’s not the first time he’s been driven to distraction by the thought of Rozanov’s dick — but there’s still something about this that feels heavier than everything he and Rozanov have been doing.

Shane had sort of assumed that they’d keep messing around until one of them got bored or got a girlfriend, after which point they could actually move forward with their lives.

Maybe Rozanov will still do that, Shane thinks. Maybe he’ll meet a woman who’ll make him laugh, who satisfies him at least as well as Shane can. Maybe he’ll be able to make her happy. They’ll get married and have children and he’ll score goals for her while she waves from the WAGS box.

But Shane doesn’t want a woman. He doesn’t want a wife.

If he gets to have that kind of happiness, if he gets to have a person to actually love instead of just fuck in the shadows, it’ll have to be someone who hides.

By the time he shows up at Rozanov’s penthouse that evening, Shane wants to not think. Rozanov, as usual, turns and walks toward the bedroom as soon as the door is shut, and, this time, Shane follows without comment. As soon as he crosses the threshold, he strips, kicks his clothes to the corner, and pulls them both onto the bed until Rozanov’s weight is settled comfortably on top.

“Fuck me,” he whispers as he presses his teeth into the soft part of Rozanov’s throat, eliciting a deliciously deep moan that makes his toes curl. “Fuck me until all I know is how good you feel inside me. Please.”

Rozanov, of course, obliges.

Shane has one of the best orgasms of his life with his face buried in the pillow, glad Rozanov can’t see him blink the tears from his eyes. He’d never let him live it down, and, with Shane’s luck, this will be what breaks the fucking time loop.

Rozanov protests and promises tuna melts, but Shane leaves as soon as he’s mostly dressed, having somehow lost his underwear again. He goes straight to the first gay club that pops up on Yelp.

Shane isn’t sure the place deserves its two stars, but the dance floor is dark and the alcohol burns away all his inhibitions. Nobody seems to recognize him, but he doesn't even think it matters anymore. He’s started having trouble imagining what November 17th would look like, what it would be like to step forward in his life instead of just replaying this hell day after day for eternity.

After three songs, he propositions a handsome, handsy man who doesn’t know who he is. Shane leads him to what looks like a storage room and asks to be fucked against the wall, not caring that he emerges with bruises in the shape of shelving and rug burn on his back from the man’s scruff. He comes untouched, already sensitive and needy from Rozanov, and bites into his own palm hard enough to leave a mark as he muffles his shout.

When Shane takes the Buzzfeed quiz that night, hidden from Hayden underneath the covers, the results load so fast that it feels like a puck to the face.

November 16th, 2016

On the twenty-seventh loop, Rozanov sits against the headboard with a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips while he watches Shane touch himself.

Rozanov is quiet and patient for once, his eyes glazed over in fascination as Shane fucks into his own ass, lip caught between his teeth, feet planted flat on the mattress while he lifts his hips in search of a better angle. It takes more concentration than he’s used to needing during sex, but he doesn’t mind; the delicious mortification of being watched reminds him of Vegas, of the ice-cold vodka, of the way that he’s hated being loved like this for so long and of the way that he’s loved every fucking second of it.

“Stop,” Rozanov barks suddenly.

“Fuck you,” Shane spits out, but he obeys immediately, laying both his hands flat on his thighs. He tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling and tries to suppress the embarrassing whine that’s forming in the back of his throat. “No, wait, fuck that. Fuck me.”

Rozanov puts out the cigarette in an ashtray on the nightstand and crawls between Shane’s legs, hot breath ghosting over skin.

“Rozanov.” Shane moans and arches his back. He better be rewarded for the show he’s already put on. “Come on, hurry the fuck up and fuck me already.”

“You think too much.” Rozanov nips at his inner thigh hard enough to elicit a yelp. “I can see, your brain, it goes, goes, goes. What do you think about so hard, Hollander? I am here.” Another bite, this one on the other thigh, hard enough to leave a mark. “You do not need to think. You need only to be pretty.”

Shane pushes himself up onto his elbows. “Then make me stop thinking,” he begs. He’d come here to avoid making decisions, to banish the flutter of anxiety that crawls up his throat every time he thinks about how he’ll ever manage to tell his agent, his parents, his friends — oh God, his team – that he’s gay.

He’s safe from it for now – as long as he’s stuck in this godforsaken loop – but one day, it will end. One day, he’ll have to face it. One day, it will have to be real.

Rozanov’s eyes glitter. “Tell me what you are thinking, Hollander,” he demands.

“I’m in a time loop,” Shane blurts out. “And I don’t want to leave it.”

Part of Shane expects the world to stop when he says it, like the universe has been waiting for the chance to hit pause on this whole idiotic endeavor. Part of him expects Rozanov to rush him to the hospital like Hayden and his dad did, convinced that he’s concussed or crazy. Part of him, honestly, expects Rozanov to pretend he hadn’t heard him at all.

Rozanov laughs and rolls his eyes before cupping a hand underneath Shane’s ass to haul him closer, fingers digging bruises deep into his skin. “You are science-fiction writer now?” he teases. “Here, I will help with the thinking. Give you new ideas for your book.”

He lets Shane fuck his face until neither of them are thinking at all.

November 16th, 2016

“Do you like them?” Rozanov asks on the thirty-third November 16th.

Shane takes a bite of his tuna melt to stall for time and washes it down with a glug of ginger ale.

“Yeah, man,” he says after a moment, even though he’s actually sort of sick of sandwiches and he knows that the food isn’t what Rozanov is asking about. He’s done this enough times to know where the conversation is headed. “This is great, thanks. The team’s been feeding us like shit on this roadie.”

Rozanov frowns at his plate like it’s personally offended him. “No,” he says. “Girls. Do you like them?”

Shane considers lying before he realizes it doesn’t matter. Even if Rozanov knows the truth, the chances of him keeping this knowledge are slim to none. When Shane wakes up in Montreal tomorrow, this night will never have happened.

“No,” he admits with a shake of his head. He pops a chip in his mouth and lets the crunch echo in the silence between them. He had known what he was getting himself into by being honest, but he still feels like he’s about to puke. “No, I don’t think I do.”

“Makes sense,” Rozanov says after a moment. He leans back into the couch cushions, shoulders relaxing into a gentle slope. “Never heard about you with girls.”

“Fuck you, I’ve been with girls,” Shane snaps, thinking of the pretty woman with long blonde curls from just a few loops ago. He doesn’t want Rozanov to think he hasn’t tried, that he’s so stuck on him that his entire sexuality has shifted to accommodate. That would be embarrassing. “I just… kept it private. Like this.” He gestures between them. Rozanov tilts his head as if to say touché. “I don’t anymore, though. I think… it’s not fair. To them.”

“Or you,” Rozanov adds, as if he’s saying something incredibly obvious.

Shane frowns. Honestly, aside from his two experiments during the time loop, he hasn’t been with anyone other than Rozanov for a long time. Other men hadn’t seemed like an option, and it hadn’t felt right to pursue women knowing he probably wasn’t very good in bed. He always hoped they left satisfied, but he was never sure.

He’d never considered those encounters unfair to himself. Unfortunate, maybe. Frustrating, often. But not unfair. The concept sends his self-perception a bit off-kilter.

Rozanov’s face does something unusual, twisting into something like pity for a second until he fixes it with a smug smirk. “Is a shame, is all,” he says and leans over to grab a pickle spear off Shane’s plate. “You do not get to show off your best skill with girls,” he teases before crunching into it suggestively.

Shane can’t help but burst into laughter. “If that’s what you think a blowjob is, I’m never letting your mouth near my dick again.”

Rozanov shrugs and leans back, spreading his legs until one hangs over the back of the couch and the other is planted firmly on the ground. “Remind me how it goes?”

Well, Shane’s definitely not in this time loop because he has good judgment.

“So,” Shane says later, once he’s brushed his teeth and Rozanov is reheating their tuna melts. He leans against the counter with his ginger ale and picks at the label anxiously. “How about you?”

“Mm?” Rozanov is frowning at the contents of his fridge, which is pretty much bare except for the sodas, a bag of lettuce, a Tupperware container of ground chicken, and cheese slices.

“Girls.” Shane knows the answer, has had this conversation at least thrice by now, but he still wants to hear it. He’s curious if Rozanov’s answer is even true. After all, his reply wasn’t honest for the longest time. “Do you like them?”

“Oh. Yes. I like both.” Rozanov grabs the lettuce and shakes it. “You want salad, too? You like rabbit food. I am gone all week after today, it will go bad.”

Shane shrugs. “Sure.” He can’t actually remember the last time he ate a salad – probably since before the loop started. “Do you… Are you with girls, then? A lot?”

Rozanov gives him an unreadable look. “Jealous, Hollander?”

“No!” Shane says too fast. Maybe he is, a little. It’s not like they’re anything serious. Not like they’re boyfriends. That doesn’t mean he wants to picture some girl in his place getting railed by Rozanov, even if she could make him happier. “Jesus. No. Just… wondering.”

Rozanov doesn’t answer his question, but he does smirk the rest of the evening.

Shane kisses it off his face and convinces him to go for round three.

November 16th, 2016

Sometimes, Shane tries to trick the loop. He stays up as late as he can to watch the clock tick over to midnight, to see the date on his phone change from 16 to 17.

He always falls asleep by 5 am.

The next time he wakes, it’s November 16th.

November 16th, 2016

Shane fucks up on the thirty-seventh loop.

“Sorry,” Rozanov says when he comes back into the room, running a hand through his hair with what Shane now knows is practiced nonchalance. He sits back down on his side of the couch and drops his phone facedown on the coffee table. “My father.”

Rozanov doesn’t take the call every loop. Sometimes, they’re too distracted to notice the phone ringing. Sometimes, he just hits decline.

Usually, though, he takes it.

“Oh,” Shane says, as if he didn’t already know.

He’s feeling relaxed and loose after letting Rozanov open him up with his tongue this loop, and is currently splayed out across the couch in a pair of borrowed sweatpants and no shirt. His underwear has gone missing again, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t think he’ll have use for it tonight anyway.

After a moment’s hesitation, Shane takes Rozanov’s arm and pulls him into his lap, knowing that he’s probably craving some kind of contact even if he won’t ask for it.

Sure enough, Rozanov comes to him easily. He slots himself between Shane’s legs so he can rest his head on Shane’s chest. It’s not the first time they’ve sat like this in a loop, but it never fails to make Shane’s heart try to pound out of his chest.

The more time he spends here, the more he craves to know Rozanov, to dig inside him and really find out what makes him tick. Shane tells himself it’s strategic; the better he understands how Rozanov works, the better sex they’ll have.

It does feel somewhat like cheating to have so many opportunities to nip and tug and pull until bits of information fall out, but Shane can’t bring himself to care.

“What’s your family like?” he asks despite himself.

Sometimes, when Shane asks questions like this, Rozanov’s breath hitches and his body tenses, as if he can’t decide whether to lean into the touch or to rip himself away.

This time, for whatever reason, Rozanov just sighs. “They are… far,” he says after a moment.

“Mmm.” Shane hums sympathetically. He has a whole slew of cousins from both sides of the family scattered around the world, now that they’re all grown. One moved to France for work a year or two ago; he thinks another is in the US now. Plus, there are some more distant relatives in Japan that his mom calls a few times a year. Shane’s only met them once or twice, but growing up, he would hear her on the phone making awkward conversation in stumbling Japanese at odd hours. “Time zones must be tough.”

Rozanov shakes his head. “No, no. I mean, yes. It is difficult. But they do not care. They will call…” He gesticulates, brushing his hand against Shane’s thigh in the process. “Whenever.”

“Oh.” Shane knows some guys with family like that, who take and take without giving anything but stress and pain. It makes him feel lucky to have his parents, even if they can be overbearing at times.

Rozanov shrugs and cranes his head back to look at Shane. “Stop fussing, Hollander. God, you are worse than babushka. I am okay! We are far. It is okay.”

The Buffalo v Chicago game ends with a dismal score. Shane idly wonders if he should try to intervene somehow, if that will be what saves him from the loop. He tries to think if anyone has Ryan Price’s number; maybe convincing him to leave Buffalo will be what it takes.

“What about you?” Rozanov asks suddenly, pushing himself upward and away, though his hand never leaves Shane’s leg. “What is your family like, Mr. Nosy?”

Shane flushes. “They’re good,” he says simply.

Rozanov snorts and rolls his eyes. “They come to every home game, yes? I see on TV.” He points to the Western Conference game that’s starting, as if Yuna will pop up on the Jumbotron. “‘They are good.’ Pfft. Lucky boy.”

“I mean.” Shane shifts away, embarrassed. “It’s nice. It’s sort of a lot, but it’s nice. Do your parents ever come in from Russia? Like, did they come see you in the playoffs?”

Rozanov launches himself to his feet with no warning, moving so fast that he nearly jostles Shane off the couch. “I am getting more soda,” he announces, spine stiff and straight, eyes sharp.

“I – sorry, I didn’t –” Shane stumbles over his words for what feels like the first time in ages. He backs himself into the corner of the couch and crosses his arms across his chest defensively. It’s clear that he’s gotten too comfortable here, that he’s forgotten that he and Rozanov are not friends. “I shouldn’t have asked. That was rude.”

Rozanov stares at him with narrowed eyes. “I am getting soda,” he says again, slower this time as if he isn’t sure Shane understood him before. “Do you want also?”

“Uh. Sure. Yes. Thanks.”

They watch the Western Conference game, sipping their drinks on opposite sides of the couch in silence until Shane can’t take it anymore. He pretends to call a cab, wishes Rozanov good luck at the game tomorrow, and walks back to the hotel, regretting that he didn’t have the courage to kiss him goodbye.

November 16th, 2016

On the thirty-ninth loop, Shane picks up groceries.

“Oooh,” Rozanov teases when he opens the door to see Shane with two frozen pizzas, Cheetos, and three pints of Ben and Jerry’s. He immediately makes grabby hands at the grocery bags, gesturing for him to enter as he shuts the door. “Having a cheat day, Hollander?”

Shane hands over the one containing ice cream and shrugs. He’s been considering this entire experience an extended cheat day since round thirty-two. “I thought maybe I deserved one.”

Rozanov lets out a whoop of delight as he peeks at the pints. “You bought Half Baked? I may not even need to fuck you, you have brought me already so much delight.”

Shane, grinning, pushes past him to enter the penthouse. He slips off his shoes, drops the remaining groceries on the floor, and pulls off his jacket and shirt in as close to one motion as he can manage. “I’m sure you can find room in your heart for me and snacks.”

Ilya is still standing at the threshold, door ajar, eyes wide and full of wonder. Being under that gaze feels like watching the sunrise at the cottage. “I think, just this one time, you are right.”

The door shuts with a slam and Shane lets himself be carried off to the bedroom without even putting the ice cream in the freezer.

The ice cream is only a little melted by the time they’re done — Shane considers himself something of an expert in making Ilya’s body tick by now, and he’s not interested in taking it slow — so they eat it right out of the pint in bed, passing a spoon back and forth.

“You surprise me, Hollander,” Ilya says with a mouthful of chocolate. It’s a little disgusting; it’s also a little endearing. “I did not think you would be okay with eating in bed.”

Shane quirks an eyebrow as he licks the spoon.

“Okay, I did not think you would be okay with eating food in bed,” Ilya corrects, a flush creeping up his ears.

Shane doesn’t know if he’s ever seen Ilya blush like this, not in all the time loops. His toes tingle at the thought that he could do this to someone like Ilya Rozanov. “I’m full of surprises,” he says and dips the spoon back into the pint.

Ilya opens his mouth; Shane obliges and feeds him a heaping spoonful, his stomach fluttering as Ilya hums happily around it.

“I like surprises,” Ilya says, idly tracing Shane’s hip with his fingertips. The touch leaves a trail of… not fire, exactly. Just warm comfort. He doesn’t reach for the spoon again. “Tell me more.”

Shane presses a cold, sticky kiss to his neck, then offers him another scoop of ice cream. “It’s not a surprise if I tell you.”

Ilya swallows around the spoon; Shane’s dick twitches.

“You,” Ilya says as he drifts his hand closer and wraps his fingers around Shane’s base loosely, stroking once up and down the shaft as it hardens. “Are very sexy. Surprise.”

Shane feels like he ought to be offended by that, should feel his hackles raising at the implication that his attractiveness is any kind of shock, but, strangely, Ilya’s words just make him feel… soft. This whole evening has been sweet. Domestic, even. Shane finds himself wanting to hold onto it, wanting to exchange gentle kisses and lighthearted chirps while they lounge in bed with dessert.

In spite of this, he takes Ilya’s hand off his dick and gives him the pint instead.

“Put this away first,” he says. “And go wash your hands and face.”

“Then?” Ilya asks hopefully. His curls hang in his eyes, making him seem even more boyish and mischievous. It’s cute.

Shane laughs and kisses the chocolate off his lips. Honestly, he could be content here, just like this for hours, but if Ilya is offering… “Then.”

It takes three more loops of trying to recreate this moment before Shane realizes that he’s stopped calling him Rozanov in his head.

November 16th, 2016

At a certain point — loop fifty-two, if Shane is keeping track accurately — he stops being sure that there’s a way out.

Accepting it lifts something heavy from his shoulders.

He stops counting around then, tired of keeping track of the monotony, tired of trying to remember which loops, if any, made a significant difference.

Shane even starts to think that maybe it isn’t so bad to be stuck here. He gives himself permission to be as flagrant with his affection as Ilya will allow, and he feels less and less guilty every time he shows up hungry for something that will apparently never run out. Ilya is always as eager to fuck and pull and kiss as he was on the first time around, and Shane now knows that he’ll never get bored of it either.

If the world were still normal, Shane would maybe worry that Ilya would get bored of him… but within the loop, there’s no reason to worry about that.

It’s a problem, actually. Shane thinks he might be addicted to Ilya’s touch.

Shane tries to care, tries to make himself stop, but it’s hard to remember what he’s so afraid of when his entire existence has been narrowed down to just these twenty-four hours and Ilya’s dimpled smiles.

He’s not sure what he’ll do when the loop ends and he loses it all.

“Tell me a secret,” Ilya demands sometime around what must be loop sixty, on an evening when Shane had not bought groceries so he could re-experience the soft domesticity of Ilya cooking him dinner. He asks things like this sometimes, when Shane stays late and they run out of things to talk about on the TV. They’re laid out on the couch with Shane in Ilya’s lap, having already fucked and kissed and come with each other’s names on their lips.

It took a few rounds for Shane to get used to that, to push down the static panic in his chest and not run away, but he’s gotten pretty good at taking it in stride.

Shane presses his back against Ilya’s chest and angles himself to better nuzzle at Ilya’s jaw, humming while he thinks. He could tell him about the time loop again, he thinks. He could tell him that he thinks he’s falling in love.

He could tell him that, with every November 16th that goes by, Shane wants to leave it less and less, because it means he’ll lose Ilya, too.

“You’re nice to kiss,” he says after a moment.

Ilya laughs and tilts his head back to give him better access. “A secret is something other people don’t know, Hollander. I am obviously good for kissing.”

“Quit being cocky.” Shane licks Ilya’s cheek in a deliberately unsexy way and cackles when he’s thrown off the couch in retribution.

“Eugh! Hollander!” Ilya complains, swiping at his cheek with the back of his hand. He’s laughing, too, eyes lit up, as he repeatedly thwacks Shane with a throw pillow. “What, are you dog? Is that your big secret? You are actually Air Bud on ice?”

Shane clutches at his stomach, laughing as he stumbles around the table, away from the onslaught. Ilya launches himself off the couch to chase him, and they make it all the way to the bedroom before tackling each other to the ground.

Shane struggles against Ilya for a moment, loving the slide of skin and friction, before he lets himself go loose and be pinned down between Ilya’s thighs. He bucks up once, twice, and bites back a whine when their cocks rub together. It hasn’t been long, but they’re both half-hard again.

Ilya grinds against him as he takes Shane’s wrists in one hand and presses them into the carpet. He shoves his other hand down the sweatpants Shane has borrowed and starts to slowly, slowly stroke him.

“Fuck me,” Shane begs, pushing into Ilya’s fist, eyes squeezing shut. “Here. Now. Do it.” He’s already loose and ready, and they haven’t fucked on the floor in at least seven or eight loops. Even though he doesn’t get to keep the rug burn for more than a few hours, he likes the feel of it against his back.

“Tell me secret,” Ilya demands, tightening his grip on Shane’s wrists and loosening it on his dick.

Shane shudders at the sensation.

“I love living this day,” he blurts out, unable to think clearly enough to filter himself. He moans as Ilya scrapes his nails lightly against his balls before resuming his strokes. “Fuck, fuck, please, Ilya, I want to do this forever.”

Ilya’s strokes stutter to a stop, and Shane blinks his eyes open in alarm to see the man slack-jawed and wide-eyed with terror.

“Ilya?” he whispers. He tries to wriggle his arms free, but Ilya just threads their fingers together and leans down to catch Shane’s mouth with his.

It’s a messy and uncoordinated kiss — their teeth click and their tongues slip against each other and Shane is so fucking hungry for it that he thinks he might come from this alone.

Ilya is the one who breaks it off, pupils blown wide like he’s high off of the touch. “That is my secret, too,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, before starting back up with a new fervor, his curls bouncing as he rubs himself against Shane’s thigh.

They both come with a gasp in their sweats, Ilya untouched, and fall asleep that way, tangled together at the foot of the bed.

November 16th, 2016

“Heading out?” Hayden asks.

Shane shoves a change of clothes into a backpack to take to Ilya’s. He doesn’t do it every loop, but he has noticed that his underwear usually goes missing by the end of the night. Just in case the cycle breaks, he thinks he should have a spare.

(He hasn’t figured out where Ilya is hiding them yet; at this point, he thinks he never will).

“Yeah,” he says with a shrug. “I, uh. I probably won’t be back. Cover for me with curfew?” At least, Shane hopes he won’t be back. He’s been playfully proposing the idea of fisting to Ilya for the last several loops to gauge interest; he thinks tonight might be the time he actually goes for it.

“Damn, really?”

Shane nods.

Hayden whistles and lets out a chuckle. “Fuck. Never thought I’d see Shane Hollander sneak out the night before a game for sex.”

Shane feels his cheeks get hot. “It’s not a big deal,” he mumbles as he zips up the side pocket where he’s stored some extra condoms. Truthfully, he hasn’t played a game in over two months. It’s killing him inside, but he’s not exactly sure what he can do about it except distract himself with Ilya.

“It is a big deal,” Hayden protests and mutes the television. “Seriously, when’s the last time you got laid?”

Last night, Shane wants to reply. And the night before that and the night before that and the night before that.

“I have sex!” he insists instead, sounding more like a petulant child than a grown man. He winces and tries to start over. “It’s not anything serious anyway, okay? It’s not a big deal.”

Hayden raises his eyebrows and nods his head at the very full backpack. “You look like you’re preparing to move into her house.”

Shane rolls his eyes and hikes the bag onto his shoulder, barely thinking when he blurts out, “His.”

The room suddenly goes very, very still and quiet.

Shane drops the backpack to the floor; it falls with a clunk that reveals more about the contents than he’d like to admit. He instantly regrets packing the bag full with toys and accessories. “Oh my god.”

Hayden stares back at him with saucer eyes. “Oh my god.”

“Oh my god.” Shane sinks onto the bed, intentionally facing away from Hayden to hide his face and the way his hands are shaking.

He’s come out to Ilya plenty of times by now, and he’s almost comfortable with admitting the truth to himself, but the thought of telling Hayden or JJ – or, god, his parents – has never seriously crossed his mind. He’s always figured that would be a bridge he crossed once he made his way out of the loop.

Maybe.

After retirement.

“Uh.” The TV turns off with a click and Shane’s mattress dips as Hayden deliberately sits down on the other edge. “That’s cool, man.”

Shane peeks over his shoulder to blink at him, incredulous. “Cool?”

Hayden shrugs, performatively relaxed. “Yeah, yeah! That’s — good for you, dude. I’m cool with it. Very cool.”

Shane doesn’t say anything. He just lets Hayden’s words settle in.

“I mean,” Hayden rushes out, “not that it matters what I think, you know? You can be — you don’t need my permission to be — well, you really don’t need anyone’s permission, I guess, but like, definitely not mine, it’s not like I’m your dad or anything. Not that your dad should have a say! Or any dad! Like, if my kids were gay, that’d be cool. One of them could be gay. Hell, all of them could be gay! And — and it would be good if they were because they’d have Uncle Shane to help them out with… with all the…” He trails off, looking panicked and lost. “Will you say something, Hollander? I’m kind of digging myself into a ditch here.”

Shane can’t help but let out a little, panicked laugh of his own. “If any of your kids are gay,” he says somberly. “I will help them with the gay stuff.”

They stare at each other again, the shock leaking out of their postures until Shane, overwhelmed and frustrated with himself, turns to punch the closest pillow. He misses and hits the headboard instead.

“Fuck,” he hisses and sucks his bruised knuckles into his mouth.

“Whoa.” Hayden puts his hands up, leaning away defensively. “I know I’m a dick, but you don’t have to punch things. Your manliness is not in doubt or whatever, you’re Shane fucking Hollander.”

“That’s not,” Shane starts, shaking out his hand before he curls his fist into the pillowcase, steadying himself. He takes a deep breath. “I just wasn’t planning to do that. To… to tell you.”

Hayden snorts. “Clearly.” He swings his feet up onto the bed and pushes himself back until he’s flush with the headboard, legs crossed while he pats the spot beside him. “C’mere.”

“What?”

“Come here.” Hayden grabs Shane’s elbow and pulls him closer until he can wrap him into a hug. “You just came out, and I don’t want you to think I’m the kind of asshole who doesn’t want to touch you now.”

Shane halfheartedly tries to extricate himself from Hayden’s embrace. “What if I don’t want to touch you?”

“Tough.” Hayden ruffles his hair. “You see, my best friend is a gay dude, so I’m very comfortable with my masculinity.”

“Ha.”

Unfortunately, Hayden doesn’t seem to be kidding about the physical contact. Shane lets himself feel small for a moment while they wrangle themselves into something more comfortable, Hayden’s arm slung around his shoulders. His hands twitch for his phone; he should at least let Ilya know that he’s going to be late, or maybe that he won’t be coming at all.

“So,” Hayden says after a moment.

Shane sighs, resigned to his fate. Maybe it’ll be good to talk about it. If nothing else, he’ll be more prepared for next time. If there’s anything he’s learned from being stuck in a time loop, it’s that everything gets easier when you have to do it over a dozen times. “So.”

“You’re gay.”

Shane’s chest gets tight. “I’m gay,” he echoes and forces himself to breathe. The first time he actually says those two words out loud and Hayden had to be the one to prompt him. “Fuck. Sorry, I just — you’re the only one who knows. Besides…” He gestures at his backpack on the floor, unsure how to explain the Ilya of it all. “You know. Boston girl. Guy. Whatever.”

“Shit.” Hayden’s fingers drum on the mattress as he chews his bottom lip. “You’ve been texting her — him, sorry, you’ve been texting him forever.”

“We’re not serious,” Shane says automatically, ignoring the tug in his stomach that suggests otherwise every time he shows up at Ilya’s door. “I can’t be out. Neither can he. Honestly,” he adds with a soft laugh that almost comes out like a sob. “I’m not even sure he likes me that much.”

Hayden makes a choked sound laced with pity. His arm around Shane tightens just a little. “And you’re… okay with that?”

Shane shrugs and blinks hard against the burning in his eyes. “Yes,” he lies. “I’m totally fine.”

“Well.” Hayden’s tone suggests he doesn’t believe him, but Shane doubts he’s going to call him on it right now. He grabs the remote off the bedside table and turns the TV on to whatever game is airing. It’s not one Shane’s seen much, despite the loop — he usually catches Buffalo v Chicago, but rarely anything before. “As long as he doesn’t root for the Bears.”

Shane laughs so hard he cries again.

He doesn’t go to Ilya’s that loop, but he goes to bed feeling warm and loved and safe anyway.

November 16th, 2016

After that, Shane practices coming out to Ilya every few loops. The words “I’m gay” stumble out of his mouth bit by bit, getting just a little easier each time.

Often, Ilya just rolls his eyes as if to say “No shit,” but sometimes he’s sweet about it, gentle and caring as he kisses Shane against a wall. He doesn’t promise that Shane will get to be happy. He doesn’t promise that the NHL will get better for queer men, that Shane isn’t risking his career, his passion, his future for simply existing.

Shane is okay with that. He’d rather not hear false hope.

He is content to live right here, right now, where he can be gay and the world doesn’t need to matter. It doesn’t need to fall apart. Not yet.

He doesn’t think about those loops too often. They feel fragile, like the memories will break if he handles them too closely.

Sometimes, Ilya fucks him. Sometimes, they watch a movie. And sometimes…

“Scott Hunter. Write it down.”

“No way.”

"I am telling you, Hollander, he likes dicks."

Sometimes, they do this.

Shane shakes his head vehemently and moves the list of potentially queer NHL players out of Ilya’s grasp. "Scott Hunter does not like dick."

Ilya shrugs, palms facing upward. "He is dick, so he likes dick,” he says as if it’s a foregone conclusion. “Sorry, I don’t make rules.”

"You think Hayden is a dick. Hayden is definitely not gay.” Shane hasn’t come out to Hayden in a few loops; he’s still trying to figure out how to do it without triggering the horribly awkward panic button.

"No, no.” Ilya leans forward, snatches the paper and marker, and writes Scott Hunter in all caps at the top, above where they’ve already put Ilya and Shane’s own names. “I think Pike is idiot. That is why he has so many babies."

Shane sighs. “Yeah, that’s maybe true.”

“Ha!” Ilya punches the air triumphantly and underlines Hunter’s name three times.

“Okay, who else do you think?”

“You ask me? You are one with gaydar.” Ilya gestures to Shane casually with one hand while pulling up a list of active NHL rosters on his phone. “I am bisexual.”

“Who the fuck taught you the word gaydar, Rozanov?”

“Oh!” Ilya ignores his question, having found someone of interest. “I think Troy Barrett also is gay.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

November 16th, 2016

Some loops, Shane considers coming out to the world with an Instagram post and throwing it all away.

He can picture everything going up in flames the minute he hits post, can hear the slurs screamed from the stands, can feel the derision from his own teammates.

It’s not hard to imagine the outcome.

His career. His legacy. His future. All destroyed. All gone.

It’s just hard to care about any of that when he’s stuck here in the present.

Shane knows the loops have made him more reckless by now, more volatile, and he knows that the guys notice. He’s distracted by Ilya, and he’s equally distracted by the fact that he is so distracted by Ilya. Shane wakes up in the same, fresh, unmarked body every November 16th, but he still can’t seem to get Ilya out from under his skin.

During some loops, the Voyageurs steer clear of him, whispering about what’s come over their captain seemingly overnight. They all have their theories; Shane’s heard them all at this point.

Comeau, disturbingly, is the closest to getting it right.

“He’s just thinking about Rozanov again,” he hears the man mutter in the locker room after a rough, sloppy practice that had ended in Shane simply skating off the ice without a word. It wasn’t worth it to ream the guys out if tomorrow isn’t coming, and he’s already texted Ilya his ETA. “Hollander’s all cool and collected until the second they’re in the same city. Probably losing his goddamn mind knowing Rozanov is getting sucked off by some puckbunny while he runs plays in his head until dawn. Bet he thinks about it while he jerks off.”

Drapeau laughs. “Holly would suck Rozanov off himself if he had the chance. Fucking obsessed, man.”

Shane pretends he doesn’t hear them, then goes over to Ilya’s to do exactly that.

November 16th, 2016

One of the things Shane can always appreciate about living in a time loop is the predictability. He almost always knows where he’s going to go, when he’s going to be there, and who he’s going to be with.

He is not prepared to be standing outside a gay club with Ilya.

“We do not need to go in,” Ilya reminds Shane softly, Ilya’s eyes glued to him as Shane stares up at the building. The sidewalk thumps underneath their feet with the bass. They’re standing half a foot apart from each other, Ilya’s hands casually tucked into his pockets while Shane’s got his arms crossed like a shield. “We can go back to my apartment and just –”

“No,” Shane says, trying to draw up some courage from the depths of past loops. This had been his suggestion, their tuna melts inedible and the apartment reeking of smoke after being forgotten in the oven in lieu of a lazy makeout session.

Truthfully, the Shane that existed before the time loop wouldn’t have ever been so bold.

Ilya had stared at him in shock for a full forty-two seconds, slack-jawed and eyes full of both suspicion and wonder, when Shane had proposed they go out.

“You want to leave here?” Ilya had barely been able to conceal his excitement, hopping up and down in place before getting serious and planting his feet on the ground. “You do know we might be seen?”

Shane had nodded, feeling confident in his choice.

Even if he wasn’t, even if he’d changed his mind in the short drive from Ilya’s place, he can’t back out now, not after he’s gotten dressed in Ilya’s tight, too-cropped T-shirt and made the trek out into the city. It would be too humiliating.

Chances are, they’ve already been spotted together anyways; if Shane’s going to take a risk this time around, he might as well go all in.

Ilya hums, his eyes roving over Shane with concern. “You are so tense, like string about to snap.” A smirk grows on his face, making the glitter across his cheeks sparkle. “Could be fun to feel you –”

“Shut up,” Shane hisses, flushing hot from his toes to his ears. Ilya is right – that could be fun. Shane likes when Ilya fucks the anxiety right out of his body. He’s good at it, too, holding him down between too-tight shoulderblades and carding his fingers through Shane’s hair until the pain almost becomes pleasure. “We’re in fucking public.”

Ilya shrugs. “Just a thought.” He gestures to the club as a group of men enter together, all young and attractive. “Maybe different dick will help. I do not understand why, of course, mine is very, very good, but I cannot speak to your bad taste.”

Shane groans, grabs Ilya by the elbow, and drags him toward the door, suddenly regretting everything about this entire loop. “C’mon,” he says, feeling like a man on the way to the gallows. “Let’s do this.”

In all the loops he’s lived, Shane has never suggested that he and Ilya go out in public together. There’s a certain safety in the repetition of events; there’s even more in the privacy of Ilya’s home. His heart pounds in his ears as the bouncer waves him in with barely a glance at his ID.

Shane wonders, distantly, if this is going to be the thing that finally breaks the loop, if this is the decision he’ll be stuck with on November 17th.

It’s almost enough to make him turn around and walk into traffic. If that doesn’t reset the day, at least it’ll give him new problems to deal with.

The bar is just as dark and sticky as Shane remembers it, the press of bodies hot and heady with the scent of a hundred different colognes and aftershaves. He feels his heart in his throat as he scans the room, wondering if anyone sees them, if anyone recognizes them.

It’s unlikely, of course. As far as Shane knows, he hadn’t been recognized that one loop where he visited. He’s not actually sure what the overlap between “gay club patrons” and “hockey fans” looks like, but he assumes it’s a fairly small bubble.

Ilya presses a hand against the small of Shane’s back and leans in close enough for him to feel Ilya’s hot breath against his cheek.

“Is just men in a room,” Ilya whispers, his tone partway between comforting and condescending. “We play hockey. We are used to lots of men in rooms.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “I think these men are wearing less clothes than the ones we work with,” he comments, mouth dry. He’d let Ilya dress him for this with the stipulation that most of his body stay covered, but the other occupants of the club clearly have no such reservations.

Shane’s skin buzzes with anticipation. Part of him wants to look, to touch, to soak it all in and appreciate the way their bodies move on the dance floor. Ilya isn’t wrong — Shane is used to being in rooms full of men — but the way they wield their bodies here is so different than on the ice. In hockey, it’s all about force and speed and pushing your body to its limits. The men here move with a fluidity simply not possible under all the layers of padding; they twist and shift with a type of poise and power and confidence that makes Shane want nothing more than to reach out and take hold.

He stops himself from reaching out, more afraid to desire them than to admit he already has what he wants. He stretches out his hand to thread his fingers through Ilya’s.

He doesn’t think too hard about what that means.

Ilya snorts, but does not let go. Instead, he sidles up closer, resting his free hand on Shane’s hip. “I do not know what happens in Voyageurs’ changing room,” he says and pinches Shane’s waist where his shirt rides up to reveal skin. “But the Bears? The Bears wear much less clothing than here. Let us go get drinks.”

Shane is on high alert as they weave through the crowd to approach the bar, his anxiety spiking every time he brushes against another man or someone looks at him and Ilya a second too long. He drops Ilya’s hand after the first time it happens, too nervous that others might assume something untrue about the two of them, that they might think they’re here together.

Of course, Shane reasons, they are here together. And they are, in a sense, together.

But it’s not like they’re dating. It’s not like they’re exclusive. Ilya had been excited to come out to a gay club — what if he has hopes for the evening that don’t include Shane? What if he intends to bring someone else home, while Shane returns to the hotel where Hayden is probably crying over Trevor Project videos again? What if Ilya wants to fuck someone in the same bed where Shane blew him earlier today, someone more interesting and less dangerous to love?

In all the loops, Shane has realized that Ilya is far less of an asshole than he likes to appear. He’s tender. He’s thoughtful. He’s sweet and funny and kind.

Shane has come a long way since loop twenty, but he still doesn’t think he could ever handle receiving that type of love from Ilya. He doesn’t think he could ever be free enough to deserve it.

Even without their hands linked, Ilya keeps a hand close by, occasionally looping his pinky through Shane’s belt loop if he starts to move too fast.

Shane flushes every time they touch.

He lets Ilya order for them both and swallows down the double shot of vodka like it’s medicine before Ilya even lifts his shot glass to his mouth.

“Okay?” Ilya asks, leaning in so Shane can hear him better. His brow is furrowed in concern, and they’re both pressed to the bar, the sticky edge right along the strip of skin Shane’s showing.

Ilya’s showing more, his torso an almost bare expanse of temptation. From the depths of his dresser, he’d managed to procure not only a dark cropped shirt for Shane but also a pair of skintight black jeans, a mesh tank top, and a small jar of face glitter for himself. His crucifix glints out from underneath his shirt. Shane thinks he’d feel awkward in clothes that tight, but the fabric moves on Ilya’s body like it’s just another layer of his skin.

Shane gently places the shot glass back down and forces himself to look away from the line of Ilya’s shoulders flexing underneath the sheer tank top. “Fine,” he says. “Take yours so we can dance.”

Ilya chuckles. “I do not need liquid courage to dance with you, Hollander,” he says, but takes the shot, slams the glass down, and grabs Shane by the waist to pull him into the fray.

An hour and two shots later, Shane’s nearly forgotten all his concerns.

This is fun.

It’s not that Shane doesn’t enjoy his life — he loves hockey, he enjoys spending time with his parents and friends, and he actually does like doing crossword puzzles, thank you very much — but even those experiences are usually full of careful decision-making, of analysis and calculated action.

This is unadulterated, uncontrolled joy.

He’s sweaty and drunk and nobody seems to have recognized him so far, so he’s beginning to truly believe nobody will. There is something exhilarating about the ability to disappear into the dark here, where there are no cameras, no lights, no television screens zooming in on his face.

This isn’t something he wants forever, he thinks. The time he’s spent in the loop has been freeing in so many ways, but missing hockey has been like trying to live with his guts spilling out.

Still, for now, for here, with Ilya pressed against his back as they dance, Shane forgets to care about his real life. He forgets to care about tomorrow. He forgets to care that he’s supposed to care.

He turns around as the song shifts to sling his arms around Ilya’s shoulders, loose and relaxed while Ilya pulls their hips together until they’re flush, moving in time to the beat, their embrace almost like a real couple’s.

Ilya’s face is pink, his curls flattened against his forehead with sweat, and his eyes are bright and glassy with exertion from dancing. The glitter on his cheeks is smeared all over; Shane can’t stop himself from wiping some off with his thumb, caressing the smooth skin for a second too long.

“You are mess, too,” Ilya whispers, reaching out. “Let me fix my work.”

Back at the apartment, Shane had tried to stay very still when Ilya swiped two fingers across his face, dragging tenderly from his cheeks to the corners of his eyes. He’d been delighted upon finding the jar in his drawers, then insisted that they both wear it.

“Why do you have glitter?” Shane had asked, half afraid to look at himself in the mirror once Ilya was done.

Ilya had just smirked and smeared two lines across his own cheeks like war paint. “What, you do not?”

Now, Shane leans into the touch. For a fleeting second, he hopes he gets to keep this. He hopes they get to keep this.

He tries to imagine what tomorrow would look like if they could go to the rink with bags under their eyes and this night still on their skin. What would people say if they shared a smile over the puck? Would people notice the glitter still stuck to their cheeks under the glare of the arena lights?

He lets Ilya lead him back to the bar at the end of the song, almost reckless in his trust.

Ilya smacks the bar with his palm to get the bartender’s attention and ignores Shane’s scolding as he orders.

“A ginger ale for my friend, please,” he says, gesturing to Shane. “And water for me.” He turns to Shane apologetically. “We should go soon. It is late, and —”

“We have a game,” Shane finishes under his breath. Ilya is right, of course, even if Shane will probably wake up in Montreal and do this day all over again. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s sober up and go.”

He’s halfway through his glass of ginger ale, contemplating if he’s going to try to go back to the apartment with Ilya or give up and head to the hotel, when a man calls out from down the bar.

“Ilya Rozanov?”

Shane and Ilya’s heads both turn toward the voice in unison, spines stiffening in terror.

“Oh my god.” The man maneuvers his way through the crowd to get closer, his expression absolutely elated. “It is you. Holy shit. Oh my god.”

Shane’s skin goes cold, prickling with the memory of being fucked, strong hands encircling his wrists as they pinned him against the shelves in a storage room.

He watches Ilya put on the smile he reserves for the press as he slowly turns toward the man, his posture carefully casual. “Do I know you?”

The man is beaming over his beer, still as handsome as Shane remembers. In the back of his mind, Shane vaguely registers that he looks a little like Scott Hunter, chiseled and broad, then promptly decides not to think about that.

“Sorry, no, just — I’m a huge fan,” he says in a whisper, as if admitting that he likes hockey is the scandal in this situation. “I’m not even really into sports, couldn’t tell you a damn thing about how any of it works, but I’m Boston born and bred, and you won us a Cup, so — I’ve been kind of obsessed ever since. You’re incredible.”

Ilya turns pink at the praise and waves the bartender over. “Put his drink on my tab,” he says, then shifts closer to Shane in order to make space for the man. “I want to talk more with — what is your name?”

The man flushes as he slots into the spot. “Jack. Sorry, I’m being really fucking weird right now, I just —”

Ilya cuts him off with a laugh. “No, no, you are not weird. You are wonderful. See?” He turns to Shane and jabs his thumb toward Jack. “Someone here knows hockey.”

Shane balls up a napkin in his hand to hide that he’s shaking. There’s a tightness in his chest that is closing in, squeezing the air out of his lungs, sending his mind on a spiral. He doesn’t know if he wants to run and hide, or if he wants to slip his hand into Ilya’s and claim him as his own.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, deciding to do his best to shrink into himself and pretend he doesn’t exist.

Jack doesn’t seem to have a problem with that; his eyes are glued on Ilya. “I’m so surprised to see you here, honestly. I mean…” He gestures at the pride flag hanging over the bar. “Are you — sorry, I shouldn’t even ask, that’s not my business, but —“ His eyes flick to Shane for the first time since he approached them, and, thankfully, there’s not even a shadow of recognition. “Are you two…?”

Ilya’s smile falters for a second. It’s so subtle that Shane doesn’t think anyone would catch it if they hadn’t spent hours watching every tape and interview of Ilya’s career.

“Ah,” Ilya says and shakes his head, patting Shane on the back. Shane, frozen with fear, lets himself sway with the force of the solid, platonic thuds. “No, no. We are friends. He wanted to come here, so I said, ‘Yes, why not? Will be fun! We will dance!’”

Jack actually looks at Shane now, his eyes roving down until they catch at his waistband where his shirt’s ridden up. “Sounds like a good time,” he says, gaze scanning back up to lock onto Shane’s face. Interest sparks behind his eyes, hot and familiar. “Sounds like Rozanov’s a good friend.”

“Yeah.” Shane glances at Ilya, who is studiously looking anywhere but back at him, and can’t help feeling a little mean. “He’s really such a good ally.”

Jack lights up, but Ilya shoots a look at him with some kind of… frustration? Anger? Jealousy? Shane can’t read what’s behind the expression, but that doesn’t matter; at least it’s directed at him.

“You are with friends, too?” Ilya asks forcefully a second later, smiling too hard, too wide. He leans his body over the bar, creating a wall between Shane and Jack. “You have someone to dance with?”

Jack blushes deeper and runs his hand through his hair; it comes out perfectly tousled, and Shane suddenly remembers why he’d been pulled to him in the first place.

“Nah,” Jack says with a shrug. “Figured I’d come out on my own tonight.” He looks over Ilya’s shoulder, locking eyes with Shane again. Ilya follows his gaze, eyes steely. “Shoot my shot, if you know what I mean.”

Shane drains the rest of his ginger ale and clears his throat, feeling like a butterfly pinned under Ilya and Jack’s twin stares.

“We were going to head out,” he reminds Ilya under his breath. “Game tomorrow.”

Ilya hesitates, looking between Jack and Shane, before sighing and putting a hand on Shane’s shoulder. He uses it as leverage to tug Shane closer until his mouth is next to Shane’s ear.

“Dance with him,” Ilya tells him, resigned but firm, breath hot against Shane’s neck. It’s bordering on cruelty; all Shane wants to do is tilt his head back, to offer up his throat, to be kissed until he loses his mind.

“But —” Shane starts to say, but Ilya’s grip on him only gets tighter, a painful vice grip that almost distracts him from his protests.

“You have been brave today. You deserve to have fun,” Ilya says, pushing him away from the bar and toward Jack. It sounds like a lie, but Shane doesn’t know how to call him out with Jack so close. “I will pay tab.”

“I —” Shane glances at the thrumming dance floor and sighs. He’s not ready to leave this loop quite yet. He holds a hand out to Jack. “One song.”

Jack beams and lets Shane lead him into the crowd as he tries to chase the sweet taste of freedom that he’d managed to catch before.

Shane remembers Jack from his first loop at the club. He’d been handsy and bold, and Shane would have been happy to use that as an excuse to bail. This time, though, Jack keeps a respectful distance, his palms only lightly skimming over Shane’s thighs as they dance.

Maybe it’s the threat of Ilya Rozanov watching them from the bar, probably looking murderous in spite of his casual grin, or maybe Shane simply isn’t as into it now that he’s lived a hundred more November 16ths. Either way, Shane can’t bring himself to give Jack more than an apologetic smile when he breaks away before the song ends.

It’s not too late to go back to Ilya’s apartment, Shane thinks as he pushes through the crowd. It’s probably aired out by now with all the windows flung open and fans at high speed. It would be easy to fall onto the couch in a tangle of limbs, kissing and grinding and touching the way they had been when the tuna melts had burned, a buildup that had garnered no satisfying conclusion. He thinks he can wring another orgasm or two out of Ilya before the loop resets and all the tenderness of today is forgotten.

Or, Shane thinks more hopefully, maybe they can just go back to the bedroom and slide under the covers, exhausted after a night out. Shane could kiss Ilya’s shoulder, and Ilya could trace the lines of Shane’s hip until they both doze off, sleepy and content. Maybe, if he’s lucky, they’ll wake up like that too, Ilya snoring while Shane drools on the pillow that he’s started to think of as his. Maybe they’ll have a quiet morning and make breakfast together before their respective captain meetings.

Perhaps it’s the alcohol or the lights or the fact that he’s been skirting around it for so fucking long that he doesn’t remember who he was before knowing, but Shane realizes in that instant that he needs to tell Ilya the truth.

He needs to tell Ilya he loves him.

Shane surprises himself with how badly he wants that. It aches in his chest like he’s been checked into the boards with no padding. It flutters on the tip of his tongue like a kiss broken too soon. It hurts, festering inside like an open wound.

He rushes back to the spot where he’d left Ilya, eager to find him before his courage fades.

“Where —” he starts to ask the bartender breathlessly, scanning around the room as if there’s any hope of scoping Ilya out in this crowd.

The bartender’s eyes are full of pity. He pours a shot of bottom shelf vodka and pushes it in front of Shane.

“He left, hon,” he says gently. “Said he hopes you have a good time and he’ll see you tomorrow.”

Shane drinks until he blacks out and hopes he doesn’t have a tomorrow at all.

November 16th, 2016

Shane wakes in Montreal, feeling a mix of numb and blindingly relieved.

He doesn’t know what he’d been thinking during the last loop, taking Ilya out like that — taking him to a gay club, taking him somewhere they could be seen, somewhere he could disappear without even a backward glance.

Shane supposes he’s lucky that his only punishment is the deep ache of regret and betrayal that settles into his gut. He wishes he could text Ilya about it, wishes he could shout at him about all the hurt he’s caused, but it wouldn’t really be fair.

The club doesn’t exist for Ilya anymore. None of it exists for Ilya — not the thousands of kisses, the tender touches, or even the scared, soft words they’ve exchanged as Shane dances around the way he feels.

None of it ever will again.

Shane gets ready for the airport in a daze, mentally kicking himself as he stuffs extra protein bars into his backpack. How could he be so stupid as to fall for Ilya Rozanov? Rozanov can have whoever he wants — he can have someone beautiful, someone open and free, someone not afraid to be seen with him in public. He can have someone interesting and exciting.

He can have someone who isn’t stuck in a time loop.

It’s been far more than a hundred loops, and every passing November 16th makes tomorrow feel further and further away. When Shane gets into Hayden’s car for the drive to the airport for the umpteenth time, the knowledge that he very well may be stuck here for eternity slots into place like a puzzle piece he’s been trying to lose.

“You okay?” Hayden asks as they pull onto the highway. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” Shane lies. All he wants to do is get through this loop without breaking his heart into even more parts. “Just want to get this over with.”

Hayden grins knowingly. “Don’t worry,” he says. “We’ll kick Rozanov’s ass tomorrow.”

Shane really doubts tomorrow will come, but he nods along with the sentiment anyway.

Another day, another loop. Another chance to break his own heart.

The door clicks open seconds after he texts Ilya. Shane decides to take the stairs.

The burn in his thighs feels good in a way that attending the same practice over and over again simply can’t achieve. Shane feels his mind clear with every flight, the clarity finally settling in.

If this is his lot in life, then Shane simply has to make the most of it. There is plenty to be grateful for within the loop — he has his parents, just a call away, loving and warm. He has Hayden and his awkward but well-meaning support. He has hockey, in a sense.

And here, like this, he gets to have Ilya, at least for a little while.

Maybe it’s better this way, Shane thinks as he reaches the sixteenth floor, Ilya’s penthouse in view. Their past together is, frankly, a mess full of shame and guilt that Shane is not equipped to untangle right now, and a future together is simply out of the question.

If the present is all Shane gets to have, he’s glad he gets to have it forever. Even if it ends in heartbreak every time, even if he is left alone at the club again, even if he flees, chased to the streets by his own goddamn fear… He can have these moments.

He can have this night.

Ilya answers the door the way he always does: wordlessly, sweatpants slung low on his hips and his gold chain glittering on his bare chest. It’s a wonder that Shane has never gotten tired of it, this exact image now the stuff of his dreams. He would do anything to wake up with Ilya like this beside him in bed, wrapped up in his arms as the sun comes over the horizon.

But that’s something for a future.

That’s something Shane doesn’t have.

That’s something they can’t have, time loop notwithstanding.

He knows the routine in his bones by now; he sheds his shoes and jacket on the floor before following Ilya into the bedroom.

“The fuck is this?” he calls out as he crosses the threshold. It’s been a while since he replayed his quips from the very first November 16th, but there’s something comforting about the familiarity of it all. He latches onto it like a buoy. “You’re not speaking to me anymore? Just expect me to follow you like a dog?”

“Shh,” Ilya says and slips his hand underneath Shane’s chin to tilt his head up. He’s trying to seem cool and collected, but Shane knows that’s an act by now; Ilya’s eyes, wanting and desperate, give it away.

Shane already knows how tonight will go. He already knows that Ilya will trace his freckles tenderly, his callused thumb swiping across Shane’s cheek in wonder while Shane looks up at him from the floor. He already knows that he’ll fuck Ilya face-to-face, that he’ll come trembling more from the intimacy than from the heat. He already knows that Ilya will call him sweetheart and Shane, and that the cadence of his voice curling around those sounds will burrow into Shane’s heart like it has always belonged there.

But first, before all of that, Shane knows Ilya will kiss him.

Ilya always kisses deep and hungry, like he’s been starving for years; Shane always gives as good as he gets. He usually surrenders to Ilya’s touch in an instant, prepared to be dragged into Ilya’s orbit, shivering with the sheer enormity of his own terrifying longing.

This time, the softness hidden behind Ilya’s eyes gives him pause.

“Wait,” Shane says and Ilya’s grip on him loosens, fingers slackening against his jaw. “I want to try something.”

It’s not the first time Shane has kissed Ilya softly, even outside of the time loop, but this feels different. They don’t start with softness; they’ve never dared. Intimacy happens by accident, in the heat of the moment, never by intentional choice.

Shane makes the choice.

He presses their lips together gently, almost chaste in execution, but his point is made nonetheless. Ilya gasps like his soul has been set on fire and his hand slides up from Shane’s chin to tangle into his hair. Shane moans into the kiss, and, emboldened by the way Ilya’s grip tightens, shoves them both onto the bed.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya says breathlessly as Shane pulls away, scrambling to his knees. He yanks Ilya’s sweatpants down to his ankles and swallows him all the way down in one move, nose nudging against Ilya’s pelvis. “Ty neveroyatnyy, Shane. Fuck. Ya tebya lyublyu. Tak sil’no. So much.”

Ilya babbles in Russian the entire time, even when Shane pulls off with one last flick of his tongue against the slit, even when Shane opens himself up with his fingers, even when Shane straddles Ilya to roll on a condom and lower himself down on Ilya’s cock.

Shane doesn’t understand a word, but that doesn’t matter. After all this time, his body is so attuned to Ilya’s voice that every elongated vowel, every stutter, every groan sends a flash of heat down Shane’s spine.

He lets Ilya flip them over when he feels close, the muscles in his thighs and abs spasming beyond his control.

“Please,” he begs and strokes himself as best he can with his cock trapped between their stomachs. “Ilya, please, I need this.”

Ilya fucks into him hard and fast. “Tell me how much,” he demands, his fingernails digging into the back of Shane’s thighs as he pushes them up toward Shane’s chest. “Tell me how bad you need it.”

Shane can only shudder in response. He draws his legs up even higher until he can drape them over Ilya’s shoulders, hooked together by the ankles, and is rewarded with a deep, rumbling groan as Ilya’s hips stutter.

“Tell me,” Ilya demands again, the words coming out in a moan.

Shane can’t think, drowning in the sensation. He sucks in air like a dying man, blinks back the tears at the corners of his eyes. “I need you,” he pleads, and it’s almost a prayer. He feels like he’s on fire, the slow drag of Ilya inside him setting off sparks. “God, Ilya, I need you so fucking much, please.”

Ilya reaches between them to lay his hand over Shane’s, their fingers intertwined as they stroke him together.

Shane comes with a sob.

Ilya follows almost instantly with a groan of release while Shane is still shaking through his own orgasm. He lowers himself down to his elbows, caging Shane in-between his forearms, and kisses him soft and sweet until their trembling slows to a stop. Ilya’s crucifix is trapped between them, pressing into Shane’s heart.

After a moment, Ilya pulls out and collapses on his side to nip at the freckled skin on Shane’s shoulder. “Sweetheart,” he whispers, blissed out and dazed.

Shane whines, overstimulated and sensitive, and curves down to kiss the top of Ilya’s head.

“I love you,” he murmurs into Ilya’s curls, not caring if the other man hears. He won’t get to keep this, won’t get to move forward, but he can love Ilya here, in the present, as much as he wants to. “I love you, I love you, fuck, I love you.”

Ilya melts at the words, his body turning liquid as he nuzzles into the crook Shane’s neck, pressing kisses against his collarbone. “I know, moya lyubov. I know.”

They lay like that for a while, limbs jelly and hearts pounding, and Shane waits for Ilya to pull away once the adrenaline drops. He waits for Ilya to turn stiff and formal, to make a joke, to walk out of the room and show Shane the door.

He waits for the terror to settle in.

It never does.

The rest of the night goes the way it usually does, the shift in them barely noticeable. Maybe nothing really changed at all; maybe it was always like this, and Shane was just too afraid to say it.

They eat tuna melts. They watch Buffalo lose to Chicago. They jerk each other off on the couch.

If anything is different, it is hidden in the tenor of their quips, in the gentleness of their touches.

Eventually, they fall asleep wrapped in each other’s arms, tomorrow a million years away.

November 17th, 2016

Shane wakes to a panicked shout in a bedroom that isn’t his.

“We are late!” Ilya tugs at the blankets so hard that Shane nearly comes off the bed with them. “We are the captains and we are late!” He mumbles something in Russian as he rushes to the bathroom, hopping into his underwear as he goes.

Shane sits up and rubs his eyes, confused and disoriented. “Ilya,” he calls out. “What the fuck.”

Ilya’s hair is in total disarray when he pops his head through the door, toothbrush in one hand and deodorant in the other. “I must be at rink in forty minutes. You must be at rink in forty minutes. We are late!”

“But…” Shane fumbles for his phone in the sheets and turns on the screen. It reads November 17th, 2016. Underneath the date, there’s a calendar notification reminding him of his captain’s meeting and the game, along with about twenty texts from Hayden and JJ combined. His stomach drops out. “Fuck. We’re late!”

“Da!” Ilya throws a pair of underwear at him. “These are yours! Go! Brush teeth, we need to leave!”

Shane shoots out of bed to collect his clothes from all four corners of the room, not even caring that they smell like yesterday’s sweat.

Yesterday. He has a yesterday.

He did it. He actually broke free of the time loop.

He doesn’t have time to think about that, though. He’s late for a game.

Breakfast is a hurried affair, both of them shoving protein bars from Shane’s backpack down their throats as they scramble to collect their things. Ilya can’t seem to figure out which keys go to which car, and Shane spends three and a half minutes searching for one sock until it somehow manifests underneath the coffee table. He texts Hayden, panicked, with a request to grab his suit and game day duffel from the hotel room.

Hayden texts back, you bringing boston girl to the game?

Technically, Shane thinks, Boston girl is bringing him to the game — if Ilya ever figures out which key goes with the Corvette. He ignores the text, deciding to deal with all of that on another day simply because he can.

“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” he says as soon as he sees that Ilya is sliding his shoes on. Shane’s had a hand on the door knob for two minutes by now, watching Ilya stroll through the apartment at an almost leisurely pace. “Are you planning on moving this slow all the time?”

Ilya’s eyes glint as he shrugs on his jacket. “Is that a request?” he asks, grinning wickedly. “That can happen tonight if it is what you want.”

“What the fuck?” Shane would rather throw himself into another time loop than ask Ilya to fuck with his own game like that. “No. I’m going to beat you fair and square.”

Ilya rolls his eyes and grabs him by the waist. “That is not what I meant, Shane,” he whispers and rolls his hips just once, pointedly pressing his half-hard dick into Shane’s thigh.

Oh. Right.

Shane laughs and lets Ilya kiss him against the door.

They’re going to need to talk about this at some point. They’re going to need to discuss how they want to move forward, who they want to tell, how they want to share it. They’re going to need to figure out how to navigate a future where they are entwined by more than just sex and hate and media narratives.

More importantly, they’re going to need to come up with damn good excuses for being late to their captain meetings.

Shane can’t bring himself to care. He kisses Ilya back and wonders what tomorrow will bring.