Preface

I’ll Believe in Anything (Except That)
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at https://archiveofourown.org/works/84525081.

Rating:: Explicit
Archive Warning:: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category:: M/M
Fandom:: Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types
Relationships:: Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander & Yuna Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Svetlana Vetrova, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble & Shane Hollander, Boston Bears Team Ensemble & Montreal Metros Team Ensemble
Characters:: Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Svetlana Vetrova, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Hayden Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais
Additional Tags:: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Getting Together, Secret Relationship, Attempt at Humor, Basically what if Shane and Ilya were immediately discovered and started dating after CCM, No situationship, Imagine all of the emotional beats of HR but it happens in an hour and 20 minutes, Established Relationship, technically, Boys in Love, Rookie Shane Hollander, Rookie Ilya Rozanov, Comedy of Errors, Accidently a slowburn plotwise, Multimedia, Digital Art, Fanart, Embedded Video, Explicit Sexual Content, Less than canon typical angst, The fix it to fix it all, Slow to Update
Language:: English
Collections:: hollanovels - long form hollanov fics to spend a day reading on the couch, Flip Phone Favs, fav Hollanov AUs, Zulie's Best of Heated Rivalry, Hollanov 🥰, Best of Hollanov Canon AUs, Shane & Ilya get together early
Stats:: Published: 2026-05-09 Updated: 2026-09-27 Words: 146,116 Chapters: 15/16

I’ll Believe in Anything (Except That)

by Vardic

Summary

In another timeline, Shane and Ilya hook up in Room 1410, Ilya slips out unnoticed, and they spend the next seven years trapped in the situationship from hell we all know and love.

In this one, Yuna Hollander walks in just as Ilya goes to leave and—through the combined power of misunderstanding, miscommunication, and a frankly alarming lack of follow-up—Shane and Ilya start dating in 2010.

Given the chance to grow up with rather than against each other, Shane and Ilya build a life thats steadier, safer, and far less frightening than their canon. Their rivalry fizzles before it ever has the chance to fully ignite, replaced by hockey’s most beloved “bromance", and in 2015, they find the courage to do the one thing their canon counterparts never got to do: tell the NHL and the world.

There is just one problem: No one believes them.

OR: Despite Shane and Ilya being out for two years, Scott Hunter is still considered the first openly gay player in the NHL, much to Ilya’s indignation.

ACT I: Ch. 1–11 | Complete | 2010–2015 | 107k
ACT II: Ch. 12–16 | Ongoing | 2015+

Notes

See the end of the work for notes

Chapter 1: Divergence

Chapter Notes

Edit - 9/12/26 added a slow updates tag as I started my ph.d program in August and I am unsure how quickly the last updates will come out 💕

There are, among countless versions of their story, any number of reasons Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov do not get together in 2010.

Distance is one. Pride is another. Fear does its usual dependable work. Timing, misunderstanding, actual rivalry, professional ambition, emotional repression, heterosexuality hanging on by a thread—pick a reason, and some version has used it. Entire years can be built out of less.

This is a story in which, somehow, none of those reasons seem to matter quite enough.

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

Shane felt like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room—like it had all been pulled out of his lungs and left him stuck there, staring at the streaked mess across Ily-Rozanov’s chest. This—tonight—had single handedly been the hottest thing he'd ever experienced. It wasn't his first time doing… things. Though it might have well as been, with how his heart pounded in his chest and his mind raced with all the possibilities of what might still happen—where the night might still go.

He thought about stroking himself and adding to the mess covering Rozanov's chest, about Rozanov's mouth on him or returning the favor. Would it feel different than with a girl? He couldn’t imagine it would, but he didn't know, and it shocked him to realize he really, really, wanted to know. If not mouths, would Rozanov jerk him off, maybe—would he—

"Okay. Well. Goodnight." Rozanov said, and moved to get up.

Shane’s thoughts stuttered to a stop and would have tipped into anger if not for the playful, crooked grin that had overtaken Rozanov’s face.

"Fuck you." Shane said.

"Did you need something?" Rozanov asked innocently, and Shane could only glare at him as Rozanov chuckled and grabbed some tissues from the bedside table. It shouldn’t have made it worse—shouldn’t have made his stomach tighten the way it did, watching Rozanov swipe the evidence away—but, well… he wasn’t supposed to be turned on by any of this in the first place. So maybe it was a moot point.

Rozanov quickly finished, wadding the tissue and tossing it towards the small trash by the desk. Shane couldn’t see if he made it, but he knew it would bug him later if Rozanov had missed and not gone and corrected it, so he chose to believe that he made it.

"Lie down." Rozanov instructed, kneeling back onto the bed over Shane.

The words weren’t harsh, but they weren’t a suggestion either. Shane did so, more out of instinct than thought, suddenly aware of everything he’d been ignoring—his pulse, his nerves, the way his body hadn’t quite caught up with his brain. Rozanov, maybe noticing, or maybe not, crawled on top of him and kissed him, unintentionally silencing the spiral Shane was slowly falling into.

"You think I am asshole?" Rozanov asked.

"I know you are an asshole"

“Maybe.” Rozanov’s grin didn’t fade. "But I would not leave you like that."

"No?"

Rozanov leaned down and kissed him again. The ghost of a smirk against his lips as he responded "No."

Rozanov kissed him for a few moments longer, slow and deliberate, enough to pull Shane’s focus entirely to his mouth—so he was almost startled when Rozanov’s hand suddenly closed around his cock. Shane couldn’t help the gasp that tore itself from his mouth.

"Let me show you" Rozanov murmured "how to do this."

Rozanov kissed his way down Shane's body, joining his hands that hadn't stopped stroking Shane's cock. It felt so good, Shane forgot to feel insulted by Rozanov's chirp. When he reached Shane's cock, he didn’t rush, just greeted it with a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, eyes boring into Shane’s. Normally… normally Shane would’ve flinched away. Pulled back from the eye contact, from the attention. But he didn't. He couldn't look away. Not even when Rozanov's mouth closed around the head, tonging at the slit and pushing Shane dangerously close to the edge much too quick.

"Jesus Christ" Shane shuddered.

"Nope" Rozanov said, popping off with a grin. "Just me."

"Fuck off" Shane gasped as Rozanov's mouth sank back down onto him. Shane gripped the hotel bed comforter, desperately trying to hold onto a shred of his sanity. Rozanov was shockingly good at this. And it hit Shane, just as sharply, that it did feel different than with a girl. Or maybe it was just Rozanov. Just how many times had he had the chance to do this—practice this? Or was he just a natural, like he was on the ice? Shane felt like he should be paying attention, maybe taking notes, figuring out exactly what made it so different than when his girlfriend, and other truly, very hot girls, had done this to him before, but it was hard to focus when it felt like Rozanov was dragging every coherent thought straight out of his head.

Shane reached down to run his fingers through the golden-brown curls of Rozanov's hair, over the stubble on his check, and trace the sharp line of his jaw. Watching him—this big, beautiful boy, or rather, man, a very handsome man—who knew exactly what to do with his tongue, his lips, his hands, his—oh God—teeth, had Shane rocketing toward the edge like an F1 driver. He understood it now, Rozanov's breathy "Is okay. Was… It was… too much" from earlier.

"Oh God, Rozanov! I'm gonna-"

He’d expected Rozanov to pull away, leave him to finish on his own, like he had earlier. But if anything, Shane’s warning only made him double down, and Shane didn’t have a chance to protest again before he tipped over the edge.

With it, whatever filter Shane had between his brain and his mouth disappeared entirely, words spilling out in a rushed, breathless stream. “Holy shit. Sorry—sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry. Oh my God. Wow.”

Rozanov pulled off, still unhurried as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He laughed at Shane's babbling, "Sorry? Why sorry?"

Shane felt near hysteric, and had to choke back a laugh. Or maybe a sob. "I don't know! I just uhh… didn't expect you to—I mean—"

Taking pity on him, Rozanov interrupted, a smirk still gracing his lips "I don't mind it."

Taking a moment to collect himself, to catch his breath, Shane couldn’t help but feel the flicker of something—self-consciousness, maybe. He hadn't even tried to finish the job on Rozanov. It felt like, at every turn, this guy couldn’t help but one-up him. First gold at the prospects cup, first in the draft, first in the… blowjob competition? Even as the thought crossed his mind, Shane felt stupid for it, and the nerves threatening to rise up in him faded just as quickly as it had come.

Though, without the self-consciousness—and with every horny thought thoroughly dealt with—the panic Shane had been dutifully ignoring since Rozanov knocked on his door came roaring back.

In the few seconds Shane had spent cycling through what felt like the full range of human emotion, Rozanov had shifted to sit on the edge of the bed, back turned to him. He rolled his neck, idly rubbing at his jaw. He glanced over as Shane sat up, swinging his legs over the opposite side of the bed.

Shane couldn’t help it—he laughed, the absurdity of the whole situation finally catching up to him.

"You are laughing?" he questioned, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, well…” Shane huffed, another incredulous laugh slipping out. “This whole thing is just a little nuts.”

Rozanov hummed in acknowledgment. “I want a cigarette.”

"You're not allowed to smoke in the hotel."

Rozanov waved him off, "Yes, yes, I know. Stupid country." he sighed. "Does not matter. Bears told me to quit, so I am trying not to smoke."

"Oh" Shane said. And then after a brief pause. "Smoking is bad for you."

"Is it?" Shane could practically hear the eye roll that surely accompanied that.

As they fell into a silence that wasn’t quite comfortable—but not uncomfortable either—Shane could feel something building in his throat. A question? Or maybe just the need to say something, to acknowledge what had just happened. To hear Rozanov promise it would stay here. That it wouldn’t leave this room.

Maybe in another life, Shane did ask, maybe Rozanov quipped back, but all the same, he would promise, and they would have this shared secret binding them together.

He could almost see how it was supposed to go: Rozanov pulling his clothes back on while Shane watched, pretending not to, even as he wanted to ask him to stay. Ily—Rozanov’s quiet, clipped, “Goodnight, Hollander,” before he left without the final kiss that Shane would deny until the end of his days that he wanted.

But just as Shane opened his mouth—This won’t leave this room, okay?—the sharp buzz of the keycard reader cut through the room.

His eyes snapped to the door.

There were exactly two people in this hotel who had a key to his room—the staff, and his mom. It could be staff. It could be. They had keys. That was their job. But it was ten at night, and housekeeping didn’t come at ten at night, they didn’t—he knew that, he always checked the little sign, the schedule, he hated when they came early, hated when they came at all—

God, what he wouldn’t give for it be housekeeping right now.

He would take the cart in the hallway, the knock he couldn’t ignore, the too-loud vacuum, the awkward “just a minute”—he would take all of it, every single part he hated, if it meant it wasn’t—

It wasn’t housekeeping.

It wasn’t.

It couldn’t be anything else.

There was no version of this where it wasn’t his mom.

Fuck.

Hide him.

The thought hit all at once, urgent and useless. Where? The bed? No—God, no. The closet, maybe, the bathroom—somewhere, anywhere—but his body wouldn’t cooperate, stuck somewhere between moving too fast and not moving at all. He didn’t even look at Rozanov, didn’t know if he was moving either.

(He wasn't. Ilya was just as frozen in place as Shane.)

Shane could only watch in horror as the door opened and—of course—his mom stepped inside, folders tucked against her chest, carrying something she most likely wanted him to look over. Contracts, probably. Something normal. Something that had absolutely nothing to do with this. She looked up, met his eyes across the room, and for a split second the moment just…

Shane became abruptly, horribly aware of everything. The fact that he was sitting on the bed completely naked, sheets twisted uselessly at his side, his skin still flushed, his body still betraying exactly what had just happened. Who it had happened with—Ilya Rozanov. His rival. His mom was looking straight at him, and—

“Sorry! Sorry!” she yelped, the words tumbling out as she jerked the folders up to cover her face and turned sharply away, trying—God, trying—to give him some dignity. But it only made it worse, because now she was facing Rozanov, and Shane saw the exact moment it registered, the pause, the flicker of confusion, the shock widening in her eyes as she slowly lowered the folders just enough to take in the rest of the scene.

“Oh.”

It came out soft. Stunned.

And Shane felt his heart drop—from his chest, to his stomach, to somewhere near his feet—before it seemed to hit the floor entirely.

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

Despite Yuna Hollander’s position as her son’s manager—and, increasingly, his primary advocate in most things NHL—and the simple fact that her only child was, indeed, a boy, she did not consider herself a boy mom.

Or at least, not in the way the term had come to mean in certain circles she’d started to notice online. Not like the mothers who doted on their sons regardless of fault (though, really, her Shane was incredibly talented, and, like her, a perfectionist, so it was difficult to pinpoint where exactly he might have faltered), or catered to their every need (even if Shane was particular—very particular—about certain things, and really, it was just easier to handle them herself, to make sure he was comfortable, especially now, as he stepped into what was shaping up to be a daunting new chapter in his life), or who inserted themselves into their sons’ personal lives or invaded their space without any real regard for boundaries.

That… well.

It wasn’t as though she hadn’t tried to give him notice.

She had called—twice, actually—and when he hadn’t picked up, she had hesitated only briefly before deciding it couldn’t wait. The contracts in her hands were time-sensitive, last-minute brand deals that needed his review and signature by tomorrow, and Shane, meticulous as ever, would insist on having time to read through everything, even if it was only a cursory look. At least a night.

She knew his habits well enough to know he’d still be awake. It was only 10 o'clock at night after all.

As she stepped onto the elevator and pressed the button for the fourteenth floor, she found herself reflecting on the events of the day—the photoshoot, the commercial, Rozanov.

Her son’s supposed rival truly was something. She had only seen him on the ice in person twice before this, and you know what they say—twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern. The pattern she couldn’t help but notice was the way the cocky, almost brash personality the Russian seemed to carry off the ice only ignited once he stepped onto it. Where Shane, when he stepped on, seemed to embody the very nature of the ice itself—controlled, precise, unyielding—Rozanov seemed to heat up the longer he circled it. Polar opposites, truly.

She wondered how it would work, this rivalry the league was so eager to cultivate between them. Not that they needed to do much, she thought, briefly remembering some of the first words Shane had used to describe the boy after first meeting him.

"Kind of a dick"

While she agreed that nurturing an already budding rivalry would do wonders for Shane's—and, well, Rozanov's too—media relevancy, she couldn’t help but worry. Call it a mother’s intuition, perhaps, but in the fourteen years she had spent watching her son on the ice, she couldn’t think of a single person he had ever truly considered a rival. Or even felt that strongly about. Others had certainly felt that way about him—Yuna had heard plenty of that over the years, in the steady churn of group chats filled with mothers promising their boys would win whatever weekly scoring race they had invented next, but Shane had never seemed to share the sentiment.

Maybe it was simply that no one had ever been able to keep up with him the way this Rozanov kid could. Maybe Shane was finally an adult, had achieved the dream, and was finally allowing himself something beyond hockey—even if it was still, very much, hockey-adjacent.

Or maybe everyone, including her, was projecting this narrative onto him that he didn’t actually feel that strongly about.

She wants to ask. She won't. Maybe because she doesn’t want to push. Or maybe because she is simply… relieved. Relieved that Shane might finally have something—someone—that made him feel this strongly, even if it came in the form of a brash, cocky Russian who seemed to take no small amount of joy in pulling Shane’s metaphorical pigtails. So she would let the league spin their rivalry into something marketable, something heated, and hope it resembled the truth well enough. Hope that this intuition, this feeling she had is simply that. A feeling.

She walked down the hall and paid no mind when she pulled out the keycard to her son’s room, swiping it without hesitation, her thoughts already moving ahead to contracts and timelines, signatures needed by tomorrow. The lock clicked, the door opened, and she stepped inside, only to immediately stop short at the scene that greeted her.

Shane was on the bed. Naked. Entirely, undeniably naked, flushed and frozen as he stared back at her in horror—and he was not alone.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Yuna blurted instantly, the folders jerking up in front of her face as she turned sharply away, acting more on instinct rather than thought, trying to give him some semblance of privacy, even if it was too late. But in turning, she only redirected her attention to the second occupant in the room.

Rozanov.

Equally naked. Equally frozen with something tight coiled in the set of his shoulders, like he was braced for movement but had nowhere to go.

All at once she understood—the proximity, the state of undress, the context filling itself in whether she liked it to or not—and felt something in her composure falter just slightly as she lowered the folders a fraction, just enough to confirm that yes, this wasn’t a hallucination.

“Oh.”

It slipped out, soft and stunned, before she could stop it.

Yuna Hollander took a slow, steady breath.

Okay.

Her son was panicking, visibly, completely panicking, and his… rival? Boyfriend? Whatever Rozanov was, was not doing much better, even if he was holding it together with far more composure. This was not the moment for her to react. This was not the moment for anything but damage control. In the supportive mother sense, not the manager one.

“Alright,” she said, voice impressively level given the circumstances. “Both of you, get dressed.”

There was no hesitation on either of their parts. Shane moved immediately, scrambling for anything within reach, while Rozanov followed just as quickly, quieter, more contained, but no less urgent in the way he reached for his clothes, that same coiled tension now finally given some sort of direction.

Yuna turned her back fully this time, giving them what little privacy she could salvage from the situation, one hand gripping the folders a touch tighter than usual as she fixed her gaze firmly on the light switch by the door and listened to the rustle of hurried movement behind her. When she finally turned back, Shane was very clearly not wearing his own shirt, and Rozanov was pulling on a jacket over one of the many gray t-shirts her son bulk ordered. She elected not to comment on the wardrobe mishap, despite the panicked look on Shane’s face making it abundantly clear he was very—very—aware of it.

“I—” Rozanov started, then stopped, recalibrating mid-sentence. When he spoke again, it was more certain, clipped, and direct. “This is exactly what it looks like.”

A beat.

“I will be going now.”

“No,” Yuna said, a little too quickly, before Rozanov could make his exit. It came out steadier than she felt. “Sit.”

There was a pause, just a fraction of a second where he glanced briefly at Shane, and then he did. Rozanov adjusted his jacket and sat back down without argument, his expression gave little away—carefully neutral—though he looked pale. Paler than she thought he should.

Meanwhile, Shane looked like he was seconds away from a passing out.

Right.

This was her fault. Entirely her fault. She had used the keycard. She had walked in. She had created this situation, and now her son was sitting there, flushed and horrified. Whatever this was between the two of them, whatever she had just interrupted, was now laid bare in a way it never should have been.

Yuna took a slow breath, forcing it all down, smoothing her expression into something manageable. She could process all of this later. The gayness, this new reality, the Rozanov of it all. She would process that later. Right now, Shane was panicking. That took priority.

“First,” she said, more carefully this time, “I’m sorry for walking in unannounced.” She shifted the folders in her hands, suddenly very aware of how absurd they felt in her hands in this moment. “I did call,” she added, because it felt important to say, even if it changed nothing. “But that’s not an excuse.”

Shane blinked at her like she’d said something completely incomprehensible. Which, that was… probably fair. Yuna pressed on anyway.

“Are you boys being… safe?”

The words were out before she could second-guess them, landing somewhere between practical and mortifying, and Shane immediately made a strangled noise—“Mom!”— dragging a hand over his face like he might be able to disappear behind it.

Yuna winced again, a quiet concession that maybe that wasn't the call—but she held steady. Yes, she needed to be a mother right now, but perhaps this wasn’t exactly the moment for a safe sex discussion. Shane was visibly unraveling, mortification written plainly across him, while Rozanov, though more contained, looked no less caught off guard by the turn the conversation had taken. And yet, for all their discomfort, neither of them denied it.

Though, really, there wasn’t much to deny.

That feeling from before, the one she’d had before walking into her son’s hotel room, the quiet doubts she had about the growing attention around their rivalry, reared its head again. She glanced between them, more deliberately this time, taking in the proximity, the shared space, the way Rozanov hadn’t actually left when given the opportunity, the way Shane, despite everything, hadn’t told him to. The pieces settled into a picture she hadn’t quite expected—but, in retrospect, perhaps should have.

Rozanov—Ilya, she mentally corrected, though not without some hesitation—was the only person Shane had ever seemed to care this much about. It felt strange, suddenly, to think of him so informally. But she supposed she should get used to it.

And then there was what Ilya had said. This is exactly what it looks like.

Well. If this was exactly what it looked like—

It looked very much like her son had a boyfriend.

“I see,” Yuna said slowly, the part of her that had insisted on being a mother a moment ago already giving way to her crisis management instincts. “Well. I suppose that does raise… other considerations.”

Shane went very still.

“Mom,” he tried again, more urgently now, but Yuna was already thinking ahead, to everything that would need to shift, to the adjustments she would have to make, to the space she would need to carve out in the league for her son and his… boyfriend. “The league has been very invested in this rivalry,” she continued, almost thoughtfully, working through the implications in real time. “But if you boys are… something more, then we need to get ahead of it before that narrative settles in too deeply. You shouldn’t have to pretend to hate each other just to fit it.”

“We're not—it's just—” Shane started at once.

“Well,” Rozanov cut in at the same time, his voice lower, controlled but not entirely steady beneath it.

They both stopped and looked at each other. Neither of them seemed particularly eager to finish that sentence.

Yuna looked between them, “Just,” she prompted, tilting her head slightly. “What?”

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

Shane wanted to die.

He wanted to wake up and not be having this conversation—this nightmare of a conversation that kept somehow getting worse. Because of course it did. His mom had walked in on him with the single most inappropriate hookup he could have possibly chosen, he was wearing the wrong shirt, his mom had talking about safe sex, Rozanov was just sitting there, witnessing it all, and worst of all, somehow, somewhere along the way, his mom had come to the conclusion that Ily—ROZANOV—was his boyfriend.

Maybe, in a different timeline, Shane was older. Maybe Twenty-five, and maybe this wasn't the literal first time him and Rozanov hooked up.

In that version, he could sit down with his parents, endure the mortification, and explain it. No, this wasn’t… that. No, he hadn’t secretly been in love with Rozanov this whole time. It was just—sex. Casual. A thing that happened. Embarrassing, yes, but manageable. Something he could admit to, even if it felt like pulling his own teeth out to do it. For some reason, Rozanov is still sitting next to him in this alternate version, and Shane chooses not to examine that too closely, but the whole thing could be filed away as a humiliating but ultimately survivable experience.

That was not this timeline.

Right now, Shane was eighteen.

And there was absolutely no version of him—current, past, or future—that could look his mother in the eye right now and say, 'Hey mom, sorry, you misunderstand, this was just a casual gay sex hookup with a guy I barely know who is supposed to be my generational rival, please still trust me to go be a functional adult in the NHL, I promise I can still be the role model you've been preparing me to be, and I'm not thinking of ways to repeat this!'

He would rather die.

Actually die.

So instead of fixing it, instead of saying the one obvious thing that would clear all of this up, he opens his mouth and makes it infinitely worse.

“I mean—” he started, immediately regretting it, because now his mom and Rozanov were looking directly at him, and his brain was scrambling to catch up with what he’d already set in motion. “It’s not like— I’ve always—” Great. Fantastic. That was going well.

He could feel himself backing into a corner even as he tried to stop. At no point in this conversation could Shane have told you what he was going to say next. “I’ve always admired his—his game,” he said quickly, like that could help. It didn't help. “And, I mean, there was—there was kind of a spark? Back at prospect cup. And then last year, with the draft, we met afterwards in the—not like this! it was just—”

Fuck this was making it so much worse actually. He could see it happening in real time—his mother’s expression softening in understanding… or rather, misunderstanding. And beside him, he could feel Rozanov was growing increasingly incredulous as Shane blundered through whatever explanation he was trying to cobble together—one that, critically, avoided any mention of hookup, fuck buddy, or boyfriend.

(Incredulous, if Ilya knew that word in English, is not the word he would use to describe the look on his face. Stunned, maybe. Or something closer to hopeful.)

God, Rozanov had to think he was an idiot. Had to be wondering how this had spiraled so completely out of control—how a one-time thing, no strings, no expectations hookup had somehow turned into this. Into a follow-up conversation with Shane’s mother about safe sex and boyfriends.

It was mortifying, sitting here while Rozanov just… watched him dig their hole deeper and deeper.

So Shane missed it, the moment his mom’s attention shifted away from him and towards Rozanov instead, missed whatever it was she thought she saw in his expression. But he didn’t miss after, when her expression softened, turning into something gentler, something almost careful, and Rozanov—who had been so still this entire conversation, aside from that initial attempt to leave—let out a quiet breath, almost a huff, and turned his face away from both of them.

“Ilya,” his mom said softly. Hearing Rozanov’s first name coming out of her mouth was… deeply unsettling. “I imagine this is a lot,” she continued, her tone gentler now, even more so somehow “Given everything. Being here, in a different country, and caught with—" His mother eyes flicked towards him, "a boy… I can’t imagine how frightening that must feel for you.”

Shane stared at her, then at Rozanov, who was now coiled with an almost agitated tension now, but he didn't move, didn't stand to pace like Shane half-expected him to.

“Blyat',” Rozanov bit out under his breath., his voice low as he dropped his gaze. One hand lifted, unsteady, curling briefly over the shell of his ear before dragging through his already mussed curls.

“You don’t need to worry,” his mom added, still focused entirely on Rozanov. “You’re safe here. We’ll make sure of that.”

Shane looked between them again, increasingly lost.

… What?

Shane… doesn't really know what his mom was talking about. It sounded serious—somehow more serious than his own, seemingly unending mortification—but he couldn’t quite follow where the conversation had gone, or how it had gotten there.

But what he did understand was this: for the first time since this whole situation had started, Rozanov didn’t look completely, infuriatingly in control. And that, selfishly, more than anything his mom had said, made something in Shane's chest loosen just a bit.

He took a breath.

Because if he could empathize with Rozanov at all tonight, even if he didn’t fully understand whatever conversation his mom and Rozanov were suddenly having right in front of him, he could understand that. That tight, isolating feeling of dread of everything slipping just slightly out of your control.

And, somehow, knowing he wasn’t the only one caught in it made it easier to breathe.

“So,” his mom said, and just like that, the moment snapped. Her tone had shifted again—firmer now, focused in a way Shane recognized meant his mom was more his manager now. “Tell me what you want. Do you boys actually want this rivalry?” she continued, her gaze moving between them, steady and expectant. “Because if you don’t, then we will fix it. I will fix it. The league can push whatever narrative they like, but they don’t get to just decide this for you. You boys have a choice. I’m not letting anyone take that from you.” There was something almost immovable in the way she said it, something that made it very clear this was not a superfluous offer, that she really would move whatever mountains she needed to make whatever they wanted happen.

“Plus, there’s plenty of footage from today,” she added, “You weren’t subtle. We can pivot, easily, to a… friendly version. Sell you boys a friends, not rivals.”

Shane felt like his eyes were about to bug out of his head. Against all better judgment, he looked at Rozanov, hoping—irrationally—that somehow he’d figured out how to navigate this better than Shane had.

For a second, something passed between them. Not understanding, agreement, or anything that clear, but enough to make Shane’s stomach drop all over again. Because Rozanov was looking at him expectantly, waiting for Shane to answer, like this was, for some reason, Shane’s call to make. Which was absolutely not something Shane remembered signing up for.

“We—” Shane started, and immediately stalled out. We? Since when was this a we? They a we? When had that happened? Was it when he’d given Rozanov his room number? Before that? At the draft? Had there been a moment where this had shifted from him and Rozanov into… we?

“It’s not that, we—” he tried again, already losing the thread halfway through, because—fuck—we?

Beside him, Rozanov shifted, just slightly. “We do not—” he began, his accented voice low and careful as he searched for the right words. He stopped, jaw tightening for a brief second, and when he tried again, it came out smoother, more controlled. “It is… complicated.”

Shane closed his eyes for half a second. Complicated. That was not helpful. It still didn’t tell him what he was supposed to say, give him any clear insight on what Rozanov was thinking, and it certainly didn’t answer his mom’s question.

“We don’t hate each other,” Shane said finally, because that at least felt safe. Because he didn’t. That wasn’t the word he would use to describe how he felt about Ilya Rozanov. He wasn’t entirely sure what the right word was, but it definitely wasn’t hate.

“No,” Rozanov agreed, just as quick. Good. Great. Fantastic.

His mom hummed softly, something warm and almost fond settling into her expression as she looked between them. “Alright,” she said, gentle but decisive. “I understand.”

Shane didn't think she did. How could she, when he barely had a clue himself?

“Then we won’t push the rivalry,” she said continued, “I’ll speak with the CCM creative team first thing in the morning. We can rework the campaign, shift the commercial into something more collaborative, more…” she gestured vaguely between them, “…authentic—But not exactly, obviously!" She added hastily with a worried glance towards Rozanov. "Thankfully the team took a lot of outtakes today, and it seemed you boys were really having fun by the end, so it really shouldn't be too difficult."

She kept going for another second, outlining a plan with an already half-outlined timeline, messaging, how quickly they could pivot, who she would need to talk to, who she would need to email. “Oh—Ilya, do you have an agent yet?” Before she seeming to remember all at once, taking in their expressions, or at least Shane’s increasingly overwhelmed one, what time it was, and, more importantly, what exactly she had interrupted.

Yuna paused.

“—but that can wait,” she amended, the shift again from manager to mom almost abrupt. “We can talk about the details in the morning. Or—I can handle it, if that’s what you’d prefer. Neither of you need to worry about any of it tonight.”

There was a brief, almost awkward silence as she glanced between them again. Shane didn't know what to say, and it seemed Rozanov didn't either.

“I should let you both get some rest,” she said, pushing to her feet, her gaze dropping at last to the manila folder still in her hands—the original reason she had come here at all. “Shane, if you have a moment—tonight, or tomorrow morning probably—” she faltered slightly, as if realizing how ridiculous that sounded given the circumstances, “—these were what I meant to drop off. If you could take a look.” She hesitated, just briefly. "Goodnight,” she added, softer now. “And I am—really—very sorry for tonight.”

She hesitated just a moment longer, then, as if the thought had only just occurred to her, looked back to Rozanov.

“Ilya, if you don’t have plans over the summer before training camp, you should come visit us in Canada. It would be nice to get to know you in a little more… comfortable circumstances.”

“Mom!” Shane said, immediately, mortified for the millionth time tonight.

Yuna winced faintly. “Right. Yes. Sorry—again.”

Beside him, Rozanov cleared his throat, still not quite meeting either of their eyes, but looser in his posture than he had been since Shane’s mom had walked in on them. “Uh… maybe,” he said carefully. “I will check schedule.”

“Of course,” Yuna said, as if this was all a perfectly reasonable and not at all a completely surreal exchange to have just had. “Goodnight, boys."

Finally, she stepped out into the hallway, and the door clicked shut behind her. And Shane was, again, finally alone with Rozanov—and his temporarily muted, now roaring panic.

For a second, he just sat there, like if he didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge it, maybe the last twenty minutes would… rewind. Undo themselves. Like Shane would wake up, and this would all have been a crazy, stress induced dream. But the room didn’t reset, Shane didn't wake up, and Rozanov was still there, still sitting beside him, and the weight of it all came crashing back in at once.

It was so, so loud.

Not the room, not anything external—just everything else. Every thought, every second of the conversation replaying itself in excruciating, mortifying detail, stacking on top of each other until he couldn’t quite separate one from the next. His chest felt tight again, and subconsciously, he felt his head fall forward and settle between his knees as he desperately tried to calm the racing of his heart and head.

It couldn’t have been more than a moment—or maybe it had been longer. Shane couldn’t tell. But the next thing he knew, Rozanov was closer. Not by much, but enough to be within arm’s reach now. One of his hands hovered uncertainly at the base of Shane’s neck, like he wasn’t entirely sure if he was allowed to touch him.

“Hey,” Rozanov said, quieter than Shane had ever heard him, the word almost careful. “Hey.” The hand didn’t quite settle, but it didn’t pull away either.

“You are—” Rozanov started, then stopped, the words catching somewhere in his throat. “You are okay,” he tried again, "Yes?”

Shane didn’t respond. Not sure how to respond to that. Okay? That was definitely not the word he would use to describe how he was feeling right now. He didn’t pull away, though, somewhat shocked to realize he didn't want to.

If Rozanov was annoyed or offended at Shane's lack of response, he didn't voice it. Rather, there was a brief pause, and then, cautiously, Shane felt Rozanov’s hand finally committing to settling lightly at the base of his neck. Firm, but not restraining. It was only slightly embarrassing to realize it was working.

“Breathe,” Rozanov said, softer now. “Slow. Like—” he hesitated, shifting a little closer, like proximity alone might help. “In. Out.”

The rhythm was off, a little uneven, Rozanov clearly wasn’t used to saying this out loud or manually regulating someone else's breathing, but he stayed there anyway, his hand warm against the back of Shane’s neck. Shane forced himself to take a breath and respond. This whole night had been mortifying enough, he didn’t need to add whatever this was on top of it. Not in front of Rozanov.

"I'm okay." Shane said weakly, "I'm just… freaking out. Don’t worry about me."

Rozanov didn't pull back, if anything, his hand tightened on the back of Shane's neck. “We are good here, yes?” he said, tentative. Then, after a brief pause, like he was working up to something, he added, more uncertain, “Your… boyfriend is here?”

Shane blinked. “My boyfriend?” he repeated, incredulous, lifting his head just enough to look at him, for a second convinced he’d misheard. It was one thing for his mom to misinterpret what was going on—but Rozanov? Was this… not just a hookup? Was… was he the one misunderstanding something here?

At Shane's confusion, Rozanov hesitated, and suddenly looked equally uncertain. Almost embarrassed. “Uh,” he said, glancing away for a second. “I think so. Maybe?” A beat. “Unless you are liar?”

Shane stared at him for a second, still trying to reconcile this version of Rozanov with the one that had been in his head all night, or even, this whole time. The one who would have laughed this off, or laughed at him, brushed it aside, made it clear that whatever his mom had walked in on didn’t mean anything. Instead, Rozanov—no, Ilya—was just… there, watching him, uncertain in every way Shane also felt.

“You—” Shane started, the word catching as his brain tried to catch up with his mouth. “I wasn’t—lying,” he said quickly. Really, Shane hadn't lied at all to his Mom earlier. Maybe he hadn't meant to imply the whole… boyfriends of it all. But he hadn't lied. “I just thought that you—” he stopped again, because what, exactly? That he thought Ilya thought this was just a hookup? Thought that they both knew that? Thought that this didn’t mean anything beyond tonight?

Saying it out loud suddenly felt… wrong. Not even awkward anymore, but wrong. It didn’t match the way Ilya was looking at him now, or the way this had apparently been interpreted. And, worse, it didn’t even make that much sense the more Shane thought about it.

Because what had he expected, exactly? That they’d just… do this, once, and then go back to being rivals? Pretend it hadn’t happened? See each other on the ice, in interviews, everywhere, with this sitting unspoken between them?

That actually didn't make any sense when Shane stopped to think about it.

And suddenly, uncomfortably, it occurred to him that maybe this night hadn’t ever been as casual as he thought it was. Maybe Ilya hadn’t come into this expecting it to be nothing. That maybe the flirting—because, really, looking back on today, and even every other time they had crossed paths in the last two years, there had been flirting, hadn’t there?—hadn’t just been in Shane’s head, or an elaborate psyop designed to throw Shane off before their rookie debut.

But that meant—Shane cut himself off, swallowing hard before the thought could fully form. Fuck. He couldn’t admit what he previously thought now. He couldn’t look at Ilya, who suddenly looked very, very eighteen, stripped of all the sharp-edged confidence Shane associated with him, and say, oh, sorry, I didn’t realize that you were being serious and just thought this was a quick hookup and we’d never talk about it again. Especially not when Shane himself wasn’t even entirely sure that was what he wanted anymore.

He tried again, slower this time, more careful, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what he was trying to say anymore. “I thought we were just—” he gestured vaguely between them, the motion small, almost helpless. "But… if you…"

Ilya’s expression shifted, something softer taking its place, with an edge of something almost fond threading through it. “You think too much,” he said, a small, unfamiliar boyish grin tugging at his mouth. “It’s okay. I understand.”

Shane let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, something in his shoulders loosening almost immediately. “Yeah,” he said, a little too quickly, “Yeah, okay. I just—” he huffed out a short, awkward laugh, dragging a hand over his face. “I'm sorry. I thought this was going to be, you know. A lot less… complicated.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed easily, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. “This was…” he said gesturing back toward the door where his Mom had walked in from, “not expected.”

Shane let out a quiet snort at that, some of the tension bleeding out of him in uneven pieces as he dragged a hand over his face. “No, yeah. Definitely not expected.”

There was a brief pause before Ilya spoke again, his hand still resting at the back of Shane’s neck, thumb shifting almost absently, soothingly. “Your mother…” he said, a little more carefully now. “She is nice, though. Looks like she took it well?”

Shane flushed, the heat creeping up his neck, lingering nerves still not entirely gone. He huffed out a small breath, glancing down. “Yeah… I mean, she never gave me any reason to think she wouldn’t. But. I—”

“Did not think she would walk in on you with boy?” Ilya offered, quieter this time.

Shane let out a short, almost disbelieving laugh. “No. Definitely not.” He hesitated, then glanced back up at him, something more tentative slipping in. “I don’t think, before today, I ever really thought about…” He trailed off, flushing. He cleared his throat, looking away. "Do you think your parents will take it well when—if—you tell them? Would they… help?”

Something in Ilya’s expression immediately closed off and his gaze dropped to his lap. He swallowed, jaw tightening briefly before he looked away, shaking his head once. “Uh… no,” he said, his voice more guarded now. “Not like your mother, I do not think.” He paused, like he might leave it there, but he then added “My father is a cop. My brother is… does not matter."

"Oh." Shane instinctively wanted to push and ask a follow up, but he got the feeling that tonight wasn’t the time for it. Maybe another night—Jesus, there was going to be another night, possibly soon, wasn’t there—he could ask more.

“And my—” Ilya started, then stopped, cutting himself off more sharply this time. Shane waited, glancing up at him. Instead of continuing, Ilya said “My flight is early tomorrow.” The words quieter, a substitute for whatever else he was going to say. There was a faint note of apology in it that Shane didn’t think he was imagining.

“It’s late,” Shane said after a second, giving Ilya the out it was. “We should probably get some sleep.”

Ilya nodded once, already sitting up and finally letting his hand slip from the back of Shane’s neck as he stood. The absence of it felt immediate. Shane watched him for a second, something strange and unfamiliar settling in his chest as Ilya straightened out his jacket. Then,

“Give me your phone.”

Shane blinked. “My phone?”

“Yes,” Ilya said, rolling his eyes, “You have phone. Give.”

Shane huffed out a quiet, disbelieving laugh as he reached over, grabbing it from the nightstand and handing it over. “Why?”

Ilya took it from him without hesitation, already unlocking the screen. “Why?” he repeated, one eyebrow raised, "It is strange my boyfriend does not have my phone number.”

“Oh.” Shane watched as Ilya typed something in, his fingers quick and sure, before handing the phone back.

“Lily?” Shane read, looking up at him. Ilya’s mouth curved, just slightly.

Shane huffed again, shaking his head. “What am I going to be under? Shannon?” he asked, sending a quick text to Ilya in lieu of inputting his number into his phone.

“Jane,” Ilya corrected, the smirk a little more obvious now as he responded to Shane’s text, confirming their number exchange.

There wasn't anything left for Ilya to gather, all that remained was—

“Goodnight,” Ilya said.

“Yeah, goodnight,” Shane echoed, a little more hesitant.

Ilya hesitated just a fraction longer, then added, quieter, “I will check my schedule, if offer was—”

Shane blinked, then nodded quickly, a little too quick. “Yeah—yeah, of course. Whenever works best. I can send you any details you need, we can work it out later. I’ll text you.”

Ilya’s mouth curved, small and brief, before leaning down and pressing a brief, chaste kiss to Shane’s lips. “Bye.” He said softly.

“Yeah—bye,” Shane echoed, a beat too late. The Ilya was turning and stepping out into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind him, and just like that, Shane was alone.

He sat there for a second, staring at the door like Ilya might knock if he waited long enough. “…what the fuck was that,” he muttered to the empty room, dragging a hand through his hair as everything from the past hour started to rush back in all at once—his mom, the conversation, the boyfriend thing—before he stilled, glancing down with a sudden realization.

He was still wearing Ilya’s shirt.

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

The hallway was quiet when the door shut behind him.

Ilya stood there for a moment, staring at nothing, his hand loose at his side and his mouth still warm from Hollander’s—Shane’s. Some small, insane part of him considered turning around. Knocking once. Asking, with whatever remained of his dignity, whether perhaps there was room in Shane’s bed for him to stay.

Not for sex. They had made enough of a mess with that already. He just wanted to get back into bed and lie there beside Shane for a few hours, which was surely the sort of thing boyfriends did.

God, boyfriends.

Apparently, he had one of those now.

Ilya exhaled through his nose and started down the hall before he could embarrass himself further.

He would like to go on the record and clarify that he had, in fact, intended for tonight to be just a hookup with Shane. He was interesting. He had made Ilya curious. Maybe not the innocent kind, not the soft, hopeful curiosity of a young lover with a potential amour. Rather, something sharper. More… like the morbid curiosity of a drug addict confronted with a new vice. An ill-advised analogy, perhaps, considering the Bears were already forcing him to quit and he was suddenly without one of his usual coping mechanisms—fuck, he wanted a cigarette—but a fitting one nonetheless.

Curiosity was nothing. Curious was a word a man could use without admitting that, in the gym after the draft, Shane Hollander had gotten under his skin with one look and stayed there. That even that cold afternoon in Saskatchewan, when Shane had been stiff and polite and stubbornly decent in the way nice Canadian boys apparently were trained to be from birth, Ilya had noticed too much about him. His hands. His freckles. His earnestness

Ilya had thought it was only him.

Or not only him, because Shane’s interest hadn’t been subtle in the slightest. Not tonight, nor in the gym after the draft. But, perhaps, him more than Shane. Shane was too good for this. Not morally, because Ilya was not so dramatic as to consider his own cock a sin, thank you, but Shane seemed like the sort of boy who would find himself wanting and then apologize for having wanted at all. Polite. Repressed. Good. A little tragic about it. Very beautiful.

Exactly Ilya’s type, apparently, because God was cruel and had a sense of humor.

So it was supposed to have just been a hookup. One romp in the sheets to get it out of his system before their careers really took off and he could move on. A stupid plan, yes, but most of Ilya’s better ideas had an element of stupidity in them. He had taken worse risks for less in Russia, chasing the heat of a mouth in an alley or a hand in a bathroom stall, hungry for something and too proud to admit he was starving.

This, in comparison, should have been a rather tame night.

He had realized his miscalculation the second Shane sank to his knees and took Ilya into his mouth. No plan survived first contact with the enemy—Ilya was fairly sure he had read that somewhere—and by enemy, in this case, he meant pretty Canadians. Shane’s mother walking in had merely been the final insult in a night already defined by increasingly poor decisions.

Ilya hadn't frozen like that in a long time. Not in a fight, not on the ice, not even in the more calculated risks he took in his life off of it. But the sound of the keycard, the door opening, and Shane’s mother stepping into the room while they were still naked—his body had locked before his mind could catch up, something old and instinctive snapping tight in his chest. For a split second, it had felt like a noose tightening around his throat. Everything he had worked for, everything he had clawed his way out of, his contract, his country, his father’s expectations, the last thin thread of the Rozanov name that hadn't already been pawned, snorted, or beaten into something ugly—all of it suddenly at the mercy of a woman he had never formally met before.

Ilya had expected yelling. Disgust, at least. If not towards the pair of them, then at least towards Ilya. Maybe her maternal love would spare her son the worst of it, but Ilya was owed no such sympathy. To her, he was not only the man she had just found in her son’s bed; he was Shane’s rival, his biggest competitor, the roadblock standing between him and everything he had been promised. Ilya had already denied him gold and rank twice before. Even if the whole gay sex of it all was, somehow, all well and good, then objectively—really—was it not in the best interest of Shane’s career for Yuna Hollander to nip Ilya’s in the bud. Yuna Hollander had held Ilya’s throat at the exact moment he had been stupid enough to bare it.

But Yuna Hollander had looked at him, and then at Shane, and whatever she had seen hadn't made her cruel. She didn't looked at Ilya like a threat or opportunity. She looked at him like he was young—like he was someone’s son, too.

Ilya didn't think about his mother.

He did not.

His mother had been dead long enough that he had learned not to reach for her in moments like this, because grief was a stupid animal and would come when called. But Yuna’s voice had been gentle, and she had stood there with her son red-faced and frantic and Ilya wearing every bad decision he had ever made on his face, and somehow she had made room for him in her solution.

He reached the elevator and pressed the button, then tucked both hands into his pockets so they would stop wanting things. A cigarette. A drink. The door behind him. Shane’s mouth. Shane’s ridiculously earnest face in his hands. Yuna Hollander’s kindness.

The Bears’ newest investment was doing very well, all things considered. He hadn't fled, begged, or made a scene in the hallway of a luxury hotel because a pretty boy had said pretty things after sex and his mother was kind. A man had to take his victories where he found them.

The elevator doors opened. Ilya stepped inside and caught his reflection in the polished metal: hair mussed, mouth still a little swollen, the wrong shirt wrinkled beneath his jacket.

Shane’s shirt.

All of Ilya’s remaining dignity hung in plausible deniability. They had dressed in a panic while Shane’s mother was still in the room, which was the sort of experience that would make any man grab the nearest piece of fabric he could find. So when Shane pulled on Ilya’s shirt by mistake, Ilya could reasonably claim he hadn't noticed. He could even claim, if pressed, that seeing Shane wrapped in something that belonged to him hadn't sent a hot, possessive ache through him so sharp he had to say nothing at all.

By the time he reached his room, his hands were steady again. Mostly. He slid the keycard through the lock, waited for the green light, and stepped inside. The door shut behind him with a soft click, leaving him alone in the dark with Shane’s shirt against his skin and the terrible, sneaking suspicion that he had been given exactly what he wanted.

Later, he would think about Russia. About his father. About the million ways this could still ruin him if handled badly. He would even consider the possibility that he had misunderstood Shane and his confession merely been born from panic and embarrassment and whatever strange moral architecture held Shane Hollander upright.

But that was a problem for later Ilya, who would presumably be wiser, better rested, and no longer wearing another man’s shirt.

Tonight, Shane Hollander looked relieved when Ilya failed to correct him.

So no. Ilya would not be clarifying a fucking thing. If Shane Hollander wanted to hand him this impossible, fragile, stupid thing, then Ilya would take it. He hadn't known he wanted it until it was already in his hands, and now that it was, he had no intention of giving it back.

His phone buzzed once in his pocket.

Ilya glanced down at the screen, at the contact he had just saved.

Jane.

A fake name for a real thing. Or possibly a fake thing made real by a comedy of errors.

Ilya stared at it for a long moment. Then, despite himself, he smiled. Locking the phone and shoving it back into his pocket, and he muttered, “Fuck me.”

There was, embarrassingly, something almost delighted in it.

Chapter 2: Canada

Chapter Summary

"Ilya did end up coming to Canada before training camp in September, because Yuna had invited him and because Shane, after a month of pretending he wasn't going to bring it up again, finally sent:

Jane: My mom said the offer still stands, by the way. If you wanted to. No pressure either way."

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

It should be acknowledged that this was a terrible foundation for a relationship.

Built on multiple compounding assumptions, panic, ego, and a frankly irresponsible lack of follow-up, the whole thing ought to have collapsed under even the gentlest scrutiny. As it happened, scrutiny never really entered the room.

Not Yuna Hollander, who believed she understood exactly what she had walked in on and meant to be nothing but supportive. Not Shane Hollander, who had neither the presence of mind nor the particular desire to start correcting her. Not Ilya Rozanov, who was hardly inclined to interrogate a development that had so neatly handed over something suddenly, fiercely wanted.

And so, through the combined power of misunderstanding, miscommunication, and an almost reverent faith in personal interpretation, the situation is allowed to stand.

From there, the next five years bear more than a passing resemblance to the version already known. The same careers. The same travel. The same pressure. The same ugly scheduling. The same long stretches apart with brief bursts of proximity. The same two idiots, more or less, making more or less the same mistakes.

But that is getting ahead of things.

For now, it is still only the morning after. The first morning, in fact. The first point at which this entire arrangement might have come apart.

It doesn't, as we will soon see.

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

The morning after, Shane woke up with Ilya’s shirt still on and a text from a contact named Lily that said:

Lily: have to leave for airport soon. text me when awake.

Shane stared at it for long enough that the screen went dark.

He had been hoping when he woke up that the morning would make things make sense. But morning had done nothing but put sunlight on the evidence, the rumpled bed, the shirt that was not his, and the memory of his mother’s face as she looked between them. Ilya not denying it.

What if Ilya had woken up and regretted it?

Had Ilya gone to sleep, woken up, and come to his senses somewhere over continental breakfast? Had the whole thing made sense in the dark and then immediately stopped making sense once the sun came up? Shane didn't let himself sit too long with the possibility, mostly because the possibility made something in his stomach go unpleasantly tight.

Because fine. Fine. Maybe Shane had only realized he wanted a boyfriend less than twelve hours ago, and maybe that boyfriend was currently preparing to get on a plane back to Russia, which was not ideal from a relationship standpoint. Jessica Hadley, for all her faults, had at least lived six blocks away. Russia seemed less workable. Russia, in fact, seemed extremely far away.

But the thought of Ilya deciding last night had been a mistake felt worse than the logistical nightmare of transcontinental homosexual affair, which was informative, if nothing else.

Eventually, because the text was not going to answer itself, Shane typed:

have to leave for airport soon. text me when awake.
Jane: I’m awake. Have you left yet?

Immediately, three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then:

Lily: unfortunately, yes. agent booked awful flight

Shane felt a pang of… something. Disappointment, maybe, that Ilya was already gone. They hadn’t discussed when their flights were scheduled, which, in retrospect, was probably something Shane should have asked before Ilya walked out of his hotel room the night before.

But then again, maybe it was better this way. Better than waking up to awkward small talk. Better than Ilya saying last night was fun in that particular tone that meant please never mention this again. Honestly, with the way his head was spinning, Shane probably would have managed to talk himself into ripping the Band-Aid off first if it hadn't been for Ilya’s next text.

Lily: shame. could have had fun morning before I left 👅
Jane: Lily!
Lily: ah, embarrassed? my girl was not so shy last night.

Shane stared at that for several seconds, embarrassment and want catching together somewhere in his throat.

my girl

He wasn't a girl. Obviously. Shane knew that. Ilya definitely knew that. It was just the fake gender for a fake name. Shane understood the logic—he wasn't out either. He didn't want to be out.

But his mom.

Shane had assumed she disliked Ilya as much as Shane was supposed to. And then last night, after catching them in bed together, she'd been—gentle. Careful. She'd made sure Ilya knew he was safe here.

Shane didn't know why that would necessarily change. He knew their sport was homophobic. He'd grown up in locker rooms, heard the jokes. But he'd never actually stopped to think about it—never looked around and realized there was no one. Not in the NHL, not in the minors, not anywhere. All there were was articles about the culture of the sport and why no one could be out. About international players and how uncomfortable it would be for them. About why the league couldn't risk that kind of distraction.

Shane didn't agree with it. But that's what the articles said.

And then one mentioned Russia specifically.

Shane read about Ilya's country, about laws and attitudes and what it meant to be gay somewhere that didn't just ignore it—somewhere that actively… Shane read until the phone felt too heavy in his hand, until the panic he had been nursing all morning—whether Ilya regretted him, whether they were going to have to break up before they had even properly started—began to feel embarrassingly narrow.

23 minutes later, unable to keep it to himself, Shane texted:

Jane: Will you be safe in Russia with all of… this?
Lily: yes jane. am not stupid.
Jane: I didn’t say you were stupid.
Lily: you think
Jane: I don't!
Lily: you worry like mother.

Shane flushed, alone in his hotel room.

Jane: Sorry.
Lily: do not be sorry. is cute.

Shane put his phone face down on the bed, stood up, paced once around the room, sat back down, picked the phone up again, and read the message six more times.

That morning, more or less, set the tone for the next couple years.

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

Ilya did end up coming to Canada before training camp in September, because Yuna had invited him and because Shane, after a month of pretending he wasn't going to bring it up again, finally sent:

Jane: My mom said the offer still stands, by the way. If you wanted to.; No pressure either way.
Lily: wow. really backing me into corner here, jane.

The thing was, somewhere in the month since the CCM shoot, texting Ilya had become alarmingly normal. Not daily, exactly, but close enough that Shane noticed when a day passed without it. Sometimes it was easy to forget there was an ocean between them; then Ilya would text in the dead of night, or disappear for hours on end, and the distance would reassert itself all at once. Some of the texts were stupid. Most of them were, actually. Complaints about workouts. Complaints about tourists. Pictures of the streets of Moscow, or demands to know what Shane was doing over his very “boring” summer. Ilya remained, at all times, a complete asshole. Just, as Shane gradually discovered, a very funny one.

One that he really wanted to see before September.

Lily: maybe one week.

Ilya ended up coming for a week and a half.

Shane had a conditioning appointment that morning, which was definintly the only reason he was not at the airport with his mom to pick Ilya up. It was probably for the best. Less pressure. Less chance of humiliating himself in public before Ilya had even made it through customs.

And the appointment had helped, a little. It had distracted him from the nerves building in his chest. But the distraction only lasted as long as the drive home. Before he know it, he was back at the house, knowing that his mom and Ilya Rozanov were in a car together right now on their way there.

Shane was acutely aware of everything around him. The pictures on the walls. The knickknacks and keepsakes scattered through the house, each one stamped with some part of his childhood. He had already cleaned his room the night before—twice—so there was nothing left to fix, straighten, or chore he could invent to keep himself busy.

So pacing would have to do.

His dad was in the living room with the paper. Shane made it from the window to the kitchen and back twice before his dad looked up.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, much too quickly.

His dad considered him for a moment, “You know, the first time I invited your mom back to my apartment, I was near sick with nerves.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” his dad said. “What your feeling right now is normal. Having someone you’re seeing in your space for the first time can be nerve wracking." Shane made a face at that, and his dad smiled. “Everything will be fine. You boys will sort it out. Your mom and Ilya should be here soon, right?”

Shane’s stomach did something stupid. “Yeah. Mom texted. They’re on their way.”

"Well." His dad gave a patient smile, "Time for one more lap about the kitchen then, yes."

Shane didn't quite feel better, but he appreciated the attempt anyways. Shane let out a tight, reluctant laugh. “Thanks, Dad.”

Briefly, Shane thought of being sixteen and newly dating Jessica, sitting through his dad’s earnest, slightly awkward lecture on how to treat a girl right. Be respectful. Be considerate. Don't be a jackass. Part of Shane had half-feared that after June and the CCM shoot, even if his dad accepted who he was dating now, talks like that would simply stop. As if that kind of advice belonged to a version of Shane that no longer existed

It was comforting to know that wasn't the case for about five seconds until Shane realized that all of his mental reference points for how to be somebody’s boyfriend had, in fact, come from those talks. Shane had learned all the scripts. Hold the door. Compliment her hair or her outfit. Don't chirp her like she is one of the guys.

But, fuck, Ilya was one of the guys.

So was he supposed to stop chirping him? Was that what changed? Because if the script said don't chirp her like she's one of the guys, then did don't chirp him follow—or did he's one of the guys cancel it out entirely? And if it cancelled out, what was actually different now, what was the thing Shane was supposed to do instead, because there had to be something, some adjustment, some way of being—

He just didn't want to get it wrong.

That was the part underneath all of it, the part Shane hadn't let himself look at directly. He actually liked Ilya. After two months, Shane liked to think he knew Ilya a little better now. Better than he had known Rozanov, anyway. But texting was not the same as talking, and what if Ilya got here and Shane realized he didn't know actually know how to be a boyfriend to Ilya instead of a rival to Rozanov. Every other time Shane had been bad at something, he'd had time to prepare, to practice until he stopped being bad at it. He didn't get that here. Ilya was almost—

He heard his mom's car turn into the driveway.

Shane felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest. But despite the nerves, or maybe because of them, Shane was already in the front hall when the door opened.

His mom came in first. Ilya followed with a duffel over one shoulder and a suitcase in his hand. His curls were lying flat and he looked absolutely exhausted, not that Shane couldn't blame him for that. What was unfair was that—even worn down from travel—he was still as attractive as ever.

“Hey,” Shane said, and for one horrible second, every possible thing he could have said emptied out of his head at once. Slightly panicked, he added, “How was your flight?”

Ilya’s mouth twitched. “It was plane. It flew.”

Shane flushed and, before he could stop himself, said, “You’re such an asshole.”

“Shane!” his mother admonished, even as Ilya grinned.

Fuck. Boyfriends were supposed to be nice to each other, weren’t they? Or at least in front of their mothers. Ilya had been in the house for less than a minute and Shane was already calling him an asshole.

"Why don’t you take Ilya's bags upstairs and show him his room?” His mom said.

“Right. Yeah.”

He stepped forward and reached for the larger suitcase.

“I can carry my own bag,” Ilya said at once.

“You just got off a long flight,” Shane said, already hauling it toward the stairs. “Your back’s probably killing you.”

“My back is fine.”

“Okay. Your hips, then.”

“My hips are also fine,” Ilya informed him, following close behind. “Am not eighty.”

Usually, Shane would have quipped back, but the boyfriend thing was sitting in his brain now like a live wire, and all Shane could think was that carrying Ilya’s bag seemed like the sort of thing he was probably supposed to do as his boyfriend. Like he was also probably supposed to be nicer.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said instead. “I’ve got it.”

Behind him, Ilya went quiet. Then, “...okay.”

The guest room was across from his. Shane set the suitcase down by the end of the bed and then turned and said, “This is your room. Bathroom’s down the hall. If you need anything, let me know.”

Ilya came in behind him with his duffle. “Bigger than most hotels,” Ilya said, his voice thick with travel fatigue. “No roommate, though?”

“Yeah, no, we’ve got plenty of space.” Shane rubbed the back of his neck. “There are fresh sheets and extra pillows in the closet. My room’s just across the hall, and my parents are right next door.”

Ilya’s gaze flicked to the wall. Then to Shane.

“Right next door?” he repeated, eyebrow raised

Shane’s face went hot. “Yeah.”

“Yes, very important you tell me this.”

For one second, there it was. Easy. Familiar. The exact opening Shane knew how to take. He could have rolled his eyes. He could have told Ilya to shut up. He could have immediately scolded him, telling him they would not under any circumstances being doing… that… in his parent's house. But he had already started on the wrong foot earlier hadn't he?

So—instead—he said, “Don't worry, they won’t bother you.”

The answer landed with a dull thud. Ilya’s grin held—but the spark behind it dimmed, confusion edging in. Shane wishes he knew what he had said wrong to put that look on his face. “I’ll let you unpack. My mom is shooting to have dinner at six, so plenty of time for you to shower and settle in”

“Da…” The single syllable was softer, unsettled. “See you then.”

Shane fled the room before he could make it worse.

Dinner itself should have been easy.

Ilya was charming without ever seeming like he was trying too hard. Shane’s mother liked him immediately. His dad liked him too, Shane could tell. Ilya's English got a little rougher as the quarter hours passed, and he'd stop sometimes, jaw tightening while he reached for a word, but he always found it. It was the most polite he'd ever heard Ilya be. It should have been a relief. Shane kept waiting to feel it.

The problem was that he didn't know what he was supposed to be doing. Ilya was very clearly doing fine without Shane's assistance, talking to his mom about the difference between Russian and North American rinks. So what was Shane supposed to do? Just sit there?

He tried saying something nice. Ilya's captaining at the prospects cup—how he'd managed the line changes, how his guys had played for him. It was a real compliment. Shane had thought about it at the time and meant it now.

Ilya looked at him for a second, and then said that Shane's edgework had been the best he'd seen at that level. That he'd noticed it immediately.

Shane smiled and thanked him before looking back down at his plate. He spent half a second waiting for the inevitable joke to follow, but it never came. Shane wished, for no reason he could articulate, that it had.

They ate the rest of dinner mostly talking to his parents.

After the dishes were finished, Shane's mom pressed a mug of herbal tea into Ilya's hands and suggested, in the same tone she used on road-weary relatives, that they all stay up until at least ten so Ilya wouldn't find himself up at three. Ilya only nodded, murmured "Da, thank you," and sat beside Shane on the couch.

The movie started. Shane didn't retain a single second of it.

He was too aware of Ilya beside him—the careful distance between them, the way he was holding his mug with both hands. Every few minutes, Shane would think of something to say and then second-guess himself. Whatever came to mind sounded too stiff.

His mom laughed at something on screen. Shane forced a laugh too, a beat too late.

"You doing okay?" Shane asked quietly.

"Yes," Ilya said. Still looking at the TV. "Am comfortable."

He thought about putting his arm around Ilya. The logistics of it rose immediately—the stretch, the awkwardness of it. He kept his arm where it was.

"You sure you're okay?" Shane tried again.

"Yes, Shane, am fine," Ilya said, sharp. There was an edge there that made Shane's mom glance over. Ilya softened immediately, turned back to the TV. "Just tired from travel."

Shane nodded and looked away. He didn't try again.

By the time the movie ended, Shane felt exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the hour. His face hurt from smiling. His shoulders hurt from sitting straight. He felt trapped in the shape of a stranger.

Shane’s mom clicked the TV off and looked between them. “All right,” she said. “I think that’s enough for both of you. Time for bed.”

Ilya nodded beside him and automatically reached for his mug on the table.

“Oh, honey, leave it,” his mom said, already standing. “Go get some sleep.”

Ilya paused, blinking slowly, then let go of the handle. “Okay. Da. Spasibo. Uh, Goodnight.”

Shane got to his feet a second later.

“Night, boys!” his dad said.

“Night,” Shane answered.

His mom smiled at them both. “Sleep in.”

They headed upstairs together, close enough to hear each other on the steps, neither saying anything. By the time they reached the hall, Ilya had slowed near the guest room door.

“Goodnight,” Shane said, barely able to look at Ilya.

Ilya, having no such problem, leaned one shoulder against the guest room doorframe and looked right at him almost expectedly. Expecting what Shane didn't know. “Goodnight.”

Shane waited a moment for something. Ilya waited for whatever it was too.

There was a version of this where Ilya made some awful comment about Shane tucking him in. There was a version where Shane told him to shut up. There was a version where they both smiled like idiots and Shane went to bed fondly exasperated instead of miserable.

Instead, the hallway stayed quiet, and Shane retreated into his room without another word.

For almost an hour, he lay there in the dark and stared at the ceiling.

This was ridiculous.

The day hadn't been bad. That was what made it so frustrating. Ilya was here. Shane was glad Ilya was here. His parents liked him. Dinner had gone fine. And yet Shane felt sick with the certainty that he had somehow spent the entire day getting it wrong.

His phone buzzed, and it was in his hands before he could think about it.

Lily: what is girl to do on a lonely night in ottawa?
Jane: Sleep, it's late
Lily: boring; such bad host
Jane: You just flew for over a day straight, you should be exhausted
Lily: am cold and lonely
Jane: There are extra blankets in the closet, I told you that
Lily: come talk to me
Jane: I'm in bed
Lily: me too; we could be in bed together
Jane: That's not happening tonight
Lily: tonight; interesting word choice jane; tomorrow then? day after?
Jane: Goodnight Lily
Lily: so boring; so early; so boring and so early
Jane: It's midnight
Lily: yes exactly; baby hours; boring baby hours

Shane’s thumb taps out

go the fuck to sleep

before he deletes it.

Jane: Goodnight Lily!
Lily: yes yes goodnight; boring jane needs beauty sleep; is hard work being second best in league

Shane was out of bed before he finished deciding to be. He crossed the hall, opened Ilya’s door without knocking, and stepped inside already irritated enough to forget that five minutes ago he was trying to be nicer to Ilya.

"I am not second best!" he hissed. It came out louder than the whisper he intended it to be. "You went first overall, fine, but I beat you this year, I beat you for gold, so you don't get to just— We are not doing this all week, you dick. You don't get to text me that from twelve feet away and then just sit there and—"

Ilya was already sitting up in bed, phone in hand, looking infuriatingly awake for someone who had been on the edge of exhaustion all night.

He was smiling.

Shane crossed the room without thinking about it. "Don't look at me like—"

"Like what?" Ilya interrupted, still smiling.

"That look—" Shane said, "you know exactly what look—"

Ilya grabbed him by the wrist and yanked.

Shane went down onto the bed with significantly less dignity than he would have liked, and for approximately one second he was so surprised that he just lay there. Then the indignation caught up with him and he got both hands up and shoved Ilya hard in the chest. Ilya barely moved. Shane shoved again anyway.

"Would you—"

"Shh," Ilya said, infuriatingly, and caught his wrists. "Your parents are right next door."

Shane bucked, got one arm free, used it to grab a fistful of Ilya's shirt, which accomplished nothing except giving Ilya something to grab back. They rolled. Shane got an elbow into something that made Ilya grunt, which felt like a victory, and then immediately lost all the ground he'd gained when Ilya got both arms around him and just... held on.

"Let go—"

"No."

"Ilya—!"

"You are very small," Ilya observed pleasantly.

"I am the exact same height as you!" Shane said, incensed, "We are the same height, you have been listed at six feet since you were seventeen years old and so have I—"

"Yes," Ilya agreed, entirely unbothered, tightening his grip. "Same height, maybe."

Shane had just enough leverage to flip them halfway before Ilya's weight advantage reasserted itself completely and Shane ended up flat again on his back, breathing hard, one sock half off. Both of them looked ridiculous.

Ilya looked down at him, smug as anything. "I win."

Shane flushed "Oh fuck off!"

But underneath the smugness was something else. Shane went still without meaning to, because Ilya was looking at him the way he hadn't looked at him once all evening, not at dinner, not on the couch, not in the hallway saying goodnight

"There you are," Ilya said softly.

Shane opened his mouth, closed it again. Ilya was still looking at him, and it was doing something uncomfortable to his chest.

"You were weird today," Ilya said. Simple. Not accusatory.

"I wasn't—" Shane started, and then stopped. Ilya was still looking at him, and it was doing something uncomfortable to his chest—because this, somehow, this stupid wrestling match where Shane had lost both his dignity and a sock, felt more like being Ilya's boyfriend than anything he'd managed all day. He hadn't been following any script. He'd just been pissed off.

Something easy settled into Ilya's expression. Shane let out a startled 'oof' as Ilya dropped his entire body weight directly onto him.

"Ilya—!"

"Shh." He was already pulling Shane's arm over himself like it was a blanket he was owed, face pressed into Shane's shoulder. "Travel has caught up. Must sleep now."

Shane lay there for a moment, staring incredulously at him. "This is your room, you know. I should—"

"Goodnight Shane." Ilya interrupted, no room for argument. He already sounded more than halfway to sleep.

Shane exhaled, the fight leaving him. "Goodnight," he said, though he seriously doubted Ilya was awake to hear him.

This time, under Ilya's comforting weight, Shane slept.

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

The morning after, Shane woke up under Ilya's weight, the sun already well past the horizon. Later than Shane usually slept, later than he'd slept in years probably. Ilya was sprawled across still deep asleep, one arm slung over Shane's chest and breathing steady. For a second Shane just lay there, not wanting to move and break it.

Eventually they made their way downstairs for breakfast. Shane had barely sat down before Ilya reached over and tried to steal a piece of toast off his plate. Shane got to it first, stuffing half of it into his mouth before Ilya could. Ilya's laugh came out surprised, real, and Shane felt something settle in his chest. It was worth the punch to his shoulder that followed. Worth the way Ilya immediately went for the other piece while Shane was distracted.

They went to the rink together nearly every morning Ilya was there. Shane had drills he was supposed to be doing—work on edges, speed, endurance, all the things that mattered before camps. But Ilya was there, and Shane just couldn't concentrate on drills. Ilya made it impossible. He'd cut across whatever Shane was working and suddenly they were passing the puck instead, chasing each other in circles, playing one-on-one like they were kids. Shane had been studying Ilya’s skating for two years—the angle of his shoulders, the way he carried speed through corners, the slight cock of his head before he committed. Now he got to use it, anticipating him in real time instead of watching it back on his phone.

Some days they'd stay past their allotted hours, bleeding into open skate, chasing each other through crowds of casual skaters and families. Playing tag on ice. It was ridiculous and completely unproductive and Shane couldn't stop doing it. It was fun in a way that made everything else feel like it was going to be harder without it.

Evenings were different. Shane's room was usually meticulous—had always been meticulous, everything in its place, clothes folded precise and organized. Now it was a minefield of half-packed boxes. His childhood was scattered across the floor in pieces: old trophies, photos, old things he'd collected and hung onto throughout the years. Sometimes, Ilya would stretch across the bed and pull things out of boxes, holding them up with this particular smirk. Look at this, he'd say, cooing deliberately. Some old photo from a family vacation, or a tournament medal from when Shane was fourteen. So cute. He'd make a show of stealing it, shoving it into his pocket or his wallet with exaggerated care, and Shane would lunge, absolutely fucking not, Ilya, give it back. They'd end up wrestling across the bed over it, Ilya laughing the whole time.

It should have annoyed him more than it did.

Instead, whenever one of them ended up pinned—more often than not it was Shane flat on his back with Ilya looking insufferably pleased about it above him—Shane would lean in and kiss him; which was always a gamble. Sometimes Ilya would give in and they’d lose the next hour to it. Other times he’d dodge at the last second and say something obnoxious, and they’d be right back to shoving each other around. But when Ilya did let Shane drag him in, when he let Shane get his mouth on him, it was never anything gentle.

Ilya bit—his teeth catching Shane's lower lip, tugging until Shane's breath hitched. Shane's hands would find his hair and pull, hard enough that Ilya would make that low noise again, the one that asked for more. They didn't go all the way—Shane's parents were in the house, and the paranoia of getting caught again was utterly petrifying but somehow thrilling at once—but there were other things.

Shane on his knees at three in the morning while the rest of the house slept. Ilya's fingers in his hair, steady and demanding, controlling the pace. Shane taking him deep and breathing through his nose because he refused to pull back, not yet. Ilya's hand wrapped around Shane's cock in the dark of Shane's room, Shane's face pressed against his shoulder to muffle the sounds he was making—except sometimes Shane couldn't muffle them enough, they would come out rough and desperate, and Ilya would have to cover his mouth with his free hand, pinning Shane's jaw as he worked him over.

The two of them tangled and breathing hard, grinding against each other because they could, because they were eighteen and hungry for it and there was a bed right there. Shane learning the exact angle of Ilya's hips, the way his breathing changed before he lost control. Ilya learning that Shane had a tell—a catch in his breath—before he came. He learned Ilya liked his hair pulled hard, that if Ilya nipped at his neck Shane would buck underneath him, would flip them or push forward or grab back with his own teeth. Learning that Shane would come in his pants if Ilya kept his hand there long enough, if he talked to him while he did it, if he just—

There was a day at the lake at his family's cottage where Shane pushed Ilya off the dock on impulse. Ilya surfaced sputtering and furious, eyes promising something, and dragged Shane in after him fully clothed. Shane came up laughing while Ilya's expression promised pure retaliation. Later, back at the cottage with water still cold on their skin, Ilya cornered him in the hallway and Shane got backed against the wall, Ilya's hands on his hips while Ilya whispered very specifically what he was going to do to Shane once he got him actually alone—Shane's breath caught, his laugh dying in his throat—and then footsteps sounded from the kitchen and Ilya pulled back, left him there flushed and wanting.

There were smaller moments throughout the week that almost meant more. Ilya's knee knocking against his under the dinner table, staying there. Shane kissing the corner of Ilya's mouth in the kitchen at five in the morning when the house was empty except for them. Ilya falling asleep on Shane's shoulder on the couch, and Shane not moving even though his arm went numb, because shifting would break the moment and Shane wasn't ready to lose it yet.

The week was easy in a way Shane hadn't expected possible. Easy and competitive and real in a way that made him realize he'd been holding his breath before this.

Two days before Ilya was supposed to fly out, Ilya let slip that no one would be coming to help him with his move to Boston.

Shane doesn't even remember how it came up. He thinks maybe it started with talking about the start dates for each of their respective rookie camps. What their living situations would be. Whether or not their paperwork was sorted. Ilya's billet situation came up somewhere in the middle of it, and his mom, who had already been only reluctantly accepting of the fact that Ilya would be living under the vague supervision of Cliff Marleau—a veteran Bear by the slimmest possible margins, and one whose reputation for partying she did not consider a point in his favor—asked:

“Your family isn’t coming to help you get settled?”

Ilya looked up from his plate. “Ah… No.”

His mom paused. “Oh, honey,” was all she said at first, but Shane knew that tone. “Well, David can go with you then,” she continued. “Just to make sure you get in all right. Help with the luggage, get all your paperwork sorted, make sure the billet situation is actually what they told you.”

Across the table, his dad nodded in agreement, as Ilya shook his vehemently in denial.

"No! No… Is okay"

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” Yuna said at once, already returning to her dinner. “David deals with enough government paperwork already, and I’d feel much better knowing someone was there to help you get everything sorted.”

“I can do it myself.” Ilya argued back.

“I’m sure you can,” Yuna said, warm and easy and absolutely impossible to argue with, “but that’s a lot to handle on your own, sweetheart. Especially in a new city.”

Shane saw it then, the way Ilya seemed to tighten around the edges of himself. Shane might have missed it if he hadn't already started paying him too much attention in general.

“It really isn’t needed,” Ilya said, more polite now than before.

“And it’s really no problem,” David said.

Yuna smiled at him over the table. “Let us help, honey.”

Ilya tried again, then once more near the end of dinner, more politely, as though the right combination of gratitude and refusal might still get him out of this. It didn't. His mom only grew more reassuring. His dad, for his part, only clapped Ilya once on the shoulder as he got up to clear the table and said, “Really, son. It’s no problem,” with such unforced sincerity that Shane actually watched Ilya flinch from it a little, though probably no one else noticed.

Ilya was quiet for the rest of the night. Or—rather—quieter compared to the previous week of nights he had spent with the Hollanders. He still stayed with them in the living room afterward, still made the occasional dry comment that had Shane laughing, still endured Yuna’s next round of questions about Boston's logistics with decent grace. But he stayed closer to Shane than usual without seeming to mean to, and when they finally went upstairs—past the guest room his parents still, optimistically, kept preparing each night and which neither Shane nor Ilya had made any real use of since the first evening—Ilya followed him with the sort of closeness that made it obvious something was off.

Shane waited until they were settled on his bed to ask.

He wasn't sure he should. Ilya may be his…. boyfriend, but Shane still felt like he didn't yet know him well enough to ask about stuff like this. Not really. But he could feel Ilya lying awake beside him, staring at the ceiling in the dark, and he knew that something about dinner had gone wrong under the surface.

So Shane asked, quietly, “You okay?”

There was a pause. Then Ilya exhaled, once, through his nose. "Your mother is…" He trailed off. Then, "This is all a lot."

Shane turned his head on the pillow to look at Ilya's profile. “What is?”

“Your parents.” Ilya shifted beside him, one hand moving briefly over his stomach before falling away again. “The helping. All of it.” He made a small motion with his hands in the dark “They have done enough. I do not need David to come to Boston.”

“Okay.” Shane said. That got him a glance in the dark, brief and unreadable.

After a second, Ilya added, “Your parents should not have to do this for me.”

“They want to,” Shane said.

Ilya sighed. It sounded tired. “I know.”

Shane knew what he wanted to say—that Ilya was being stupid, probably, and that his mom would not have offered if she didn't mean it, that his dad genuinely would not have offered to go if he minded. But there was something in Ilya’s voice that made Shane pause and listen instead.

Eventually, Ilya started talking again, reluctantly and in pieces. He didn't say much. Just enough about his father and his childhood that Shane ended up staring at the ceiling long after Ilya had fallen asleep, angry for him and not entirely sure where to put it.

By morning, Ilya had agreed to let Shane's dad go with him.

He still insisted—twice—that he didn't have to.

And, when the day of departure came and they had to say goodbye, it didn't hurt yet. Not really. That would come later, once they had enough memories for the absence to yawn between them. This time, it was only strange. Maybe a little embarrassing.

Shane sat in his parents’ SUV at the airport terminal with his hands clasped between his knees while Ilya and his dad got the bags out of the trunk. It shouldn't have felt like a big deal. Shane would see both of them again within the month—his dad after he got Ilya settled, and Ilya at the Montreal-Boston exhibition game at the end of the month, assuming they both made the roster, which Shane did assume. Still, something sat low and awkward in his chest all the same.

When Ilya came back to the open passenger-side door, there must have been something in Shane’s face that must have given him away.

“You look tragic,” Ilya said.

“What? No I don't.”

“You do,” Ilya said. “Very sad. Like Hachi.”

“The dog?!” Shane asked, incredulously.

Ilya grinned.

Then the grin softened, just slightly, and Ilya glanced past Shane toward the front of the car, where his mom sat in the driver’s seat pretending not to pay attention and his dad was still busying himself with the last of the luggage in a way that was, somehow, even more pointedly polite.

“I will text you,” Ilya said, quieter now.

Shane nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

It was not much of a goodbye. Shane didn't know how to do much of a goodbye yet. Neither of them did, it seemed. In lieu, Ilya leaned in and kissed him quickly—too quick for anyone nearby to make sense of it unless they already knew exactly what they were looking at—and then just as quickly stepped back putting distance between them

His dad called something from the curb, and Ilya turned toward him, and just like that he was leaving, and a minute later, he was gone. Shane was left in the passenger seat with the ghost of a kiss and the deeply unhelpful realizations he already missed Ilya and the end of the month couldn't come soon enough.

Chapter End Notes

Wow! I genuinely was not expecting the level of response I got from the first chapter of this. I’m so incredibly grateful to everyone who commented, left kudos, or even just took the time to read chapter 1.

I only had chapter 2 prepared when I posted the first chapter, though I’m currently working on chapter 3. I’m not sure how regular updates will be, since I’m currently juggling grad school/PhD decisions, but I’m hoping for roughly a weekly update schedule. I’m also not 100% sure how long this fic is going to be, so we will all see haha.

In the meantime, I wanted to post chapter 2 in light of all the love chapter 1 received. 💕

All my love, and thank you again! Chapter 3 will take a little longer, but I have a pretty good idea of what’s coming.

Chapter 3: A Monk in Boston

Chapter Summary

Ilya had made a grave, awful miscalculation. Not about Boston or the rookie camp—no, hockey was going great, actually. No. His miscalculation had nothing to do with hockey, and everything to do what the Bears did after hockey.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The apartment was better than Ilya had been expecting.

Cliff Marleau had clearly spent the better part of his first post-rookie paycheck on it, and had furnished it in a way that communicated, without apology, that he was twenty three with little to no supervision anymore. The television in the living room was enormous. The couch beneath it could have seated an entire line with room left over for an argument. There was exposed brick in the kitchen that served no structural purpose, stainless steel appliances, a framed jersey over the hallway, and, nailed to the wall near the door, an actual street sign that read GOODENOUGH STREET in official city lettering. There was probably a joke there, if Marleau had gone out of his way to steal it, Ilya just couldn't quite see it.

North Americans had no sense of restraint. Ilya found this immediately charming.

It was nothing like Moscow. The apartment on Kutuzovsky that Grigori Rozanov still kept, and would keep until the building came down or he did, had been built for a different time. Dark wood, thick walls, ceilings from an era when ceiling height was how you communicated importance to guests before they'd even sat down. Soviet construction meant for Soviet officials who had expected permanence, and regardless of what had since happened to the money and the ideology and the family name, the rooms still felt like they were waiting to be taken seriously—his father had kept it that way through sheer force of will.

Marleau's place felt expensive in a completely different way. Newly expensive. Last-season expensive. You could feel it in the couch. In the sign. In the television that was two sizes larger than any reasonable person needed.

Ilya liked it immediately. He liked Marleau, too. From two phone calls and a handful of secondhand stories, Ilya had gathered that Marleau was not exactly careful with his reputation. He liked to go out, liked people, liked noise, liked whatever happened next. Maybe not the best billet if the goal was maintaining a clean image. But Ilya had also gathered that Marleau was not cruel under all that charm. Not a jackass, not really. He seemed to function on goodwill, forward momentum, and the sincere belief that most things would work themselves out if everyone had a beer and relaxed.

The night Ilya and David got in, Marleau had looked at David, looked at Ilya, said, “Your dad?” and when Ilya said, “Friend’s dad,” Marleau had only nodded and said, “Sick. Cool. You guys want a beer?” And that had been the end of it.

David had declined the beer politely. Ilya had, after a pause, also declined. Marlaeu hadn't commented but he looked surprised. Ilya wanted to tell him: I am exactly what you think I am. I am just also currently in the presence of my boyfriend's father, and I've spent ten days being on my best behavior for him, and I'd really like to keep that going for another week, so…

His first night in Boston was spent eating Thai food out of a takeout container on Marleau's enormous couch while David Hollander asked Marleau about the city. Its history. Its neighborhoods. Whether the public transit was reliable. Questions that could only come from the father of Shane Hollander, asked in complete sincerity to a man whose phone hadn't stopped buzzing since they walked in the door and who, it quickly became apparent, knew almost nothing about Boston beyond its bar scene. David, if anything, seemed to know more. Marleau answered gamely anyway, filling gaps with confidence where knowledge failed him.

Surprisingly, it was by no means a bad night. It was just not the first night Ilya had imagined for himself in Boston.

He hadn't imagined it sentimentally nor apprehensively. He was not Shane, who had been nervous about Montreal in a way Ilya could never quite understand. He had imagined something specific and practical: music loud enough to feel in the sternum, a club below street level with no signage and a line that moved slowly but was worth it. The particular relief of being not even twenty years old in a city where nobody knew his name yet except in hockey terms. He had imagined a drink, and then another, and the pleasant anonymity of being exactly as much of a problem as everyone had always assumed he was but this time with no one to disappoint.

Cliff Marleau had seemed perfect to facilitate all of this. And he hadn't been wrong about that, but just—not this week.

Which was fine. It was all completely fine, really. And Ilya would have been completely fine with David in Boston if he hadn't just spent ten days earning the man's approval and was now going to spend another week making sure he didn't lose it in a city with considerably more opportunity to do so.

At least—or rather, unfortunately—the paperwork had been worse than he'd accounted for, so really it was for the best that David came along. Not the volume necessarily—he'd expected a lot of paperwork—but legal documents in a second language, in a system he didn't know, for a contract he hadn't had time to understand before the ink was dry. Alone, he thought, he would have made it through the first few packets before he started signing whatever was placed in front of him just to be finished with it. He knew this about himself. He was not, fundamentally, someone who would read the terms and conditions. He was someone who clicked agree and hoped for the best, which was fine in most situations but probably not fine here.

But David read through each document with him and stopped whenever Ilya would have otherwise just moved on. He turned pages back, translated the legal language into plain terms, and made sure Ilya understood what he was agreeing to before letting him sign. He actually ended up finding several things Ilya would have missed: a performance bonus structure that looked generous until you found the payout clause behind it, and a conduct section with considerably less flexibility than the language initially suggested.

Both times, Ilya said, “I see,” and moved to the next packet, because he didn't know how to thank someone for helping with something he wasn't supposed to need help with.

The green card had been Yuna's idea, which David relayed without any apparent need to claim credit for it himself. She had told him, apparently, not to come home until Ilya had filed.

His first instinct was to say no. He hadn't come to America to become American. But he was nineteen and already getting reckless. Two weeks in this “land of the free,” and the particular weight that kept everything in check back home had lifted. He could feel the difference in himself already: how much farther he pushed, how much longer he waited before stopping, how easy it felt to kick the can of consequences to some later version of himself. With just a Russian passport, if he really fucked up or became enough of a problem, he would have to go back. He would be stuck there.

A second one was insurance. American or otherwise.

He let David walk him through the form. He signed where he was directed to sign. But there was something strange about putting his name to paper, something that made leaving feel less like a possibility and more like an inevitability. Russia was a place he needed distance from, maybe. A place he had long known, somewhere quiet and ugly inside himself, that he would have to leave for his own sake and sanity. But it was also his motherland. His mother’s land. The place where she was buried.

He swallowed around his stupid, misplaced grief. It was not like an American passport would make him less Russian.

What he didn't say, and was not going to say, was that the whole week had been embarrassing in a way he hadn't expected. Ilya's English was good, he knew his English was good, but legal documents was apparently where the line was drawn and good became not good enough; and he had to sit there and be walked through packet after packet by his boyfriend's father feeling, very specifically, like a mess.

Ilya had already disappointed one father so thoroughly and completely, had been disappointing Grigori Rozanov since he was old enough to do anything worth judging, and he was not under any illusion that he was done failing fathers. It was just—he had been hoping for a longer grace period with this one. A few more dinners. A few more months before David looked at him the way his father looked at him.

David stayed a week, which meant Ilya's evenings were unexpectedly accounted for. David wasn't suffocating—he actually left Ilya alone most of the day, went out, handled whatever David Hollander handled when left to his own devices in a city he didn't live in. He was, Ilya was loathe to admit, actually pretty cool to have around. Which was almost the problem. It would have been significantly easier to resent the arrangement if David were difficult, or boring, or the kind of man who needed entertaining. He was none of those things. He was just there in the evenings, easy about it, and Ilya was not going to go out while Shane's father was in the apartment, not after ten days of careful dinners in Ottawa. So he stayed in, ate whatever Marleau ordered, tried to muster any care for American football, and listened to the bars down the street through the living room window, not thinking about how much he wanted something to smoke or drink.

Near the end the week, David caught Ilya alone in the hallway and glanced once toward the living room where Marleau was watching television, then reached into his jacket and pressed a small bottle into Ilya's hands. Nice vodka. Not the cheap stuff.

"You're not quite old enough in the states to buy it yourself," David said, barely above a whisper, "But every kid needs their stash."

Ilya hadn't had an issue getting his hands on alcohol since he was fifteen. Marleau was twenty-three and could have bought him whatever he wanted. Ilya was pretty sure that any bar within a four block radius would wave him through without a second look.

He looked at the bottle.

"Thank you," he said, and it came out more genuine than he meant it to, and David just winked, like they were co-conspirators, the both of them, and went back to the living room.

Ilya stood in the hallway for a moment. He put the bottle in his room. He was not going to think about it.

Two mornings before rookie camp, David left. They shook hands in the lobby, which was the correct way to end it—Ilya wasn't sure what he would have done if David had leaned in for anything else—but it also felt completely inadequate for the six days, eleven packets of paperwork, and green card application plus whatever other debt Ilya was probably going to spend the next several months failing to account for. Ilya said thank you. David said call if anything comes up, or any other packets come through, and then, almost as an afterthought, clapped him once on the shoulder and said, "You're going to do good here, son."

Not good luck. Not I hope it goes okay.

Ilya didn't know what to do with that, so he said nothing, but David didn't wait on a response, just picked up his bag and left, and that was that.

Ilya went back upstairs. Marleau was making eggs in the kitchen and looked up when he walked in, and there was a brief moment where Ilya could see him debating whether to ask something.

"So…" Marleau finally said, bringing the skillet over to the counter, eating out of it as a makeshift plate. "We going out tonight?"

"Da," Ilya said. "Obviously."

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

Ilya had made a grave, awful miscalculation.

Not about Boston or the rookie camp—no, those were actually going great. He had made the roster exactly as he’d expected to; him and Shane both had. He had integrated into the Bears’ core group almost seamlessly—better than he ever had with his Russian teammates, which was saying something, because his Russian teammates had liked him plenty. He had already scored his first NHL goal, too, within his first ten minutes of allotted ice time in his first exhibition game.

Hockey was going great, actually. No. His miscalculation had nothing to do with hockey, and everything to do what the Bears did after hockey.

In his three weeks in Boston, Ilya had already been dragged to a grand total of nine bars and clubs. Marleau seemed determined to make up for the lost week when David had been in town. His mission, apparently, was to get Ilya fucked up and, if the universe was kind, fucked.

Therein lay the problem.

It hadn't occurred to him until he was five drinks into his first real night out with Marleau, mostly because it had never needed to occur to him before. Ilya had never, technically, been in a relationship. At least, a real one. He and Sasha had been on and off for the better part of three years, and him and Sveta had been something for even longer than that, but neither of those had ever been exclusive, not really, not in any way that required him to think about it. So, when Ilya went out in Moscow he had never needed to think twice about accepting an invitation—for a dance, a drink, or into someone's bed. And the two months since CCM had been such a chaos of logistics and obligations and Shane Hollander specifically that he hadn't been inside a club since before Toronto, which meant the thought had simply never come up.

The club Marleau brought them to was, at best, a shitty dive. But it was close, and according to Marleau, they never checked ID, which made it the perfect place to introduce Ilya to Boston’s club scene and finally “buy his rookie” a drink. And really, it was everything Ilya wanted out of Boston. The music was too loud. The drinks were awful, but they did the job. The place was surprisingly alive for a Wednesday night, all sweat and bass and cheap liquor, bodies so pressed close enough that it was easy to get lost in the hedonism of it all.

So Ilya did the shots Marleau bought them. The first round, and then the second. He laughed loudly, shouted over the music, jeered when a girl turned down Marly's offer of a drink, and fell into the club exactly as he had countless nights before. Several drinks later, he found himself in the middle of the dance floor with his hands on the hips of some girl who looked like she’d had even more than he had.

She was pretty, really. Ilya's type. Short dark hair. A tight, skimpy dress. Muscle underneath it, though—an athlete, no doubt. There was a beautiful dusting of freckles over her shoulders and across her nose. Distantly, Ilya though she sort of looked like Shane.

And just like that, Ilya felt sick.

She had looked confused when Ilya jerked away from her, for one second, he saw the hurt flash across her face. Ilya doesn't remember the excuse he made to her as he all but retreated off the dance floor; his stomach twisting itself into knots. Marleau found him nursing his last at the bar with what he is sure looked like moping, but all Ilya felt was disgust at himself.

All he could think about was Shane. And how he wished he was here. Which felt stupid, because Shane would have hated it here. Ilya couldn't imagine his boyfriend enjoying the crowd, or the music, or even the drinks. But Ilya wished he was here anyways.

Maybe then he would not have almost made such a fucking awful mistake.

Ilya was fairly certain their relationship was destined to crash and burn in some spectacular, heartbreaking way that would scar him permanently. They had only been dating three months, but Ilya already knew that when it ended, he was not going to recover from it in any dignified way. He was also fairly certain that, ultimately, he would be the one who fucked it up. But he would be damned if the fuckup was going to be that.

Ilya had taken his phone out of his pocket and had opened his text thread with Jane, debating the merits of texting his boyfriend at 1 in the morning, when Marleau came up behind him, flushed from alcohol and the heat, jeering:

"Ahh rook, strike out?"

And Ilya couldn’t explain. He couldn’t look at Marleau and say he already had someone, because then Marleau would ask who, and Ilya had no details he was willing to give. No name. No story. No girlfriend back in Russia he could invent on the spot and describe convincingly while this drunk. Certainly no boyfriend in Canada. Besides, Marleau might laugh, or tell him it didn’t matter, like everyone didn’t have someone somewhere; and Ilya really didn't feel like hearing that when the thought of touching someone else while this fragile thing with Shane was still growing between them made Ilya feel physically sick. So instead, he scowled down at his drink and said, “Shut up,” and made a private, solemn vow to come up with a better excuse next time.

Next time, it was after rookie camp, and Ilya was officially a Bear.

Exhibition and preseason games hadn't started yet, but that did nothing to dissuade the main roster from “properly” welcoming their newest rookie. So, on the last Thursday before the Bears’ first exhibition night, Ilya found himself in another club in Boston, several drinks deep and wedged between two teammates who seemed personally invested in making sure he stayed that way.

This club was significantly nicer than the dive Marleau had dragged him to barely a week earlier. Considering the contracts some of these guys were working with, Ilya supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that their tastes ran a step above the shitholes he usually frequented. He couldn’t say he was opposed to the upgrade, either. Better music. Better liquor. Cleaner bathrooms. Fewer places where he had to wonder what, exactly, was sticking to the floor.

Unfortunately, a nicer club also meant hotter, more persistent women. And going out with his teammates meant more people invested in Ilya’s allegedly lacking sex life.

She appeared at his elbow somewhere around his third drink while he was trying to get a fourth—older, maybe late 20s, wearing an expensive looking red dress. She was gorgeous really.

"Hey handsome." She said, with a flirty wink. Ilya glanced at her and hummed, disinterested. She continued, "You here alone?"

"Nope."

"With a girlfriend, then?"

Ilya couldn't lie with within earshot of Marleau, who was absolutely eavesdropping, so he said, "Hmm, no."

She smiled, taking this as an opening. She had a nice smile, but Ilya couldn't muster even an inkling of interest. "I could show you around Boston a little. I know some great spots." The way she said it made clear she was not talking about restaurants.

"I'm good." Ilya said.

She smiled like he was joking. Tried again, her hand on his arm now. "Come on. You look like you could use some fun."

“I am having fun.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” he said. “You interrupted.”

She stared at him. Ilya stared back, one eyebrow raised. Eventually, she scoffed and walked off with a sharp, “Your loss.”

Ilya watched her go, then turned back to the bar as the bartender set down his drink. Behind him, Connors and St-Simon were staring at him like he had just missed an open net shot.

"Bro," Connors said.

"Hmm."

"She was—"

"Yes, yes."

"The dress alone—"

"I know."

“Bro,” Connors said. “Respectfully. What the fuck?!”

Ilya looked at them for a long moment. Then he looked down at the crucifix at his throat—his mother's, worn always, which had never once been asked to do anything like this. He sent a quick, silent apology in her direction.

He picked it up between two fingers.

"I am," he said solemnly, "a man of God."

Silence.

"I have taken vows," Ilya continued. "You see, I am Russian Orthodox priest. I am here in Boston to play hockey, yes, but also—" he touched the crucifix once, reverently, "—to spread word of God to American people. Who need it, I think. No offense."

Connors stared at him. "You're a priest?" he ask, with emphasis on the 'You're'.

"Ordained. Yes."

"Dude no fucking way. There's no fuckin' way you're a priest. We just did shots like 20 minutes ago!"

"God does not say no to vodka. This is in scripture. I would know."

St-Simon stared at him. Then grabbed Connors' arm. Then turned around, and called out, "Hey, HEY! Marly!"

Marleau looked over from down the bar.

"Is your rook a priest?"

Marleau looked at Ilya. Looked at St-Simon. Looked back at Ilya. "What? No. Why would he—what?"

"He says he's a priest!"

"He's not a priest."

“And you're certain?” St-Simon demanded.

“I would know if my rookie was a fuckin' priest, Vic!” Marly laughed.

“Ah, but Marly, have you asked?” Ilya said.

Marleau pointed at him. “Don't start.”

“This is very sad,” Ilya said, with solemn, faux disappointment. “I see Boston is godless place.”

Connors made a strangled noise, half laugh, half disbelief. “Godless—buddy, you tried to fight Kessler during a non-contact drill this morning.”

“No, no, no. See, is different,” Ilya argued. “Was hockey. I said I am here for hockey and God.”

Connors folded first, laughing into his drink. St-Simon followed, one hand braced on the bar like he needed help staying upright. Marleau just stared at Ilya for a second, then shook his head, grinning despite himself while Ilya held the crucifix between two fingers and tried to look persecuted.

“I cannot believe you tried to tell them you’re a priest,” Marly said.

“You think I am liar?” Ilya asked, with a shit eating grin.

“I know your fuckin' lying Roz.”

“Vic believes.”

“Vic is so drunk.”

“So were many apostles.”

St-Simon, fighting to catch his breath, asks “Do you even know what an apostle is?”

“Of course I know,” Ilya said. “Hockey has twelve also.”

“Dude, that’s forwards!” Connors wheezed.

“Same thing.”

After that, the woman in the red dress stopped mattering. Nobody asked why Ilya had turned her down. Nobody asked why he was still standing at the bar instead of following her out. They were too busy asking whether he could bless their sticks before their first game, or whether he could forgive Hammersmith for what he had done in the bathroom at Sully’s bachelor party.

By the time someone shoved another drink into Ilya’s hand, the story had already mutated and passed its way down the bar. Not because anyone believed him. No one believed him. Not even a little. But it was funny enough that it didn't matter.

For the rest of the night, any time a woman looked his way or someone tried to steer him toward one, Connors would throw an arm around Ilya’s shoulders and say, gravely, “Show some respect. Father’s taken vows.”

“Many vows,” Ilya solemnly agreed, with a grin.

The bit carried him through the rest of the night.

It carried him through two more drinks, three increasingly incoherent theological gotchas, and one solemn request from Connors that Ilya please put in a good word with God about his penalty minutes. It carried him out of the club after last call with Marleau’s arm heavy around his shoulders and the Bears loud around him.

It was a really good night, actually.

By the time Marleau dragged their sorry asses back to the apartment, Ilya was still riding the high of the night, drunk and loose from both alcohol and delight. He stumbled in the entryway, caught himself against the wall, and laughed when Marleau shoved him toward his room and told him to get some sleep.

Ilya went easily enough. He brushed his teeth badly, changed into sweatpants, and collapsed onto the bed with the club still ringing faintly in his ears. For a few minutes, he lay there smiling into the dark, remembering Connors’ face, Marleau’s incredulous laugh, and St-Simon nearly folding in half at the bar.

Ilya reached for his phone. It was well past 2am, Shane would be asleep, but he opened their thread anyway. Their last exchange was from earlier that day.

Lily: i have become priest; long story

Shane didn't answer, because Shane was boring and responsible and probably asleep like Ilya should have been two hours ago. Ilya smiled at the screen anyway.

Then he set the phone facedown beside him and rolled onto his side. The room was too quiet after the club, his ears still ringing faintly, his body still warm from alcohol and laughter, but the bed was cold when he stretched out in it. Too wide, once he noticed. Ilya stared at the wall and thought, stupidly, that it would be nice to have someone there. Someone warm. Someone close enough that the room didn’t feel quite so quiet after all that noise. Shane, preferably. Shane, specifically, actually.

Eventually, he fell asleep.

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

A week and a half later, after practice, Ilya sat half-dressed at his stall, hair still damp from the shower, texting Shane with one hand while trying to pull a clean shirt over his head with the other. It was two days before Boston’s first exhibition game against Montreal, not that Ilya was keeping track.

Jane: You still have to talk to Marleau. It's still his house, it would be rude to come over unannounced.
Lily: i will talk to marly
Jane: Before tomorrow.
Lily: yes bossy; what time is your flight sunday?
Jane: Early.
Lily: jane.
Jane: 8:15am
Lily: easy. come over after game. i get you to plane on time
Jane: There’s a curfew. I'm supposed to be back to the hotel by midnight
Lily: and we are adults, yes? tell coach you are with friend
Jane: I don’t think that’s how curfew works.
Lily: then say mandatory meeting
Jane: Mandatory?
Lily: very mandatory. important physical evaluation ;)
Jane: Please don’t use that argument when you talk to Marleau.
Lily: i have better argument for marly
Jane: That worries me.

Ilya smiled down at his phone.

Jane: Have you seen the commercial yet?

Ilya was typing

no, have you?

when Connors dropped onto the bench beside him.

“Rozy,” Connors said, with the grave concern of a man about to stage an intervention. “My man.”

Ilya glanced up from his phone and his conversation with his boyfriend. Connors was half-dressed, sweatpants riding low on his hips but no shirt. St-Simon hadn't even made it that far yet; he was still damp from the shower, towel low on his hips, leaning over from around the corner.

“You’re coming out with us tonight,” Connors said. That on its own, wasn't a problem. Ilya had assumed as much. It was Thursday, afterall, and they were off until late Saturday. "And you are getting laid!" There it was.

St-Simon came around the corner and sat on the bench across from them. “And before you make that face—”

“I make no face.”

"—we’re not saying you have to do anything." St-Simon continued. "We’re just saying, from where we’re standing, you’re either secretly the pickiest man in the league or you have no idea when a woman is interested.”

“I know when women are interested!” Ilya said, offended despite himself. He was willing to let them believe he was continuously striking out. He was not willing to let them believe he had no game.

“Great,” St-Simon said. “So picky. What's your type? Paint me a picture.”

Granted, Ilya did have, unfortunately, a type. Just not one St-Simon would find for him in a Boston bar. Ilya shrugged, “I am not picky.”

Connors hummed like he didn't believe that for a second. “You turned down an eight, two nines, and whoever the blonde by the bar was last night. Vickie says she was ten. I say depends on lighting, but still. Very strong lineup.”

“Ahh, Connors, you sound very taken by these women. Maybe you should throw hat into game.”

Connors sputtered, a blush rising on his cheeks, “I’m being serious!” Connors spread his hands. “You’re good-looking, you’re funny in that annoying Russian way, and every girl in Boston currently knows you scored your first ever NHL goal last night because I did excellent promotional work on your behalf—you're welcome by the way—you should be having the easiest week of your life!”

“Easy week?” Ilya exclaimed, with a sharp grin, “Maybe for you, leaving scoring to rookie.”

St-Simon made a noise of immediate offense. “He scores one goal and thinks he’s the next Wayne Gretsky!”

“Is one more than both of you.”

“Shut up, rook,” Connors said, but he was grinning now. “But that’s exactly what I’m talking about! Sure, you’re a cocky little shit, but with a face like that, you should still be pulling mad hoes! Instead you went home alone last night like a sad little baby Bear.”

Ilya let out a breath and glanced back at the now dark phone in his hands, mostly so they would not see too much of his face. “You think about all this too much."

“Of course we do!” Connors said. “You’re our rook.”

St-Simon, apparently having decided this was now a diagnostic exercise, tipped his head. “Do you need more romance? Is that the thing?”

Ilya looked up.

Connors snapped his fingers as if this explained everything, then slung an arm around Ilya’s shoulders and gave him a rough, affectionate shake. “Aww. Is that it? Is our rook high-maintenance? Need a little wining and dining first, Rozy?”

“I do not need dining,” he scoffed.

St-Simon’s grin widened. “Just wine, then?”

“I need both of you to be less interested in my dick.”

If Ilya hadn't already been growing fond of the Bears collectively, he might have snapped at this point. It was annoying, yes, but not cruel, and worse, he understood it. If he were on the other side—if some fresh-faced rookie kept going out with him, drinking, laughing, letting women circle, and then somehow going home alone every night—he would have called it a crisis too. He could just come clean, say he's got a girl—someone—already. After three weeks, he liked to think he knew the roster well enough to know they would probably be good about it. They didn't seem like assholes to the women in their lives. But still, he was disinclined to invent an imaginary girl for them to chirp about, not when he had a real boy he was keeping close to his chest.

Ilya let out a long-suffering sigh, like they had finally worn him down. “Okay.”

Connors’ grin sharpened at once. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Ilya said again, lowering his voice and leaning in, like he wasn’t aware at least 3 other Bears weren't eavesdropping on their conversation. “I tell you.”

Connors leaned in immediately. St-Simon did too. Perfect.

Hockey players might not understand boundaries, but they sure as hell understood superstition. Tape rituals. Lucky suits. Same meal before every game. If a man could refuse to wash a shirt for six weeks because he was convinced it made the power play look better, then Ilya could absolutely invent a reason not to sleep with strangers during the hockey season.

“You see,” he said gravely, “is old Russian superstition.”

“Old Russian superstition,” Connors repeated, like he wanted to laugh but was not quite willing to risk it yet. “About getting laid?”

“About discipline,” Ilya corrected, with as much dignity as he could manage. “Before battle, man does not go chasing new woman. He keeps focus. Keeps strength. You make body stupid before game, game punishes you.”

St-Simon stared at him. “You’re calling hockey a battle now?”

“Have you been hit by defenseman?” Ilya asked. “Is not picnic.”

Connors made a considering noise, which was already more than the lie deserved. That was the beautiful thing about hockey players. Give them even the faintest scent of ritual, and suddenly they had to consider the possibility.

“So what,” Connors said slowly. “You’re saying if you hook up before a game, you play bad?”

“I am saying if I sleep with strange woman before game, stick breaks, skate catches, puck goes somewhere stupid, goalie becomes like cheese from Switzerland. Many possibilities.”

“There is no way that's true,” Connors said, but he sounded less certain than before.

“Is superstition,” Ilya said, as if Connors was the embarrassing one here. “Not science.”

From two stalls down, where he had very obviously been listening for at least the last minute, Carmichael made a disbelieving noise. “So what, it’s like playoffs rules, but all the time?”

“Not all the time,” Ilya said. "Only with new person.”

“Oh,” St-Simon said, drawing the word out. “So old person is fine?”

Ilya paused half a second too long.

Connors pointed at him. “Aha.”

“No aha,” Ilya said. “Is complicated.”

Connors laughed and leaned back, victorious now. “Dude! You’re totally making this up, aren't you!”

Ilya spread his hands. “You would risk power play to find out?”

Before Connors could answer that, the door to the room opened and the Bear's only other Russian player, Vaschekin, walked in with a towel around his neck and a protein shake in one hand.

“Vasy!” Connors said immediately, twisting around on the bench. “Russia question.”

Vaschekin slowed just inside the room. He looked at Carmichael first, then St-Simon and Connors on the bench next to him, and finally at Ilya, who had very carefully arranged his face into something innocent.

It didn't seem to convince him.

“What did he tell you?” Vaschekin asked.

Ilya made an offended noise and pressed a hand to his chest. "I have done nothing! ”

Connors ignored him. “Is there some old Russian superstition about not sleeping with anyone new before battle?”

Vaschekin stared at him, then he looked at Ilya, before turning back to Connors.

“No,” he said.

Connors made a loud, triumphant sound. St-Simon tipped forward, laughing into his hand. “I knew it,” Connors said, delighted.

Ilya clicked his tongue and waved a hand at Vaschekin, dismissive. “Pah. I said old superstition. Maybe your family is not cultured.”

Vaschekin pointed at him with the protein shake. “You are from Moscow, yes?”

“So?”

“So you are also not cultured.”

That got Carmichael laughing from two stalls down, and Ilya let the room have it. Let Connors crow. Let St-Simon nearly fall off the bench.

“Unbelievable,” Ilya said, shaking his head. “I come to America, and I am betrayed by own countryman.”

Connors clapped Ilya on the shoulder, the betrayal loud and affectionate enough to jostle him. “Rozy,” he said, delighted. “You are so full of shit. Oh my god.”

The room moved on after that, the joke giving way to plans for the night. Names of streets and bars were getting shouted, half the team talking over each other about rides and who was absolutely not being trusted to choose music again. Ilya let it blur into noise. He put his phone facedown on the bench and finally pulled his shirt over his head. He was tying his shoes when someone sat down beside him. He didn't have to look up to know it was Marleau.

“Battle superstition?” Marleau asked.

“Is important cultural practice.”

“Vasy says you're full of shit.”

“Vaschekin is westernized.”

“Vasy got here less than four years ago.”

“Very sad,” Ilya said. “America corrupts quickly.”

Marleau snorted, but he didn't laugh as hard as the others. Not right away. That was the problem with Marleau. He was an idiot, but not all the time. Marleau leaned forward, elbows on his knees. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, not secretive exactly, but not meant for the whole room either.

“Seriously, though,” he said.

Ilya didn't look up. “Seriously what?”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing is going on.”

“Roz.”

Ilya tugged at his laces. “I told you. Superstition.”

“Yeah,” Marleau said. “And before that you were a priest. So.”

“So I am spiritual man with many cultural traditions.”

Marleau huffed, almost a laugh. “You’re a pain in the ass is what you are.”

Ilya looked at him then, considering. It was crazy to think he had barely known Marleau a month. There were guys he had played with for years that he would not have trusted as far as he could throw them, but Marleau was annoyingly easy to like, and living in his spare room hadn't helped. For one second, Ilya could almost imagine giving him something real. Not Shane. Never Shane. But something close enough to make Marleau stop looking at him like that. He wouldn’t, of course. But for one second, he thought about it. Instead, Ilya sighed.

“Ah, is embarrassing,” he said gravely. “I cannot.”

Marleau’s brows pulled together. “You can’t what?”

Ilya gave him a mournful look, then gestured vaguely toward his own crotch. “Unfortunate accident as child. Is gone.”

For a moment, Marleau only stared at him, then his mouth twitched as he fought a laugh. “I’ve seen your dick, Roz.”

It was a risky joke, but this was Marleau. And part of Ilya wanted to know, or maybe be reminded, that Marleau was still a hockey player. So Ilya lifted one eyebrow. “You are looking?”

Marleau barked a laugh before he could stop himself. “Fuck off.” But he was still grinning when he shoved Ilya’s shoulder, easy and affectionate.

Interesting, Ilya thought and filed that away for later.

Then Connors shouted from across the room, “Yo Marly! You and Roz coming out tonight, or is he saving himself to protect the power play?”

Marleau looked at Ilya, and Ilya looked back.

Marleau shook his head, still smiling despite himself, and stood. “C’mon. We’re leaving in five, and I’m not above leaving you here.”

Ilya made a wounded noise and stood with him. “I am ready. You are one milling about.”

Marleau laughed as the pair of them made their way out of the locker room.

A couple hours later, Ilya still hadn't yet watched the commercial.

This was not, technically, his fault. He had meant to. But Marleau’s apartment had filled steadily after they left the rink, one Bear becoming three, then five, then too many broad shoulders and loud voices in a space that had felt normal-sized that morning. By the time Connors announced they were leaving in twenty, which apparently meant forty-five, half the roster was pregaming like alcohol was still illegal in America, and Ilya had accepted that a quiet second alone with his phone was not coming that night.

Marleau was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with an open beer in one hand, laughing while St-Simon argued with Carmichael over the speaker.

Ilya still needed to ask him about Shane coming over after the game. Marleau would say yes; Ilya knew that. If Marleau could tolerate an apartment full of Bears drinking his beer and arguing over his speaker, one polite Canadian was not going to cross any line. But Shane was probably in Montreal right now, stressing himself into knots about showing up uninvited to someone else’s apartment, and Ilya didn't want to give Shane any reason to talk himself into cancelling.

“Marly,” he said.

Marleau glanced over. “What?”

“After Montreal game,” Ilya said, “I am bringing friend here.”

Marleau’s eyebrows went up immediately. “A friend?” Marleau asked, “Or a friend?”

For half a second, the meaning was lost on Ilya. English was annoying like that—same word, different meaning, the whole question hiding in Marleau’s tone. Shane was his friend. Shane was also exactly what Marleau was implying, just not in any way Ilya would admit to in this kitchen. So, Ilya just laughed. “A friend, Marly.”

Marleau looked at him over the rim of his beer, not suspicious so much as amused. “Oh,” he said. “You bringing over your best friend, Shane Hollander?”

Ilya stared at him. How the fuck had Marleau guessed that?

Marleau’s smile widened. “What?”

“How did you—” Ilya stopped.

Marleau rolled his eyes. “Roz, I saw the commercial.”

Ilya blinked. “You saw commercial?”

“Yeah. Hard to miss.” Marleau took a drink. “Probably wouldn’t have thought much of it, except his dad was the one who helped move you in.” Ilya went still. Marleau, thankfully missing that, added, “And his mom posting all those pictures of you guys from the summer.”

Ilya looked at him. “Pictures?”

Marleau looked at him. “You haven’t seen them?”

“What pictures?”

“Oh, man.” Marleau laughed, already reaching for his phone. “We have got to get you on American social media.”

“I have social media.”

“Yeah, but it's like Russian social media. You’re missing all the NHL gossip and drama on there.”

“Vkontakte is better.”

“Relax.” Marleau tapped at his phone, still smiling. “It was everywhere during rookie camp. People loved it. Whole thing was very cute.”

Ilya did not like that word. “Cute.”

“Yeah. You and Hollander. Everyone thought you both hated each other, then his mom posted a bunch of pictures of you both over the summer.” Marleau turned the phone toward him. “Here.”

Zoom In for images

The first two were from the weekend they had spent at the lake. The first was them in front of David’s truck, catching the moment of Ilya’s first encounter with the beloved American dessert: a s’more. The next one was timed perfectly: Ilya halfway off the dock, one foot still planted but the rest of him already doomed as Shane shoved him toward the water, both of them caught in motion and grinning like idiots.

Fuck.

He swiped.

The next one was dishes, this time. A sneaky shot taken from behind, them and the kitchen suspiciously wet, suds on Ilya's hair and shoulders, and Shane's shirt damp down his back. You couldn’t tell from the angle, but Shane was mid-accusation, and Ilya was only moments away from laughing so hard he would slip in the puddle they had created.

Ilya swiped again.

One from the pickup game they had joined at the Ottawa recreation center. Yuna was in this one, adjusting Ilya's helmet while Shane gave an awkward grin to the camera. The last picture immediately visible on the post was from one of the many movie nights at the Hollanders’. Shane was asleep on the couch, mouth slightly open, one arm trapped awkwardly between himself and the cushions. Ilya was passed out beside him, legs sprawled over Shane’s lap, a pillow clutched close to his chest.

There were more hidden among the “+17.” Pictures in the backyard, on the dock, in the driveway beside David’s car. Shane sunburned and irritated in half of them, and Ilya leaning too close in nearly all of them, angled toward Shane like a plant finding sunlight.

And above it all, Yuna had written: So grateful we were able to host Ilya before the season started. It was wonderful to finally spend some time with one of Shane’s friends away from the rink, and even better to see the boys get a little time together before everything gets busy again. Wishing them both a great season ahead, come back next summer, Ilya!

Ilya stared at the caption. Come back next summer.

Fuck.

It was obvious.

It was so obvious that Ilya genuinely didn't understand how anyone had looked at these pictures and thought friends. How Shane’s mother had posted them where the world could look and no one could see Ilya staring at her son like an idiot in love.

He scrolled down to the comments.

This is so sweet!!

Love that the rivalry is just on the ice.

Future of the league right there.

Obsessed with them being besties omg.

Hollander and Rozanov best friends arc???

Not a single person thought this was weird, or they were anything more. Ilya stared at the screen, so relieved it almost made him angry.

Marleau, completely unaware of the storm raging in Ilya's head, leaned back against the counter. “Yeah, fans went nuts for it. I thought maybe it was bullshit, honestly, because you never talked about the guy or anything. But if he’s actually coming over, that’s cool.”

Ilya looked up too quickly. “Is fine?”

“Yeah, man.” Marleau shrugged. “It’s your place too. Bring your friend over.”

My friend, Ilya thought, still holding the phone. On the screen, summer-Shane was glaring at summer-Ilya with his ears pink and his mouth trying not to smile.

Marleau grinned. “Besides, I want to meet the other rookie stirring shit up in the league. Is he really as good as they are saying?”

Ilya handed the phone back before he could look too long. “He is very boring,” he said.

“Sure,” Marleau said.

“Polite. Canadian. Terrible.”

“Sounds awful.” Marleau grinned as he shoved his phone into his pocket. “Bring him over. Hell, bring him out with us Saturday night.”

Ilya laughed before he could help it.

Marleau’s eyebrows went up. “What?”

“I just told you he is boring.”

“Boring guys can drink.”

“Not with you people,” Ilya said, glancing toward the living room, where Connors was shouting over the music. “He would hate the bars. Besides, we have plans.”

Marleau raised an eyebrow, “Plans?”

Ilya nodded gravely. “Yes. Date with your PS3 and NHL 11.”

Marleau laughed. “You’re inviting him over to play fake hockey after you play real hockey?”

“He is boring,” Ilya said. “I tell you this.”

“Alright, alright.” Marleau shook his head, still grinning. “Bring your boring Canadian over.”

Ilya felt something in his chest loosen, which was stupid, because he had already known Marleau would say yes. Still, he took out his phone while Marleau got pulled back into the argument over the speaker.

Lily: marly says is fine; come over after game

Shane does not answer before Connors finally got them all out the door nearly an hour later, but that was fine. Ilya would see him on Saturday anyway.

Chapter End Notes

This is not where I intended to leave this chapter, but the next scene was very quickly climbing in word count, and there was still a closing scene I wanted to add after that and I didn't want to post a 20k word chapter, so I decided to split Ilya's move to Boston into 2 parts.

As always, thank you to everyone who is reading, leaving kudos and commenting. Words really cannot express my gratitude for the response this fic has had. If people have their own headcanons for the Bear ensemble's personalities, I would love to hear them, because it wasn't until I was half way through this chapter that I realized I had no idea how to write them. So if you read St-Simon or Connors at all with a vaguely Brooklyn accent, that's why.

Edit: 6/6/26
Art done by me was added for Yuna's Facebook post! You will probably recognize at least 2 of those poses lol. They were created with a combination of digital art + photo bashing. I mainly didn't want to draw backgrounds haha, so I decided to make them "look" like photos by drawing the figures over them and just editing the backgrounds.

If photos are broken: Link to my Tumblr 💕

Chapter 4: Loverboy

Chapter Summary

Winning looked good on Shane. It was disgusting. It had put a brightness under his skin all evening that he couldn't quite shake, some private glowing satisfaction, and Shane kissed like he was trying not to be smug about that too, which only made Ilya want him worse.

Chapter Notes

Quick turnaround for pt.II since it was almost done when I posted Ch.3 the other day 💕

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Montreal won.

It was an exhibition game, which meant—technically—it didn't matter. It didn't count toward anyone’s career statistics nor did it say anything meaningful about the season yet to come. It was barely even a real game, if you thought about it.

Unfortunately, Montreal had still won. More unfortunately, Shane had played really well.

Which meant that when Shane finally made his way over, he was going to be sooo normal about it. He wouldn't come over gloating or grinning like an asshole—his boyfriend was way too polite and Canadian for that—but Ilya would know. Ilya would feel the smug little undercurrent that would undoubtably be simmering under every Shane did tonight.

God, Ilya hated him.

No. That wasn't true.

Ilya hated that winning looked good on him. Losing looked better, obviously—losing to Ilya, specifically. Shane flushed and irritated and furious with himself was, in Ilya’s private and extremely objective opinion, the best version of Shane Hollander. But winning was a close second.

He was still thinking about it by the time he and Marleau got back to the apartment, Marleau already halfway out of his game suit. His tie was loose, his hair still damp from the shower, his suit jacket abandoned somewhere between the front door and the kitchen. He had a beer in his hand before Ilya had fully kicked off his shoes.

Marleau glanced back at him, grinning. “I'll say Roz, hell of a first impression for a guy you said was boring."

“Pah,” Ilya said, dropping onto the couch. “Fake game anyway. Does not count.”

That got a laugh out of Marleau, who disappeared farther into the kitchen while his phone buzzed against the counter. It had been buzzing nearly nonstop since they had left the rink. Despite losing the game, the Bears were hardly perturbed in their plans to go out. Half the roster wanted to drown their sorrows over losing the first game against their divisional rival. The other half, as far as Ilya could tell, figured it being a Saturday night was reason enough. Hockey players truly were simple people. Ilya liked this about them.

Ilya felt his phone buzz in his back pocket and pulled it out.

Jane: Still okay if I come over?; I can go back to the hotel if Marleau changed his mind.; Or you.

As if Ilya hadn't spent half the third period thinking about Shane’s mouth. As if he hadn't engineered the perfect plan: Shane would come over, Marleau would drink a few beers, Ilya would show off his sick NHL 11 skills, Marleau would leave, and then Ilya would take his boyfriend to bed. Simple. Elegant. Foolproof. Granted, Ilya had imagined this plan beginning with a win for Boston, but semantics.

Lily: come over; i already tell him you are coming. he is excited to meet famous best friend

A pause.

Jane: Okay.; I’ll be there in 15 minutes.

Ilya was still smiling when Marleau came back into the living room, now without his tie and with the top two buttons of his shirt undone. He looked at Ilya, then at the phone, then back at Ilya.

“Hollander?”

Ilya locked the screen. “Yes.”

Marleau dropped onto the far end of the couch with his beer and stretched his legs out toward the coffee table. Ilya reached for one of the controllers and threw it at him before he could say anything annoying.

Marleau caught it against his chest. “Ow.”

“Play me,” Ilya said.

Marleau looked down at the controller, then back at him. “Now?”

“Yes, now. Shane is going to be insufferable enough tonight. I need warm up”

“Hollander? Insufferable?”

“Yes, yes,” Ilya said, already starting the game. “Are you going to play or not?”

Marleau laughed and set his beer on the table. “Oh my god, fine.”

Which was about the last thing that went well for him. Marleau was already warmed by the beer and spent from the game; and Ilya was better than him on a good day. Post-game and a beer in, Marleau didn't stand a chance.

Shane knocked some fifteen minutes later, right on time.

Ilya was on his feet before Marleau could even put his beer down. He opened the door, and there Shane was in the hallway, hair still damp from his shower, team jacket zipped up, overnight bag slung over one shoulder. He looked tired and so stupidly good that Ilya forgot, for a second, to be annoyed about losing.

Then Shane’s mouth twitched.

“Hey,” Shane said.

Ilya narrowed his eyes. “Not a word.”

Shane’s expression went very innocent, but the pleased look in his eyes didn't dim. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You are thinking it. Very loud. Could hear you from down hallway.”

The corners of Shane's mouth twitched as he suppressed a smile—the smug bastard. “It was a good game,” Shane said instead.

Ilya scoffed, “Was not real game. Was exhibition—fake hockey.”

Shane’s face pinched with immediate offense, his mouth pressing into that tight, irritated line he got whenever Ilya managed to get under his skin. Ilya wanted to kiss him so badly it made his teeth ache. Ilya wanted to bite him. Instead, he stepped aside. “Come in.”

Marleau was already standing from the couch, beer in hand, easy smile in place. “Hollander.”

The glimpse of his real boyfriend that Ilya had gotten in the hallway vanished. Shane’s shoulders squared and his grip shifted on the strap of his bag, before suddenly he was all fresh-faced Canadian politeness; the clean-cut hockey boy from interviews and postgame clips. “Hey. Thanks for letting me come over.”

“Yeah, man, no problem.” Marleau held out his hand. “Cliff, most guys just call me Marly though.”

Shane shifted his bag higher on his shoulder so he could shake it. “Shane.”

“I know,” Marleau said, grinning. “You’re kind of famous.”

Shane paused. Not long. Just long enough for Ilya to watch the flush of a blush rise on his cheeks. “Uh. Yeah. I guess.”

Ilya was delighted. “You are embarrassed? We are both very famous now, Shane. Should not be news.”

A flush bloomed on Shane's cheeks. “Shut up! I just never know what to say.”

“I thought polite Canadian boys said thank you and sorry after everything.”

Shane shot him a look, before turning to Marleau and saying. “Thank you.”

“Wow,” Ilya said monotonously. “No sorry? Fame has changed you.”

Marleau laughed, and Shane smiled a little before catching himself, the blush still high on his cheeks, one hand shifting on the strap of his bag like he needed something to do with it.

It was something Ilya had only noticed recently, that Shane could be a little strange around new people. Not strange in a bad way, just... quieter than Ilya would have guessed. Though in his defense, Shane was never that way with him. Sure, his boyfriend could miss the biggest hints in the world even if they were wrapped in a bow and handed to him directly, and maybe his interest in hockey was obsessive even by the standards of men paid millions of dollars to care about hockey. But Shane had been the one to insist on an introduction between the two of them at the prospect cup, and the first to call Ilya on his bullshit. So no, Ilya didn't exactly look at Shane Hollander and think shy. He still didn’t—shy wasn't the right word.

But Shane wasn't like that with everyone. Case in point: Shane now, in Marleau’s living room, polite and flushed and looking so painfully determined to make a good impression that Ilya wanted to kiss him stupid for it.

Marleau—thank God—wasn't the type of guy to take it personally. He could probably hold a conversation with himself for an hour if left unattended, which was good, because it would have been really awkward if Ilya had been forced to get pissy with Marleau for making his boyfriend uncomfortable in Marleau’s own apartment. If anything, Marleau seemed to find Shane’s quirks just as charming as Ilya did. Really, if Ilya hadn't been completely sure Marleau was straight as an arrow, his hackles might have gone up. Marleau, to his credit, didn't make a thing of it. He congratulated Shane on the win, asked about Montreal’s camp, asked if the locker room was as intense as everyone said, and then—rather shamelessly—whether Montreal was planning to keep that second line together or if tonight had just been an exhibition look.

Shane’s mouth twitched. “I don’t think I’m allowed to answer that.”

“So yes,” Marleau said immediately, grinning.

Shane’s mouth twitched again. “I’m saying I can neither confirm or deny.”

Ilya blew a raspberry. “Boo. Boooring.”

Shane looked at him, half-offended, and laughed. After that, the weird air that seemed to surround the three of them dissipated and the room relaxed.

Which was good, because despite everything else Ilya wanted out of tonight, the date with Marleau’s PS3 and NHL 11 hadn't actually been a lie. Sure, Ilya had many other plans for tonight, none of which involved Marleau’s television, Marleau’s couch, or Marleau continuing to occupy the apartment. But it also wasn't exactly a lie. Over the summer, he and Shane had spent more than one afternoon getting increasingly competitive about NHL 10, and Ilya had been privately furious when NHL 11 came out three days after he left for Boston. So, while he only wanted to play for however long it took Marleau to drink enough to join the rest of the Bears, he did actually want to play.

Shane sat on the couch first, careful to leave a normal amount of space between them. Ilya sat beside him and immediately erased half of it. Shane went still for one fraction of a second, glancing at him, quick and nervous, but Ilya very pointedly kept his eyes on the television as he reset the game. It wasn't enough for Marleau to notice, and after a moment, Shane leaned forward and claimed his own controller.

Marleau dropped back into the armchair with his beer and pointed at the television. “Hell yeah. I've been dying to see this. Roz has been insufferable about this game since it came out.”

Shane glanced at Ilya. “You’ve been practicing?”

“No.” Ilya lied, pointedly not looking or acknowledging the smug-ass expression he knew was gracing Shane's face.

“He totally has been!” Marleau laughed, betryaing him.

Ilya shot him a dirty look. “Marly.”

Shane looked down at his controller, but not fast enough to hide the grin pulling at his mouth. “Well, I suppose you did lose a lot this summer.”

Marly barked a laugh as an offended noise rose in Ilya's throat. “I did not lose a lot! I was letting you win!” Ilya insisted. "I was being a good—" boyfriend, "—friend. Canada would not let me back if I broke gold boy's spirit before season even began."

Shane let out a squawk of protest, a noise surprised out of him before he could hide it. It quickly morphed into a laugh as he argued on the contrary, but Ilya was hardly listening anymore, utterly transfixed by the relaxed expression and posture Shane now wore—night and day from the boy who stepped into his and Marleau's apartment less than an hour previous. Ilya had to look back at the television before his own face did something stupid.

For a while, the night was genuinely fun.

Marleau didn't make the night awkward or act like he was doing Ilya some enormous favor by tolerating his friend. He watched them play, laughed when they got too intense, asked Shane questions during pauses, and seemed increasingly pleased to discover that the league hadn't invented their supposed rivalry. Shane and Ilya really were this competitive. Friends or not.

They started with Boston versus Montreal, because Shane had a mean streak no one appreciated enough. He selected Montreal without looking at Ilya.

Ilya stared at him. “Really?”

Shane’s face remained carefully neutral. “What?”

“You are evil.”

“It’s just a game.”

“Ah, now it is just game.”

The game was good, but it was also infuriating because Shane was—unfortunately—excellent at NHL 11. This shouldn't have surprised Ilya. Despite what he had claimed earlier, Shane had indeed kicked his ass at NHL 10 more than once over the summer, and three weeks of private practice had apparently done very little to close the gap. There was something equally infuriating and charming about watching Shane be good at fake hockey after he had already been great at real hockey.

It also meant Ilya had to lock the fuck in if he didn't want to embarrass himself a second time tonight.

Marleau realized this about three minutes in, his grin widening over the neck of his beer. “So, you two are actually like this.”

“Like what?” Shane asked, not looking away from the screen.

“Intense as hell.”

“Is hockey,” Ilya said.

“It’s a video game.”

“Fake hockey is still hockey.”

Shane’s mouth curved. “Oh, so now fake games count?”

Ilya took his eyes off the screen just long enough to glare at him, but this was a mistake. Shane immediately broke down the wing.

“No,” Ilya snapped, jerking his attention back to the game. “Do not.” But Shane did.

Ilya reached over and shoved at Shane’s controller.

Shane barked out a laugh, startled and offended at once, jerking the controller away. “This is interference!”

Ilya turned immediately to Marleau. “Ref did not call.”

Marleau pointed his beer at him. “No, no, no. C’mon, Roz. Lose with dignity.”

“The ref in this game is terrible,” Ilya said gravely.

Shane shot him a look before he could stop himself, quick and bright and almost mean with enjoyment. “Now you sound like a sore loser.”

Ilya felt the full heat of it somewhere below his ribs. There were many good versions of Shane Hollander. Losing to Ilya was the best. Winning, unfortunately, was second. This look—this playful one, the one that only came out when Shane really let loose—was making a serious attempt at third.

After that, Shane eased by degrees. It wasn't immediate, but slowly his shoulders loosened, he stopped looking toward Marleau every time he spoke, and even answered some questions with something close to his real personality. The caveat to this was that half his answers were painfully sincere and the other half were dry enough that it occasionally took Marleau a second to realize he was being chirped.

For almost an hour, Marleau’s presence wasn't bad—not even inconvenient, not exactly. The three of them played, talked, chirped, drank—Shane had one beer, carefully nursed and stealthily set aside after about half—and for a little while Ilya could almost enjoy the strange luxury of having two of his worlds in the room and neither of them catching fire. Marly liked Shane. Shane was relaxing. No one had questioned why Shane Hollander had come to Ilya’s apartment after a game with an overnight bag.

It was a good night.

Then Marleau finished his third beer, and his phone buzzed again. And again. And again.

At first Ilya ignored it, because he was in the middle of a power play against Shane, who had become morally repugnant with his one-goal lead. But his phone kept lighting up and buzzing against Marleau’s thigh in such quick succession that even Shane glanced over.

Ilya waited until the puck was dead. “Your boys are going to leave you behind.”

Marleau looked down at his phone, then at the television, Shane, and finally Ilya. This was where a reasonable man would stand, finish his beer, and leave. Unfortunately, Marleau was drunk enough and comfortable enough to become unreasonable.

“Honestly,” he said, “this is kind of fun. Maybe I’ll stay. I have a third controller.”

Shane’s hands tightened around the controller.

Ilya didn't look at him. If he looked at him, he was going to do something stupid.

“No,” Ilya said.

Marleau paused. “No?”

“No.”

“Wow.”

“You will mess up line balance,” Ilya said, fighting to keep his voice nonchalant, “Play what? Two on one? Is stupid. You want to, what, gang up on Shane?”

“No, no.” Marleau leaned forward, immediately and disastrously invested. “I’ll take Hollzy. Me and your best friend versus you. We’ll kick your ass.”

Ilya made a loud, disgusted noise. “Boo.”

Shane choked on a laugh and then tried to hide it as a cough.

Marleau’s phone buzzed again. This time, there were enough messages that the screen stayed lit continuously. Ilya leaned just far enough to see the wall of names, insults, and increasingly dramatic demands from the Bears' group chat.

“See?” Ilya said. “Your line needs you.”

“My line is a bunch of drunk assholes.”

“They are your drunk assholes.”

Marleau looked back at the television, visibly tempted. It was very unfair. On any other night, Ilya might even have been touched. Marleau liked Shane. Marleau liked him enough to want to keep hanging out with him instead of going out on a rare early Saturday night. This was, objectively, a good thing. If Ilya were a better person, perhaps he would have appreciated the full emotional weight of his closest teammate making a real effort to get along with his boyfriend. But Ilya was not a better person.

Ilya hadn't gotten laid in over a month.

And for one brief, terrible second, Marleau looked like he might insist. Then his phone buzzed again, and he sighed dramatically as he hauled himself to his feet. “Fine. Fine. I know when I’m not wanted.”

“You do not,” Ilya said. “But I help.”

“Asshole.”

“Yes.”

Marleau drained the last of his beer and carried the empty bottle into the kitchen. Shane paused the game, because he couldn't help being polite even when Ilya was trying to get Marleau out the door before he lost his mind. Marly grabbed his keys from the counter, then his jacket from the chair by the door, moving slowly enough that Ilya began to wonder whether murder would affect his rookie season.

At the door, Marleau turned back. "Hey Hollzy!"

Shane made a face at the nickname. “Yeah?”

“Good to meet you properly!”

Shane’s expression softened in surprise. “Yeah. You too.”

“You’re welcome over whenever.” Marleau glanced at Ilya, grin sharpening. “Roz needs more friends.”

Ilya scoffed. “I have many friends. You all love me.”

Marleau laughed, “We tolerate you.”

“Same thing.”

Still grinning, Marleau opened the door. “Try not to kill each other.”

“No promises,” Shane said as the door shut behind Marleau.

For half a second, neither of them moved. Then Ilya leaned over, took the controller out of Shane's hands before he could even pretend he was going to continue the match, and dropped both controllers onto the coffee table. Shane watched him do it, throat moving once. Shane opened his mouth, probably to say something polite or anxious or unnecessary, so Ilya caught him by the front of his jacket and kissed him before he could get any of it out.

Shane came toward him all too willingly. One hand caught on Ilya's shoulder, the other fisted into his shirt. Ilya snaked a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him in the rest of the way. The kiss wasn't graceful—Shane's knee knocked against the coffee table but Ilya didn't care. Shane made a small, surprised sound into his mouth, and then he was kissing back harder, all that careful distance finally breaking apart under Ilya's hands.

They broke apart. Shane's mouth was already red.

"Hi," Shane said.

"Hi," Ilya said, and kept his hand at the back of Shane's neck.

Winning looked good on Shane. It was disgusting. It had put a brightness under his skin all evening that he couldn't quite shake, some private glowing satisfaction, and Shane kissed like he was trying not to be smug about that too, which only made Ilya want him worse. He tightened his grip and kissed him again, slower this time, more deliberate, and Shane made a low frustrated sound into his mouth. His hands slid into Ilya’s hair and pulled, firm enough to make his point. He kissed back like he played once he'd stopped thinking about it—all in, no wasted motion.

Ilya's hand found the hem of his shirt, spread flat against the warm skin of his back, and dragged him closer until Shane's full weight settled in his lap. He kissed down to his jaw, his throat, felt Shane tip his head back to give him room.

Then Shane went still.

Ilya felt it before he understood it: the sudden tension in Shane’s shoulders, the way his hand stopped moving in Ilya’s hair. Shane pulled back, breathing hard, and looked toward the door. The door remained closed. This seemed obvious, but Shane was staring at it like Marleau might materialize through the wood.

"What?" Ilya asked.

Shane looked back at him, already embarrassed. "We can't do this here. What if he walks back in?"

Ilya considered making a joke. A very good joke, naughty, but good. But Shane was still close, still flushed and breathing hard, and beneath the embarrassment was something tighter. Not panic, exactly. Just the memory of the fact that once, already, a closed door hadn't been enough.

"Marly is gone," Ilya said. "He is at bar with drunk idiots who are very needy." He paused. "He will not be back soon."

"I know." Shane looked down, embarrassed. "Can we just—can we go to your room?"

Ilya laughed, he couldn't help it.

"Don't laugh," Shane said.

"I am not laughing." Ilya kissed him once, quick and firm, then stood and took him by the wrist. "Come."

Shane got to his feet immediately, then looked briefly mortified by how immediately he'd done it. Ilya said nothing, just pulled him down the hall, which was its own kind of mercy.

In his room, Ilya reached back and turned the lock. Shane watched him do it, and something in his shoulders dropped.

"Better?" Ilya asked.

"Yeah," Shane said. "Sorry."

"Don't be." Ilya meant it. He crossed back to him, got a hand under his jaw, and tipped his face up. "I have you."

Ilya walked them back until Shane's shoulders hit the door, and they picked up where they'd left off. Shane's hands were back in his hair. Ilya had his hands on either side of Shane's waist, and it was good, it was exactly what he'd wanted all evening, except—

"On your knees," Ilya panted into his mouth.

He said it mostly to see what Shane would do. He expected the look—that particular flash of irritation Shane got whenever he thought Ilya was being an asshole—and was near eager in his anticipation for it. But then Shane sank to the floor without a word. Shane's pupils were blown wide with raw desire as he leaned forward to mouth at the bulge that was quickly growing in Ilya's sweatpants.

Now, Ilya was by no means a virgin, so there was absolutely no reason for the heat that crawled up the back of his neck right now, no reason for his brain to go quite this fuzzy, quite this fast; just because Shane was on his knees in front of him, mouth hot through the fabric of his sweatpants, hands braced against Ilya’s thighs like he belonged there. Ilya's hand moved into his hair entirely on its own.

"Christ, Shane."

Shane looked up at him from under his lashes, flushed and intent and not nearly as shy as he had been pretending to be all night. Then, without prompting, he hooked his fingers into Ilya’s waistband and pulled both his sweatpants and boxers down in one smooth motion.

Ilya had only a moment to register the cold air first, then Shane’s mouth, warm and wet and careful for all of half a second before he took him down slowly, all the way, eyes burning into Ilya's the entire time.

Ilya’s forearm hit the door hard enough to make it rattle. His other hand tightened in Shane's hair—not pushing, just holding on—and what came out of his mouth was a string of Russian explicative words he couldn't have translated with a gun to his head.

Shane hummed around him.

Ilya’s head dropped against his forearm.

“Fuck,” he breathed, and felt Shane’s fingers flex against his thighs in answer.

Then Shane’s hands slid up under the hem of Ilya’s shirt, tugging with clear impatience. Ilya quickly got the message and pulled off the offending article. Shane's eyes moved over him, dark and unhurried, in a way that made Ilya want to return the favor immediately.

He pulled Shane off him by the hair. Shane made a sound of protest that went straight down Ilya’s spine, but Ilya was already sinking to his knees beside him, crowding him back against the door and kissing him hard, tasting himself on Shane's lips. Shane kissed back immediately, open and eager, as Ilya got both hands under Shane's shirt and stripped him of the remaining cloth barrier between their chest. Then it was just skin, finally, and Ilya pressed forward into it.

Ilya got one hand to the back of his neck and pulled him up with him. It wasn't graceful. Shane’s shoulder knocked against the door. Ilya nearly tripped out of his own sweatpants before kicking them away. Shane laughed against his mouth, breathless and startled, until Ilya bit lightly at his lower lip and turned the sound into something else. Pants went. Shane had barely stepped out of his before Ilya reached back and hooked behind his thighs and hoisted him up.

It wasn't effortless. Shane was a professional hockey player and not some delicate thing from one of Ilya’s worst fantasies, but he came up easily enough with a sharp, surprised noise, legs catching around Ilya’s hips. Thankfully—for Ilya's ego—the bed was only a few paces away, and it was easy enough to turn and deposit his boyfriend onto the duvet.

He turned, got one knee onto the mattress, and dropped Shane onto the duvet with less grace than he would have preferred. Shane landed on his back, breathless and flushed, hair mussed, lips wet and parted, looking up at Ilya like a dream. In seconds, Ilya crawled up over him, covering Shane with his body and kissing him hungerly, relishing in the skin-on-skin contact.

Ilya groaned before he could stop himself, low into Shane’s mouth, because this—this they hadn't had since June—since Toronto and the CCM shoot. In Ottawa, Shane had refused to fully undress, and Ilya hadn't argued because Shane’s paranoia wasn't exactly unfounded—each of their late night escapades accomplished over or under clothing. Always with some layer left between them like cotton could save them from a repeat of CCM.

But now there was nothing.

No shirts, waistbands, or distance. Just Shane under him, hard and warm everywhere, the solid line of his body pressed full-length against Ilya’s. Ilya could feel the flex of his stomach when he breathed, the shift of his thighs around Ilya’s hips, the heat of him everywhere at once.

Shane's fingers slid back into his hair and Ilya groaned against his mouth, low and involuntary. He pulled back just far enough to look at him. The flush had spread down Shane's throat, across his chest, and his face, his beautiful freckles—

Fuck. Ilya felt a rush of mortification at the giddy feeling that spread through him as he looked down at his boyfriend. He dropped his face immediately to the side of Shane's neck and mouthed at the hollow of his throat, because whatever expression had just crossed his face wasn't one he needed Shane to see. Fuck

He wanted; God, he wanted. He wanted to fuck Shane. He wanted to open Shane up, to press inside, and carve out a place for him in Shane's bones. Would Shane let him? Would Shane let him fuck him, fill him, make lov—

Ilya cut the thought off.

Under him, Shane let out a breathy groan as Ilya scraped his teeth lightly along the sensitive skin of his throat. "No—no marks." Shane moaned.

Ilya stilled there for half a second, teeth still against his skin, and smiled.

“Bossy,” he murmured.

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

“Yes, yes.” He kissed the spot once before acquiescing, kissing his way down Shane's body.

Shane made it difficult. He kept shifting under him, hips restless, one hand still tangled in Ilya’s hair like he couldn't decide whether he wanted to pull him closer or shove him down. By the time Ilya got his mouth on him, Shane was already breathing hard enough to make Ilya feel drunk with it. The first drag of Ilya’s tongue made Shane jerk so hard Ilya had to pin him down with a forearm across his hips. Ilya enjoyed the desperate, needy sounds he was able to pull from his boyfriend’s throat.

Slowly, with his other hand, Ilya let his fingers trail up over Shane's knee and down below his balls. He slowly rubbed his fingers along the cleft of his ass, before moving them to press ever so slightly against his puckered opening. He felt Shane tense below him, and while Ilya didn’t remove his hand, he didn't press any more forward, leaving them there as an offer or a casual suggestion.

But, hearing the slight hitch in Shane's breath, Ilya pulled off him completely, resting his cheek on Shane's thigh as he looked at him.

"Have you ever?" Ilya asked softly. As Shane shook his head, face still flushed, but from both arousal and embarrassment now. Ilya’s want pulled tight and sharp in his stomach. He continued. "Would you like to?"

A pause. Shane's throat moved. "I—I don't know."

Ilya hummed and eased the pressure of his fingers without moving them away. He kept his cheek on Shane's thigh and waited. "You are scared?"

"No, I'm not scared!"

"Is okay to be. We do not need to." He rubbed his thumb lightly against the inside of Shane's thigh

"I'm not—" Shane cut himself off, swallowing hard. "I'm not scared, Ilya."

"But you are nervous?" Shane, somehow, flushed deeper and averted his eyes. Ilya continued "Have you ever touched yourself there?"

While Shane still didn’t look at him, he nodded his head sharply. "I've got—" he started, stopped. Tried again. "I have a thing. Okay."

"A thing?"

"A dildo," Shane said to the ceiling. "I have a dildo."

Ilya couldn't fight the grin that split his face, nor the rush of fondness that spread through him fast and unbidden. Fuck, Ilya loved—

“What color?” he asked, because he was weak.

"Fuck you!" Shane sat up, drew his knees to his chest, and turned away. Ilya moved up immediately, pressing his chest to Shane's back, lips finding the back of his neck. Shane made a token attempt to pull a pillow over his head before Ilya got an arm around him and pulled him back against his chest. Shane gave up on the pillow and let himself be gathered in.

"No, no, krolik" Bunny. "Another time. When you want." Ilya kissed the back of Shane's neck, and felt him relax against him.

"Krow-lick?" Shane asked. Ilya grinned at his pronunciation.

"Hmm. Rabbit. You are jumpy like rabbit."

Shane smacked his arm in offense, but he was smiling, none of the tension from before remaining. Ilya gave it a moment, his fingers moving idly along Shane's arm. Then: "Not that. But can I try something else?"

"Something else?"

"Yes. I think you will like. Feels good."

After a moment, Shane nodded.

Ilya pressed a kiss to his shoulder and moved back down, settling level with Shane's hips. Ilya swallowed him down his cock—which was beginning to flag—and nearly groaned at the heady feeling of Shane filling out in his mouth. Though tempted to abandon his plans and just suck Shane off to competition, he pulled off and pressed two open out kisses to each of Shane's thighs. He guided Shane's hands down to pull his own knees back, and felt Shane comply with only a small hesitation, and then Ilya kissed down the crease of his ass and felt Shane's breath go uneven above him. He looked up to the flushed face of his boyfriend.

“Still okay?” Ilya asked.

Shane nodded too quickly.

“Words.”

“Yeah,” Shane said, rough and breathless. “Yes.”

Ilya smiled against his skin. “Good.” Before he lowered his mouth and, with the flat of his tongue, licked a stripe up over his entrance. Shane's body jerked as if electrocuted, his hands jerking where they gripped his thighs. He let out a punched out moan, "Ilya!"

Ilya smirked against him, as he licked and sucked at his rim, nose buried against him. Ilya used one of his hands to spread Shane out so he could ever so slightly press the tip of his tongue inside him, while his other hand snaked around and stroked Shane's neglected cock in time with the thrusts of his tongue.

The sounds spilling from Shane's mouth were filthy, obscene and breathy, and Ilya could feel Shane's body tightening. He heard Shane's breath catch—a familiar sound from the summer—and Ilya merely redoubled his efforts

“Ilya,” Shane said, panicked now. “I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”

Ilya hummed in encouragement, and that, combined with the feeling of Ilya's hand on his cock and tongue in his ass, seemed to send Shane off the cliff. Shane came with a raw cry, his release painting his chest and Ilya's hand. Ilya slowly eased to a stop, before pulling off Shane's rim altogether.

Ilya eased Shane's thighs down and ran his palms along them, working out the tension that had built from holding the position so long. Shane lay there and let him, chest still heaving, arm thrown over his eyes. Ilya's own cock—which had flagged from neglect—valiantly twitched at the sight below him.

He wrapped his hand—still slick with Shane's release—around himself and groaned at the first stroke, loud enough that Shane moved his arm and looked at him. His eyes dropped from Ilya's face to his cock and stayed there.

Slowly, Shane sat up and Ilya let himself be pushed back onto the bed. Without another word, Shane swallowed him down in one smooth motion. Ilya threaded his fingers through Shane's hair, not guiding or directing, but desperately hanging on as Shane worked him with the same focused, unhurried attention he gave everything.

It was embarrassing how fast Ilya felt himself getting close.

“Shane,” he managed, but Shane only pressed closer and Ilya was helpless but to come down his boyfriend's throat, his grip tightening involuntarily in Shane's hair.

Shane swallowed, not quite managing all of it—Ilya felt him cough once, and some of Ilya's release leaked out the side of Shane's mouth—but still one of the hottest things Ilya has ever seen.

As Ilya caught his breath, Shane carefully maneuvered himself to lay next to Ilya without getting any of the previous mess on the duvet. With the high of his orgasm still running through him, Ilya can't help but laugh at the growing look of discontent on Shane's face as he regarded the cum on his chest. Ilya sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

"Stay. I will grab bag and towel."

Ilya didn't bother putting clothes on before unlocking the bedroom door and stepping out into the apartment. They were the only ones there, after all. Still, he had to fight a smirk at Shane’s squawk of disapproval behind him.

Ilya is quick to collect Shane's overnight bag before ducking into the bathroom long enough to run a washcloth under the sink. By the time he came back, Shane was sitting half-upright against the pillows, hair a mess, face flushed, with a growing look of indignation.

“That was stupid,” Shane hissed. “What if Marleau came back while you were out there?”

“Nothing he has not seen before,” Ilya said, climbing back onto the bed.

Shane made an appalled noise.

“What?” Ilya asked, grinning as he started wiping Shane’s chest clean. “Is hockey. We all shower together.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“Maybe not for you.”

“Ilya.”

“Besides,” Ilya said, gentler now, dragging the warm cloth carefully over Shane’s skin, “Marly will not be back for hours. Bears stay out late.”

As he says this, they both distantly hear the front door to the apartment open and close, and both of them freeze. For one suspended, impossible second, there was only silence. Then came the dull sound of the door closing, followed by the uneven stumble of footsteps through the apartment.

Shane’s eyes went huge.

Ilya, very slowly, looked down at him.

The footsteps continued past the hall. Something knocked lightly against the wall. Presumably Marleau muttered something unintelligible to himself, then kept going. A moment later, his bedroom door down the hall opened, shut, and the apartment went quiet again.

Shane stared at Ilya in absolute horror.

Ilya lasted maybe two seconds before laughter broke out of him, low and helpless and nearly silent only because Shane looked ready to murder him if he made a sound above a whisper.

Shane went to smack his arm, before thinking better of it and grabbed him instead. “Asshole,” he hissed. “You said he’d be gone for hours!”

“Yes, yes,” Ilya said, fighting for breath. “He should have been. Bars must be shit tonight after Boston’s loss.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It is little funny.”

“It is not.” Shane shoved at his shoulder again, mortified color crawling up his neck. “Fuck. I shouldn’t be here. I should be in the guest room, or I should go back to the hotel, or—”

“No.”

“Ilya—”

“No,” Ilya said again, quieter this time, the laughter easing out of him. He tossed the washcloth aside and caught Shane’s wrist before he could start spiraling himself out of the bed. “You are not going anywhere.”

“But if he—”

“He will not know.”

“He might.”

“He is very drunk and went to his own room,” Ilya said. “We have, what? Five hours before you need to be back at hotel? Marly will not wake before that, he won't know."

Shane stared at him, still wide-eyed, still flushed, still clearly torn between panic and wanting to hit him again. Ilya squeezed his wrist once.

“Stay,” he said.

That, finally, seemed to calm him down. Shane's body is still near wrought with tension, but he doesn't fight Ilya's hold. Eventually, he surrendered, and Ilya felt Shane's arm hesitantly come up and circle his waist.

"… okay."

Ilya hummed and reached down to pull the blanket over both of them. Eventually, Shane's breathing evens out, but Ilya lays there in the dark for a little while longer, listening to the quiet apartment and the distant sounds of the street below. He'd lain in this bed alone several times over the last few weeks and thought that the room was too wide and too still, and thought about this—about someone warm beside him. Shane, specifically.

As the pair of them fall asleep, or rather, rest for the few hours Shane has before he has to be on a plane to wherever, Ilya thinks he was right.

The room didn't feel so quiet with someone in it.

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

A few days later, Ilya got careless.

In his defense, practice had been long and Carmichael had nearly gotten them all bag-skated for trying to turn a neutral-zone drill into a breakaway contest, and Ilya was sitting half-dressed at his stall with his shin guards still strapped to his legs. The room moved around him in its usual post-practice noise: showers running, tape ripping, someone threatening to put Connors’ phone in the toilet if he took control of the speaker again.

Ilya, naturally, was texting Shane; Shane had apparently spent a portion of his morning reviewing Boston's game film and was quite animatedly passing on his notes on Boston's performance yesterday.

Jane: You keep trying to beat two guys at the blue line when you don’t have support.
Lily: i beat them sometimes
Jane: You turn the puck over sometimes.
Lily: wow.; obsessed with bears hockey now?
Jane: I watch hockey. You just happen to be there sometimes.

He was smiling down at his phone like an idiot, which was how he failed to notice Marleau until a voice said, directly over his shoulder, “Who’s Jane?”

Ilya startled hard enough he nearly dropped the phone.

Marleau looked immediately delighted. He dropped onto the bench beside him, hair still damp from the shower, grinning. "C'mon," he said, when Ilya offered no one. "Who's Jane?"

Ilya looked at him for one long second, weighing his options. Unfortunately, most of his options were bad. Marleau had already seen the name. He had probably seen enough of the messages to know Jane had informed opinions about Boston's hockey—Ilya's specifically. If he said she was his cousin, Marleau would ask why he'd been smiling at his cousin like that. Marleau wasn't going to let this go even if he said “no one” again. If he said she was a journalist, Marleau would probably make him turn the phone over to the GM, no matter how tight they were getting.

“She is friend,” Ilya said finally.

Marleau’s grin widened. “A friend.”

“Yes.” Ilya said. English was a terrible language designed to kill him. “Normal friend.”

"Roz." Marleau laughed, "You can tell me you have a girl."

Ilya clicked his tongue and bent to undo the shin pads he had forgotten about. "I do not know what you are talking about."

"You absolutely have a girl."

"Maybe Jane is old woman from church," he said, working at the velcro. "Maybe I do charity."

"Is she?"

"No," Ilya said, because even he wasn't going to commit to a stupid lie when there was no point. "But maybe."

Marleau laughed. “Dude, why didn’t you just say that?”

Ilya glanced up. There was no edge to his voice—no offense or no wounded pride at being kept out of it. Marleau looked amused, mostly, and maybe a little triumphant. Ilya shrugged. “Is private.”

“Yeah, okay. Sure. Interesting career choice if you value your privacy that much.” Marleau said, still grinning. “So were you going to let Connors try to wingman you for another three weeks or...”

“Was funny.”

“It was kind of funny,” Marleau admitted.

Before Ilya could decide whether to feel insulted by that, Connors appeared at the end of the row, hair damp, shirt half-on. “Okay, Rozy, listen. Last preseason game is in two days, which means team-integration operations are entering their final phase. So, we’re going out, you’re having fun, and if the universe just so happens to provide a beautiful woman who appreciates whatever it is your whole thing is—”

“Leave loverboy alone,” Marleau said.

Connors stopped. “Huh?”

Marleau nodded toward Ilya, enjoying himself far too much. “He’s got a girl.”

The room didn't go silent. Hockey locker rooms rarely did. But the immediate area around Ilya definitely went quiet with interest.

Connors looked at Ilya. Then at Marleau. Then back at Ilya. “No shit?”

"This is why I say nothing," Ilya said, and dragged his shin pads off.

"You have a girlfriend?" Connors said, loud enough that St-Simon looked over from two stalls down.

"Roz has a girl?"

"I knew it," Carmichael announced from somewhere down the row, though Ilya was almost certain he had known no such thing. "Pay up Hammy!"

Connors dropped onto the bench across from Ilya like this required a full debrief. “Dude. Why the hell didn’t you just say that? We were wasting premium wingman energy on a taken man. Do you know how many women I talked you up to?”

“I did not ask for this.”

Connors threw his hands up with an exasperated noise, which got a few laughs, and then the questions came, because apparently even having a girlfriend wasn't quite enough to get them off his dick. Was she local? No. Was she Russian? Also no. Did she know hockey? Very much yes. How'd they meet? Ilya declined to answer. Did she have friends? Also no, on principle. Was she hot?

Ilya looked at Connors like the question had personally offended him. “Obviously.”

That got him booed.

“Pictures?” St-Simon said.

“No.”

“Ahh man, come on. Why not?”

“Because I say no.”

Connors narrowed his eyes. “Is she real?”

Ilya threw a roll of sock tape at him. Connors caught it against his chest, laughing. “Okay, okay, she’s real. Where’d you meet her?”

“None of your business.”

“So not Boston,” Connors said.

“No.”

“Not Russia.”

“I already said no.”

“Canada?” Marleau guessed, and Ilya hated him a little for being smarter than he looked. Ilya paused half a second too long. Marleau’s grin went sharp. “Canada.”

“Is long distance,” Ilya said.

The reaction to that was immediate and sympathetic in the loud, stupid way of hockey players. Connors groaned. St-Simon made a face like Ilya had announced an injury. Someone farther down the room said, “Brutal, man.”

“How long distance?” Marleau asked.

“Long.”

“Toronto long or Vancouver long?”

“Canada long.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is only answer you are going to get.”

Marleau was still smiling, but he didn't push. That was the thing about him—he would chirp right up to the line but usually fail to cross it. "Anyway," he said, clapping Ilya once on the shoulder. "Mystery solved. Roz isn't hopeless. He's just an idiot."

“I am many things,” Ilya said. “Hopeless was never one.”

“Debatable,” Connors said, but he was already moving on, turning toward St-Simon to complain about all the effort they had wasted trying to get Ilya laid when half the roster was still single and tragic.

It should have been annoying. It was annoying, actually. It was also, unfortunately, nice.

The Bears were idiots. Loud idiots. Nosy idiots. Idiots with no concept of privacy and only a passing acquaintance with subtlety. But they were not assholes. Not about this. Not really. Already the locker room was moving on, and the needling Ilya had expected never came. Ilya has a girl. Fine. Chirp him for hiding her, demand pictures, ask whether she had equally hockey-proficient friends, reallocate wingman resources to the other sorry bastards on the team.

Ilya’s phone buzzed against his thigh.

Jane: Are you ignoring me because you don't want to admit I’m right about the turnovers?; Lily?

Ilya looked down at the messages, then up at the room around him. Connors was now loudly insisting that this explained everything, because of course Roz had “long-distance girlfriend energy.” St-Simon was asking Marleau whether he was sure Jane was real or if this was another one of Ilya’s elaborate bits. Marleau was saying she was definitely real, he saw the texts afterall.

Ilya smiled despite himself.

Lily: bears have discovered jane
Jane: What?; How? What did you say?
Lily: because marly is nosy bastard; i say nothing; only that we are long distance

Ilya glanced up just as Connors shouted, “Tell Jane we’re sorry for trying to get you laid!”

“I will not tell her this,” Ilya shouted back. Marleau laughed so hard he nearly dropped his shoe. Ilya looked back at his phone.

Lily: connors says sorry by the way
Jane: For what??
Lily: nothing important
Jane: Lily.
Lily: they think you are my beautiful bossy canadian girlfriend
Jane: Bossy??
Lily: this is part you object to?
Jane: I am not bossy.
Lily: jane
Jane: I’m not.; Are we okay? You okay?; With them thinking that? Or kinda knowing about us?

Ilya’s thumb hovered over the screen.

Lily: yes; is okay; they are idiots but nice
Jane: Okay.; Good.

Ilya locked his phone before anyone could see his face.

Yes, perhaps he could have saved himself some trouble if he had simply told the team he had a girl weeks ago.

On the other hand, the priest thing had been funny. The battle superstition had also been funny. Watching Connors ask Vaschekin, in complete seriousness, if sex made goalies turn into Swiss cheese in Russia was probably a memory Ilya would treasure for years.

So, really, perhaps the whole thing had worked out fine.

A few harmless stories from his first month in Boston. Nothing with consequences. Nothing that would matter later.

Definitely nothing with any lasting impact at all.

Chapter End Notes

Amaze, Amaze, Amaze 💕
I really want to get back into Shane's head, but I think for this next little bit I need to stay with Ilya for a bit. There are some things from now until the New years that I think will only come across right from his POV (and perhaps, Yuna's). I might write a little outtake showing the Montreal perspective of things + Shane meeting Hayden, but for at least the majority of the next two chapters, I am going to stick with Ilya.

Always, all of my love to everyone who has clicked on this, interacted with it, left absolutely lovely comments. My roommates can attest I have been near giddy these last couple days. I started writing this to distract myself from some very big news that might be coming this next week or so, this has done exactly that and more.

Chapter 5: Terms and Conditions (May Apply)

Chapter Summary

By the end of his first month in Montreal, Shane had learned that professional hockey teams were not, in fact, substantially different from junior hockey teams, Yuna didn't intend to go behind Ilya's back like this, and Ilya's phone has been blowing up nearly every morning for the last several days.

Chapter Notes

This one is definitely more of a bridge chapter, but there were a few things I wanted to touch on before the holiday chapter next. This one isn’t quite as comedic as the others, but I hope to return to our regularly scheduled silly goofy fun times after this. I may come back and polish some of the wording later, because this chapter was fighting me all week, but regardless—hope you all enjoy!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

By the end of his first month in Montreal, Shane had learned that professional hockey teams were not, in fact, substantially different from junior hockey teams. Sure, they were richer, louder, and better dressed. More likely to have strong opinions about clubs and real estate and women. But underneath that, the structure was really the same.

Rookies took shit. Veterans distributed it. Everyone pretended this was a serious and time-honored method of team bonding instead of an excuse to make the newest guys pay for drinks they hadn’t ordered and smile through jokes made at their expense.

And the Metros weren't gentle about it.

But it wasn’t, in any real way, personal. It was hockey, and Shane had grown up in locker rooms. The Metros were rough with their rookies because teams were rough with their rookies, and if anything, there was something almost reassuring in how predictable it was. You took the chirps. You gave a few back when you could. You learned who was testing you, who was actually being an asshole, and who would just laugh if you finally decided to hit back.

And Shane was figuring it out. Albeit slowly.

Hayden Pike seemed determined to speed up this process through sheer force of personality. He was from the previous draft class before Shane and Ilya, but he had only been called up this year alongside Shane after two seasons in the minors in Quebec, making them fellow rookies in terms of the major leagues. However, the minors seemed to have toughened his game up more than Shane’s year in juniors had done for him—though they had apparently failed to improve his French in any meaningful way despite living in French Canada for so long.

Hayden had decided, sometime during Shane’s second week, that they were friends. Shane wasn't entirely sure how this had happened. Hayden had simply started appearing beside him after practice, narrating whatever thought happened to pass through his head with such open good humor that refusing to answer would have felt needlessly rude.

To be fair, Hayden was hard to dislike. Shane just wished Hayden would stop trying to socialize him like an anxious rescue dog.

The first time Hayden tried to drag him out with the team, Shane had just said no, sorry, not that night. The second time he made up some sort of excuse that his parents were in town and hoped that Hayden wouldn't ask any follow-up questions. Time and time again he had found an excuse to avoid it.

Now, over a month and a half into their time on the roster and two weeks into the regular season, Hayden dropped onto the bench beside him after practice while Shane was still unlacing his skates.

“Team’s going out tonight,” Hayden said. “You coming?”

Shane didn’t look up. “Uhh, no. I've got an—um—early morning.”

“You always have an early morning, don't you wake up at like 5?”

“I mean, 5:30, but yeah. It’s good to get a workout in early in the morning. It gets your heart rate up early, helps circulation, recovery, sets the tone for the day.”

“Sure. And so is letting your teammates see you in public before they start assuming you sleep standing up in a cryo chamber.”

Shane paused with one lace half-loosened. “That doesn’t even make sense. You can’t sleep standing up like that, your blood will pool to your feet and…”

Hayden stared at him.

Shane sighed. “Right. Not the point.”

“No,” Hayden said. “But I might start spreading it if you keep leaving me high and dry like this! The sole rookie out with the team. Alone. Defenseless. Desperate for a companion while out on the town.”

“You sound so desperate.”

“Yeah, to hang out with my friend! You're leaving me to the wolves out here!”

Shane looked up then, mostly despite himself. Hayden looked completely sincere and not remotely embarrassed.

"C'mon, Hollandaise!" Shane made a face. Hayden had been workshopping nicknames for him all week, each one worse than the last, but this one felt especially offensive. Hollandaise was a sauce. A rich, fatty, egg-based sauce. Shane had no interest in being named after emulsified butter. Hayden caught his expression, shrugged, and tipped one hand as if to say, fair enough, before continuing. “I promise it’s a chill spot this time too. We are just grabbing a couple beers at Fitzroy's before the road trip. You don’t have to stay all night.”

Shane still wanted to say no.

Not because he disliked Hayden. He didn’t. Not because he disliked the team either. He liked them fine, mostly. But bars weren't Shane’s scene and beer wasn't Shane’s drink. Team nights had a way of starting as “a couple drinks” and before very quickly becoming a series of events Shane would have never done sober, rested, or consulted in advance.

On the ice, Shane was learning them. He knew who wanted the puck on the rush, who needed half a second longer to see the lane, who would cut inside if Shane drew the defender wide. Little by little, the shifts were becoming instinctive. They were on the cusp of being something great; Shane could feel it. Off ice, Shane could feel a gap yawning between him and his teammates. In juniors he could get away from begging off parties. He was preparing for the draft, he was meeting with scouts, he was so busy trying to get where he is sitting right now. Now? Those excuses were gone and Shane's inclination for reclusion was at odds with the expectations people had for a teenage rookie in the NHL.

“I’ll think about it,” he compromised. And he really meant that, even if he was quite sure the end result would be the same.

Hayden grinned like Shane had agreed. “Great. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“I said I’d think about it.”

“Yeah,” Hayden said, already standing. “And I believe in you.”

Shane watched him go, then pulled out his phone before he could talk himself into accepting or refusing too quickly.

Jane: Pike wants me to go out with the team tonight.

The reply came but a moment later while Shane was finally taking off his skates.

Lily: the metros rookie who was 15th best in his draft class?
Jane: Did you look that up or did you just know that??

Shane stared incredulously at the screen. Ilya ignored him.

Lily: you should go. is boring hearing about your night in day after day
Jane: It's not boring. I have an early morning, a night out would disrupt that.
Lily: yes jane, is very boring
Jane: I don’t even know what they’re planning on doing.
Lily: drinking probably. hockey players are really quite simple.
Jane: I don’t really like bars.
Lily: yes, yes, i know this
Jane: Or beer.
Lily: i also know this. Tragic, but plenty of other things to do

Shane huffed, very quietly, and glanced around the locker room to make sure no one was paying much attention to him.

Jane: So why should I go? If I'm probably just going to hate it?

There was a pause before Ilya answered.

Lily: because pike is clearly trying very hard and is kinda sad to watch from here; and maybe you will have fun

Shane looked at that for longer than he wanted to admit.

Ilya was not, generally speaking, a comforting person. Or maybe he was, but usually by accident, and usually while calling Shane boring or bossy or Canadian in a tone that suggested being Canadian was a terminal condition. But he was helping Shane, actually, in small, stupid ways. Shane wondered if Ilya was even aware of it. Without him, Shane wouldn't even be considering this the way he currently was. Shane probably would have found a perfectly reasonable excuse to avoid tonight, then another one next week, then another one after that, until three months had passed and Hayden Pike had either given up or started showing up at Shane’s apartment with a wellness check and a warrant. Instead, Ilya had made it sound simple. Go. Maybe have fun. Leave if it was awful. It was a stupidly comforting thing.

Naturally, Ilya immediately reminded him that his boyfriend was an asshole:

Lily: also i need you can text me all team gossip; i need to know weaknesses to give them shit for later
Jane: I’m not giving you material to chirp my teammates.
Lily: boooo; boringg
Jane: You’re ridiculous.
Lily: go have fun with your team jane

By seven-thirty, Shane had still not decided.

Or, more accurately, he had decided six or seven different times and then undecided with equal conviction. Going would be good. Going would be awkward. Hayden was trying. Shane had an early morning. Ilya thought he should go. Ilya was also an asshole.

Then, at 7:51, his phone buzzed.

Pike: downstairs :)

Oh. That was unfair. Shane hadn't agreed. He had said he would think about it, and thinking about it wasn't a binding contract. Unfortunately, Hayden was already downstairs, apparently in good faith, and Shane wasn't going to just leave him there like some kind of monster.

Thankfully, the bar was indeed a sports bar, not a club, which helped. Mounted TVs, a few dartboards in the back, music low enough that no one had to shout unless they personally felt called to, which several of Shane’s teammates apparently did. The place smelled like fried food and stale beer.

Hayden led him to a table already half-full of Metros and announced, “Look who I found!”

“Pikesy!” someone called. “And Robotnik!”

Shane made a face at that nickname too, one that had been steadily gaining traction over the last week. He really—really—hoped it wouldn’t stick. “Someone had to make sure Pike got home without embarrassing himself.”

That got a few laughs and a couple jeers. Shane rolled his eyes, but it was fine. Someone shoved a menu toward him and asked if he was actually going to eat something normal for once. Shane ordered a beer because everyone else had one, then remembered, three sips in, why exactly he didn't like beer.

He set the bottle down and let it become more prop than beverage.

For a while, he managed. That was probably the best word for it. The bar was loud, but not unbearable. His teammates were loud too, but that wasn't anything new. They told stories, argued over details no one could prove, chirped each other with careless confidence. Occasionally they said crude things that left a bad taste in the back of Shane’s throat—nothing he hadn’t heard before, nothing worse than the usual locker room talk.

He took another careful sip of beer he didn't want and let the conversation move past him.

It wasn't bad, it just wasn't his scene. Hayden seemed to be comfortable enough in it. He leaned back in his chair, laughed easily, knew when to interrupt, knew when to let a joke die. Shane could do that in a locker room. Mostly. At a bar, everything felt half faster than he could follow.

Which was why he ended up checking his phone under the table.

It was stupid, maybe, to mentally reach for Ilya while sitting in the middle of his own team’s night out. But Ilya was easy in a way the bar wasn’t. Someone he could be annoyed with, uncomfortable with, bored with, honest with. Sure, Ilya would probably chirp him for it, but there was a difference between being teased by his boyfriend and being mocked by a table full of his teammates. He thought, briefly, of Ilya in Boston. The Bears liked him, and Ilya liked the Bears—which Shane had gathered despite Ilya’s best efforts to describe them all as idiots. Shane couldn’t really blame them. Ilya could be annoying, yes, but he was also funny and bright and easy to get pulled toward if you weren’t careful. Shane would know. He had been pulled very thoroughly.

Now, sitting in the middle of his own team’s noise with a beer he didn't want, Shane opened their thread:

Jane: Why did I let you convince me to do this?
Lily: because you are weak for me
Jane: No.
Lily: because you like when i tell you what to do

Shane had to fight the flush that threatened to rise on his cheeks as he typed out a denial.

Jane: Also no
Lily: Hmm, because you also secretly also want gossip because you are just as curious as me
Jane: I'm not giving you dirt on my teammates.
Lily: Janeeee

Shane's mouth twitched.

Beside him, Hayden's elbow found his arm. "Who are you texting?"

Shane quickly locked the screen. "Uhh, nobody. Just a friend."

Hayden grinned and leaned in. "Oh? A friend? You got a girl Shane?"

“No,” Shane said quickly and picked up his prop beer. “Not like that. He’s a player for another team.”

"Oh shit, you talking about Rozanov?" Shane choked for a second, but Hayden didn't seem to notice. "So you guys are actually friends, then? Not just for that CCM thing?"

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “We’re friends.”

“Huh,” Hayden said. “That's cool, must be kinda nice to already know a guy in the league. So what's he like anyways? I've heard he's a bit of a hotshot, but man he's a great player to watch.”

"Yeah," Shane laughed nervously. "He can be kind of annoying, but he's a pretty good guy off ice."

Hayden grinned. "Sounds about right." He reached for his drink. "That's pretty cool, though. Maybe next time we play Boston, you can introduce us. Us rookies can go out or something, get away from all these old farts.”

As Hayden said this, the pair of veterans on the other side of him jeer in mock offense, and conversation moves on without an agreement or disagreement from Shane, the moment dissolving without interrogation. Shane imagines Ilya would get a kick out of dragging Shane out, however, based on their texts earlier today, he's not sure how thrilled Ilya would be for Hayden to join them. Then again, maybe that could be Shane’s condition. He thinks he could probably have an alright time out if he had Ilya on one side and Hayden on the other.

For the next little bit, Shane tried to stay engaged. He did. But soon enough, his phone was out again.

Jane: Hayden wants to meet you next time we play Boston.; I think he thinks he’ll have an easier time convincing me to go out if there are two of you.
Lily: hmm; I do not need pike to convince you to come; am very good at this on my own😈
Jane: What?; Oh my god, gross
Lily: Besides, I have plans next time we play
Jane: Yeah?
Lily: 😈😈😈

Around him, Shane had tuned out the conversation happening around him. Whatever it was, it was quite the animated discussion. Next to him, Hayden laughed and pushed his chair back. There was a brief argument about teams, then a louder argument about rules that Shane only caught the tail end of before one of the guys across from him looked over and said, “…. right, Hollander?”

Shane looked up in surprise. Around him, the half of the team that came out was looking at him expectedly, and Shane realized with a flush of embarrassment that he had no idea what they were talking about. There was no dignified way to admit he had missed the entire premise because he had maybe sort of started sexting his boyfriend.

So, he said, "Um, yeah, sure."

"Perfect." Hayden clapped him on the shoulder. "We've got the boards for next hour. It's me, you, and Olsson!"

As the rest of the table started moving toward the dartboards, Shane fell into step beside Hayden and said, quietly, "I completely missed what we're doing."

Hayden laughed. "Yeah, I kinda figured, but you already agreed so no getting out of it now Shaner!" Hayden ribbed good naturedly. Shaner sucked too, but at least it wasn’t Hollandaise. "We’re just playing darts. Three teams of three, losing team each round takes a shot."

Shane looked at the beer he had barely touched and blanched. Hayden followed his gaze and, to his credit, didn't laugh much. “Relax, dude. We’re going to be so good you’ll go home sober.”

Shane doubted that, and elected not to mention that he had never actually played darts before.

This would have been more humiliating if the rest of them were good, but they weren't. Berkes threw with complete confidence and somehow hit the metal ring twice in a row, which seemed statistically improbable. Hayden, who had described himself as decent, had one good throw and before his next two completely dinged off the board. Two guys got into a minor argument about whether you were supposed to stand on the line or behind it. By the time Shane took his turn, he was still nervous, but at least now he understood the standard he was sure he would fail to meet wasn't especially high.

His first throw hit the board at base 17.

"There we go!" Hayden said, with so much enthusiasm that it immediately confirmed the bar was basically a tripping hazard. While his next throw dinged off the board, and his final throw only bagged five points, somehow it dragged him, Hayden, and Olsson into second place for the round, sparing them the shot of cheap liquor the losing three had to throw back.

"Let's go Robotnik!" Olsson cheered, jostling his shoulders in an aggressively affectionate manner and Shane felt himself start to relax.

He was still bad. But he wasn't—as it turned out—the worst. That distinction was being actively contested by at least three other people on purely competitive grounds, and by the fourth round he'd stopped thinking about form and was just throwing.

Despite Hayden's big talk at the beginning of the game, the three of them did have to share three rounds of shots that night before their hour timed out. However, they did come in second overall, and Shane realized with a start he was almost disappointed for the hour to come to an end. While he could have done without the drinking aspect, he actually had a great time.

On their way out, one of the veterans clapped Hayden on the shoulder, then Shane. “You rooks are alright.”

Hayden lit up like he had been given a trophy.

Shane, who had been trying not to care about precisely that kind of thing all the last month and a half, felt something in his chest ease anyway.

By the time the taxi dropped them off, Hayden having settled far enough into his drunkenness that Shane didn't entirely trust him to get into his own apartment without either losing his keys or deciding the hallway floor looked comfortable enough for the night. So Shane dragged Hayden’s sorry ass upstairs and made him take his spare room instead.

Hayden fell face-first onto the bed and gave him a thumbs-up without lifting his head.

“Great night, Shaney.”

“Don’t call me that.”

"I'll find a good nickname you'll love one day"

"I'm sure, Hayds."

Shane shut the door on him.

Then he went to his own room, changed, got into bed, and opened his text thread with Ilya for the final time that night:

Jane: We should find a place to play darts sometime.
Lily: darts?; this is what you did tonight?; you went out with team and became bar sports man?
Jane: Shut up. I accidentally agreed to it without realizing.
Lily: dangerous, dangerous. did you win?
Jane: Well, I didn't lose
Lily: so this is why you challenge me? need to train your dart skills? Want me to stand behind you and correct form?
Jane: That doesn't sound like it would be helpful
Lily: no, see, would be very hands on.
Jane: You’re impossible.; I'm just saying it wasn't awful, it was actually pretty fun by the end. I had fun.

The reply took a minute.

Lily: good; I told you you might

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

Yuna hadn't intended to go behind Ilya’s back.

That was the first thing she told herself, and then the second, and then the third, which unfortunately didn't make it feel any more true. The road to Hell was paved with good intentions, as the saying went, and while she hoped she wasn’t Hell-bound for trying to help her son’s boyfriend, she could acknowledge that she may have overstepped a boundary. Or five.

Which was, admittedly, not doing much for her ongoing campaign to disprove the boy-mom allegations.

She hadn't meant to go behind Ilya’s back, exactly. When Yuna had asked for the name and email of whoever handled Ilya’s representation, she had expected perhaps a business card, or a forwarded contact. She needed details on Ilya's management structure in order to coordinate properly—that was true. Shane and Ilya were, for better or worse, becoming a joint narrative within the league, and if there were going to be brand inquiries, scheduling conflicts, or public appearances where their relationship—friendship, officially—was relevant, Yuna needed to know who to contact. She couldn't do her job effectively if one half of the equation had representation she could neither reach nor understand.

Ilya sent her a folder. Not a well-organized folder, she will say. There were scans, photographs, duplicate files, Russian filenames, English filenames, and one document labeled in a way that translated, more or less, to USE THIS ONE. The management agreement happened to be in there too, buried between a tax form and what appeared to be an equipment authorization.

When Yuna finally composed an email to Ilya’s manager—a man named Vadim Nikitin—it took him three days to respond with all the elusiveness of a snake in tall grass. After an equally concerning series of back-and-forth emails, Yuna decided it would be best to contact a lawyer for a second opinion.

That was where intention became less innocent. She was self-aware enough to know there was a difference between reviewing a contact sheet and hiring a Russian-speaking contract lawyer to go through Ilya’s management agreement clause by clause.

David came home from work just after six and found her sitting at the table with three neat stacks of paper arranged in front of her. Her laptop was open and her tea had gone cold beside it, untouched.

He stopped in the doorway. “Well,” he said, after a moment. “This looks serious.”

“It is,” Yuna hummed, continuing to type on her computer.

David set his keys in the bowl by the door and came to sit across from her, his gaze moving over the papers before returning to her. “Shane?”

“No.” Yuna paused her fingers on the keyboard. “Ilya.” Yuna exhaled. “This summer, I asked him to send me his representation information. I wanted to make sure I had the right contacts in case anything came up.”

“I remember.”

“He sent me everything,” she said. “Or close enough to everything. His agent information, tax forms, visa authorizations, scanned IDs, duplicate files, things I’m not entirely sure he meant to include.” She glanced down at the papers. “His management agreement was in there.”

David was quiet for a beat. “And you read it.”

“I reviewed it,” Yuna corrected, then paused. “After I emailed his manager and just got… a weird feeling.”

David leaned back a little. “Bad?”

“Strange. Defensive in a way that made me want a second opinion.” She tapped the first stack. “So I got one.”

David looked down at the papers, then back at her. “And?”

Yuna slid him the summary from the lawyer across the table. David took it and began to read. For a few minutes, the only sound in the kitchen was the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional shift of paper under David’s hand. She had already read it herself three times. Once as a manager, noting the practical problems. Once as a mother, getting angrier with every missing protection. Once as herself, which was worse, because she had known Ilya only a few months and still felt, absurdly, like she should have done something to protect him from this.

Eventually, he leaned back in his chair and let out a slow breath through his nose. “Well,” he said. “That’s bad.”

Yuna let out a small, humorless breath. “Yes.”

David glanced back at the page. “The commission structure alone…”

“I know.”

“And termination?”

“Technically possible,” she said. “Practically difficult. Though not impossible.” She folded her hands together on the table, more to keep them still than anything else. “The good news—if we’re calling any of this good news—is that the contract is poorly done. Poorly enough that the lawyer thinks there may be several ways to challenge it, if Ilya wants out.” David hummed in acknowledgment. “I don’t want to bring it over the phone.”

“Hmm. No, definitely not a phone call conversation.” David agreed.

“Definitely not.” She pressed her fingertips to the edge of the summary, aligning it with the table grain. “And I also need a little more time. I want options ready to help him before I bring it up. I don’t want to say, this is bad, good luck. I want to be able to say, this is bad, and here are three people who can help you fix it. Then he can decide whether he wants to call them.”

David leaned back in his chair. “Christmas?”

“That’s what I was thinking. In person. Not in front of Shane, unless Ilya wants him there.” David nodded.

The kitchen settled for a moment as Yuna imagined that conversation: Ilya sitting across from her, shoulders tight, face carefully blank while she explained that she had read the agreement he likely hadn't meant to send her. That she had hired someone else to read it too. She can’t imagine he will be happy with her.

“He did well in Boston,” David suddenly said.

Yuna looked up.

“With the paperwork,” he clarified. “I know you were worried he’d rush through it.”

“I was.”

“He didn’t.” David’s voice warmed a little. His expression was gentle, but there was pride there too—the same understated pride Yuna recognized from the times Shane did something well and David tried not to make too much of it, lest Shane grow self-conscious under the attention. “He read what he could. He didn’t rush. He asked the right questions. Those contracts were dense, Yuna. At his age, I would have signed half of it just to be done.”

Yuna’s mouth softened. “He’s a smart kid.”

“No,” David said, gently but firmly. “I mean he’s smart in a way I’m not sure people give him credit for. He hides it under all that…” He made a vague motion with one hand, which Yuna understood to mean the accent, the jokes, the whole Ilya Rozanov of it all. “But he's perceptive.”

Yuna looked down again at the management agreement.

In some ways, that made it worse. Easier, maybe, to imagine Ilya as a reckless boy who had been foolish. Easier if he had signed a bad deal because he was an eighteen year old hotshot whose arrogance had carried him where caution should have been. It was harder to sit with the possibility that he had signed because no one trustworthy had been there to stop him. Harder to imagine him listening carefully, trying to understand as much as he could, and still being led into a bad deal.

“I’ve been speaking with a few brands,” she said, partly because the silence had gotten too heavy and partly because David needed the full picture. “Tracksmith is interested. I won't push him into anything, and certainly not joint work unless both boys are comfortable, but there’s interest.”

David’s mouth twitched. “The boys.”

Yuna sighed. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it very, very loudly.”

He smiled, but it faded as his eyes returned to the contract. “And the immigration lawyers?”

“I reached out to the two you spoke with in Boston. Both seem promising, but I’d like to find someone who speaks Russian, either fluently or well enough to make Ilya feel like he isn’t fighting the language on top of everything else.”

David laughed softly, and the sound loosened something in her chest. “You’ve been busy.”

They both had been, really. Yuna would be the first to admit that the laundry list she had sent David to Boston with had been long, but it hadn't been without purpose. Immigration contacts, certainly. Brand contacts too. But also the names of two financial advisors she trusted, a tax specialist, some primary care physicians, even a realtor—if Ilya was so inclined—and a reminder that David made sure Ilya hadn't been left with only the team’s recommended people.

Yuna had built Shane’s support infrastructure piece by careful piece. Lawyers. Accountants. Sponsors who would not overreach. A team of people whose job was to make sure Shane could focus on hockey without being eaten alive by everything around it.

Ilya—as far as she could tell—had Nikitin, his family off in Russia, and Cliff Marleau’s spare room.

“He’s here alone, David.” Her voice caught slightly, despite her best efforts. “He is eighteen years old—”

“Nineteen now.”

“Is that really much better?” Yuna asked, laughing softly, though there was very little humor in it. There was a lot she didn't want to say, theories she didn't quite want to voice yet. The fact Ilya’s family hadn't come with him to Boston. That he had looked startled any time her or David helped him with something, or told him to relax, they had it. Maybe there was an explanation. Maybe there were cultural contexts she didn't understand. "Maybe I am overstepping.” She finally acquiesced.

“You are overstepping,” David said gently. Yuna closed her eyes. “But,” he continued, “not maliciously.”

“If he tells me to stop,” Yuna said, quieter, “I’ll stop." David considered her. “I will,” she insisted.

“I believe you.”

“You look like you don’t.”

“I just know stopping will be hard for you.”

That, unfortunately, was fair.

Yuna sat back in her chair and looked toward the window, where the kitchen glass reflected the warm room back at her. She could see David in it too, tired from work, tie loose, reading a predatory contract for a boy who wasn't theirs. Except that was the trouble, wasn’t it. Not theirs. True in every legal, biological, and reasonable sense. Increasingly difficult to feel.

David slid the summary back toward her. “Talk to him during Christmas.”

“Of course,” Yuna said. Then she stopped. "He's coming home for Christmas, right?"

David considered that for a second, “Has Shane said?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “He hasn’t.” She pulled out her phone. “I'll tell Shane to text him and ask.”

“Not just ask Ilya directly?”

“No. The invitation should come from Shane.” Yuna opened Shane’s contact. “He’s his boyfriend.”

David’s mouth softened. “I suppose that’s true.”

Yuna: Are you and Ilya planning to come home for Christmas?; Ask him what dates work with his schedule before and after the break, please.; Your dad and I can coordinate flights, pickup, whatever he needs.

Yuna set the phone face down on the table and looked back at the stacks of paper. “Christmas,” she said.

David reached across the table and took her hand. “Christmas.”

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

Ilya’s phone had been ringing before sunrise fairly consistently for the last several days, which seemed excessive even by the standards of people committed to ruining his life. The timing was the insulting part: 4:43 AM. 4:58 AM. 5:11 AM.

The first couple mornings, he slept through it. Mostly. He woke up enough to see his father’s name on the screen, turned the phone over, and went back to sleep, because there were very few arguments worth having before five in the morning and he doubted whatever his father wanted was one of them.

The last several mornings, Alexei had been texting.

That was harder to ignore. Alexei had never met a boundary he did trounce upon, and the time difference only made him more creative about violating them. Most mornings, by the time Ilya woke properly, there were multiple missed calls, voicemails from his father, and texts from his brother, each more irritated than the last.

He didn't answer them. He had practice. He had media. He had multiple games this week now that the regular season had kicked off. He had a life in Boston that was still new enough to feel borrowed. Moscow could wait. His father’s anger could wait. Alexei’s crises, which were almost always expensive and rarely urgent in any moral sense, could wait.

This morning, Alexei called at 4:52 AM, again at 5:03, and then sent:

Alexei: Pick up.; I know you’re awake.

Ilya wasn't awake—or at least he hadn't been. He had been asleep three minutes ago. He could still feel sleep clinging to him, warm and heavy, already receding under the steady pulse of irritation.

Alexei: Stop being a little bitch and answer.

The phone rang again. Ilya considered throwing it at the wall. But replacing a phone was annoying, and Alexei wasn't worth the inconvenience.

Ilya answered in Russian, his voice still gravelly from sleep. “What.”

“Well,” Alexei said. “Good morning to you too.”

“I was sleeping.”

“You’re a professional athlete. Don’t you people wake up early?”

“For work,” Ilya said. “Not for you.”

Alexei laughed once, humorless. There was noise behind him. Traffic, maybe. Or a television. It was hard to tell. “Big NHL man now,” Alexei said. “Too busy for home?”

“Say what you want.”

“Your regular season started, yes?" There was a pause just long enough for Ilya to know, with the bleak certainty of experience, that a demand for money was coming. "Getting your big boy paychecks now, biweekly I hear."

There it was. Ilya sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. The room was cold outside the blanket. He should make him ask for it outright. Some petty part of him wanted to. But it was too early, and he had never enjoyed watching Alexei pretend at subtlety.

“How much?”

Alexei clicked his tongue. “Ahh, don't even want to ask what for?”

“If it mattered, you would have led with it. Get on with it.”

“Twenty.”

Ilya felt his eyes widen in disbelief “Twenty thousand?” Ilya asked incredulously.

“Don’t sound like that. It’s nothing to you now.”

“Nothing?” Ilya repeated.

“You’re in the NHL. You’re getting your stupid NHL checks.”

“I also have NHL expenses.”

“Oh, fuck off with that. What, America turned you into a greedy little capitalist already?”

“I was always greedy. Ask Papa.”

Alexei exhaled hard. Ilya could picture him too easily: phone pressed to his ear, jaw tight, pacing somewhere he shouldn't be. Their father’s apartment, maybe. Some officer housing. A woman’s kitchen. It didn't matter. Alexei carried the same ruin with him wherever he went.

“Twenty is nothing to you now,” Alexei said.

“What is it for?” Ilya asked, despite himself.

“Investment.” Ilya almost laughed.

Investment. Wonderful. A word that could mean anything from a legitimate business opportunity to Alexei owing money to someone with gold teeth and no sense of humor. It most likely meant cards, or cocaine, or some stupid side deal with other newly commissioned officers who had more confidence than brains. Possibly all three. Alexei had always been talented that way. Efficient in his destruction. Whatever it was, Ilya knew, with a cold little certainty, that none of it was going to his niece.

The baby was innocent. Tiny, solemn-eyed in the few pictures Alexei’s ex-wife had allowed into the family chat before apparently deciding all Rozanov men were a plague best contained through distance. Ilya didn't blame her. He only wished money given in the child’s direction had any chance of reaching her.

“No,” Ilya said.

The word sat between them. For a second, it was beautiful.

Then Alexei said, “No?”

“No.”

“You little—”

“Careful,” Ilya said, "You're asking me for a favor.”

“What? You think you’re better now? Big NHL star? Too good for your family?”

“Twenty thousand is too much for whatever stupid thing you are doing!”

Alexei swore at him, and Ilya let the first wave of it pass. The old rhythm of it was almost comforting. Alexei angry was familiar. Alexei demanding was familiar. Alexei making his bad choices everyone else’s invoice was the kind of family tradition Ilya didn’t miss. As if his knees and hands and teeth and sleep hadn't paid for every dollar Alexei now treated like inheritance.

When Alexei finally ran out of breath, Ilya said, “Ten.”

“What?”

“Ten thousand.”

“I asked for twenty.”

“Yes. I heard. I say ten.”

“You selfish little shit.”

“Ten,” Ilya said, voice sharpening. “Or zero. Choose fast. I have a very busy life being a rich American whore.”

“Listen to yourself,” he said. “Whining like a little faggot over money you can spare.”

Ilya breathed in once, slow and quiet. “Ten,” he said. Alexei made a disgusted sound. “Or zero,” Ilya added. “Choose.”

Eventually, Alexei said, “Fine. Ten.”

“I'll send it later.”

“Now.”

“Later,” Ilya repeated. “You're the one who called me at five in the fucking morning. I'll send it when the bank is open and I am awake enough to make sure I don't accidentally send to your ex-wife.”

“Don’t talk about her.”

“Why? Is she not also waiting on money from you?”

Alexei stopped speaking completely for a moment, and for half a second Ilya felt almost guilty. Then he remembered the demand for twenty thousand. The slurs. The near week of mornings of calls and the guilt passed.

“You don’t know anything about that,” Alexei said at last.

“No,” Ilya said. “You made sure of that.”

The call might have ended there if either of them were smarter.

Instead, Ilya heard himself ask, “How is Papa?”

Alexei laughed once. “How would I know?”

“You live in same city.”

“So do nine million other people.”

“He has been calling.”

“Then answer him.”

“He sounds strange.”

“Like what?”

Ilya leaned his shoulder against the cold window frame. “He keeps telling me to bring home bread.”

A pause. “What?”

“On voicemail. He told me to pick up bread on the way home.”

“Well.” Alexei’s voice sharpened defensively, which answered more than Ilya liked. “Maybe pick up your own phone more often if you’re so fucking worried about him.”

“Alexei.”

“What? You leave, and now everything here is my problem because you fucked off to America.”

Ilya closed his eyes. He could still hear his father’s voice from the most recent voicemail, issuing orders like Ilya was ten minutes away instead of halfway across the world. Like he was still a boy lingering after hockey practice, late coming home, available to be sent wherever his father needed him.

“I’ll send ten,” Ilya said.

“Go to hell,” Alexei answered, and hung up.

Ilya stood there for a while with the line dead in his hand. After a minute, he opened his banking app and sent the money before he could talk himself into sending the rest or nothing. Ten thousand dollars. Half of what Alexei asked for. More than he deserved. Less than Ilya would have sent six months ago. A coward’s compromise.

Progress, maybe, if one were feeling generous.

Ilya wasn't feeling generous.

He stepped out into the common area and made coffee because there was nothing else to do and because the body, annoyingly, insisted on continuing now that it was awake. The apartment was quiet and Marleau would not be awake for hours. On the counter, the coffee machine choked and sputtered like it, too, objected to being conscious this early.

While it brewed, he played the voicemail again.

His father’s anger came through tinny and small. It should have made him less frightening, trapped inside the phone like that; but it didn't. Ilya listened past the insults, past the disappointment, to the moment near the end of the voicemail that most confused him.

“And grab bread on your way home. Not the black one. The other. You know which. And don’t be slow.”

Ilya stopped the message before it could play again and set the phone down very carefully. His father had always been volatile and unpredictable. The weather of his father's moods had shaped the house as much as the furniture had, as much as the thick walls and dark wood and the framed photographs of men in uniform who had all looked like they would have been disappointed in Ilya too, had they lived long enough to meet him.

Ilya thought, wistfully, of the Hollanders. Of their kitchen in Ottawa, warm and bright and always smelling faintly of tea, or toast, or whatever had been put in the oven for dinner. Of David’s quiet competence. Of Yuna’s endless, practical kindness, the way she made room for him in plans before he had thought to ask for help. Of the house itself, lived-in and full of evidence that people there loved each other.

And of Shane, of course.

Really, the Hollanders had given him entirely unrealistic expectations for people.

His phone buzzed on the counter.

Jane: Hey. My mom asked me to check what your Christmas plans are.

Another message appeared before Ilya could answer.

Jane: I wasn't sure if you were planning on going back to Moscow or doing something with your team, but she wanted me to let you know you were more than welcome to join us for Christmas if you don't have any plans.; She just wants to know so she can plan flights if you are coming.; But no pressure.

Ilya looked at the messages for a long time.

In all honesty, he hadn't thought about Western Christmas at all. December twenty-fifth was, for all intents and purposes, just another Saturday. Russian Christmas was in January, and even that was something he had barely celebrated since he was a child. Besides, the NHL break was barely long enough to sleep, let alone fly to Moscow and back. There had never been a practical version of this where he went home.

Jane: Sorry, that was a lot.

Ilya picked up the phone.

Lily: jane, breathe; do you want me to come for christmas?

The answer took long enough that part of Ilya regretted asking.

Then—

Jane: Yeah.; Of course I do.; I just didn’t want to assume.
Lily: okay, then I'll come

Ilya took another sip of his coffee and found, to his great irritation, that he was smiling into the cup. The morning was still cold, still half-ruined in several directions, he was ten thousand dollars poorer, and he was awake at least two hours earlier than he had intended. But now there was this too: Christmas. Shane’s Christmas. Christmas with the Hollanders.

Shit.

He was going to have to think of gifts, wasn’t he?

Chapter End Notes

Wow! I don't know what it was about this chapter that fought me so badly, sorry it's not as funny as the previous ones, I just had some things I wanted to touch on to show certain ways this AU is having an overall positive impact on Shane and Ilya's lives.
While Montreal are still assholes (Fuck the metros!) Shane is having an easier time socializing in this version with Ilya encouraging him to go out. Yuna and David are making moves in the background! Actively trying to be much more than allies, and are actively working to make their boys feel safe and supported! And Ilya, on the other hand, while he does still send Alexei money, sends less than he did in canon. Much, much sooner, he is starting to feel the effects of being welcomed by a happy and healthy family, and it’s already impacting how he handles his own family, even this early on.

My intention is to return to funny, goofy, and perhaps sexy times next chapter.
Also: I though the chapter title Terms and Conditions (May Apply) was kinda funny, as each scene is supposed to deal with some sort of contract (social, legal, familial)

ON THE TOPIC OF CONTRACTS
I know no one here really cares much haha, but I had some very lovely comments last week from people concerned for me after I mentioned I was waiting on big news. I am so, so happy to report that I GOT THE PHD OFFER WITH FULL FUNDING SUPPORT. I am going to be pursuing my Ph.D. in Civil Engineering starting this fall, and I am so over the moon and overwhelmed with happiness and relief that I wanted to share the news.

In any case, always, all my love to everyone interacting with this. Everyone clicking on, reading, leaving kudos, comments, bookmarking, subscribing. Every level of interaction is so treasured. Thank you for reading! Up next: Christmas and New Years!

Chapter 6: The Spirit of Christmas Is Competition

Chapter Summary

“I wish I could have both. Both of you there,” Ilya said. “I want you to meet her. I want her to know you.”

Chapter Notes

To the reader who wanted the 20k chapter, its not quite 20k but this one is for you 😔😔
Inspiration Credit
The New Year's kiss is fully inspired by frequently, secretly fond of each other by milominderbinder. It is one of my favorite scenes in that work and I really wanted to allude to it here!

Also! To the commenter who wanted them to gift each other polaroid cameras, the art at the end of the chapter was inspired by you

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Ilya was in the middle of packing for Canada when his phone buzzed on the bed beside him.

It wasn’t a long trip—not even three days—so there wasn’t much to do beyond layer some sweaters into his bag, tuck the gifts he had picked out where they wouldn’t get crushed, where they would be safe from both crushed corners and his own second-guessing. He had just zipped the bag halfway when his phone buzzed again twice in quick succession.

Sveta: so; what exactly is going on with you and Shane Hollander; because I know for a fact you two are not “besties”

Ilya stared at it for a long moment.

In hindsight, he supposed this conversation had been inevitable. Between the commercial and the photos, it had only been a matter of time before the whole thing made its way from Facebook to Vkontakte, and from Vkontakte to Sveta. And Sveta, unlike the NHL, the CCM marketing team, and apparently the entire North American public, was not nearly so gullible.

She had been there for the year after the draft, which meant she knew perfectly well that this thing with Shane hadn't begun before this summer. For over a year, she had listened to Ilya talk about him, complain about him, mock him, and, in one especially humiliating lapse of judgment brought on by a frankly irresponsible amount of alcohol, say far too much about what he’d wanted to do to him.

His phone buzzed again.

Sveta: I see you read my messages, Ilyusha.; take your time, darling. I am very excited to hear the lie.

Ilya snorted despite himself and sat down on the edge of the bed. There was, realistically, no version of this conversation where he came out looking especially convincing. But he had to say something.

Ilya: nothing is “going on”; we’re friends; CCM went well; I forgot to mention it

Which was not, strictly speaking, a lie.

They were friends. Sort of. It was only that “boyfriend” was, for several obvious reasons, not a word he was about to type into a message thread that could live forever on a Russian server somewhere. Sveta, however—his oh-so-smart and beautiful Sveta—was thankfully, or unfortunately, not the kind of person who needed things spelled out for her.

Sveta: mm; yes, very believable; especially the “forgot to mention it”

Ilya rolled his eyes and reached for one of the sweaters he’d meant to pack, more for the sake of doing something with his hands than because he particularly cared whether it made it into the suitcase.

Sveta: okay then; let me ask a different question; what if i told you i was on my way to boston to spend the christmas break with you, what would you say

Ilya went still, before slowly looking up from his phone to his half packed suitcase. Under ordinary circumstances, he actually would have been thrilled. Of course Sveta could show up in whatever city he was in and he would deal with it. Of course he would host her and pick her up from the airport like a gentleman. She was his Sveta, his oldest, most important friend.

But he was leaving for Canada in the morning

Ilya: You really shouldn’t. Actually. It’s a bad time.
Sveta: Hm.; C'mon, I'll be there tomorrow morning. Send me your address.; And be there to let me in.

For a minute, Ilya toiled over what to send, what he could say that wouldn’t insult them both. He wouldn’t deny it, shouldn’t admit it over VK like an idiot, but couldn't think of a single answer Sveta wouldn't immediately mock him for. Eventually:

Ilya: I can book you a hotel

The typing indicator appeared immediately. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then:

Sveta: I fucking knew it.; relax, I’m not actually coming tomorrow; Have a fun time in Ottawa, my dear. I'll see you for New Year's. Nonnegotiable.

Ilya fought a smile. New Year’s was, actually, fine. More than fine, really. He missed his Sveta. He had thought it wouldn’t be until the summer before he saw her again, and his heart swelled for a moment at the thought of seeing her before that. Still:

Ilya: I don’t know what you're talking about; New Year’s is fine though
Sveta: good; and Ilyusha?

After a moment:

Sveta: See what happens next time you try and lie to me 😊

Ilya snorted despite himself.

Ilya: yes, yes, I understand; Send me your flight details, I’ll upgrade you
Sveta: 😘

He tossed the phone onto the bed and zipped his suitcase shut.

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

Yuna picking him up from the airport should have, perhaps, felt less strange the second time. Back in August, it had been a disorienting experience being collected by Shane’s mother, back when Ilya had been half-convinced he was intruding on the last two weeks of the Hollander family’s summer. . Now it was December, snow banked at the edges of the parking lot, the sky already threatening dusk despite the hour, and Yuna again—equally disorienting, Ilya will say—waving at him when she saw him come through arrivals. At least this time Ilya remembered to wave back.

She hugged him when he reached her and Ilya only just managed not to go stiff in her arms. It was quick, mercifully; but for that brief second he was surrounded by her: flowery perfume, soft wool, the warm press of her hands against his back. Then she pulled away, smiling.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she said. “How was your flight?”

“It was fine,” Ilya said, following her toward the car. “Very early, but was easy flight.”

Yuna tried to take his bag, but he very insistently put it in the back himself. He had been raised, at least at one point, to be a gentleman, and his boyfriend’s mother was not going to carry his luggage while he stood there uselessly beside her.

Thankfully it was early enough in the morning that traffic was minimal, despite what Ilya pictured would be the oncoming holiday congestion. The roads were edged with old snow, gray and packed down along the curbs. Inside the car, the heat was turned up high enough that his face had well thawed by the time they got clear of the airport and headed toward the Hollanders’ house. Ilya watched Ottawa pass by in pale winter pieces: bare trees, salt-streaked cars, houses with Christmas lights still glowing faintly in low morning light. He was tired enough that everything felt a little softened at the edges, but not tired enough to stop himself from remembering the last time he had found himself alone in a car with Yuna Hollander.

Then, he had been nervous—though he would never admit it— when Shane told him he wouldn't be there to act as a buffer between Ilya and whichever parent came to collect him. It had been fine, of course. Yuna had been easy on him, kind enough not to expect much conversation while he was still half-dead from the international flight. This time, however, they talked as Yuna drove, easy conversation flowing between them. For the first fifteen minutes or so, the conversation stayed firmly in safe territory.

She asked about Boston. Not hockey, exactly—though hockey was never far off—but the city, his apartment, how he was settling in, how was living with Marleau.

Boston was fine.

The apartment was good.

Marly was annoying but a good roommate.

The Bears were good.

Busy, but good.

Then, after a quiet stretch at a red light, she said, “Shane won’t be back until this afternoon, by the way.” Ilya looked over. “He sent David and I a message last night. His trainers asked him to come in for a last-minute meeting this morning. Nothing bad, he said. He just wanted me to tell you he was sorry he wouldn’t be there when you arrived.”

“Ah,” he said. “Okay.”

Yuna smiled, but it didn’t quite settle. A few moments later, still watching the road, she said, very carefully, “There’s actually something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Almost immediately, Ilya felt an instinctive drop in his stomach. He quickly schooled his expression and desperately hoped that Yuna hadn't seen anything on his face. He had known, somewhere deep down, that this couldn't possibly be as easy as it had been so far. That at some point, some adult in this family was going to sit him down and explain that whatever had been tolerated up to now was not going to continue. That summer had been summer, but long-term was different. That they liked him, perhaps—he hoped—but not like this. That Shane needed less distraction, less complication, less… Ilya.

Ilya wasn’t sure if he would have preferred to hear this from Yuna or David. But It didn't look like he really had a choice in that matter anymore.

Yuna continued on, hopefully oblivious to Ilya's spiral. “I don’t know if you’d rather talk about it now, or wait until Shane’s home. I wasn’t sure if you’d prefer he be here, or if you’d rather he wasn’t.”

Oh, excellent. Worse. Ilya was suddenly actually really glad Shane wasn't here for this. Ilya kept his face still with the ease of long practice. “We can talk now,” he said tightly. “It is okay.”

Yuna nodded once, and Ilya braced himself. Then: “ I overstepped. I meant well I promise but—” She stopped for a moment. Ilya had no idea what she was talking about. "Maybe I should just start at the beginning."

She glanced at him briefly, then back to the road. “When I asked for your representation information a while ago, you sent me… quite a bit more than that. Your agreement with your agent was in there.”

Ilya’s confusion deepened. Not enough to fully displace the trepidation yet, but enough to interrupt it. “My agent?”

“Yes.” She paused. “I reached out to him to get a better sense of how your agreement was structured, especially if there were ever going to be any scheduling or joint opportunities involving you and Shane. Anything I might need to coordinate around.” She hesitated, then said more plainly, “I came away from that exchange feeling uneasy.”

Ilya frowned slightly. “So,” Yuna continued, more quietly now, “I had a lawyer take a look at the contract. And that's why I want to apologize, because I know I should probably have talked to you first, but I was so, so worried.”

The car stayed very quiet for a second.

Then Yuna said, plainly, “It’s a really bad contract, Ilya. For you, I mean. It’s… Ilya, it’s really not a contract I’m comfortable knowing you’re stuck in.”

For a moment, all he could hear was the steady hush of tires over pavement and the low, useless thud of his own pulse. He wasn’t surprised that the contract was bad. He wasn’t stupid. He had read enough of it to know that Vadim had written himself into every corner of Ilya’s life and left Ilya very few ways out. But Vadim was an old friend of his father’s. It was what his father had arranged. Ilya had just signed where he was told.

“And I don’t want to overwhelm you with it here,” Yuna continued, “but I have everything printed at the house. The summary from the lawyer and some resources if you decide you want out.” Her voice gentled further as she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “I can help you find someone better. An agent who actually works for you, not the other way around.”

The inside of Ilya’s chest felt suddenly, stupidly tight. He thought maybe he should be angry like she was implying he should be. He wasn't though, definitely a little embarrassed, but not angry. Because Yuna didn’t sound disappointed in him. She didn’t sound like she was scolding him for being careless or stupid or young. She sounded worried.

Ilya quickly looked away, suddenly grateful that Yuna was driving and they were having this conversation in the car; that she couldn’t just look at him this whole time. Out the window, snow and houses and winter-gray trees slid by in a blur. He had spent so much of his life learning not to wear all of his emotions on his sleeve, but for one awful second he could feel himself not quite holding the line of his face the way he wanted.

He swallowed once.

“…I’d like to see it,” he said, and was annoyed by how rough his voice came out. He cleared it. “The details. What they found. And the resources.”

Yuna nodded immediately. “Okay, of course, honey. We can look at everything when we get home.”

She kept her eyes on the road, and so, thankfully, missed the brief, helpless shift in his expression. Outside, Ottawa kept passing by in white and gray. Inside the car, Yuna—mistaking his silence for a different kind of overwhelm—let the subject rest.

And Ilya sat there very still beside her, not remotely angry, and a little too full of something he didn't want to examine too closely before they got to the house—when they got home.

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

Fuck. Shane was the worst boyfriend in the world. The worst. The absolute worst, with no competition. He was the best at being the worst.

But perhaps, that’s getting ahead of things.

Shane didn't make a habit of lying to his parents. He didn't like doing it, and was grateful there wasn’t much in his life he needed to lie to them about. But this lie was necessary, if Shane wanted to preserve even a shred of dignity as both a good son and a boyfriend.

Let it be known that Shane hadn't forgotten about Christmas. He had actually thought out and bought his parents’ gifts by the beginning of the month, because Shane was a good son who didn't leave gift-buying until the last minute. His parents wouldn’t let him use any of his new contract money to repay them for years of hockey-related expenses, or buy them anything especially lavish, which was stupid, in Shane’s opinion, because the money was there now and they had spent a frankly alarming amount of their lives paying for his future. Thankfully, Shane knew them well enough to find smaller—albeit still nice— things he hoped they would appreciate anyway.

His mom had gotten a new wool coat at the beginning of last winter, in that deep green she liked, so he’d bought her the cashmere scarf she had picked up in a store window and then, very pointedly, put back. For his dad, he’d gotten a nice bottle of scotch he would insist he didn’t need and would enjoy anyway.

The problem was that Shane had no idea what to get Ilya.

His boyfriend of six months. His secret boyfriend of six months. The person Shane probably—definitely—knew better than anyone outside his immediate family. Ilya, who somehow became one of the most important people in Shane’s life and whom he had no idea what to get for Christmas.

Not no idea in the broad, masculine, useless sense of I don’t know my partner or what do men even like. Shane knew what Ilya liked. That, if anything, was the problem. Ilya liked hockey, but their whole lives were hockey. Ilya liked expensive liquor, but that seemed so impersonal for a boyfriend. Ilya liked fancy clothes but only in a way that made Shane feel instantly out of his depth. Ilya liked cigarettes, which Shane was obviously not buying him. Ilya liked annoying people, which also didn't feel especially giftable.

Shane knew he wasn't supposed to think about his boyfriend’s Christmas present like he was game-planning for the playoffs, but unfortunately it was the morning of December 24th, Shane was giftless, and desperate times call for desperate measures.

The first store had seemed promising until it became immediately clear that everything in it fell into one of two categories: so generic it might as well have been for Male, Age 18–25, or so intimate that Shane nearly turned around and walked out in embarrassment. He wouldn't be buying Ilya anything involving silk. He was also not going to buy him cufflinks, because Ilya barely wore shirts that warranted cufflinks, and if Shane gave him something that boring and adult, Ilya would absolutely never let him hear the end of it.

The second store went worse, and the third worse after that.

By the fourth, Shane was developing a frantic, faintly feral feeling that perhaps Christmas had been invented specifically to torment him.

(He very deliberately didn't think about February. February, with its even more specifically couple-themed holiday.)

Right now, he wanted something that felt like Ilya, or maybe like them, except they were still new enough that trying to define “them” made Shane feel like he was standing on one skate. At one point, he found himself standing motionless in front of a display table full of expensive leather goods, staring down at a row of wallets without really seeing any of them. When a sales associate eventually came over to ask if he needed help, Shane, who didn't need help so much as divine intervention, quickly stammered, “No, thank you,” and fled.

By noon he was out of time and patience, developing a tension headache right between his eyes.

Fine.

He picked something.

It was not what he would have chosen if he’d had another week, or another day, or even another functioning brain cell. He worried it was selfish, or Ilya wouldn’t get it or remember the joke. But it was something he could hand to Ilya without wanting the earth to open up beneath him, and at this point that counted as a win.

Fuck. He should have left for Ottawa over an hour ago.

The drive home should have been relaxing. Familiar roads. Holiday radio. Plenty of time to settle down before he got there. Instead, Shane spent most of it stressed about the fact that he was the worst boyfriend in the world, apparently incapable of getting his boyfriend a nice Christmas gift without turning it into an entire production, and how he was running late for the Christmas he invited Ilya to.

By the time he pulled into the driveway, it was late enough in the afternoon that he had absolutely missed lunch, and late enough in the year that the sun was already sinking, even though it was only a little after four. From the driveway, he could see the living room and kitchen lights on, warm against the blue-gray dark. Shane put the car in park and took a breath. Then he grabbed his overnight bag and the duffle with his gifts from the trunk, locked the car, and headed inside.

The house was quiet when he let himself in, though he heard low voices coming from the dining room. He set his bags down by the stairs and followed the sound.

His mom, his dad, and Ilya were sitting around the table. The whole surface was spread with papers: printed emails, marked-up pages, and a legal pad covered in his mom’s handwriting. Ilya sat with his elbows near the edge of the table, one hand half-curled around a mug he clearly hadn’t touched in a while. He looked tired more than anything else. Maybe a little overwhelmed.

His mom looked up first. “Oh, hi, sweetheart. Did you just make it in?”

“Uh, yeah.” Shane pulled off his coat a little too quickly. “Sorry. Team meeting ran later than I expected, and then traffic was awful.” Shane partially lied. He glanced at the table again as his mom started gathering papers into neat piles. "What's all this?"

“Oh, nothing urgent,” his mom said, a pitch higher than normal. She slid one stack into a folder and gave him a look that was probably meant to be reassuring. “We’ve just been talking through some things. We can do more later. I think we all need a break at this point.”

Ilya nodded at that almost immediately. “Yes,” he said. “Break is good.”

“Okay,” he said slowly, still not entirely sure what was going on.

“Nothing urgent,” his mom repeated, glancing at Shane as though she could see the questions already lining up behind his eyes. “I promise. We’ll come get you both when dinner is ready.”

That did, actually, help. A little. Mostly because his mom wouldn’t say that if there were a house on fire. Or if there were a metaphorical house on fire. Or if Ilya was about to be deported, sued, financially ruined, or any of the other increasingly unreasonable possibilities Shane’s brain had started helpfully supplying the second he saw the papers.

So Shane looked at Ilya instead. “Do you want to go upstairs?”

Ilya pushed his chair back and stood, slower than usual. “Yes,” he said. “Please.”

The moment they were out of the kitchen and halfway down the hall, Shane felt his own body finally start to catch up with the day. Shopping. The drive. Whatever it was he walked in on when he got home.

He led the way upstairs, dropped his bag just inside his room, and turned around to ask Ilya what was going on. He got maybe halfway through the inhale for it before Ilya, apparently running on the last of his energy and not especially interested in remaining upright, walked directly into him and more or less tackled him backward onto the bed.

Shane landed flat, startled into a short laugh that died quick when he realized Ilya wasn’t joking. Ilya was already half on top of him, face pressed into his shoulder, all long limbs and travel fatigue and quiet.

Shane got a hand to his back automatically. “Hey.”

A muffled noise.

Shane shifted a little under the weight of him. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“That doesn’t sound like nothing.”

Ilya only made another tired, dismissive sound and pressed closer, like if he got close enough Shane might stop asking questions entirely. Which, to be fair, still might work.

Shane let a second pass, then another. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Is everything okay?”

A pause. Then, quieter, “Yes. It will be. I’m just… tired now.”

Shane lay there and considered that. Ilya did, in fact, sound exhausted. Yes, he’d had an early flight that morning, but not early enough to explain the way he had gone so quiet. Not sleepy, exactly. Just worn down in a way that made Shane suspect the flight was only part of it. He wanted to ask. He also wanted to trust that Ilya would tell him if there was something he needed to know. So instead of pushing, he just nodded once against Ilya’s hair.

“Okay,” he said. Whatever it was, it could wait twenty minutes. Or an hour. Or however long this turned into, because the room was warm and Ilya was very heavy across him in a way that was weirdly comforting, and Shane had spent the entire day ricocheting from one errand to the next with his shoulders somewhere around his ears.

At some point he got one of the blankets up over both of them. At some point Ilya shifted enough to make room for Shane to breathe without actually moving away. Neither of them said much after that. The house below stayed muted and warm around them, distant with the sounds of his parents moving through the kitchen, preparing dinner for Christmas Eve. Shane was almost asleep when Ilya said, voice thick with the edge of it, “Your mom is really great.”

Shane smiled into the pillow.

“Yeah,” he murmured, already halfway under himself. “She is.”

That was the last thing either of them said before the whole day caught up with both of them.

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

Late Christmas morning—or at least late for them—Shane woke to the distant sounds of his parents preparing breakfast.

Beside him, Ilya was still asleep, sprawled half on his stomach with one arm tucked under the pillow and his hair even more mused than usual. Shane lay there for a second, looking at him, and thinking that this was all a little insane; Ilya being here, with his family, on Christmas, as Shane's boyfriend. Ilya made a face in his sleep, like he’d heard the thought, and Shane had to bite back a laugh.

He nudged him lightly. “Hey.” Ilya made a low, disgruntled noise and burrowed deeper into the pillow. “Hey,” Shane tried again, a little firmer. “It’s Christmas.”

One eye opened. “Hmm.”

Shane snorted. “Come on. My parents have definitely been awake for hours already. We should head downstairs.”

At that, Ilya cracked the other eye open too. “Crazy people,” he muttered, though he let Shane drag him slowly toward consciousness. "Awake this early on holiday."

By the time they made it downstairs, both showered but still in flannel sleep pants rather than anything respectable, the house had fully settled into Christmas morning. The tree was lit. The stockings had been taken down from the mantel and arranged in a neat little pile on the couch. There was a breakfast casserole on the table, cinnamon rolls under foil, and a half-empty pot of coffee waiting on the counter.

“Good morning,” his mom greeted, turning from the counter with a spatula in one hand.

“Good morning,” Shane said.

His dad glanced up from his mug. “Merry Christmas, boys.”

Ilya blinked once and said, “Uh—Merry Christmas.”

His mom quickly ushered them to the table, bringing a stack of plates with her.

Breakfast was an easy affair. Both Shane and Ilya were athletes, and while Shane had definitely become more conscious of his diet and caloric intake since getting a nutritionist, he was not about to deny his parents’ Christmas casserole—a savory egg hash loaded with cheese, potatoes, peppers, and spices.

Normally, the Hollander Christmas casserole lasted the three of them for another breakfast or two after Christmas morning. This year, however, with two NHL players at the table, the tray didn't stand a chance. Shane himself had two helpings. Ilya had three, and Shane was almost certain he saw him sneak at least one extra cinnamon roll when he thought no one was looking.

Conversation moved easily around the food. His parents passed along Christmas wishes from family, friends, and colleagues. Ilya mostly listened, still working his way through coffee and casserole, but he answered when they pulled him in, and every time he did, Shane felt something in his chest settle a little further.

As his mom stood to clear a few plates, she said, “And remember, Shane, no presents until someone finds the pickle.”

Ilya’s fork paused halfway to his plate. Shane felt his face go hot almost immediately.

Ilya leaned slightly toward him and said, “The what?”

“It’s not—” Shane started, dragging a hand over his face. “It’s a tradition.”

“A pickle?”

“Yeah.” Ilya stared at him. Without prompt, Shane continued. “It’s this ugly little green ceramic pickle ornament,” Shane said, already regretting every word as it left his mouth. “It’s this old German tradition, I think. My dad’s parents had one. They used to hide it on Christmas morning, and whichever of the kids found it first got to open the first present.”

Ilya stared at him.

His dad, entirely unhelpfully, nodded with visible nostalgia. “Shane’s grandparents took it very seriously. When my siblings and I were younger, they kept it contained to the tree mostly. But as we got older, it evolved into the living room, the house, and one year, even out in the backyard. It was quite the competition each year, very cutthroat”

Ilya’s expression didn't change.

“My dad has three siblings,” Shane said, mostly to Ilya. “So the whole first to find the pickle gets to open the first present thing made a lot more sense in that context. But I’m an only child, so it kind of turned into just…” He coughed a little, trying to clear the rising embarrassment from his throat. “No presents until I found the pickle.”

Ilya looked toward the living room, where the tree stood glowing innocently in the corner. “So there is ceramic pickle somewhere in the tree, and we must find it?”

“Ah well…” Shane trailed off, looking to his mom to try and garner any sort of clue.

His mom smiled coyly, and said, “Well… it might be in the tree. Maybe not.”

As his mom returned to the dishes, and his dad got up to bring the rest of them over, Shane leaned towards Ilya, and asked softly, “Do you have weird Christmas traditions? We can do some of them next year.” Shane suddenly flushed at the assumption, and rushed to add, “I mean—I don’t want to assume! It’s just—”

Ilya interrupted him with a small laugh, “Ah… no. No strange traditions. Russian Christmas is very different.”

Shane took a deep breath, “Oh? How so?”

“Well, Russian Christmas is not really a present day. It is more religious. You start with—ah, what is word…” Ilya paused, frowning faintly. “Not eating food all day?”

“Fasting?”

“Yes, fasting. Then there is church, and preparation for big meal that night.” He shrugged a little. “It is also not on December twenty-fifth.”

Shane blinked. “Wait, what?”

Ilya’s mouth twitched. “Christmas in Russia is in January.”

“Oh,” Shane said, and then immediately felt stupid. “I didn’t know that. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Ilya looked at him as if this were an incredibly stupid thing to ask, which, okay, maybe it was. “You wanted me to come,” he said. “I wanted to come. It is not my holiday, but it is important to you, yes?”

Shane’s throat went a little tight. “Oh,” he said.

Ilya’s mouth twitched, just barely. “Yes. Oh.”

From the kitchen, his mother called, “Time’s ticking boys! Or maybe no presents this year!”

Shane and Ilya exchanged a quick look.For one brief second, they seemed to be asking each other how seriously they were about to take this. Then Ilya’s expression sharpened, and Shane felt his own stupid, automatic competitive instincts rise to meet it.

The answer was very.

Like a shot, they both scrambled up from the table and took off toward the living room. Shane hadn't spent his entire childhood searching for this ugly ceramic pickle just to lose to Ilya five minutes into his first Canadian Christmas.

They started at the tree, because that was where the pickle was supposed to be, moving carefully around the branches so his mom wouldn't have to remind them not to break anything. Shane checked between the ornaments he recognized from childhood: the painted wooden skates, the glass snowmen, the lopsided star he had made in second grade that his mom still insisted on hanging every year. Ilya searched beside him, lifting garland with one finger and leaning in close to peer past the lights.

But the pickle was not on the obvious branches. Or the less obvious branches. Or tucked behind the ribbon near the back where Shane had found it when he was eleven. Which meant, according to Hollander rules, the search perimeter expanded.

Shane checked the mantel while Ilya crouched to inspect the underside of the coffee table. They searched around the couch cushions, behind the framed family photos, along the bookshelves, and within the garland above each window and doorway. They kept crossing paths, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, both trying to look where the other had just looked in case the other's first pass had been incompetent.

It was ridiculous. It was an ugly green ceramic pickle. There was no reason for Shane’s heart rate to be up the way it was, or for the wild look in Ilya's eyes; no reason for either of them to care this much. Except Shane did care. And it seemed Ilya cared too. Shane's heart felt full: the lit tree, the abandoned coffee mugs, his parents laughing quietly in the kitchen, Ilya in flannel pants and damp hair, taking this strange little piece of Shane’s childhood seriously enough to want to win it.

In the end, Ilya found it in one of the little ceramic houses of the Christmas village his mom put out every year. Shane was alerted of this with Ilya’s shout of triumph. Shane whipped around just in time to see Ilya straighten, the ugly green ceramic pickle raised above his head like the Stanley Cup.

“Aha!” Ilya announced, grinning wide. “Fifteen years you have practiced this, yes? And yet—” He gave the pickle a little victorious shake. “I am already winning at Christmas!”

Shane dragged both hands down his face with a groan while Ilya beamed at him, absolutely shameless, still holding the pickle aloft as if expecting applause. Which, unfortunately, he got, because his mom clapped from the edge of the room and said, delighted, “Well done, Ilya! That means you get to open the first present.”

Ilya’s face faltered a bit, and the pickle lowered slightly. “Uh,” he said.

Shane looked at Ilya as Ilya looked at his mom. Then at the presents. Then, slowly, back down at the pickle in his hand, as if only just remembering that this entire insane exercise had technically had a point beyond beating Shane at a game in front of his parents.

“Oh,” Ilya said, much less triumphantly.

Shane’s parents ushered both of them into the living room. Despite the trepidation still clear on Ilya’s face, he sat beside Shane and accepted the medium-sized package his parents passed him. He regarded the tag for a second before carefully pulling at the paper.

Inside was a round metal tin from a bakery Shane vaguely recognized from somewhere near the market. The label was written in English and Cyrillic, and when Ilya opened it, the smell of sugar and honey and something warm drifted out immediately. Inside were rows of little walnut-shaped cookies dusted lightly with powdered sugar, tucked beside darker glazed rounds Shane didn’t recognize.

“We weren’t sure what sweets you would usually have at home,” his mom said, suddenly sounding a little nervous. “The bakery recommended these. They said they were very popular.”

For a moment, Ilya didn't say anything. “Oreshki,” he said finally, softer than before. “And pryaniki.”

His mom smiled. “Good, I hope?”

Ilya blinked once, then seemed to remember where he was. “Yes,” he said quickly. “Yes. It is—” He cleared his throat, then looked at Shane with the faintest, crooked edge of a smile. “It is good. Very good. Would you like one?”

His parents laughed, and after a brief attempt at polite refusal, they all—Shane included—acquiesced. Ilya passed the tin around, and each of them took one of each.

Shane tried the darker, glazed one first—the pryanik—and hummed as honey and spice bloomed over his tongue, warm and not entirely dissimilar to gingerbread. The walnut cookie—the oreshki—was much sweeter, crumbly at first with a soft caramel-like condensed milk center. Shane, who hadn't had anything that sweet since the season began, had to suppress a moan at the taste.

However, judging by Ilya’s delighted expression, he doesn’t think he did a very good job.

From there, presents were passed around without much concern for order. Shane gave his parents their gifts next. His mom unwrapped the scarf and made the exact delighted sound he had been hoping for, immediately holding it up against her coat and calling it beautiful. His dad opened the bottle of scotch, looked at the label, and grinned at Shane despite himself. “This is a very good bottle.”

“I know,” Shane said, smiling. His mom laughed from beside them, still running her fingers over the edge of the scarf.

Then Ilya, to Shane’s surprise, reached for two small boxes he had brought down from upstairs.

“These are for you,” he said, a little more formally than usual, looking between Shane’s parents.

“For us?” his mom asked, surprised.

Ilya nodded once. “It is nothing big,” he said quickly. “Just—thank you. For inviting me.”

It shouldn't have surprised Shane that Ilya had brought something for them. Ilya was strange about manners in ways Shane was still figuring out, formal in sudden, unexpected places. Still, something about seeing the boxes in his hands made Shane’s chest go quietly warm.

For his mom, he had brought a small tin of loose black tea and a jar of cherry preserves, both with Cyrillic text on it. For his dad, a bag of coffee beans and a box of dark chocolates. Both were clearly carefully chosen in the safest possible category of things adults generally liked. But still:

“That’s incredibly thoughtful,” His mom said, looking genuinely touched.

“Yes,” his dad agreed, turning the coffee over in his hands with a small smile. “It really is. Thank you, Ilya.”

Ilya, who had abruptly developed an intense interest in the tree, shrugged, fidgeting with the lid to his tin of cookies.

Eventually, though, there were only a few presents left under the tree, and Shane couldn't put it off any longer. He had been half-dreading this all morning. A very large part of him remained convinced that Ilya was going to open his gift, blink once, and either think it was stupid or, worse, politely pretend he didn’t.

Ilya, apparently, was having a similar crisis.

He reached for a package at the same time Shane did. They were practically the same size, and for a second, they both just looked at them.

“Open yours first,” Shane said, suspiciously.

“No, you open yours.”

His mom, from the armchair, laughed lightly, while his dad blessedly said nothing.

In the end, they opened them at the same time. So—simultaneously—they both froze. They were both, unmistakably, holding the same boxed set of darts.

His dad laughed first. His mom followed almost immediately, one hand flying to her mouth, while Shane looked from the box in his hands to Ilya and found Ilya staring at his own gift with an incredulous expression.

“No,” Ilya said.

Shane stared at him. “Did you seriously—”

“You said you had fun!” Ilya said, scandalized. “You texted me this!”

“Yeah, I wanted to play with you sometime!”

“Yes,” Ilya said, as if this only proved his point. “So I bought them!”

“So did I!”

Ilya looked at his own matching set, then at Shane’s, then back again. “This is ridiculous.”

His mom made a helpless little sound that might have been an attempt not to laugh harder. “Well,” she said, failing completely, “at least you boys clearly know each other.”

Shane dropped back against the couch with a groan, the box still clutched in both hands, and felt the laugh break loose before he could stop it. Not a neat laugh, either. A ridiculous, half-hysterical one, dragged out of him by the absurdity of it and the relief of the fact that he had spent hours wandering through stores in a state of near-panic only to end up exactly where Ilya had.

Ilya stared at him for another second, before the corner of his mouth gave way, and he laughed too, ducking his head like he could hide it even as his shoulders shook.

It was ridiculous. It was also, somehow, perfect.

“Fine,” Shane said, when his laughter finally calmed down. “I guess we have two.”

“Good, yes,” Ilya said, smirking. “So when you lose, you cannot blame equipment.”

Christmas Day passed in slow, easy pieces.

There was too much food, too many sweets, and too many blankets dragged from closets and thrown over laps on the couch. There were movies Shane had seen every year for as long as he could remember, and movies Ilya had somehow never seen at all, which led to a surprisingly intense disagreement over whether Die Hard counted as a Christmas movie. Shane didn't think so. Ilya, despite seeing it for the first time that night, disagreed on the matter.

“It takes place on Christmas, Shane.”

“That’s not the only requirement.”

“Then what is?”

“It has to feel like Christmas.”

Ilya stared at him. “There is Christmas party. There is tree. There is man fighting for family. What more do you want, an ugly ceramic pickle?”

By the time they finally made it upstairs that night, both of them smelled faintly like cinnamon and nutmeg, soft from too much food and too many hours spent under blankets in the living room. Ilya was sleepy enough to be loose around the edges, leaning into Shane as they climbed the stairs, and Shane was tired enough not to pretend he minded.

Shane changed, got into bed, and lay there for a minute in the dark, listening to Ilya move around the room. The conversation from breakfast nudged its way back into his head. Just enough that, by the time Ilya finally got in beside him, Shane was still thinking about it.

“So,” Shane said, turning onto his side. Ilya, already halfway horizontal, made a questioning noise. “December twenty-fifth really isn’t anything to you.”

There was a pause. Then Ilya rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. “Not really,” he said. “I know it is important here. Important to you. So of course I come. I wanted to.”

Shane hummed. That part, at least, he believed completely. “Well,” he said after a second, “you mentioned Russian Christmas is pretty different. Is there something more similar?”

Ilya was quiet for a moment. “I have not really celebrated Christmas since I was little. Not properly.” He made a vague motion with one hand over the blanket. “So for me, even that is also just another day. Like December twenty-fifth.”

Shane frowned, though Ilya probably couldn't see it in the dark. Before he could figure out what to ask next, Ilya added, “New Year’s is more important. More similar to this.”

Shane looked at him. “More important than Christmas?”

“In Russia? Yes.” Ilya shifted onto his side then, facing Shane. “Holdover from Soviet era, I think. But still. New Year’s is big holiday. Food, gifts, midnight, all of it.”

Shane’s stomach dropped a little. They didn’t get New Year’s off, unlike Christmas. He must have made some face, because Ilya’s expression softened almost at once.

“Hey,” he said. “It’s okay. We have holiday now, yes?”

Shane knew that was true. He just didn’t like the idea of Ilya being alone for a holiday like that, especially not now, not after seeing him downstairs all day in the middle of Shane’s family and realizing how right it felt to have him there.

“I just…” Shane stopped. Tried again. “I don’t want you alone for it.”

That made Ilya go oddly still. For a second Shane thought maybe he’d said the wrong thing. Then Ilya looked away, toward the wall, and said, “I will not be alone.”

Shane waited. After another beat, Ilya added, “My—" He paused. "A friend is visiting from Moscow for New Years'.”

“Oh,” Shane said. And because he was not an asshole, he followed it honestly with, “That’s good. I’m glad.”

But Ilya still looked tense. Like he was trying to swallow a bitter pill. “Sveta is…” Ilya exhaled through his nose. “She is old friend. Probably my best friend from Russia. Very important to me.” Shane nodded once. Then Ilya said, too quickly, “We used to hook up.”

Shane went very quiet, an irrational ugly feeling suddenly rising in his chest. Ilya must have seen something in his face, because he rushed to add, “Not now,” he said. “Not since we got together. Not since before. Before draft. Before CCM. It has not been like that for long time.”

He sounded alarmingly earnest, moving to sit up on one elbow to look at Shane

Shane sat up to meet him. “Hey,” Shane said softly. Ilya fell quiet. “Sveta’s important to you. Yeah?”

“Yes,” Ilya said at once. “Like—” He stopped, frustrated at his own English for half a second. “Like family, almost. Like a sister. One of few good things in Russia.”

Shane swallowed once. That did help, a little. Not with the immediate stupid jealousy thing, because unfortunately Shane was still nineteen and very capable of getting hung up on the image of his boyfriend spending a major holiday with a girl he used to sleep with. But it helped with the real thing underneath it: that Ilya was not telling him this to make him insecure. He was telling him because it mattered to Ilya that Shane knew this.

“Does she know?” Shane asked. “About you? About us?”

Ilya made a face in the dark. “She knows I am bisexual. And…” His nose twitched unhappily. “I think she knows about us.”

“You think?”

“I can never hide anything from Sveta.” That got a reluctant little huff out of him. “She is very annoying, very—” He cut himself off, looking for a word in English. "Like. Sees things."

"Perceptive?"

"Yes, perceptive."

“And she is okay with it? You? Us?”

“With us?” Ilya looked at him incredulously “Shane. She will probably like you more than she likes me.” He grumbled the last part, but he was still watching Shane with an openness that made the joke land a little crooked. Not really teasing. More like pleading through humor for Shane to understand.

Shane looked at him for a long moment.

He was, internally, still not thrilled. He wasn’t. There was a small, mean little part of him that wanted to say no, actually, I hate this. I hate that she matters, and that she’s coming, and that you used to sleep with her, and that I won’t be there.

But Ilya looked nervous in a way Shane almost never saw on him, and more than that—he had told him. He could have just… not. Shane would never have known who Sveta was beyond some friend from Russia coming in for New Year’s. Instead Ilya was here, almost begging him to understand.

So Shane let out a slow breath and said, “I’m glad she can be there for you, then.”

Some of the tension left Ilya immediately. Not all of it, but enough that Shane could see it happen. Then, more quietly, Ilya said, “I wish I could have both.”

Shane blinked. “What?”

“Both of you there,” Ilya said. “I want you to meet her. I want her to know you.” He hesitated for only a second before adding, with deliberate emphasis, “My boyfriend.”

That did something complicated to Shane’s chest. Now, layered awkwardly on top of his jealousy, worry, and his stupid self-consciousness, there was also the simple fact: Ilya wanted him there. Ilya wanted him beside this person who mattered most from home.

Shane went quiet again, but for a different reason this time.

Eventually he reached over and caught Ilya’s wrist under the blanket and pulled him back down onto the bed. “It’s okay,” he said. “Really. I’m just glad you won’t be alone.”

Ilya watched him for another moment like he was checking for cracks in the answer. Then he nodded once and let himself settle. He still went to sleep a little tense.

Shane could feel it in the way he eventually relaxed by degrees rather than all at once. It eased out of him piece by piece: first from his shoulders, then from the careful set of his jaw, then from the hand he had closed around Shane’s beneath the blanket. His breathing evened slowly. His fingers stayed curled tight for a long time before they finally loosened. By the time Ilya was fully asleep, heavy and warm beside him, Shane was still wide awake.

He lay there in the dark and thought about what Ilya had said. And, because his brain apparently refused to leave well enough alone, he also thought too about earlier that day—about Ilya downstairs in the middle of a Hollander Christmas. About how good that had felt. Not just because Shane loved him, though that was beginning to feel alarmingly like a thing he might have to reckon with one day soon. But because it had felt right, seeing Ilya among the people Shane cared most about.

He wanted that for Ilya. For Ilya to see Shane with his people, his family. Which sucked, because from what little Shane knew, Russia was not offering much for Ilya in the good family department.

After a while, very carefully so as not to wake him, Shane reached for his phone on the nightstand.

The screen lit the room blue-white. Beside him, Ilya didn’t stir.

Shane opened the NHL schedule.

Then he started planning.

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

December thirtieth found Ilya in the passenger seat of Marleau’s car on the way to the airport, enduring a nearly relentless amount of chirping.

“So,” Marleau said, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel while Boston’s miserable winter blurred past outside. “This friend.”

Ilya glanced over. “What about her?”

Marleau gave him a look. “C’mon. Don’t do that.” He grinned. “Is this your Jane? Were you lying after all?”

Ilya made a face at him. “No.”

“No?”

“No,” he repeated, more firmly. “Sveta is not my Jane.”

Marleau laughed at that, one hand briefly lifting off the wheel in surrender. “Alright, alright. Sure. Just asking.”

Ilya looked back out the windshield and tried, with very little success, to calm the restless energy buzzing under his skin.

It had been months since he had seen Sveta.

That fact hadn't felt entirely real until this morning, until he’d woken up with the date staring right at him and realized that in a few hours she would be here—not in Moscow, not on the other end of a message thread, not flattened into a little icon on a screen. Here. In Boston. In his life again in three dimensions.

He hadn't quite understood—until then—how much he missed her. Missed the ease of her. The fact that with Sveta there was no translation required—not of language, not of history, not of tone. She knew too much about him. But she had earned that right years ago, somewhere in the long stretch of being young and stupid together and everything that happened after.

And, if he was honest, he was looking forward to the relief of finally talking about Shane to someone who would understand exactly what he meant without making him explain all the stupid, impossible parts.

At the terminal, Marleau stayed half a step behind him with his hands shoved into his coat pockets, still grinning faintly. Eventually, Ilya spotted Sveta through the crowds of travellers. Dark coat, dark hair tucked into a scarf, her suitcase rolling effortlessly behind her in one hand. She looked tired from the flight but nonetheless gorgeous. Sveta spotted him at the exact same moment he did, and her face changed all at once, the stern travel look dissolving into something warmer and brighter. Ilya was already moving.

The hug hit hard enough to jostle him back a step. He laughed into her shoulder, and she was laughing too, arms around his neck.

"Hello darling," she greeted in Russian, pulling back just far enough to look at him properly. “God, you got taller somehow. That’s so irritating.”

“I didn't.” He denied. "Maybe you've just shrunk." He pulled her in for one more hug, laughing as she squawked into his shoulder. "How was your flight?"

"Lovely, you spoil me. You will make me expect such treatment every time at this rate."

Ilya looked at her, unimpressed. “I will make you? Sveta, I have known you for a long time. This is not new development.”

She shoved his shoulder. “Still impossible. Good. I was worried America might have improved you.”

Behind them, Marleau made a diplomatic sort of cough.

Sveta looked over his shoulder. One brow went up. “Ah.”

Ilya laughed. Then, in English, “Sveta, this is Cliff Marleau. Marly. My teammate and roommate.”

Marleau, who had seemingly discovered his best manners in the presence of a beautiful Russian woman, stepped forward with a hand out and a grin that probably worked far too often. “Nice to meet you.”

Sveta shook it, amused. “Svetlana Vetrova. And thank you for putting up with this menace here.”

Marleau’s grin widened. “He’s not so bad.”

Sveta gave Ilya a deeply skeptical look. “You are very kind.”

Marleau laughed. “I see why he likes you.”

“Yes,” Ilya said dryly. “This is because you do not have history with her.”

The drive back was loud and easy. Sveta and Marleau got on like a house on fire, which mostly meant they spent the entire drive making each other laugh and occasionally teaming up at Ilya’s expense. By the time they reached the apartment, Marleau had heard three deeply unflattering stories from Ilya’s teenage years, and Sveta had learned of the rather creative excuses Ilya had made during his first month in Boston.

Sveta pressed a hand over her mouth, eyes bright with laughter. “An Orthodox priest, Ilyusha? You told this to your teammates?”

“Hey,” Ilya said. “I made a quite sexy man of God that night.”

Unfortunately, several of Marleau’s high school friends were already in town for New Year’s, which meant the guest room was occupied, which meant Sveta got Ilya’s bed and Ilya got the floor.

Sveta stared at the blanket he was spreading beside the bed and crossed her arms. “You are ridiculous.”

“I am a taken man, Sveta,” he said solemnly, fluffing one of the spare pillows with a degree of martyrdom he felt was underappreciated. “I will not be a beacon of temptation for you.”

She flipped him off without hesitation. “Dick,” she said, finally kicking off her shoes and curling up cross-legged against the headboard while he settled onto the floor beside the bed. For a little while they talked in the broad, necessary strokes of catching up. Her work. People from home. Who had gotten married, who were already considering divorce. It was easy. Effortless in the way that talking to her had always been.

But there was only so long Shane Hollander could sit between them, glowing faintly and obviously, before Sveta reached over and flicked the top of his head.

“Ow.”

“Enough,” she said. “You are impossible. Tell me about him properly.”

Ilya opened his mouth to protest, before he closed it again, because there was no point. Not with her. Not when she was looking at him like that, fond but merciless.

“You can’t hide this from me,” she added, gentler now. “You know that, yes? " And he did know it. So he told her.

Not everything. Not every text, every touch, every stupid little revelation. But enough. He talked about the CCM shoot, and Ottawa, and how ridiculous Shane could be. How earnest he was. How much he cared. About his mean little competitive streak that made Ilya want to shake him and kiss him in equal measure.

And God, it felt good.

By the time they finally went quiet, sometime indecently late, Ilya was stretched on the floor staring up at the ceiling with a sense of looseness in his chest he hadn’t felt in weeks.

Above him, Sveta shifted in bed and said into the dark, “You sound happy.”

There were a thousand ways he could respond to that. Instead, after a moment, he said, “Yes.”

She was quiet then. Then, softer, “Good.”

The next morning, they found a little Russian place in Brighton for breakfast, a hole in the wall with weak coffee and excellent syrniki. He took her shopping afterward, and he—ever the gentleman—dutifully carried her numerous purchases and indulgences. They carried coffee between stores and argued lazily over nothing and everything.

By the time the sky had gone dark, Ilya was nearly buzzing with anticipation for the night.

By nine, the apartment was loud. Marleau’s high school friends had taken over the living room, and the drinks were flowing with casual abundance. The whole apartment felt warm and crowded and alive. Sveta was sitting cross-legged on the arm of the couch with a drink in her hand, laughing at something one of Marleau’s friends had said. She looked completely at ease, as if she had known these people for years instead of hours. Ilya, already a little drunk, leaned against the kitchen counter and let the noise wash over him.

It was so good, watching her. Having her here in Boston, in his apartment, like a golden piece of his old life had crossed the ocean and decided it might stay for a while.

Ilya took another drink and let himself grin into the rim of the cup.

God, it was a great fucking night.

Vaguely, over the noise, Ilya heard a knock at the door, but he didn’t look up from where Sveta was trying to teach one of Marleau’s friends a niche Russian drinking game they had played too many times in clubs around Moscow. Someone would get it. Marleau had people coming in and out all night, and Ilya had no reason to think this knock was any different.

Then, from the front hall, there came a startled, incredulous, “Holy shit! Hollzy!”

He whipped around so fast he nearly sloshed his drink down his own hand.

Shane.

Shane.

He was there in the doorway in a dark coat with cold in his hair and a duffel over one shoulder, looking a little windblown and a little wary, but so unbelievably, impossibly beautiful that for one stupid second Ilya just stared.

He crossed the room before anyone could say another word and got both arms around Shane in a hug with perhaps more force and enthusiasm than the situation strictly required. Shane laughed—startled, breathless—and the sound went straight through him.

“Holy shit,” Ilya said low near his ear, half laugh, half demand. “How are you here?”

Shane’s hands had come up automatically to steady him. “Long story.”

Behind Ilya, Sveta’s voice came in Russian, dry as dust and amused. “Rein it in, loverboy.”

Ilya ignored her with all the dignity available to him, which was to say none. When he finally pulled back enough to look at Shane properly, he caught two things at once.

First: Shane looked a little nervous.

Second: there was something else there too, under the nerves—something tighter than Ilya, pleasantly drunk and slightly overwhelmed, could entirely place. Something in Shane's eyes when his gaze flicked past Ilya and landed, briefly, on Sveta.

(Possessiveness. Ilya didn’t know it, but the word he was looking for was possessiveness.)

At his side, Sveta stepped around him and held out a perfectly manicured hand. “Svetlana Vetrova,” she said. “Shane Hollander.” Her smile deepened, not unkindly. “Ilyusha has told me a lot about you.”

Shane, who still had Ilya more or less hanging off him, blinked once. “Ilyusha?” he repeated.

Because God was cruel and clearly loved Sveta more than him, Ilya felt heat hit his own face almost immediately. Sveta's smile widened into something frankly vicious with affection. She leaned in slightly and repeated, “Yes, yes. Ilyusha.”

“Ilyusha,” Shane said again, softer this time, like he was testing the shape of it, and Ilya suppressed the urge to bury his face in Shane's coat.

Sveta laughed outright, looking at Ilya. Then, to Shane, softly: “I am very glad to finally meet Ilya’s Shane Hollander.” Clearly satisfied she had embarrassed him enough for one minute, patted Ilya once on the shoulder. “I’m going to get another drink,” she announced. Then, in Russian, "Careful, Darling."

She drifted off toward the kitchen, leaving Shane and Ilya standing in the entryway, still far too close, still embarrassingly obvious. Ilya didn't move away immediately.

He probably should have. Sveta had already warned him—twice even—there were other people in the apartment; he was sober enough to understand that launching himself bodily at Shane in front of Marleau hadn't been his most elegant moment.

Unfortunately, he was also just drunk enough not to care very much.

So instead he stayed right there, one hand still caught in Shane’s coat, and said again, in a low rush, “How are you here?”

Shane let out a small, nervous laugh, "Uh,” he said. “Montreal’s next game is in New York.” He glanced down at Ilya, still smiling a little helplessly. “I figured out that if I got on the train tomorrow by ten, I could make it in time for the afternoon skate and the game.”

Ilya stared at him, and for a second, the apartment seemed to go fuzzy at the edges. He had known, abstractly, that Shane worried about a lot of things. Shane was a planner. But knowing that in theory was very different from having the evidence show up on his doorstep in Boston on New Year’s Eve. Because of him. For him.

“I know you, uh—” Shane continued, with an uncharacteristic shyness to his voice, “I know you said you weren’t going to be alone. But you also said…” He hesitated, “You said you wanted both of us, me and Sveta—Svetlana. Here. So I, uh…”

Ilya felt something in his chest go so full it almost hurt.

He pressed in closer before he could stop himself, forehead nearly knocking Shane’s shoulder as he let out a low, wrecked sort of laugh. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I wanted this.”

Wanted was not even the word, really. Want was too small and neat for the desire that had filled Ilya's chest when he admitted that to Shane Christmas night. Ilya slipped into Russian without meaning to, the words coming softer and faster than his English ever did when he was emotional. “Fuck, Shane, you’re here, you actually came— holy shit, Shanya—”

That, apparently, was enough to make Shane look openly happy. Remembering, belatedly, Sveta’s warning and the fact that the room still contained other people, Ilya forced himself to pull back a little. Not far. Just enough to stop himself from doing something really stupid like kissing him in front of Marleau’s high school friends.

“You will come out with us? Sveta and I? We are going to bar soon.” he asked, trying for nonchalance and hitting somewhere much closer to hopeful.

Shane sighed the tiniest bit, but it was fond more than reluctant. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll come out with you guys, if you'll have me." And Ilya couldn’t have nodded quicker.

Once it got moving, the night was better than Ilya had dared let himself hope. Shane had one drink before they left, which surprised him, but only a little. Sobriety probably wasn’t much fun when everyone around you was thoroughly wasted, and Shane had come all this way. By the time the three of them left for the bar a few streets over—close enough to walk—Ilya could almost convince himself that his boyfriend looked relaxed.

Almost.

Ilya wouldn't insult him with that lie. He was very aware that bars weren't Shane’s scene. There were too many people, too much noise, too many broad shoulders and raised voices packed too close together. But Shane was there. He wasn't smiling much, not really, but he didn't look miserable either. He let Sveta draw him into conversation. He even let Ilya drag him toward the floor when the song changed, stiff for the first few seconds and then marginally less so as the music continued.

At one point, with music pounding through the walls and warm gold light flashing over the room, Ilya looked over and found Shane and Sveta tucked off to the side together.

Not doing anything remarkable. Just talking. Sveta had one shoulder against the wall, drink held loosely in her hand, her face bright with amusement. Shane stood beside her, ever the wallflower. He had his hip angled against the wall, head tilted down so he could hear her over the music. Sveta must have said something funny, because Shane laughed. For a second, he could only watch them—his boyfriend and his oldest friend—as the full, stupid force of his own happiness hit him all at once.

By the time the countdown started, the whole bar was buzzing around Ilya. The music dipped. People turned toward the televisions over the bar and toward each other. Friends found friends. Couples found each other. Strangers found convenient strangers. The room took on that collective, anticipatory energy it always did just before midnight, when everyone suddenly wanted to believe that crossing one arbitrary threshold together might matter.

Ilya found himself between Shane and Sveta almost by instinct.

He had an arm around each of them. Sveta leaned in easily, warm and familiar at his side. Shane came a second later, a little more hesitant, but there all the same, solid beneath Ilya’s arm. The three of them counted with the room as the numbers flashed across the screen.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

And fuck, Ilya wanted to kiss Shane.

It hit him suddenly and completely. A specific, urgent want. Midnight was coming and Shane was here and Sveta was here, and Ilya wanted—wanted—

Seven.

Six.

He wasn’t even that drunk anymore.

Somewhere around five, he had an idea. A bad idea, probably. A reckless one. But clever, he thought. As the counting got louder, Ilya let himself go looser. Let his weight tip a little more heavily into them. Let the last few seconds find him just slightly sloppier than he had actually been all night.

Four.

Three.

Two—

At one, the room erupted.

There was shouting, laughter, and glasses thrown up. Ilya turned first and kissed Sveta full on the cheek, dramatic, affectionate, and obnoxious in its visibility. Then he turned to Shane and, like a man slightly too drunk and moving a fraction too fast, leaned in a little too far.

His mouth landed right on Shane’s.

He didn't dare let it linger.

He felt the immediate shock in Shane—the split second of stillness, the flash of stress in his face—but by then Ilya was already moving again, laughing, pulling back, folding Sveta into another hug like the whole thing had just been one more clumsy, exuberant spill of New Year’s affection.

Except while he held her, he looked over her shoulder at Shane. Watched whatever alarm had sparked there ease as Shane regarded them, and then at the crowd around them: all noise and laughter and kissing and champagne. No one looked twice at one drunk idiot who had gotten a little overenthusiastic at midnight. Ilya, in that moment, loved him so much it bordered on absurd.

They only stayed out a little longer after that.

Shane had an early train, and for all Ilya had wanted the night, he wanted his boyfriend out of the bar in one piece more. So eventually the three of them spilled back out into the cold with the rest of the crowd, the shock of winter air hitting all at once, breath turning white around them.

Boston after midnight on New Year’s was loud in a different way than the bar had been. More diffuse. Car horns in the distance. Bursts of shouting from farther up the street. Laughter rolled out of other doorways as strangers made their way home in clumps.

They walked close together through it, Sveta between them for part of the way and then not, the conversation moving in bright, easy jumps.

“Wait,” Shane said. “Your dad is that Vetrov?”

Sveta giggled into her hand “Ah. You know him?”

Shane let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Know him? He played for Boston for like—” He stopped, did the math, looked briefly scandalized by the number that had appeared in his head. “Oh my God.”

Sveta laughed outright at that. “Yes, yes. He is very old.”

“He is not that old,” Shane protested automatically, then seemed to realize what he was defending and gave up with another laugh. “Jesus.”

Ilya, walking a half step behind them now, watched the whole exchange with a dazed feeling. His Shane, flushed from the cold and his Sveta, bright-eyed and wicked beside him. For not the first time that night, but most clearly, Ilya thought:

I love him.

He almost stumbled a little on the sidewalk from the force of it, which would have been humiliating if anyone had noticed. But Shane was busy asking Sveta whether she had actually met half the retired Bears roster as a child, and Sveta was busy saying why yes, of course, what sort of question was that, and so the moment stayed his.

By the time they got back to the apartment, it was blessedly quiet. Or, quiet-ish, anyway. They let themselves in to find Marly’s friends strewn across the living room in the sloppy aftermath of a house party well past its best hours. The television was on mute. Empty glasses had been consolidated into one corner of the coffee table in what looked, to Ilya, like an attempted act of drunken civic responsibility.

Marleau himself was still awake. Barely. He was sitting in the armchair with the boneless posture of a man who hadn't intended to still be conscious but had committed to it out of stubbornness. He looked up as they came in and lifted one hand in vague greeting.

“Heyy Rozyy” he greeted, voice rough with exhaustion. "Have fun?"

"Yes, Yes," Ilya said.

Marleau hummed, then scrubbed a hand over his face. “Good. Great. Love that for you guys.”

Sveta took one calculating look at the living room, the passed-out bodies, the quiet sprawl of them, and then the hallway beyond.

“Well,” she said. “If the guest room is open, I will see you boys in the morning.” She blew them a kiss.

Then, in Russian, as she passed Ilya, she added, “Don’t stay up too late, loverboy.”

Ilya, who had been feeling almost unfairly content a second ago, immediately felt heat rise in his face. He opened his mouth to tell her to shut up, but before he could, Marleau made a small, strangled noise from the chair.

“Oh, fuck.”

Ilya froze, before turning back to Marleau. Marly was much more awake suddenly. He was sitting upright now, both feet on the floor, staring first at Sveta’s retreating back, then at Ilya, then—very briefly, and with dawning horror—at Shane.

“Ah, shit, Rozy,” he said. “I totally thought you were bullshitting me yesterday.”

Ilya stared at him.

Marleau dragged both hands over his face, “I thought you and her would want—y’know—” He made a vague, sloppy gesture with one hand. “So I kept all my boys out here,” Marleau continued, voice dropping into a frantic whisper, as he made a helpless sweep of his hand toward the couch, the floor, the blanketed heap of limbs and pillows. “so Hollzy could take the guest room. Fuck, I promise I was trying to be a good friend.”

That was earnest enough to be almost touching, but before Marleau could open his mouth and suggest something stupid, like Shane taking Marleau’s room or literally anything else, Ilya said “No big deal. Shane can sleep with me.”

Both Marleau and Shane blinked.

Ilya, not slowing down lest anyone recover their wits, he clapped Marleau once on the shoulder and said, “Night, Marly!” before he caught Shane by the wrist and hauled him down the hall, ignoring the incredulous look on both of their faces.

The bedroom door closed behind them. And they were finally, blissfully alone.

Ilya turned before Shane could get a word out and crowded him back against the door, both hands landing warm at his waist. He was smiling so hard it almost hurt. In Russian, low and rough with all the feeling he had been holding back since the bar, he said, “Fuck, Shane. You’re here. You’re here, you came—fuck, Shanya.”

Then he kissed him.

Not tentative or careful. Just full of everything he hadn't been able to do in the apartment entryway, or in the bar, or on the sidewalk when Shane had shown up out of nowhere like some ridiculous, earnest miracle.

Shane kissed back immediately. Shane’s hands came up and caught in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer like he too had been waiting all night, wanting this just as badly. Ilya made a sound into his mouth before he could stop himself, something helpless and embarrassing, and pressed him harder into the door.

Shane pulled back only enough to breathe, “Shanya?” Ilya stilled. Not fully. Just enough that Shane could feel the laugh he swallowed. “What is Shanya?” Shane asked, voice quieter now, more curious than teasing.

Ilya could feel himself blush again, which was honestly beginning to make the whole night feel hostile. “Is… uh.” He looked away for half a second, then back. “Russian-style nickname.”

Shane’s mouth twitched. “Like Ilyusha?”

Ilya actually closed his eyes for one useless second, pressing his forehead to Shane’s shoulder. “Fuck, Shane,” he said, voice muffled against him, “you cannot say that to me.”

“Why not?”

Because Ilya was going to die. Because Shane’s mouth around the soft, familiar shape of his name did something terrible to him. Because it sounded so intimate, so easy, like it belonged in Shane’s mouth.

Instead of saying any of that, Ilya got a hand in Shane’s shirt and dragged him away from the door, kissing him again. “Bed,” he said.

Shane went with him easily, stumbling a little with the pull of it, laughing once into the kiss before it got swallowed up by something warmer. They hit the edge of the bed awkwardly, and Ilya barely cared. He got Shane down onto the mattress, over him and under him in turns: one knee pressing into the bed, one hand braced beside Shane’s head, the other sliding up his side like he couldn't decide where he needed to touch first.

Shane arched under him.

He kissed him harder, and Shane gave as good as he got, mouth open and eager, fingers tight in Ilya’s hair. For someone who spent most of the night so carefully polite, Ilya wondered where he kept all of this. All this want. All this heat. All this awful, perfect willingness to let Ilya have him close.

Ilya dropped his mouth to Shane’s jaw, then lower, catching at the sensitive skin beneath his ear.

Shane sucked in a breath.

Outside the room, there was the sound of a dull thump of a body hitting the floor from the couch, followed by several people laughing loudly.

Shane’s hand came to Ilya’s chest. “Fuck,” he said, breathless. “We can’t do this with Marly and all of them out there.”

Ilya heard the words, he just simply didn't find them especially compelling when he had his boyfriend under him like this, flushed and warm and looking at him like that.

“Hm,” Ilya hummed against Shane’s mouth, kissing him again. “You can be quiet, yes?”

That got him a half-strangled noise that might have been laughter if it hadn’t been so wrecked around the edges.

“Ilya—”

“Yes?”

“We can’t—”

Ilya kissed the corner of his mouth. “No?”

“No,” Shane said, but he immediately pulled Ilya down again.

It was a mess after that. Kissing, laughing under their breath, Ilya’s hand at Shane’s waist, Shane’s fingers slipping back into his hair and tugging just hard enough to make Ilya forget that there were half a dozen people on the other side of the wall.

Ilya made a low sound against his throat, and Shane went still beneath him.

Then, “Ilyusha.”

Ilya stopped, and for a second, neither of them moved. Shane was flushed beneath him, mouth parted, eyes too bright. His fingers were still buried in Ilya’s hair, holding tight enough that Ilya could feel the pull at his scalp. Fuck, Ilya wanted him. God, he wanted him. But he didn't want Shane tense and listening for Marleau’s idiot friends through the wall, trying to be quiet for the wrong reasons. So, instead, Ilya bent and kissed him once more, slower this time. Softer. Let the heat ease down rather than climb higher, even as every part of him protested the decision.

“Cruel,” he muttered into Shane’s mouth.

“Sorry,” Shane said, breathless, his fingers still caught in Ilya’s hair.

Ilya hummed at that, then rolled just enough to pull Shane fully against him. He settled them both in a loose tangle of legs and winter clothes, one arm around Shane’s waist, the other tucked uselessly beneath the pillow. Shane came willingly into the hold of him, all solid warmth and familiar shape, and Ilya lay there in the dark with his boyfriend in his arms and thought, with a kind of amazed helplessness, fuck, he loved him.

Loved this silly, beautiful, impossible boy so much it made his chest ache.

And he could have fallen asleep exactly like that, until Shane, said to the quiet:

“We are not falling asleep in the clothes we wore to the club.”

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

Chapter End Notes

Shhh, we are all just going to pretend Yuna and David gave Shane his Christmas present off-screen. I finished this chapter and realized I completely forgot to include it, but I couldn’t think of anything especially exciting for them to give him that would also be fun to read about, and this chapter was already much longer than I expected. So he got socks or a throw blanket, and yes, he loved them.

I know its one of those well known niche traditions, but the pickle hunt in this chapter is fully inspired by my own childhood. My family took the it very seriously when my brother and I were younger.

I still have one more chapter planned before we leave rookie year behind, but we’re getting close to the end of this stretch. My plan is to speed up a little timewise after that, mostly because I want to start jumping toward 2015 and get to the “Or:” part of the fic summary. So the rough plan is: (Ch7) Finish out rookie year > (Ch8) 2011–2013 > (Ch9) Sochi > (Ch10) 2015

As always, all my love to everyone interacting with this fic. Everyone clicking on it, reading, leaving kudos, commenting, bookmarking, subscribing—every level of interaction means so much to me and is so, so treasured.

Edit: 6/6/26
Art by me added 💕 Last week I was bemoaning to my roommate that I wished I had fanart of my fic, when I very suddenly remembered that I am, in fact, a digital artist with both the time and skill to make that happen. So I’ve spent the last week drawing this and the addition in Chapter 3. 💕💕

If photos are broken: Link to my Tumblr 💕

Chapter 7: The Consolation Prize

Chapter Summary

He wanted this with Ilya. He wanted to have Ilya that way and be had by him in return.

Chapter Notes

Mind the tag updates 💕

See the end of the chapter for more notes

For the rest of the season, the league got more of Shane and Ilya than either of them got of each other.

From New Year’s through the middle of May, Shane saw Ilya in person only three times outside of games and league events. Once in Los Angeles, during an odd layover that gave them a single night in the same city. Once in Boston at the end of March. Once in Montreal in early April.

The rest of their relationship lived on their phones.

Texts at bad hours. Missed calls. Conversations cut short because one of them had to get on a bus, leave for practice, or board a plane. Ilya sent blurry photos from hotel windows and complaints about American coffee. Shane sent game clips and notes about various teams' line combinations, coaching staff, and cap distribution. They watched games in different cities and fought over them like they were sitting on the same couch.

Shane learned the schedule of Ilya’s days in fragments. How Boston ran their morning skate. Which teammates snored on flights. Shane got used to falling asleep before Ilya and waking up to messages sent hours earlier, while Ilya had been drunk, bored, or too wired to go to sleep. He would read them at five in the morning with his face half-buried in his pillow, smiling despite himself, and then spend the rest of the morning thinking of things he wanted to tell him later.

He wasn't used to wanting someone’s running commentary on his life quite this much. He wasn't used to watching a game, hearing a stupid joke in the locker room, or seeing a goal breakdown on TV and wanting to know what Ilya thought about it. It reminded Shane vaguely of the two months after CCM, except this time he knew Ilya better. Which, as it turned out, made him significantly easier to miss.

Publicly, though, they had never been closer.

After New Year’s, the league seemed to realize what the CCM campaign had handed it. The campaign had worked almost too well, and suddenly Shane and Ilya’s friendship was everywhere: highlight packages, broadcast commentary, pregame graphics comparing their stats side by side. Shane could barely get through a postgame scrum without someone bringing Ilya up.

“Hollander! Rozanov had two points earlier tonight. Have you seen the highlight reel yet?”

“Hollander, you moved ahead of Rozanov in rookie scoring. Has he said anything?”

“Hollander, the goal you scored tonight looked very reminiscent of Rozanov’s style. Did he teach you that move this summer?”

Sometimes the questions annoyed him. Sometimes Shane stood under the lights with sweat cooling at the back of his neck and wanted, desperately, to talk about the actual hockey of it all. The read before the goal. The timing. The way the defense had shifted too far inside and opened the lane.

But sometimes, someone would word their question just right, and Shane would get to say true things.

That Ilya was a great player. That he worked hard. That his game looked flashy because he had the hands for it, sure, but underneath that was discipline and vision and hours of work no one seemed to talk about enough. Shane got to say all of that in front of cameras, and no one looked at him strangely for knowing, or even saying it.

Still, Shane kept his answers careful. He never got too sentimental; mostly because that would have felt ridiculous, and also because Ilya would have never let him live it down. He peppered in some deliberate—often genuine—chirps between any compliments. Shane would say Ilya was a pain in the ass, somehow even more annoying off ice than on, that Ilya had been impossible after his three-point night.

People seemed to like that version of them best anyway. Catty, A little mean. There was affection in the familiarity, in the ease of it and in the way Shane could roll his eyes and everyone understood he was talking about his best friend. In any case, the clips were funnier this way. The sound bites were better. Shane rolling his eyes at Ilya went viral faster than anything sincere ever would.

The internet filled in the rest.

Shane didn't go looking, because Shane valued his mental health and because he had learned very early that searching his own name online was a good way to ruin an otherwise normal afternoon. Unfortunately, Ilya, Hayden, and several of his teammates had no such reservations.

Compilations of Shane and Ilya mentioning each other in interviews. Gifsets of their on-ice interactions. Twitter threads about their friendship. Forum discussions tracking their point totals, their chirps, their warmup habits, their styles and their overlaps. In nearly every relevant corner of the internet, it seemed, content about them had exploded overnight.

And somehow, all anyone saw was friendship.

It felt like Ilya could look at him across the ice in a way Shane was sure should have given them away, and by the next morning someone would have turned it into a gif captioned, ‘omg besties 😍’.

Truly, it baffled Shane. Because when Hayden shoved his phone in Shane’s face to show him some supposedly funny post, or when Ilya sent him a screenshot with fifteen laughing emojis and absolutely no context, Shane never knew how people could look at the same thing he was looking at and miss it.

All Shane could see was himself.

His face, softening with affection. His smile, private and stupid and obvious. His eyes following Ilya across the ice. Part of him worried Ilya would see it too. That Ilya would look at some clip or photo or grainy little gif and figure out what Shane was thinking before Shane had a chance to say it himself.

Another part of him almost hoped Ilya would.

Sometimes Shane wished Ilya just knew—somehow—so Shane wouldn’t have to find a way to verbalize this thing in his chest. Five hundred miles away, in Boston, surrounded by teammates and bars and people who wanted pieces of him, Shane wanted Ilya to look at Shane’s face and understand what he hadn't said yet. That Shane was still thinking about him, waiting for the next time they managed to be in the same room.

All-Star Weekend was the only real exception at the beginning of February.

In any other year, Shane would have been most excited about the hockey of it all. Being selected as a rookie was not nothing; it was, objectively, a very big deal. His coaches said so. His teammates said so. The internet said so. Shane’s own internal spreadsheet on how many other rookies had ever received such an honor said so.

Out of almost 2,500 players invited across 53 All-Star Games, only 20 rookies had ever been offered a spot on the roster. Fewer than that, if he only counted players selected outright and not added later as league replacements.

And now he and Ilya were 21 and 22.

But honestly, when Shane thought about All-Star Weekend, the first thing he felt was not pride. It was relief.

The format that year was North America versus Europe, so they were still on opposite teams. However, for three days, Shane would be in the same city as Ilya. More than that, he would be expected to be with Ilya. Encouraged, even. Off the ice, the league had already scheduled joint interviews, joint press hits, joint appearances, anything that let them capitalize on the Hollander-Rozanov friendship. Shane really couldn’t bring himself to care, so long as he and Ilya got to reap the benefits.

It only got better when they arrived and realized someone had booked them into adjoining rooms.

So, for three days, they gave the league exactly what it wanted. They played against each other. They competed. They smiled when they were told to smile and stood where they were told to stand. They answered the same questions in slightly different ways. They chirped each other on camera and were the picture of marketable camaraderie. Then, at night, behind the adjoining door, Shane got to fall asleep with Ilya’s arms around him and pretend the rest of the season would feel exactly like that.

Then, All-Stars Weekend ended.

February became March, and then March became April, and the distance yawned back out between them. Shane had plenty of other things to focus on. Montreal made the playoffs for the first time in over ten years, alongside Boston. Though neither team ended their Cup run with the big prize, they both made it to the second round, which was more than enough for the league to celebrate the closing chapter of their rookie season.

Historic, everyone kept saying. Exceptional. Unprecedented.

And it had been historic. It was exceptional. If Shane just ignored the ache of getting Ilya for less than twelve hours every couple of weeks before having to give him up again, the end of his rookie year was everything he could have dreamt of and more.

Nearly a year ago to the day, Shane had imagined his first NHL season as a clean upward line. Glory and victory. A career beginning exactly the way it was supposed to. He had imagined fighting tooth and nail for every inch of it, standing proud and alone at the top of the mountain.

He hadn't imagined sharing the spotlight. Now, however, whenever someone mentioned his season, they usually mentioned Ilya’s in the next breath. Shane found he didn't mind.

After both teams were eliminated, it took less than three days for them to disappear to Ottawa.

Technically, both teams had invited them to things. And even more technically, after realizing where Ilya was, the Bears had invited both of them to things: watch parties, finals events, three different elimination-game parties they probably should have attended.

Instead, Shane went home, and Ilya came with him.

They licked their wounds together and in private, watching the rest of the season from the Hollanders’ living room, where no one cared if Ilya fell asleep on Shane’s shoulder, or if Shane absentmindedly ran his fingers through Ilya’s hair during commercial breaks. Where Shane could be Ilya's boyfriend, and Ilya could be Shane's.

By the time the NHL Awards came around, the sting of the loss had worn off, and Shane was, unexpectedly, looking forward to the long summer. Ilya had been vague about exactly how much of that summer he intended to spend in Canada, and Shane had so far resisted the urge to ask. Partly because he didn't want to seem overeager. Mostly because he had a terrible feeling that, whatever Ilya said, Shane’s reaction to it would be disproportionate.

They were sitting under bright lights in expensive suits, waiting through speeches and highlight reels, while the Calder sat somewhere backstage with—without a doubt—one of their names in an envelope.

Beside him, Ilya leaned a little closer.

“We should make bet,” he murmured.

Shane didn't turn his head. “On what?”

Ilya gave him a reproachful look out of the corner of his eye, “On what, he asks.”

“The Calder?” Shane said, quieter. “That’s not really a bet. One of us is going to win.”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “Exactly.”

Shane finally glanced at him. At first Ilya’s expression looked perfectly innocent, but the twitch of his lips, the spark in his eyes betrayed him.

“And what does the winner get?” Shane asked.

“If I win,” he said, very softly, “you come back to the room and let me celebrate however I want.”

Shane felt heat climb up his neck. He kept his eyes fixed on the stage, where some NHL executive was halfway through a speech about perseverance, or grit, or whatever else Shane didn’t care about at the moment.

“And if I win?” Shane asked.

“Then I come back to the room,” Ilya said, “and congratulate you.”

Shane’s hand tightened once around his knee. “That sounds like the same thing either way.”

“No,” Ilya said. “Very different. One is celebration. One is consolation.”

“It would not be a consolation.”

“For me it would be.”

Shane made the mistake of looking at him again. Ilya’s eyes were bright with amusement, but underneath it was something hotter. Intent. Maybe anticipation. Maybe the same thing Shane had been trying very hard not to think about since they had checked into the hotel.

The Calder bet was new, ridiculous, and very Ilya, but the rest of it had been sitting in the back of Shane’s mind for nearly a week: a hotel room, privacy, and locked door. No parents down the hall. No roommates in the living room. A bed that didn't belong to Shane’s childhood, or Ilya’s billet house, or some team hotel where half the roster might be awake and listening two doors down.

It almost happened in Ottawa.

Almost, as in Shane had been naked with Ilya between his legs, one of Shane’s hands fisted in the sheets and the other clamped over his own mouth. Almost, as in Ilya had taken him apart slowly, carefully, with his mouth at Shane’s throat and his fingers inside him, working him open with a heady patience. Almost, as in Shane had wanted it. He had wanted it so badly he had nearly forgotten where they were.

Almost.

Then Ilya had shifted over him, settling heavier between Shane’s thighs, and the full, horrifying awareness of where they were had caught up with him all at once. His childhood bedroom. His parents asleep down the hall. His mother, who had once already walked in on them, which statistically should have meant a repeat incident was much less likely, but did absolutely nothing to soothe Shane’s nervous system.

His body had gone tense before he could stop it, which Ilya noticed immediately.

He stilled over Shane, his hand easing at once, his mouth lifting from Shane’s throat. “Shane?”

Shane had closed his eyes, mortified, still breathing too hard. “I can’t do this here.”

For one second, Ilya hadn't moved. Then he pulled back carefully, like any sudden movement might spook Shane worse, and said, “Okay.”

An ugly feeling had welled in Shane.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Shane said quickly, because that seemed like very important clarification at the moment. “I do. I really—obviously, I do. I just can’t do it here. Not with my parents—”

“Shane,” Ilya said, and kissed him once, brief and almost sweet. “I understand.”

He had laid awake for a long time after that, replaying the moment and trying to determine whether there had been something in Ilya’s expression before it smoothed over.

He was probably imagining it. Ilya had never once given him any indication that he was disappointed in Shane, or growing tired of him. Not in any of the hotel rooms, Marleau’s apartment, or any of the borrowed spaces they had found themselves in over the past year. He had always just—stopped, when Shane needed him to.

Shane just hated the idea that underneath all of that patience, Ilya might be growing frustrated with him. Not that Shane would blame him. Shane was getting quite frustrated with himself.

Because it was stupid. Really, genuinely stupid. They had spent the better part of a year finding increasingly creative ways to get each other off with one glaring exception. The problem was not a lack of desire. The problem was that his mom walking in on them had left an unfortunate lasting impression, apparently.

Every time they got close, some part of Shane would seize up before he could stop it, and suddenly all it didn’t matter how hot Ilya was, or how dizzy with want Shane had been a moment before. He would start listening for footsteps or voices.

He wanted this with Ilya. He wanted to have Ilya that way and be had by him in return.

Just not in his parents’ house.

So Shane had suggested Vegas.

A hotel room in Vegas, specifically. One neither of his parents had a key to. One where they could lock the door, latch it, and know it would stay shut. One not booked by any team coordinators and without any players next door. Shane had been thinking about it practically all day.

“You’re impossible,” Shane muttered.

“Yes,” Ilya said, pleased. “And?”

Shane didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The corner of Ilya’s mouth tipped up, like he had heard the affirmation anyway: yes to the bet, yes to the hotel room, yes to the fact that winning or losing was not going to change where the night ended.

Shane didn't look at him.

The ceremony continued to lull on.

There were more speeches. More applause. More camera cuts to players Shane recognized and players he had grown up watching. Presentations for the Jennings. The Selke. The Jack Adams and the Norris.

Then the Calder presentation began.

Shane had prepared for three different outcomes, though really, only two were truly feasible.

Technically, Vincent Lemaire could take the Calder. It was possible. However, maybe it was mean, but Shane highly doubted it. So he hadn't dedicated much mental energy to preparing for that particular outcome.

More likely, it would be Shane or Ilya.

If Ilya won, Shane would stand. He would smile and clap. He would hug him if Ilya turned toward him, which Shane hoped he would. He would be proud of him. He already was proud of him. Losing to Ilya would sting, probably, but not in any way Shane could resent.

If Shane won, he would do the same. Stand. Hug his parents. Hug Ilya. Accept the trophy. Give the speech he had pretended not to preemptively write in his head, because preparing an acceptance speech felt a little like tempting fate.

He had prepared very thoroughly. No outcome should have been able to surprise him. But if Shane was being honest, he had spent most of the night expecting Ilya’s name.

The presenter onstage smiled into the lights.

“And this year’s Calder Memorial Trophy goes to—”

An agonizing second.

“—Shane Hollander.”

Every prepared thought vanished, and—for a second—Shane didn't move.

The room erupted around him. Applause, music, his mother’s sharp inhale beside him, his father’s hand coming down heavy and proud on his shoulder. Shane blinked at the stage, at the presenter smiling out into the room, at his own face suddenly huge on the screen above them.

Hollander.

His name. His face. His season.

Holy shit.

His mom reached him first, pulling him into a hug so tight it knocked him back into himself. His dad was next, warm and solid, saying something in his ear that Shane couldn't hear over the applause but felt anyway.

Then Ilya was there.

For half a second, Shane saw him properly. Ilya was smiling. Not the sharp grin he wore for cameras. Not the smug one he used when he won something or thought he was about to. A real smile, bright and open and proud it hit Shane somewhere directly behind the ribs.

Then Ilya pulled him in. The hug should have been quick. Maybe it was. Shane genuinely couldn't tell when Ilya’s arms were around him, firm and warm. Shane’s own arms closed around Ilya before he remembered to think about it.

Over Ilya’s shoulder, Shane caught sight of them on the big screen.

Him and Ilya, magnified for the entire room. Shane in Ilya’s arms. Ilya’s hand flat against his back. Their faces tucked close enough that Shane could feel Ilya’s breath near his ear.

For one wild second, all Shane could think was: holy shit.

Ilya pulled back first, still smiling.

“Go,” he said, low enough that only Shane could hear. “Before they give it to me instead.”

That startled a laugh out of Shane, small and disbelieving, and somehow that was what got his legs working.

He made it to the stage. He shook the presenter’s hand and accepted the Calder, which was heavier than he expected and stranger to hold than he had imagined. The applause was still going, or maybe it had stopped and started again. Shane couldn't tell. The lights were bright enough that the room beyond the first few tables was mostly darkness.

He found his parents anyway.

Then Ilya.

“Thank you,” Shane said into the microphone, and was relieved when his voice came out mostly steady. “This is—wow. This is a huge honor.”

Several people laughed softly. Shane breathed.

“I want to thank my parents first. My mom and dad have been there for every rink, every early morning, every bad game, every good one. I wouldn’t be standing here without them.”

He glanced down at the trophy, then back out.

“Thank you to my coaches, my teammates, and the entire Montreal organization for trusting me this year and giving me the chance to be part of something really special.”

His hand tightened slightly around the trophy.

“And I know this probably won’t surprise anyone at this point,” he said, and another ripple of laughter moved through the room before he even finished, “but I also want to thank Ilya.”

The camera found Ilya, Shane knew it without having to look at the monitors. Either way, it didn’t matter, Shane looked right at him in the crowd anyway.

“Truly, this could have gone to either one of us,” he said. “If I could cut this award down the middle, I would. I know that’s probably a little counterintuitive to the spirit of the Calder, but I don’t think I would have had the season I had without him. We pushed each other all year, and he made me better.”

Ilya was watching him with an expression just barely controlled.

“So, to my best friend, Ilya Rozanov,” Shane said, before he could think better of it. “I share this with you.” Shane realized, half a second too late, that maybe he had said that with a little too much of his heart in his mouth. “Thank you,” he added quickly, to the crowd.

He got offstage before he could do anything more disastrous.

The walk back to the table felt longer than the walk up. His mother hugged him again when he returned. His father squeezed the back of his neck. People at nearby tables reached over to congratulate him. Shane smiled, nodded, and said thank you.

Then Ilya leaned in close, like he was only adding his own congratulations.

“Congratulations, Calder winner,” he murmured.

Shane swallowed. “Thank you.”

Ilya’s mouth brushed near his ear, not touching. Almost worse than touching.

“I believe,” Ilya said softly, “I am in need of consolation.”

Shane’s entire body went hot. He picked up his water glass mostly to have something to do with his hands.

“After the party,” he said.

Ilya leaned back, smiling wide. “Of course.”

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

The party afterward was loud, crowded, and expensive. The bar was all dark wood and gold light, chandeliers overhead, crystal glasses lined up behind the counter. Retired players Shane had watched on television as a kid stood shoulder to shoulder with current players, coaches, agents, broadcasters, executives, wives, girlfriends, people Shane recognized but couldn't immediately place because his brain had apparently run out of room sometime between winning the Calder and now.

The trophy itself had been taken from him almost immediately, which was probably for the best. Shane hadn't trusted himself to carry it around all night without either dropping it or setting it down somewhere and spending the next twenty minutes quietly panicking over where he had put it.

People kept coming up and congratulating him, his parents close on either side of him and glowing with pride. His teammates had called him, loud and half-drunk over speakerphone from Montreal, Hayden shouting his congratulations before several other voices drowned him out.

Officially, Shane was drinking ginger ale.

Unofficially, there had been champagne at the table, which he had tried and disliked immediately. Ilya had taken one look at his face, laughed under his breath, and disappeared for several minutes before returning with something colder, sharper, and easier: ginger and lime and something.

So he sipped carefully, like a responsible adult who was not, legally speaking, quite old enough to be doing this in Nevada.

Ilya had disappeared toward the bathroom a few minutes earlier, leaving him alone standing at the bar. He was trying to decide whether he had enough time to drink half his glass before Ilya got back and judged him for nursing it when a voice behind him said, “That better be ginger ale you’re sipping, rook.”

Shane turned. Scott Hunter stood behind him, one elbow already settling against the bar, looking at Shane. Shane looked down at it. Then back up.

“Oh, yes,” he said seriously. “Of course. I wouldn’t indulge in front of you, Mr. Hunter.”

Hunter stared at him for a beat, then snorted. “Christ, kid. Did Rozanov tell you to call me that?”

Shane laughed, a little awkwardly. “No, sir.”

“Hunter,” he corrected. Then, after a moment, his expression softened into something that was not quite amusement and not quite pride. “Congratulations.”

Shane’s smile came easier this time. “Thank you.”

“I mean it,” Hunter said. “Hell of a season.”

“Thank you,” Shane said again, quieter.

Hunter nodded once, letting that sit, then glanced past him toward the room. “So. What would you say if me and some of the other old fucks wanted to do a shot with the three rooks?”

Before Shane could answer, a low, obnoxious raspberry sounded directly behind him. “Boo,” Ilya said, appearing at his shoulder.

Hunter looked past Shane with the flat resignation of a man who had dealt with Ilya Rozanov before and suffered for it. “Rozanov.”

“Hunter,” Ilya said solemnly. “I did not know they let you stay out this late. Is after 10 o’clock. Does your nurse know?”

Shane turned. “Ilya.”

“What?” Ilya said. “I am saying he looks very awake for his age.”

Hunter sighed through his nose. It was, Shane suspected, not the first time Ilya had made this joke.

“You know,” Hunter said, “I was going to buy you one too.”

Ilya brightened immediately. “Ah. In that case, I take it back. You are youthful man. Very spry. Young at heart. Other parts, maybe not, but heart, yes.”

Hunter looked between them, shook his head once, and decided, apparently, not to entertain that. “Come on,” he said. “Before the rest of them get impatient.”

Within five minutes, one shot had become a small gathering at the end of the bar. Hunter was there, along with Vaughn, Bennett, Price, and a handful of other older players Shane recognized from posters, video games, and highlight reels long before they became real people standing beside him ordering tequila. Lemaire was there too, looking more amused than disappointed by the night, which Shane appreciated.

Price handed Shane a glass, while someone else said something that made the whole group laugh. Hunter lifted his shot and said something about the future of the league being terrifyingly young and annoyingly talented, and Vaughn interrupted to add that if the future of the league could stop making the rest of them feel old, that would be appreciated.

“To the rooks,” Hunter said finally.

“To the rooks,” everyone echoed.

Shane took the shot.

He regretted it immediately.

Ilya, beside him, made a small delighted sound, which meant he had absolutely seen Shane’s face and would be making fun of him for it later.

After that, the night loosened a little at the edges. Not enough that Shane felt out of control. Just enough that the room grew warmer, the lights softer, the noise less like noise and more like a current he could stand inside without fighting. People came and went around him.

Shane was not entirely sure when Ilya drifted away.

One minute he was there, close enough that Shane could feel the occasional brush of his sleeve. The next, Hunter was looking over Shane’s shoulder with a faint frown.

"Where'd your boy Rozanov go?"

Shane choked on absolutely nothing. Hunter's eyebrows lifted.

"Sorry," Shane said, reaching for his glass. "My—uh. I don't know."

Right. Your boy. A normal thing to say. Everyone said things like that now. Your boy, meaning your best friend. Fellow rookie. Your publicly established other half. Not boyfriend. Obviously not boyfriend. Fuck, he was drunker than he thought he was.

He looked towards the bathroom hallway first. Then the clusters of people near the far end of the bar. Then the loose circle of players near the entrance. No Ilya.

“Huh,” Shane said. “I should probably go find him." Shane set his glass down. “Thanks for the shot.”

“No worries,” Hunter lifted his own glass. “Congrats again, kid.”

“Thank you.”

“And Hollander?”

Shane paused.

Hunter’s expression had softened again, just slightly. “Hell of a speech.”

Shane felt his face warm, which he chose to blame on the tequila. “Thanks.”

Finding Ilya took longer than Shane expected. He checked the bathroom hallway first, then the far end of the bar, then the scattered groups of players and agents and old men in expensive suits. Twice, people stopped him to congratulate him, and twice Shane had to stand and nod along as best he could, say thank you, and slip away when given the first opening.

Eventually, he found him outside.

The balcony was tucked off one side of the venue, half-hidden behind tall glass doors and heavy curtains. Shane almost missed it. Then he saw Ilya through the glass, standing at the railing with his jacket undone and his forearms braced against the stone.

Below them, Vegas stretched bright and unreal in every direction, all gold and neon and headlights moving along the Strip like strings of light. Ilya barely seemed to see it, his gaze fixed somewhere past all of it.

The air was warm when Shane stepped out, dry in a way that made the back of his throat feel strange after the cooled, perfumed air inside. He turned when Shane stepped out, and at the sight of him, something in his shoulders loosened.

“There you are,” Shane said, stopping beside him at the railing.

Inside, through the glass, the party kept moving without them. Music, laughter, flashes of light over dark suits. Out here, it was quiet enough that Shane could think and hear the traffic below.

He looked at Ilya. Then at the city. Then back at Ilya.

“Hey,” Shane said.

Ilya hummed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Shane gave him a look.

“I am fine,” Ilya huffed, turning back toward the Strip. “You are drunk.”

Shane didn't bother denying it. “Not that drunk.”

He leaned beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. Not touching, because there were glass doors behind them and any number of people could step outside, but close enough. He waited.

For a while, Ilya said nothing.

Then, quietly, he said, “I go home in a week.”

Shane’s stomach dipped. He looked at Ilya’s profile. “Home as in…?”

Ilya’s mouth twisted. “Russia.”

“Oh,” Shane said.

That was probably not the right thing to say, but there was not, in Shane’s opinion, a right thing to say. If Shane knew even a little less about what home meant for Ilya, maybe he would have said something normal, like, "Okay. Must be nice." Maybe he would have added, "We’ll call, like we have. Text me when you land?"

But he did know.

He didn’t know everything, not even close, but enough to understand that home didn't sit in Ilya’s mouth the way Ottawa sat in Shane’s. He knew Ilya’s family wasn’t good to him, what Russia thought of boys like them. He knew there was a reason Ilya looked like this now, quiet and far away with the whole Strip burning bright beneath them.

And—selfishly— he didn't want him to go.

He looked down at his hands on the railing. “Do you have to?”

Ilya went still.

“Go back, I mean,” Shane added quickly. “Not—obviously you can go wherever you want. I’m not trying to—”

For a moment, Ilya didn't answer. Then he let out a small breath that was not quite a laugh. “If I was still only on work visa, maybe yes, probably.” he said. “But your mother made me file green card paperwork, so, no. I do not have to. Not really.” Shane waited. Ilya’s fingers tapped once against the stone railing. “But where else am I supposed to go?”

The answer felt obvious to Shane. It came to him immediately. Certain: “Ottawa.”

Ilya turned to look at him.

Shane’s heart was suddenly beating much too hard for someone who had only one cocktail and two terrible shots. “I mean. If you wanted.”

Ilya was very still.

“Would you want me to?” he asked.

“Yes,” Shane said, and then immediately flushed. “I mean, yes. Obviously. I just—” He looked away, out at the city, because the lights were easier than Ilya’s face. “I didn’t want to assume. You hadn’t said anything, and I didn’t know if you wanted to go back, or if you had plans in Boston, or if staying with my family for a whole summer sounded like some kind of punishment.”

“Not punishment,” Ilya said softly.

“No?”

“Your family is…” He hesitated. “Very kind. Your parents have been very good to me.”

Shane smiled, relieved despite himself. “They like having you there.”

Ilya’s smile faded again, but more gently this time. “I do have to go,” he said. “For a little while.”

Shane nodded, even though he hated it. “Okay.”

“There are things I need to sort. Papers. Some family things.” His mouth tightened on the last word. “Not long.”

“Okay,” Shane said again.

“But after,” Ilya said, watching him carefully, “if you will have me, I will come back.”

Shane looked at him. The whole city seemed too bright around them, loud even from this far away. Inside, people were still celebrating, but all Shane could see was Ilya’s face and the strange, careful hope in it.

“If I’ll have you?” Shane repeated. Ilya shrugged, but it was a bad shrug. Stiff. Shane felt something in his chest ache. “Ilya.” Ilya’s gaze flicked down and then back up.

Shane stared at him. “Always,” he said, and hated how easily it came out. How true. “If I could, I’d have you, always.”

For a second, Ilya didn't seem to know what to do with that. His expression went still, the careful mask of it slipping just enough for Shane to see. Then he swallowed, looked down at the railing, and nodded once. “Okay,” Ilya said, quietly.

“You'll come back soon?” Shane asked.

Ilya looked back up at him, and nodded. “Soon.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Ilya glanced toward the glass doors. Shane had just enough time to register that the balcony was empty before Ilya stepped into him, one hand catching at Shane’s waist, the other braced against the wall beside his shoulder. He backed Shane into the shadowed edge of the balcony, out of the spill of light from inside.

“Ilya,” Shane said, mostly on instinct.

Ilya kissed him.

Shane moaned lowly before he could stop himself. Ilya pulled back just enough to look at him.

Shane blinked at him, breathless, one hand curled uselessly in the front of Ilya’s shirt. “Fuck. Did you uh... still need that consolation?”

“I am very devastated, Shanya. Can’t you see?” Ilya said seriously, though the mischief in his eyes betrayed him. His mouth brushed Shane’s cheek, then the corner of his jaw. “I have lost very important award tonight. Very tragic.”

Shane felt heat climb up his neck, but he didn't look away.

“That’s horrible,” he said, and was proud of how steady his voice came out. “Sorry to hear that.” He let his hands settle at Ilya’s waist, just enough to feel the way Ilya went still beneath it. “I guess it’s a good thing I have a hotel room. If you want to do this in private.”

For one second, Ilya only looked at him. Then a pleased, delighted smile spread over his face, “Yes,” he said, very softly. “I want that.”

Ilya kissed him once more, quick and hard, before stepping back. Then, because Ilya was going to come back to Canada, because Shane had won the Calder, and because somehow that was not even the most important thing that was going to happen tonight, Shane said, “I think we’ve been here long enough.”

Ilya’s smile widened. They left through the balcony doors and didn't go back to the party.

In the elevator, Ilya stood close enough that Shane could feel the heat of him through both their suits, and by the time they reached the hallway, all Ilya's careful restraint had gone visibly threadbare. His hands found Shane’s hips from behind as Shane fumbled the keycard out of his wallet, his forehead dropping between Shane’s shoulder blades with a quiet, bitten-off curse.

Shane glanced down the empty hallway once, then again. “Ilya.”

Ilya hummed, low and distracted, but his hands only tightened. Shane’s pulse kicked hard enough to make his fingers clumsy. He swiped the card once. Nothing. Swore under his breath, tried again, and finally the lock blinked green.

The room was dark except for the city lights spilling through the curtains, gold and red and electric blue across the carpet. The door clicked shut behind them. Ilya turned back without a word, slid the deadbolt into place, and hooked the security latch over with a quiet click.

The sound went through Shane like relief.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The air conditioning hummed softly overhead. Traffic pulsed far below, distant and unreal. Shane could hear his own breathing, shallow and loud in the dark.

Ilya crossed the room slowly. He stopped close enough that Shane could feel the heat of him, close enough that Shane had to tip his head back when Ilya lifted a hand to his jaw. His fingers skimmed there first, light enough to make Shane’s breath catch, before two of them hooked gently beneath his chin and brought his gaze up.

Ilya looked at him for a long second. His eyes were dark, his mouth parted, all that wanting held carefully in place.

“Still yes?” he asked, voice low.

Shane swallowed. His pulse beat hard in his throat. All their other nights had happened on impulse, in the heat of the moment, with enough momentum that Shane never had to stop and think about the how. This time, they both knew where the night was going. Shane wanted it so badly he felt almost sick with it. He was nervous, not unsure.

“Yes,” he said. Then, quieter, “I want this. You.”

Something shifted in Ilya’s face. “Good,” he said.

He caught Shane by the front of his jacket and kissed him, hard enough that Shane stumbled back a step, then another. The suddenness of it startled a laugh out of him against Ilya’s mouth, breathless and helpless, just before the backs of his knees hit the mattress. Ilya followed him down, one hand still fisted in Shane’s jacket, the other braced beside his head, heavy and warm and already between Shane’s thighs. Shane barely had time to get his hands on him before he opened his mouth under Ilya’s and arched up helplessly, hooking one leg around Ilya’s thigh to drag him closer.

The kiss was different. It took Shane a moment to realize why. They were both smiling into it. Both of them, ridiculous and giddy and unable to stop, mouths catching against each other’s because every time one of them tried to kiss properly, the other one smiled too hard and ruined it. Then Ilya shifted over him, settling more of his weight between Shane’s thighs, and Shane’s smile broke into a sound he had no hope of pretending was anything other than wanting.

Ilya heard it. Of course he did. His smile faded. His eyes went darker, and something about his expression went briefly, helplessly wrecked.

“Take off your clothes,” he murmured.

Shane laughed against his mouth and sat up to loosen his tie. His hands shook only a little as he worked the knot free, then started on the buttons of his shirt. The silk slid cool under his fingers. Expensive. Ridiculously expensive. Maybe it was stupid, maybe it was the exact opposite of sexy, but the familiar care of it helped. Button by button. Cuff by cuff. One thing at a time. It gave him something to do with his hands besides tremble.

He folded his shirt first, then his pants, smoothing each piece before setting them neatly on the dresser by the bed.

At the foot of the bed, Ilya stopped halfway through undressing. His own shirt hung open, his belt already loose, and he watched Shane straighten the silk with a look on his face that made Shane feel suddenly, absurdly warm.

Shane caught him looking and scowled. “Don’t laugh.”

“I am not laughing,” Ilya said, grinning despite himself.

Shane picked up one of his socks and threw it at him. Ilya caught it against his chest and finally laughed, bright and helpless, and something in Shane loosened so suddenly it was almost embarrassing. Ilya dropped the sock, and the laughter faded into something warmer, darker.

Shane was still in his boxers as he watched Ilya rid himself of both his pants and underwear in one smooth motion. Before Shane could do anything about himself, Ilya crawled back onto the bed and crowded him down against the mattress, mouth skimming along his jaw, hands warm at his waist.

“Let me?” he asked against Shane’s mouth.

Shane nodded, but Ilya lifted his head and waited, expectantly.

“Yes,” Shane said, his voice rougher than he expected. “Please.”

Ilya’s eyes darkened at that. “Good,” he murmured, and kissed him once, almost sweetly, before moving down.

He didn't rush. His mouth dragged over Shane’s throat, his collarbone, the center of his chest, his stomach. Every kiss landed lower than the last, and every pause made Shane worse, his body pulling tight with the anticipation of Ilya’s mouth. By the time Ilya pressed a kiss over him through the thin cotton of his boxers, Shane’s hands were twisted in the sheets.

“Ilya,” he said, already wrecked.

Ilya looked up at him from between his thighs, and the sight went straight through him. “Still yes?”

Shane let out something too strained to be a laugh. “Yes. God, yes.”

Then Ilya hooked his fingers under the waistband and pulled. Shane lifted his hips. Ilya eased the boxers down with maddening slowness, enough to make Shane want to swear, or beg, or both. Then he bent back over him, one hand wrapping around the base of him as his mouth closed over the head.

Shane’s breath broke.

God, Ilya was so fucking good at this. That was not new information. There were several hotel rooms and one extremely memorable night in Boston that had already made that very clear. It didn't matter. The first slick curl of Ilya’s tongue still burned half the sense out of him.

“Fuck,” Shane said, too loud, then bit the sound back.

Ilya hummed around him, and Shane’s hips jerked before he could stop them. Ilya didn't scold him. He only pressed one hand firmer to Shane’s hip, holding him down with easy, steady pressure that made Shane’s whole body go hot and loose at once.

It was embarrassing how quickly he rocketed towards the edge. Ilya took him deeper, one hand firm on Shane’s hip, the other sliding up his thigh, as the pleasure built sharply. He had been half-hard since the balcony, fully hard since the elevator, and now Ilya’s mouth was hot and wet around him and Shane was going to ruin the whole night in under three minutes.

He caught Ilya by the hair and pulled him off.

Ilya let him immediately.

Shane lay there panting, staring at the ceiling. “Fuck. I can’t—fuck, Ilya.”

Ilya wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark. “What is it?”

“I don’t want to come yet.” Ilya’s mouth curved, and Shane forced himself to look at him. “I want to come with you inside me.”

For one second, Ilya just stared at him. Then he swore under his breath in Russian and surged back up the bed.

The kiss was filthy this time. Slow and greedy, Ilya’s mouth was wet with Shane’s taste, his body heavy over Shane’s, the hard line of him pressing hot against Shane’s thigh. Shane writhed against him, trying to give them some sort of friction or relief, but Ilya only caught both of Shane’s wrists and pinned them to the mattress.

Shane’s eyes widened.

“Okay?” Ilya asked at once.

“Yes,” Shane said, too quickly, then again, steadier. “Yes. Okay.”

Ilya’s grip tightened just enough to make Shane’s whole body go loose. “Good,” he murmured.

Shane tipped his head back, shameless with it now, and Ilya took the offer immediately, mouth dragging down the exposed line of his throat. He nipped once, gentle but deliberate, and Shane bucked under him.

“You can’t leave a mark,” Shane said, even though internally he desperately disagreed. He wished Ilya would leave a mark. He wanted evidence of this tomorrow and for the days after. Something he could press his fingers to and remember Ilya’s mouth there, Ilya’s teeth.

“I know,” Ilya said, as he soothed the spot with his tongue.

Shane made a helpless sound.

Ilya let his wrists go, but not before brushing his thumbs once over the inside of them, like a reward, like a promise. Then he rolled Shane onto his stomach, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades and another at the base of his neck. As he kissed several more down the knobs of his spine, Shane felt his nerves and want tangle together until he couldn't separate them anymore.

“Krasivyy,” Ilya murmured against his skin.

Shane didn't know that one. He knew a few words, because over the long weeks between seeing Ilya, he had looked some up in private, red-faced over his phone; words he thought might come up when Ilya had him like this. Please. Yes. No. A few terms of endearment he had been too embarrassed to admit he wanted to recognize, if Ilya used them. A few things he had practiced saying. But that hadn't been one of them, or at least not one he remembered. He almost asked. Then Ilya’s hands slid over his waist, his back, his hips, and Shane lost the thought entirely.

“Beautiful,” Ilya said, this time in English.

Oh.

Shane flushed hot all over. Krasivyy. Beautiful. Part of Shane wondered if he should feel self-conscious. But as Ilya’s voice, low and rough and reverent, slid over him, Shane couldn't help but feel it, feel beautiful under him, feel wanted down to the bone. He pressed his face into the sheets and moaned, and Ilya kissed lower.

Ilya was in no hurry at all. His mouth moved down Shane’s spine, over the curve of him, soft and slow enough to make Shane shake with it. He had only a second to realize what Ilya was doing before he felt the wet heat of Ilya’s tongue against him.

Shane jolted. “Oh my god.”

Ilya’s hands tightened, steadying him, as he made a pleased sound and did it again.

Shane writhed against the mattress as Ilya licked and worked him open. He didn't hear the lube open. He only felt Ilya’s hands spreading him, Ilya’s mouth hot and insistent against him, the slick press of a finger joining his tongue. Careful at first, then firmer when Shane pushed back against him. One finger became two. Then three. Each stretch burned for a moment and then melted into something deeper, heavier, better. Shane rocked his hips despite himself, chasing it, trying not to rut against the mattress because he was already too close again.

The room narrowed to the soft and indistinct drag of sheets under his cheek, the heat of Ilya’s mouth, the firm grip of his hands. One at Shane’s hip, one between his thighs, holding him open, keeping him still only long enough to give him exactly what he needed. Shane heard himself make a helpless sound, needy and completely beyond pride.

Ilya pulled back just enough to speak against him. “Shanya.”

Shane made a wrecked little noise.

Ilya kissed the back of his thigh, almost tender, then crooked his fingers again and brought him joltingly close to the edge. Shane laughed once, breathless and a little disbelieving.

“Fuck. Fuck, it’s good. It’s so good. Too good. I’m going to—”

Ilya slowed immediately, but his free hand stayed on Shane’s waist, thumb moving in small circles until Shane could breathe again. Shane hated and loved him a little for stopping.

After a moment, Shane pushed back against him, shaking with want. “Fuck me,” he said. Then, because apparently he had no pride left at all: “Please, Ilya.”

Ilya’s expression changed, desire cutting clean through the carefulness. He reached for the condom on the nightstand, tore it open, and rolled it on with hands that were no longer quite steady. He guided Shane onto his knees, one hand on his hip, the other smoothing up his back. The mattress dipped behind him. Ilya pressed close, his cock slick and hot against Shane’s ass, not pushing in yet.

“Breathe, malysh,” Ilya said.

Baby.

Shane knew that one. He had looked that one up; it had been one of the first words he searched, because Ilya had said it once before against his hair, soft and half-asleep, and Shane had spent an embarrassingly long time pretending he didn't need to know what it meant. Baby. The knowledge rolled over him now, tender and obscene at the same time, and the sound that tried to climb out of his throat was so wrecked he had to bite it back.

But he breathed. He dragged in one uneven breath, then another.

Ilya stroked a hand down his side. “Good. Like that.”

Shane’s eyes fluttered as the praise washed over him. Ilya's low voice, his hands steady on him. Ilya’s body behind him, coiled with want. He felt his thoughts slow until there was only Ilya’s voice and Ilya’s hands and the deep, unbearable ache of wanting him closer.

“Ilya,” he said, and it came out smaller than he meant it to.

Ilya made a low sound against his shoulder, almost pained. “I have you.”

“Yes.” Shane pushed back a fraction, impatient and shaking. “Please.”

Ilya pressed forward.

Shane felt the head of him catch. Then breach.

It was nothing like his fingers. Not even close. It was pressure and heat and the blunt, impossible feeling of Ilya easing into him inch by inch, pausing every time Shane’s breath caught, one hand steady at his hip and the other moving over his back like he could smooth Shane open by touch alone.

“Okay?” Ilya asked, voice strained.

“Yes,” Shane said. “Keep going. Please.”

Ilya did. Slowly. Carefully. Every pause should have frustrated him, maybe, but it only made the want worse. Ilya was shaking with restraint behind him, breathing hard against his shoulder, and still he waited every time Shane needed him to. Still he asked with his hands before taking another inch.

By the time Shane felt the press of Ilya’s hips against him, he was shaking too. For a moment, neither of them moved. Shane could hear himself breathing. Could hear Ilya behind him, worse than breathing, almost shaking with it. Ilya’s forehead dropped to the back of Shane’s shoulder.

“Fuck,” Ilya said, low and broken. “Shane.”

Shane gripped the sheets. “You can move.” For a second, Ilya stayed still above him. “Ilya.”

“I need second,” Ilya admitted roughly. The admission made Shane’s whole body clench around him. Ilya swore and caught his hip. “Shane.”

“Sorry,” Shane breathed, though he was not sorry at all.

Ilya huffed something like a laugh against his skin, then bit his shoulder lightly. Not enough to hurt. Enough to make Shane jolt. Then he drew back. The first thrust was slow, dragging out until Shane thought he might actually lose his mind. Then Ilya pushed back in, still careful, but firmer this time, and Shane moaned so loudly he startled himself.

Ilya’s hand tightened on his hip. “Good?”

“Yes. Fuck. Yes.”

After that, Ilya found a rhythm. Not hard at first. He built it slowly, each stroke a little deeper, a little more certain, until Shane stopped trying to stay quiet and gave himself over to it. The room filled with the sound of their breathing, the shift of the mattress, Ilya’s low voice behind him, English and Russian blurring together until Shane could only catch pieces. His name. A curse. Something soft he didn't know.

Shane dropped his head, panting into the sheets. The world narrowed. It was frightening, a little, how easy it was to stop thinking with Ilya’s hands on him. How good it felt to be handled that deliberately, wanted that much. He felt open and unbearably safe, his body loose beneath Ilya's.

Behind him, Ilya sounded gone. Every breath caught. Every curse came out lower, rougher, more wrecked. He had one hand locked on Shane’s hip like it was the only thing keeping him in his body, and the other spread wide over Shane’s back, fingers flexing like he couldn't decide whether to hold on or touch more of him. For all the way he was taking Shane apart, there was something almost desperate within him.

Really, it was a miracle Shane heard it at all.

“—lyublyu,” Ilya murmured.

Shane’s eyes opened.

Ilya thrust into him again, rougher now, overwhelmed enough that his rhythm had started to break. His forehead pressed to Shane’s shoulder, his voice low and wrecked against his skin.

“Ya tebya lyublyu, Shanya. Blyat’, ya tebya lyublyu.”

Shane froze.

He couldn't help it. His body locked under Ilya’s, a choked sound catching in his throat before he could stop it. He knew those words. He had looked them up more than once. He had listened to the pronunciation, practiced them in the shower, in his car, under his breath in empty hotel rooms, because he had wanted to say them someday. Because he had wanted Ilya to hear them in his own language and know Shane meant them.

Ilya felt the sudden tension in him immediately. His hands went still on Shane’s hips. His whole body froze behind him.

“Shane?” Ilya said, and the fear in his voice cut through the haze all at once.

Slowly, Shane looked back over his shoulder.

Ilya’s face had gone white with horror.

“You…” Shane swallowed. “Holy shit.” He hadn't meant to say that.

Ilya pulled out so quickly Shane barely managed to bite back the sound it dragged out of him.

“I—” Ilya said.

His eyes were wide and scared. Shane turned over fast and caught him by the forearms before he could retreat any farther.

“I love you too,” Shane breathed.

Ilya went completely still.

Shane’s courage nearly failed him. He held on anyway. “Ya…” His throat clicked. “Tee-baa. Loo-blue.”

His pronunciation was awful, Shane knew it was. Too flat, not the right lilt, nothing like the way it sounded from Ilya’s mouth. But Ilya looked at him like Shane had reached inside his chest and taken him apart by hand.

“Shane,” he said, barely audible.

“I looked it up,” Shane said, panicking. “I practiced. I wanted to tell you. In Russian. So you would know I meant it. Or—I don’t know. I just wanted you to know. I’m sorry, I—”

Ilya let out a breath that sounded almost wounded and kissed him.

His mouth pressed to Shane’s cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth, like he couldn't decide where to kiss him first and was suffering for it. Shane kissed him back just as hard, one hand locked around Ilya’s shoulder, the other at the back of his neck.

“You learned this for me?” Ilya asked against his mouth. Shane nodded, shaky. Ilya let out an emotional breath, then touched Shane’s jaw when Shane tried to look away. “What else did you practice?”

Shane flushed. For a second he couldn't answer. Then he took one uneven breath and said, barely above a whisper, “Pozhaluysta.”

Please.

Ilya’s eyes went dark.

He hooked his arms under Shane’s knees and hauled him up, pressing close again, his cock hard and slick against him. He didn't push in immediately. He only looked at Shane, almost pleading with his eyes. Asking.

Shane understood now. Understood that Ilya could want him badly enough to shake and still would not take a single thing Shane didn't give him.

“Pozhaluysta,” Shane said again, giving it all to him, and this time it broke on a whine.

Ilya pushed back into him.

This time, Shane saw his face. Ilya’s eyes stayed on him as he worked his way in, careful but not as slow now, both of them shaking by the time he bottomed out again. Shane clutched at his shoulders, overwhelmed by the closeness of it, by Ilya above him and inside him and looking at him like there was nowhere else in the world he could stand to be.

“I love you,” Shane said, because now that he had said it once, he couldn't seem to keep it contained.

Ilya’s breath broke. “Ya tebya lyublyu,” he said, and started moving.

Face to face, it was less precise, shallower than before, maybe, but so much more intimate that Shane could barely stand it. Ilya kissed him through the first few strokes, or tried to. It was mostly breath and teeth and helpless sounds pressed into each other’s mouths. Shane clung to him, every thrust pushing him higher, every murmur of Russian against his lips making the pleasure twist hotter in his gut.

“Shanya,” Ilya said. “Blyat'. I love you. So good. So perfect.”

The words grounded Shane like a hand around the back of his neck. He felt a heady haze begin to settle over his thoughts, but he didn't fight it. Ilya was right there. Ilya had him. The certainty of that made something in Shane loosen, left him softer and needier beneath him, until he could barely tell where he ended and pleasure began.

“Yes,” Shane gasped, as Ilya brushed a spot within him that made his nerves light up in pleasure. “There. Fuck, right there.”

Ilya found the angle again, and Shane’s whole body lit up again. The orgasm that had been circling all night came back fast, brutal and inevitable now. Shane felt it build low in his stomach, felt it climb until his thighs started shaking around Ilya’s hips.

“Ilya,” he said, almost panicked. “I’m going to—”

“I know.” Ilya’s hand slid between them, wrapping around him. “Come for me, Shanya.”

Shane tried to answer. Couldn’t. Ilya stroked him in time with his thrusts, exactly right, exactly too much, and Shane came with a broken sound. Pleasure tore through him hard enough to blank the room out at the edges. He felt himself spill over Ilya’s hand, between them, felt Ilya’s rhythm falter almost immediately.

“Shane,” Ilya said, wrecked.

He thrust once, twice, then went still above him with a low, guttural groan, his face pressed into the curve of Shane’s neck as he came.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Shane could hear the city outside. Could hear their breathing. Could feel Ilya’s heart beating hard against his chest. Everything felt far away and too close at the same time. His body was still loose and trembling under Ilya’s, his thoughts slow to come back into shape.

Ilya lifted his head. His face was flushed, damp, undone in a way Shane had never seen before. Then his expression shifted, “Shane?”

Shane blinked at him. Ilya’s hand came up to his face, thumb brushing his cheek. “Come back to me.”

He turned his face into Ilya’s palm before he could think better of it. “I’m here.” Shane swallowed. His voice came out rough and sleepy. “I'm good. Really good.”

Ilya watched him for another second, like he was making sure, then kissed him softer than before. Shane looked at him and felt something in his chest go frighteningly tender.

“Hi,” he said. Ilya stared at him. Then he laughed, quiet and helpless, and buried his face against Shane’s shoulder.

“You are so stupid,” he said.

Shane’s hand found his hair. “But you love me?”

Ilya went still for half a second. Then his arms tightened around him.

“Da,” he said, muffled against Shane’s skin. “Ya tebya lyublyu, Shanya.”

Chapter End Notes

And that’s a wrap on rookie year.
I’ll be honest, this chapter fought me a little (a lot). I’ve spent the last several days working and reworking the wording in these scenes, and I think I’ve reached the point where I need to post it, let it be what it is, and move on.

Next chapter will be a three-year overview leading up to the 2014 Olympics, focusing on a few specific moments between Shane and Ilya and the social media culture slowly building underneath everything.

As always, all my love to everyone interacting with this fic. Everyone clicking on it, reading, leaving kudos, commenting, bookmarking, subscribing—every level of interaction means so much to me and is so, so treasured. 💕

Chapter 8: Bridges

Chapter Summary

@hollanov-truther · 4 hours ago
I am NOT saying anything. I am simply observing. Respectfully. With eyes. And common sense.

Chapter Notes

Profile Pic, Advertisement, and Username Disclaimer
Hello! I see this said often in social media fics, and while I think it's pretty obvious, I just wanted to explicitly state that all usernames in this fic are completely fictional. While some are semi based on friends of mine, the actions taken in this fic, the opinions expressed, everything is completely 100% fictional.

Similarly with the profile pictures. All profile pictures were found at random by me on Pinterest. I don't own nor did i create a single profile picture displayed in this fic. If you happen to be the artist of one of the profile pictures used, or you know the artist and know they would like the image removed, please let me know and I will change it no questioned asked.

Finally, the advertisements in this chapter are also 100% fictional. I chose Gatorade at complete random, as a sports drink i see athletes drinking often, and because I thought green and orange would be compelling color wise.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

♡⊹˚₊🏒 July 2011🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

The trip to Russia had been bad.

There were more elegant ways to put it, probably. More poetic ways to speak about his motherland, his memories within it, and the particular weight of returning to the place that had made him and was now—simply—a city. Ilya knew some of those words. He even believed a few of them. But after three weeks of dealing with his father, with Alexei, with the stale, the familiar misery of that Kutuzovsky apartment; bad felt accurate enough.

It hadn't been pointless, at least. He had gone back for papers—his birth certificate, his identification, the documents David had explained he would need for permanent residency—but also for the smaller, duller work that couldn't be done remotely: taxes, insurance, a few things around the apartment that had quietly fallen into disrepair. Ilya had handled all of it. He had also sat across from his father at the kitchen table more times than he would have liked, and pretended, each time, that he didn’t feel small and fifteen again.

He got the papers. That was the important part.

Less officially important, but maybe more so to Ilya, he got other things, too: A few photographs of his mother from before she got sick; before she got sad. There were pictures of the two of them together from when Ilya was small enough to be held but too small to remember. He took the things he had hidden years ago: his mother's bottle of Krasnaya Moskva, her favorite Pavlovo shawl, and a few other small articles that had gone missing after the funeral with nobody none the wiser.

By the time he came back to Canada, he had a suitcase full of paper that proved he existed and a few stolen pieces of proof that he had once been loved very much.

Canada, regardless of its many faults, had the very great advantage of not being Russia. Canada had Shane. Canada had the Hollanders, too.

They had spent a week at the lake already, at the Hollanders' cottage over in Calabogie. The cottage was far enough from the city that it felt like a different world entirely—and Ilya was shocked to realize what a relief the privacy of it was. Yuna and David had already promised to bring them back out for an extended stay before the summer ended, but for now, they were back in Ottawa.

They had plans for mid-August too: Boston, for a few days, to look at apartments and see some of the Bears. Ilya’s phone hadn't really stopped since the playoffs, and it had only gotten worse once Marleau, Connors, and St-Simon figured out he was with Shane. Bring him, they kept saying. We like him better than you anyway, they teased. It had settled somewhere warm in Ilya’s chest—his boys not knowing what Shane was to him, but not needing to; making room for him regardless.

Let it be known, Ilya liked living with Marleau—truly, he did. Marleau was easy company, which was a rare and valuable thing in a teammate and an even rarer thing in a roommate. He didn't pry or judge. He gave Ilya space when Ilya wanted it, but not so much that Ilya could fully disappear into it. But Ilya was not going another year celibate when he finally had Shane. He had his limits and a hot boyfriend he wanted to be having sex with considerably more often. Ilya refused to waste any more opportunities because his bedroom shared a wall with Marleau.

He wanted Shane to see the place before Ilya decided anything. He wanted Shane to like the street, and the building, the stupid kitchen cabinets, and whatever terrible couch Ilya ended up buying. He wanted Shane to walk into the apartment and be able to imagine himself there.

Not living there (yet), Ilya was not insane. Just there. Often.

All of that, however, was for later in the summer. For now, they were in Ottawa, tucked into the basement with the weak air conditioning and the blue-white light of the television flickering over their knees, and Shane was ruining Ilya’s life.

“How the fuck?” Ilya shouted, incredulously, as Shane scored again.

Shane didn't look away from the screen. He stayed perfectly focused, mouth barely tucked in at the corner, while his little digital players celebrated Ilya’s public execution. “You keep pulling your defenseman too far out,” he said.

“I am trying to hit you,” Ilya said. “Why is your guy so fucking fast?”

That got him a laugh, at least. A small one, but real, slipping out before Shane could stop it. He was sitting forward, elbows on his knees, controller loose in his hands. His shoulder bumped Ilya’s every few seconds when one of them shifted too sharply, and each time neither of them moved away. For the moment, there was only the couch, the warm afternoon outside the windows, and Shane Hollander absolutely destroying him.

Ilya tried to check him into the boards. Shane slipped past, clean and smug and Ilya made an outraged sound and leaned harder into him. Shane laughed again and shoved back with his shoulder. “You are cheating,” Ilya said, because someone had to say it. “There is no other explanation.”

“I’m not cheating,” Shane said, still smiling, and scored again almost immediately.

Ilya stared at the screen, Shane, then back at the screen, where the replay had begun with unnecessary cruelty. He had practiced this game pretty much all season. Shane had played maybe three or four times since it came out, and yet somehow he was kicking Ilya’s ass. Badly, like an asshole, and Ilya had no idea how he was doing it.

“Again,” Ilya said, already reaching to restart the game.

Shane looked over then, with an innocent grin, “You sure?”

Ilya gave him a look of deep offense. “I am Russian. I have survived worse than this.”

Shane's smile softened, just slightly, before he nudged Ilya's knee with his own and turned back to the screen. "Okay," he said. "Try not to leave the slot open this time."

Ilya stared at him. "You are very ugly person inside."

Shane laughed properly at that, bright and boyish.

Ilya lost twice more, though not by as much, which he considered improvement if not actual victory. Shane had the decency not to gloat openly, but he was very clearly enjoying himself. He sat there with his mouth tucked into that almost-smile, while Ilya explained, with great seriousness, that no normal person got this good at a video game without practicing, so either Shane was lying or—when Yuna suddenly called from upstairs.

“Ilya!”

He paused with his thumb still on the controller. Beside him, Shane looked over immediately, the game forgotten. He glanced upstairs in confusion, before looking at Ilya. “Everything okay?”

Ilya thought for a second. Yuna didn't sound upset. “Yes, probably,” he said, setting the controller down. “All good. One second.”

Shane worried like breathing, but he was good at keeping the worst of it behind his teeth. He let Ilya come to him with things, which Ilya knew was not always easy, but he appreciated more than anything.

Upstairs, the house was brighter, the late afternoon sun stretching through the kitchen and across the floor. Yuna stood by the counter with a few pieces of mail in her hand, her reading glasses pushed up on top of her head. “This came for you.”

Ilya stared at the envelope for a second before taking it. They had put the Hollander's address down for some of the legal correspondence regarding his manager contract, considering Ilya wasn't even going to be in Boston for most of the summer and because—well—Yuna had looked at him a couple weeks ago and said, very firmly, We are not risking anything important being missed. Fair enough, he thought at the time.

He tore it open.

The letter was not long, but it took him a while to read it anyway.

The English was legal and ugly but manageable. What slowed him down was the contents. The contract with Vadim had been voided—while not in full, but as it applied to his American employment, which amounted to the same thing. The grounds were several: Primarily, Ilya had been sixteen when he signed, with no independent legal counsel present and no documentation proving that anyone had explained the terms to him. The commission structure had exceeded industry standard by a margin the court described as ‘unconscionable’. There were undisclosed financial relationships between Vadim and a third party the letter did not name. And because the work was performed in the United States, for an American employer, under an active work visa with a pending residency application, the court had found sufficient grounds to declare it unenforceable here.

Which was, in practical terms, the only place that mattered.

Ilya read those same lines over and over again. Void. Unenforceable. No further obligation.

It was stupid. It was only paper. But the contract had been paper, too, and that paper had owned him for almost three years.

He looked up at Yuna.

She was watching him closely. Whatever she found in his face must have reassured her, because a small smile broke over her own, and some of the tension in her shoulders relaxed.

“You did this,” Ilya said.

Yuna shook her head. “You did this. You had the courage to file the appeal. David and I only helped.”

“No,” Ilya said, because that was not right. It was not enough. “You fixed it.”

Her expression softened.

Ilya looked back down at the letter. The Hollanders had found this, had hired someone to look at it, had spent months on phone calls and paperwork and legal fees, and at no point had anyone mentioned what he owed them for it. In his experience, help came with a price attached. But the Hollanders had just— done it. Like there had never been a question.

It hit him harder than he expected. One second he was standing there with the letter in his hand, and the next he had stepped forward and put his arms around her, clumsy and too sudden. Yuna made a soft sound of surprise, but only for a moment. Then her arms came around him, warm and certain.

That was when Ilya realized what he had done.

He began to pull back, embarrassed so sharply it almost hurt. “Sorry,” he said, a flush blooming on his cheeks, but Yuna didn't let him go.

“You're okay, honey,” Yuna said, and held on. So he stayed there, stiff for half a second before the fight went out of him. Her hand moved once over his back, firm and warm. Ilya shut his eyes and breathed in through his nose. “I’m so happy for you, Ilya,” she said.

She sounded so happy for him. Not proud of herself or relieved to be done with it. Happy for him, like his life getting easier was the point.

Ilya swallowed. “Thank you,” he said, and because his voice sounded strange. "I think this is first time a contract has made me want to cry for good reason."

Yuna laughed and let him go, though she kept one hand on his arm for another second. “Good. You’ve earned it.”

He wiped quickly at one eye with the heel of his hand, which Yuna, pointedly, pretended not to see. Then, just like that, she turned back to the counter and began gathering the papers into a neater stack. “Okay. Next step.”

Ilya blinked. “There is next step?”

“There is always a next step.” Yuna slid the letter back toward him, already back in motion. “You need proper representation now. A real manager. Someone independent, someone who understands the league and immigration and will not let anyone talk you into signing something ridiculous.”

Ilya looked at her. "Could we not talk to Shane’s agent?"

"We could," Yuna said. "Farah is excellent. But she has known Shane since he was fifteen, and she knows David and I well. You're both just starting out, the beginning of your careers is critical—I want someone who is unambiguously yours. Not doing us a favor or thinking about Shane." She reached into the manila folder and pulled out a blank page, uncapped a pen. "I have some names. David will have more. Before you leave for Boston, we should set up some interest meetings. Let you meet with them, see who you like. Then we look at everything before you sign anything." She glanced up at him. "Everything, Ilya. No handshake agreements."

“Da, da” Ilya said. He should have rolled his eyes (He did roll his eyes). But he was smiling, too, helplessly, while Yuna continued on about referrals and lawyers and what questions he should ask and how no good manager would be offended by him wanting independent review. Ilya was a little dazed by her. Yuna Hollander had turned one page of good news into a battle plan in under five minutes.

His phone rang. Ilya glanced down: Alexei.

Ilya’s smile went before he could stop it.

“One second,” he said. He folded the letter once, carefully, and set it on the counter beside her papers.

The porch was warm under Ilya’s feet when he stepped outside. He pulled the door shut behind him, lifted the phone to his ear, and didn't get a chance to say anything, before:

“Where the fuck are you?”

Ilya looked out over the quiet street. “Hello to you also.”

“Don’t be cute. Where are you?”

“Canada.”

There was a pause, short and ugly. “Canada,” Alexei repeated. “Are you joking?”

“No.”

“You are supposed to be here.”

“I was there for three weeks.”

“Three weeks,” Alexei said, like Ilya had said three minutes. “And now you’re what, on vacation? Sitting around doing fuck all with the Canadians?”

Ilya leaned back against the side of the house and closed his eyes. He could hear voices through the kitchen window, muffled and easy. The letter was folded on the counter inside.

“I told you when I was leaving,” he said.

“You say a lot of things. You were supposed to handle Papa’s shit before you left.”

“I did handle it.”

Alexei laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “You didn't handle it. The accountant called this morning. Polina is saying something in the apartment is busted again, I don’t even know what. The insurance people need another form. Papa says he doesn’t know where anything is. So why the fuck are you in Canada?”

Ilya opened his eyes.

It was such an Alexei question. Not can you help. Not when are you back. Just where the fuck are you, as if Ilya's only purpose was to be standing in that apartment, available, picking up whatever Alexei had dropped.

“I met with the accountant,” Ilya said. “Twice. I brought him everything Papa gave me.”

“Not everything, obviously.”

“I met with insurance. I signed what they asked me to sign. I talked to Polina.”

His three-week visit to Russia had been a shitshow from the beginning. After a nearly twenty-nine-hour travel day, he had landed in Moscow and gone pretty much straight to a meeting with his family’s accountant over some problem with the tax filings. From there, it had only multiplied. Tax papers, insurance papers, old apartment documents, half-finished messes his father kept handing him with a vague wave of his cigarette, Polina bitching about the apartment she lived in rent-free. Even Spartak found a way to get a week out of him, smiling with all their teeth and asking him to help with rookie camp, quoting a supposed duty to his motherland and the future of Russian hockey like those words were supposed to mean something to him still. Like Ilya hadn't spent the last year in the NHL learning exactly how far away he wanted to be.

And through all of it, his father had found time and time again to mention the Cup. The Calder. Every trophy Ilya hadn't won that season, every game he had lost, every way the NHL and America had apparently made him soft, ungrateful, and slow.

“I did what I could while I was there,” Ilya said.

“Did what you could,” he repeated, mocking him. “You sound like a child.”

“I am not child.”

“No? Then stop acting like one. I have a job, Ilya. I have a daughter. I can’t run around Moscow all day because Papa refuses to answer his phone.”

“I also have job,” Ilya said.

“Yeah? And how the fuck is that going right now?” Alexei said. “Don’t lie to me. You think I don’t know you? You ran away to fuckass Canada to get drunk and get your dick wet, so everyone could clap and tell you you’re special.”

For a second, Ilya said nothing. The words found something old within him. Younger, stupid, sick with wanting anything good in a place that made him feel rotten. A bottle. A body. A hand at the back of his neck in some dark corner. Any proof, however brief and ugly, that he was good for anything other than money, duty, or what he could fix.

He thought of the house and its occupants behind him. Shane was downstairs, probably still waiting with the game paused—or maybe unpaused, because Shane had terrible manners when he was winning. Yuna was in the kitchen with his letter, composing a list of new agents for him to meet with. David would come home later, say he was glad, and ask if Ilya had eaten. No one inside needed him to be useful before they were kind to him.

The words were out of his mouth before he could think about it. "Fuck you, handle it yourself!" They even surprised Ilya. He swallowed once, but didn't take it back. “I am not coming back this summer.”

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” Ilya’s hand tightened around the phone, but Alexei continued before he could answer. “You think because you put money in an account, that makes you a good son? That you can just pay us off like one of your cheap whores?"

Ilya had spent most of his life wanting to be a good son and brother, or at least not so bad at either that everyone said it out loud. He wished he could stand being home. He wanted to care for his aging father without resentment. He wished he could look at Polina and feel anything kinder than irritation for the bitter, much younger woman living in his mother’s apartment. He wanted to be an uncle to Nadezhda. He wished Alexei was the older brother Ilya had needed. He wanted to love the people who shared blood with his mother.

He had tried so hard, but there was always another bill, another paper, another phone call, another reason he hadn't done enough. Once, he might have thought that was just what family was. The past year made that harder to believe.

“I came. I met the accountant. I fixed the taxes. I met with insurance. I talked to Polina. I gave Papa money. I helped at the rink because saying no would have embarrassed the family.” His grip tightened around the phone. “I’ve done enough.”

Something in Ilya, small and loyal, wanted to backtrack. Wanted to say, fine, send me the papers. I will call. I will fix it. The words were there out of habit, but Alexei started in immediately, voice rising, and Ilya talked over him before he could lose his nerve.

“If there is a bill, send it. If the accountant needs something, email me. If insurance needs a signature, send the paper. I will pay for what needs paying. I will sign what needs signing. But you are there. You handle Papa. You handle Polina. I am not flying back because you are too fucking useless to make a phone call.”

“You selfish little shit.”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “Fine.”

“Ilya—”

“I have to go.”

“Don't you fucking hang up on me.”

“Then stop talking.”

Alexei swore at him.

Ilya hung up.

For a moment, he stayed where he was, phone still in his hand. His heart was beating hard, and his throat felt tight. There was guilt, sour and familiar, sitting in his chest. It hadn't vanished just because he hung up on his brother. Maybe it never would.

But it was not as heavy as usual.

Without a doubt, Alexei would call again. There would be bills and papers and anger, because there were always bills and papers and anger. But right now, Ilya was in Canada, his boyfriend was downstairs, and despite everything, he was happy.

He slipped his phone into his pocket.

Then he took a breath and went back inside.

♡⊹˚₊🏒 Summer 2012🏒

Gatorade
@gatorade

Sports are better with friends.
Featuring @shollanderhockeyplayer and @irozanov81

12:48 PM · May 30, 2012

9.8K Retweets 820 Quote Tweets 14.3K Likes

chronicallyoffside @chronicallyoffside · Replying to @gatorade

omggg guys they got rozander!

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7.8K

beartownbabe @beartownbabe · May 30, 2012 Replying to @gatorade

Gatorade knows ball

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bluepaintbandit @bluepaintbandit · May 30, 2012 Replying to @gatorade

every brand in hockey realizing that people will click on literally anything involving these two

9.2K

hockeypilled @hockeypilled · May 30, 2012 Replying to @bluepaintbandit

as they should!

439

maddieh @maddieh · May 30, 2012 Replying to @gatorade

not to be influenced on main but if a company puts shane and ilya in the same room i WILL consume their content <3

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creasegremlin @creasegremlin · Replying to @gatorade

the nhl discovering that shane and ilya are friends was the best thing that ever happened to league marketing

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sticktapsteph @sticktapsteph · May 30, 2012 Replying to @gatorade

my favorite thing is that they don't even have to act, they are just like that!

sportsnet
@sportsnet

Behind the scenes from last month’s Gatorade shoot.
@shollanderhockeyplayer and @irozanov81

Gatorade @gatorade · May 30, 2012

Sports are better with friends.
Featuring @shollanderhockeyplayer and @irozanov81

12:00 PM · June 28, 2012

11.9K Retweets 4.3K Quote Tweets 36.7K Likes

benchminor @benchminor · June 28, 2012 Replying to @sportsnet

THIS PICTURE 😭

376

fiveminmajor @fiveminmajor · June 28, 2012 Replying to @sportsnet

why do they look like every 17 year old hockey player i've ever met

1.9K

zambonitoni @zambonitoni · June 28, 2012 Replying to @sportsnet

Man they really are just dudes, huh? Theyre on the set of a multimillion dollar brand deal, yet they look like they are just goofing off. They are so relatable.

438

danglecity @danglecity · June 28, 2012 Replying to @sportsnet

Rozander: *Internationally recognized athletes at the top of their game. Literal millionaires*
Also Rozander: ✌️👬✌️

987

sinbinbaby @sinbinbaby · June 28, 2012 Replying to @sportsnet

the funniest thing about hockey, and I guess just sports in general, is that all the players really are just kids most of the time. Like how are these the faces driving the current Montreal/Boston rivalry?? who decided to give these babies the keys?? 😭😭😭

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coolbeansah @coolbeansah · June 28, 2012 Replying to @sportsnet

no one talk to me. my favorite bonded pair are in matching jerseys. i can even forgive that it’s for an ad

109

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neutralzone @neutralzone · June 28, 2012 Replying to @sportsnet

"mom said it's our turn to use the xbox"

781

twigenergy @twigenergy · June 28, 2012 Replying to @sportsnet

every time i see them together i reminded that they're like twenty years old

1.8K

topcheddar @topcheddar · June 28, 2012 Replying to @twigenergy

RIGHT
because on the ice they're like generational franchise players and then off the ice they're just Some Guys[tm]

540

hockeygoblin @hockeygoblin · June 28, 2012 Replying to @sportsnet

the NHL's entire marketing strategy with these two is just
"look at these idiots"
and honestly? shit works every time

810

dailyrozander
@dailyrozander

favorite rozander moments
go

7:34 PM · July 7, 2012

8.7K Retweets 865 Quote Tweets 19K Likes

northstarfan76 @northstarfan76 · July 7, 2012 Replying to @dailyrozander

the offseason training videos!

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milkcratehockey @milkcratehockey · July 7, 2012 Replying to @northstarfan76

ALWAYS the offseason training videos

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postandout @postandout · July 7, 2012 Replying to @northstarfan76

nothing beats summer ilya content

bearserker @bearserker · July 7, 2012 Replying to @northstarfan76

every year:
"great training session today"
video opens:
shane immediately eating shit during a drill

243

abbyjane @abbyjane · July 7, 2012 Replying to @northstarfan76

the one where shane missed the target and ilya zoomed in silently before saying "And they put you on first line?" 😭

105

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fiveholefiona @fiveholefiona · July 7, 2012 Replying to @northstarfan76

the one where ilya said “have you considered doing it correctly?” was so funny!!

glassbanger @glassbanger · July 7, 2012 Replying to @northstarfan76

my favorite part is shane never reacting at ALL. like ilya is just Like That to him

754

topcheddar77 @topcheddar77 · July 7, 2012 Replying to @glassbanger

yeah well roz is like the nhl’s #1 pest. hollander has to have build up an immunity

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icerinkrat @icerinkrat · July 7, 2012 Replying to @northstarfan76

they remind me so much of me and my brother it’s insane. truly brothers from different mothers

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thefaceoffdot @thefaceoffdot · July 7, 2012 Replying to @icerinkrat

its so crazy to me that they met when they were like sixteen!

149

hockeyhandle08 @hockeyhandle08 · July7, 2012 Replying to @thefaceoffdot

right??? Like, I've got buddies I've known for over 10 years that I'm not half as close with as Roz and Hollander.

blackandgolden @blackandgolden · July 8, 2012 Replying to @dailyrozander

mine is every joint interview they give where shane is clearly trying so hard to be professional but then
Reporter: Are you and Ilya close?
Shane: Yeah, he's a good friend.
Ilya: A good friend?? Good?? I'm telling mom

710

slotpresence @slotpresence · July 8, 2012 Replying to @blackandgolden

😭😭😭

blueorchard009 @blueorchard009 · July 8, 2012 Replying to @blackandgolden

Shne: We skate together sometimes during the summer.
Ilya: and sometimes we accidentally play half a season together with all the pickup games we join.
he's such a snitch 😭

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hockey-moth @hockey-moth · July 8, 2012 Replying to @blackandgolden

Ilya sharing unnecessary details every interview is one of my favorite things

twigenergy @twigenergy · July 8, 2012 Replying to @blackandgolden

SHANE TRYING TO BE COOL AND ILYA IMMEDIATELY AIRING RECEIPTS NEVER GETS OLD

786

mizzie_mayfield0 @mizzie_mayfield0 · July 8, 2012 Replying to @dailyrozander

Not a moment but my favorite rozander fact remains that ilya spends so much time in canada every summer!

179

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crowsaccord @crowsaccord · July 8, 2012 Replying to @mizzie_mayfield0

RIGHT like that man is in canada so much he should have a punch card

470

HockeyGirl_24 @HockeyGirl_24 · July 8, 2012 Replying to @crowsaccord

TEN VISITS AND YOU GET A FREE TIM HORTONS

@maggiemaesx @@maggiemaesx · July 8, 2012 Replying to @northstarfan76

every june/july i see a new training video and I'm just like oh my goodness, the canadian migration has begun!!

712

creasegremlin @creasegremlin · July 8, 2012 Replying to @maggiemaesx

nature is healing 💚💚💚

heyitslauren @heyitslauren · July 9, 2012 Replying to @maggiemaesx

national geographic voice:
each summer, the wild rozanov returns to his natural habitat

xxcaitlinxx @xxcaitlinxx · July 9, 2012 Replying to @heyitslauren

the natural habitat being approximately six feet away from shane hollander

heyitslauren @heyitslauren · July 9, 2012 Replying to @xxcaitlinxx

😭

hollanov-truther
@hollanov-truther

yall know what i'm gonna say

1:57 AM · June 30, 2012

90 Retweets 2 Quote Tweets 21 Likes

sunnysideup @sunnysideup · June 30, 2012 Replying to @hollanov-truther

You don't have to ❤️

1.3K

sticktapsteph @sticktapsteph · June 30, 2012 Replying to @hollanov-truther

they're literally brothers 🤢🤢

130

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hollanov-truther @hollanov-truther · June 30, 2012 Replying to @sticktapsteph

"literally"

connor_m12 @connor_m12 · Replying to @hollanov-truther

Christ, can guys just be friends please?

rinksidebabe @rinksidebabe · Replying to @hollanov-truther

hollanov-truther fighting for their life in these replies but honestly, deserved

982

bitter_honeyxx
@bitter_honeyxx

some friendships are beautiful
some friendships change lives
rozander is mostly just mutual harassment and I love that for them <3

12:00 PM · July 18, 2012

119 Retweets 87 Quote Tweets 490 Likes

lilyrosemary @lilyrosemary · July 18, 2012 Replying to @bitter_honeyxx

no but like that’s why it works!
they don’t feel like fake PR friends, they feel like they actually like each other and hang out. They have inside jokes they can't help but reference on camera, and they needle each other like actual friends do, and thats so refreshing in the world of so many PR/media trained relationships between public figures. In this essay I will-

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bearsin4 @bearsin4 · Replying to @lilyrosemary

bestie drop the essay

♡⊹˚₊🏒 November 2012🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

By the time Shane got back to the locker room, he still couldn't stop smiling.

He tried. He kept his head down through the media scrum, kept his answers short and measured, said all the right things about the team effort and getting pucks deep and sticking to their game. But none of it changed the fact that Montreal had just handed Boston one of the ugliest losses of their season, and Shane had been everywhere. Two goals, two assists, his name echoing the Bell Centre like a victory trumpet.

Boston games always did something to him now.

Part of it was Ilya. A large part of it was Ilya, actually, who had spent the third period looking more and more incensed every time Shane touched the puck. It shouldn't have been as satisfying as it was. It definitely shouldn't have made Shane so hot under his pads.

His phone buzzed before he finished getting dressed.

Lily: hope you are very proud of yourself

Shane bit down on his smile.

Jane: A little.
Lily: asshole
Jane: Good game, though.
Lily: for you

A pause. Then:

Lily: your apartment?

That had been the plan. That was usually the plan when Boston came through Montreal and both of them could get away with it. One of them would sulk, one of them would gloat, and then they would go somewhere with a locked door and very little interest in talking about hockey they just played.

Shane was still looking at the message when Hayden dropped onto the bench beside him, still damp from the showers. “Dude!" Hayden said, jostling Shane’s shoulder. “You were on fire tonight. What are they feeding you these days?”

Shane closed his phone out of habit, the smile still sitting stupidly on his face. “It’s Boston. What can I say?”

“That’s exactly why we’re going out.” Hayden leaned back, pleased with himself already. “Jacks texted me during the third saying I have to cover a round for you tonight.”

“Ah, I've already got plans tonight," Shane said apologetically. "Tell Jackie I appreciate it, but raincheck?”

“No,” Hayden said immediately. “Absolutely not.”

JJ looked over from the mirror. “No way, Hollander. Four points against Boston? You are not going home by yourself tonight.”

“I’m not going home alone,” Shane said, "I just already have plans tonight."

Hayden rolled his eyes, “With Rozanov?”

"Yeah." Shane tucked his phone tighter into his palm. “Usually after we play each other, we hang out.”

JJ shrugged, “So bring him with.”

Shane stared at him. Hayden didn't give him time to argue. “Yeah, man! Just bring him. He can come be miserable with witnesses.”

“He’s not going to be miserable.”

“I don’t know,” Hayden said. “That second goal of yours was pretty disrespectful.”

JJ came over, still fixing his cuff. “Call him. If Rozanov agrees, we go out, have a couple drinks, and celebrate embarrassing his whole team. Everybody wins—except Boston, but they’re used to it at this point.”

Shane still really, really wanted to say no. He had spent the whole game waiting for the part of the night that came after it, and he got so little time with Ilya as it was. But Hayden looked so hopeful and JJ so certain. Shane could feel the argument slipping away from him before he had even made it.

Shane sighed and opened his phone.

For one horrible second, the name Lily stared back at him from the screen.

He turned slightly away, thumb moving fast as he changed the contact name to Ilya. When he called, Hayden and JJ hovered close, expectantly.

Ilya picked up on the third ring, voiced laced with confusion, “Shane?”

“Hey,” Shane started, but then JJ leaned in over his shoulder.

“Rozanov!”

There was a pause on the other end. “…Boiziau?” Ilya finally asked, questioning.

“They’re trying to make me go out,” Shane said.

“And we are succeeding!” JJ claimed.

Hayden boxed him in on his other side, “C'mon Rozanov, help us out! He says he has plans with you, so now you’re invited.”

“We promise to play nice,” JJ added.

“No, you won’t,” Ilya said immediately.

“You don’t have to. I know we had plans.” Shane interjected.

There was a brief silence, then Ilya asked, “Do you want to go?”

Shane paused for a moment, “Not without you.” he admitted.

Another pause. Then Ilya sighed, heavily and theatrically enough that it carried through the phone. “Fine. But if you are bringing Metros, I am bringing Bears.”

“Ilya—”

Ilya’s voice moved away from the receiver, “Marly! Vic! Connors! You want to go out with Montreal?”

In the background, there was an immediate tangle of voices. Someone laughed, and Shane faintly heard “What, seriously?” before Ilya came back on the line.

“Send details,” he said. “We will be there in half hour.”

Which was how, less than an hour later, Shane found himself in the half-dark of a Montreal club, bass moving through the floor, watching three Bears walk in behind Ilya.

For a second, Shane almost laughed.

It was absurd. Montreal and Boston didn't do shit like this, not after games where Montreal had just spent sixty minutes handing Boston its own ass and everyone still had bruises cooling under their dress shirts. If it were any other mix of Metros and Bears, Shane was fairly certain the night would end the way it started; just with bloodier fists and flared tempers.

But Shane knew these Bears. He had spent enough time around Marleau, St-Simon, and Connors to know none of them would come looking for a fight. Hayden and JJ were his best friends. Ilya was his boyfriend. It was still insane, but at least it was insane with people he trusted.

Hayden, because apparently he had decided to die brave, lifted his beer. “Tough game?”

Connors stopped in front of the booth. “You mean the four-nothing shutout?”

JJ grinned. “Maybe skate better next time.”

For one awful second, Shane felt like the whole thing was balanced on the edge of disaster. But then Marleau laughed, St-Simon shook his head, and Ilya slid into the booth beside Shane, the line of his body pressing warm against him. The music in the club was loud enough that they had to shout over the bass, but with Ilya beside him, solid and familiar, the noise became easier to ignore.

Everyone still stayed close to their own colors, even out of uniform. Hayden and JJ on one side, the Bears on the other, Shane and Ilya somewhere in between. JJ and Hayden didn’t know the Bears, not really, and the Bears had no reason to know them as anything other than the guys in blue who had just shut them out. By all rights, the night should have been painfully awkward.

But the chirps kept landing, and little by little, the pauses between them got shorter, more relaxed.

“The play before the fourth was the softest fucking non-call in Quebec,” Connors said, pointing at Hayden like this was somehow his fault.

JJ made a noise of protest. “Please. It would not have made a difference. You would have lost by three instead.”

Connors turned on him immediately. “That’s because your defense had me by the stick for half the game.”

“Our defense?” JJ said.

“You know exactly who I mean.”

“I actually don’t,” JJ said. “I was busy watching us score.”

Beside Shane, Ilya barked a loud laugh. “Please. All your goals were gifts from God and his three blind referees.”

Hayden looked at him. “God? Try your best friend.”

Shane, who had played a role in all four goals that night, stared very hard at his drink while JJ roared with laughter; which he Bears were quick to follow. Beside Shane, Ilya made an offended sound and reached over to shove a hand into Shane’s hair, rough enough to pass for a chirp and familiar enough to make Shane’s face go hot.

“Yes, yes,” Ilya said, giving him an obnoxious little shake. “Shane is very good at hockey. We all know this. But what were you doing tonight, fifteenth-best Metro? I did not hear your name in Bell Center.”

Hayden sputtered. “Fifteenth?”

“Ah, you are right. Maybe I am being generous.”

JJ laughed harder. Shane ducked out from under Ilya’s hand, half to save his hair and half to hide the smile pulling at his mouth. “You’re such an ass.”

There was still tension between them, obviously. Montreal and Boston’s rivalry was older than any of them, bigger than any one game, stitched into the way the fans yelled and the teams hit and how every matchup felt a little louder than it needed to be. But Shane couldn’t help the smile on his face. He was warm from the club and the noise and Ilya pressed beside him, from his friends and the Bears laughing across the table.

It was actually a good night.

At some point, Marleau leaned across Ilya to set a drink near Shane. “Careful with that one, Hollzy. Connors ordered it, so it might kill you.”

Shane took it. “Thanks.”

Across the table, Hayden’s mouth dropped open. “Hollzy?” Shane looked away as heat climbed into his face. “Dude, what the fuck? I have been trying to get you to accept a nickname for two years.”

Marleau laughed. “I’ve been calling him Hollzy since rookie year.”

Hayden stared at him. “Since rookie year?!”

“Yeah.”

“And he lets you?!”

Connors leaned back, delighted. “Ahhh, does Hollzy like us better?”

“No, he is nice to you because you are my friends.” Ilya says, as Connors shoves his shoulder, pressing Ilya heavier into him.

Hayden pointed at Ilya. “Dude, shut up. I’m Hollzy’s best friend.” Then, to Marleau, “And I’m stealing that, by the way.”

That, more than anything, broke the last of the awkwardness.

Eventually, JJ dragged the lot of them onto the dance floor, which was probably inevitable; he had the same appetite for noise that Ilya and the Bears had. Shane went out for a couple songs but retreated rather quickly, hot-faced and laughing but already done with the press of strangers’ bodies around him. Ilya didn’t ask if he was okay, he just drifted back a minute later, casual enough to make it look like he had simply gotten bored, but Shane felt the affection in the action as he took up space at Shane’s shoulder until the crowd felt less like it was closing in.

When a tray of shots made its way around the table, one landing in front of Shane, Ilya reached over before Shane had to take it and knocked it back, immediately grimacing.

“Bah. Who ordered rum?” he said, setting the empty glass back on the tray.

Near the end of the night, Connors made a joke that Shane’s four-point game deserving a proper celebration and generously offered to introduce him to one of the many women who had been looking their way for the last hour. Hayden, still texting Jackie, barely looked up before waving him off.

“Don’t bother. Shane doesn’t do that.”

Ilya sighed beside him. “Tragic. So very sad for Montreal women everywhere.” he said casually, but Shane felt his hand tighten on his knee under the table.

From the Boston side, St-Simon laughed. “You’re one to talk, Roz.”

Connors snapped his fingers. “Right, right. Are you still seeing that Canadian girl? What was her name?” Shane didn't look at Ilya nor Ilya at Shane. “Jane,” Connors said, triumphant. “That’s her name, right? Dude, when are you going to introduce us to her? You’ve been seeing her for, like, ever.”

“Yes, yes, I am still seeing my Jane,” Ilya said, waving him off. “And she is a very proper lady, so obviously I will not bring her near any of you assholes.”

The table laughed, and the moment slid past. Under the table, Ilya’s foot bumped Shane’s once.

By the time they spilled out of the club, everyone was louder and looser than when they had gone in. The cold hit all of them at once, and for a minute they stood in a messy cluster under the club lights, arguing about food while people on the sidewalk pretended not to take pictures.

By the time they left the club, team lines had blurred completely. Connors was hanging off JJ, Marleau and Hayden were mid-argument, and St-Simon kept insisting he was too sober for this while laughing anyway. Ilya caught Shane by the shoulder as they stepped outside and pulled him in with the rest of them.

Boston and Montreal, grinning together after a bloodbath. Shane could already imagine the pictures that would be circulating online tomorrow morning. Fans were going to lose their minds over it.

They were still debating food when Ilya patted his pockets and frowned. “Ah, shit,” Ilya said. “I left my fitness watch at your place.”

Hayden turned immediately. “When were you at his place?”

“Earlier,” Ilya lied.

Shane made himself look surprised. “Oh, shit. We can go grab it if you want, my apartment is just a couple blocks away.”

Ilya sighed like this was a great inconvenience to him personally. “Can we? Trainers will kick my ass if I do not have it for next workout.”

Connors groaned. “Dude, get it after food. I’m starving.”

“Then go eat,” Ilya said. “This does not need to be group field trip.”

JJ, already steering Connors in the opposite direction, waved them off. “Go, go. We’ll find food. C'mon Boston boys. I will show you real poutine, not hotel garbage.”

Marleau’s eyes flicked from Ilya to Shane and back again before he grinned. “Flight’s at nine, Roz. Don’t be late.”

“Pah, I will beat you all to the airport. You are the problems.”

St-Simon laughed under his breath. Hayden lingered half a second longer, looking between Shane and Ilya, before JJ grabbed him by the back of his coat and pulled him along with the rest of them.

“Unbelievable,” Hayden muttered, but he went.

Shane and Ilya made it half a block before they looked at each other and started laughing.

It came out quiet at first, then worse when Shane looked back and saw the others still together stumbling away from the club, Boston and Montreal mixed into one loud, ridiculous group without either of them there to force it.

“They’re really going without us,” Shane said.

Ilya glanced back, smiling. “Of course. We are good examples. We inspire unity.”

Shane laughed again, shaking his head. The street was cold and mostly empty, the music fading behind them with every step. Ilya’s shoulder brushed his, friendly enough for anyone watching. Shane didn't move away.

By the time they reached his building, the last of the club noise had fallen off, leaving only the two of them and the keyed-up warmth of the night still moving under Shane’s skin. Shane got his keys out as Ilya watched him unlock the door, mouth curved in cocky confidence.

“You know,” he said, “I am still very wounded by defeat. You were very mean to me tonight.”

Shane rolled his eyes and pushed the door open. “You’ll live.”

Ilya followed him inside, close enough that Shane could feel the heat of him before the door even shut.

“Maybe,” Ilya said.

The door clicked closed behind them, and immediately Ilya’s hands were on him, firm at his hips, turning him back against the wood. Shane barely had time to breathe before Ilya kissed him hard, still tasting faintly of alcohol.

Shane got a hand in Ilya’s jacket and pulled him closer.

The smile went out of the kiss then, all the teasing gone sharp and hungry at once. When Ilya finally pulled back, Shane was breathing too fast.

Ilya smirked against his lips. “There,” he said. “Better already.”

♡⊹˚₊🏒 March 2013🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

BuzzFeed: Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov Answer Some of the Most Googled Questions About Them

[Cold open: Shane and Ilya are already seated in front of the white backdrop. Ilya has one of the autocomplete boards in his hands, clearly reading ahead. Shane reaches for it.]

Shane: You’re not supposed to look yet.

Ilya: I am preparing for next question.

Shane: That’s cheating, you’re supposed to be surprised.

Ilya: It is BuzzFeed, Shane. Not Olympics. I do not think you can cheat at interview.

[Shane gets the board back. Ilya laughs loudly. Hard cut to a screen of the Google search bar. Text types out: Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov answer some of the most googled questions about them.]

Shane: Hi, I’m Shane Hollander.

Ilya: And I am Ilya Rozanov.

Both: And this is BuzzFeed’s Most Googled Questions interview.

[They are handed the first card.]

Shane: “Are Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov…”

[He peels off the sticker.]

Shane: “… actually friends?”

Shane: No.

Ilya: Absolutely not.

[They both look at each other, hold it for half a second, and start laughing.]

Shane: No, no, but seriously though.

Ilya: Yes, fine. Maybe friends. Little bit.

Shane: You text me way too much for someone who is ‘maybe’ my friend.

Ilya: Pfft.

Shane: He does. It’s constant.

Ilya: I send important things.

Shane: You sent me a picture of a wet kitten last week at like two in the morning.

Ilya: Yes, was very important. It reminded me of you.

Shane: How did wet kitten remind you of me?

Ilya: It was a small, mean little thing, with an angry kitten face, like you.

[Shane looks at the camera for a second, flabbergasted, he opens his mouth to argue, before hard cut to:]

Shane: But yes, we are really good friends.

Ilya: Yes, yes, he is my best friend.

[New card.]

Ilya: “Are Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov… brothers?”

[Ilya looks at Shane, considering. Shane blanches next to him.]

Shane: God, no, we don't even look alike, what?

Ilya: Not by blood. But his parents like me more, so.

Shane: They don't like you more.

Ilya: Yes, they do. I am your mother’s favorite son.

[Shane starts arguing over him as Ilya keeps talking, both of them half-laughing. Hard cut in the middle of Shane saying, “That's not how any of this works—”]

[New card.]

Shane: “When did Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov meet?”

Ilya: Depends.

Shane: It does not depend. We met at the Prospect Cup in 2008.

Ilya: Officially.

Shane: But we knew about each other before that. I know we both heard each other’s names. Watched clips. People were comparing us long before Prospect.

Ilya: I knew him as very serious Canadian boy who was supposed to beat me.

Shane: And I knew him as this cocky Russian guy everyone told me to look out for.

Ilya: Handsome also.

Shane: That was not in the scouting report.

Ilya: Bad scouting report.

Shane: Anyway, Prospect Cup was the first time we actually spoke.

[New card.]

Ilya: “Is Ilya Rozanov Russian?”

Ilya: Yes.

[He pauses, then shrugs.]

Ilya: I was born in Moscow. Grew up there. Played there until Boston drafted me. This one is easy. But maybe soon I am also American. Or Canadian. Who knows. I am collecting countries.

Shane: That’s not how citizenship works.

Ilya: You don’t know. Your father works for government, not you.

Shane: I have still absorbed enough to know you can’t just collect citizenships like hockey cards.

Ilya: We will ask him.

Shane: We are not asking my dad if you can collect citizenships.

[New card.]

Shane: “Is Ilya Rozanov religious?”

[Ilya’s smile shifts. Not gone, exactly, but quieter. His hand comes up briefly to the chain at his neck before he seems to notice the movement and lets it drop.]

Ilya: Ah.

[There’s a small pause. Shane glances over, then down at the card like he’s giving Ilya somewhere else to look.]

Ilya: Not really. Maybe. It is complicated. [pause] I wear cross, so people ask. It was my mother’s.

[He says it simply, but it lands heavier than the answers before it. Shane nods once, careful.]

Shane: It’s important to him.

Ilya: Yes. Important. But I am not very good church boy, I think. In Russia, sermons are very long.

Shane: Yeah, and you never seem to be able to sit still.

Ilya: This is true. Priest would ask me to leave.

Shane: Politely, probably.

Ilya: No, no. Russian priest would not ask politely.

[The laugh that follows is smaller than the others, but real enough. Shane peels the next sticker without making a big deal of it.]

[New card.]

Shane: “Will Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov ever play on the same team?”

Ilya: Yes.

Shane: Well, not necessarily. Maybe one day, but not anytime soon unless maybe in an All-Star game. Maybe some charity thing. But in actual regulation, probably not, no.

Ilya: For now.

Shane: Ilya.

Ilya: Fine. Probably we play against each other forever. Very tragic, but very good television.

Shane: That part’s probably true.

Ilya: But maybe one day. Same line. Me passing to him. Him finally scoring easy goal because of me.

Shane: I score plenty without you.

Ilya: But imagine how many with me.

[Shane looks over, and for half a second the answer softens into something almost sincere.]

Shane: Yeah. It’d be fun.

Ilya: See? He agrees.

Shane: I said it would be fun, not that I need you.

Ilya: Same thing.

[End card.]

Comments (1.7K)

@pigeonfrytruth · 3 days ago

I need to see the wet kitten picture. Release the texts, BuzzFeed.

@bostonbearsszn · 2 days ago

"I am 'our' mother's favorite son” Ilya has fully moved into the Hollander family home and Shane was the last to know.

@tellytale98 · 1 day ago

Shane was so offended by the wet kitten comparison and then immediately proved Ilya right by looking exactly like an angry wet kitten.

@goaliegirl31 · 20 hours ago

Everyone joking about “favorite son” but also… knowing Ilya lost his mom and then seeing him joke about Shane’s mom liking him more? I am unwell actually.

@blazing_f0x · 1 day ago

The editors hard cutting every time they start bickering means this interview was probably three hours long. Buzzfeed!! Release the extended cuts!

@gamezer900 · 2 days ago

“Imagine how many with me” BRO PLEASE. I need one All-Star game line. Just one. For science.

@hearty-harliexx · 1 day ago

I’m convinced half of Shane’s job in this friendship is translating Ilya’s nonsense into acceptable PR.

@offsideopinions · 3 hours ago

99% of people: wow what a beautiful friendship.
me, with unfortunately cursed eyes: hm.

@valimee77 · 2 days ago

Boston fans 🤝 Montreal fans
somehow agreeing that Hollander and Rozanov are hilarious together

@icebreaker99 · 1 day ago

I know the league wanted a rivalry but this is honestly better. They’re still so competitive, they just clearly like each other.

@TeHb_B_H04H · 1 day ago

“Not really. Maybe. It is complicated.” is such a real answer, holy shit. As someone from a Slavic country, its so hard to talk about religion sometimes. You can not believe, not practice, even be mad at the church, but still keep your grandmother’s icons or, for Rozanov, his mother’s cross.

@rosey.raven · 20 hours ago

Shane being the Hollander's actual son and still somehow losing the favorite son argument is extremely middle-child-coded for an only child.

@bearzbabe81 · 1 day ago

Ilya calling himself the favorite son while wearing a Boston hoodie next to the face of Montreal. Rozy be so for reallll

@metrosfan1967 · 2 days ago

As a Montreal fan I regret to announce I like Rozanov now. This is devastating.

@rozzyrush · 1 day ago

Not Shane being like “we are NOT asking my dad”. how much y'all wanna bet right after this Roz called their dad?

@heyimjayjay · 10 hours ago

Lowkey this is great PR for both them and their teams. The Montreal and Boston rivalry was getting so ugly for awhile, its good to see that it can exist on ice, but their players can be friendly off ice. Sports needs more of this.

@metros4ever-xx · 1 day ago

I hateeee how much I like Rozanov now. This video is propaganda and it worked

@lexilovexx · 6 hours ago

Wait the religion answer is confusing though? I frequent a lot of clubs in Boston and it’s like pretty well known Rozy doesn’t sleep around because he’s super religious??? Maybe that was just a rumor??

@tubuser34891 · 6 hours ago

I don’t watch hockey but the Russian one is really funny.

@hollanov-truther · 4 hours ago

I am NOT saying anything. I am simply observing. Respectfully. With eyes. And common sense.

♡⊹˚₊🏒 July 2nd, 2013🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

“Come on,” Shane muttered, phone pressed hard to his ear. “Fucking hell, Ilya, pick up.”

It rang until voicemail. Again.

Shane pulled the phone away before the greeting could finish and ended the call. He didn't want to listen to Ilya's stupid "Hi, this is Ilya, I will never listen to your voicemail" for the fifth time that day. For a second, he only stood there in the middle of his bedroom, staring down at the screen like if he looked at it hard enough, Ilya’s name would appear.

It didn't.

The room was too quiet around him. His suitcase was still half unpacked on the floor, a stack of clean shirts folded on the chair because he had meant to put them away and then the news had broken and suddenly laundry was the last thing on his mind. His laptop was open on the desk, the same article still pulled up, the headline sharp and ugly even after Shane had read it enough times that the words had started to blur.

Two days, he told himself again. It had only been two days.

Ilya could be busy. Ilya could be sleeping. Ilya could have shut his phone off. Ilya could need space. Shane knew that. He had tried to give it to him. The first day, he had only texted once.

Jane: I just saw the news. Call me when you can?
Jane: Hey, how are you feeling this morning?
Jane: You don’t have to talk about it. Just want to know you’re okay.
Jane: Ilya, please.

Shane sat down on the edge of the bed, then stood back up almost immediately. He scrolled past Ilya’s contact before he could call again and tapped Svetlana’s name instead. She picked up on the fourth ring.

“Shane?” Her voice sounded rougher than usual. Not sleepy, exactly. Worn down.

“Hey,” Shane said, “Sorry. I know it’s late there.”

“It is always late somewhere.” There was a rustle on the line, like she was moving through an apartment or sinking down into a chair. “Have you heard from him?”

Shane closed his eyes. “No,” he said. “That’s why I’m calling. I was hoping you had.”

Svetlana was quiet for a moment. In the silence, Shane could hear her breathing, shallow and tired.

“Fuck,” she said softly.

His stomach dropped, even though he had known. Some stupid part of him had still been hoping she would be annoyed instead of worried. That she would say, yes, of course, I talked to him this morning, he is being dramatic, I told him to stop being an idiot and call you.

“I’ve called,” Svetlana said. “Many times. Texted. Nothing. I had hoped maybe he was ignoring me because he was with you, and that he wasn't being an idiot about this.”

“I thought maybe he needed space.”

“Maybe he does.”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “I know. I just—”

“You are not crazy,” Svetlana said, interrupting him gently. “Two days is not so long for a normal person. But with Ilyusha, when he is upset, space is not good, he can get stuck in his own head."

That sounded so much like him that Shane almost felt worse.

“I haven’t heard from him since the news dropped,” he said. He glanced back at the laptop, then away. “At first I thought, okay, maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it yet. But he always tells me when he needs space. He didn’t even do that.”

Svetlana let out a small, humorless sound. Shane sat back down on the bed. His knee started bouncing at once. “I have half a mind to fly to Boston myself,” Svetlana said. “I am not joking. I've looked at flights.”

“Sveta.”

“If he wants to be stupid, I can be stupider. Then we can both look like fools”

Despite everything, Shane almost smiled. “I don't think he'd hate that as much as you think he would. He would probably love to see you.”

“Well, if he keeps ignoring me, we are going to find out either way.”

Shane was trying to think of what to say next—whether to ask if she thought he should call Marleau, whether that would be too much, whether Ilya would be angry if Shane started chasing him through his teammates—when the phone vibrated against his cheek.

He pulled it away.

Lily.

For one second, Shane only stared.

“Shane?” Svetlana asked.

“It’s him,” he said, already standing. His whole body had gone suddenly hot and unsteady. “Ilya’s calling.”

“Oh, go,” Sveta said immediately. “Answer. And tell him if I do not hear from him by tomorrow, I am coming to Boston and sending him the bill.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“Good. Go.”

Shane switched calls before he could think too hard about it. “Ilya?”

There was a pause on the other end. Not long, but enough that Shane heard the faint noise of something low and indistinct in the background.

“Hi,” Ilya finally said. He sounded terrible. Hungover, maybe. Tired, definitely.

Shane’s grip tightened around the phone. “Hey.”

“I am sorry,” Ilya said before Shane could ask anything. “I know you called. I saw.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it is not.” His voice was quiet, but steady. “I had too many thoughts. So I went out with Marly and drank so there would be less thoughts, which didn't work, obviously. Only made my head hurt.” A small breath, almost a laugh and not close enough to one. “This is not excuse. I know.”

Shane sat down because his legs suddenly felt unhelpful. “I’m not mad.”

“You should be little mad.”

“I was worried, not mad.” Shane clarified. Then, more carefully, “Talk to me. Are you okay?”

Ilya didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was lower. “Honestly? No.”

Shane closed his eyes. “Okay,” he said. “I’m here.”

“I am upset,” Ilya said, like the words had to be pulled out one at a time. “I am upset my country did this. I am upset I am not surprised. I am upset people keep sending me articles like I was not already well aware what Russia is.”

Shane looked back at the laptop. The headline seemed to stare back at him. Russia passes a law banning so-called gay propaganda. Most of the articles used the longer phrase too, propaganda of non-traditional sexual relations to minors.

“I read about it,” Shane said. “The propaganda law.” Ilya was quiet. “Not everything, they haven't released a full translation yet,” Shane added. “But from what I've seen so far...”

“It's bad.,” Ilya said.

“Yeah.”

“It is not like I thought Russia was safe before.” Ilya’s voice sharpened for a second, then dulled again just as quickly. “I am not stupid. I know where I come from. But still. To see it written like that. To see everyone talk about it like it was this—uh.” Ilya paused, looking for a word in English. “—ineviatable thing.”

Shane listened. He wanted, badly, to say something that would make it smaller. That Ilya was safe in Boston. That he didn't have to go back. That they would figure it out. But the last two days had taught him enough to know how little his wanting changed.

So he said, “I’m sorry.”

Ilya breathed out. For a while, neither of them said anything. Then Ilya said, softer, “I am close on permanent residency.”

Shane lifted his head. “Yeah?”

“Yes. Not done yet, but close. David helped me talk to lawyer again last week. There was a small shift on the line, like Ilya had leaned back or rubbed at his face. “Once it is done, I think I will file for citizenship. American.”

Shane sat very still. Ilya had talked about it before—mostly in practical terms— as something useful. American passports were much stronger than Russian ones. He had never sounded like this about it before. Resigned.

“I don’t want to be in position where I have to go back,” Ilya continued. “Not if something happens. Not if someone finds out, or I am outed, or—”

He stopped. The silence after it felt enormous. Shane didn't make him finish. “I understand," he said quietly.

“I know it is not tomorrow problem.” Ilya’s voice was rough, “But it feels like tomorrow problem.”

Shane pressed his thumb into the seam of his shorts, hard enough to hurt a little. “Do you want me to come down?”

“No,” Ilya said automatically. Shane waited. On the other end, Ilya sighed, then said. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“I can. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is little big deal. You are in Ottawa.”

“It's an easy flight to Boston.”

“I know.” Ilya sounded tired again, but less far away. “But I don’t know if I want to be in Boston right now.”

Shane leaned forward. “Okay. What do you want?”

Another silence, but this one felt different. Less empty. “I think I want to be in Canada,” Ilya said at last. “Ottawa. The lake, maybe. Somewhere quiet.”

Relief moved through Shane so fast it almost made him dizzy. “Yeah? Then come here.”

“I do not want to be problem.”

“You’re not a problem.”

There was the smallest pause, and then Ilya huffed. It was not much, but it was the first almost-laugh Shane had heard from him in days. Shane let himself breathe a little easier. “Come to Ottawa. We can have a week, maybe two? Or longer. My parents won’t care.” Shane leaned back against the bed frame. “I was actually going to ask you about something at the lake anyway.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been looking at a few lots nearby.”

Ilya was quiet for half a second. “Lots?”

“Land.”

“Yes, I know what lots are, Mr. Real Estate. I am asking why lots?”

Shane smiled properly then. “Shut up. I’ve just been thinking about maybe having something built. Something that’s just mine. Or ours, maybe.”

“And you want my thoughts?” The fondness in Ilya’s voice was still tired, still frayed, but it was there. Shane held onto it. "I do not know if I will have many opinions on dirt, Mr. Landscapping."

“You can make fun of me in person,” Shane said. “Just come look at them with me.”

“I would like that,” Ilya said, and then, after a moment, quieter, “I would like to come.”

“Good.”

They stayed on the phone a little longer after that, not saying much. Shane listened to Ilya breathe, to the faint sounds of Boston around him, and felt the panic of the last two days loosen by degrees. it wasn't entirely gone, whatever fear had opened under Ilya’s feet was not something Shane could close by inviting him to a lake house.

But at least Ilya was talking to him now.

Eventually, Shane remembered. “You need to call Sveta.”

Ilya groaned. “Ah.”

“She said if she doesn’t hear from you by tomorrow, she’s flying to Boston and sending you the bill.”

“Oh no,” Ilya said dryly. “My best friend wants to see me. Very scary.”

Shane smiled at the admission. He had known that Svetlana's threat was really no threat at all. “She sounded worried.”

“I know.”

“Then call her tonight. And maybe invite her here this summer instead of ghosting her until she crosses an ocean to yell at you.”

That made Ilya go quiet. Shane frowned. “What?”

“You would be okay with that?”

“With Sveta coming to the lake?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, of course.” Shane shifted the phone to his other ear. “She’s my friend too.”

It still felt a little new to say it that plainly. Sveta had become part of Shane’s life almost by accident: first as Ilya’s terrifying best friend, then as the person who had once filled Shane with a sick, embarrassing jealousy, then as someone who texted him when Ilya was being annoying, asked about his games, and called whenever any controversial hockey news dropped.

Ilya’s voice was softer when he answered. “She would like that.”

“Good. Invite her.”

“For whole summer?”

“Maybe not the whole summer,” Shane said, flushing and turning his head in embarrassment, even though Ilya couldn’t see it. “But for a bit. We could ask my parents about the cabin. Maybe after you and I have some time there first.”

There was a pause. Then Ilya said, voice warm with amusement, “Ah. Time alone?”

Shane closed his eyes. “Yeah.”

Another pause, shorter this time. “I like this plan,” Ilya said.

“We could invite other people too,” Shane added, before he could overthink it. “For a weekend, maybe. Hayden and Jackie—Jackie is still only 4 months along, so that shouldn't be a problem. JJ. Marly, if he can come. Sveta. Maybe a couple others? Vic and Connors?”

“Are you sure Hayden will want to be alone at the lake with me?” Ilya asked, sounding more awake already.

Shane laughed and rolled his eyes, “You guys wouldn't be alone.”

On the other end, Ilya went quiet for a second after hearing him laugh. Then he said, “I've missed you.” The words landed softly; Shane stared down at the floor.

“I've missed you too,” he said.

Another small silence. This one was easier. “I should call Sveta now,” Ilya said at last. “Before she buys a plane to crash into my house.”

Shane laughed, “Go do that.”

“And Shane?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Shane swallowed. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know.” Ilya sounded tired again, but less hollow than before. “Still.”

Shane didn't know what to say to that, so he only said, “Call me after, if you want. Or tomorrow. Whenever.”

“I will.”

Neither of them hung up right away. Then Ilya said, very quietly, “Shanya?”

“Yeah?”

"I love you."

Shane swallowed roughly, "Ya tebya lyublyu, Ilyusha."

This time, when the call ended, the quiet in Shane’s room didn't feel quite as all consuming.

The article was still open on his laptop.

A part of Shane had wanted to cry when he first read it. Another part had wanted to put his fist through his computer. Over the years, Ilya had told him more about his homeland, about the careful, exhausting lengths he had gone to in order to keep this part of himself hidden when he was young. Shane knew it had been bad. But reading the article made something sick and helpless twist in his chest, because for everything Ilya had gone through, it was still getting worse over them, for people like them.

Shane crossed to his desk and closed the laptop. A second later, his phone buzzed.

Lily: she is yelling at me already

Shane smiled down at the screen.

Jane: Good. You deserve it.
Lily: rude
Jane: Call me after dinner?

Chapter End Notes

Amaze, amaze, amaze 💕

There are many new people here all of a sudden, so I just wanted to say hello and thank you to everyone who came over from Insta or Tumblr! 💕 I am so utterly overwhelmed by the love my art has gotten these past couple days, and by how many of you jumped over here to read the fic that inspired it!

This was an especially long and special chapter (coding-wise, at least) which is mostly because I wanted to apologize since the next one won’t be coming until mid-July. I’m leaving for Australia with my partner on Monday, and unfortunately I’m not bringing my laptop. But I’ll be back to writing as soon as I’m home!

As I mentioned in my profile disclaimer, none of the profile pictures in this chapter are mine, but the both the Gatorade Promo and Behind the Scenes art are! Making the summer photo dump pieces really reminded me how much I love doing art, and I am absolutely discovering the joy of using that power to make fanart for my own fics hehe.

Anyway, as always, all my love to everyone interacting with this fic. Everyone clicking on it, reading, leaving kudos, commenting, bookmarking, subscribing — every level of interaction means so much to me, and is so, so treasured. 💕

See you all in July 💕💕

Chapter 9: Contention

Chapter Summary

Ilya felt like he was fighting a war on two fronts.

Chapter Notes

Disclaimer! I am posting this from my phone so the formatting may be wonky. If it is, I will fix it when I get back to the States and my computer 💕

Second Disclaimer: the little bit of Russian used in this chapter was done completely with Google Translate. If anyone here happens to speak Russian and would like to help me make Shane sound better (or worse! Both is good!) I would greatly appreciate the help 💕💕

That said, anytime Shane speaks in Russian, he is meant to sound kinda like a forgeiner. So, in this chapter, his intention with the sentence (not necessarily the exact translation) is provided in italics next to the phrase :))

(Edit) Third Disclaimer: Wording change! I edited the “nose kiss” section after someone very kindly pointed out that the term I originally used is offensive to Inuit people. Thank you to the commenter who flagged it 💕

For more information 💕

See the end of the chapter for more notes

"Ivanov!" Ilya barked across the ice. “Watch for the fucking net! My babushka had better positioning than this!”

Ivanov looked over at him just long enough to glare before circling even wider around the net, drifting straight through the shooting lane and forcing another teammate to pull up rather than fire.

Ilya pinched the bridge of his nose.

He had come into Sochi with expectations low enough to trip over. Captaining Team Russia wasn't something he had imagined would be easy. He knew Russian hockey. More importantly, he knew Russian hockey players.

They were proud, territorial bastards. Every single one of them was convinced they were the smartest man on the ice. Nobody wanted to be corrected, and few wanted to admit someone younger might have a point. Given his age and his North American career, Ilya had expected the room to be cold towards him. He had prepared himself for that much.

He hadn't prepared himself for half the team to skate like newborn deer on fresh ice.

It was ridiculous.

Dominic Lomidze, an eighteen-year-old phenom from the pacific port city of Vladivostok, technically held the distinction of being the youngest player on the roster. Ilya, however, was the youngest player anyone was expected to listen to.

He had been handed the captaincy and—with it—the impossible task of dragging this collection of oversized egos to an Olympic medal. Half of them ignored him outright, while the other half heard him perfectly well and simply chose not to listen; too busy choking on their own egos to read the fucking play properly.

At this rate, Ilya wasn't convinced they would even make it to the quarter finals, much less a medal game. It had been a near miss already. They were well into the elimination brackets at this point, and they absolutely would have lost to Latvia if it weren’t for the collective wake up Team Russia seemed to have during the third period.

Ilya had been hoping that this wake up would persist through the rest of the tournament, but it seemed whatever fire had lit under their asses had been extinguished with the setting sun.

Two hours into their allotted practice window, they looked every bit as disorganized as they had before Latvia. Missed assignments. Bad spacing. Blind passes. Forwards clogging each other's lanes. Defensemen pinching at the wrong times. Every mistake somehow finding new and creative ways to irritate him.

Ilya watched as another teammate—Petrovich this time—drifted seemingly aimlessly across the lane, forcing another play to die before it even started. Frustration settled hot beneath Ilya's skin.

God, give him strength.

Against his better judgment, Ilya let his thoughts wander. In an effort to calm his rising irritation, he desperately clung to the last conversation he had with Shane just before leaving for Sochi. Ilya knew he should be focusing on getting his team together. He should be thinking about systems, line combinations, or how to keep this disaster from imploding before a medal round. Instead, he found himself hoping the memory of that final interaction he had with his boyfriend before this whole shithow began would act like a balm on his heated skin.

Ilya had flown up to Ottawa with Shane to see his parents just before the Olympic break, before he was expected to report to Moscow a week before the start of the Games. The night before his flight, Shane was half on top of him, warm and heavy, under the covers in Shane's childhood bedroom—the place they always seemed to end up whenever a difficult conversation loomed above them.

Tonight was no exception.

If anything, Ilya thought it might be one of the most important conversations they'd had since they started dating. Holding Shane tightly against his chest, he ripped it off like a bandage.

"In Russia," he said quietly into the back of Shane's neck, "we cannot be anything."

Shane went still. A second later he turned in Ilya's arms until he could face him.

"I know." He said softly.

Ilya shook his head. "No. I mean nothing." He couldn't quite meet Shane's eyes.

"“Ilya—”

“No.” Ilya hated how sharp it came out, but if he let Shane talk, assure him, Ilya was going to lose his nerve. And Ilya needed to say this, he needed Shane to hear him say it and understand. “Here, we have cover. People think we are friends and they see what they want to see. Even when we are…” He stopped, jaw working.

Even when we are too close. Even when I look at you like a lovesick fool. Even when everyone should know.

“But in Russia," he tried again, "we cannot do any of that.

"Ilyusha," Shane said carefully. "I know."

"No." Ilya's voice cracked sharper than he intended. "You know we cannot date there. This is..." He searched for the words. "Different."

Shane took a deep breath and acquiesced. "Okay. Different how?"

"You cannot go looking for me after games. You cannot walk over if you see me. We cannot text. We..." He swallowed. "We cannot be anything—even friends—because I am too obvious when it comes to you, Shane Hollander. And we cannot be obvious there.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The room felt smaller than it had a minute ago, the air heavier under the blankets. Ilya could hear the old house settling, the distant hum of the furnace, the inhale and exhale of Shane’s breathing.

"...Okay." Shane said, too quiet.

Ilya’s chest tightened. “You are angry.”

“I’m not angry.”

“You look angry.”

“I’m not angry at you.” Shane clarified, and rubbed a hand over his face. “I just—” He stopped, then let out a breath that was almost a laugh but not funny at all. “I hate this.”

Ilya closed his eyes. That, at least, he could agree with. “Yes.”

“I know why,” Shane said. “I do. I promise I’m not trying to make this harder. I just hate that we have to have this conversation, that we have to do this.”

Ilya let out a slow breath. Shane was looking at him now, earnest and miserable and trying so hard to look okay that Ilya wanted to kiss him until they both forgot where they would be for the next month.

Instead, Ilya said, “I am getting a new phone. For Russia only. No Lily or Jane. There is—uh—a lot of evidence on my phone, if someone were to look. And I do not want to delete it, so I am leaving it here."

Shane nodded immediately. "Okay. I'll get one too."

"You do not have too. I do not think the Canadian government will—"

"I don't care." Their eyes truly met for the first time since the conversation started. "If you're doing it, I'm doing it." Shane said, his voice steady and firm.

Ilya sighed, and acquiesced. He didn't admit that a part of him was relieved.

Shane hesitated before asking, "Will I see you at all? Even if it's just in public or in passing?"

Ilya thought about it for a moment, before shaking his head. “I do not think we should try to see each other,” Ilya admitted. “Definitely not alone. Probably not at all.”

Shane’s face fell before he could hide it. "...Oh."

It was only one word, but it landed like a stone in still water between them—disrupting any peace they had settled in. Ilya wanted to fix it—to wipe that look off Shane's face; but what could he say? Ilya scrambled for anything he could offer that wasn't straight up a lie or farce. But any words of assurance he could think of felt hollow in the face of the month ahead of them. Evencually—despite it feeling more vulnerable than he cared to admit—Ilya settled on:

“I always wanted..." Ilya paused and swallowed roughly. "You showed me Ottawa. I have dreamt about showing you Russia. Taking you to restaurants, eating food, and bringing you to places I liked growing up. You will not be in Moscow, and Sochi is… it is very different from the city I grew up in. But…” Ilya trailed off, not quite sure what he was trying to say.

Shane wouldn't meet his eyes for a moment, but then he looked back up; that awful look wiped on his face and replaced by a familiar look of determination.

"Give me a list."

"A what?"

“A list,” Shane said. His voice was still rough, but there was something steadier in it now. “Of food you would have made me try and places you would've brought me. Anything you would have wanted to show me if things were different.”

Ilya stared at him.

“I’ll go,” Shane continued. “When I can. And when we’re home, you can tell me more about them, and why you wanted me to try or see it, and I'll tell you what I thought.”

After a moment's hesitation, a smile broke out over Ilya's face, and he could feel an incredulous laugh bubble in his throat. He pulled Shane back flush against him instead, holding him hard enough that Shane made a small sound but held on just as tightly.

“You would do this?”

“Of course I would,” Shane said against his shoulder.

"Da, okay,” he muttered into Shane's hair. "I will make you list."

"You better."

“And you will tell me what you thought after?”

“Everything.”

They lay quietly for another minute.

Eventually, Ilya said, “It will be torture, I think. Seeing you there and not being able to kiss you. Especially after Russia defeats Canada ten-nothing and you are very sad. I will want to comfort you.”

Shane huffed against his chest. “You are not beating Canada ten-nothing.”

“Ah, yes, you are right. Probably eleven.”

“Oh my god, shut up!” Shane laughed against him.

Ilya smiled despite himself and rubbed his nose lightly against Shane’s temple. Shane blinked.

“Maybe…” Shane hesitated, then looked up at him. “Maybe we can do that.”

“A ten-nothing defeat?” Ilya asked incredulously.

“No, asshole.” Shane’s mouth twitched, but the smile faded quickly. “That. If we see each other and we can’t talk, or touch, or anything. Maybe if you rub your nose, or scratch it, or whatever, I’ll know…” Shane trailed off, his voice uncharacteristically self-conscious. Ilya’s throat tightened. “I'll know that you wanted to kiss me, and I can do it back.”

A warmth spread through Ilya's chest so suddenly it almost burned. For a second, words escaped Ilya, English and Russian. Then he leaned in and brushed his nose against Shane’s, soft and slow.

"Yes, we can do that." Ilya said roughly. He brushed their noses together once more. "Like this?”

Shane laughed for what felt like the first time all night.

"Yeah, like that."

It was a poor substitute for what Ilya would really want—barely anything at all. But seeing Shane smile at him—albeit small and a little sad—Ilya thought he could survive on it for a little while.

Thinking back on it now, Ilya hated to admit Shane was probably right. There was no way Russia was going to beat Canada ten-nothing.

If anything, the opposite seemed far more likely, assuming Russia even made it that far in the tournament. Russia still had two more games before a Canada matchup was even possible, and unless Canada somehow imploded before then—which, judging by the way they had torn through the tournament so far, seemed incredibly unlikely—Ilya wouldn't be standing above Shane on the metaphorical podium any time soon.

"Rozanov!"

His coach's voice cracked across the rink.

"If you're going to stare into space, do it after practice! Again!"

Several players glanced his way.

Ilya muttered something of an apology under his breath and pushed off toward the next drill. Lomidze had already reset, standing exactly where the drill called for him to be, waiting silently for the whistle: stick on the ice, eyes forward, ready.

Ilya gave him a quick nod as he skated into position. Lomidze returned it without a word.

The whistle blew and Ilya could only watch with a morbid fascination usually reserved for car crashes as the play fell apart in seconds.

Russia was too talented for this. On paper, they should have been unstoppable. Instead, they looked like twenty-three men trying to win twenty-three different games.

How the hell was Ilya supposed to make Olympic medalists of these guys?

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

The restaurant sat halfway down a side street, tucked between a pharmacy and a bakery that made the street smell faintly of fresh bread. The signage was so unassuming that Shane probably would have walked right past it if he hadn't spent the better part of twenty minutes pouring over reviews, memorizing it's facade, and comparing the posted menu to the ones Ilya showed him from Moscow.

The dining room was small and comfortably worn, with half a dozen tables crowded beneath faded pictures of the Black Sea. A television mounted in one corner played Olympic coverage on mute while an older woman behind the counter watched on with feigned indifference.

According to the many reviews on Google, this place served some of the best vareniki in Sochi. Whether that was true or not, whose to say, but the place did have over seven hundred reviews and a 4.7☆ rating, so it couldn't be horrible. Shane wished he could text Ilya to ask and/or confirm, but for now, google was the best endorsement he was going to get.

He stepped up to the counter, repeating the sentence under his breath one last time.

He'd been learning Russian for almost two years now. What started as a curiosity about some phrases and terms of endearment has quickly spiraled into several language apps and a podcast he turned on while he drove. Now, he knew enough to read a menu if he took his time—such as, twenty minutes of time—and to stumble through the occasional conversation with Ilya if they both spoke slowly. Unfortunately, speaking it to actual Russians remained an exercise in public embarrassment.

"Z-Zdravstvuyte," he greeted, stuttering on the first syllable. Hello.

The woman behind the counter smiled politely.

Shane took a breath. "Mozhno mne vareniki, pozhaluysta?" Can I have some vareniki, please?

After a moment, he hastily added "Akh, varenyy. Bez masla. Pozhaluysta." Oh, boiled. Without butter. Please.

She answered immediately and enthusiastically; Russian so quick that Shane caught maybe every other fourth word.

Seeing what Shane could only assume was an expression of confused embarrassment on his face, she repeated his sentence back to him with a few notable grammatical changes. She talked slower this time, every vowel somehow sounding smoother than it had out of Shane's mouth. He didn't understand what she'd changed, but he definitely heard the word vareniki and what he hoped was the phrase ‘no butter’.

"...Da," Shane said with considerably more confidence than he felt.

The woman's smile turned almost amused.

"Da," she agreed, before disappearing into the kitchen.

After an astonishing short wait, after he sat down and took his first bite, Shane decided two things:

First, Ilya had been right. Vareniki was delicious. He could only imagine what they tasted like pan fried in butter like they were supposed to be. But Shane was already pushing—if not outright breaking— his diet with the dough, so imagine is all he would allow himself.

Second, he was absolutely looking for some Russian restaurants in Montreal, Ottawa, and Boston for him and Ilya to go too back home. This couldn't be the last time he had vareniki.

He was halfway through his plate when movement outside the front window caught his eye.

Scott Hunter had just turned the corner and was walking down the street on the other side of the road. He watched as Hunter caught sight of Shane in the window, watched him as he waved over his teammate, Carter Vaughn, and the two of them made their way over.

A second later, the bell over the door jingled.

“Hollander!” Vaughn called out as he entered. “What is up, man!”

Shane hastily swallowed the dumpling he had been eating. “Hey.”

Carter Vaughn was someone who filled a room. Nothing about him was quiet, so it didn't come as a shock when he made his way across the room, and sat down across from Shane without hesitation. Hunter followed at a much quieter pace behind him, hands in his coat pockets as he glanced around the small dining room.

“We saw you through the window,” Vaughn said. “I'm surprised to see you on your own. I figured you and Rozanov would be tearing through the city together. With the Olympics being in Russia and all that.”

Hunter nodded in agreement beside him. “Every league thing I’ve seen you both at, you’re usually impossible to separate.”

Shane’s hand tightened around his fork before he made himself set it down normally. “Yeah, well. We’re both captains, so. Busy as hell.

It wasn't even a lie really, Shane thought he had been prepared for the duties expected of him, what with the “A” he currently wore for the Metros, but captaincy for Team Canada involved a lot more than he had initially anticipated.

It was just nowhere near the whole truth, but Hunter and Vaughn didn't need to know that.

Vaughn nodded immediately, accepting it with easy certainty. “Right, yeah, shit. That's fair. All the meetings and media you guys gotta do as captains is insane.” He turned to look at Hunter, then back to Shane. "This is like the first afternoon I've managed to drag Scotty out since the games started. So yeah man, I get it. But shit, that sucks!"

Hunter coughed awkwardly as Vaughn blundered through his sentiments, before turning and studying Shane for half a second. It wasn't unkind, and quickly enough he leaned back in his chair and said: “It's definitely a lot of work. Not exactly a vacation.”

“No,” Shane said. “Definitely not.”

For a moment, he thought that might be it. Then Vaughn’s attention dropped to Shane’s plate.

“Anyway,” Vaughn said, brightening again. “What are you eating?”

“Oh—uh—vareniki.”

Hunter tilted his head. “Which are…?”

Shane looked down at them. “Kind of like stuffed dumplings. I’m not entirely sure what they are filled with, but they’re very good.”

“Huh.” Vaughn said, “How’d you hear about that?”

“Oh, well, Rozanov has been telling me about them for, like, three years.”

“Ah,” Hunter said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So he at least hooked you up with all the good local places before leaving you high and dry?”

Shane gave his own little awkward cough as he looked down at his plate. “Something like that.”

He didn’t bother correcting him.

Of course, most of the places Ilya had talked about weren’t in Sochi at all. They had been cafés in Moscow, places near his old rink, restaurants his mother used to take him after practice. But the food itself mattered more than where it came from, so he guessed Ilya did “hook him up” with some good local places in a way.

Vaughn turned in his seat and looked curiously at the front counter, eyeing the Cyrillic menu board on the wall like it might translate itself if he looked at it long enough. “Normally, I wouldn't trust Rozanov’s recommendations on principle.”

“God, no,” Hunter agreed, mildly, with a laugh

“But,” Vaughn continued, gesturing around the restaurant, “we are literally in Russia.”

“And he is Russian,” Hunter sighed.

“Exactly.” Vaughn laughed. “So this is probably the one time we can give the guy some grace.”

Shane took another bite so he didn’t have to address that directly. "I mean, I think they're good... so. Do with that what you will."

Vaughn grinned and stood, decision apparently made. “Good enough for me.”

Hunter pushed back his chair more slowly. “You know what you want then?”

“Absolutely not,” Vaughn said, already heading for the counter. “I’m pointing at Hollander’s plate and hoping for the best.”

At the counter, Vaughn did indeed point at Shane’s plate, then at himself and held up two fingers. The woman behind the counter said something in Russian, which Vaughn nodded and pretended to understand.

Hunter glanced back at Shane over his shoulder incredulously, to which Shane could only shrug.

Somehow, it worked. A few minutes later, Vaughn came back looking pleased with himself, carrying two plates while Hunter followed with a basket of bread and two glasses of water.

“See?” Vaughn said, setting one plate down. “Easy.”

Hunter sat beside him. “l wouldn't describe any part of that as easy.

“Well, we have lunch, so. A win is a win.”

Shane smiled despite himself and for a few minutes, they ate without saying much. Vaughn took one bite of the vareniki and let out a near indecent moan of approval.

“Wow, shit!” he said. “Rozanov was right. These are awesome!”

Hunter took his own bite, and Shane watched a similar, if more reserved, expression cross his face. “Wow,” Hunter said. “Yeah, that’s great.”

Then, almost immediately, his expression shifted to one of belated alarm. He looked up at Shane. “Don’t tell him we said that. He will never let us hear the end of it.”

Shane’s mouth twitched and he brought his water up to take a drink. “Wouldn't dream of it,” he said, while mentally noting to tell Ilya just that.

He was fairly certain both Admirals realized what he was thinking, or at least Hunter did,.maybe. But all he said next was, “Are you ready for tomorrow?” Shane cocked his head. “Canada and Russia,” Hunter clarified. “The semifinal match?"

“Oh.” Shane set his glass down. “Yeah. As ready as I’m going to be.”

Vaughn leaned back in his chair. “I still can't believe Russia is still in the tournament. I thought for sure Latvia was going to take them out. Crazy work coming back from a three goal deficit in the last ten minutes. If it weren't for it possibly messing with our own medal contention—" Vaughn gestured between him and Hunter, "—I'd almost be impressed."

Shane glanced toward the television in the corner. It was showing Olympic coverage on mute, some recap from the bobsled competition the night before. The Cyrillic subtitles moved much too fast for him to even begin translating, but it was clear they were talking about Team Russia.

“They figured it out,” Shane said.

“Eventually,” Hunter conceded.

Shane thought of the set of Ilya's shoulders in every clip Shane had seen since the games had started. The exhaustion that seemed to cling to him after each game, and circles darkening under his eyes.

“I’m happy for him,” Shane said, "I know how important this was for him."

Vaughn’s expression softened a little as he considered Shane's sentiments. “Yeah,” he said. “I bet. Playing the Olympics at home has to be—” He grimaced, searching for the word. “I don’t know. Amazing, obviously, but also like, equally nerve-racking.”

“Yeah. However,” Shane continued, “I’m still going to kick his ass tomorrow. He's going to look great in bronze.”

At that, Vaughn barked a laugh while Hunter gave him his own assumed grin. “Atta boy Hollander! That's the spirit! And silver will look great on you, after you lose to the U.S.!" He chirped with a wink

“If you get past Finland,” Shane shot back.

Vaughn laughed. "When! When we get past Finland! My point is point is, if you beat Russia and we beat Finland, we’ll see you for gold.”

Shane sat with that for a second. Canada. Russia. The U.S.. Finland. The whole tournament was quickly narrowing down into names and flags and people he knew.

“Yeah,” he said. “Guess we will.”

The conversation probably should have stayed on hockey, but Shane wasn't necessarily inclined to share his thoughts on Finland or Russia’s plays, lines, or any possible injuries he had noticed with his potential opponents; so, in an uncharacteristic change of subject, he stabbed another dumpling with his fork and said, “So, tonight’s the men’s short program.”

Hunter looked up. "Figure skating?"

"Yeah." Shane nodded. "A buddy of mine is competing. We trained together when we were kids." He looked between them, considering. "You guys wanna come? I'd love to show up for him."

"Hell yeah," Vaughn said immediately. "Show up for any dude who's that brave."

Shane frowned. "...What do you mean?"

Vaughn looked at him like the answer was obvious. "I mean..." He shrugged. "I'm assuming your buddy's probably gay?"

Shane opened his mouth. "I mean—”

But Vaughn barreled on right past him.

"Fucking brave for a dude to show up in a place like this and be like, 'Hey. Here's me.'" He shook his head. "Russia's not exactly safe for folks like that. Fucking balls of steel, man."

Shane's smile faded. Vaughn was talking about Joe, but Shane couldn't stop thinking about Ilya.

Shane didn't even think Joe was gay. If he was, Shane never picked up any indication. If he was, and he was… out, like that. Here. Shane wondered what that felt like. To show up to a place like this. To be like ‘Hey. Here's me.’

Shane could hardly imagine it. But what he could imagine—

"...Yeah, I guess so." Shane said quietly.

—felt liberating.

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

The noise inside the arena was deafening.

Shane had played in loud barns before. He regularly played in Montreal to some of the NHL's most passionate fans. He had played all throughout the States, in playoff races and rivalry games and tournaments where every shift felt like it mattered more than the last. He knew how a vocal crowd could energize a team, what could happen when enough people wanted the same thing at once.

And right now, it was abundantly apparent that they were in Russia, and in Russia, it was clear the barn wanted Ilya.

It wanted him every time he touched the puck, every time his name sounded around the arena, every time he circled back toward his own bench with a sharp, impatient cut of his skates. It wanted him as a captain, as a savior, as the person who had somehow dragged Russia to medal contention through sheer force of will.

Shane had tried not to watch him too much during warmups. He failed, but he had tried.

Ilya looked tired. That was the first thing Shane noticed, because it was impossible not to. There were shadows under his eyes—darker than Shane had ever seen them—and a tightness in his frame.

He was still beautiful.

Shane could hardly believe there was room in him for that thought here, now, with the Olympic rings beneath his skates and on the brink of a semifinal medal game. He also couldn't believe that he could stand at center ice in his Team Canada jersey—with the hopes, dreams, and expectations of his country heavy on his shoulders—and still look across the ice at Ilya and think, helplessly, that he wanted this for him.

Not gold. Shane was not that selfless.

But this: the chance to medal at home. The chance for Ilya to have inexplicable proof that he was one of the greatest hockey players in the world. Shane wanted this for both of them so badly it made his chest ache.

Gold, though, was Canada’s. Gold would be his.

Both of their linesmen around then skated into position as Shane bent forward over the faceoff dot, settling his stick against the ice. Across from him, Ilya did the same.

For one second, the rest of the arena seemed to fall away. The noise was still there, pressing in from every side, but it became akin to a distant ringing. It was less important than the white curve of Ilya’s gloves around his stick, and less important than the way Ilya’s eyes lifted to his own.

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya said. His voice was low enough that no one else would hear it. Ilya’s smirk was sharp as he looked at Shane, but his eyes betrayed his affection. Then, so small Shane might have missed it if he hadn't been drinking in nearly every detail of him, Ilya twitched his nose.

Shane’s grip tightened once around his stick.

Shane didn't smile back, nor did he soften the expression on his face; he only bent lower over the dot and said, “Ilya Rozanov,” and twitched his nose in response.

For half a second, Ilya's grin was near feral with delight, before the referee's hand moved and the puck dropped.

Shane was late by less than a heartbeat.

Ilya snapped the puck cleanly back to his defenseman, and the barn erupted around them.

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

By the time Ilya finished with his tie, he had decided this whole banquet could go fuck itself.

His suit was fine. It was made of an expensive fabric and tailored to fit him perfectly, but the whole ensemble made him feel like he was an expensive horse being sent to auction. The shirt was too stiff at the collar, the jacket sat clean over his shoulders, and his hair, still slightly damp from the shower, had been slicked back with a gel that erased nearly all of his hair's natural curl. Dark circles persisted below his eyes betraying his exhaustion.

He could hardly recognize himself.

Bronze sat on the dresser beside his watch.

Ilya had taken it off only to get dressed. It looked strange there, heavy and dull under the hotel light, the ribbon folded beneath it in a way that made it look smaller than it had felt on the ice. Smaller than it had felt when they lined up after the Finland game, exhausted and bruised and angry but laughing because they had done it. Somehow, after everything, they had done it.

To no one’s surprise, they had lost to Canada. Honestly, Ilya was just grateful it hadn't been the ten-nothing humiliation he had feared. Two-nothing was a much more respectable loss by comparison; and—really—Shane’s goal in the second period had been so clean, so textbook, that he couldn't help the reluctant flicker of admiration.

However, where Russia had buckled against the Canadians, they had held firm against Finland during the bronze match. Albeit by the skin of their teeth, and a last second goal by Lomidze, but victory nonetheless.

But despite the elation still glowing in his chest, Ilya knew perfectly well that bronze wouldn't be enough for the men waiting downstairs. The federation and the government officials orbiting the team had all wanted gold. Much of their failure—real, perceived, or imagined—would be laid at Ilya’s feet tonight.

So. Yeah. The banquet could go fuck itself.

Ilya was trying—and failing—to make his tie sit correctly when the door opened behind him. Ilya looked up in the mirror just in time to catch the eyes of his father as he entered the room.

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. He was already dressed for the evening: dark suit, dark tie, and military medals adorning his chest. For a moment, in the reflection, he looked exactly as Ilya remembered him from childhood: imposing and severe.

Then his eyes moved over Ilya, and his mouth tightened. “You look a mess.”

Ilya glanced back at himself. “Good evening to you too, Papa.”

His father didn't smile as he stepped farther into the room, his attention catching on Ilya's medal.

“Bronze.” He spat the word like it tasted bitter. “Are you not ashamed?” Ilya looked at him, but before he could respond, his father scoffed. “Losing to the Canadians, ridiculous.”

Ilya was hardly surprised his father's ire was the first he faced tonight. He should have known the federation’s disappointment would be nothing compared to his father’s. That his father would take Ilya's failure to claim gold as an affront to the Rozanov name itself.

But—

Ilya did not feel ashamed.

He waited for the familiar drop in his stomach, the heat to rise at the back of his neck, and/or the reflexive panic of realizing he had once again failed in the eyes of his father. But it didn't come.

What came instead was a memory from the conclusion of the Finland game. Specifically, the sound of the final horn signalling their triumph. He remembered grabbing onto Lomidze as the rest of their team poured over the boards until the ice had disappeared beneath a sea of red jerseys—gloves and sticks flung loose in celebration. He remembered hands slapping against his helmet, shoulders, and the back of his neck as his heart thudded in time with the victory anthem playing over the rinks’ speakers.

He remembered thinking it wasn't what Russia wanted, but it was something, and that they had done it.

Ilya was proud of it. He was, actually. Proud in a way that felt almost embarrassing to admit, even to himself. Definitely not something he would admit to his father.

“I am ashamed, Papa,” he said instead, placating.

His father shot him a withering look before he crossed the room. He reached for him, brushing Ilya’s hands aside in the familiar fashion he had when Ilya was still a boy. Ilya held still while his father tugged the knot of his tie loose and started again.

“Who tied this?” his father muttered. “Your mother?”

Ilya blinked. For a second, Ilya thought he must mean Polina. His father called her that sometimes ‘'your mother', as if the title could be reassigned through marriage and in disregard of grief. But regardless of his fathers insistence of Ilya's acceptance of Polina, his stepmother was still in Moscow.

“No,” Ilya said carefully. “I tied it.”

His father made a dismissive sound. “She always ties it too loose. She doesn't know how to do this properly.”

Ilya stayed frozen while his father kept working at the knot.

“Always fussing,” his father muttered. “And then she complains when I fix it properly.”

Ilya watched him in the mirror.

His father’s face was close, slightly turned down in concentration. He didn't look angry or disappointed anymore. Irritated, maybe, but absently. Like he was annoyed by an argument that had happened ten minutes ago instead of ten years ago. Like Ilya’s mother might step out of the bathroom and tell him not to pull so tight.

Ilya’s throat went dry.

His mother had been dead for a very long time.

“Papa?” he said. "Mama is dead.

For a second, his father looked confused. As he opened his mouth, most likely to rebuttal Ilya, the door opened with a loud thud.

Alexei looked older than he had the last time Ilya had seen him properly. His hair was neater than Ilya remembered, his suit fit better, and there was a sharpness to his face now that made Ilya wonder—absently—where the last of his brother’s youth had gone. It shouldn't have surprised him, Ilya himself was not a boy anymore either, but there was still something strange about seeing Alexei and realizing they had both become men in each other’s absence.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Alexei’s smile didn't reach his eyes. “Is it so strange to imagine I wanted to see my little brother after all this time?”

He and Alexei hadn't been on anything resembling speaking terms since the summer of 2011. There had been emails, yes. Paperwork. Documents sent through lawyers, accountants, and intermediaries. Things Ilya had promised he would pay for if Alexei handled the logistics. Every now and then, a personal expense was slipped in among the rest, or one of Alexei's bills was 'accidentally' sent his way, and Ilya paid those too—more often than he liked to admit, if only to avoid the inevitable phone call that would follow if he refused.

But they hadn't spoken. Not in person, not on the phone, not even over text, since 2011.

At his incredulous stare, Alexei glanced toward the medal on the dresser. “My brother just won Olympic bronze in Russia,” he said, spreading his hands slightly. Alexei said ‘bronze’ almost the same way their father had. Ilya forced himself to swallow the retort that rose in this throat and take a breath. “It would be unbecoming not to come celebrate.”

When Ilya didn't deign him with a response, Alexei crossed farther into the room, his gaze moving over Ilya with a kind of appraisal that made Ilya want to step out of his own skin.

“You look well,” Alexei said. He looked—briefly—to the bronze medal on the dresser. “Considering.”

His father’s hands were still at his collar. After another second, he finished the knot and smoothed it flat against Ilya’s shirt. He stepped back from Ilya and inspected the tie with a critical eye. Apparently satisfied, he tugged once at the front of Ilya’s jacket.

“There,” his father said.

Ilya didn't look away from Alexei.

“You did not say you were coming,” Ilya said.

Alexei shrugged out of his coat, unbothered. “I caught a last minute flight after the game yesterday. You know how these things are.”

Their father gave Ilya’s lapel one last sharp adjustment, as he stepped away and crossed the room to gather any of the last of their effects. “Stand up properly.”

He instinctively straightened up before he could think about it.

For a dizzying second, Ilya felt like he was fighting a war on two fronts. On one side was his brother, who Ilya knew was here only chasing the coattails of his prestige, even if Alexei would never admit it. On the other was his father, who Ilya desperately wanted to shake and say, No, wait, you were talking about Mama. You were talking like she was still alive. You can't have forgotten what happened.

“Well,” Ilya finally said, addressing Alexei, choosing the side to engage with that filled him with the least dread, “I hope the flight will have been worth it. Plenty of people for you to rub elbows with tonight.”

Alexei's smile thinned. “I see America has done wonders for your humility,” he said.

“I learned from the best.”

Alexei glanced at the medal again. “Careful, Ilya. Bronze is hardly the time to be arrogant.”

This, at least, was familiar: thinly veiled exchanges and careful insults disguised as conversation. Alexei could accuse him of arrogance and Ilya could accuse him of opportunism with neither of them needing to do anything as crude as speaking plainly

Their father made a low, distracted sound across the room. “You can’t complain about anyone scrambling for favors,” he said. “You are the one who fired Vadim.”

Ilya turned in confusion, but Alexei froze.

Ilya hadn't thought of Vadim in years. Not after he had all but fired him his rookie season. His father and Alexei had been livid with him after that. His father had been furious at the 'disrespect' Ilya had shown one of his old friends. Vadim was loyal and trustworthy, according to his father, which had been a funny way to describe a man whose contract had needed multiple lawyers and a minor miracle to untangle.

But that had been years ago. Ilya was confused as to what Vadim possibly had to do with this.

So, he asked, “What do you mean by that, Papa?”

Alexei spoke too quickly, his voice uncharacteristically tight all of a sudden. “He doesn’t mean shit.”

Ilya didn't turn away from their father. “Papa?”

“Our deal with Vadim,” he said with mild impatience, looking at Ilya like he was being deliberately dense. “He kept his percentage and sent what was owed to the family. He made sure no one had to beg at dinners like this.” His eyes moved briefly to Alexei, then back to Ilya, and only then did Ilya see it: the faint vacancy in his expression. “Ever since you fired him, we don’t get any of your commission anymore.”

The carpet stayed solid under Ilya’s feet, but for one nauseating second, he would have sworn the floor gave out beneath him.

It was almost funny, in a horrible way.

There had been a line in the letter Yuna gave him, back when the lawyers deemed the contract unenforceable in the States, that Ilya hadn't thought much of at the time. It had seemed insignificant buried amongst all the other reasons Vadim was not fit to manage him: Undisclosed third-party financial relationships.

Ilya had assumed that Vadim was working with or for other competing athletes and hadn't disclosed that, or he was receiving some sort of bribe to steer Ilya towards certain sponsors. He hadn't even considered the idea that the opposite might be true, that Vadim wasn't the beneficiary, but someone else was.

Ilya looked at Alexei.

At the tension in his jaw and the way his brother wouldn't look at Ilya. How he instead stared at their father with thinly veiled panic and betrayal.

“Oh,” Ilya said.

Alexei’s eyes cut back to him. “Ilya.”

But Ilya barely heard him.

For a moment, he was sixteen again, sitting at a table with a pen in his hand and his father across from him, impatient, telling him where to sign. Alexei had been there too, Ilya had forgotten about that. For two months—maybe less—Alexei had almost seemed interested and excited about Ilya's life and future. Ilya’s talent was being noticed internationally, a manager was becoming necessary, and for one brief, stupid window of time, it had felt like his brother was proud of him.

Then the contract had been signed, Alexei had married Katerina, and Ilya hardly saw him between him signing the contract and moving to the States.

His stomach lurched.

The contract. That fucking bastard.

Ilya tried to think about how many thousands he had sent his brother over the years. How many thousands he had spent paying their family's rent, their taxes, and funding their reputation? How many thousands did he not even know about? How much of Ilya's money had Alexei squirrelled away right under his nose?

“How much?” Ilya asked, low.

Alexei’s mouth tightened. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

His father frowned, thinking, his expression still horribly vacant. “Thirty percent, usually. More once there were sponsors.”

Alexei’s head snapped toward their father

“Papa!” he said sharply.

Their father only frowned as Alexei took an aborted step towards him before stopping himself. Alexei's hand curled once at his side before he turned fully back to Ilya, his whole frame wrought with tension.

“He’s talking nonsense,” Alexei said. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

And maybe his father didn't. Maybe not entirely. Maybe the years were slipping around in his head and he had lost track of what was secret, what was old business, and what had already been said. Ilya thought he knew now what disease was taking hold of his father’s mind.

But he didn’t think his father was lying. His father was a cruel man, but he had never been a liar. He had certainly never been one for fantasy. Ilya didn't think dementia would change that.

Ilya looked at Alexei and felt, beneath everything else raging inside him, a miserable grief. Alexei had been his brother before he had been anything else, and Ilya had loved him with the unquestioning devotion of a younger brother. Once, a lifetime ago, Alexei had carried him home from a frozen pond with Ilya’s skates dangling from one hand and Ilya’s bloody nose pressed into his shoulder, talking and laughing the whole way, distracting Ilya from the pain. When they got home, he had sat Ilya on the kitchen counter and cleaned the blood from his face with a wet cloth.

Ilya looked at the man in front of him and realized he couldn't see any trace of that boy anymore.

“You sold me,” Ilya said.

Alexei’s face twisted. “Don’t be so dramatic."

“You sold me!” Ilya said again, punctuating his accusation with a smack of his palm against the dresser. “And you still had the audacity to send me your fucking bills!’

Alexei took a sharp breath. “You have no idea what—”

“Enough!” their father snapped.

Both of them stopped.

Their father looked between them with open disgust, as if they were children who had tracked mud through the front hall instead of grown men standing on the brink of altercation. His expression no longer held that horrible vacancy, but the severity that had replaced it was not much better.

“You will pull yourselves together,” their father said. “Both of you. I do not care what this is, nor do I care who started it. There are ministers, federation men, and sponsors downstairs, and you will not embarrass yourselves or this family because the two of you cannot go one evening without bickering like children.”

“Papa—”

“You are adults. Act like it.” He gave them both one last withering look, then turned and left the room. The door shut behind him with a quiet, expensive click.

The room was silent in his wake.

Ilya stared at the door, and beside him Alexei was breathing hard, either too angry or too afraid to speak first.

Suddenly, Ilya could see the years ahead of them: their father needed a doctor; that much was obvious now. He would need diagnostic appointments, treatment plans, palliative care, and end-of-life aides to ease his final years. There would be no right time to confront what his father and Alexei had done to him, because first their father would be ill, and then he would be dying, and finally he would be dead; by then what kind of son—what kind of brother—would still care about something as selfish as money while they were planning a funeral?

How many more thousands would Alexei fleece from him in those years? How many habits would he fund or debts would he clear?

Act like an adult, his father had said.

For the first time in his life, Ilya thought he just might. His father was right, he was an adult. He turned and picked up his medal from the dresser. The silky ribbon slid through his fingers.

“The banquet,” he said, “will be the last time you see me.”

Alexei blinked. “What?”

Ilya lifted the ribbon over his head and settled the bronze against his chest. “After tonight, you are nothing to me.”

Alexei stepped toward him. “Ilya—”

“There will be a trust for Nadenka,” he said. “She can have it when she is eighteen, and only she will have access to it. Not you, not Katerina, no one.”

Alexei’s face changed.

“There will be another for Papa. For the care he needs, his apartment, and whatever is needed to preserve his dignity. You will go through my lawyer for access, and every expense will be accounted for.”

Alexei shook his head once, sharp and disbelieving. “You don’t mean this.”

“When that trust is gone,” Ilya continued, unrelenting. “Papa will be your responsibility. His bills, his care, all of it will be yours.”

Alexei’s face twisted. “You would leave Papa to—”

“You will take what I give you,” Ilya said, breathing heavily. “And you will never contact me again. Because if you do, I will use every piece of my fame and money and notoriety to make sure no one in this fucking country takes you seriously again.”

Alexei’s face had gone pale and sickly in the low light of the hotel room.

“Ilya,” he said again, lower this time. “Don’t do this.”

Ilya stepped closer, close enough that Alexei had to tilt his chin a fraction to keep eye contact.

“Take what I give you,” Ilya said, “or I will leave you with nothing.”

Alexei said nothing. Ilya took his silence for agreement and drew in a steadying breath.

“Come,” Ilya said. “We are late for the banquet you were so excited for.”

Divergence FAQ

This chapter was very tricky for me (partly because I didn't have my book to reference, or easy access to the show), but also because I really started to worry that I had built up Sochi to be this really big thing?? I originally intended just to kind of gloss over this before I realized just how many people were anticipating and worrying about Sochi. So I kind of had to go back to the drawing board to think about how this AU would change things... so, my thoughts:

1 - How Did Russia Win Against Latvia?

Great question! Honestly, my primary justification is that Ilya was in a much better mental headspace than in canon, and was able to overcome a lot of culture and personalty hurdles alot better than in canon. Also, and I promise this isn't an OC fic, he will not be appearing any more in this work, but I also added an OC of mine who I will add some details and ideas about below if anyone is interested :))

2 - The Conversation with Vaughn and Hunter

I thought this change was pretty self-explanatory, but I did want to add that a big goal of that section was that final line... kind of planting the seed to an important sentiment in the next chapter, and kinda really the whole point of the fics. :)))

2 - Spoilers

Basically, the whole point of this whole 79k+ words I"ve written are to anwser the question: under what circumstances would Shane and Ilya feel confident enough to come out... and this whole fic spawned from there. Originally, i was planning on starting this fic with their coming out post i talk about in the summary but... well. We all know how thats gone 🤧🤧🤧

So the that line is hinting that this Shane isn't as terrified about coming out as Canon Shane. This is 10000% not to diminish the real issues in canon, and in the real world, but I've said it alot that this is a feel good fix-it fic where things aren't as scary for them so... Shane isn't as scared.

3 - Ahh, Why Didn't You Write the Game :(

With all the love in the world, as much as I love hockey, I didn't even want to try to write a realistic game while abroad. And in all honesty, that's not my goal with this fic 💕 There are so, so many talented game writers in this fandom, and I will leave that expertise to them 💕

4 - Why Did Alexei Show Up There??

This chapter was meant to be the final culmination of the subarc I've been writing with Ilya and his boundaries with his family. In this AU, Ilya hasn't been back to Russia since 2011, handling everything remotely, so Alexei did come in person to confront Ilya a bit. And well... we all see how that played out. So it is my intention to close off the arc with Ilya's family here. From now on, Ilya is pretty set in his desire to establish a life in North America with Shane 💕

5 - Dominic Lomidze

Okay, this is my OC. I've had him for about 6 years now, along with a whole host of other characters. He initially started as a fantasy DND character, but I have since given him many AUs, including a cowboy AU, Ancient Rome, and coincidentally, hockey. I actually done art of his fantasy version so uhh:

Basically, Dominic is a closed-off, guarded phenom who is desperately trying to escape his father's influence. Later on in his story, he will leave Russia to play hockey at an American university, and meet a bright, extroverted boy who he can't help but fall for, making him realize that he can't survive the life he was leading before, and he has to figure out how to secure a future for both himself and Mikhial in America.

My hockey AU for him actually predates any of my knowledge and interest in Heated Rivalry, so when I started writing this fic, I couldn't help but think of ways to include him... but I resisted until now. This isn't an OC fic, but I do have an idea for an OC fic with him and Mikhial...

If You're Intrigued:

Here's the general summary:

"In the summer of 2017, the Boston Bears draft visibly queer rookie Mikhial Weissman as their first-round pick of the draft."

Dominic will play a big role in that story, despite Mikhial being the main rookie character. The fic will mainly be from the perspective of Ilya, with the idea for the fic being more a serious look at the year before Ilya leaves for Ottawa, but this time, with him taking a rookie under his wing and having to grapple with trying to create a safe culture in Boston before he leaves for Ottawa.

6 - Captaincy (Edit 7/17/2026)

After I posted this chapter, a very kind guest commentor pointed out that I mixed up the captaincy assignments in this chapter! This was 100% a result of me not having my book on me while I was abroad and absolutely going "22 is too young to be an NHL captain :))" (thinking about Brandon Hagel being 27 and how he feels wayyy to young to possibly be made an NHL captain next year) even as I made them both Olympic captains and without even thinking about it 😭😭😭😭

So! Rather than go back and fix it, because I think it is kinda a funny "Whoopsie!", in this AU in the 2013/2014 season, Ilya is made Captain of the Boston Bears and Shane is an Assistant Captain for the Montreal Metros. Both made Captain for the Olympics, and Shane will be awards Captain of the Metros in the 2014/2015 season because of his victory in the Olympics :)

Chapter End Notes

Hello hello! It is not yet mid-July, and I am still down under (I am in New Zealand now!) But after 10+ years, I have rediscovered just how great 15-hour flights and bus rides are for fic writing 💕
My Many Thoughts! Comments (Edit 7/17/2026)
Firstly: I am very behind in responding to comments! Please know I am doing my best to respond to them all, because each one really warms my heart, but I just wanted to say each one is being read and so so appreciated.
This Chapter is technically only Half Done
Secondly: technically, this is only half of what I intend to explore for Sochi, but it is the half I can do while abroad. The second half of Sochi will require my laptop, unfortunately (as I have some fun stuff planned!), so it will truly be until mid/late July until part two comes out. But, I wanted to post the part I was able to finish in the meantime!
Ahh! New People!
Ahhh, I am so surprised and shocked at how many new people have come here since I posted chapter 8! I thought things would really slow down while I was abroad. But if anything, they have really exploded and I am just !!! Almost 60k hits?? Over 3300 kudos???

I've read people have come here from my posts on Insta/Tumblr, but also Twitter?? Reddit?? Very, very crazy to me, and to all the people reccing this fic to people, you have my undying love and appreciation 😖😖😖
All of my other thoughts are in the Divergence List at the end of this chapter, but I will leave it at that. As always, all my love to everyone interacting with this fic. Everyone clicking on it, reading, leaving kudos, commenting, bookmarking, subscribing — every level of interaction means so much to me, and is so, so treasured. 💕

Chapter 10: To the Edge of the World

Chapter Summary

Ilya pressed his lips together and looked toward the bathroom door. “Look, even if I wanted to see him—which I do but we can’t—I don’t have a way to contact him right now.”

Chapter Notes

Unintentional Canon Divergence in Ch 9
Hi! after I posted Ch9, a very kind guest commentor pointed out that I mixed up the captaincy assignments in that chapter! This was 100% a result of me not having my book on me while I was abroad and absolutely going "22 is much too young to be an NHL captain :))" (thinking about Brandon Hagel being 27 and how he feels wayyy to young to possibly be made an NHL captain next year) even as I made them both Olympic captains and without even thinking about it 😭😭😭😭

However! Ilya needs to be captain this chapter! and Shane needs to be captain next chapter! So! Rather than go back and fix it, because I think it is kinda a funny "Whoops!" and so many of you already read that chapter... In this AU in the 2013/2014 season, Ilya is Captain of the Boston Bears and Shane is an Assistant Captain for the Montreal Metros. Both made Captain for the Olympics, and Shane will be awarded Captain of the Metros in the 2014/2015 season because of his victory in the Olympics :)

I plan on going back and editing this work as a whole after I finish it, so I might fix this later, but for now, I will keep this fun Whoopsie and move on :)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The banquet was going pretty much exactly as Ilya had expected it would.

That wasn't to say it was going well, or even that it was going horribly. Rather, the whole thing was proceeding near beat for beat as he thought it would..

The second he and Alexei entered the banquet hall, Ilya had been whisked away by a revolving combination of federation officials, government politicians, and KHL sponsors; all of whom were dying to know what—exactly—had gone “wrong” during the semifinal against Canada. Most of them had theories of their own that they were eager to share, many of which were just as imagined as Ilya had expected them to be.

Personally, Ilya didn’t consider it a dishonor on Russia to have lost only to the team that would ultimately claim gold. However, he also knew that wasn’t the answer any of these people wanted to hear. So—instead—he rattled off some bullshit explanation about the different play styles of the predominantly KHL-sourced Russian roster and the NHL-sourced Canadian one, adding enough technical lingo until all the people gathered around him eventually began nodding their heads vacantly in agreement.

And then he repeated that conversation. Seven more times over the next two hours.

Really, the only loose end of the night was Alexei’s attendance.

Ilya couldn't help but track his brother throughout the night, and was tracked by him in turn. Thankfully, Alexei appeared to have heeded their father’s warning and made no attempt to cause a scene. Still, whenever Ilya risked a glance across the room, his eyes found Alexei’s without fail, regardless of whichever politician or bureaucrat his brother happened to be engaged with at the time. Alexei looked composed on the surface, but Ilya could see the frantic edge persisting in his shoulders and the way the color hadn't quite returned to his cheeks.

After nearly two and a half hours of answering the same questions over and over and over again, Ilya could have wept with relief when a familiar hand brushed his shoulder and the melodic lilt of Sveta’s voice sounded from his right.

“Excuse me, Governor,” she said. “I hate to interrupt and steal the man of the hour, but would you mind if I borrowed Ilya for a moment?”

The man in front of him looked faintly perturbed at being interrupted in the middle of an increasingly nonsensical rant—one that had accomplished little beyond telling Ilya he had never actually watched a hockey game in his life before the 2014 Games—but Ilya was quick to seize the lifeline Sveta had cast.

“Of course,” he said to her, before turning back to the man whose name he had already forgotten. “If you would excuse me for a moment.”

Without waiting for a response, Ilya turned and gestured for Sveta to lead the way. He couldn’t find it in himself to care where they were going, so long as it got him away from having to make endless placating conversation, even briefly.

Sveta guided him through the crowd, towards the edge of the gathering, and—miraculously—out into a small side corridor. She didn’t stop there. Instead, she led him several paces farther before ducking through a door that Ilya realized was probably a bathroom.

He didn't hesitate before following her inside; he was hardly one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The bathroom was small but grand, carrying the same opulence as the banquet hall in a slightly more restrained form. Familiar golden light warmed the marble counters, and the brass fixtures matched the gilded detailing found throughout the rest of the building. Sveta stopped beside the sinks and leaned back against the counter, her back to the mirror, before releasing an exaggerated, weary sigh.

She regarded Ilya as he settled against the opposite wall.

Now, Ilya was no stranger to Sveta “stealing him away for a moment” during stuffy, interminable events like this. Between his father’s military position and her father’s standing within those same circles, the two of them had spent a fair share of their childhood—and especially their teenage years—being dressed up and paraded through whichever gala, banquet, or official reception happened to be demanding their families’ attendance that month.

As children, it had almost been fun. They had been co-conspirators, slipping away together to explore the darkened halls of old manors and crumbling palaces while the adults drank and congratulated one another downstairs. As they got older, and more curious, they had become considerably more skilled at disappearing into unused rooms, storage closets, and—on one particularly memorable occasion—an old gazebo at the far end of someone’s estate to hook up in.

So, while Ilya was grateful for the reprieve—and was reasonably certain this wasn't Sveta's intention—he still forced a cocky smirk onto his face.

"While I'm flattered, Sveta, I'll have you know that Jane and I are quite happily exclusive. So, if you’re looking for a fun time, I'm afraid you'll have to find another dance partner.”

He forced himself to use female pronouns for Shane. They were alone, but Ilya wasn’t about to risk everything on the off chance someone with keen ears happened to pass by.

Predictably, Sveta scoffed and shook her head, though there was something fond beneath it, so Ilya gave her a sharp grin.

“Relax, idiot. This wasn’t a booty call.” She said and folded her arms loosely across her chest. “Your face was doing a terrible job of keeping your inside thoughts private, and I, as your gracious and exceptionally perceptive best friend, decided to spare you the political scandal and give you five minutes to pull yourself together.”

Ilya hummed in acknowledgment and let his head fall back against the wall. He closed his eyes, drew in a slow breath, and felt a wave of fondness spread through him.

There was something uniquely mortifying about being known. Especially well enough that another person could look across a crowded room and recognize that he was seconds away from telling a regional governor to go fuck himself. Still, if someone had to know him that well, he supposed he could tolerate it being Sveta.

Or Shane.

Fuck, he missed Shane.

Ilya pushed that painful thought aside and concentrated instead on breathing. For several seconds, the bathroom was quiet except for the muffled noise of the banquet beyond the door. Then came the familiar click and scrape of a lighter. When Ilya opened his eyes, he was neither surprised by the cigarette between Sveta’s lips nor by the first thin ribbon of smoke curling toward the ceiling. She took a long drag, held it for a moment, then extended it towards him.

Here, Ilya hesitated.

He had all but quit smoking. Over the past four years, he had probably smoked no more than the contents of a single pack altogether. It didn’t surprise him that half of that metaphorical pack had been had during June that summer of 2011. The other half had been had intermittently at bars or clubs over the years during moments of emotional weakness—when the weeks between seeing Shane began to yawn seemingly without end.

Really, though, he had quit. Mostly.

But tonight had been long, and it wasn't even close to over yet. He really didn't need the cigarette, he knew he probably shouldn't. He just needed a moment, reprieve, or something that would quiet his head long enough for him to walk back into that banquet hall without the urge to strangle someone.

After taking a brief stock of his body—and his considerably worse state of his mind—Ilya accepted. Russia had a way of doing this to him.

He drew the smoke in slowly, held it, then exhaled toward the ceiling before passing the cigarette back. Sveta silently took it and over the next several minutes they quietly traded it between them until the paper had burnt nearly to the filter.

Ilya was taking what would probably be his last drag when Sveta said, almost casually, “So, would you care to tell me why Alexei cornered me earlier and demanded I ‘talk some sense into you’?”

Ilya coughed on the exhale. The smoke caught badly in his throat, and he bent forward, hacking as Sveta reached over and plucked the cigarette from his fingers before he could drop it.

“He did what!?”

Sveta took the last drag herself, nonchalantly. “He said you were talking crazy. That you were planning to leave your father destitute because he is sick, and that I needed to—” she lifted both hands, making air quotes around the cigarette, “—’talk some sense into you.’”

She crushed what remained into the ashtray beside the sink.

Ilya muttered a curse and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am not leaving my father destitute.”

“I didn't think you were.” Sveta watched him for a moment, any humor was gone from her face now. “So what has happened, Ilyusha?”

He paused for a moment and debated on how much of his family drama he wanted to air to his oldest friend, before almost immediately deciding: all of it.

“I found out they have been stealing from me,” he said. “Both of them. More than I even knew they were.”

Ilya pushed away from the wall, suddenly unable to remain against it. He took two useless steps across the small bathroom before turning back again.

“They worked with my rookie agent to launder part of my commission away without me knowing. They knowingly locked me in a horrible deal with an incompetent manager just so they could line their pockets.” His voice sharpened despite himself. “Like I wasn't already paying for all their shit anyway. Like I wouldn't have just given them whatever they asked for.”

“Ilya—”

“And I—” He stopped. A bitter, humorless laugh tried to escape him and he bit it back before it could escape. “I can't do it anymore, Sveta.”

“I can't.” He dragged a hand over his mouth. “My father is sick, as I'm sure you've noticed. He's sick, and he's forgetting more every day. So, I will never be able to look at him and ask why—why he decided he had to do that, or why he let Alexei convince him to do it—and get a straight answer. Because… he probably doesn't even know anymore!"

His voice cracked upward at the end. Ilya fought to keep his rising hysteria from his voice, but from the sympathetic look on Sveta's face, he doesn't think he was all that successful.

“He probably doesn't even know anymore,” Ilya repeated, quieter. “He's already forgetting Mama is gone. He's forgetting I live in America. Soon he won't remember any of it. He won't remember doing any of it, and I will.”

Ilya pressed the heels of his hands briefly against his eyes. “And I can't, Sveta. I can't do it anymore.”

For a moment, there was only the distant murmur of the banquet through the walls.

Then Sveta said, very quietly, “Then don't.”

Ilya lowered his hands. She hadn't moved from the counter. She was watching him with the same steady expression he had seen her wear through funerals and awful breakups. There wasn't an ounce of pity, and he loved her for that.

“You are allowed to be done, Ilyusha.”

Something in his chest twisted. “I think I never want to come back here again,” he admitted. “I think I fucking hate it here.”

Sveta didn't flinch.

“I pay for everything,” Ilya continued. “I make sure everyone has clothes they like, that the food is perfect, that the apartments are paid for. Whatever stupid fucking thing they decide they need, they have it. And the only thing I ever hear is more. ‘I want more, Ilya. I need more, Ilya.’ More, more, more.”

His hands had started moving as he spoke, frustration spilling into every gesture.

“And then they take. They take and take and take, and I have nothing else for them anymore.” Something that might have been a laugh escaped Ilya. “I am not leaving Papa destitute,” he said again, quieter now. “Despite what my brother claims. Despite everything, I can't—I wouldn't.”

“I know.”

“I'm leaving a trust. Enough that he will be cared for. Doctors, nurses, whatever he needs. Alexei will not control it, but Papa will be taken care of.” Ilya swallowed. “I know Alexei will never forgive me for leaving like this.”

Sveta's brows lifted slightly.

“But I don't think I can ever forgive him, either."

Ilya had thought it earlier. He had practically said as much to Alexei’s face. But saying it out loud felt different. Like it left no room for him to pretend that, once the anger passed, things might somehow get better or at least go back to normal.

Sveta only nodded as Ilya looked away again.

The silence stretched, and for a few seconds Ilya thought he might have run himself empty. Then his eyes found the small window set high into the far wall, nothing visible through it but a strip of black winter sky, and another thought came rushing in to fill the space.

“I love this country, Sveta.”

“I know this, Ilyusha.”

“I do. I love its people. I love what it has given me. I love—” He stopped and swore under his breath. “But not like—” He broke off again.

Sveta waited.

“Not like I love him—her!" He corrected, too late. "Not like I love her. My Jane. And that's the worst fucking part of all this. I know we can't. I know what would happen if someone saw us here. But right now, all I want is her! And she's here, somewhere in this fucking city, and I can do nothing.”

Sveta let him breathe for a moment. Then she said, carefully, “So why don't you go to her, Ilyusha?”

“You know why I can’t. Not here.” He shook his head. “I am too obvious. H-She is too obvious. And I won’t put her at risk here just because I miss her.”

“But you want her?” Ilya’s silence was an answer in itself. Sveta considered him, then, slowly, “Well.” She pushed away from the counter. “Lucky for you, you have a very beautiful best friend who would be happy to act as your beard for the evening.”

Ilya blinked.

Sveta continued before he could interrupt, warming rapidly to her own idea. “We can all go out together. See the city, have drinks, whatever you want. You can see your Jane and I will be so beautiful and so sexy that everyone will assume you boys have to share me.”

Ilya’s traitorous heart perked up. Still, he shook his head. “Sveta, you don’t need to do this.”

She scoffed, though there was no bite to it. “I know.” Sveta looked at him for a moment, then gently added, dropping the pretense of pronouns altogether, “You know he’s my friend too, yes? A very annoying friend who apparently doesn’t know how to answer his phone.”

Ilya pressed his lips together and looked toward the bathroom door. “Look, even if I wanted to see him—which I do but we can’t—I don’t have a way to contact him right now.” Sveta stared at him, confused, so Ilya added, “We both left our phone in North America. Got new phones and new numbers for the Games.”

He watched as some sort of understanding dawned on her face. “Oh my God! Is that why he hasn’t been texting me back?”

“What?”

“I’ve been texting him for days!” Sveta threw up her hands, her voice echoing off the marble. “I was getting so pissed at him, I thought he was ignoring me! Why didn’t you tell me he got a new phone?”

“I didn’t think you texted my boyfriend enough that it would matter!?” Ilya exclaimed, incredulously, “Besides, it wouldn’t have mattered, I don’t know his new number.”

“You don't know your boyfriend's phone number?”

“I know his real number.”

“Then—”

“I didn’t memorize the Russian one,” Ilya snapped. He folded his arms tightly across his chest and looked toward the bathroom door instead of at her. “On purpose. Because I knew this would happen. That second shit got difficult, I would want to call him.” His jaw tightened. “And clearly, I was right.”

For a moment, Sveta said nothing.

The bathroom settled into an uncomfortable quiet, broken only by the low hum of the lights and the muffled noise of the banquet beyond the door. Sveta studied him from across the room, one hip still resting against the counter, while Ilya kept his gaze fixed anywhere but her.

“Well,” she said, “lucky for you, I was sufficiently annoyed enough that I did a little snooping and know exactly where he’s staying.”

“You stalked my boyfriend?” Ilya asked, dumbfoundedly. .

“I didn’t stalk him! I just asked a few people some very clever questions,” Sveta corrected. “It’s not my fault people like telling me things.”

Ilya stared at her. She smiled sweetly, then looked back towards the door.

“We need to go back soon,” She said and pushed herself upright from the counter and smoothed both hands down the front of her dress. “Our five-minute break has turned into something closer to twenty, I think.”

“Sveta—”

“Tomorrow night. Seven o'clock. Meet us at the southern gate of Fisht. Do not be late, or instead I’ll have a wonderful date with your lovely Jane on my own."

Ilya’s heart gave one last hard, painful beat. His arms loosened from where they were folded across his chest, only to tighten again. “You don’t know he will come. I told him we couldn’t see each other in Sochi.”

Sveta looked almost offended. “Ilyusha, you’ve known me for how many years now? You know I can be very convincing.”

Ilya gave her a long look. “That’s exactly what worries me.”

“Seven o'clock,” she repeated. She turned back toward the mirror, reached down her dress, and pulled out a small tub of lipstick out of her bra and began quickly touching up her makeup.

He looked at her then—really looked at her. At this girl who he had grown up with and had somehow remained one of his closest friends. He thought of the two of them running through the darkened halls of old manors while their fathers talked politics downstairs. Of his mother slipping them caramels and chocolates when no one was watching. Sveta had known Alexei before everything between them had curdled to shit and now she knew Shane too. She had been there for nearly every important moment of Ilya’s life.

And something inside him gave way. Before he could think better of it, Ilya crossed the space between them and pulled her into a hug.

Sveta made a startled noise. “Oh, Jesus.”

He squeezed her tightly. “You know that I love you, yes?”

“Yes, yes.” She patted his back with feigned reluctance, though her other arm had already closed around his shoulders. “You big baby.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know, Ilyusha.” Her voice softened despite herself. She squeezed him once—hard, brief, and familiar—before planting both hands on his shoulders and pushing him back to arm’s length.

“Now come on,” she said. “Before someone assumes we’re actually fucking in here."

Ilya laughed. For the first time all night, it didn't feel bitter or forced.

♡⊹˚₊🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

afirforest
@afirforest

via @светрова (@svetrova) on VK. 1/4

1:37 PM · Feb 28, 2014

15.9K Retweets 1.8K Quote Tweets 28.7K Likes

chronicallyoffside @chronicallyoffside · Feb 28, 2014 Replying to @afirforest

❗🚨 ALERT ❗ALARM🚨 ROZANDER OLYMPICS CONTENT !!!!!!!! 🚨❗

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hollanderszn @hollanderszn · Feb 28, 2014 Replying to @afirforest

OH MY GOD LOOK AT THEM!! 😭😭😭THOSE BABIES ARE OLYMPIC MEDALISTS!!!

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danielle-r @danielle-r · Feb 28, 2014 Replying to @afirforest

I was genuinely starting to think we were going to get through the ENTIRE olympics without a single rozander sighting THANK YOU RANDOM BEAUTIFUL WOMAN

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midnighttrain44 @midnighttrain44 · Feb 28, 2014 Replying to @afirforest

wait sorry i’m new here, but who IS she

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maddieh @maddieh · Feb 28, 2014 Replying to @midnighttrain44

that’s Svetlana Vetrova :)))))

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midnighttrain44 @midnighttrain44 · Feb 28, 2014 Replying to @maddieh

am i supposed to know who that is 😭

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maddieh @maddieh · Feb 28, 2014 Replying to @midnighttrain44

youre fine! her dad is Sergei Vetrov!! he played goalie for Boston in the 90s/early 2000s so she grew up around the Bears!

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midnighttrain44 @midnighttrain44 · Feb 28, 2014 Replying to @maddieh

ohhh okay thank you 🙂

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sammyjane_ @sammyjane_ · Feb 28, 2014 Replying to @maddieh

WAIT

WAIT WAIT WAIT

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blazing_f0x @blazing_f0x · Feb 28, 2014 Replying to @maddieh

oh my god is this roz's girlfriend??

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maddieh @maddieh · Feb 28, 2014 Replying to @blazing_f0x

…you know actually i hadn’t thought about that but now that you say that….

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omorillon @omorillon · Feb 28, 2014 Replying to @blazing_f0x

hasn't like HALF the Bears roster mentioned at some point that Roz has a girlfriend he is insanely private about

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stkyrice @stkyrice · Feb 28, 2014 Replying to @blazing_f0x

OH MY GOD IS THIS THE LONGTIME MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND??? SHES SO BEAUTIFUL!!!!

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by-parallax @by-parallax · Feb 28, 2014 Replying to @stkyrice

For anyone new to this lore: several Boston players have referenced Rozanov being in a long-term relationship, but he has never publicly named or posted about his girlfriend. Until 👀

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rozzybear81 @rozzybear81 · Feb 28, 2014 Replying to @blazing_f0x

SVETLANA VETROVA…… RUSSIAN…… FAMILY CONNECTION TO THE BEARS…… HAS POSSIBLY KNOWN HIM FOREVER PROBABLY…… GUYS!!??

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mizzie_mayfield0 @mizzie_mayfield0 · Feb 28, 2014 Replying to @blazing_f0x

There's also the fact that she's clearly comfortable enough with Shane that they're all going out together during the OLYMPICS???

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aeolian_leaf @aeolian_leaf · Feb 28, 2014 Replying to @blazing_f0x

sorry but Shane being friends with Ilya's girlfriend is SO cute to me 😭like obviously i know Ilya's best friend and his girlfriend are going to be friends too its just a weirdly sweet thing to learn about them and i’m loving it.

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sticktapsteph @sticktapsteph · Feb 28, 2014 Replying to @aeolian_leaf

the fact that she posted these and neither of them did 😭 Rozzyreally said you will know NOTHING about my personal life unless my girlfriend decides otherwise

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klysium @klysium · Feb 28, 2014 Replying to @blazing_f0x

this has to be the softest soft launch to ever soft launch cause she didn't even TAG HIM lmao

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lilyrosemary
@lilyrosemary

to everyone saying “maybe they're just friends,” yes obviously they could be!!! but the Bears have been talking about this man's mysterious longtime girlfriend for THREE YEARS and now a gorgeous Russian woman with Bears connections posts about an entire night out with him and his best friend. let me have this

11:42 AM · Mar 1, 2014

843 Retweets 219 Quote Tweets 5.8K Likes

sunsmittensunflower @sunsmittensunflower · Mar 1, 2014 Replying to @lilyrosemary

I support Roz and his beautiful mysterious girlfriend ♥️♥️♥️

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vestayekta @vestayekta · Mar 1, 2014 Replying to @lilyrosemary

imagine dating ilya rozanov and having to accept that shane hollander is just going to be there sometimes

astrono-me @astrono-me · Mar 1, 2014 Replying to @vestayekta

"babe can we have one romantic night alone"

"yeah of course! Shane will love that! :)"

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lauren_xo @lauren_xo · Mar 1, 2014 Replying to @vestayekta

hmmm, imagine dating ilya rozanov 🤤🤤🤤

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vestayekta @vestayekta · Mar 1, 2014 Replying to @lauren_xo

Girl we are literally talking about his girlfriend rn 😭

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hollanov-truther
@hollanov-truther

I have a suggestion

8:31 PM · Mar 1, 2014

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aucoinr @aucoinr · Mar 1, 2014 Replying to @hollanov-truther

And what would you suggest, hollanov-truther?

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eighty_one @eighty_one · Mar 1, 2014 Replying to @hollanov-truther

Girl i doubt it but man i wish 😞

hollanov-truther @hollanov-truther · Mar 1, 2014 Replying to @eighty_one

A girl can dream

hearty-harliexx
@hearty-harliexx

anyway congratulations to Svetlana Vetrova on becoming the most powerful woman in hockey twitter history just by posting four pictures the actual hockey players were apparently too useless to give us themselves

11:09 PM · Mar 1, 2014

872 Retweets 61 Quote Tweets 3.9K Likes

Sveta: Well… at least they don't think you're gay?

♡⊹˚₊🏒 March 2014🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

♡⊹˚₊🏒 April 2014🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

It was unfortunate that Shane beat Ilya home.

Tonight had basically been torture. It had been almost two months since Shane had seen Ilya in person, with the last time being that surprise night in Sochi Svetlana had all but strong-armed him into—not that Shane had put up much of a fight. But after so long apart, standing across from Ilya at the faceoff dot tonight had felt almost cruel in its proximity.

It was unfortunate that they hadn’t really had the chance to talk that night in Sochi beyond general pleasantries and secret communications of desire for affection. It was unfortunate that they had to fly out separately after the Games had finished to go back to their own homes and their own cities and their own regular game schedules. It was unfortunate that Boston and Montreal didn’t play each other for five weeks after the Olympic break so they had to satiate any want of intimacy with phone sex and text conversations. It was unfortunate that Shane’s flight earlier that day was delayed and Montreal had barely arrived in time for the game, much less with time to catch Ilya in any regard.

It was unfortunate that Boston had kicked Montreal’s ass tonight, so now Ilya was stuck at the TD Garden placating the media while Shane was left to let himself into Ilya’s apartment alone.

He kicked off his shoes and stacked them up neatly in the shoe wrack by the door, before slipping on a pair of house slippers and padding into the kitchen to grab a ginger ale from the fridge. He settled at the kitchen island with his phone and told himself he was just going to check his messages and his inbox. He told himself that even as he opened his broadcasting app, booted up the postgame coverage, and kept an open ear out for any indication that Ilya was done with media and was finally on his way home.

He had two emails from his agent, neither of which were urgent enough to open or deal with tonight. The Metros group chat had accumulated nearly fifty messages since the final buzzer, most of them consisting of complaints and arguments about the officiating, which Shane skimmed without contributing too. There were a few messages from some of the Bears Shane had befriended over the years, including Marleau, St-Simon, and Connors. Shane opened Marleau's messages first.

Marleau: Yoo Hollzy! You should come out with us tonight!!; Its been forever!!; Ahh shit Roz just told me hes staying in tonight; Safe to assume youre doing the same?; Lameee; Yall havent gone out with us since like our first game this season; Cmon Hollzy, were gonna start feeling neglected!!

Shane smiled despite himself.

Shane: Haha, yeah, sorry. I’m staying in tonight.; Maybe if you hadn’t kicked our ass tonight I’d be feeling more amicable ☺️; Maybe next time.

Despite the delay in Shane’s reply, Marleau was quick to respond:

Marleau: Ahh cmon Hollzyyy! We promise it wasnt personal!
Shane: Sorry Marly. We will catch up next time, I promise.
Marleau: Fine, fine. Im holding you to nxt time tho

Shane considered that, then typed:

Shane: How about this; If you guys win the Cup this year, I promise I’ll come down to Boston and go out with all of you.
Marleau: AYY THATS WHAT IM TALKING ABOUT HOLLZY
Shane: But, if Montreal wins, you all have to come up and celebrate with us
Marleau: Pffft love ya, Hollzy, but Montreal aint winning this year; Roz has been on a fuckin heater. The cup is going to Boston this year 💪🐻; But deal; Screenshotting this for the Bears chat btw; Have fun with Roz

Heat crept onto Shane’s cheeks as he read Marleau’s last text.

Over the years, he and Ilya had talked about the possibility that Marleau knew about them. There had been plenty of times over the years where Shane would have sworn Marleau was trying to tell them that he knew—albeit in a strange, completely deniable, convoluted way. But then he would turn around and say something about Shane and Ilya’s "legendary bromance" with such complete sincerity that suddenly Shane didn't know anymore

If Ilya knew for certain either way, he never said.

Shane liked to think (hope) that when they finally told Marleau, nothing would change. Marleau was Ilya’s closest friend among the Bears, and over the years Shane liked to think he had built up his own rapport with the Bostonian enforcer.

But Shane didn't know, so he never said anything. And Ilya didn't say. And Marleau never asked.

Shane was still staring at the message when the door to Ilya’s apartment opened down the hall. He was so in his head, he didn't hear it open nor did he hear it close. He didn't even hear the footsteps crossing the room until a solid chest pressed against his back and Ilya hooked his chin over Shane’s shoulder to look shamelessly down at Shane’s phone.

“Who are you texting?”

Shane nearly launched the phone across the kitchen island. “Christ!”

Ilya laughed against his ear.

Shane twisted around on the stool. Ilya was in his game-day suit, though his tie had disappeared at some point and the first few buttons of his shirt were undone. While his hair was still damp from the locker-room shower, it was already starting to dry and curl again around his temples and the nape of his neck. His grin was sharp as he looked down at Shane.

“You didn’t hear me come in?” Ilya asked.

“Fuck, no, I didn’t. You scared the shit out of me.” Shane pressed a hand to his chest and made a show of taking a steadying breath

Ilya laughed. “Then it is good I am not here to murder you.”

“Fuck off.”

Ilya leaned in and pressed a wet, deliberately obnoxious kiss to his cheek. “Hello, Solnyshko.”

“Hi.” Shane turned and pressed his own kiss to Ilya’s cheek in return. He kept his gaze fixed on Ilya’s open collar rather than the smile spreading across his face. Fuck, he had missed him. “How was media?”

Ilya’s eyes flicked down to Shane’s phone on the counter which was still playing the post-game broadcast. “I do not know, you tell me?”

Shane flushed and grabbed his phone to turn the broadcast off while Ilya laughed over his shoulder. He pressed one more kiss to Shane’s shoulder, before stepping away and around the counter. Shane missed the warmth of him almost immediately.

“Are you hungry?” Ilya asked.

“For?”

Ilya laughed. “Food, pervert. It was a long game. Have you eaten yet?”

“Oh, no. I mean, no, I haven’t eaten. Yes, I’m hungry.” Shane said. “Do you want to order take-out or—”

Ilya hummed and opened the fridge. “Do you like tuna melts? I have enough for two?”

Shane considered it. He did like tuna. However—“Are there any good Russian places nearby? I know I already told you, but the vareniki you made me try in Sochi was really good.”

Ilya laughed as he pulled out his phone. “I still cannot believe you as a Canadian had never had vareniki. Never before had I met a Canadian who had never had vareniki. It is a very common dish there, you know?”

“Oh my god, I know now, okay!” Shane brought his arms up to cover his face in embarrassment, but he was fighting a grin as he watched Ilya cackle.

Ilya typed a few more things on his phone, before he frowned and tsk’ed. “Unforunately, all of the good places are closed, and I refuse to order from Zhivago’s—they are awful.”

“Ah, damn.”

“How about this? I will order you some from Babushka’s before you come over next time. That is the best place to get vareniki in Boston.” Ilya put his phone back in his pocket. “But tonight, tuna melts sound fine?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Both of those sound great.”

Shane watched fondly as Ilya moved around the kitchen. He set out a can of tuna, a baguette, and a couple slices of cheese out on the counter before he reached to preheat the oven.

“You are heading to Florida tomorrow, yes?” He asked with his back still to Shane as he prepped all the ingredients for dinner.

“Tomorrow afternoon, yeah.”

Ilya shot him a sharp grin over his shoulder, one that Shane returned with a teasing of his own as Ilya asked, “Ah, so you are free tomorrow morning?”

Shane leaned forward to rest his elbows on the counter and pretended to consider it. “I’m not sure.” He finally said. “There’s this guy I’m really hoping to see while I’m in Boston, so I’m hoping he can fit me into his schedule. But I still have to ask him.”

Ilya turned to carefully distribute a mixture of tuna, mayonnaise, and lemon juice over some of the baguette slices, but Shane could hear the grin in his voice as said, “Mm. You should call. He is a busy guy, but I think maybe he can fit you in tomorrow.”

Once their tuna melts were in the oven, Ilya came around the counter and sat on the stool beside Shane. Their knees knocked together beneath the island and stayed that way.

Inevitably, their conversation turned to hockey, and the game they just played that night.

“—and I’m just saying, Boston didn’t need a three-goal lead tonight,” Shane said. He turned slightly on the stool to face Ilya, one elbow braced on the counter. “You’ve already clinched your playoff spot.”

“Hmm, and Montreal will clinch theirs next week.” Ilya propped his elbow on the island and rested his cheek against his palm, watching Shane with an infuriating smirk. “Your point?”

“My point is, why the hell did Boston need five points tonight?”

Ilya’s mouth curved. Without looking away from him, he reached past Shane’s ginger ale to grab the Coke he had opened earlier. “Ah, but you see, before tonight, you were still beating me in the scoring race.”

“Oh, you asshole!”

The oven dinged.

Ilya brought their sandwiches over, and for several minutes, the kitchen was mostly quiet except for the scrape of plates and the occasional sound of approval Shane couldn’t quite keep to himself. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the first bite. The bread was crisp at the edges and the cheese was still hot and gooey enough to burn the roof of his mouth.

“This is really good,” Shane said around his second half.

Ilya looked unbearably pleased with himself. “Yes. I know.”

“You could just say thank you.”

“Fine. Thank you for admitting I am right.”

Shane nudged his knee sharply against Ilya’s beneath the counter and said, “Asshole,” with a smile. Ilya returned it harder, nearly knocking Shane’s leg against the stool.

Soon enough, they finish eating—both melts reduced to nothing more than crumbs and streaks of melted cheese on their plates—which Shane automatically reached for, only for Ilya to bat his hands away.

“I can help.” Shane argued.

“No.”

“Ilya—”

“You are my guest.” Ilya stacked the plates and stood. “Sit.”

Shane rolled his eyes at the theatrics—'my guest'. He was more than a guest. He had helped Ilya organize the kitchen cabinets and picked out the ceramics for god's sake. This was all but his second home—but he obeyed, watching as Ilya carried everything around the island. He quickly, but efficiently, rinsed the plates in the sink, loaded them into the dishwasher, then wiped a few stray crumbs from the counter with the side of his hand.

But when Ilya came back around the island, he didn't sit back on the stool beside Shane. Instead, he stepped between Shane’s knees and crowded forward until Shane was caught between the solid warmth of his body and the cold edge of the island behind him. Ilya’s hands settled at Shane’s hips, thumbs resting lightly against the skin under the fabric of his shirt.

Then, without a word, Ilya leaned in and kissed him.

It was uncharacteristically tame. Nothing more than a soft press of lips, brief enough that Shane barely had any time to respond before Ilya drew back. Shane felt Ilya smile against his lips, before he leaned back in and kissed him again, just as lightly.

It was the sheer gentleness that caught Shane off guard.

Still, despite the want and lust already pacing in his chest like a wild animal, he followed Ilya’s lead. He tipped his head back and returned the next kiss with the same careful softness, his own hands settling on Ilya's hips as their mouths met in a series of slow—almost unfamiliar—chaste touches.

While unexpected, Shane couldn’t find it in himself to be disappointed by the lack of heat in Ilya touch. He could never be disappointed with Ilya pressed against him like this, no matter what form the affection took. Yes, he had come over tonight hoping and expecting to get laid, but in retrospect, he isn’t sure he should be surprised that maybe all Ilya wanted tonight was comfort.

The Olympics had been… bad.

Shane had known something was wrong the moment he opened his hotel-room door in Sochi and found the one and only Svetlana Vetrova waiting for him on the other side. He had immediately wanted to ask her then and there what had happened, and she had clearly wanted to tell him. But all she said was that the three of them—her, Shane, and Ilya—were going out that night and that he needed to grab his coat—they were meeting Ilya in twenty minutes.

The night itself had been good—great, even. It had been a relief in itself to see Ilya after the medal games, and even better to congratulate him on the bronze in person. Whatever had happened to spur this meeting, however, Ilya hadn’t brought up. Instead, several times throughout the night, whenever he had caught Shane’s eye over Svetlana’s shoulder, he had twitched his nose and communicated the shared sentiment between them that Shane returned each time without fail—hoping it might soothe some of the ache he could see in his boyfriend’s eyes. Whether it had helped or not, it had been neither the time nor the place to press, so Shane had to let it be.

It was only after they returned to North America, once they had their real phones back and it became clear that weeks would pass before they saw each other again, that Shane had finally caved, called, and asked.

And what Ilya had told him had all but broken his heart. After the gold-medal game, Shane had been overwhelmed by the amount of people praising him for the way he had led Team Canada. He remembers wishing, more than once, that everyone would just leave him alone for five minutes; something he regrets thinking now, in light of everything. Shane had won gold and been surrounded by people eager to tell him how proud they were of him. Ilya had won bronze—still an extraordinary achievement—and been made to feel as though he had brought shame upon his country and family. It made Shane feel sick with anger when he thought about it.

But watching Ilya struggle to hold back tears on the other side of a screen as he outlined exactly what his family had done to him while Shane sat hundreds of miles away, unable to reach for him, had been a particular kind of agony Shane hadn't known existed.

So, considering this was the first time they had been together since Sochi—since Ilya had learned what his father and brother had done and Shane had watched him nearly twist himself into knots from hundreds of miles away, unable to do anything but listen—maybe comfort was all Ilya wanted tonight.

Which, for all Shane had spent the last several weeks wishing he could just reach through the phone and pull Ilya into his arms, finally being able to just hold and kiss him was hardly a burden; even if it wasn’t exactly how Shane had imagined the night going.

Ilya continued pressing chaste kisses to Shane’s lips, though gradually they wandered to his cheeks and along his jaw—light, unhurried, and somewhat ticklish against his skin. His hands moved with the same gentleness, sliding from Shane’s hips to up and over his ribs and stomach before trailing slowly back down his sides. Shane’s own hands wandered, one settling at Ilya’s shoulder while the other found the now dry curls at the nape of his neck to idly wind around his fingers.

Ilya’s palms came to rest on Shane’s thighs. He stroked down toward his knees, then drew his hands back along the insides of Shane’s legs, coaxing them slightly farther apart as he stepped closer and pressed their bodies flush, erasing the singular sliver of space that had persisted between them. By the time his fingers slipped beneath Shane’s thighs, settling firmly into the space where they met his ass, Shane was too distracted by Ilya’s mouth at his neck to recognize the position for what it was.

He felt Ilya smirk against his skin a second before he lifted Shane cleanly off the stool.

Shane squawked and instinctively grabbed Ilya’s shoulders as his legs wrapped around Ilya’s hips. “Ilya! Put me down!”

“No,” Ilya said against his skin, then caught Shane’s mouth in a heated kiss. There was nothing soft or innocent in it this time, the careful chasteness of the last several minutes completely gone. He took Shane’s mouth hard, one hand tightening beneath his thigh while the other spread over his ass to hold Shane firmly against him.

“Ilya—!”

Shane squirmed indignantly in his arms, which proved to be a mistake. The movement dragged their hips together, revealing the erection Ilya had somehow managed to conceal while he had been standing between Shane’s legs. The hard length of his cock pressed directly against Shane’s own rapidly growing erection, and the sudden friction pulled matching groans of pleasure from both of them.

Shane buried his face against the side of Ilya’s neck, his indignation dissolving beneath a fresh rush of heat. “Fuck me,” he moaned.

“Yes,” Ilya said, already carrying him away from the island and out of the kitchen. “That was the plan.”

Every step toward the bedroom shifted their bodies together and Ilya made no effort to minimize it; if anything, he adjusted his hold so Shane sat more securely against his hips, forcing Shane to grind relentlessly against his hardening cock.

Normally, Shane hated being picked up. The two of them were practically the same height and not so different in build, so—even with Ilya's ever so slight weight advantage—being hauled around like he was some dainty thing had always made Shane feel ridiculous.

But there was nothing ridiculous about the way Ilya held him now and Shane didn’t feel dainty. Shane could feel the strain in the arms locked beneath his thighs, the hard flex of Ilya’s chest against his, and the controlled hitch in his breath each time he shifted Shane’s weight without letting him drop so much as an inch. He wasn't light in Ilya’s arms; Ilya was simply strong enough to carry him anyways.

Fuck, that was hot.

Ilya carried him the rest of the way to the bedroom with an increasingly smug look on his face. Every step dragged Shane’s trapped cock hot and hard between their bodies. By the time Ilya reached the bed, Shane's hands had moved from Ilya’s shoulders to twist tightly in his curls. He kissed along Ilya’s jaw and tried to grind against him whenever the rhythm of Ilya’s stride failed to provide the friction he wanted.

When Ilya finally lowered him onto the mattress—not dropped, lowered, with infuriating control—he crawled over him until he settled hot and firm between Shane's thighs, pinning him to the mattress with his bodyweight.

He kissed Shane hard enough to push his head back into the mattress, one hand cupping his jaw while the other reached for the hem of Shane’s shirt. Shane arched just enough to let him pull it off, then grabbed Ilya’s own with both fists and dragged it impatiently upward.

Their mouths separated only as long as necessary to strip their shirts over their heads.

Then Ilya was back over him, his bare chest pressing Shane into the bed, his skin hot beneath Shane’s hands. Shane ran both palms over him, across the thick line of his shoulders and down his back, feeling the muscles shift beneath them as Ilya moved. There was something unbearably hot about it—about the strength Shane had felt holding him up now caging him against the mattress.

“Fuck,” Shane breathed. “You’re so fucking hot.” Shane’s hands tightened against his back, pulling him closer. “I've missed you so much.”

For a second, the heady lust in Ilya’s expression softened into something almost tender. “I know,” he murmured, kissing Shane again. “I missed you too.”

They stripped the rest of their clothes quickly. Ilya opened Shane’s pants and shoved them down over his hips, Shane kicking them away while his hands worked impatiently at Ilya’s belt. His fingers fumbled once against the buckle, too distracted by Ilya’s mouth against his neck and the hot drag of his body over Shane’s.

By the time they were both naked, Shane was flushed from his chest to the tips of his ears. His cock lay hard and already leaking against his stomach, his entire body restless beneath Ilya’s weight. He wanted Ilya’s hands everywhere. Wanted his mouth on him. Wanted the full, undivided force of his attention until there wasn’t any room left in Shane’s head for anything else.

Ilya reached toward the nightstand and retrieved both the bottle of lube and a strip of condoms, setting the latter within easy reach before stretching himself over Shane again, the warm press of his body making Shane ache with impatience.

After slicking his fingers, Ilya urged Shane’s legs farther apart and lifted them over his hips. He guided one leg higher until Shane’s knee hooked over his shoulder, leaving the other curled around his waist. The position tipped Shane’s hips above the rest of him, his body sloping downward toward his head where it rested against the mattress. It left him open and exposed and entirely at Ilya’s mercy. The knowledge sent a heady rush through him, anticipation tightening low in his stomach. By the time Ilya’s hand moved between his thighs, Shane was nearly trembling.

The first touch against his entrance was—like so many other things had already been that night—unexpectedly gentle.

It was only after Ilya eased a second finger inside of Shane did he slide his free hand down and between their bodies. He wrapped it around his own cock first, giving himself several slow strokes before drawing Shane’s alongside it and gathering their cocks together in his palm.

Shane groaned and thrusted instinctively once into the sudden pressure.

The leftover lube coating Ilya’s hand eased the initial drag as he began to stroke them both. It should have been overwhelming—Ilya’s fist wrapped tightly around their cocks while his other hand continued moving inside Shane, occasionally brushing against his prostate and making pleasure flare hot through his stomach—But Ilya’s attention was divided.

His strokes were slow and uneven, losing their rhythm whenever he concentrated on stretching Shane farther. Sometimes his hand paused entirely, holding them together in a slick, maddening grip while his fingers worked carefully inside him. It felt fucking incredible—enough to keep Shane aching and helplessly hard, but nowhere near enough to give him the release he desperately wanted.

Shane nearly cursed when Ilya added a third finger, pressing it in gently and forcing Shane’s body to stretch around him.

“Fuck,” Shane whined, his voice breaking with impatience. “Just fuck me. I’m ready.”

He wasn’t, not quite. It had been months. But he felt like he was losing his mind. He needed Ilya inside him yesterday and tomorrow and every day after that, but most importantly: now.

“Patience, malysh,” Ilya murmured. The smirk in his voice was unmistakable. Before Shane could protest, Ilya crooked his fingers and pressed them directly against his prostate.

Shane’s head pressed back against the mattress with a strangled moan.

Ilya’s other hand continued its lazy, inconsistent passes around their cocks, giving Shane just enough friction to keep the pleasure in him burning, but never enough to let it crest. Every time Shane felt himself getting close, Ilya slowed or stopped altogether. Desperate for more, Shane tried to thrust into his grip.

Ilya immediately released them and caught Shane firmly by the hip, pressing him back against the mattress and holding him still.

Shane groaned, a dizzying mixture of lust and frustration surging through him. “Ilya—!”

“Relax.”

That was when Shane realized Ilya was absolutely doing this on purpose. The smug bastard was opening him with careful, deliberate attention while giving them only just barely enough friction to keep them both painfully hard.

Shane let his head fall back against the mattress and shook it helplessly, too overwhelmed to figure out whether he wanted to curse at Ilya or beg him for more.

Ilya’s fingers drove deeper, finding the right angle to make Shane’s thighs tense. His hand returned to their cocks, and he used his thumb to drag once over the head of Shane’s, gathering the bead of precum there before smearing it slickly between them.

Then, just as Shane’s breath caught, his hand slowed again.

A loud whine tore itself from Shane’s throat. He panted heavily beneath Ilya, staring helplessly at the ceiling.

“You said—” he started, stopping only because Ilya crooked his fingers and briefly emptied his head. Shane swallowed hard and tried again. “You said the plan was to fuck me.”

“Yes.”

“Are you planning on getting to that part sometime tonight!?” Shane demanded indignantly.

Ilya laughed softly and turned his face into the calf resting against his shoulder, pressing a kiss there. “Yes, yes. I will.”

“When?”

“Patience,” Ilya repeated, looking down at him with a mean little smirk. “Brat.”

The thought struck Shane with sudden, almost hysterical clarity. Why the fuck was he letting Ilya drive?

When Ilya’s attention dropped between them to readjust his grip, Shane seized the opportunity. He planted one foot against the mattress, tightened the leg hooked over Ilya’s shoulder, and twisted hard, using the leverage to roll them both over.

Ilya made a startled noise as the room tipped, and a second later, he was flat on his back with Shane straddling his waist. Shane braced both hands against Ilya’s chest and nearly laughed at the owlish expression on his face. Ilya blinked up at him, genuinely shocked.

Shane leaned forward, breathing hard. “Now.”

Before Ilya could respond, Shane reached for the condoms, tore one free, and opened it with none of Ilya’s earlier patience. Ilya watched every movement with rapt attention, the surprise on his face rapidly giving way to naked, overwhelming want as Shane gripped his cock, rolled on the condom, and sank down onto him in one steady motion.

Despite his demand earlier, Shane actually wasn't quite stretched enough to take Ilya fully without a bit of a burn, especially after so long apart. But he was far too worked up to slow down. He almost reveled in the ache—and in the sight of Ilya beneath him, every trace of smugness stripped from his face and replaced by overwhelming hunger. He doesn't think he's ever seen Ilya quite this horny.

(Ilya had never been this fucking horny or hard in his life. The image of Shane sinking onto him—taking exactly what he wanted—would be imprinted on Ilya’s eyelids forever; he was going to get himself off to this memory with Shane's name on his lips for the rest of his life.)

When the backs of Shane’s thighs finally settled flush against Ilya’s hips, Ilya’s head dropped back against the pillows. A loud, strangled moan tore from his throat, and both hands flew to Shane’s hips, gripping him with bruising force.

"Bozhe moy."

Shane surged forward and crashed their mouths together. He kissed Ilya hard, again and again, swallowing every broken sound that left his throat before experimentally rolling his hips. Ilya’s cock shifted inside him, dragging against Shane's walls in a way that sent pleasure tearing up his spine, and they both groaned simultaneously as Shane began to ride him in earnest.

Each downward roll of Shane’s body was met by a sharp upward snap of Ilya’s hips, the wet, rhythmic sounds of them moving together filled the room over their increasingly ragged breathing.

It was so fucking hot having Ilya beneath him like this, just as visibly and vocally affected as Shane had been while Ilya had teased him earlier. Every roll of Shane’s hips dragged Ilya’s cock against his walls, and the pleasure building with each lift and hard downward stroke was making Shane’s head spin.

Shane shifted slightly, searching for a better angle, before finding it as Ilya’s cock pressed directly against his prostate. He groaned, his rhythm faltering as pleasure jolted through him.

The shift inadvertently drove Ilya’s cock deeper, tearing a strangled moan from his throat. Ilya squeezed his eyes shut as his hips surged upward beneath Shane, his fingers digging harder into Shane’s sides—no longer guiding him so much as clinging—while he panted through parted lips.

It was then Shane realized: Ilya was about to come.

A heady rush tore through Shane at the realization, his own pleasure climbing rapidly with it. Still, he held their pace steady. Somehow, he found enough breath to look down at Ilya and ask, “You like that? You gonna come for me, Ilyusha?”

Ilya moaned at the diminutive, his hands tightening around Shane’s hips hard enough that there would undoubtedly be bruises tomorrow. The thought only sent another pulse of heat through Shane. Ilya used that bruising grip to urge him faster, lifting and lowering him with increasing desperation.

“Fucking make me, Shanya.”

It didn't take much after that.

Shane kept riding him, holding the pace Ilya’s desperate grip demanded. Ilya’s hips drove upward beneath him once—twice—before his face tightened and a cry tore from his throat.

“Fuck—Shane.”

Ilya’s hands spasmed as he came, his fingers digging hard into the flesh of Shane's hips. His body went taut beneath him, but he made no attempt to slow Shane or pull away from him. Even through the haze of his own release and most likely overstimulation, he continued urging Shane on, helping him chase his own pleasure.

Not that Shane needed much help.

The feeling of Ilya coming inside him—the rhythmic pulse of his cock, the broken sound of Shane’s name on his lips—was enough to send Shane straight over the edge.

“Ilya!”

His orgasm tore through him with startling force. Shane shuddered as the pleasure he had been denied all night finally seized him, leaving him shaking above Ilya while his cock spilled hot between them. Eventually, the trembling in his arms became too much to support his weight and he collapsed forward into Ilya's all but waiting arms.

For a while, neither of them moved.

Shane remained folded over Ilya’s chest, his face pressed into the damp curve of his neck while they struggled to catch their breath. Ilya’s arms had closed around him at some point, holding him securely in place, one hand splayed across the small of his back and the other resting heavily at his hip.

The room had gone quiet except for their breathing.

Shane could feel Ilya’s heartbeat pounding beneath his chest, gradually slowing alongside his own. Every muscle in his body seemed to have gone loose at once, leaving him warm and boneless against Ilya.

Eventually, Ilya pressed a lazy kiss into his hair. “So,” he murmured. “You are staying tonight, yes?”

Shane opened his eyes.

The answer was obviously yes. Nothing short of the end of the world could drag him out of Ilya’s apartment before noon tomorrow. But after the way Ilya had tormented and teased him earlier, Shane felt entitled to a little teasing of his own.

“Oh, no,” he said, his tone was so exaggerated that there was no possibility of mistaking it for anything genuine. He lifted his head off of Ilya's chest and arranged his face into something faintly resembling dismay. “I completely forgot. I have a team meeting super early tomorrow morning that I absolutely have to attend.

That made Ilya laugh, the sound rumbling beneath Shane’s chest. “You forgot about a team meeting? Sure.”

“Yeah." Shane said. "Man, this sucks. It must have slipped my mind.”

“Of course.”

“So, if you could let me up, that would be—”

Ilya’s arms locked around him, and Shane broke almost immediately, laughter bursting out of him as Ilya rolled them onto their sides and used his weight to pin Shane beneath him before burying his face against Shane’s cheek. The sudden movement, however, smeared the cooling mess of cum that Shane had been happily ignoring between their stomachs onto the sheets.

“Ilya!” Shane squirmed, his laughter breaking around a noise of disgust. “Ugh, now the bed is all dirty.”

“What?” Ilya asked incredulously. He followed Shane’s gaze to the mess now staining their sheets, then looked back at him. “Oh my God, shut up.”

He kissed Shane’s cheek, then the corner of his mouth, before planting another deliberately sloppy kiss directly on his nose. Shane twisted away, laughing too hard to put any real effort into escaping. “Stop!”

Ilya only tightened his arms around him and followed, pressing wet, obnoxious kisses everywhere Shane failed to protect. Shane tried to shove his face away, but Ilya was laughing now too, his entire body shaking against Shane’s as they wrestled uselessly across the already ruined sheets.

Eventually, Shane gave up. He let himself collapse beneath Ilya’s weight—breathless and helpless with laughter—and surrendered to the wet, slobbery kisses Ilya pressed across his skin.

It was the happiest he had felt in months.

♡⊹˚₊🏒 June 2014🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

New England Sports Network—Local Broadcast: Boston

“... and the Boston Bears are your 2014 Stanley Cup champions!! After over 40 years since Boston last won the Cup, this group has done it here on home ice!”

“Just listen to this building, Jack! Absolutely incredible!”

“And what a year it has been for their captain, Ilya Rozanov! Olympic bronze in Sochi, a career record winning streak in Boston, and now, at just twenty-three years old, he is going to be the first Bear in over four decades to lift the Stanley Cup.”

“The cameras are finding the Bears’ family section now—and fans might recognize a couple of familiar faces up there.”

“Well, I don't think anyone expected to see Shane Hollander back at a hockey game quite this soon after Montreal's elimination in the second round.”

“Not just Hollander, either. It looks like both of his parents have made the trek with him, though—interestingly—it appears Mr. Hollander is the only member of the family willing to wear Boston colors tonight.”

“Not that you can blame them. Hollander may be here to support his friend, but asking a Metro to wear a Boston black and gold might be taking things a step too far.”

“But really, it's good to see them here. Rozanov does not appear to have any family in attendance tonight, other than his longtime rumored beau, Svetlana Vetrova. But clearly that does not mean he is without support. Avid followers of both his and Hollander's careers will know the whole Hollander family has been close with Rozanov for years now, and it's good to see them included among the Bears' family and friends for tonight's game.”

“Even after Hollander and Team Canada denied Rozanov Olympic gold only a few months ago in Sochi?"

"Haha, even then! That's what makes their friendship so interesting, I think. On the ice, there may not be two players in this league who want to beat each other more. But, off the ice, they're almost akin to brothers, and the Hollanders being here tonight really solidifies that."

The camera cut back to the ice, where the Bears had gathered near center; players were embracing, shouting, some were openly crying as the arena continued to scream around them. At the far end of the rink, the doors opened and a procession of league officials stepped onto the ice, followed by the Conn Smythe Trophy and the Stanley Cup carried onto the ice by its white-gloved keepers.

“And now, the moment Boston has been waiting four decades for. The Stanley Cup has arrived. First, the Conn Smythe Trophy will be awarded to the most valuable player of the postseason—and then, the greatest prize in hockey will be presented to the Boston Bears.”

The broadcast stayed wide as the arena swelled with another roar, the sound nearly drowning out the commentators as Ilya Rozanov was announced as the winner of the Conn Smythe Trophy. His teammates closed in around him at once, shouting and striking their gloves against his helmet and shoulders.

Then comes the moment everyone has been waiting for: as captain, Ilya Rozanov is called forward to receive the Stanley Cup. He skates toward the presentation table, takes the Cup into his hands, and lifts it high above his head, his face breaking open with something almost unrecognizable in its joy as the arena erupts around him.

Then, for the entire world to hear, he shouts, “Dlya tebya, Mama!” punctuating the declaration with a wink and a twitch of his nose.

♡⊹˚₊🏒 June 2014🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

HockeyBuzz.com |Your Inside Edge on NHL News & Rumors

From Rival to Reveler: The Bears’ Stanley Cup Celebrations Included One Very Unexpected Guest

Late Friday night, the Boston Bears won the Stanley Cup for the first time in more than four decades. However, somewhere amid their celebrations, they appear to have picked up a particularly notable addition to their roster.

As photos and videos from the Bears’ victory party began circulating online, eagle-eyed fans were quick to notice an unexpected figure among the players, staff, friends, and family packed into the team’s private celebration: Montreal Metros superstar center and Alternate Captain Shane Hollander (#24).

Hollander first appeared in the background of a grainy video posted shortly after midnight, standing beside Bears Captain Ilya Rozanov (#81) as several Boston players crowded around the Stanley Cup. Another clip briefly showed him laughing in a booth with Bears forwards Victor St-Simon (#53) and Connor Connors (#16).

By the time Bears defenseman Cliff Marleau (#7) posted a selfie of him and Hollander on Instagram shortly after 2 AM, there was no longer any question about the identity of Boston’s unexpected guest.

However, while Hollander and his parents were known to have attended Friday night’s Game 7, the question remained: What, exactly, was Hollander was doing at the Bears' post-game celebrations?

The answer to this question emerged early Saturday morning, when Marleau and Hollander were stopped by a reporter while traveling between stops in the Bears’ increasingly energetic championship celebration. In the brief video, Marleau can be seen with one arm firmly around Hollander’s shoulders while Hollander makes several unsuccessful attempts to remove it.

“You see, my good friend Shane Hollander here made a bet—a bet he lost, by the way,” Marleau explained, emphasizing the word “lost” as Hollander shakes his head beside him. “So now he has to come out and celebrate the Bears’ victory.”

According to the pair, the wager was made earlier in the season. Hollander agreed that if Boston won the Stanley Cup, he would join the Bears for one night of celebrations. Had Montreal won instead, Marleau and several other Boston players would have been expected to return the favor.

In this same impromptu interview, Hollander explained he had traveled to Boston for Friday night’s deciding game primarily to support his longtime friend Rozanov. With the Bears’ victory, however, he also found himself obligated to honor his half of the agreement made with Marleau.

“I lost the bet,” Hollander acknowledged. “Those were the terms.”

Hollander’s appearance at the Bears’ Stanley Cup celebration is only the latest—and perhaps most conspicuous—example of the surprisingly friendly relationship that has developed between the current Boston and Montreal rosters.

While the Bears and Metros remain fierce divisional rivals, away from the rink, members of both teams have increasingly been photographed sharing drinks, attending events, and appearing in one another’s offseason photos. Still, joining a rival team’s private Stanley Cup celebration represents an unusually public display of goodwill—particularly from one of Montreal’s most recognizable players.

Marleau and the other Bears, at least, appeared pleased with the outcome of their wager.

“He is having fun,” Marleau insisted near the end of the interview, tightening his arm around Hollander as the Metros star once again attempted to pull away. “He loves Boston.”

Hollander immediately denied having every said such a thing. However, before Marleau could offer any follow up, Connors, who was passing behind the pair, offered his own assessment.

“He doesn’t have to,” Connors called toward the camera. “We can tell.”

The video then ends as the Bears continued their journey towards their next destination, taking Hollander—and the Stanley Cup—with them.

The full video interview can be found Here .

Boston will be hosting a victory parade for the Bears on Wednesday, June 18th. The parade is scheduled to begin at 11 AM and will depart from the TD Garden before heading south on Causeway Street. Complete parade route and viewing information can be found on the official city of Boston website.

Subscribe to our daily newsletter for the latest hockey news, trade rumors, and locker-room gossip delivered straight to your inbox.

♡⊹˚₊🏒 June 2014🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

rpf-on-ice
@rpf-on-ice

Okay but hockey rpfers, have we considered… Marlander 👀 #shanehollander #cliffmarleau #marlander #2407

3:52 PM · June 21, 2014

289 Retweets 106 Quote Tweets 751 Likes

foolishheart_ @foolishheart_ · June 21, 2014 Replying to @rpf_on_ice

On it boss 🫡🫡🫡

139

♡⊹˚₊🏒 July 2014🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

Chapter End Notes

Hello hello hello! :)
I am officially back in the states 💕! I wanted to thank everyone who offered well wishes for my time abroad; I have not been able to respond to everyone, but you are all very sweet and I really appreciated all the sentiments :)))) To all my Aussies and Kiwis reading, I just want to say your countries are gorgeous and I am already dreaming of going back 💕💕💕

Post Sochi! I know many people were excited about Shane and Ilya's reunion in the states, and I hope the fact that it was 5 weeks after wasn't a disappointment 💔 In all honesty... I didn't write the night in Sochi because I couldn't find a way to write it in an entertaining way that didn't feel like a checklist... and this fic is already long as is haha. But as I was trying to figure out how I wanted their reunion to go I had the idea of Tuna Meltdown but Good, and the boys really took it from there lol.

Plus! This way I got to do art for storytelling purposes again :)))

And I'm actually really happy how this chapter turned out! The chapter name is 100% a joke since all Ilya did was edge Shane turning the Tuna Meltdown rehash :)) That said! I absolutely want to shout out alinea_arts as the main reason I found the motivation to include a smut scene in this chapter, as her nsfw hollanov pieces are utterly gorgeous, and the first position Ilya puts Shane in was absolutely based on her "You feel good" work 💕 If you like nsfw art, please hop over to her and leave some love on her works, they are so utterly gorgeous, and if you don't like nsfw art her Insta is also full of some absolute sfw beauties :))

alinea_arts (ao3 link - nsfw)
(insta link -sfw)

I have many more thoughts, but I don't want to leave a multi tab author's note like I did for Ch9 haha, so I just wanted to say, thank you to everyone who is interacting with this fic, reccing it to people, leaving kudos, commenting, or even if you are adding to your read later lists. You are all so, so very sweet, and you have all my love 💕💕💕

Chapter 11: A Rose by Any Other Name

Chapter Summary

Once the initial shock of realizing he was talking to the Rose Landry wore off, it was surprising how much they had in common, barring the wildly different industries their careers were in.

Chapter Notes

⚠️ WAIT! ⚠️

I highly recommend waiting to read this chapter until you’re in an environment where you can listen to audio, as there is a video element at the end of the chapter.

While listening is not required, as there is a transcript provided, the intended effect of the end of this chapter will only really hit if you can hear the audio.

Enjoy 💕

See the end of the chapter for more notes

♡⊹˚₊🏒 Late July 2014🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

It was the last summer Shane and Ilya would stay here at the lake.

Or, at least, it was the last summer they would stay here, as in, here at the Hollanders’ family cottage, as their own was due to be finished by the end of the year. By next summer, an interior designer will have gone through it and made it home and, from then on, that would be where they would spend most of their offseason.

At their own cottage.

Even after months of meetings with architects and contractors, approving plans and arguing over fixtures, Ilya still sometimes couldn’t wrap his head around those words, ‘their own’, referring to him and Shane as a set pair. Soon, they would have a home of their own—not just somewhere one of them was just visiting for however long their seasons allowed.

Each room would carry evidence of something one or both of them wanted. They had designed every part of it around the life they wanted to have there: a home gym with a sauna for the long, aching hours after training; a synthetic rink where they could skate together and practice during the summer; a wide deck overlooking the lake with a fire pit; floor-to-ceiling windows that faced the water; enough room for Shane’s parents and whichever friends/teammates they would hopefully maybe invite over one day; a bedroom that belonged equally to both of them.

Some days, the sheer excitement of knowing he was going to have a home with Shane made Ilya feel like an hyperactive dog desperate to chew through something.

But that was still months—if not a full year—away. At the current moment, they were stretched out together on one of the couches on the Hollander cottage’s deck. The sun had long since disappeared behind the roof, leaving the deck awashed in cool shadow, but the cushions still retained some remnants of the afternoon’s warmth.

Yuna and David had gone back to Ottawa several days earlier to give Shane and Ilya some time alone at the lake, a gesture both of them were taking full advantage of. Case and point: they were currently both shirtless and Ilya was curled against Shane's side as they soaked up the last vestiges of heat lingering on the cushions and each other’s skin.

Their lack of shirts was, regrettably, where their nudity ended.

Not once, in all the summers they had spent at the cottage, had Ilya ever managed to convince Shane to do anything fun and sexy outside the safety of their bedroom; regardless of whether his parents were there or not. While Ilya fully understood why Shane wasn’t going to let Ilya suck him off on the deck—actual privacy and reasonable expectations of privacy were two very different things after all—this didn’t stop Ilya from making the occasional teasing suggestion during the days they found themselves completely alone in Calabogie. Unfortunately, despite Ilya’s playful proposal earlier for a mid-afternoon exchange of outdoor blowjobs, they both remained firmly contained in their now-dry swim trunks.

Shane was currently on the phone with their builder. While construction on their cottage was nearly done—with most of the remaining work consisting of the final, tedious details needed before they could officially move furniture in—apparently some of the electrical work had failed an inspection and construction had to be halted until it got approved. All of this was to say, Shane now had to coordinate with the builder to get an electrician back out there as soon as possible if they wanted to avoid jeopardizing the hopeful completion date by the end of the year.

“—I really need someone to be sent out this week. I’m only planning to stay in Calabogie for another couple of days before heading down to…”

It was a boring conversation, really. And not in the sexy boring Shane way. It probably would have been a lot more fun if Ilya had been successful in persuading Shane to partake in some good old fashioned outdoor head before—or while—he was on the phone, but… oh well. No use mourning opportunities already lost. Ilya contented himself with lying plastered against Shane’s side, his head resting directly over Shane’s heart and ribs. It put him in the perfect position for Shane to run his fingers through Ilya’s curls while he talked—which he did, almost absently, much to Ilya’s pleasure.

However, as the phone call stretched from a quick minute to nearly ten, Ilya had mostly stopped listening. Shane would ask if he needed Ilya’s input, but most of the coordination with the builders had gone through to Shane and his parents anyways.

While Ilya was funding half the project and a small mountain of NDAs produced by Yuna and their lawyer had made it possible for his name to be on the deed without the project becoming public knowledge, the fact remained that no one involved in the actual construction knew that he and Shane were building it together. It wasn’t as though Ilya could exactly appear on any of the construction paperwork or be super involved past a “friend’s” passing interest if their goal was still discretion.

Ilya was beginning to hate that word and all its stupid conjugates. Discreet. Discreetly. Discreetness. Discretion.

In any case, since it wasn't like he could contribute anything past silent moral support, there was little reason to listen all that closely while Shane coordinated electrical work. So, instead, Ilya pulled out and checked his phone, which had been buzzing steadily against the cushion for the last several minutes.

As he opened it, Ilya found that nearly all of his notifications were from the Bears’ main roster group chat. It was usually fairly quiet during the summer, aside from the occasional attempt to coordinate a night out or get a few people together, so the number of notifications piling up was unusual.

Intrigued, Ilya opened the chat.

Sebbin: So Marly, hows your boyfriend doing?
Marleau: my What?
Sebbin: Dude! You haven’t heard? 😂😂😂
Kane: whos marly dating now?
Carmichael: Wait, Marly is dating someone?; Since when? No one ever tells me shit; Wait boyfriend???
Marleau: I dont have a boyfriend wtf are yall on?
Sebbin: Twitter https://twitter.com/rpf-on-ice/status/827276172407; lolll its all over twitter man
Connors: oh wait i hrd abt this!; like last wk; fans rly liked ur bet w/ Holz and strted shippin yall
St-Simon: oh shit was that what all that “Marlander” shit that I kept seeing was?
Connors: yeye thats it
Dubek: The fuck is a marlander?
Connors: mar(leau) + (hol)lander.; its like a name 4 if they were in a relation(ship)

Ilya stared incredulously at his phone and the ship name the internet had apparently given his best friend and his boyfriend.

Listen, of course Ilya knew what shipping and RPF was. When the public friendship narrative he and Shane had pivoted to started taking off all those years ago, both of their teams’ PR departments had sat them down and briefed them on that particular corner of the NHL fanbase. Apparently, it had been deemed super important to make sure they both really understood that some NHL fans were a lot less interested in watching hockey than they were in imagining the men playing it in secret elaborate romantic relationships with one another and how it was possible it might happen to them (it might not!) and the two of them just needed to be aware it but “don't worry about it if it happens to you, just don’t engage, we’ll handle it.”

It had been a memorable debrief, all things considered, so even years later, Ilya could still recall some of the facts—and several of the funnier examples—they had been shown; even if he had hardly needed to think about RPF or shippers since. It had always surprised and confused Ilya, considering the fuss both of their PR departments had made and the fact that he and Shane were indeed in a secret elaborate romantic relationship with one another, that they had never inspired so much as a credible dating rumor, much less a dedicated RPF fanbase; at least in the romantic sense.

God, what was their ship name again? The lovers' one?

He knew 'Rozander' was the one people used when they thought he and Shane were like brothers or something—which he knew Shane thought was really gross but Ilya had always found it kind of funny—but he could have sworn he saw a romantic one recently. What was it—?

This was beside the point.

The point was that Ilya had been repeatedly told that hockey RPF was mostly just harmless fun and—again—if fans ever started shipping him with another player that he really shouldn't take any of it too seriously.

Well it wasn't happening to him but it still felt pretty fucking serious now that the RPFers apparently wanted his best friend and his boyfriend to fuck.

Ilya clicked the link Sebbin had sent to the chat, then tapped the ‘#marlander’ hashtag the user had included in the tweet. While there weren’t many results—which nearly made him heave a sigh of relief; ‘Marlander’ seemed to be a pretty niche ship, even among RPFers—what did come up confirmed exactly what Connors, St-Simon, and Sebbin had said: a small group of fans had become quite enamored with the idea of Shane and Marleau together—both romantically and sexually—ever since their Stanley Cup bet interview.

But what the fuck was AO3, and why were so many people linking to it in their ‘Marlander’ tweets?

The Bears’ group chat had continued buzzing throughout Ilya’s brief bout of internet sleuthing. He wanted to continue his impromptu RPF investigation, but eventually his morbid curiosity about what his team had to say about ‘Marlander’ won out, and he clicked back into it.

Feller: Congratulations Marly! Hollander is quite the catch!
Kohn: Nah, theres no way Marly could pull Hollander
Marleau: Excuse me? Im a fuckin catch
Connors: yeah u r marly 😩😩😩😩
Marleau: Jesus christ Con, not now
Johansson: Ahh dont be embarrassed bro love is love! We still love ya ❤️
Marleau: Im going to kick all your asses
St-Simon: I mean hey, look on the bright side! It could be worse!
Marleau: How?
St-Simon: Idk. They could be shipping you with that asshole rookie Kent from Toronto?
Connors: 💀💀💀💀💀💀
Dubek: What would that ship name be? Marnt?
Connors: IT IS NOW; MARNT
Dubek: Dude I’m still trying to get what these names are supposed to mean. Makes no sense to me
Marly: You know what, if those were my only two options, yeah Id choose Hollzy any day
St-Simon: lmaoo

Ilya suppressed the irrational flare of jealousy that coursed through him. Yeah, Shane was a fucking catch, and Ilya caught him!

'Marlander' wasn’t even that popular a ship, so it wasn’t as though any of this mattered. Yeah, sure, most RPFers seemed to think he and Shane made better brothers rather than lovers, but surely even their small, niche romantic ship was a lot more popular than 'Marlander'.

Not that Ilya cared, of course.

God, what was their ship name again? He knew he had seen it before. He was almost certain he had sent Shane a meme about it recently. Shane would probably remember.

He dropped his phone onto the cushions and lifted his head from Shane’s chest, briefly mourning the hand that slipped from his curls as he moved. He tapped Shane’s ribs twice to get his attention.

“—right, but if it's the current panel that's the problem, then we need to—” Shane looked down at him, meeting his eyes. “Oh—I'm sorry, one second.” He muted the call and lowered the phone. “What’s wrong?”

“What is our internet ship name?”

Shane’s eyebrows furrowed. “Uh—isn't it Rozander?”

“No, no. The sexy one.” Ilya propped his chin against Shane’s chest. “The one where people think it would be hot if we kissed. I sent it to you once, I think.”

“Oh.” Shane’s gaze drifted as he thought about it, his fingers returning absently to the nape of Ilya’s neck. “Hollanov?”

Ilya snapped his fingers. “Yes! That was it. Spasibo.” He pressed a kiss to Shane’s pec and lowered his head back down before tucking himself firmly back against Shane’s side. Shane huffed an incredulous laugh above him as Ilya reopened his phone. After a moment, where Ilya pointedly didn't look up at him, he felt Shane’s chest expand with a steadying breath before he unmuted the call.

“Hey, sorry about that,” Shane said, easily slipping back into his serious, competent homeowner voice. “So, if we can get someone out to replace the panel this week, that would…”

As Shane resumed his conversation with the builder, Ilya opened his browser to look up 'Hollanov’s obviously superior RPF stats. Notifications from the Bears’ group chat continued pinging across the top of his screen as he scrolled, letting him keep a loose eye on the conversation without abandoning his investigation entirely.

Connors: ya know ngl; these edits r kinda convincing; u guys look happy af congrats brother
Marleau: Not sure if you remember this Con, considering all the head trauma youve had, but we had just won the fucking Cup of course I looked happy
Connors: 💀💀💀💀
Carmichael: I mean I also watched one of the edits.; It was pretty well made, all things considered.; The song choice was a bit much though
Marleau: Why did you look for one Carmy??
Carmichael: Seb sent it to me and it started playing automatically when I opened it!; Then I was curious to see how it ended.
Hammersmith: wait so did you guys like actually bone that night or
Marleau: Jesus Hammy, no
Hammersmith: look man im just asking its a valid question!; no judgement if you did. i mean thats kinda gay but like. good for you. Hollander is pretty hot
Kane: hammy wtffff 😂😂😂
Johansson: lmaooo Hams you got something to tell us?? 💀💀💀
Hammersmith: what?? a guy cant recognize another good looking guy??
Feller: Evidently not without calling him gay first
Hammersmith: he would be gay in this situation though! im not bullying him its just an observation
St-Simon: You understand that Marly would also be gay in this situation, right?
Hammersmith: yeah but like were not talking about whether marly is hot
Marleau: First of all, I am
Dubek: Gay??
Marleau: HOT; Dubs I am begging you to keep up
Dubek: Dude I’m trying, but what even is this conversation?
Kohn: I thought we established you were a ‘fucking catch’?
Connors: ^^^ 🤨🤨🤨
Marleau: SECOND OF ALL; Can we stop talking about whether I fucked Hollzy?
Sebbin: fine; did hollander fuck you?
Marleau: Fuck off all of you
Connors: LMAOOOOO SEB
Kane: sebbbbb omggg
Marleau: Nothing happened with Hollzy; None of yall were complaining when I got him to come out with us
St-Simon: No, that was excellent work.
Connors: fr; legendary pull
Kane: best thing youve ever done for this team
Marleau: We literally just won the Cup man
Kane: second best thing then

This was bullshit! Why was ‘Marlander’ more popular than ‘Hollanov’?

Did the internet not think he and Shane would be hot together!? They were extremely hot together; Ilya had literal years of evidence supporting this and the internet had access to plenty of pictures. Where were their edits set to Taylor Swift? Where were their long, obsessive threads analyzing every public interaction they’d ever had? They’d interacted publicly all the time! There was more than enough material to comb through.

The two of them—mainly Ilya—posted so much about their summers together, RPFers should have been eating that shit up. Instead, all he found was a handful of tweets from pretty much the same person and a lonely link to AO3 (which, he had learned, was apparently an archive where people posted sexy stories about their favorite ships). Meanwhile, Marly made one stupid bet with Shane, and suddenly people were making romantic edits of them and writing all these stories about them fucking?

The irrational jealousy he suppressed earlier roared in Ilya’s chest.

Logically, Ilya knew Marly wasn’t trying to steal his boyfriend, and Shane wasn’t going to leave him for his best friend. They were literally half-naked and cuddled together on the deck of Shane’s parents’ cottage while Shane spoke to a contractor about repairing the electrical panel in the house they were building together.

Still. Shane was his boyfriend. Not Marly’s.

Ilya was jolted out of his increasingly possessive spiral when Connors’ next message was just his name.

Connors: ROZZZZ; i c u lurkin; we need an expert opinion + you kno thm best; rate the ship!!

Before he could think better of it:

Ilya: 0/10; marly can barely keep up with Shane on the ice
Connors: ooof fckin brutal rip marly
St-Simon: Damn bro not even a 1?💀

Beside him, Shane finished confirming something about the electrician’s availability, thanked the builder, and finally ended the call. He set his phone down on the side table next to the couch, then looked at Ilya, whose attention was still very fixed on his phone.

“Okay,” Shane said. “Are you going to tell me what that whole ship name thing was about?”

Ilya glanced up at him without lifting his head. “Did you know people ship you with Marly more than they ship you with me?”

Shane blinked. “What?”

“More people want Marly to fuck you than me.”

Shane clearly wasn’t following, his confusion plain on his face. “What brought this on?”

Rather than try to explain, Ilya handed over his phone. Shane scrolled back through the Bears’ group chat while Ilya shifted closer, settling more heavily against his side. Ilya watched Shane’s face instead of the screen, catching the blush that rose in his cheeks when he reached Feller calling him a catch and watching his eyebrows lift at Hammersmith’s question, then climb even higher when he got to Ilya’s rating.

“You gave Marly and I a zero?”

“I was being generous.”

Shane huffed a laugh through his nose. “Ilya.”

Ilya took the phone back without moving from his place plastered against Shane’ side, switched to his browser, and pulled up the pages he had found. “Look,” he said, shoving the screen toward him again. “Edits. Threads. And this.”

Shane tipped his head closer to see the AO3 results page. “What’s Archive of Our Own?”

“It is a sexy story website, but that is not important right now. Just look! They are writing about you and Marly.”

Shane scrolled briefly through the results page, most of which were, in fact, sexy stories about Marly fucking him. He made a face. “Huh,” he finally said. “I mean, twenty-two isn’t that many.”

“It is more than Hollanov.”

Shane glanced at him, clearly fighting a smile. “Did you forget that’s not a bad thing and we don’t actually want people shipping us like that?”

“I did not forget this.” Ilya grumbled. He hadn’t. That didn’t mean he liked this new development.

Shane looked back down at the page. “If it makes you feel better, it really doesn’t seem that popular, especially compared to some of the stuff the Metros PR team showed me. Besides, Marly and I see each other, what, maybe five times a year? Once people stop talking about the Cup and start gearing up for next season, there probably won’t be anything new to keep it going, so it’ll probably die down before the season starts.”

Ilya considered this, then suggested, “Or we could kill Marly.”

Shane laughed, his chest contracting beneath Ilya’s head. “We’re not killing Marly.”

He glanced at the phone again, his amusement fading slightly as he skimmed another summary. His mouth tightened. Ilya knew Shane, and he couldn’t imagine he was particularly thrilled about seeing himself paired off with one of their friends, especially one who happened to be one of Ilya’s best friends.

“I mean, I’ll admit this isn’t great, I should probably text Marly and—”

Ilya made an offended noise. “You are not texting Marly right now.”

Shane huffed a laugh, his eyes crinkling with unmistakable amusement. “Okay. Fine. I won’t text Marly.”

“Good.”

“But seriously.” Shane locked the phone and handed it back to Ilya. “As far as these kinds of things usually go, this is probably the best-case scenario.”

Ilya lifted his head enough to stare at him. “People writing stories about Marly fucking you is best case?”

“Compared to people figuring out who I’m actually fucking?” Shane asked. “Yeah. Kind of.”

Ilya held his gaze for several long, incredulous seconds before lowering his head back onto Shane’s ribs with a dissatisfied noise. He wrapped his arm tight across Shane’s stomach, and for a moment, said nothing.

Shane was right. They couldn't be out—not publicly, not yet.

Ilya was so close to securing American citizenship. His application was pending, and while his lawyers couldn't find any major reason why it might be denied, every month that passed without a decision made Ilya feel like a caged dog pacing in his kennel. He couldn't come out while all he had was a Russian passport. He couldn't afford to make a spectacle now and risk giving the American DHS some convenient “reason” to deny his application. He couldn't endanger his future over something as petty as jealousy over online ‘ship wars’ when he stood on the cusp of getting everything he had ever wanted.

But knowing, understanding, and agreeing with all that logic that didn't make the ugly feeling in his chest disappear.

He wanted to open the Bears’ chat and tell every single one of those idiots that Shane was his. He wanted to tell Marly, Connors, and St-Simon that Jane had been Shane all along—that Ilya had already introduced them to his “girlfriend” without any of them even realizing it. He wanted strangers online to stop debating Shane’s supposed lack of a love life as if Ilya wasn't right here and they weren't building a house together.

His craving for sunlight had grown ravenous lately—harder to swallow down each time it rose.

Shane sighed and rested his head against Ilya’s. “According to my PR department, if neither one of us engages with it, it should die down.” He hesitated, and when he continued, his voice was quieter all of a sudden. “And then, someday—I don’t know. When we’ve both won a Cup and every trophy we'd ever want, and you have your citizenship—maybe we could say something. Or post something. Something that makes Hollanov more popular than any other hockey ship or whatever.”

Shane sounded nervous when he said this, his face turning away from Ilya as a blush bloomed on his cheeks. Ilya felt his heart constrict. He was so, so fond of this man that, for a second, his tongue felt too heavy to speak. He tucked himself deeper into Shane’s arms and let out a ragged sigh of his own. “Yes,” he said. “When we both have our Cups and all our trophies, ‘Hollanov’ will be the best hockey ship, because we are the best at everything.”

Shane gave a relieved laugh and pressed a kiss to Ilya’s forehead, his arms tightening around him.

Beyond the deck, the last of the sun disappeared behind the trees, leaving the sky streaked with red and gold that softened gradually into pink, blue, and violet. For a little while longer, neither of them moved. They remained curled together on the couch as the colors deepened above them, vivid across the open sky.

♡⊹˚₊🏒 November 2014🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

“Capitaine! What the fuck are you doing right now?”

Shane frowned at the phone he had answered without checking the caller ID. He had assumed it would be one of the few people who regularly called him instead of texting—there really weren't that many, mainly his parents or Ilya. In retrospect, JJ was also a part of that group: unlike nearly everyone else Shane knew, he pretty much always called and almost never texted.

Shane considered lying and saying he was busy. He wasn’t, not really. He was reading a book about the infamous Piestany bench-clearing brawl between Canada and the Soviet Union at the 1987 World Junior Championship, and was waiting for a call from Ilya that wouldn’t come until later that night. Still, he wasn’t exactly sure what possessed him to instead say: “Nothing. Why?”

“Fuck that! Get your ass downtown. You remember my buddy François, the chef? He’s having a little after-hours party at his restaurant, and get this—the cast of that fucking X-Squad movie they’re filming next year are all in town, and they’re all going to be there!”

“Really? All of them?”

“Gah, I don’t know! Enough of them! There are some fucking hot chicks in that movie, man. Get in your car and get your ass down here.” There was a burst of noise on JJ’s end of the call, voices and laughter spilling over one another before he shouted, “You remember where the restaurant is, right? Djon-Djon?”

“Uh, yeah. We went there last month, right? After the Toronto game?”

“That’s the one, Capitaine!”

Shane turned the offer over in his head.

He couldn't deny that it sounded fun. He had never cared much about celebrity culture, despite being relatively famous himself, but the possibility of meeting actual movie stars sounded way too unreal to pass up. Still, he wasn’t willing to miss his call with Ilya for it. Their lives had only gotten busier over the past year, and Shane wasn’t exactly one to pass up the rare night when their schedules sort of aligned.

But Ilya was currently out with Marly, Vic, Connors, and some of the other Bears tonight, and he wouldn’t be back at his hotel for hours. Realistically, Shane could probably go to the party, stay for a little while, leave around the same time Ilya headed back, and still have time to spare.

He made JJ no promises. But even as he hemmed and hawed into the phone, Shane put him on speaker, opened his text thread with Ilya, and began typing.

Shane: Hey, JJ invited me to some after-hours party at his friend’s restaurant. Apparently, there are going to be some movie stars there or something.

He hesitated, then added:

Shane: I thought it sounded fun, so I think I’m going to go.; I just wanted to let you know. Text me when you’re heading back to the hotel, and I’ll start making my way home around the same time so we can still call tonight.

Shane was in the middle of putting on some of the nicer clothes from his closet—specifically, a shirt Ilya had picked out for him last year for occasions just like this—when Ilya texted back.

Lily: okeei moy lyubimyy )) will be many hour, so have fun, da?
Shane: You are very drunk lol; But I will! Be safe, drink some water.
Lily: Ty vryosh’, vrun.; no, da, da, ya tebya lyublyu
Shane: Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu, talk to you later tonight.
Lily: 🔥🔥🔥

Ilya accompanied the last text with a shaky selfie of himself and several Bears inside a nondescript club, looking every bit as drunk as his half-English, half-Russian texting had implied. Shane had to fight a laugh as he saved the picture and finished getting dressed so he could head out to his car.

It was a little inconvenient for this to be happening on a random Thursday night in the middle of the week, but Montreal didn't have another game until Saturday, so Shane supposed the timing had worked out for the best. He made the drive into Mile End without much traffic, and when he arrived, the parking lot outside Djon-Djon was surprisingly empty despite its apparent A-list guest list.

Or perhaps it was empty because of the A-list guest list. Celebrities probably had drivers more often than not, didn’t they?

Whatever the reason, it made finding a space easy.

The sign on the front door said the restaurant was closed, but JJ was already standing just inside, waving enthusiastically before Shane had even fully shut off his car. Shane quickly killed the engine and stepped out into the cold, before making his way toward the entrance.

“Capitaine! Get in here!”

Inside, the small Haitian restaurant was crowded, humming with music, laughter, and warmth. Aside from the handful of his teammates scattered throughout the room, Shane didn’t know anyone currently inside Djon-Djon.

He sure as hell recognized them, though.

Shane couldn't help feeling a little starstruck by the company. Everywhere he looked, there seemed to be another face he recognized from a movie poster, interview, or magazine cover. Ilya was going to be so jealous when he told him about this later tonight. Half the people he recognized came from those loud American action movies Ilya was obsessed with.

While Shane had never been someone who took many pictures of himself, never quite understanding the point, he did make a vow to take at least one selfie as proof to show Ilya when he inevitably called bullshit.

At the bar, Shane ordered a beer despite the elaborate cocktails the bartender was preparing and showing off to other guests. He tried to pay, but the bartender insisted: “For you? On the house, Shane Hollander.”

Shane smiled and thanked him—Maxime, he had introduced himself as—before slipping the ten into his tip jar anyway. “Thanks. Are you having a good night?”

“This crowd?” Maxime asked, incredulous. “Are you kidding? Rose Landry is here, man!”

Shane’s eyes darted over his shoulder almost involuntarily, scanning the room for a glimpse of the famous actress before he could think better of it.

Maxime laughed.

Shane flushed faintly, thanked him again for the beer, and rejoined JJ, letting his friend pull him around the restaurant and through a dizzying number of conversations. Shane mostly let JJ lead, gradually letting himself settle into the atmosphere François had curated.

It was fun, even if Shane could barely remember anyone’s name more than thirty seconds after being introduced. JJ seemed to know everyone, or at least acted like he did, and Shane was content to follow in his wake. He checked his phone once or twice as the night progressed, keeping an eye out for a text from Ilya. Nothing yet.

Eventually, however, Shane’s social battery began to wear thin. JJ had jumped into yet another conversation, and his excuse to leave continued to elude him; so, when he spotted an empty booth in the corner of the restaurant, he claimed it before anyone else could.

“Oh my God, please tell me you’re hungry.”

Shane looked up as a striking woman with vibrant red hair, bright blue eyes, and an expensive-looking top paired with equally expensive-looking jeans approached his table. Her face was immediately and unmistakably familiar.

Rose Landry.

“The chef just handed these to me, and they are so good, but I seriously can’t eat them all.” she said, sliding into the booth seat across from him. She set the plate on the table between them, piled high with Haitian salt cod fritters. She popped one into her mouth, and let out a near indecent moan of approval.

“God, they’re so good,” she said, belatedly raising a hand to cover her mouth. She swallowed quickly, wiped her fingers on the napkin she had carried the plate over with, then extended a perfectly manicured hand across the table. “Sorry. I’m such a pig. I’m Rose, by the way.”

Shane smiled and shook her hand. “Shane. It’s nice to meet you, I’m a big fan.”

“Well, would you believe me if I said I’m a fan of yours?” Rose asked, smiling as she leaned forward across the table.

“You like hockey?” Shane asked.

“I was born and raised in Michigan,” she said with a laugh. “Hell yeah, I like hockey.”

The next hour seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. They talked while gradually polishing off the plate of fritters, which were—admittedly—delicious. Rose was surprisingly easy to talk to. She was funny, down-to-earth, and just as charismatic in person as she was on-screen. Once the initial shock of realizing he was talking to the Rose Landry wore off, it was surprising how much they had in common, barring the wildly different industries their careers were in.

She had grown up around sports and Shane had spent enough time around cameras and interviews to understand some of the stranger parts of her job. They traded stories about travel, demanding schedules, and the bizarre experience of having strangers believe they knew you just because they had watched you work.

Shane probably could have talked to her for another hour, if his phone hadn’t buzzed halfway through a conversation about some of the weirder roles Rose had taken in the early days of her career:

Lily: we am heading back )))

“... for this absolutely awful FBI-versus-terrorist-organization drama. I don’t even remember what it was called anymore.”

“Under Dark?” Shane asked, as he pulled out his phone and typed out a response.

Shane: Okay :) I’ll wrap things up here, call you in 20 min?
Lily: 😈😈😈

“Oh my God! Shut up! You saw that!”

Shane shrugged and grinned. “I fly a lot. I watch a lot of movies.” He locked his phone, slipped it back into his pocket, and drained the last dregs of his beer. “I really hate to cut this short, but I actually need to get going. It’s been really awesome talking to you.”

“Aww, likewise.” Rose said with a grin. She seemed to wait expectantly for something. Shane wasn’t sure what, exactly, so he began gathering his coat from beside him. It was only once he started pulling it on that she continued.

“I don’t want to be too forward, but could I have your number?” she asked. “It really was nice talking to you, and I’m going to need some good friends when I come back to Montreal to film next year.”

“Oh yeah, absolutely.” Shane said. Rose smiled and handed over her phone, already open to a blank contact page. Shane quickly entered his number, saved it, and passed the phone back.

She looked down at the screen and tapped at it a few times. A moment later, Shane felt his own phone buzz inside his pocket.

Unknown: Hi!! This is Rose :)))

Shane sent a quick ‘thumbs up’ to confirm they had the right numbers and said, “Sweet, I got you.” He finished shrugging into his coat. “It really was nice meeting you, Rose. And thanks for the fritters.”

“It was great to meet you too Shane, thanks for helping me finish them.” She smiled up at him. “Maybe we could grab dinner or something when I’m back in Montreal.”

“Yeah that sounds great.” Shane said, “Just send me a text whenever you’re in town. My weeks can be kind of hectic with my game schedule, but if I’m free I know a couple great places.”

“Perfect, it's a date.” Rose said, with a smile.

“Great,” Shane said, smiling as he adjusted his coat. “See you later, Rose.”

“Goodnight, Shane.”

“Goodnight.”

Shane got home with a couple minutes to spare, just like he thought he might be able to. He was halfway through changing into something more comfortable when his phone began to ring, Lily’s name lighting up the screen. He answered on the second ring, already smiling.

“Privet, malysh!” Ilya’s faintly drunken voice sang through the speaker.

“Privet, Ilyusha,” Shane answered fondly, pulling his pajama shirt over his head before settling back against the pillows. A long, contented sigh came through the receiver, followed by the rustle of fabric as Ilya apparently settled onto whichever bed or couch he had called from himself.

“You’ll never believe who I met tonight,” Shane said.

“Hmm, who did you meet?”

Shane rattled off several of the celebrities he had spoken to, making sure to emphasize the names he knew Ilya would recognize from his favorite movies. Predictably, Ilya made an immediate noise of disbelief.

“Bullshit, this did not happen.”

“It did! I swear! I have—” Shane started to say he had photo evidence, when he realized with a start that he didn’t. Somehow, between sitting down with Rose and becoming completely absorbed in their conversation, he had completely forgotten all about the selfie he had promised himself he would take.

“Shit,” he said. “I forgot to take a picture.”

Ilya’s delighted laughter rang through the speaker.

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

Shane was in the middle of a workout when his phone seemingly exploded with notifications.

At first, he didn't notice. He was halfway through the final reps of his Bulgarian split squats, lowering himself toward the floor and breathing through the burn in his legs. It was only when he finished the set and reached for his phone to log the reps in his fitness app that he realized the screen was almost unusable as notifications were pouring in faster than he could read them.

After several panicked but well-timed taps, Shane managed to silence the main offender: Twitter. However, that did little to solve the problem. Instagram was rapidly pinging too, followed closely by his text messages and—for some reason—his email.

He silenced Instagram next and ignored his inbox entirely.

His messages were harder to dismiss.

The Metros group chat and his teammates appeared to be responsible for most of the insistent buzzing, with seemingly every one of his teammates sending both group and private messages over and over again. Shane didn’t bother opening any of those yet. He noticed both several separate and group messages from both of his parents, each expressing varying degrees of confusion and a twinge of disappointment.

More importantly, both were asking the same question: What was going on, and had something happened between him and Ilya?

That message alone made his heart jump to his throat. He swiped back immediately and began scrolling for Ilya’s contact. There were messages from Hayden, JJ, and Svetlana, along with several other friends he didn’t have the attention to register. Lily’s name was farther down than it should have been, coincidently, directly below a message from Rose.

Lily: Twitter https://twitter.com/us_ weekly/status/162673638282; so you have girlfriend now?

Shane began typing before he had even fully processed the question.

Shane: What??

He quickly opened the link and found a Twitter post from US Weekly, a popular celebrity gossip outlet, accompanied by a photo of his own side profile taken unmistakably through the front window of Djon-Djon.

US Weekly
@us_weekly

Rose Landry spotted at an after-hours party last night in Montreal cozying up with NHL Captain Shane Hollander—Could this be Hollywood’s newest couple?? #roselandry #shanehollander #hollandry

9:54 AM · Nov 15, 2014

6.9K Retweets 3.5K Quote Tweets 87.3K Likes

m0nk_81 @m0nk_81 · Nov 15, 2014 Replying to @us_weekly

um shane hollander and ROSE LANDRY??? Wait they would actually be so insanely cute together!! Pleaseee

139

aiolisunsets @aiolisunsets · Nov 15, 2014 Replying to @us_weekly

okay my first reaction was absolutely NOT! my queen is NOT dating some stinky hockey guy 🤮😭 but!!! i looked him up and petals when i tell you…. he’s so ridiculously cute. Rose, i understand now!!

134

701

miniminji @miniminji · Nov 15, 2014 Replying to @us_weekly

Guys she’s smiling so big at him i just can’t

198

rozander-coloredglasses @rozander-coloredglasses · Nov 15, 2014 Replying to @us_weekly

omg guys imagine the double dates shane and ilya are going to get to go on now!! the couple vacations!!! of COURSE they would both have absolutely gorgeous girlfriends. nothing but the best for themm

He doesn’t let himself scroll any further than those top four comments. His heart, which had already been lodged somewhere in his throat, lurched violently as nausea welled in his stomach. Shane clicked back to his thread with Ilya so quickly that he nearly dropped his phone and hit the call button at the top of the screen.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. Please pick up.” But even as the phone rang, the part of Shane’s mind that kept track of both their schedules reminded him that Ilya was probably at practice. He wouldn’t have his phone on him right now. He hated it, but he wasn’t surprised when instead of a greeting from his boyfriend, his voicemail instead rang out: “Hi, this is Ilya, I will never listen to—” He hung up before the message could finish and swallowed hard against the sudden urge to heave.

Fuck, they were buidling a house together. Who was going to get the cottage if they broke up because of this? Surely one of them would have to leave; or would they sell it to a stranger? Let someone else who wasn’t them sleep in their bedroom and look through their windows at their lake before he or Ilya ever got a chance to move in?

Shane forced himself to take a deep breath.

Ilya hadn't blocked him. At least he wasn’t blocked and he could fix this and—

He checked Rose’s message next.

Last night, their new thread had contained only the brief pair of messages they exchanged after swapping numbers. This morning, several new texts from her sat unread:

Rose: Hi!! This is Rose :)))
Shane: 👍
Rose: Hey Shane! I’m not sure if you’ve seen the news yet, but I wanted to apologize for this whole mess 😣😣😣; I know I’m the one who joined you, but I realize I probably should have insisted we sit somewhere away from the windows. That’s my bad, and I’m really sorry.; This wasn’t how I wanted to ask, but, well… everyone already thinks we’re dating now.; I really liked talking to you last night. You were super funny and so sweet, and I was wondering if maybe you wanted to try dating for real.

“Fuck!” Shane dropped the phone into his lap and stared at it in disbelief. “Fuck, how is this my life right now?”

His phone continued vibrating against his thigh, notifications still piling up faster than he could deal with them. Shane grabbed it again and fired off a hurried message to his parents.

Shane: No! Nothing happened between me and Ilya.; This is a huge misunderstanding. I’m trying to contact him now.; Please stop texting me for a second, my phone is exploding. I’ll call you.

He tapped back to his thread with Rose and stared at her messages, wringing his hands as he tried to figure out how the hell he was supposed to respond. It hadn’t occurred to him once last night that Rose might have been flirting with him. Not when she sat down, not when she asked for his number, and apparently not even when she had looked directly at him and called their hypothetical dinner a date.

In retrospect, it was pretty fucking obvious.

Shane shut his eyes and briefly considered hitting his head against the wall.

Instead, he forced himself to think back over their conversation. Rose had told him dozens of stories over the course of the night, and there had to be something there that could help him figure out what he was supposed to say—or at least something to explain why he didn’t want to date her—without hurting or upsetting her.

The only thing that came to mind was a story she had shared about filming a romance several years earlier with an actor who later came out as gay. Rose hadn’t sounded uncomfortable or judgmental when she talked about him or any of the scenes they filmed. If anything, she had talked about what a wonderful costar he had been and mentioned that they had remained close long after the movie had wrapped.

It wasn’t proof of anything. Knowing one gay person didn’t automatically mean she would react well to being told that the hockey player she had asked out wasn’t interested in her in return because he had a secret boyfriend no one knew about. But it was something.

Shane hit the call button beside her name before he could talk himself out of it.

The phone rang three times before the call connected, and Rose’s voice came cautiously through the speaker.

“Hi, Shane. Is everything okay?” She sounded nervous. That made two of them.

“Hi, Rose.” Shane swallowed nervously and shifted his weight where he was sitting. Sweat was beginning to cool unpleasantly against the back of his neck, and his legs still trembled faintly from the last vestiges of his set. “I’m—uh—sorry for calling. Out of nowhere.”

“Well,” she said with a small laugh, “not really out of nowhere. We are in the middle of quite the public affair.” There was a brief pause before Rose continued, her voice losing some of its forced lightness. “Have you thought at all about what I texted this morning?”

His heart felt like it was trying to hammer its way through his ribs. “Yeah—uh—about that.” Shane gripped the padded bench with his free hand. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“Oh.” Rose sounded disappointed. “That’s okay I—”

“It’s not you,” he interrupted quickly. “I didn’t mean to lead you on or anything. It’s just… I’m…” The rest of that sentence deserted him.

He stared down at the rubber floor beneath his shoes, following the seam between two of the mats as though the right words might be hidden there. He was what, exactly? Gay? Bisexual? Something else he had never taken the time to name or figure out because, for the longest time, Ilya had occupied every part of the answer that mattered?

But he did know: “I have a boyfriend. And it’s—uh—pretty, very serious. It’s not you, really. I really liked talking to you last night.

“Oh.” Her voice sounded surprised this time. There was a faint rustling on her end of the call, like she had sat up abruptly. “Oh! That’s—wow.”

“Yeah… I…”

“Hey, you don't owe me any explanation.”

“I feel like I kind of do.” Shane straightened, stood, and started pacing, unable to keep still while he spoke. “I feel awful about leading you on. I really didn’t mean to. I just didn’t realize what you meant last night, and I just—”

“Hey, hey, Shane. It’s okay. You didn’t lead me on.” She assured him. It somehow doesn’t sound placating. “I mean yeah, I was charmed by you. You were very charming. That’s not the same thing as you deliberately leading me on.”

Shane released a breath and sank back onto the weight bench, elbows braced against his knees. He hadn't realized how tightly he had been holding himself until some of the tension finally began to drain from his shoulders. After a moment, when he didn’t respond, Rose continued.

“How long have you and your boyfriend been together?”

“Oh, uh.” Shane did the mental math, staring absently at the dumbbells by the mirror on the opposite side of the road. “It will be five years this coming June. We are just finishing up building a cottage together just outside Ottawa next month.”

“Wow!” Rose laughed brightly. “Yeah, that sounds super serious. He must be quite the guy to have snatched you up.”

“I guess.” Shane rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly grateful she could not see the heat rising into his face. “I think I’m probably the lucky one.”

Rose let out a delighted noise. “Oh god, that’s so cute. Wow. Now I’m doubly sorry about this whole mess.”

“It’s not your fault.” Shane says.

“Well, I definitely played a part in it.” She argued.

“The same part I played.” He argued back.

Silence fell between them. Then she giggled.

The sound caught Shane off guard, and a disbelieving laugh escaped him in return. Within seconds, they were both laughing at the absurdity of it, the last of the pressure in Shane’s chest loosening enough that he could breathe normally again.

Eventually, Rose drew in a deep breath.

“How about this? We are both responsible, but I’ll talk to my publicist and try to get the whole thing sorted out if—and only if—we stay friends.”

Shane leaned back, bracing one hand against the bench behind him as he pretended to consider the offer. “You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Landry.”

“I’m serious, Mr. Hollander! And not some bullshit ‘let’s stay friends’ thing where we never talk again. Let’s be real friends. Like, best friends.”

“Okay.”

“I really like you, Shane. You’re secretly, like, one of the funniest guys I know.”

“We only talked for an hour and a half. I’m not sure that’s enough time to give me that title.”

“No, no. See, that’s how high of a bar you set.”

“Or how low of one you already had.”

Rose laughed again. “See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

Shane smiled and reached for the towel beside him, finally wiping the cooling sweat from his face and neck.

“I wasn’t lying last night,” she continued. “I really am going to need some good friends in Montreal when I come up to film. And, well… if you and your boyfriend ever wanted to get dinner…”

Shane’s smile faltered. His hand stilled with the towel pressed against the back of his neck. “I would have to talk to him,” he said carefully. “We aren’t… out. Like that. And he doesn’t live in Montreal.”

“That’s fine. Completely fine.” Rose’s response was immediate but kind. “You don’t have to tell me anything else.”

Shane lowered the towel into his lap. “Thank you.”

“Besides, I’ll win him over one day, when you’re both ready,” she added brightly. “Just like I won you over.”

Shane laughs. He opened his mouth to respond when the phone buzzed against his palm. He pulled it away from his ear and glanced down at the screen.

A message from Lily.

“Hey Rose, I’m going to have to talk to you later. My boyfriend is texting me.”

“Oh, go, go, go,” she said immediately. “Tell the boyfriend I’m so sorry about this mess!”

“I will. And Rose?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

Her voice softened. “Anytime, Shane.”

Shane ended the call and navigated over to his and Ilya’s message thread.

Lily: sorry, solnyshko, i am still at practice, call later?
Shane: Rose and I aren’t dating, she’s not my girlfriend. I promise nothing happened last night.; We didn’t even know the paparazzi were there.; fuck wait that sounds worse.; I wouldn’t do that to you. Please, you have to believe that.

Shane was in the middle of typing:

I’ll give you my phone if you want to go through it

—when Ilya texted:

Lily: Shanya, moy lyubimyy, calm down. i know this; you called me last night, we talked about your night; b’lyat. english is stupid language; i was trying to be funny. stupid joke. i know you would not do this.

Shane stared at the messages, his unfinished offer still sitting in the text box. He suddenly flushed with embarrassment as he realized that, somewhere amid the shock and the deluge of notifications, he had completely forgotten one very important detail: he had told Ilya about his night. He had specifically told him about sitting and talking with Rose.

Fucking hell. Of course Ilya knew nothing had happened.

The pressure in Shane’s chest loosened so abruptly that he had to lean forward, bracing his elbows against his knees. He quickly deleted the half-written message.

Shane: Fuck. I completely forgot I already told you about Rose last night.
Lily: ah, so now i am boring one? i put you to sleep with our conversations?
Shane: Oh my god, shut up.; I’m so sorry.
Lily: we are okay. breath, Shanya

Shane dragged in a breath, held it for a moment, then slowly released it. His hands were still trembling faintly around the phone, but the nausea had begun to recede.

Shane: Okay… Will you call me later? When you get home?; I really am sorry.
Lily: no more sorries; i will be home around 6. i will call you
Shane: Okay
Lily: i love you
Shane: Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu

He set his phone down and waited until his heart had stopped racing before picking it up again to call his mom, his dad, and then Farah—in that order.

♡⊹˚₊🏒 February 2015🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

saraheliza-t
@saraheliza-t

okay so i know Rose and Shane have said they’re not dating but like… have either of them considered, I don’t believe them!

3:49 PM · Feb 18, 2015

85 Retweets 32 Quote Tweets 920 Likes

j0yus-dragon @j0yus-dragon · Feb 18, 2015 Replying to @saraheliza-t

something something two negatives makes a positive. basic math.

rozwellthatendswell @rozwellthatendswell · Feb 18, 2015 Replying to @saraheliza-t

to be fair Shane keeps just about everything from his personal life private. that man could get married tomorrow and would call his wife “someone [he] knows from work” so. Idk about Rose but do with that what you will petals

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petalpress @petalpress · Feb 18, 2015 Replying to @saraheliza-t

I respect that Rose and Shane have both denied the rumors and obviously we should take them at their word. they don’t owe us anything

petalpress @petalpress · Feb 18, 2015 Replying to @petalpress

however. I do have eyes.

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paperghost25
@paperghost25

I made a hollandry wedding moodboard because I literally can’t stop thinking about them! @r-landy 💞 @shollanderhockeyplayer

9:09 PM · Feb 20, 2015

18 Retweets 3 Quote Tweets 160 Likes

velvetrose_ @velvetrose_ · Feb 20, 2015 Replying to @paperghost25

girl I love hollandry but THE Rose Landry would not wear blue and red converse and a letterman jacket to her wedding. please stand up

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paperghost25 @paperghost25 · Feb 20, 2015 Replying to @velvetrose_

I added it for Shane😭

velvetrose_ @velvetrose_ · Feb 20, 2015 Replying to @paperghost25

girl 💀💀💀

primrose_landry
@primrose_landry

I actually believe them when they say they’re friends!! I just also believe they are friends who are eventually going to fall in love and get married and have the most magical wedding!! 🥰🥰🥰🥰 hope this helps 💖💖 #hollandry

3:15 PM · Feb 23, 2015

750 Retweets 98 Quote Tweets 1.4K Likes

landrylane @landrylane · Feb 23, 2015 Replying to @primrose_landry

girl you are SO real for this! omgg how do we think Shane is going to '''eventually''' propose???

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landrylane @landrylane · Feb 23, 2015 Replying to @primrose_landry

i know its like so soon but apparently his hockey season is going like super well so imagine his team won the whole thing and he proposed to Rose that same night 😭 like he won the cup but gave her the ring PLEASE OMGGG im making myself emotional

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landrylane @landrylane · Feb 23, 2015 Replying to @primrose_landry

@shollanderhockeyplayer !! just think about it!!

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hollandazed @hollandazed · Feb 23, 2015 Replying to @primrose_landry

wait when hollandry gets married then does that mean ilya is going to be shane’s best man?!

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bears0h-my @bears0h-my · Feb 23, 2015 Replying to @hollandazed

obviously??? who else would it even be?

c0nsider-shayden @c0nsider-shayden · Feb 23, 2015 Replying to @bears0h-my

Hayden?

bears0h-my @bears0h-my · Feb 23, 2015 Replying to @c0nsider-shayden

no 💕

mizzie_mayfield0 @mizzie_mayfield0 · Feb 23, 2015 Replying to @hollandazed

Oh my god just imagining Rose and Ilya standing on opposite sides of Shane at the altar… the two most important people in his life 😭I’m going to cry just thinking about it actually.

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rosegolden_xx @rosegolden_xx · Feb 23, 2015 Replying to @primrose_landry

Okay Petals, serious question: should hollandry have a spring garden wedding or a winter ice castle wedding? Cause Rose has such flower fairy princess energy but Shane is like an ice prince?? I am so stuckkk

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rosegolden_xx @rosegolden_xx · Feb 23, 2015 Replying to @rosegolden_xx

Spring! ( https://pin.it/4QiKc3B7p )

245

982

rosegolden_xx @rosegolden_xx · Feb 23, 2015 Replying to @rosegolden_xx

Winter! ( https://pin.it/IVVvPMDsc )

301

971

kookie-jarx @kookie-jarx · Feb 23, 2015 Replying to @rosegolden_xx

I see you, but imagine: a winter castle wedding but absolutely covered in spring flowers

145

1.1K

rosegolden_xx @rosegolden_xx · Feb 23, 2015 Replying to @kookie-jarx

Waiiiit omg youre onto something, @r-landy ms landryyy you gotta see this!!

743

hollanov-truther
@hollanov-truther

To everyone asking me what I think of hollandry, have we considered there is a perfectly logical explanation for why Shane was so quick to deny it when it first came out?

1:19 AM · Feb 26, 2015

178 Retweets 19 Quote Tweets 98 Likes

midnight_poet @midnight_poet · Feb 26, 2015 Replying to @hollanov-truther

omg I’m so with you!! Like, I know we’re wearing clown shoes but I’m not taking mine off yet 😭its real to me (and you)!

savorytheave @savorytheave · Feb 26, 2015 Replying to @hollanov-truther

and this perfectly logical explanation is what exactly?

103

hollanov-truther @hollanov-truther · Feb 26, 2015 Replying to @savorytheave

I think you know

vestayekta @vestayekta · Feb 26, 2015 Replying to @hollanov-truther

We know Ilya has a longtime girlfriend and Shane is allegedly dating Rose Landry. sometimes best friends are simply best friends.

hollanov-truther @hollanov-truther · Feb 26, 2015 Replying to @vestayekta

that “allegedly” is doing a lot of heavy lifting considering Shane and Rose have both denied it

rosepetalss @rosepetalss · Feb 26, 2015 Replying to @hollanov-truther

So them denying it (a normal thing in this industry, if anything, its a confirmation its own way!) means he’s secretly dating his guy best friend??? Huh??? Do you hear yourself????

hollanov-truther @hollanov-truther · Feb 26, 2015 Replying to @rosepetalss

do you hear??? yourself??? and I'm the crazy one?????

Lily @lilyya-rh · Feb 26, 2015 Replying to @rosepetalss

hollandry is stupid and will never happen. shane would never date her

west-end_echo @west-end_echo · Feb 26, 2015 Replying to @hollanov-truther

Waitttt people actually ship Shane and Ilya!? Thats crazy! I am…. Intrigued. Tell me more about this… hollanov… of yours

paperghost25
@paperghost25

I have updated the hollandry wedding board after receiving constructive criticism

5:17 PM · Feb 28, 2015

198 Retweets 104 Quote Tweets 698 Likes

velvetrose_ @velvetrose_ · Feb 28, 2015 Replying to @paperghost25

it looks so good! now THIS is a hollandry wedding. I still disagree with the converse tho

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paperghost25 @paperghost25 · Feb 28, 2015 Replying to @velvetrose_

the converse stay. I will not be silenced.

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♡⊹˚₊🏒 March 2015🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

♡⊹˚₊🏒 Mid-June 2015🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

It was the first summer Shane and Ilya would stay here at the lake.

Their cottage had been finished with time to spare. Shane and Ilya had hired a decorator to make the place feel homey without making it look overly curated. She had filled the rooms with comfortable pillows and blankets, good ceramic dishes and silverware, and a few tasteful pieces of décor so the cottage didn't feel quite so new and empty. By the time Shane lifted the Cup, the cottage had already been move-in ready for nearly a month.

Oh, and that had happened too. Shane had done it. He had won a fucking Cup.

Even now, nearly two weeks later, Shane could hardly wrap his mind around it. Ilya had attended the deciding Game 5 with Shane’s parents, just as Shane and his family had been there for Ilya's Game 7 the year prior. Shane hadn’t managed to find Ilya in the stands when he lifted the Cup, not through the lights and cameras and thousands of people on their feet, but he had felt Ilya watching him all the same as he raised it high and proud for the entire world to see.

After nearly a week and a half of celebrations, parties, interviews, and obligations, Shane had finally managed to close up his Montreal apartment for the summer and make the drive out to meet Ilya in Calabogie. He had told Ilya that he was welcome to go ahead without him and begin the all-day process of opening the cottage for the season as Ilya had already left Montreal with Shane’s parents and driven out to the lake several days prior. There was no practical reason for him to stay at the Hollanders’ cottage while their own house sat finished and empty just down the road after all.

Ilya, however, had been quite adamant that they would open it together.

Shane wasn’t entirely sure whether this was Ilya’s way of getting out of the admittedly boring work of opening a house up for the summer, or a genuinely sweet insistence that they should both see the cottage fully finished and fully furnished for the first time together. He chose to believe Ilya was being romantic.

Shane had to admit, though, there had been something heady about unlocking the front door side by side and stepping into the home they had built together—a place that belonged, without question, equally to both of them. And if emotion of it had gotten the better of them, if Ilya had pressed him against the still-mostly-bare entryway wall and they barely made it far enough inside to close the door behind them, well. It was their house. They could do whatever the hell they wanted in it.

They had been at the cottage for about three days now, and it really was everything Shane had dreamed it might be. Not just the house itself, but waking up beside Ilya each morning, making meals in their kitchen, going to bed together each night... It felt like a glimpse of the future Shane so desperately wanted: a home, a family, permanence, with Ilya.

This morning, Shane woke late—or, at least, late for him. He was up before Ilya, but Shane could tell from the slight shifts against the mattress and the uneven rhythm of his breath that Ilya was only dozing rather than properly asleep. Neither of them had anywhere else to be, though, so Shane left him undisturbed and reached for his phone to check whatever notifications had accumulated overnight.

There was a mountain of messages waiting for him from various Metros, his agent, a couple journalists, and seemingly every social media account he had, most of them concerning Montreal’s Cup win or his plans for his day with the Stanely. However, buried amongst them, were two messages from his mom, sent only a couple of hours earlier that morning:

Mom: Hi, sweetie! Your dad and I made it in okay! We meant to get here last night, but your dad didn’t finish packing until late, so we decided to drive up this morning instead 🤦‍♀️; Some mail came for Ilya after you two had already headed out, so we drove by your cottage and dropped it in the mailbox. Make sure one of you checks it first thing when you wake up!

Shane drew his eyebrows together in confusion.

Shane: Hi mom! I’m glad you got in okay!; You didn’t have to do that, we could have drove over later today to pick it up.

His mom responded immediately.

Yuna: I really think he should open it immediately.; Call us after!; Love you both 💕

Shane was officially confused—and beginning to feel a little worried.

He couldn’t imagine his mom dropping off bad news just to leave them to deal with it on their own. Then again, maybe she would. Maybe she would drop it off to give them time to process whatever it was in private before talking them through whatever the fuck it was they were supposed to do next.

Careful not to wake Ilya, Shane slowly extracted himself from their bed. A faint crease appeared between Ilya’s eyebrows as the mattress shifted beneath him, and he made a quiet sound of protest when Shane took his warmth with him, but he settled again before Shane had even fully stood upright. Shane pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of pants, then quietly padded out of their room, down the hall, and out into the front entryway to slip on his shoes.

Their mailbox stood at the end of the drive where the gravel drive met the road, a couple of minutes’ walk from the main house. There shouldn’t have been anything inside; neither of them had given anyone the cottage as a mailing address, and Shane hadn’t even thought to check it since they arrived. Still, when he pulled open the metal door, he found several letters and glossy local brochures beneath the small, stiff envelope his mom must have dropped off that morning.

Shane gathered everything into his arms and began sorting through it as he turned to make his way back towards the house. Most of it was addressed simply to ‘The Resident’ rather than either of them: advertisements for landscaping companies, a coupon flyer from a nearby restaurant, something from the local internet provider. He turned over the last envelope.

It was thicker than the others, a stiff cardboard mailer that refused to bend beneath his fingers. Ilya’s full name was printed across the front in blocky, official lettering, sent by the United States Postal Service: First-Class Mail.

Shane’s eyes widened as he realized he was pretty sure he knew exactly what he was holding. Ilya’s American citizenship had been granted in April, and he had applied for his passport almost immediately afterward. They had spent the last two months anxiously waiting for it to be issued.

Shane had already been jogging back as he sorted through mail, but by the time he reached the house, he was all but running. He barely paused long enough to throw the rest of the mail onto the entryway table before kicking off his shoes and rushing down the hall toward their bedroom, the stiff envelope still clutched tightly in his hand.

Ilya was blearily blinking his eyes open by the time Shane came through the door. He made a low, displeased sound as Shane dropped onto the mattress beside him. “Moy lyubimyy, where did you go?” he asked, his voice still thick with sleep.

“Mom dropped this off this morning.” Shane held the envelope out between them, barely able to contain his excitement. “I really think you should open it.”

Ilya blinked the last of the sleep from his eyes and he pushed himself upright against the headboard. He took the envelope from Shane, still looking more confused than curious. Shane watched as he considered the mailer, his eyes moving over his name, the official block lettering, and the First-Class Mail seal in the corner.

Then, slowly, realization dawned across his face.

“Is this…?” Ilya began, looking up at him.

Shane couldn’t hold back his grin. “I think so.”

Ilya tore open the cardboard mailer, pulling away the packaging until a small navy booklet slid into his hand, the gold eagle seal and lettering gleaming against its cover. For a moment, he only held it, before a grin slowly spread across his face as he opened it to look at the identification page.

“Come on,” Shane said, leaning closer. “Let me see.”

Ilya studied it for a moment longer, then held it up beside his face with a broad, delighted grin. The sight of Ilya’s name and photograph sent a rush of joy through Shane so fierce that all he could do was grin back and lean forward to kiss him.

Ilya let the passport fall to the blankets and caught Shane’s face between his hands, meeting the kiss eagerly. He was still smiling against Shane’s mouth when he broke into a breathless laugh, and Shane couldn’t help laughing with him.

Shane remembered getting the call just after the playoffs began. Ilya’s voice had been shaking so badly that Shane had to ask him to repeat the verdict twice before he could believe he'd heard correctly. He remembered sitting alone in his hotel room afterward, flooded with such enormous relief that he couldn’t help crying—which had been unexpectedly awkward to explain when Hayden knocked on his door just a few minutes later.

At the time, it hadn’t felt real. But this was different. The passport open beside them, while small and unassuming, was physical proof that the decision was real and Ilya was safe. Relief struck Shane all over again, and God, it felt so real now.

He pulled Ilya closer and kissed him again, laughing helplessly when Ilya wrapped both arms around him and rolled them until Shane’s back hit the mattress.

That's when it occurred to Shane that they had pretty much everything they had once told themselves they needed before they could even think about coming out. Shane had a Calder. Ilya had a Hart. They both had Olympic medals and Stanley Cups. Between them, they had more trophies, records, and accolades than most players would achieve throughout their entire careers.

And with this passport, finally, a future no one could take from them if they were just brave enough to grab it.

And suddenly, all Shane could think was that he wanted to be out. God, he wanted to be out.

He wanted to stop treating the best thing in his life like a dirty secret. He wanted to attend events with Ilya beside him and kiss him after games. He wanted the entire world to know that Ilya was his. The thought was terrifying, but they were Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov. They were the best hockey players in the world.

If anyone could do it, couldn’t it be them?

Despite his certainty, Shane couldn't help the nausea that welled inside him as he thought about what their friends might say, what his teammates might say, and the press. Shane couldn't help but imagine the questions, the headlines, the silence that might fall over the Montreal locker room when he walked back into it for the first time afterward. He imagined his team looking at him differently and not knowing whether he would ever be able to make them stop.

“Hmm,” Ilya murmured. Shane blinked. At some point, Ilya had stopped kissing him and had shifted to lay beside him. He was just watching him instead, now, one hand resting loosely against the side of Shane’s neck. “Where did you go?”

“I didn't go anywhere.” Shane tried to smile, but Ilya’s eyebrows lifted in immediate disbelief. He sighed and leaned forward to press his forehead against Ilya’s. “I was just thinking.”

“I know this. I could hear you.”

Shane worried at his bottom lip and averted his eyes from Ilya's knowing look. He could still feel Ilya watching him, waiting, but it took several seconds before he managed to speak.

“Do you think…” He hesitated, then started again. “We’re the best hockey players in the world—”

Ilya interrupted him with a snort. “Yes, of course I think this.”

Shane shoved at his shoulder. “Shut up, that’s not what I—” He stopped, then huffed a laugh. “I mean, yes. That was a statement. We are the best." Ilya grinned. “And you’re American now.”

Ilya’s expression twisted into an exaggerated scowl, though the happiness beneath it was impossible to miss. “You do not have to say it like that.”

Shane smiled, but it faded as quickly as it had come. He worried at his bottom lip again, gathering the courage to meet Ilya’s eyes as he said the rest. “If anyone could come out and be fine afterward, it would be us.” His voice rose slightly near the end, betraying his desperate want despite his best efforts. “Right?”

Ilya’s eyes widened. For a moment, he only stared at Shane. Then his expression softened, the teasing falling away entirely. “If anyone could,” he said carefully, “it would be us. Yes. I think so.”

Shane took a deep breath before finally giving voice to the desire that had been building in his chest since the Olympics—or maybe even before that.

“I want to go on dates with you,” he said.

Ilya blinked.

“Real dates,” Shane continued, the words coming faster now that he had started. “I want to go out to dinner with you. I want to dance with you when we’re out with the guys.” His throat tightened, but he forced himself to keep looking at Ilya. “I don’t want to have to pretend you’re just my friend anymore.”

For a moment, Ilya said nothing. His eyes had gone bright, and the sight made Shane’s heart pound harder than it already was.

“I want this too,” Ilya said finally. His voice was quiet, stripped of any teasing. He brought one hand up to cradle Shane’s face, his thumb brushing beneath Shane’s eye and over his freckles. “I want to take you on dates. I want people to know you are mine.”

Shane’s breath caught as something in his chest gave way. He tried to duck his head, laughing once under his breath to hide how emotional Ilya’s words made him, but Ilya used the hand against his cheek to gently guide his face back up.

“And that I am yours,” Ilya added, softer still. “I want them to know this also.”

Shane smiled despite himself, leaning into Ilya’s hand and pressing a kiss to his palm. He wished he could settle into this elation their conversation had given him, revel in this hope they had finally admitted they both shared—maybe celebrate with a quick morning fuck. But... he needed to know:

“Do you think the Bears would be good about it?” He asked.

Ilya’s thumb stilled against his cheek. “About us?”

“Yeah. I mean, they were good about the whole Marlander thing last summer.”

Ilya’s expression soured immediately. “Do not say this name to me.”

Shane laughed. “You’re still mad about it?”

“It was stupid. Though maybe I judged too quickly, because Hollandry after was worse.”

“Shut up. Not any worse than Ilyana,” Shane argued, though his cheeks heated at the mention of the celebrity ship name his and Rose’s publicity teams hadn’t quite managed to smother. Hollandry had spread like wildfire online and stubbornly persisted as both he and Rose remained publicly single. Still, it felt dirty to bring up Ilya and Svetlana’s ship, considering the only reason they had never denied it was to keep Ilya safe while all he had was his Russian passport.

Predictably, Ilya scowled. “This is not—”

“What I mean is, the guys weren’t weird about the whole gay ship thing, right?” Shane interrupted. “Once the season started?”

Ilya paused and considered that, his scowl slowly easing. “No,” he admitted. “It was only jokes. They thought it was funny.”

“And if it had been real?”

Ilya was quiet for a moment. “I think they still would have made jokes,” he said finally. “Because they are assholes. But not because they would have been bad about it.” Shane hummed, turning that over in his mind. Ilya studied him for another moment, his hand still cupping Shane’s face. “Has Montreal ever brought it up?”

“Marlander?”

“Any of it,” Ilya clarified. His voice was carefully casual, but Shane could feel the tension returning to his fingers. “Men being together. Gay players. Anything like this.”

Shane hesitated. “They don’t really talk about it. I mean, Comeau has said some shit about fangirls like that being weird, and the guys make shitty jokes every once in a while.” More than once in a while, if Shane was being honest. Not constantly, and not nearly as often as during his rookie season, before most of the old guard had aged out and retired—but enough. It was hockey, after all.

He looked down, picking absently at a loose thread on Ilya's shirt. “I don’t know how they would be,” he said finally. It wasn’t a complete lie. He didn’t know for sure.

Ilya went quiet. His hand slipped from Shane’s face to the back of his neck, drawing him forward until their foreheads pressed together. Shane watched the happiness slowly drain from his expression, replaced by something guarded and reluctant.

“I…” Ilya began, then stopped. His jaw tightened before he forced himself to continue. “I do not want you to be in danger in your locker room.”

The words seemed to hurt as he said them. Shane’s chest tightened. “I don’t think I’d be in danger. Hayden and JJ would have my back.”

“And everyone else?”

Shane refused to outright lie to him. "... I don't know." Shane admitted. It was all he could say.

Ilya looked away, his eyes flicking to where his passport had dropped between them, before back up to Shane. “I want all of these things with you,” he said quietly. “But not if you will have to play on a team where you wonder who hates you, or who will not protect you during a game, or worse.”

Shane’s chest tightened as a flare of helpless indignation rose in him. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed their foreheads more firmly together.

“Fuck,” he said softly.

“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “Fuck.”

Shane brought his hand up and threaded his fingers through the curls at Ilya’s nape. “I wish we had a sign.”

Ilya blinked back at him, confused “A sign?”

“I don’t know. Just… some sort of sign that things are getting better.” Shane swallowed. “Not just in hockey. Everywhere. Something that made it feel like if we did this—if we came out—that people would be ready enough that hockey would have no choice but to catch up.”

“Maybe there will be,” Ilya said softly, pressing his forehead more firmly against Shane’s. “Maybe things are already changing, and we just cannot see it yet.”

“Maybe.” Shane sighed and closed his eyes, taking what comfort he could from the solid warmth of Ilya against him. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The morning felt heavier than it had five minutes ago, when their future had seemed suddenly so simple and limitless.

“We should call Mom and Dad,” Shane finally said, opening his eyes and reaching for Ilya’s passport. It was a blatant change of subject, but Shane was desperate to hold on to some of the good of the morning. “I think they knew what this was when they dropped it off, but I’m sure they want to see it.”

Ilya hummed and let the subject pass. “Yes. We should do this.”

It was hardly a closed matter, nothing more than an exchange of hopes and dreams. But it felt good to hope, and to wish for a sign that things were changing, that the world was getting kinder, and the tides were turning. It felt good to talk about those hopes together, even if both of them silently doubted such a sign would come in a manner timely enough to matter.

Besides, they had already found a miracle in each other, in what universe could a miracle happen twice?

♡⊹˚₊🏒 June 26, 2015🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

Your browser cannot play this video. Watch it here instead.

Transcript, Video Description, and Disclaimer

Description: The video opens with audio from an ABC news broadcast layered over the opening notes of Wolf Parade’s “I’ll Believe in Anything.”

“A lot of breaking news here this morning. The breaking story just moments ago, the Supreme Court and this landmark ruling, the court making same sex legal, same sex marriage legal in this country across every state in this nation. Going into today, 37 states and Washington DC, 13 states illegal, but those 37 states had same sex marriage and now that will change in all 50 states…"

The news audio gradually fades as the video transitions into a montage of people celebrating the ruling, interspersed with footage from Pride parades across the country.

Disclaimer: The footage featured in this montage comes from a variety of geographic locations and time periods. The video is not intended to be a completely historically accurate depiction of the events shown.

♡⊹˚₊🏒 End of Act 1🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

Chapter End Notes

And that’s the end of Act 1!

I can’t believe it took me over 107K words to get to this point. Believe it or not, the next chapter is where I originally intended to START this fic... and, well, we all see how that went, haha. Also: 100,000 hits???? Hello???? You all are so amazing, I am just??? 😖😖💕💕💕

I have many, many thoughts about this chapter. There are some parts I’m not entirely happy with, but there are also many parts I’m very happy with! I have imagined the end of this chapter since I published Chapter 1, and I am so, so excited to have finally reached it.

Side note: I already had so much respect for edit creators before this fic, but WOW, video editing is hard, haha. Anyone who is able to do that has my utmost respect.

On the flip side, mood boards are so fun!! I had the idea for those while flying back from New Zealand, and I swear I spent my entire flight imagining the Hollandry mood boards I was going to make once I got home. They’ve actually been finished for the last two weeks, haha, so I’ve just been sitting on them, excited to finally share them.

Final thoughts: this story is going to have two acts, but Act 2 will be much shorter than Act 1—or at least, that’s the plan. By my estimation, this fic has about four to six chapters left, depending on how verbose I end up being, haha.

To everyone here: you all have all my love. Seriously. Whether you’ve left kudos, comments, or recommended this fic to anyone; or even if you’ve simply been lurking and reading along—thank you. 💕💕💕💕

Chapter 12: A Pair of Modern Cassandras

Chapter Summary

It felt as though it didn’t matter what they said. No one believed them; no one considered, for even a moment, that they might not be joking. A real pair of Cassandras for the modern era.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Now is probably as good of time as any to pause and acknowledge the changes that have accumulated over the last five years.

As previously noted, the story told thus far bears more than a passing resemblance to the version best known. These boys have won many—if not all—of the same awards, with one notable bronze exception. They have travelled across the continent and around the world, though collectively they (Ilya) have remained in North America longer than they otherwise might have. They have weathered the same pressures to achieve and perform, though perhaps not quite the same pressures to conform. And they have been beholden to the same ugly schedule that keeps them apart more often than together—a fact, it seems, universally true of all Shanes and all Ilyas.

Up until this point, they have indeed been the same two idiots making more or less the same mistakes.

But with these exceptions—these small divergences that have naturally accrued—the resemblance to canon is fraying; and these boys are not the same boys who were gripped by fear and paranoia from now until 2021.

So it is here, at last, that resemblance gives way to consequence.

♡⊹˚₊🏒 June 30th, 2015🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

Shane Hollander
@shollanderhockeyplayer

Seven years ago, I was lucky enough to meet the person who would become my best friend. Five years ago, we filmed a commercial together that changed my life for the better. Today, I finally get to tell the world what you mean to me. I love you, Ilya Rozanov. More than anything.

Ilya Rozanov @irozanov81 · June 30, 2015

Four days ago, America became a safer, better country, and one I am proud to call home. Everyone should be free to build a life with the person they love. I know what it means to find the person you want beside you for this and every good thing that comes next. For me, that person has always been Shane Hollander. I love you, Shanya. Always.

5:32 PM · June 30, 2015

19.4K Retweets 2.9K Quote Tweets 28.7K Likes

chronicallyoffside @chronicallyoffside · June 30, 2015 Replying to @shollanderhockeyplayer

WAIT. HOLD ON. Are Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov announcing what I think they’re announcing???

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kitszune_17 @kitszune_17 · June 30, 2015 Replying to @shollanderhockeyplayer

Yooo holy shitt??? Is this real????

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bears0h-my @bears0h-my · June 30, 2015 Replying to @shollanderhockeyplayer

GUYS HOLD ON there is literally no way right??? 😭 don’t they both have girlfriends???

redwhiteand-roz @redwhiteand-roz · June 30, 2015 Replying to @bears0h-my

Fr!! Rozz has been with his girlfriend for years lmao and Hollz is dating a literal MOVIE STAR everyone be serious theres no way theyr homos

hollanderszn @hollanderszn · June 30, 2015 Replying to @redwhiteand-roz

Well you dont need to say it like that 😣😣😣😣😣😣 they could be bi!!

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midnight_poet @midnight_poet · June 30, 2015 Replying to @redwhiteand-roz

I mean do you usually tell your best friend you love him more than anything directly after talking about how important it is to have the freedom to build the life you want with who you want after gay marriage was just legalized???? Idk seems pretty yes-homo to me.

redwhiteand-roz @redwhiteand-roz · June 30, 2015 Replying to @midnight_poet

Maybe YOU don’t. Some men are emotionally secure in their friendships and relationships

primrose_landry @primrose_landry · June 30, 2015 Replying to @hollanderszn

girlie ignore this troll 😝💞 Honestly, good for them!! Regardless of their actual sexualities, men should be able to say they love their friends without everyone making it weird. They’ve been through practically their entire careers together, of course they love each other and are life besties 🥺💖💖

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magical_minimum @magical_minimum · June 30, 2015 Replying to @primrose_landry

Exactly! Two of the best athletes in the world just openly expressed how much their friendship means to them, this sets such an amazing example for young boys and athletes everywhere!

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tailspin-texx @tailspin-texx · June 30, 2015 Replying to @primrose_landry

And really, should we even be speculating about their sexualities??? 😣 Who cares whether they’re bi or straight? Only weirdo parasocials think they’re entitled to know something that personal about a complete stranger.

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tailspin-texx @tailspin-texx · June 30, 2015 Replying to @tailspin-texx

Like, Roz and Hollander both have gorgeous girlfriends, play the most stereotypically GUY sport in the world, and have two of the cleanest, most upstanding reputations in a famously toxic league. They show an OUNCE of affection for each other and immediately get called gay!

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tailspin-texx @tailspin-texx · June 30, 2015 Replying to @tailspin-texx

God, I am so so worried about how people are going to react when someone actually comes out in this sport. Literally keeps me up at night I swear.

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tailspin-texx @tailspin-texx · June 30, 2015 Replying to @tailspin-texx

FINAL THING I SWEAR, Roz is Russian! people spreading around that he “came out” could have real consequences for him back home. Whatever he meant, I wish people would just slow down and think about the impact their words could have!! 😣😣😣😣

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tailspin-texx @tailspin-texx · June 30, 2015 Replying to @primrose_landry

Sorry for ranting in your replies i just have feelings[™] and thoughts[™] about this whole thing

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primrose_landry @primrose_landry · June 30, 2015 Replying to @tailspin-texx

No, no, you’re fine! You actually verbalized a lot of how I feel about this too! I’m so happy they’re comfortable enough to express this kind of affection for each other, and I really hope the way people are responding doesn’t make them afraid to do it again 💖💖

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mizzie_mayfield0
@mizzie_mayfield0

So like…. Is the general consensus that this was just Roz making a statement about the Supreme Court ruling, and Shane reposted it because he’s his best friend?

8:43 AM · July 1, 2015

87 Retweets 90 Quote Tweets 952 Likes

mizzie_mayfield0 @mizzie_mayfield0 · July 1, 2015 Replying to @mizzie_mayfield0

Sorry! I try to stay out of a lot of online drama and I’m just trying to figure out what's going on??

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xx-lotusflower @xx-lotusflower · July 1, 2015 Replying to @mizzie_mayfield0

That's the consensus! People were inevitably going to start questioning Rozanov’s politics because he’s Russian and a hockey player. He probably wanted to get ahead of everyone assuming he’s homophobic. Which! So glad to see he isn't!! So that's the good news!

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bitter_honeyxx @bitter_honeyxx · July 1, 2015 Replying to @mizzie_mayfield0

There are def some rfpers who are being kinda annoying rn and blowing this wayyy out of proportion (i wont tag them but… hollanov-truther), and while i personally think there's a chance something more is going on (maybe shane is gay? idk?), right now we are pretty sure this is just an ally post :)))) hope this helped!

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mizzie_mayfield0 @mizzie_mayfield0 · July 1, 2015 Replying to @bitter_honeyxx

It did! Thank you!

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dailyrozander
@dailyrozander

UPDATE: Sources close to both players continue to describe Hollander and Rozanov as longtime best friends. Their posts appear to be a celebration of marriage equality in the US and their friendship. ♥️

9:56 AM · July 1, 2015

2.3K Retweets 762 Quote Tweets 18.9K Likes

xxcaitesquexx @xxcaitesquexx · July 1, 2015 Replying to @dailyrozander

For thirty seconds, I really thought we were witnessing the biggest coming-out in professional sports history, but I guess that’s on me for letting two players from the straightest sport on earth queerbait me. 😪😪😪

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west-end_echo @west-end_echo · July 1, 2015 Replying to @xxcaitesquexx

You can’t be queerbaited by real people??? You know that right? It’s important to me that you know that

xxcaitesquexx @xxcaitesquexx · July 1, 2015 Replying to @west-end_echo

Oh my goddd 🙄🙄🙄 you know what I meannn

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THE ONLY SANE PERSON LEFT ON THE INTERNET
@hollanov-truther

I am one more “healthy male friendships” post away from chewing through drywall.

10:09 AM · July 1, 2015

280 Retweets 34 Quote Tweets 176 Likes

vestayekta @vestayekta · July 1, 2015 Replying to @hollanov-truther

Nurse, she's out again!

♡⊹˚₊🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

“I’m going to preface this by saying that, if this is real, I am incredibly happy for you boys. Congratulations.” Farah’s voice was warm through the phone speaker, but noticeably measured. “That being said, I do wish I hadn’t found out through social media after both of your posts had already gone viral.”

Across the table, Ilya watched Shane wince and shift in his chair. Color climbed steadily into his cheeks as he cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Yeah—uh. Sorry about that.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “It was admittedly a little bit of an impulsive decision”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the call. “So it’s true, then?”

Shane glanced at Ilya. Nervousness was written plainly across his face, but beneath it was something fonder—something close to pride.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “It’s true.”

Ilya reached across the table and took Shane’s hand. Shane’s fingers curled around his immediately.

“All right,” Farah said. “Then, like I said, congratulations, boys.”

“Thank you,” they said together.

“That said,” she continued, and Shane’s shoulders preemptively sank, “as your manager, Shane, I really wish you had talked to me before posting anything. I could have helped make your intentions clearer—made sure people understood what you were actually trying to say. Have either of you looked at social media since you posted?”

“Uh, no. We put our phones on Do Not Disturb, except for a few people—like my parents—We figured it would be best not to see what everyone was saying right away…” Shane trailed off, his thumb rubbing absently over Ilya’s knuckles.

“That was probably a wise decision,” Farah said. “On that note, the response hasn’t been awful. Actually, a lot of it has been… kind? In its own way. But your wording was somewhat vague, and people are having a difficult time determining what exactly you two meant.”

Ilya frowned at the phone. “Vague? What do you mean, vague? We said we love each other. This is not vague.”

“Well,” Farah began cautiously, “social media is notoriously… stubborn. You’ve both been very public ‘best friends’ for years, and that sort of marketing is hard to shake—for better or for worse. It looks like people are just having a difficult time… adjusting... to this new information.”

“What?” Ilya exclaimed. He looked up and across the table at Shane, who was now leaning back in his chair, eyes closed, a hand covering his mouth. “There is no way, you are bullshitting me. They still think we are just friends?”

Farah gave an awkward laugh. “I’m afraid I’m not ‘bullshitting’ you, Ilya. From what I'm seeing so far, most people think that your posts were two endearingly clumsy declarations of allyship in light of Obergefell.”

Ilya grumbled something under his breath, while Shane finally let out a short, incredulous laugh and dropped his head into one hand.

“Look,” Farah continued, “just… do me a favor and stay off social media for the next couple of days while Sonia and I figure out how to navigate this. We need to get a clearer sense of the general response before either of you says anything else.”

“Sounds good,” Shane said while Ilya reluctantly agreed—“Yes, fine. We can do this.”

They exchanged goodbyes and ended the call with a soft chime. For several seconds, neither of them moved.

It had been easy—obvious, even—to stay off of social media for most of the previous day without being told. They had both endured enough media training to know that watching the response unfold in real time, endlessly refreshing their feeds while thousands of strangers decided what they thought about Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov being in love, would be terrible for their mental health and sanity. Until now, Ilya had been—or at least capable of pretending to be—content to let social media churn through the news and await its inevitable verdict.

However, the moment Farah explicitly told him not to look, the need to know became almost immediately unbearable.

He reached for his phone at the same moment Shane reached for his. Their eyes met briefly, but neither commented on it. Shane looked down at his screen while Ilya opened VK.

Getting on social media immediately after promising Farah he wouldn’t felt faintly like a fuck-you she probably (definitely) didn’t deserve. In his defense, he didn't log into his official account, not that he had posted on it since February 2014 anyways. In either case, neither Farah nor Sonia managed his VK—official or otherwise. They didn't need to know about every corner of the internet he occasionally haunted under a false name; that would defeat the purpose of using one.

He had spent much of the previous day carefully avoiding any thought of Russia, something Shane had been all too willing to indulge. Yes, the response in North America might determine what happened to their endorsements, how the press treated them, or even what sort of contracts awaited them when they reached unrestricted free agency in 2018 and 2019, respectively; but Russia was different. Russia meant his former teammates and neighbors, the newspapers his father read, and the millions of people who had once claimed him as one of their sons. He needed to know what they were saying, even if he had already resigned himself to the answer. Even if seeing it might finally kill the little boy in his chest who still longed to go home.

He scrolled through the results, his thumb moving faster than he could properly read. At first, all that popped up was the usual clutter—game clips, old interviews, fan pages, and arguments about Sochi—before he finally happened across a screenshot of both of their statements side by side, followed by a rough Russian translation of each post. The only saving grace was that the engagement was low compared to the usual celebrity gossip on VK, which meant—for now—the verdict was still out. Ilya could imagine how that would change once translations began to circulate.

Beside him, Shane drew a sudden, sharp breath. Ilya looked up. Shane had gone still over his phone, his mouth was drawn tight and a faint furrow carved itself between his brows as he stared at the screen.

“What is it?” Ilya asked. When Shane didn’t respond, he pressed, “Shane?”

Shane drew a slow breath before speaking, his eyes not leaving his phone. “The Metros are… not taking it well.”

“What are they saying?” Ilya fought to keep the sudden anger out of his voice. He made himself loosen the hand clenched around his phone. “Show me.”

“Give me a second. I’m trying to figure out where it started.” Shane scrolled upward through the team group chat, which was very boringly named The Montreal Metros (‘14-’15). His thumb swept over the screen again and again.

“There are a lot of messages,” he said quietly. More to himself than anything, but Ilya heard him and his heart broke for him a little anyway. Finally, Shane found the beginning. He hesitated, before sliding the phone across the table.

Drapeau: Yooo Hollander what the fuck do they have you doing these days man?; Twitter twitter.com/shollanderhockeyplayer/
status/907528363435
Comeau: no fucking way lmao; did they really make you post this shit on ur real account??
Berkes: Fucking yikes, tough break Hollz
Miitka: gotta lock those ally brand deals down while they’re hot
Comeau: nah this has Goodell written all over it; pride night numbers must be down
Laine: It’s probably because of the Supreme Court thing, right?; I mean obviously it is. Rozanov’s post mentions it
Olsson: jesus christ rook read the fucking room
Laine: Check your calander Sonny, its fucking July I’m not a rookie anymore
Olsson: 🖕
Laine: My point is are they going to make us post similar things?? If they are making Hollander and Rozanov post this shit??
Miitka: Depends, how much are they paying me?
Berkes: 🤮🤮🤮🤮; Dude you couldn’t pay me ENOUGH to post this shit
Drapeau: Watch out Hollzy, at this rate they’re gonna make you two fucking kiss or something next time
Comeau: dude fuck that shit!; i’d tell them to fine me
Drapeau: Easy for you to say Com, no one wants to kiss your ugly mug
Comeau: 🖕🖕🖕

The conversation continued beyond that, but Ilya got the point. He skimmed through a handful more messages, then locked Shane’s phone.

“Did they say anything else later?” he asked. “About you?”

“No. They moved on after this.” Shane’s mouth twisted. “Apparently it was a fucking open-and-shut case.” His tone was annoyed, but beneath it was something brittle, dangerously close to hurt.

Ilya set Shane’s phone aside and reached for him. He wanted that expression off Shane’s face, but there were hardly any words of comfort he could offer that would soften the confirmation that Shane was surrounded by bigoted assholes. If reassurance wasn’t going to help, irreverence might.

“Well,” he said, “at least they are not calling you slurs.”

Shane tried to hold back a smile and failed. A sharp, self-deprecating laugh tore from his throat. “Yeah. Guess there’s that.” He was quiet for a moment before asking, “What was Boston saying?”

“I don’t know yet. I haven’t checked.”

Shane looked at him, suspiciously. “What were you looking at before, then?”

“Wow,” Ilya said, pointedly ignoring his question and reaching for his own phone. “Let’s see what Boston is saying.”

“Ilya.” There was a hint of reproach in his voice, but the faint smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. Ilya quickly closed VK and opened his messages.

With his phone set to Do Not Disturb, every notification that had poured in over the past day had been neatly suppressed. More than five hundred unread messages were scattered across the Bears’ main roster chat, Sveta, LeClaire, Sonia, unexpectedly—or perhaps very expectedly—Sasha, among others.

Marly’s thread sat inexplicably at the top, bumped there by a message sent just over ten minutes ago.

Image Description

An iPhone showing Ilya’s texting contact thread page. Six threads are visible on the screen:

Marly😩🐻⚠️: Hey man, give me a call when you have a minute. (Sent: 10:29 AM)
🏒🐻The Bearz 🐻🏒: Kohn: Dude Roz your’e hysterical man!! How did u get Holz in on… (Sent 10:25 AM)
⋆˚✨Sveta🍒⋆˚ : Илюша, возьми свой чертов телефон, клянусь богом! | Ilyusha, pick up your damn phone, I swear to God! (Sent 10:19 AM)
LeClaire 🥸: I’m sending your the camp roster. Take a look and call me tomorrow… (Sent 10:18 AM)
Sonia 🔊: ILYA! CALL ME! (sent 10:18 AM)
❌Sasha 🤐: А Холландер не захочет поделиться? | Would Hollander want to share? (10:13 AM)

Ilya frowned. ‘Give me a call when you have a minute’ was unusually formal for Marly, particularly juxtaposed to the nonsense that made up most of their text history. When he opened the thread, there was no follow-up or further context.

“Well,” Ilya said, pressing the call button, “one way to find out.”

He switched the phone to speaker and set it in the middle of the table, turning the screen so Shane could see who he was calling. Across from him, Shane leaned forward over his folded arms, and Ilya mirrored him as the ringing trilled through the otherwise quiet room. The line clicked over on the third ring, and Marly’s voice rang through the speaker.

“Hi, Roz.”

Marly’s tone was far more formal than anything their usual rapport called for, the nickname being the only familiar part of it. Granted, Ilya couldn’t recall ever hearing Marly call him Rozanov, and found he was perfectly happy never to. Ilya knew Marly. He trusted Marly. Marly had been marked safe in Ilya’s head since rookie year, and he would very much prefer not to discover—in the next five minutes or so—that he had been wrong to do so.

Before he could respond, Marly continued, “Just so you know, I have you on speaker with Con and Vic. I have been nominated as our spokesman.”

Ilya exchanged a slightly bewildered look with Shane, then looked back down at his phone as though Marly might somehow appear on the contact screen.

“Okay, spokesman,” Ilya finally Fsaid. “Speak.”

“Is it real?” he asked. “What you posted on Twitter about loving Hollzy?”

Ilya rolled his eyes and settled back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “Yes, it is real. I did not realize I needed to post a sex tape to come out in North America.”

The other end of the call immediately dissolved into commotion. Someone choked on a laugh; another voice muttered a long-suffering, “Jesus Christ, Roz.” Then came the unmistakable smack of a hand against flesh and a sharp, indignant “Shut up!”

Across the table, Shane dropped his face into his hands. Ilya stretched one leg beneath the table and nudged Shane’s foot with his own.

After several seconds of muffled laughter and shuffling, Marly returned to the phone. When he spoke again, the stiff carefulness had vanished from his voice.

“The three of us would like to say congratulations,” he announced. “Y’all look hot as hell together.”

Shane made a strangled sound and lifted his head, his face already beginning to color. Ilya barked out a laugh, the last of the anger left over from the Metros’ chat cracking apart beneath it.

“Shut the hell up, Marly,” he said, but the grin in his voice was unmistakable.

A low chorus of laughter answered him, followed by another brief scuffle somewhere beyond the phone.

“Connors would like to know—and I’m paraphrasing here—how long you’ve been together.”

Another smack sounded in the background. “Add the gay part!” Connors protested, his voice was distant but unmistakably aggrieved.

“Fucking hell, Con.” Marly sighed. “He specifically wants to know how long you’ve been ‘gay together.’”

“Well, I am bisexual, so jot that down.”

Shane ducked his head, but Ilya could see his shoulders shaking from across the table as he swallowed down a laugh.

“See?” Connors shouted triumphantly. “That’s why I said to add the gay part! It’s shitty to assume, Marly!”

“Shut the hell up, Con,” Marly snapped. “You’re not the spokesman.”

“Man, fuck a spokesman,” St-Simon cut in. “That’s awesome, Roz.”

“You still didn’t answer me,” Connors said, undeterred. “How long, dude?”

“Uh—” Shane looked across the table and caught Ilya’s eye. “Since before our rookie season.”

The speaker immediately exploded: “Hollzy!” — “Hollander!”

“Holy shit, Roz,” Marly shouted over them. “Why the hell didn’t you say you were with Hollzy?”

“Where did you think I was?” Ilya asked incredulously.

Across the table, Shane grinned and leaned forward to offer an almost sheepish, “Hey, guys.”

The greeting set off another round of shouting.

“Shit, I don’t know, Roz,” Marly said once the noise had subsided enough for him to muscle his way back into the conversation. “I knew you usually trained up in Ottawa during the summers, but—” He stopped. “Oh, goddammit. Seriously? Every summer?”

Marly couldn't see him, but Ilya waved a dismissive hand anyway. “Yes, yes. I spend every summer with my in-laws like a good son.”

“Your in-laws?” Several voices cried at once.

“Roz,” St-Simon said, “you’d better not be about to tell us you’re married and none of us got invited to the wedding.”

“No, we are not married.” Shane laughed, shaking his head. “Jesus, Ilya.”

“Not yet,” Ilya corrected with a wistful sigh. Shane kicked him sharply in the shin beneath the table. Ilya jerked his leg back and shot him a grin.

“Christ, y’all are cute,” Marly drawled. The mockery was softened by unmistakable affection, and the knot coiled tightly in Ilya’s chest began to—cautiously—loosen. “You’re going to be completely fucking insufferable now that this is out, aren’t you, Roz?”

“That was the plan, yes.”

“About that.” The change in Marly’s voice was slight, but it still had the knot in his chest cinching all over again. “Have you looked at the Bears chat at all since you posted?”

Ilya leaned toward the phone, the remnants of his grin falling away. “No. We have been focused on other things.” He hesitated. “It is not good?”

“No, no—it’s not bad,” Marly clarified quickly. “There’s just… a lot of disbelief. Some of the guys don’t think there’s any way it could be real because of your whole thing with Jane—”

A sudden scuffle interrupted the rest of his sentence. Something scraped against the receiver, Marly swore, before Connors’ voice sounded through the speaker.

“Oh my God. Is Shane Jane?”

A laugh escaped Ilya before he could stop it. “Yes. Shane is Jane.” Across the table, Shane closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I always fucking knew there was something weird about Jane!” Connors declared.

“You absolutely did not!” Marly called from somewhere beyond the phone. “I know for a fucking fact you didn’t know shit!”

“Yeah I did! Rozzy never introduced us to her! That’s weird!”

“I did introduce you to Jane.” Ilya interrupted, then asked, more seriously, ‘But they have not been bad? The Bears?”

The phone apparently changed hands again.

“No. Like I said, nobody’s being shitty about it. They just don’t believe you.” Marly paused, looking for the right words. “There’s the Jane thing, for one. Half of them think this is another cover you cooked up to get people to stop looking for her—even though most of the guys were already pretty sure Jane was Svetlana.”

Ilya frowned down at his phone. “They think I announced that I was gay to hide my relationship with a woman everyone already knew about?”

“Pretty much.”

“That is stupid.”

“Yeah, well, the other half think that if you’d really been dating Hollzy all these years, you would’ve found some way to never shut the fuck up about it. Plus, you make shit up all the time, so they think it can’t be true.”

Ilya groaned and buried his face in his hands while his traitorous boyfriend laughed outright across the table.

“Do you want us to say something?” Marly offered once Shane’s laughter had subsided. “We could clear it up in the chat. Tell the guys it’s real.”

Ilya lifted his head and looked across the table.

Shane’s amusement was all but gone. His gaze dropped briefly to his phone, still lying near his elbow, before returning to Ilya. A part of Ilya wanted to rage at the injustice of it all. They had already done the difficult part. They had put their love—the greatest secret of their lives and careers—out into the world for everyone to see and judge. Petulantly, Ilya thought that if no one believed them, that was hardly their fault.

After a moment, Shane gave the faintest shake of his head.

“No,” Ilya said without hesitation. If Shane didn’t want to say anything yet—not with everything unfolding in Montreal—Ilya couldn't stomach the idea of Fasking him to gather his courage and come out all over again, especially knowing for sure what awaited him this time. “It is fine. Let them think what they want or figure it out on their own.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” Ilya hesitated, then added, “Montreal is not being quite as good.”

The levity on the other end of the call vanished. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing directly to Shane,” Ilya clarified, before Marly could get all up in arms on Shane’s—their—behalf, “They do not believe us either. They think the league made us post it because of the court ruling, so they are mostly making jokes about how terrible it would be if someone made them do the same.”

“Jesus Christ,” Marly muttered.

Shane’s mouth tightened, and Ilya resisted the urge to reach across the table for him. “For now, maybe it is best not to correct anyone in Boston. We need to decide what to do about Montreal first, and our agents have already told us not to say anything else yet.”

“Okay,” Marly said, reluctance roughening the word. “But if you change your mind, say the word. We’ll handle the Bears.”

“Yeah man, we’ve got your back,” St-Simon chimed in, followed by an affirmation from Connors.

The knot in Ilya’s chest finally eased despite everything. “I know,” he said. “Thank you.”

The goodbyes took longer than they should have. Marly, St-Simon, and Connors kept prying details from them one after another—Really, the whole time? Yes. Even when— Yes. Wait, did you hook up in my apartment? No, actually—until Ilya noticed the exhaustion building in Shane’s shoulders and begged off the call with a promise that they would talk again later.

Silence settled over the dining room. After all the noise of the morning, it felt almost luxurious. Ilya locked his phone and pushed it away. “I think that is enough socializing for today.”

Shane let out a breathless, disbelieving scoff. “It’s eleven in the morning.”

“Yes, and it has been a very social morning.”

Ilya stood and rounded the table. Shane tipped his head back to follow him, still smiling, but the strain beneath it was easy to see now. Ilya stopped behind his chair and rested both hands lightly on his shoulders, coaxing him upright. Then he slipped one hand beneath Shane’s chin and gently tilted his face toward him.

Shane’s eyes were still warm with the remnants of laughter, but something more fragile lingered beneath it. He had sounded sheepish but proud with Farah and laughed easily with the Bears, yet the Metros’ messages had clearly left their mark.

Ilya bent and pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead.

“It is not your fault,” he murmured against his skin. “You know this, yes? You are their captain, not their keeper.”

Shane released a long breath and settled back against both Ilya and the chair. “Is it selfish that I’m jealous?” he asked. “I mean… Boston might not really believe you either, but at least they’re being good about it. They’re not—” He trailed off. He didn't need to finish for Ilya to understand.

“No,” Ilya said. “It is not selfish.”

Shane’s gaze drifted toward their abandoned phones. “I just thought once we said it, that would be it. Whatever came next, at least everyone would know, and we wouldn’t have to hide anymore. I never imagined this…” He paused, searching for the right word. “This weird limbo where we’re out and not out at the same time.”

“Hmm.” Ilya hummed against his forehead. “Schrödinger’s homosexuals.”

It was a stupid joke, but Shane loved him, so he laughed anyway.

“It is their problem,” Ilya continued, stroking his thumb once along Shane’s jaw. “We did the scary part. We are not going to keep coming out until everyone decides we have done it good enough.”

Some of the tension left Shane’s face, though one corner of his mouth still pulled unhappily downward. “So what do we do?”

Ilya considered the question, then shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“We are out.” The words still sent a small, astonished thrill through him. “It is not our fault people are stupid. They can believe whatever the fuck they want.”

A reluctant smile began to tug at Shane’s mouth. “You make that sound easy.”

“It will be very easy.” Ilya leaned down until their faces were close. “You are my boyfriend and I love you. I plan to tell people this whenever I want now.”

“So, all the time?” Shane asked, laughing.

“Yes.” Ilya kissed the corner of his smile. “All the time.”

♡⊹˚₊🏒July 5th, 2015🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

Boiziau: So… have we all heard from Hollzy and Rozanov?
Pike: Yeah. Shane finally texted me back
Connors: yessir
Marleau: We talked to Roz and Hollzy a couple days ago
St-Simon: ^^^
Boiziau: Alright then, sound off. Who knew?; Cause I sure as hell didn’t
Pike: I had no idea; I room with Shane on all our roadies. How did I not know??
St-Simon: not a clue; Ive roomed with Roz plenty of times and never picked up shit
Connors: i alwys thought roz was just european tbh; lk the song
St-Simon: Doesnt that song end with the guy being gay and european?
Connors: u kno now that u say
Marleau: I mean; I kinda knew
Connors: tf??; + u didnt tell us??
Marleau: It wasnt my business to tell.; Besides I only kinda knew
St-Simon: Define *kinda*
Pike: Did they tell you?
Marleau: No
Pike: So how?
Marleau: Dude idk I used to live with Roz; He had Hollzy over a couple times rookie year and there were just things
Connors: i thought they didnt fuck in ur apartment?
Pike: Why the fuck do you know that?
Connors: dud eit was like the 1st thing marly asked them lmao
Boiziau: Swear jar
Pike: Dude shut up, seriously?
Boiziau: I promised Jackie I’d watch you, mon gars; Please continue, Marly
Marleau: I mean there isnt much else to say; I just noticed shit over the years; But it wasnt like I was just going to walk up to Roz or Hollzy and ask how their secret gay relationship was going; So. kinda.
Pike: What did you notice?
Connors: yah what made it obvious?
Marleau: It wasnt a specific thing; It was mainly just whenever we hung out with Hollzy, Roz was just different
Pike: Different how?
Marleau: I don’t know man just.. different?; Roz used to do all this shit so he could hang with Hollzy before or after; and he was just different
Boiziau: You know, now that you say it the only times we could regularly convince Shane to go out was when you assholes were involved. Rozanov specifically.
Connors: thats cause holz likes us more ♥️
Hayden: Dude shut up no he doesn’t
St-Simon: Fuck; In retrospect this feels really fucking obvious
Connors: fr; guys r we dumb?
St-Simon: 😔😔😔
Pike: I still don’t get how I missed it; Shane tells me everything
Marleau: Clearly not everything
Pike: Thanks Marleau that makes me feel so much fucking better
Boiziau: Swear jar x2
Pike: FUCK OFF
Connors: x3 👀
Boiziau: Okay but seriously; We’re all cool about this right?
Marleau: Obviously
St-Simon: Yeah no shit
Connors: y wouldnt we b
Pike: Of course.
Boiziau: Okay; Just checking
St-Simon: So, you guys wanna tell us what's going on in Montreal?; Cause Roz said it wasn’t good, but wouldn't tell us shit
Pike: Well... it's not great.
Boiziau: That’s one way to put it.
Marleau: Is Hollzy gonna be good when the season starts?
Pike: What the hell is that supposed to mean Marleau?; Do you seriously think Shane wouldn’t be safe with us?
Boiziau: Bon dieu, Hayd, calm your tits; To be real with you, Marly, it is not good; But we should probably talk abt it in person rather than in a gc
Marleau: Heard; Drinks after the first exhibition game?
Boiziau: C'est clair mon gars
St-Simon: Yeah for sure
Pike: Fine
Connors: 🫡🫡

♡⊹˚₊🏒July 8th, 2015🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

kot-izyum
@kot-izyum

Every reaction to Rozanov and Hollander’s posts last week have just reminded me how Western the NHL fandom is. I’m a queer Russian living abroad, and from a Russian perspective, what they’re doing is so immediately obvious (and brave!) (1/7)

4:31 AM · July 8, 2015

7.6K Retweets 1.2K Quote Tweets 28.7K Likes

kot-izyum @kot-izyum · July 8, 2015 Replying to @kot-izyum

TL;DR: there is absolutely no way Rozanov is actually coming out here. (2/7)

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kot-izyum @kot-izyum · July 8, 2015 Replying to @kot-izyum

Basically, over the last couple of months there’s been a growing movement of Russian athletes symbolically “coming out” to protest Russia’s anti-gay laws. (3/7)

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kot-izyum @kot-izyum · July 8, 2015 Replying to @kot-izyum

The most famous recent example of this is figure-skating legends Viktor Nikiforov and Yuuri Katsuki back during the Cup of China Grand Prix qualifier in 2014. They did pretty much the same thing Rozanov and Hollander and doing now (publically coming out as a couple with a fellow athletic competitor, though Nikiforov was technically Katsuki’s coach by the time they did their stunt) (4/7)

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kot-izyum @kot-izyum · July 8, 2015 Replying to @kot-izyum

Rozanov doing this---even without either of them saying “dating” or “boyfriends”---is incredibly risky! Depending on how much attention this gets, there’s a real chance he won’t be able to safely return to Russia for a long time. (5/7)

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kot-izyum @kot-izyum · July 8, 2015 Replying to @kot-izyum

Nikiforov’s protest ultimately failed. Russian media buried it, foreign media took them at their word, and the politics disappeared. Nikiforov eventually had to give up his Russian citizenship. We can’t let that happen again. (6/7)

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kot-izyum @kot-izyum · July 8, 2015 Replying to @kot-izyum

So please stop arguing over whether Rozanov is “really gay” or whether they’re “really dating.” Boost what he’s actually saying. I put links in my bio to groups helping queer people in dangerous countries with legal aid, safe housing, travel, and relocation. 💗(7/7)

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kot-izyum @kot-izyum · July 8, 2015 Replying to @kot-izyum

@irozanov81 you have my utmost respect. Сил, мужества и победы! Берегите себя.

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snarkymagie_x @snarkymagie_x · July 8, 2015 Replying to @kot-izyum

Wow! This was a fascinating read! I had no idea this was going on!

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kot-izyum @kot-izyum · July 8, 2015 Replying to @snarkymagie_x

That’s not surprising. It mostly stayed contained within Russian sports media and figure-skating circles, but it was a really big deal last November before a lot of the coverage disappeared for obvious reasons.

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ixrriellx @ixrriellx · July 8, 2015 Replying to @kot-izyum

Honestly, whatever prompted it, having one of Russia’s biggest athletes publicly support marriage equality is so genuinely significant. For Russia and the US!

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crowsaccord @crowsaccord · July 8, 2015 Replying to @kot-izyum

Honestly, this makes way more sense than them just randomly announcing they’re dating out of nowhere. I donated to the top three links in your bio ♥️🫶 Thanks for sharing!

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abbyjane @abbyjane · July 8, 2015 Replying to @kot-izyum

I also donated 💞💞💞

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sunsmittensunflower @sunsmittensunflower · July 8, 2015 Replying to @kot-izyum

Same also 💖🌻💞

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♡⊹˚₊🏒November 8th, 2015🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

Over the next several months, the whole thing really got away from them.

In the end, they didn’t say anything else. They never posted a follow-up or clarified what they’d meant. Their managers never released a statement, and neither of them sat for an interview to explain themselves. By the second week of September, Ilya was due back in Boston and Shane had returned to Montreal, and the season began much as every other season before had: they went to training camp, they played preseason games, and they called each other at night.

Life, impossibly, remained almost inexplicably the same, other than one glaring exception: At some point—Shane couldn’t have said exactly when—Ilya started going out of his way to refer to Shane as his boyfriend in interviews, post game scrums, and media appearances.

“My boyfriend says I am too selfish with puck.”

“Of course I watched, my boyfriend was playing.”

“Yes, yes, hurry up, I want time to call my boyfriend tonight.”

Each time, the reporter would laugh and repeat it back to him—Your boyfriend?—with an exaggerated smile or a knowing little nod, as if Ilya had invited them in on an elaborate private joke. It didn’t help that Ilya often said it with an amused smirk, and it definitely didn’t help when Shane started doing it too, albeit less often and with a drier, more matter-of-fact delivery.

“My boyfriend already texted me about the missed opening.”

“I’m sure my boyfriend will have an opinion.”

“No, my boyfriend mostly told me to lose, sorry.”

It became a bit, and the press loved it. Fans clipped their interviews and compiled them into videos. Their teammates teased them relentlessly, some more good-naturedly than others. Players around the league started asking after Shane’s boyfriend or Ilya’s boyfriend with broad, knowing grins, and the social media teams in both Montreal and Boston embraced the joke with alarming enthusiasm. Outside the handful of people who actually knew the truth, everyone seemed to be in on it. No matter how plainly Shane or Ilya said it, my boyfriend was always met with the same laugh, the same wink, the same delight at being invited in on the joke.

It felt as though it didn’t matter what they said. No one believed them; no one considered, for even a moment, that they might not be joking. A real pair of Cassandras for the modern era.

Of all the possible outcomes Shane had imagined for when they finally came out, this hadn’t even been in the realm of possibility. He had prepared himself for anger, for scrutiny, for questions he wouldn’t want to answer and consequences neither of them could control. He hadn’t thought to prepare himself for the entire hockey world to think they were merely a pair of jesters at the commissioner’s behest.

Still, it was better than the alternative, Shane told himself. Probably.

It was a warmer-than-average November evening, though really, the entire month had been strangely tepid, the cold not yet having properly settled in Montreal. Outside the Bell Centre, the pavement was wet from an earlier rain rather than slick with what should have been ice. Fans and pedestrians alike trudged along the sidewalks beneath sodium streetlamps with their coats hanging open, unconcerned by neither the hour nor the thin wind coming off the St. Lawrence river.

The Bears had arrived in Montreal two days earlier and beaten the Metros just that evening. Under normal circumstances, a win like that would have left Shane and Ilya fielding competing invitations from both teams before eventually giving in to a night out. Only after they’d satiated any socializing they or their friends wanted would they head back to Shane’s apartment, where Ilya would spend the rest of the night dragging him to the edge for every goal Boston had put past Montreal—before finally letting Shane come for however many goals he’d scored in return.

Tonight, however, their usual postgame programming would be preempted by dinner plans made more than a month ago, instead of the usual night out at a club with one of their teams.

Ilya hadn’t been especially enthused when Shane first raised the idea of getting dinner with Rose

He hadn't said no. Ilya rarely outright refused when he knew Shane cared about something, but he had been more than happy to supply a seemingly endless list of reasons it probably wasn’t a good idea. They would both probably be exhausted after the game. The Bears had an early flight the following afternoon. Rose would surely be tired after filming. Ilya would be at the end of a roadie would probably be terrible company. Perhaps it would be better if Shane just went alone if he wanted to see her that badly.

“I want you to be there,” had been Shane’s only real argument. “That’s the whole point.”

He knew why Ilya was somewhat bothered by Rose—and Shane’s continued friendship with her. No matter how many times Shane called Ilya his boyfriend during interviews and media scrums, people continued to treat Rose like the obvious romantic companion between the two of them. Shane was sympathetic; he really was. He had swallowed enough of his own jealousy whenever Ilya and Svetlana were photographed together and social media had its inevitable reaction.

But Rose had quickly become one of Shane’s closest friends. He wanted Ilya to know her; he didn’t want two of the most important people in his life to remain near-strangers. Comparing Rose to Svetlana felt a little unfair—Svetlana had been Ilya’s best friend since childhood, whereas Shane had only known Rose for about a year—but Shane could imagine the feelings were similar.

“It doesn’t have to be a whole thing,” Shane continued. “Just dinner.”

“Yes. Just dinner,” Ilya echoed dryly. “Just dinner after the game. Just dinner with Rose Landry, the movie star everyone wants you to date.”

“What if we invited Svetlana?” Shane tried. He heard Ilya shift on the other end of the line. “The four of us could go, and that way—I don’t know—if you really hate Rose for some reason, then at least Svetlana will be there. I don’t think you will, though. I really think you two would get along if you had the chance to just… talk.”

Ilya was quiet as he considered it. Then, after considerably less time than he had spent considering the dinner itself, he said, “Sveta might be busy.”

“Well, we’ll never know if we don’t ask.”

“You should.” Ilya paused, then added with a forced casualness, “She has been wanting to visit Montreal. See you play in person.” His voice dipped slightly. “See us play each other.”

Now, just over a month later, Shane and Ilya followed the hostess through an upscale restaurant in the heart of downtown Montreal, past the muted clatter of the main dining room and down a short hallway to the private room Rose's assistant had booked them. The menu at this place was far beyond anything Shane would have chosen himself, though Rose—and later Svetlana and even Ilya, after looking the place over—had assured him the food would be excellent. More importantly, the restaurant had a staff practiced in discretion and an ironclad NDA for influential guests. It might have felt excessive if Rose hadn't been A-list movie star Rose Landry, if Shane and Ilya hadn't been NHL captains Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, if Svetlana hadn't the daughter of Vezina-winner Sergei Vetrov, or if there hadn't been a million other equally good reasons for them to want privacy.

The hostess opened a paneled door and stepped aside to let them into the private room.

Rose and Svetlana had arrived before them and were already seated, tucked together at one end of the table beneath the amber light hanging low above it. Their menus sat unopened beside their water glasses. Rose had one elbow braced on the table and was leaning close enough that her hair had slipped forward over one shoulder, while Svetlana spoke behind one raised hand, her eyes bright with suppressed laughter.

Rose noticed them first, her expression brightening as she pushed back her chair and stood. Svetlana looked up as the door shut behind them, and stood as well.

“Hi, Shane,” Rose said, coming around the table.

She greeted him with a light, familiar hug, one arm winding around his shoulders as she pressed a kiss to his cheek. Shane caught the faint trace of her perfume as he returned it, his hand settling briefly between her shoulder blades.

Over her shoulder, he watched Svetlana pull Ilya into an embrace with considerably less restraint. Her hand went immediately to the back of his neck, her fingers catching for a moment in the damp curls there as she kissed his cheek and murmured something in Russian. Ilya answered too quietly for Shane to catch, but his face softened into a smile as they pulled apart.

Then they separated and switched.

Svetlana came to Shane with a similar level of easy familiarity she had shown Ilya, looping both arms around him and drawing him close. She was speaking before the hug had even ended, the words delivered warmly and quickly beside his ear.

“Privet, Shanechka. Rada tebya videt’. Ty segodnya khorosho igral.”

The words themselves weren’t difficult—Hello, Shane. Glad to see you. You played well today. It was the speed and Svetlana’s accent that made the sentence difficult to immediately parse. This had become a recent game of hers and Ilya’s: speaking to him in quickly paced Russian to test the limits of his definitely-not-yet fluency. Sometimes, embarrassingly, the delay made him feel stupid. He knew more Russian than he had a year ago, and considerably more than he had five years ago, but hearing it spoken naturally was different from reading it or practicing with Ilya.

Still, the smile they gave him when recognition finally dawned his face made it all worthwhile.

“Privet, Svetlana. Ya rad, chto vy prishli. Vam ponravilis' siden'ya?” he answered carefully. Hi, Svetlana. I’m glad you came. Did you like the seats?

“Ya zhe govorila tebe nazyvat' menya Sveta, Shanechka.” she replied, ignoring his question. I told you to call me Sveta, Shanechka.

Shane hesitated, hastily translating the mildly reproachful sentence. When the complaint finally registered, heat crept into his cheeks. She had indeed told him to call her that months ago, but it still felt strangely presumptuous to call her the same name Ilya used after a lifetime of knowing her. Svetlana, however, kept one hand on his arm and leveled him with an expectant look.

“Sveta,” he acquiesced, offering her a small, placating smile. “Vam ponravilis' siden'ya?” Did you like the seats?

“They were perfect.” She answered in English. “It’s always a joy to watch Boston kick Montreal’s ass.”

“I’d hardly call a one-goal lead kicking our ass. The Bears got lucky in the second—”

Behind her, Rose and Ilya had stood a respectful few feet apart. Rose’s arms were loosely crossed, while Ilya stood with one hand in his trouser pocket and his tie hanging loose against his shirt. Neither of them looked in any hurry to speak.

Rose looked him over, her gaze moving briefly from his crooked tie to his face, while Ilya looked her over in return.

“Ilya Rozanov,” she said at last. “Shane’s told me a lot about you.”

“Strange.” Ilya met her eyes. “He tells me almost nothing of you.”

Rose laughed and turned her head toward Shane. “That’s not what I’ve heard. Apparently, you ask quite a lot.”

The corner of Ilya’s mouth twitched. “I like to know who my boyfriend spends time with.”

“Of course.” Rose nodded, her expression perfectly composed. “I feel the same way about my boy friend.” She placed the smallest possible pause between the two words, but the glance and playful smirk she sent Shane’s way made the implication clear.

Shane looked at Ilya. The expression he wore reminded him of the way Ilya looked at the faceoff dot whenever someone caught him off guard with an irritatingly, but funny, chirp—eyes narrowed, with a reluctant twitch at the corner of his mouth that betrayed his amusement.

Rose was brave, Shane would give her that. Bringing up Hollandry within seconds of meeting the boyfriend she had wanted to meet for nearly a year was certainly one way to introduce herself. It was fortunate that Ilya clearly also thought she was funny too.

Rose smiled as though she had seen it too. She uncrossed her arms and stepped forward before he could answer, closing the remaining distance between them and wrapping her arms around him.

“It’s lovely to finally meet you,” she said quietly. “I was so excited when Shane said you agreed to tonight.”

Ilya hummed. After only a moment’s hesitation, his free hand came out of his pocket and settled carefully against the middle of her back. He returned the hug, awkwardly at first, before some of the tension left his posture.

“Yes,” he said. “I would be excited to meet me too.”

Rose pulled back with a startled laugh. “Oh my God.” Her hand closed briefly around his upper arm, caught somewhere between an affectionate squeeze and the swat she clearly didn’t know him well enough to give. “You really are just like Shane said.”

Ilya’s mouth curved into a smirk.

When Rose stepped away, she smoothed one hand over the front of her dress and gave him another assessing glance, this one noticeably warmer. For a moment, no one said anything. An odd, faintly awkward quiet settled over the four of them.

“Well,” Svetlana cut in, glancing between them, “are we going to stand here all night? Because I don’t know about you, but I have been looking forward to the wine list all night.”

Rose laughed and reclaimed her seat as Svetlana sat back down. Ilya tugged once at his crooked tie before sitting, loosening it farther rather than attempting to straighten it. Shane took the chair beside him, across from Rose and Svetlana, while the staff returned with menus and fresh water.

Shane had only just settled his napkin across his lap when Ilya’s knee bumped against his beneath the table. The contact might have been accidental, but the fact that Ilya made no effort to move made it not. Shane glanced sideways. While Ilya’s focus remained solely on the menu in front of him, the faint quirk of his lips betrayed his intentions.

It occurred to Shane suddenly that this could probably be considered their first public date. Sure, they were tucked away in a private room, and the whole night had been arranged under the guise of introducing their girl friends... but still. They had eaten together plenty of times over the years—diners after games with friends, restaurants with Shane’s parents, or take-out at their kitchen counters—but never quite like this. Never both dressed in suits in a restaurant expensive enough to have a wine list and a waiting list a mile long. It felt unmistakably like a date.

Shane turned his attention back to his menu, mainly to hide his own grin.

Beneath the table, their knees remained pressed together.

♡⊹˚₊🏒November 9th, 2015🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

ok-magaine
@ok-magaine

SPOTTED: Rose Landry and NHL Montreal Metros Captain Shane Hollander joined NHL Boston Bears Captain Ilya Rozanov and longtime amour Svetlana Vetrova for dinner in Montreal following yesterday’s Bears–Metros game. Has Hollywood’s cutest rumor finally hard launched? 👀

9:01 AM · Nov 8, 2015

7.1K Retweets 4.5K Quote Tweets 91.2K Likes

popping_roxxie @popping_roxxie · Nov 8, 2015 Replying to @ok-magazine

hollandry and ilyana on the same NIGHT!? i used to pray for times like these girls we are eating so goooooood tonight

inklaid-remedy @inklaid-remedy · Nov 8, 2015 Replying to @ok-magazine

Hollandry fans 🤝 Ilyana fans
winning beyond measure tonight

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mikami-art @mikami-art · Nov 8, 2015 Replying to @ok-magazine

Omg omggg! Is it finally time for me to share the hollandry + ilyana fanart I did??

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earl-grey_cremee @earl-grey_cremee · Nov 8, 2015 Replying to @mikami-art

Girl!! Drop the art!!

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keat-en_93 @keat-en_93 · Nov 8, 2015 Replying to @ok-magazine

genuinely obsessed with the idea that these two best friends are dating two women who look like they are ALSO about to become best friends. the wives thread is going to be unreal

rosegolden_xx @rosegolden_xx · Nov 8, 2015 Replying to @ok-magazine

Ahh hollandry my beloved 😍💞 I swearrr they get cuter every time i see them 😭

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sarapple @sarapple · Nov 8, 2015 Replying to @ok-magazine

god I’m so gay. Svetlana Vetrova you will always be famous to me. “Longtime amour” is crazy, but also I understand because if I saw her once Id invent a romance too

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industry-standardxx @industry-standardxx · Nov 8, 2015 Replying to @ok-magazine

oh to be two gorgeous women dating two gorgeous hockey players and getting taken to an expensive private dinners after rivalry games

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majorfall-minorlift @majorfall-minorlift · Nov 8, 2015 Replying to @industry-standardxx

God I want two boyfriends and I want my boyfriends to be boyfriends and I want us all to go to dinner looking this expensive

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laurafax082 @laurafax082 · Nov 8, 2015 Replying to @majorfall-minorlift

Thats dream honestly

miniminji @miniminji · Nov 8, 2015 Replying to @majorfall-minorlift

Omgg i NEEED Rose and Svetlana to start calling each other girlfriends so the four of them become completely impossible to write headlines about

450

_panevon @_panevon · Nov 8, 2015 Replying to @ok-magazine

ngl if I were dating Ilya Rozanov or Shane Hollander I would also need to inspect the other up close. You gotta know what you’re up against. Know thy enemy type shit

zwav72 @ zwav72 · Nov 8, 2015 Replying to @_panevon

“Know thy enemy”????? 😭

_panevon @_panevon · Nov 8, 2015 Replying to @ zwav72

I said what I said.

rpfjailwarden
@rpfjailwarden

My favorite thing about the @ok-magazine video is that every ship truly came out stronger. #hollandry got confirmed. #ilyana fans got Roz being a gentleman. #rozander fans finally got the best friend's double-date. #hollanov stood next to each other. Love truly does win 💞💗❣️

3:39 PM · Nov 9, 2015

78 Retweets 18 Quote Tweets 1.5K Likes

mikami-art
@mikami-art

By popular demand! 💞 #hollandry #ilyana

7:09 PM · Nov 9, 2015

396 Retweets 87 Quote Tweets 4.6K Likes

earl-grey_cremee @earl-grey_cremee · Nov 9, 2015 Replying to @mikami-art

Ahhh my lovelies!!

420

death_over_decaf @death_over_decaf · Nov 9, 2015 Replying to @mikami-art

op i am eating your art

396

mikami-art @mikami-art · Nov 8, 2015 Replying to @death_over_decaf

😖😖😖😖😖😖 omg THANK YOU!! 🤧🤧💕💕

190

griffintara-xo @griffintara-xo · Nov 9, 2015 Replying to @mikami-art

THEY’RE SO CUTE I’M GOING TO BE SICK OMG

276

♡⊹˚₊🏒June 25th, 2016🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

The cottage had never had this many people in it before.

It had been built for it, certainly. There were enough bedrooms and space if no one objected to sharing or doubling-up, and enough plates and silverware to feed an entire roster twice over. But it had never felt quite so full—not just occupied, but alive in every corner.

Jackie and Hayden had taken the room in the basement, having arrived first with a manic cheerfulness at their first child-free weekend in years. JJ had claimed the small bedroom off the kitchen, while Connors and Vic were sharing the attic loft, where Shane and Ilya had dragged up a pair of mattresses for the occasion. Rose and Sveta had taken the guest room across from Shane and Ilya’s, and Marly, having been the last to arrive, had been relegated to the pullout in the den.

There were shoes piled beside the door, damp towels hanging over just about every available porch railing, and enough beer, wine, and spirits to put a bootlegger to shame. It felt like every summer break movie Ilya had ever watched as a kid; the epitome of the North American summer vacation.

Ilya sat stretched out on one of the deck sofas with Shane half-curled against his side. The late afternoon sun left the air feeling warm and syrupy, and turned the water gold wherever the light caught. Just to the right of them, Marly stood at the grill with a beer in one hand, presiding over a crowded row of burgers and hot dogs with more confidence than competence. Hayden and Jackie had taken two of chairs around the currently dormant fire pit, sharing a can of something pink and fizzy between them, while farther down, Rose and Sveta sat cross-legged on one of the lounges on the dock.

Connors, Vic, and JJ had spent the better part of the afternoon trying to master a dock start on the hydrofoil, with very little success but an impressive amount of determination. Rose and Sveta happily heckled them after each attempt, and if the three men were hoping persistence might eventually impress them, the girls were at least kind enough to pretend it was working.

Ilya rested his chin against the top of Shane’s head as he looked around at all of them.

He had imagined this before, summers like these. Their friends filling every corner of their home, too many bodies around the dinner table, everyone swimming and drinking and sitting around bonfires past midnight. Ilya had dreamt of inviting everyone here from the moment they had hit post last June 30th and finally told their friends the truth, but the reality of coordinating that many schedules had made it feel like nothing but a pipe dream. Someone was always training, traveling, rehabbing, filming, visiting family, or producing children at an inconvenient rate.

Ilya’s thoughts drifted upstairs, to the little black box tucked into the back of his dresser drawer. It was sort of funny, in retrospect, that all it had taken was a sufficiently compelling reason for their friends to rearrange their lives for one weekend, and here they were.

See, he had been very sneaky these last several months.

So very, very sneaky.

He had brought them all onto the plan one-by-one, making it incredibly clear that under no circumstances were they to tell Shane. Getting everyone to agree had been the easy part. Getting them all to the cottage for the same late-June weekend without making Shane suspicious had been a bitch and a half; but hey, Ilya was nothing if not persistent.

By the time Marly called everyone up from the lake for dinner, Ilya's nerves had settled in him like a live wire. Part of him wanted to say fuck it and propose then and there. But he (they) had spent months planning everything out, and Sveta would kill him if he jumped the gun and ruined all their hard work right at the precipice.

They ate outside as the last of the afternoon light faded behind the treeline, passing platters and bowls around the long table in a loose, communal—dare he say, family-style—sprawl. Marly had, despite Ilya’s earlier heckling, proved himself quite capable of working a grill, and it really was an impressive spread they had managed to put together. It was a shame Ilya barely tasted any of it, his appetite having all but disappeared beneath his anticipation.

By the time the plates had been mostly cleared and everyone had settled back with whatever remained in their glasses, Rose stood, wineglass still in hand, and declared, “Okay. Girls’ night.”

“Huh?” several of the guys exclaimed.

“Girls’ night,” Jackie repeated, already grabbing a wine bottle from the spirits cooler. “No boys allowed in the living room. You can have the den.”

“The den?” Connors protested. “Why do you get the living room?”

“Because we called it,” Rose said, sticking out her tongue.

The faux argument lasted for another minute or so, mostly because it would have been suspicious for them to surrender the living room without protest. Ilya made sure to make an appropriate show of objecting to being evicted from his own living room before allowing himself to be herded downstairs with everyone else.

Perfect. All according to plan.

As far as banishments went, the den was hardly a punishment. It took up a good half of the lower level of the cottage, with a TV the size of a small theater screen, several couches, a pool table, and enough alcohol to survive a minor siege. Really, it was considerably better suited to an impromptu boys’ night than the living room upstairs; what more could a bunch of dude-bro hockey players possibly want?

The guys were quick to arrange an NHL 16 tournament. While Shane would deny it come hell or high water, Ilya knew he liked the NHL video game series just as much as the rest of them, and his competitive side would keep him thoroughly distracted from any suspicions of what was happening upstairs. The only deviation from the plan was Ilya’s refusal when someone tried to hand him a controller. He blamed the beer, but the truth was that his nerves were making it increasingly difficult to sit still, much less concentrate on anything requiring coordination. He was proposing to Shane in less than an hour; he refused to fuck it up at the eleventh hour by eating shit at NHL 16 and giving Shane and his poorly disguised competency kink the world’s most poorly timed ick.

So he stayed on the couch and watched Shane destroy everyone instead.

There were few things more satisfying than watching Shane absolutely dominate whatever competition someone had been stupid enough to challenge him in. By the fifth game, he had kicked everyone’s ass so thoroughly that the “tournament” had devolved into a 1v5: Shane versus everyone else.

He genuinely didn’t understand how Shane was so fucking good at this game.

Ilya played regularly, had excellent hand-eye coordination, and was (one of) the best hockey player(s) in the world. None of that mattered in the face of Shane’s pure domination at this game. On a good night, he could beat Shane maybe three times out of every ten, and even then Shane usually spent the next seven games absolutely reaming his ass.

Shane was winning 3–1 against Vic when Rose called from upstairs. “Hey Shane? Can you come help me with the speaker? It stopped connecting to my phone.”

Shane looked up from the screen. “Did you try turning the Bluetooth off and back on?”

“Yeah, I’m getting some protocol code. I think I might need your login. Can you come up and take a look at it?” Ilya very pointedly didn’t look at Shane. Fuck. Despite his initial misgivings about Rose, Shane befriending a world-class actress might have been one of the best things he had ever done—second only, perhaps, to giving Ilya his room number in Toronto all those years ago—because she was giving nothing away.

“Oh yeah, no problem.” Shane offered his controller to Ilya. “Can you take over for me?”

Ilya agreed and took Shane’s controller, not that any more NHL 16 would be getting played tonight. All the guys immediately started complaining that Ilya hadn’t earned Shane’s 3–1 lead, but Shane was already halfway to the stairs and paid them no mind. At the bottom step, he paused and glanced back at Hayden.

“Hey Hayds, you wanna come help me? You’re pretty good with tech stuff.”

“Yeah, for sure, man.” Hayden pushed himself up from the couch.

Hayden followed after him, hanging back just long enough to catch Ilya’s eye and flash him an encouraging thumbs-up before disappearing upstairs.

Ilya waited until the sound of their footsteps faded before finally letting his head fall back against the couch.

“Oh, fuck me.”

Immediately, the four guys still downstairs descended on him with well-meaning platitudes and reassurances. “Dude, you’re fine.”—“He’s gonna say yes.”—“You have nothing to worry about.”

Ilya scrubbed both hands over his face. “I know he is going to say yes.” His rapidly bouncing leg undermined the conviction somewhat, but logically, he knew there was really no version of the next half hour in which Shane said no.

If he could just get his nervous system on board, that would be great.

Marly leaned forward and slapped a hand against Ilya’s knee, stilling it. “Quit freaking yourself out, man. Hollzy is so stupid in love with you, and you’re worse. You could walk up there, hand him a paper ring or completely forget how to speak English, and I guarantee he’d still say yes.”

A few variations of exactly and what he said followed.

It did calm him down, hearing someone say it so plainly. Still, Ilya wasn't a known pest for no reason. He let his eyes widen in alarm as he looked at Marly. “Oh, fuck. What if I forget English?”

“Hey—hey, no.” Marly immediately reached up to grip his shoulder. “Don’t fucking do that to yourself. You’re not gonna forget English. And if you do—which you're not going to!—doesn’t Hollzy know Russian?”

Ilya strung him along for another second before the corner of his mouth twitched. “I’m fucking with you. I’m fine.”

The guys all laughed as Marly affectionately shoved his shoulder, “Jesus Christ, Roz. You’re gonna give me a heart attack before I make it to 30.”

Ilya laughed too, most of the tension finally leaving him. “Seriously,” he said, quieter. “Thank you.”

Marly’s expression softened. “Anytime, brother.”

Footsteps sounded on the stairs before anyone could say anything more, and Sveta appeared in the doorway. Her eyes found Ilya immediately. “Alright loverboy.”

Ilya drew in a slow breath and stood. The others immediately started up with another round of encouragement, but he only laughed and waved them off as he crossed the room toward her. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Sveta took both of his hands in hers and held them for a moment.

“Ready?” she asked quietly.

Ilya squeezed her hands. “Yes.”

She pulled him into a hug, and Ilya wrapped his arms around her, shutting his eyes against her hair for a moment.

“Thank you, Sveta. For all of this. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“I know.” She kissed his cheek before stepping back, the hint of a smile returning to her face. Sveta reached into her pocket and pressed the little black ring box into his palm. His heart gave one hard thump at the familiar weight of it. As he turned the ring box over in his hand, Sveta reached into her other pocket and produced a strip of dark fabric.

“One last thing.”

Ilya stared at it. “Why do I need a blindfold?”

“Because Rose, Jackie, and I worked very hard while you idiots sat around playing video games. You’re not seeing anything until you’re where we want you.”

“This wasn’t part of the plan.”

“I know, this is our plan.”

“Sveta—”

“You're making Shane wear one, yes?” Sveta held the blindfold out to him. “You have spent all this time imagining his face when he sees what you did for him. Don’t you want to know what it will feel like for him? When everything is revealed?”

Ilya looked at the fabric. Fuck, yeah, he kinda did.

“Fine,” he muttered, taking it from her.

He tied the fabric over his eyes with only minimal grumbling, and a moment later Sveta’s hand closed around his wrist and began guiding him forward. Deprived of his sight, his four other senses felt heightened: the creak of the stairs beneath his feet, the warmth of Sveta’s hand on his bicep, the faint smell of woodsmoke drifting in from somewhere ahead, the taste of—well, fuck-all—but three out of four wasn’t bad.

Sveta quietly maneuvered him through the living room. He half expected her to keep up some sort of running commentary—step left, watch your feet, don’t trip—but she said nothing, only nudging him gently this way and that until, apparently, she had him exactly where she wanted him.

Then Sveta stepped behind him and untied the blindfold.

The overhead lights had been turned off, and, in their place, tea candles glowed on every available surface—some real, some electric, their warm little lights scattered across the room in uneven clusters. The fireplace had been lit despite the mild summer night, more for atmosphere than warmth, and its low orange glow caught against the windows, the polished wood floor, and the glass doors looking out over the dark lake beyond.

It was perfect.

And directly in front of him was Shane.

Shane looked no less stunned than Ilya felt, his mouth open in shock. His blindfold was pushed up to his hairline, one hand raised as though he had only just finished pushing it away, while the other cradled a small wooden ring box.

Ilya blinked once. Then again.

Slowly, his eyes slid past Shane to the periphery of the room. Rose sat half-curled into one corner of the couch with a hand clapped over her mouth, while Jackie sat beside her with her phone already up and recording. The guys had somehow snuck up the stairs while Ilya was blindfolded and now stood with Hayden on the far side of the room. Sveta, traitor that she was, had retreated to stand behind the couch beside Rose.

Every single one of them wore a shit-eating grin.

And suddenly, Ilya understood:

These bastards had played them. Both of them, apparently.

Distantly, he wondered who had started planning first. Had Shane reached out before Ilya did, or had it been the other way around? At what point had their friends realized what was happening and started nudging their plans together? It was strange to realize he didn’t actually care whose idea it had been first. He didn’t care whether Shane had been carrying that little wooden box around for a week or hiding it for a year. Not when either answer got him this: Shane standing across from him holding a ring of his own.

An incredulous laugh tore itself from his throat as he turned his head and addressed their audience. “Oh, fuck off all of you.”

That finally broke them. Laughter spread around the room, poorly contained after what he could imagine had been an evening-long effort not to ruin the joint surprise. Jackie kept her camera trained firmly on them.

“Can you guys be mad at us later?” Rose asked. “Because there are currently two rings in this room that have been stressing us all out for months.”

“Seriously,” Marly added. “Somebody fucking propose already.”

Ilya looked back at Shane, but Shane was already looking at him, his expression so painfully fond. Shane’s mouth twitched and Ilya felt his own answering smile as something wordless passed between them. Together, they opened their ring boxes, and with everything else Ilya had learned in the last minute, perhaps it shouldn’t have surprised him to see two remarkably similar gold bands nestled against velvet.

“Shanya.” His voice caught embarrassingly on the second syllable. He cleared his throat, but Shane was already smiling at him with that soft, boyish smile that had hardly changed since they were sixteen. Ilya took one of Shane’s hands in his. “I love you. You are the best thing in my life. Every good thing I want, every future I can imagine, you are there.”

Shane’s fingers tightened around his.

“I don’t know what my life looks like without you, Ilyusha,” Shane answered, his voice already beginning to waver. “And I don’t want to. The only one I want is the one with you right next to me. So, Ilya Rozanov—”

“So, Shane Hollander—” Ilya interrupted with a sharp grin.

Shane let out a wet, startled laugh and swatted him weakly on the arm. Ilya laughed too, squeezing Shane’s hand and feeling Shane return the pressure.

“Will you marry me?” they asked at the same time.

“Yes,” Ilya breathed immediately, the word breaking somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Yes, Shanya. Of course.”

“Yes,” Shane answered just as quickly, blinking hard even as tears spilled freely down his cheeks. “Konechno, ya soglasen.” Of course, I accept.

They were quick to divest the rings of their boxes, reaching for each other and laughing softly as both their hands trembled. Ilya slid Shane’s ring onto the fourth finger of his left hand, while Shane pushed Ilya’s onto his right. Ilya stared down at their hands, still tangled together between them. The twin bands caught a flicker of candlelight where there had been none only seconds before, and the glint of gold made his throat tighten unexpectedly.

They were engaged.

He and Shane were actually fucking engaged. They were going to get married. Be husbands. Have a life together.

Ilya practically launched himself at Shane, dragging him into his arms and kissing him hard as Shane laughed helplessly against him. Distantly, Ilya could hear their friends cheer around them, but the noise hardly registered. There was only Shane: Shane’s hands cradling his face, Shane laughing helplessly against his mouth, Shane kissing him back with tears still wet on his face. Everything Ilya had spent months imagining about this moment disappeared beneath the reality of it.

His fiancé. Fuck. Soon-to-be husband. His life partner and soulmate.

Ilya eventually pulled back, though only far enough to rest their foreheads together. Shane was still laughing softly, his eyes closed. He was so beautiful.

"I love you," Ilya murmured against his lips.

"Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu." Shane murmured back.

Ilya kissed him again and pulled him into a tight hug. Shane tucked himself against Ilya without hesitation, arms winding around his waist. Ilya kept him there as he finally turned to face the collection of traitors surrounding them.

“You,” he said, pointing first at Sveta and then sweeping his finger around the rest of the room, “are all assholes.”

The unmistakable affection in his voice only made everyone laugh harder. Ilya could feel Shane shaking with laughter against his chest, and he tightened his arms around him without thinking, laughing too as the noise swelled around them. Fuck. His heart felt impossibly full.

He would only admit, privately, months later, and under extreme duress, that these bastards had somehow managed to make his proposal better than he could have ever imagined.

♡⊹˚₊🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

Ilya Rozanov
@irozanov81

June 25, 2016💍

Shane Hollander @shollanderhockeyplayer ·

June 25, 2016💍

12:32 PM · June 26, 2016

17.9K Retweets 6.4K Quote Tweets 27.8K Likes

raleighz @raleighz · June 26, 2016 Replying to @exampleuser

Omg! Hollandry AND Ilyana got engaged?? 😮😮😮

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3.2K

8.7K

Chapter End Notes

Hello hello! I am so very, very behind on responding to comments, but I wanted to thank everyone who took the time to share some incredibly heartfelt stories and emotions last chapter! I am so overwhelmed by the positive response it got, I'm just 😖🤧💕💕
To everyone who wished for Act 2 to be longer... well 😅 let's just say this was NOT where Chapter 12 was supposed to end, so it looks like you are well on your way to getting your wish haha 💕💕
As always 💕 All my love to everyone here 💕 I know WIPs aren't everyone's cup of tea, so the fact that so many of you are here is so amazing to me, and I hope you each know how appreciated you are 💕
Honorary mention to the reply I wanted to include after the engagement post (the joke I pretty much based this whole fic on 😭), but it didn't fit the vibe anymore:

Gone, but not forgotten 😔😔
Up next, Chapter 13: 🤵🥂🤵

Chapter 13: Interlude: Hunter

Chapter Summary

Scott was still breathing hard when he passed the cup to Vaughn.

Chapter Notes

I know I promised a wedding, but I wanted to take a quick detour before that 🙃

See the end of the chapter for more notes

♡⊹˚₊🏒 Early June, 2017🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

Scott was still breathing hard when he passed the cup to Vaughn.

His lungs were burning and his whole body thrummed with a sort of adrenaline that made it all but impossible to tell where exhaustion ended and exhilaration began. Vaughn took the cup from him with a zest that was somehow contagious—the sheer look of elation on his face making an incredulous laugh tear itself from Scott’s throat. As he watched Vaughn lift the cup over his head and the crowd inside Madison Square Garden erupt around them, for a second all Scott could do was stand there in awe.

Twenty-three years. The Admirals hadn't won the Stanley Cup in twenty-three years, and now they'd actually fucking done it.

Scott was surrounded by his teammates on all sides, he could feel the energy of their celebration moving through him, but it felt utterly unreal—almost like a dream, too good to be true. He had spent pretty much the entire playoffs refusing to imagine this exact moment—lest he jinx it—and that now that he was here, he could hardly believe it. Every time he thought the adrenaline might finally start to ebb, he would catch a glimpse of silver or of one of his teammates, and it would crest all over again.

There were so many times in his life where Scott had been happy before. He had been proud, relieved, excited—fucking ecstatic even—but he couldn’t remember ever feeling so completely consumed by it as he was now. There wasn’t room in him for anything but exultation and the triumphant joy of standing side-by-side with men he considered brothers who had all fought their way here beside him, giving everything they had for the same impossible chance.

Eventually—after an indeterminate amount of time, Scott wouldn’t have been able to tell you if it had been five minutes or five hours—the doors at the end of the rink opened and the families and friends of the Admirals were finally let onto the ice. Kids in tiny jerseys immediately took off toward their fathers despite several adults calling after them to slow down, while wives and girlfriends made their way carefully over the ice in shoes more suited for a hockey box than a hockey rink. Parents, siblings, friends—all the people the Admirals would have wanted here if tonight actually happened, who had spent the better part of two months rearranging their lives around the possibility that it might.

For a moment, watching his teammates' parents find their sons in the crowd, Scott felt the absence of his own settle like lead in his heart—but it was an old weight now, its edges worn smooth by time rather than jagged with the grief of his youth. But then Scott caught Kip’s eye as he stepped onto the ice, and something in his heart settled.

He still couldn’t quite believe he got to have this.

Scott tried not to think about it too much—lest he work himself into a panic—but somewhere over the last three years, Kip had become somewhat of an open secret in the Admirals locker room. Nobody had ever asked Scott to confirm anything, but even he could admit that the evidence had gotten harder and harder to deny. Three years ago, realizing that even a single one of his teammates might suspect his particular… preferences would have left him sick with nausea. He would have spent weeks overthinking every conversation, wondering who had figured out what and who they might have told, what was it that tipped them off.

Now—Well.

Hours earlier, before warmups and the deciding Game Six, Vaughn had dropped down onto the bench beside him while Scott was retaping one of his sticks and asked—“So, is your friend Kip coming tonight?”

The way he asked was no different from the way any of them might have asked whether someone’s wife or girlfriend was coming, or whether a player’s parents had made it into town.

It was… nice.

Officially, and if anyone asked any player on the Admirals, Scott Hunter had had a roommate for the last two and a half years. Kip was a friend Scott was helping out while he worked his way through graduate school, first his master’s and now his doctorate. While no one was under any illusions that an NHL salary left Scott in need of someone to split the rent with—even with the frankly egregious cost of living in New York City—apparently some of his teammates had been more concerned about Scott’s going home to an empty apartment night after night, year after year, then he'd ever realized. His lack of family was hardly a secret, but ever since Kip moved in more than one teammate had pulled him aside to tell him they were glad he had somebody in his corner; even if that somebody was just a friend.

Officially, and if anyone asked any player on the Admirals, Christopher “Kip” Grady was Scott Hunter’s best friend. If you invited Scott somewhere, it was generally understood that—schedule permitting—Kip would probably be right behind him. This was fine, everyone liked Kip—he was a great guy, really. Easy to talk to, funny once you got him going, had excellent taste in art according to the several Admirals who had somehow ended up acquiring several tasteful pieces over the years at Kip’s advice. Nobody particularly minded that invitations issued to Scott had quietly become invitations issued to Scott-and-Kip.

Officially, and if anyone asked any player on the Admirals, there was absolutely nothing unusual about their captain's living arrangements, and any suggestion to the contrary made you the weird one. It was sweet, in a clumsy, macho, kind of dumb way only a locker room full of well-meaning—if not always politically correct—professional hockey players could manage.

Unofficially, Scott had been living with his boyfriend since the beginning of the 2015–16 season.

The Scott of three years ago could hardly have imagined the Scott of today. The Scott who had sat alone in Sochi after Kip walked out on him, telling him he couldn’t do this anymore, had been so completely wrecked that even the silver medal he brought home from Russia hadn’t been enough to drag him out of it. That misery had followed him back to New York and settled over him for months, bleeding into everything until it culminated into one of the worst seasons of his career and the Admirals missing the playoffs altogether.

For a long time afterward (a year, a long calendar year), Scott had treated that heartbreak like proof that there was only room in his life for one or the other. He could have hockey, or he could indulge the need that kept him reaching for scraps of affection from men whose names he often never learned. He couldn’t have both. Kip had wanted more than scraps. Scott had wanted more than that too actually—desperately even—but wanting it and believing he could have it without sacrificing everything was another matter entirely.

Kip never asked him and had ultimately taken the hypothetical decision out of Scott’s hands, but the question haunted him anyway: if it really came down to it—one or the other—would he have chosen Kip over hockey? In 2014, in wake of the worst season of his career, even if considering it had felt like agony, the Scott of then thought he knew what his answer would have been regardless. Hockey had been his one constant after his parents died. It had given him something to channel all his rage and grief into, and then it had given him a career, a team, a purpose—an entire life built from the wreckage of the one he had lost, and maybe, in some twisted way, a means of still feeling connected to the parents who had taught him to love the game in the first place. He loved Kip, but 2014 Scott couldn’t imagine willingly giving all of that up—not even for the man he wanted a future with. However much it hurt, he couldn’t imagine choosing anything over hockey.

Then, at the end of June 2015, Obergefell passed, and Scott had what would probably remain the strangest Fourth of July of his life.

The barbecue itself wasn’t unusual. Vaughn organized one every year for the guys who stayed in New York year-round. The strange part was that Scott was still in New York to attend it. Usually, by July, he would have disappeared somewhere across the Atlantic for a few weeks, but that summer, he had been too miserable to regularly summon the energy needed to leave his apartment, much less the country. So, he had ended up at Vaughn’s place with the rest of them and that year there was really only one thing anyone wanted to talk about.

Hollander and Rozanov.

Hockey Twitter had spent the better part of the week losing its collective mind over the bizarre, clumsy declarations of allyship the two had posted after the ruling, and apparently every Admiral and their WAG had an opinion they were dying to share.

Scott remembers listening to his teammates with a sick sense of anticipation, waiting for the inevitable turn. Hockey didn’t exactly have a reputation for tolerance, after all, and some bitter, vindictive part of him almost wanted them to prove him right—to justify every year he had spent afraid, every person he had pushed away, every choice he had made in the name of protecting himself.

Except they hadn’t.

Sure, there had been some laughter, plenty of jokes about whatever the hell Hollander and Rozanov were doing, but the disgust and the hate Scott had been bracing for never came. Scott had sat there listening, suddenly feeling unmoored, and for the first time in a very long while wondered what the fuck he was doing.

That night, while fireworks lit up the sky over New York, Scott had texted Kip, asked if they could meet, if they could talk, and—well.

The rest was history.

Now, skating towards his boyfriend with the adrenaline of a Stanley Cup win still roaring through his veins, Scott found himself thinking about Hollander and Rozanov again. He would deny it till kingdom come, but he owed those crazy fucking kids. He didn’t know what their angle was, or what they were getting out of this whole bizarre stunt—the posts, the boyfriend jokes, the fiancé jokes, all of it—but he did owe them.

He owed them for the text he sent that Fourth of July. He owed them for the conversation that followed, and for every conversation after that. He owed them for the last two and a half years of waking up beside Kip, for getting to come home to him every night, for the life he and Kip had built around the increasingly flimsy fiction that they were just roommates. He owed them for the fact that Kip was still in his life at all.

He owed them for Kip being here, stepping onto the ice with the Admiral's friends and family instead of watching from somewhere high in the stands, relegated to the role of fan or a stranger.

Kip was smiling when Scott reached him, and Scott only allowed himself a moment's hesitation to consider what he wanted and what he was about to do before he closed the last bit of distance between them and kissed him. Kip briefly startled against him, instinctively trying to draw back a fraction, but Scott pulled him closer, one hand slipping around the back of his neck as he chased him into another kiss. The surprise lasted barely a heartbeat before Kip grinned against him and kissed him back, both hands curling into the front of his jersey.

As he kissed Kip with an adrenaline he probably couldn’t attribute solely to winning anymore, he sent a reluctant thank-you to Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov. Scott doubted either one of them would ever understand what their stunt had meant to someone like him. Maybe to Hollander and Rozanov, this was all one big, long running joke to an end only they saw.

But to Scott, it had been everything.

And for everything, he could be brave.

Chapter End Notes

Hi! Sorry! 😅

I might go back and delete this, or maybe put it through some serious editing, but I am fighting through a serious case of writer’s block and wanted to try posting a more manageable 2k chapter that isn’t vital to the story, as opposed to the 10k one I have planned for Hollanov’s wedding, and see if I can work through the kinks of whatever is going on 😅😅
Some more Scott details I couldn't quite work in
So... I had a lot of comments asking me if Scott knew haha, and while I am very open to reader interpretation, this seemed like a fun question to address in a short writing exercise to hopefully get over my writer's block.

So! My Scott.

I will admit, I don't know or understand Scott well enough as a character, so this will probably be the one and only Scott Interlude this fic gets. That said, did my Scott know back at the Rookie Awards?

TL;DR: No.

Back in 2011, he was definitely comforted by the fact that the league and fans were responding so well to a close male friendship, especially between two players on rival teams. During the NHL Awards that year (Chapter 7), Shane was able to go on stage and—yes, there was a joke—but he was also able to make such a heartfelt speech and reference Ilya without people mocking him or calling his masculinity into question. That was definitely a comfort to Scott, who worried so much at the time that having those kinds of connections would basically put a neon sign over his sexuality.

Unfortunately, from 2010–2015, Scott was still very scared of being outed, and that paranoia still causes him and Kip to break up in 2014.

However, in 2015, we see Scott watch Shane and Ilya "come out," and while he falls for the same wave of public dismissal as everyone else, seeing Shane and Ilya able to say these things without being ostracized or cast out of the league is a major comfort to him. They can say these things and still keep hockey.

That's ultimately the biggest thing that pushes Scott to make amends with Kip only a year after their breakup. 2015 Scott realizes that he would apparently have to do a lot worse to accidentally out himself than simply have a suspiciously close "friend."

Is this a very romanticized version of what would have actually happened? Yes 😅 But we are all reading a feel-good fic, so I will keep this feel-good and give Scott his best-case scenario :))
All of my love to everyone who commented last chapter—I know I am very behind in responding but you are all very sweet and very funny 💕 The actual chapter is hopefully coming soon, but in the meantime, I hope this answered some people’s questions about Scott!

If anyone would like to share their most bat-shit insane advice for getting over writers block, I would owe you my life 💕 💕

Chapter 14: Good Ol' Fashioned Loverboys

Chapter Summary

They had a reception to finish planning, an awards show to miss, and, most importantly, a wedding to be had before any of that would be relevant.

Chapter Notes

⚠️Pause⚠️

This chapter is the kinkiest chapter I have and will write. I don't think it is super out there, but it does include notably very non-vanilla kink dynamics and does push boundaries with consent. If you have any triggers, icks, or hard no's when reading smut, please refer to the following content warning list. If any of those warnings are on your 'Do-not-read' list, then either (a) skip the third scene of this chapter or (b) refer to my the extended warning description under each tag to see how I use each warning in this chapter and make the decision if you want to read this scene. This scene is not plot critical, and you will not miss any vital plot/emotional developments, just Ilya being and loverboy and #downbad.

I am probably making a mountain out of a molehill, but I just want to make sure everyone has the opportunity to skip the third scene if any of these warnings are hard no's. Genuinely, I feel the smut in this chapter is very sweet, but I would feel horrible if anyone felt blindsided by a trigger in what I've advertised as a feel good fic 💞

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Content Warning List (and Descriptions)Playful coercion

Ilya realizes Shane isn't saying what he means/wants and "pressures" Shane into making concessions and saying yes to sexual acts he verbally says he doesn't want. To be clear, Shane wants to have sex but is verbally saying no.

Minor CNC Elements (Consensual Non-Consent)

Shane consents to "just the tip" but internally Ilya thinks about how they will absolutely be doing more than "just the tip" and "lies" when he promises Shane it will just be the tip. Shane's consent to more than that doesn't come until much later in the scene when Ilya has already done a more than the tip but before full penetration.

Shane consents to sex without a condom on the condition that it is "just the tip". While Ilya picks up on the fact that Shane is aware and wants more than "just the tip", explicit consent to full sex without a condom is never explicitly established. Everything is implied and spoken around via double meanings.

Minor Degradation and Name calling

Ilya gently makes fun and mocks of Shane for him saying no to sex after Shane begs him for more. In his head, Ilya also calls Shane a slut, but it is thought in a very affectionate way.

"Victim" blaming (in the loosest sense)

Internally, Ilya "blames" Shane for teasing him. This could technically be interpreted in a "well what was she wearing" way, in the sense that Ilya thinks he can't help his arousal because Shane is wearing what he thinks is a slutty shirt, sexy cologne, and is squirming/grinding on Ilya. Ilya does think that all of these actions could have innocent explanations, but does use this evidence to correctly infer Shane is trying to tempt Ilya into having sex with him even as Shane says no.

Important: Shane is 100% doing this, every action Shane takes this morning is to tempt Ilya into having sex with him despite Shane's refusal. Refer to the Minor CNC elements tag for more information.

General Scene Summary if you don’t want to read individual warning descriptions

During this scene, Shane gets it in his head that they can't have sex the morning of their wedding because it isn't "proper", even though he really wants to. I think this scene makes it clear that Shane is absolutely consenting in every way but verbally, however, Ilya does multiple times think about the fact that Shane isn't saying what he actually wants, and takes up the role he assumes Shane wants: the pushy fiancé "coercing" him into sex (think the whiny frat boy trying to convince his hesitant girlfriend into having sex before she is ready). Part of this role involves Ilya "convincing" Shane that certain sexual acts (such as fingering or "just the tip") don't count as actual sex as a way of escalating and pushing Shane's verbally established boundaries in "Ilya's" favor.

I do want to make it very clear though: Shane 1000% wants to have sex. His issue stems from a sudden hang up of doing things the "right away", and the "right way" being "no sex before marriage". In this scene, Ilya does think about the logical contradiction of them having sex just the night before, and is confused by Shane's sudden "prudeness" BUT Ilya was completely fine not having sex until he realized Shane actually wanted it and just wasn't saying it.

At the end of the day, these boys are so in love with each other. I have not written this fic and cultivated a feel good community to trick people into reading extremely kinky smut. Throughout this whole scene, Ilya can't help but thinking how in love with Shane he is, how perfect his fiancé is, and how excited he is to marry Shane later that day. If Ilya has been a loverboy this whole fic, then in this scene he is a LOVERBOY. If any of these warnings are triggers for you, but after reading the use description you decide to read anyways, please know that the characters are treated very gently, and in the meta sense, consent is 100% given by both characters in every sense of the word.

On the opposite side, if you decide to skip the third scene, just know you are not missing any plot critical revelations. The only thing established in this scene is Ilya loves Shane and is so #downbad for his future husband… not new information in any way I hope ;)

♡⊹˚₊🏒Early June 2017🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

“Do you want round or square tables for the reception?” his mom asked, looking up from her computer.

Honesty? Shane couldn’t have cared less about whether they had round or square tables for the reception. What reception, anyway? The fifteen-odd people who would maybe stick around for dinner and drinks after the ceremony? He didn’t care if there were square tables or round ones or, hell, even chairs. Still, he couldn’t help but be grateful to his mom for somehow compressing what should have probably been a year of wedding planning in the three-odd weeks since his and Ilya’s seasons had ended. So if that meant he had to make decisions about table shapes, then—

“Square, definitely,” Ilya said before Shane had managed to dedicate even an inkling of thought to the question. Shane wasn’t sure what, exactly, it was about square tables that inspired such immediate ‘definitely’, but Ilya sounded certain, so Shane made what he hoped was a believable noise of agreement.

His mom looked quickly between them, apparently finding enough consensus on their faces, before nodding sagely and returning to her computer.

“Square… tables,” she murmured as she typed.

In the living room behind them, Game 6 of the Stanley Cup Final was playing, and Shane would have much rather been in there with his dad watching what could very well be the last game of the ‘16-'17 season instead of sitting here at the dining-room table with his mom making wedding decisions he didn’t really care that much about.

But, like he said, his mom was taking care of everything he and Ilya probably should have figured out over the previous year—not that Shane really thought a twenty-odd-person wedding required quite this much superfluous grandeur. Regardless, Shane was in absolutely no position to complain about choosing table shapes, seating arrangements, or whatever else she decided required their input. So, if his mom wanted him to have an opinion about table shapes, then by God, he was going to (try to) have an opinion about table shapes.

While Ilya seemed just as lost as Shane when it came to most of the actual wedding logistics and paperwork, it had been something of a gift to watch him and his mom scheme together over the finer, decorative details. Somewhere along the way, Ilya had ended up with much stronger opinions than Shane about things like flowers, food, music, and half a dozen other things Shane would have happily answered with ‘whatever is fine’ if it had been left to just him.

And Shane liked that, he liked that Ilya cared and took the reins and was working with his mom to make their wedding perfect. Maybe more than he liked any particular choice they actually made. He liked watching this version of Ilya—the one comfortable enough with his parents to have opinions around, to argue and disagree without hesitation, to get drawn into whatever spiral they were on and contribute to it as though it were one of his own. And if the consequence of his indifference was that Shane occasionally learned that his wedding had acquired some new convolution without his knowledge, he was perfectly happy with the trade.

Maybe it was watching them together—his fiancé and his mom, their heads bowed over table-runner and color samples—that had Shane thinking about the last year. Hell, the last two, and everything that had happened to them in that time.

He thought about June 2015, and the strange, buoyant pride he had felt when he and Ilya finally pulled the trigger and came out—when, after five years of caution, they had managed to do the brave thing and simply put themselves out there. He tried not to dwell too much on the days that followed. On the Metros’ ’14–’15 group chat, or the mortifying ordeal of learning exactly how his teammates might have reacted if they had actually believed him.

Perhaps what came afterward should have felt cowardly. After having mustered all that courage to tell the world only to discover no one believed them, rather than fight to make themselves understood, they had just... let it go.

There were days when Shane hated that decision. When it felt like everyone was laughing at the absurdity of Ilya being his boyfriend, or when an interviewer would make some lewd comment after asking about his fiancé, or any of his teammates made some crude joke about his work wife. On those days, humiliation would crawl hot beneath his skin, and Shane would want to grab people by their shoulders and demand to know how much clearer he was supposed to have been to have made himself believable.

Still, he refused to feel guilty for what the misunderstanding had afforded them.

There was some saying about how you can’t have your cake and eat it too, but as far as Shane was concerned, he and Ilya had somehow managed just that. They were out; they called each other boyfriends, and later fiancés; they spoke openly about their cottage, their vacations, their families, the life they had built together. Ilya could call Shane’s parents his 'future in-laws' during an interview and Shane could correct someone who called Ilya his best friend with a perfectly sincere 'actually, he’s my fiancé' without anyone so much as blinking. If they didn’t want to, they never had to lie anymore about what they were to each other; and considering both of their aversion to public displays of affection, they barely even had to change their behavior.

And somehow, through a misunderstanding so enormous Shane still occasionally struggled to comprehend it, none of that had required him to become the gay Asian hockey player in Montreal.

He was still simply Shane Hollander: captain of the Metros, the man who had led Montreal to another Cup in 2016, someone his teammates trusted beside them on the ice and in the room. No one refused to share a room with him or wondered if he was checking them out in the showers. Shane had spent enough of his life in hockey to know these fears were not the inventions of an anxious mind, and he hated he knew for a fact exactly which of his teammates would prove him right if they ever managed to get it through their thick skulls that he'd never been joking.

He hated imagining what Montreal might do if they finally believed him, but that didn’t stop him from poking the metaphorical bear and almost daring his team and the league to take them seriously.

So he and Ilya had settled into something that Shane couldn't honestly call good, but which he had come to accept as fine.

Good would have been being believed the first time. It would have been telling the truth and discovering that everyone around him respected him exactly as much afterward. It would have meant never knowing a teammate’s respect depended, even partly, on the assumption that Shane was straight.

But fine, Shane had discovered, could be a remarkably comfortable place to live.

It gave him hockey and Ilya, their cottage and their friends, summers in Ottawa and mornings spent waking beside the person he loved more than anything in the world. It let Ilya kiss his cheek in front of half the league and prompted nothing worse than someone shouting at them to get a room, without that person ever considering that the two of them already shared one. It gave them the freedom to tell the truth and, strangely enough, much of the protection they might have lost had anyone believed it.

That didn't mean it never hurt. Sometimes the disbelief was simply irritating; other times, the frustration built beneath his skin like pressure along a fault line, hot and relentless under his skin. Sometimes Shane all but yearned to let it erupt, but the thought of the literal Ring of Fire such an outburst would undoubtedly set off helped him hold his tongue.

So Shane had made his peace with fine. Not permanently—and certainly not forever—but fine for now. He had Ilya, hockey, their families, and the handful of people who knew the truth and loved them anyway. Shane had spent so much of his life demanding perfection from himself and everything around him; Fine, it turned out, could still make him very happy.

“Shane! Ilya!”

His dad’s voice called from the living room with enough excitement that Shane and Ilya both looked up from the seating chart his mom had pulled onto the screen.

“The Admirals got it! They won!”

“Oh, shit.” Shane twisted in his chair, trying to see the television from the dining room. Ilya leaned back beside him, craning around the doorway.

Onscreen, Madison Square Garden had erupted into the familiar chaos of a Cup win: gloves and sticks abandoned across the ice as red home jerseys poured over the boards. The broadcast cut between players hugging, coaches shaking hands, families making their way down from the stands.

Ilya clicked his tongue mournfully. “Should have been us.”

“Which one of us?” Shane asked, cheekily.

“Me, obviously.”

Shane snorted. “You got knocked out before I did.”

“Yes, but you already have two, it was my turn.”

Shane smiled despite himself and turned a little farther in his chair to watch the highlights. Watching the Admirals win stung, of course it did. Shane couldn’t imagine there would ever be a year when watching someone else lift the Cup didn’t produce at least a small, ugly pang of 'that should have been me'. Judging by the expression on Ilya’s face, he was suffering from the same affliction.

Still. They had both won before. They would have many other chances. More importantly: they had a wedding in two weeks they were still scrambling to properly plan. Hunter and his admirals could have the 2017 Cup.

The broadcast had moved on to the Cup presentation and Shane had just started turning back toward his mom’s laptop when his dad called from the living room again.

“Oh, wow! Would you look at that!”

Shane looked back toward the television just as Hunter all but collided with a man in the friends and family crowd, hardly hesitating before he bent down and kissed him.

Shane blinked. “Oh,” he said as Ilya went, “Huh.”

The commentators were saying something over the footage, though later Shane couldn’t have told you what. His attention was fixed solely on Hunter—on the broad, almost disbelieving smile that stretched across his face. Shane had seen the Admirals captain happy before, certainly, but he couldn’t remember ever seeing him quite this smiley.

Shane hummed thoughtfully. “Good for him.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed, still watching the screen. Then, after a beat, “Very good. He found a handsome young man to take care of him in retirement."

Shane laughed and kicked him lightly in the shin. “Shut up, let him have this for five minutes before you lay into him,” but Shane was smiling in mirth, and he knew Ilya could see his amusement.

Ilya smirked at him, then looked back at the broadcast. Shane shook his head and had started to turn back toward the dining table when Ilya added, almost as an afterthought, “I knew, by the way.”

Shane glanced back. “Knew what?”

“That Hunter was gay.”

“What? There's no way. You would’ve told me. How?”

Ilya laughed, “I did, I swear. I always got a vibe from him. At All-Star, awards, things like this. Sometimes he would look at us and I had the thought maybe.”

"Getting a 'vibe' isn't the same as knowing."

Ilya shrugged, unbothered. “Is not my fault your gaydar is terrible.”

Shane scowled. “My gaydar is perfectly fine.” but even as he said it, he knew he was lying.

Ilya gave him an amused look that told him that Ilya saw straight through him. Shane held his gaze for another second before looking away with a faintly petulant huff. Damn his supernaturally perceptive fiancé. “Where did you even learn the word gaydar?” He deflected.

“I know many words,” Ilya said, looking pleased with himself. “I am very smart. You tell me this all the time, Shanya.”

Shane opens his mouth to continue bickering when—

“Boys.”

They both looked over. His mom was watching them over the top of her laptop, visibly trying not to smile.

“While I’m very happy for Hunter—I told you it was his year—” she started, fingers poised over her keyboard, “unless you’d like to invite him to the wedding, can I steal your attention back for another ten minutes? I promised myself I’d finish the seating chart tonight, and it’s almost eleven.”

Ilya’s face immediately soured at the suggestion.

Shane caught it and laughed. Whatever inexplicable grievance Ilya had been carrying against Scott Hunter for the better part of a decade apparently wasn’t going to be overcome by this particular moment of queer solidarity.

Shane smiled faintly and looked back down at the wedding plans. “No,” Shane said, still smiling. “I think we’re good. Where were we?”

“Wonderful.” His mom glanced down at the seating chart again. “I think if we put the Pikes here…”

Perhaps, had it not been nearly the eve of their wedding, Shane and Ilya might have paid closer attention to the fallout that would follow this night. Perhaps, over the next two weeks, they might have spent a little more time online and noticed that the response Scott Hunter received after his very public coming out looked remarkedly different from anything they’d received the past two years.

Whether that knowledge would have changed about what was yet to come is difficult to say.

As it happened, neither Shane nor Ilya spent much time online between now and the end of June. Neither had been nominated for an award that year—truly an anomaly in both of their careers—so they have no reason to attend the NHL Awards that June 21st. Instead, they are allowed to squirrel themselves away for the better part of the next three weeks in a bubble of blissful matrimony, while Scott Hunter’s increasingly consequential kiss makes waves through all the relevant spheres of public opinion.

Maybe that mattered. Maybe it didn’t. Who knows.

But there’s no use getting ahead of ourselves. There was still a reception to finish planning, an awards show to miss, and, most importantly, a wedding to be had before any of that becomes relevant.

♡⊹˚₊🏒June 21st, 2017🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

News from the Blue Line
@news-from-theblueline

Scott Hunter at the NHL awards last night: “Fear is a powerful thing. But these last couple years, I found the one thing that is more powerful.”

2:01 PM · June 22, 2017

28.3K Retweets 7.8K Quote Tweets 61.9K Likes

bearsin4 @bearsin4 · June 22, 2017 Replying to @news-from-theblueline

God i can’t stand the admirals and i was so mad when they won but holy shitttt. Egg on my face i guess. I am so seriously emotional about this omgggg 😭😭

coolbeansah @coolbeansah · June 22, 2017 Replying to @news-from-theblueline

Do people understand how enormous it is that the first openly gay active NHL player isn’t some fringe guy fighting for a roster spot? It’s SCOTT HUNTER. Captain. Olympic medalist. Stanley Cup champion. MVP. Holy shit!!!!

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outontheice @outontheice · June 22, 2017 Replying to @news-from-theblueline

Imagine being terrified for your entire career that being honest about who you love could cost you hockey and then getting to come out immediately after winning the Stanley Cup. You seriously could not script this better.

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sinbinbaby @sinbinbaby · June 22. 2017 Replying to @outontheice

terrible week for the “being gay makes you bad at hockey” crowd

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forever-hunter21
@forever-hunter21

I’ve been defending Scott Hunter on this godforsaken website since before some of you knew what icing was and NOW suddenly everybody loves him. get in line!!!!!!!!!

3:45 PM · June 22. 2017

98 Retweets 17 Quote Tweets 620 Likes

brookylnblueberries @brookylnblueberries · June 22, 2017 Replying to @forever-hunter21

The Scott Hunter bandwagon is accepting new members but longtime shareholders retain priority seating!

forever-hunter21 @forever-hunter21 · June 22, 2017 Replying to @brookylnblueberries

EXACTLY. SOME OF US SUFFERED FOR THIS MAN.

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hotmessexpress @hotmessexpress · June 22, 2017 Replying to @forever-hunter21

I cheered for this man even through the 2013-14 season. My credentials are impeccable.

astrono-me
@astrono-me

me two weeks ago: fuck scott hunter
me today: FUCK YEAH SCOTT HUNTER

3:55 PM · June 22, 2017

98 Retweets 13 Quote Tweets 438 Likes

omorillon @omorillon · June 22, 2017 Replying to @astrono-me

Dude sameee i never thought i would ever say this but SCOTT HUNTER YOU BEAUTIFUL BASTARD

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rozwellthatendswell @rozwellthatendswell · June 22, 2017 Replying to @astrono-me

literally the worst part of this entire situation is finding out i have to be a scott hunter fan now. Like so fucking excited to have a gay player in the league and happy he gets to live his truth but did it have to be hunter 😭🫩

rozanderagenda
@rozanderagenda

We are experiencing unprecedented levels of Scott Hunter respect on the Rozander timeline tonight.

5:21 PM · June 22, 2017

270 Retweets 15 Quote Tweets 1.2K Likes

rozzymozzy @rozzymozzy · June 22, 2017 Replying to @rozanderagenda

dont worry we’ll be back to regular programing and admirals hating tomorrow ♥️

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by-parallax @by-parallax · June 22, 2017 Replying to @rozanderagenda

fuck the Admirals ❤️

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klysium @klysium · June 22, 2017 Replying to @by-parallax

fuck the Admirals ❤️

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rosey.raven @rosey.raven · June 22, 2017 Replying to @klysium

except for Scott Hunter ♥️

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valimee77 @valimee77 · June 22, 2017 Replying to @rosey.raven

*sigh* ...except Scott Hunter

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illoterra @illoterra · June 22, 2017 Replying to @valimee77

and all the admirals that supported him ❤️

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valimee77 @valimee77 · June 22, 2017 Replying to @illoterra

hey now

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connor_m12
@connor_m12

I don’t need to know who hockey players sleep with. Keep this shit out of the game.

6:36 PM · June 22, 2017

34 Retweets 2 Quote Tweets 19 Likes

redwhiteand-roz @redwhiteand-roz · June 22, 2017 Replying to @connor_m12

seconded brother 💪

amyafterhours @amyafterhours · June 22, 2017 Replying to @connor_m12

he thanked his boyfriend during an awards speech dude you’ll survive

pedantic-cat009 @pedantic-cat009 · June 22, 2017 Replying to @connor_m12

wait until these guys find out straight players have been thanking their wives at award shows since approximately the invention of awards

ilyucaas-11 @ilyucaas-11 · June 22, 2017 Replying to @connor_m12

BREAKING NEWS: local men discover that hockey players don’t live at the hockey rink. More at 8

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thelavenderline
@thelavenderline

not to give the whole Rozander bit too much credit but after two years of those idiots calling each other boyfriends on national television it is kind of wild to finally have an ACTUAL openly gay player in the NHL

6:59 PM · June 22, 2017

297 Retweets 87 Quote Tweets 2.3K Likes

magical_minimum @magical_minimum · June 22, 2017 Replying to @thelavenderline

we got fake gay hockey for two years and we were so good we get have real gay hockey now!! What a time to be alive ♥️♥️♥️

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hollanov-truther @hollanov-truther · June 22, 2017 Replying to @magical_minimum

“fake gay hockey” is an absolutely criminal way to describe hollanov oh my godddd

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hollanov-truther
@hollanov-truther

congratulations to scott hunter but i feel like i am actually going insane

11:58 PM · June 22, 2017

308 Retweets 50 Quote Tweets 389 Likes

hollanov-truther @hollanov-truther · June 22, 2017 Replying to @hollanov-truther

like pouring hydrogen peroxide on an open wound

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hollanov-truther @hollanov-truther · June 22, 2017 Replying to @hollanov-truther

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♡⊹˚₊🏒 The Early Morning of Shane and Ilya’s Wedding🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

♡⊹˚₊🏒 June 24th, 2017🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

On the morning of their wedding, Ilya wakes up in bed alone.

It was an odd feeling, strange enough to drag him toward wakefulness before he was even consciously aware of it. For weeks now—ever since both their teams got knocked out of the playoffs and they had retreated to Ottawa for the summer—Ilya had woken up with Shane either folded in his arms or occupying some warm stretch of mattress beside him. Waking up to Shane not where he was supposed to be left a bad taste in Ilya’s mouth he couldn’t completely attribute to morning breath.

He cracked one eye open and confirmed what he already felt in his bones: No Shane. Ilya frowned sleepily at the empty pillow beside him, then reached across the bed to press his palm into the sheets. Still warm. Wherever Shane had gone, he hadn’t been gone long.

Opening his eyes fully, Ilya spotted a thin blade of light just under the bathroom door and, once he was awake enough to listen, he could hear the muted evidence of movement from the other side—the faint shift of something against the counter, a cabinet opening and closing. Shane; not mysteriously vanished the morning of their wedding, just inexplicably awake.

Yes, they were getting married today. Yes, there were approximately nine thousand things that needed to happen before the ceremony. Yes, they had set their alarm for six in the morning. But Ilya had no memory of hearing it go off, and he refused to believe Shane would commit the particular act of treachery required to silence it and leave Ilya to sleep through the morning of his wedding. More importantly, it was still pitch black outside. If Shane had only beaten their alarm by five—ten, maybe twenty—minutes, Ilya would have expected at least some hint of dawn beyond the window; but there wasn’t any.

Ilya’s frown deepened. Just what fucking time was it?

He rolled onto his back and squinted at the clock on Shane’s bedside table.

4:47 AM.

Ilya let his head fall back against the pillow. Well, at least that explained the lack of fucking sunlight.

As a fond sort of exasperation began to gather in his chest at his fiancé’s apparent incurable anxiety about punctuality, the bathroom door opened—as though Shane was summoned by Ilya thinking about and missing him. He walked out in a white dress shirt, one hand combing absently through damp hair. Notably, it was not the shirt Shane would be wearing that afternoon. This one was cut differently, loose enough that the hem fell nearly halfway down his thighs. Ilya filed that observation away for later—or tried to, at least—and let out a low, petulant whine instead.

“Hmm, lyubimyy. Why are you awake so early?” He lifted the blankets invitingly. “It is not even five. Come back to bed.”

Ilya fully expected an argument. He could understand the anticipation he suspected was the culprit for what had probably driven Shane out of bed at this ungodly hour; it had been thrumming beneath Ilya’s own skin since sometime yesterday, making sleep difficult and stillness worse. Even now, some restless part of him wanted to get up, start the day, and hurry through every dressing and photograph standing between him and the moment Shane would finally be across from him, saying ‘I do.’

The only difference between Shane and him was that Ilya was letting his desire to laze in bed for another hour with Shane win over his desire to get up and surrender to machinations of their wedding schedule.

So, he was shocked when Shane acquiesced with little more than a soft, “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,” before lifting the covers and slipping back into bed.

Ilya fought to conceal what he was sure was a stunned look off his face, a feat aided considerably by the fact that Shane immediately turned away from him and settled with his back pressed to Ilya’s chest; something he certainly wasn’t going to complain about. Despite the surprise (and confusion) thrumming in his veins, Ilya curled an arm around Shane’s waist and drew him closer until he was flush against him, burying his face against the warm curve where Shane’s neck met his shoulder.

Odd. Shane was acting odd.

Shane gave a low, contented hum when Ilya tightened his arm around him. It was pure instinct that made Ilya breathe deeply as he pressed his face into the nape of Shane’s neck, so his surprise was immediate when he caught an unfamiliar trace of cologne on Shane’s skin—not the usual clean, understated seaweed-and-sandlewood scent Ilya had come to associate with him. Whatever Shane had put on this morning was richer, warmer, spicier—woodsmoke and ember beneath something faintly sweet, with a sharp little bite Ilya couldn’t quite place. Ginger, maybe. Vanilla beneath it, or something darker. Whatever the fuck it was, it was immediately intoxicating.

Ilya inhaled again, slower this time, shamelessly helping himself to another lungful. Christ, Shane smelt fucking sinful. It was honestly making it hard to think, but Ilya persevered .

“Why were you awake?” he murmured into the curve of Shane’s neck, punctuating the question with a small nip at the skin beneath his lips.

Shane squirmed beneath his ministrations, and Ilya felt the beginnings of a smile tug at his mouth as he felt his cock stir in response. But when his hand wandered from Shane’s waist to stroke lazily over his hip, Shane reached down and gave it a playful smack.

“Just… nervous, I guess.” Shane said, and Ilya hummed in response, nonverbally prompting Shane to continue. “Not about today, but…”

“But about today.” Ilya finished.

Shane sighed. “After today,” he clarified.

Shane didn’t really need to explain anything, Ilya knew. After today, they would be husbands, a thought that still sent a ridiculous rush of happiness through Ilya, bright and almost boyish in its intensity. Husband. Shane would be his husband. He would get to put a ring on his hand in front of everyone they loved and hear Shane promise himself to Ilya for the rest of their lives.

But eventually, the summer would end.

Shane would go back to Montreal, and Ilya would return to Boston. Their schedules would pull them in opposite directions again—a fact true of their entire lives—and being husbands wouldn’t magically erase the five hundred miles between their cities or the nights they would spend alone in separate beds. They had known that when they got engaged, and lived it every day since.

Knowing that didn’t make Ilya like it any more, but there wasn’t anything Ilya could do to fix it now—not this morning, and not in the immediate future. He tightened his arm around Shane’s middle and pressed a lingering kiss beneath his ear. There was, however, one very reliable way to get Shane Hollander out of his own head.

Ilya’s hands drifted back to Shane’s hips.

His fiancé was warm and pliant against him, the length of his back fitted to Ilya’s chest and his ass nestled flush against Ilya’s hips, leaving Ilya acutely aware of the hard press of his cock between them. Every small adjustment Shane made only pressed them closer, and between that and the unfamiliar cologne clinging to his skin—warm and woody and spicy and sweet—Ilya felt his thoughts scatter pleasantly.

Fuck, Shane smelled incredible. Ilya wanted to eat him.

Unable to fight his desire, he nipped at the sensitive skin at Shane’s nape, harder this time, and Shane’s shoulders jumped. One of Ilya’s hands slipped back to Shane’s waist before tracing lazily down the outside of his thigh and wandering back up again.

“You know,” Ilya murmured against his skin, “I think I know how to make you stop thinking.”

His hand had barely started another slow pass up Shane’s thigh when Shane caught him by the wrist and firmly tugged his arm back up, settling it around his middle instead. “Ilya.”

Ilya frowned into the back of his neck. “What?”

Shane twisted in his arms until he could look back at him properly, brows already drawn together. “We can’t have sex.”

Ilya stared at him for a second, then lifted his head from the pillow. “Why?”

“Because it’s our wedding day.”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “I know what day it is.” Shane gave him a look that suggested he thought Ilya was being deliberately obtuse. He wasn’t, really. “What does this have to do with us not having sex?”

“It’s not proper,” Shane said with such offended certainty that Ilya actually pushed himself up onto one elbow just so he could look at him properly. “You’re not supposed to have sex before your wedding.”

Ilya stared at him.

Shane stared back at him through the dark, little more than a pale suggestion of his face and the faint catch of light in his eyes. His damp hair was sticking up where Ilya had been nosing through it, and the loose collar of that ridiculous white shirt brushed crookedly against his throat. Even without being able to properly see his expression, Ilya could feel the affront radiating off him.

He looked, Ilya thought with helpless fondness, like he was about three seconds away from hissing.

“Shane.”

“What?”

“I am almost certain that tradition means you are not supposed to have sex at all before wedding.” Shane’s expression tightened. “And,” Ilya continued carefully, “I think perhaps we have already failed at this. By several years.”

“Ilya.”

“Our virginities are very, very gone, lyubimyy.”

“Oh my God.” Shane turned away from him and burrowed his face into the pillow, hiding his face from Ilya.

“I am only saying,” Ilya murmured, still thoroughly perplexed, “that I do not understand why suddenly this morning you care about proper.”

Because really, nothing about Shane’s behavior since crawling back into bed had suggested an interest in preserving Ilya’s nonexistent virtue. Ilya laid back down and nosed at his nape in contemplation.

There was the shirt; far too large, hanging loosely over Shane’s thighs and leaving an indecent amount of bare leg beneath it. There was whatever the fuck he had put on his skin, that warm, spicy cologne Ilya had never smelled before and already wanted permanently soaked into their sheets. And then there was the way Shane had climbed back into bed, turned his back to him, and proceeded to squirm around in Ilya’s arms until his ass was pressed snugly against Ilya’s painfully hard cock.

Still, maybe Ilya was reading much too into this.

Maybe Shane had just been awake since before five the morning of their wedding. Maybe nervous energy had gotten the better of him, sent him into the bathroom to shower and start getting ready before the more rational part of his brain reminded him that there was absolutely no reason to be dressed yet. Maybe the shirt was the first clean thing he found. Maybe the cologne was something he bought for the wedding and wanted to try. Maybe the squirming was just Shane being incapable of settling when his mind was running a mile a minute.

Which, if that was the case, fine. Ilya could behave. Ilya could let his hand go still on Shane’s hip and settled more comfortably behind him, resist the temptation to grind forward helplessly into Shane despite the frankly offensive position Shane left him in. If Shane wanted to spend their last quiet hour before their wedding lying in bed together, then Ilya would be perfectly content to give him that. There would be plenty of time later for everything else, once Shane’s sudden and frankly confusing commitment to pre-wedding chastity expired, like they haven’t been fucking six ways to Sunday for the past seven years.

Except Shane wasn’t relaxed against him. He wasn’t pulling away from Ilya. If anything, he remained tucked firmly against him, but there was a tension running through his body that Ilya knew meant he wouldn’t enjoy the next hour if he had to keep lying still.

So, Ilya tried to keep his touch chaste. He really did. He might not understand why Shane suddenly decided sex was forbidden and off the table, but that didn’t matter. Shane had said no, and Ilya would never dream of pushing him toward something he didn’t want completely. He flattened his palm against Shane’s side and began tracing it slowly up and down, gentle and repetitive, trying to coax some of the tension out of him without asking for anything in return.

The tension didn’t disappear, if anything it got worse, and Shane shifted restlessly against Ilya once, then again, searching for some elusive comfortable position; managing in the process to drag himself directly over Ilya’s aching erection.

Ilya bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. Jesus fucking Christ.

Oblivious—or pretending very convincingly to be—Shane rolled over onto his stomach, one knee hitching up toward his chest while the other leg stayed stretched beneath the blankets, leaving him half sprawled and half curled in the sleeping position their physical therapists insisted was terrible for their hips but which was also, unfortunately, usually very comfortable.

Ilya followed him.

He pressed himself along Shane’s side and resumed the slow movement of his hand over his back, working his palm between Shane’s shoulder blades and gradually down toward his waist. Shane didn’t object. If anything, a quiet hum escaped him when Ilya’s fingers worked over the muscles of his lower back and iliac crest. His hand drifted lower, smoothing over the white shirt where it fell across Shane’s hips, then over the curve of his ass. Still no complaint. Shane only settled a little more heavily into the mattress beneath his touch.

Ilya’s eyes began to slip close.

He was still painfully turned on—there was really no avoiding that given the circumstances (hot sexy fiancé, smelling like sin, squirming against his hard cock)—but there was something unexpectedly lovely about this too. Shane warm beneath his hands and their bedroom quiet around them. Their last morning as fiancés.

Ilya’s hand drifted a little lower as he rubbed slow circles over Shane’s hip, his fingertips slipping beneath the hem of the shirt—and then stopped. Something cool and slick caught against the pads of his fingers. He blinked, suddenly much more awake, and let his hand move again, slower this time, tracing the inside of Shane’s thigh where the fabric had ridden up. Lube. There was no mistaking it once he noticed it, the faint wet drag of it still clinging to Shane’s skin. Ilya’s eyes opened fully. He had somehow failed, in the dimness of the room, the distraction of his shirt, and that fucking cologne to realize Shane wasn’t wearing underwear.

His fingers brushed over the slickness once more, almost disbelieving, and Shane’s whole body went subtly taut beneath his hand, but he stubbornly kept his head turned away. God, Ilya could just imagine it: Shane alone beneath the hot spray of the shower, one hand braced against the tile while the other worked between his legs, head tipped back and mouth open around one of those breathy, frustrated little sounds he made whenever his own fingers failed to give him quite what he wanted—what Ilya could give him.

That last detail was probably Ilya’s ego inserting itself into the fantasy, but he saw no reason to object to what was surely fact.

His cock throbbed hard against Shane’s hip, and for several seconds it became all but impossible to remember why he wasn’t sheathed to the hilt inside Shane right this second. What was the game here? Why the ridiculous talk about what was proper when he had apparently gone so far as to make it all but absolutely certain they would have sex?

Something warm and fond unfurled beneath Ilya’s frustration as he finally understood. His beautiful, neurotic fiancé. His perfect little slut, dressing himself up like temptation incarnate and then hiding behind propriety, as though Ilya wouldn’t be able to read every want written plainly across his body. Fine. Ilya could take the reins. If Shane needed to pretend Ilya was the one making the decision for them, he could keep his flimsy little fiction.

Ilya leaned closer until his lips brushed the shell of Shane’s ear.

“For someone who does not want it,” he murmured, his voice low and sultry, letting his hand skim lazily along Shane’s inner thigh again, “you are very wet for me, lyubimyy.”

Shane’s head turned impossibly further away, exposing more of his of the pale skin of neck. “It’s from last night.”

Ilya had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Technically, that was possible. They had had sex less than seven hours ago—another reason the whole ‘no sex before the wedding’ thing was kinda ridiculous—but under any other circumstances, Ilya would have hardly been shocked to find Shane still a little tender, a little loose, and a little wet from it.

But not like this. Not this wet, not this loose, not this taut with arousal.

Still, he gave a thoughtful little hum against Shane’s neck. “Mm,” he said. “Of course.”

Ilya kept his touch maddeningly innocent, his palm gliding up Shane’s back and down again, each pass catching a little more of the oversized shirt and pushing it higher along his spine until he exposed Shane’s ass to the room. He let his fingers wander lower every time, skimming the curve of Shane’s waist as, just shy of where they both knew Shane wanted him. Ilya could feel the tiny adjustments Shane kept making beneath his hand—subtle shifts of his hips, trying to angle his body where he wanted Ilya’s touch—before Ilya changed direction and started back up again.

“Although,” he murmured eventually, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, “If you think about it, fingers are not sex.”

Shane went still, and Ilya hid his smile against his shoulder.

“No,” he continued thoughtfully, dragging his fingertips down Shane’s side again. “If the rule is no sex before wedding, fingers should be fine. Completely different thing.”

Shane remained stubbornly turned away from him, but, after a few seconds, he gave a small, considering hum. “Well.” A pause. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

Ilya nearly laughed. Fuck, Shane was such a bad actor.

It was honestly impressive considering the number of commercials, sponsorship spots, and league promos he had done over the years. Put a camera in front of him and Shane could sell watches or sports drinks to a miser; but ask him to participate in a little bedroom theater and suddenly every word was delivered with the naturalism of a hostage statement.

If Ilya were any less helplessly in love with him, he might have gotten a little mean. Might have teased apart his contradiction until Shane was flushed and frustrated before finally forcing him to admit what all this feigned reluctance was really about—make him say plainly what he wanted. But he was nice Ilya. Instead, Ilya only let a slow smirk curl against Shane’s shoulder and indulged him in this game he wanted.

“That’s right,” he murmured. “Fingers do not count.”

Ilya wasted no time bringing his hand down to the globes of Shane’s ass, gripping one cheek firmly, before bringing his finger between them to circle Shane's hole—which is absolutely dripping slick and lube, not at all just the residuals of last night, but fresh, new lube. Ilya didn’t hesitate before immediately plunging two fingers into Shane’s very obviously loosened and stretched hole. The yelp Shane made was performative and more akin to a moan of pleasure.

Ilya lazily scissored his fingers inside Shane’s hole, quickly and easily adding a third finger without resistance, the slick heat gripping him tight (Jesus, just how much did Shane stretch himself out?). Shane rocked back onto his hand, chasing every movement and making these wonderful, punched out noises of pleasure. The wet sounds filled the room as Ilya worked his fingers impossibly deeper, his mouth brushing Shane's shoulder while he whispered sweet nothings to Shane as he chased pleasure from Ilya’s fingers.

While clearly pleasurable, all it seemed to do is edge Shane. No matter how Ilya crooked his fingers or cooed in his ear, Shane seemed to be stuck just below the precipice he knew Shane needed to come and let go. Shane's body was trembling, his cock laying heavy and untouched, a steady drip of precum soaking their sheets.

"Let me fuck you, malysh," Ilya murmured against Shane's shoulder, his lips brushing over the bite marks he'd left on Shane’s shoulders. "Let me make you feel good."

Shane's groan came out wrecked, raw with frustration. "Can't," he gasped, voice thin and breathless. "We can't. It's our wedding day. It's not..."

Ilya crooked his fingers again, pressing directly against Shane’s prostate, and Shane answered with a loud moan of pleasure.

“C’mon, malysh. Just the tip? Please?” He heard Shane let out another punched-out little groan and watched him burrow his face deeper into the pillow. “I’ll be careful. Just a little bit. If it’s only the tip, that’s not sex either. It won’t be all the way in.”

He pressed his fingers firmly against Shane’s prostate and held them there, relishing the way Shane clenched around him and squirmed in pleasure beneath his hand.

Shane took several shaky breaths, trying and failing to hold onto his composure under Ilya’s ministrations. “I—” He swallowed roughly. “If it’s just the tip, it’s not sex.” It wasn’t a question.

“That’s right, malysh. It’s not,” Ilya agreed, pretending Shane needed the placating, the convincing.

Shane drew in one more deep breath. “Okay. Okay, but just the tip? You promise?”

Ilya pressed a sweet kiss to Shane’s shoulder. “Just the tip. I promise,” he lied.

He pulled his fingers out of Shane, ignoring the disgruntled groan Shane made at the sudden emptiness. “Turn over, malysh.”

Ilya helped turn Shane onto his back and was greeted by the flushed, fucked-out face of his fiancé in the pale early-morning light. He was so gorgeous. His man. His soon-to-be husband. Ilya positioned himself between Shane's legs and leaned down, peppering his cheeks with kisses before pressing one firm kiss to his lips.

Despite all his faux hesitation, there was a light in Shane’s eyes now, unmistakable pleasure, and Ilya preened over getting it right. Over knowing his Shane well enough to understand what he needed even when Shane insisted on pretending otherwise.

Ilya sat back on his heels and reached toward the bedside table for a condom, only for Shane’s hand to catch against his ribs. Ilya looked down at him, eyebrows raised.

Shane smacked his lips nervously. “If…” His gaze slipped away from Ilya’s. “If it’s just the tip…” The way he said just the tip made it abundantly clear that he did not, in fact, mean just the tip. “Then we shouldn’t need a condom, right?” Shane looked nervously up at him.

All the blood in Ilya’s body rushed south in a sudden, visceral wave of arousal. God, he didn’t know how it was possible, but he was suddenly so much harder than he’d been a second ago. His head genuinely spun as he processed Shane’s words. Shane was looking up at him so earnest, so fuckable, so—

Ilya swallowed hard, struggling for a moment to find the English to express his agreement. Finally, roughly, he managed, “That’s right.”

The smile Shane gave him was worth it.

Ilya settled back between Shane’s legs, pressing kisses up his chest, along his jaw, and finally back to his plush lips. He drew Shane’s legs up around his hips, his hands never still as they swept over Shane’s thighs, his chest, his pecs—everywhere he could reach.

With shaking hands, Ilya took his cock and dragged the head through the mess of slick between Shane’s thighs before kissing the head to Shane’s loosened entrance. He looked up, catching Shane’s hazy, lust-filled expression, and kissed him as he carefully notched the head just inside his rim.

They both let out twin groans of pleasure. Despite how thoroughly stretched Shane already was, he was still wet, hot, and tight around him, enveloping the very tip of Ilya’s cock. Ilya could feel Shane’s insides pulsing around him, clenching as though trying to draw him deeper. And Ilya wanted to go deeper—

Not yet.

“Ilya,” Shane breathed, his voice thick with arousal. He squirmed beneath him, the movement shifting Ilya’s cock just that much deeper, and Ilya gripped his hips hard to hold him still.

“Shhh, Shanya.” Ilya soothed him in a mockery of affection, rubbing slow, taunting circles into his hips, his voice far calmer than he felt. “If you move too much, I might slip in farther, and you only wanted the tip.”

Shane cursed, his hands coming up to cover his face in overwhelm.

Despite being barely an inch inside him, Ilya pulled back until the head of his cock only kissed Shane’s entrance, then pressed back in again. It was nothing compared to the penetration they had shared before, or even just last night, but the knowledge that there was nothing between them now had Ilya swallowing down a groan of his own.

He reached up and caught Shane’s wrists, guiding his hands down and pressing them into the mattress beside his head.

“Let me see you,” Ilya murmured against his lips, working only the head of his cock in and out of Shane.

If anything, the careful control the movement demanded only sharpened every sensation. Shane was impossibly warm and wet around him, but compared to the cool air against the rest of his cock, that small amount of contact felt almost unbearable. Each shallow thrust punched another soft moan from Shane, and Ilya became so lost in the feeling of him that he failed to notice his restraint slipping.

Failed to notice how each thrust had crept a little deeper. Not until Shane suddenly let out a sharp yelp of pleasure beneath him.

“Fuck! Ilya!” Shane moaned. Ilya realized, belatedly, that the head of his cock had found Shane’s prostate—maybe two inches inside him now, enough that more than just the head had disappeared into Shane—and every shallow movement dragged directly over that spot.

Ilya smirked against his lips and shushed him, sweet and placating. “Shhh, malysh. Is okay. I have you. Feels good, yes?”

“H’rder” Shane moaned, desperately keening against his lips. “Please Ilya, please.”

Ilya drew back just enough to look at him.

“Nooo, Ilya, we can’t. It’s our wedding day,” he whined in exaggerated imitation, pitching his voice into a sweet mockery of Shane’s earlier protest. “You just wanted the tip, malysh. So that is all I am giving you. I promised.”

Shane let out a frustrated groan. “You’re already in more than just the tip. Just fuck me, baby, please.” His voice broke into a whine on the last word.

Then Shane clenched around him, hard, and Ilya knew with sudden, devastating certainty that he would never recover from this. He would never again be the same person he had been before feeling Shane bare around him. Still, he made Shane suffer for it a little longer.

For several more seconds, Ilya kept his movement maddeningly shallow, giving him slow, languid thrusts that dragged the head of his cock against Shane’s prostate again and again and again. He drew it out until Shane was squirming beneath him, until his breathing had gone ragged, until he might genuinely have started to believe that this was all Ilya was going to give him: just the tip, barely two inches, a cruel fraction of what Shane was begging for.

Before he fucked his entire length into Shane and one continuous thrust.

Shane’s expression collapsed into one of pure shock. His mouth fell open around a sound that never came—a moan, a groan, maybe a scream punched out of him at the sudden fullness. His hands twitched beneath Ilya’s palms as he instinctively strained against the hold, but Ilya kept him there, gentling the restraint by threading their fingers together instead.

For several seconds, Shane made no sound at all beyond a series of thin, breathless gasps as his body adjusted, and Ilya was grateful for the momentary pause. Shane’s shock afforded him time to adjust to the feeling of Shane’s bare hole wrapped around him.

Because Shane was everywhere around him.

Wet enough that the thrust had been effortless, stretched more thoroughly than Ilya could ever remember feeling him, and somehow still so unbearably tight that Ilya had to grit his teeth against the sensation. Shane’s body gripped him like a vice, hot and bare around every inch of his cock, and Ilya stayed completely still above him, breathing hard through the sheer overwhelm of it, lest he blow his load right then and there.

Fuck, this was his husband. His soon-to-be husband. Going to be his husband.

The thought hit Ilya with such force that, for a moment, it drowned out everything else. It was ridiculous that anyone expected him to get up in less than an hour, dress himself up, and parade around in front of their friends and family instead of spending the entire day wrapped up and inside his husband, nothing between them.

Whatever teasing patience had defined the morning thus far disappeared beneath their combined desire. Ilya gave Shane exactly what he knew he had wanted from the beginning and thrust into him deep and firm, with none of the maddening restraint from before.

He released Shane’s hands so he could brace himself above him, leaning down to press kiss after kiss against Shane’s panting mouth. Shane immediately took advantage of his newfound freedom, wrapping both arms around Ilya’s torso and clutching at his back, pulling him impossibly closer.

Every movement drew another broken sound from one of them. Sweet, breathless nonsense spilled between kisses—English and Russian blurring together until Ilya wasn’t entirely sure which language he was speaking anymore. It hardly mattered. Shane understood him anyway. He always did.

He was going to marry this man today.

The love of his life. The person Ilya knew better than anyone in the world, and who somehow knew him just as completely in return. Shane trusted him—not only with the easy things, but with his wants and needs he couldn’t always put into words. The things he struggled to ask for. The things he thought he shouldn’t want, or couldn’t admit he needed. He trusted Ilya to hear him anyway.

There was nothing in this world that would ever stop Ilya from giving Shane everything he needed, everything he wanted.

Which was why, when Shane’s arms tightened around him and he gasped, breathless and desperate, “Inside—fuck, Ilya, come inside me,” Ilya only just manged not to lose every coherent thought in his head.

“Bozhe moy, Shanya,” he groaned, dropping his forehead against Shane’s, as if Ilya would ever dream of saying no.

Shane only clung to him harder. “Please.”

“Da,” he breathed, kissing him hard. “Da, malysh. Dlya tebya—khot zvezdu s neba.”

For you—even a star from the sky.

And God, he meant it.

After that, neither of them lasted much longer. Shane came first, his entire body drawing taut beneath Ilya with a sharp, helpless cry of his name before the tension gave way all at once. He shuddered hard in Ilya’s arms, clinging to him through it as he coated their stomachs and his slutty oversized shirt (which Ilya had distantly realized was his) with his release.

Shane had to of known. He had to of known exactly what this would do to Ilya—the way his body clenched and pulsed around him. Utterly perfect as he surrendered to the pleasure Ilya gave him. And Ilya was only a man. Worse, he was a man hopelessly, pathetically in love with the one trembling beneath him. He obeyed his soon-to-be husband.

The pleasure hit him so hard it hollowed him out, leaving room for nothing but Shane—Shane’s walls around him, Shane’s mouth against his shoulder, Shane’s name in his throat as Ilya buried his face against the curve of his neck and his cock deep within him, filling him up and shaking through the force of it.

For a blissful moment, neither of them moved.

Ilya stayed folded over him, breathing hard into the damp curve of Shane’s neck while Shane’s hands drifted lazily over his back. Their bodies slowly went slack together, all the desperate urgency of the morning bleeding away until there was only warmth, sweat, and faint aftershocks. Shane pressed an absent kiss into Ilya’s hair that Ilya answered by turning his head and kissing whatever patch of skin his mouth could reach.

He could have stayed there forever, however, as the thought occurred to him, an alarm blared from the bedside table. 6:00 AM on the dot.

For the first time, Ilya noticed just how bright their bedroom had become. Pale morning light poured through the curtains, illuminating the rumpled sheets and the lingering flush high on Shane’s cheeks.

Ilya wasn’t sure who laughed first, he just knew that, within seconds, they were both gone, dissolving into helpless, exhausted giggles against each other. Shane buried his face against Ilya’s shoulder as Ilya collapsed on top of him, heedless of the sticky mess between them.

“Fuck,” Shane managed eventually, still laughing. “We have to get up.”

“No.”

“Ilya.”

“No,” he repeated, pressing another kiss to Shane’s mouth. Then another, because Shane was smiling against him now, and another because by the end of the day, that smile would belong to his husband.

He knew they needed to move. His body was already making that increasingly obvious; he was softening inside Shane, and biology would soon make the decision for him, no matter how strongly the rest of him objected. Still, Ilya tucked himself closer and kissed Shane again.

“Five minutes,” he murmured.

Shane’s smile softened. “Five?”

“Five.”

Five more minutes inside his fiancé. Five more minutes in their premarital bed, wrapped up together in the soft, hazy glow of the early morning sun.

Five more minutes with his fiancé before a lifetime with his husband.

♡⊹˚₊🏒The Early Afternoon of Shane and Ilya’s Wedding🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

♡⊹˚₊🏒 June 24th, 2017🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

Shane wanted to burn the tie around his throat.

The offending garment refused to lie flat—or settle into any configuration remotely suitable for a wedding. It was his hands, they wouldn’t stop shaking. Every time he managed to get one end where it belonged, his fingers would fumble on the next step and the whole thing would lie crooked all the same. He was so focused on wrestling it into submission that he didn’t hear his mom come up behind him until her hands appeared at his collar.

“Here, let me get that.”

Shane let his hands fall away.

She took both ends of the tie and began looping them neatly over one another, her fingers steady where his had refused to be. Shane watched her work in the mirror and tried not to pay too much attention to the mist gathering in her eyes.

When she finished, she smoothed the knot into place and looked up at him. For a moment, she only stared. Then she lifted one hand and cupped his cheek.

“There,” she said softly. “Perfect.”

Shane took a deep breath and looked at himself in the mirror. It was.

“...Thanks, Mom,” he said after a moment.

His mom let out a soft huff of amusement. “You don’t need to thank me. My son is getting married. Of course I was going to be here.”

Shane looked away from his reflection and over at her, smiling faintly. “Not just for that, though. For everything. I—” His mom opened her mouth to interrupt, but Shane continued, not giving her the chance.

“No, just listen.” He took another breath, steadier this time. “I don’t mean just the wedding. I mean... everything. Back then, especially. I don’t think I ever actually thanked you.”

His mom’s expression shifted, confusion briefly overtaking the emotion already there. “Back when?” she asked.

“Back—uh…” Shane faltered. He still couldn't say it. It seemed seven years hadn't been enough time to make this conversation any less mortifying. At eighteen, he’d thought to himself that maybe by twenty-five he would finally be old enough to look his mother in the eye and talk about sex; about what that night in Toronto was supposed to have been. But he had been very wrong.

Heat climbed into his face, and something in his expression must have told her what he meant, as her brows lifted slightly in understanding, followed almost immediately by a flush of her own.

“Oh,” she said. “Yes. That.” She cleared her throat. “I still am sor—”

“I don’t think I ever thanked you,” Shane interrupted. “For how you handled that night.” His mom was quiet. “I think you knew more than I did back then about how… big that could have been. How bad.”

“Oh, baby. Nothing about you is bad, especially not that.”

“No, I know. I don’t mean us.” Shane looked down, suddenly finding the knot of his tie very interesting. “I mean bad for us. Scary. For Ilya especially.”

The flush on his face seemed permanent now, and he still couldn’t quite make himself look at her. But now that he had started, he needed to finish. He needed to tell her this.

“I didn’t understand then how much danger we could’ve been in when you caught us if you hadn't been so good about it. If it had been the other way around? If it had been Ilya's family who walked in on us, if they’d been there? That would have been…” He exhaled, searching for the words. “It would have been the end of the world for us. Even with you it felt like it could've been. But then it just… wasn’t. Because of you.”

His throat tightened.

“And I don’t think I’ve ever actually thanked you for that. For what you did for us that night. For Ilya. For me.” Shane finally looked back at her. “You made sure we both knew we were safe when that hadn't necessarily been a guarantee, and I know I didn’t understand enough to appreciate that at the time, but I do now.”

He swallowed.

“And I’ve really, really tried not to blow it. Everything you gave us the chance to have.” His voice caught slightly, but he kept going. “I just needed you to know that. And to say thank you.”

“Oh… Oh, baby, you have nothing—nothing—to thank me for.” His mom reached up and cradled his face again, gently drawing his eyes back to hers. The mistiness from before had finally spilled over into two lone tears, but her expression was strong. “I walked in on you. You should never have been put in that position in the first place. I should have knocked, or called again, and I'm sorry that I made you feel like—”

Shane laughed, closing his eyes and leaning into her hands. “No, no. You actually kind of made us get our shit together.” His laugh softened into something shakier. “I don’t know…”

... what we would have done if you hadn’t.

... If I ever would have realized Ilya was serious if you hadn’t made us say it.

... what my life would look like if I had let Ilya leave Toronto that summer without even my number in his phone.

There were a thousand different ways Shane could finish that sentence, a thousand different lives branching away from that hotel room, and for a moment he found himself mourning for those versions of them.

His mom took pity on him. “I am so, so proud of you, okay? So proud.”

Shane nodded, suddenly unable to trust himself to say anything else.

His mom let out a watery little laugh. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

She held his face for another moment before finally letting her hands fall. “Are you ready?”

Shane looked back at himself in the mirror.

It was actually kind of funny. There had been exactly one other time Shane deliberately put on a suit in preparation to see Ilya. That night, he had taken it off again in a mortified panic, questioning every decision that had brought him there and seriously considering finding an earlier flight home just to escape the embarrassment he was certain awaited him.

That Shane had looked so young in his suit jacket and tie. That Shane had had no idea that the best thing in his life was less than an hour away.

This Shane knew. And this Shane kept the suit on.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling at his reflection. “I’m ready.”

♡⊹˚₊🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

“These cufflinks belonged to my great-grandfather. They were one of three things he brought with him when he came to Canada: the shoes on his feet, the suit on his back, and the cufflinks in his sleeves,” David said as he fastened them at Ilya’s wrists.

They were gold, set with tasteful amber stones at their centers. Delicate beading and filigree curled around each gem in an almost floral pattern, ornate without being gaudy.

They were beautiful.

“My great-grandfather gave them to my grandfather the day he married my grandmother. My grandfather gave them to my father, and my father gave them to me.” David finished with the second cuff and sat back slightly to admire his work. “Every marriage these cufflinks have witnessed has been long and very happy.”

He adjusted the sleeves of Ilya’s jacket next, tugging them into place so just the right amount of white cuff showed beneath them.

Ilya swallowed against the sudden roughness in his throat. “You don’t want to give them to Shane?”

“Hmm.” David considered that for a moment, but it was performative if anything. “No, I don’t think so. I’m not sure he’d appreciate the craftsmanship quite as much as you will, don’t you think?”

Ilya laughed, though it came out a little wet. “No. Maybe not.”

“Besides, they’re still in the family.” David gave one cuff a final, satisfied adjustment. “A Hollander will be wearing them by the end of the night. I think that satisfies the superstition just fine.”

Ilya laughed again, but this time it caught noticeably in his throat.

“Yeah,” he managed. “I guess so.”

David studied him for a moment, mercifully not acknowledging just how close Ilya was to tears before the ceremony even started. Instead, he gave the front of Ilya’s jacket a final smoothing pass and stepped back.

“Want to practice one more time?” he asked. “I can stand in for Shane, but I’m drawing the line at the kiss.”

The laugh that escaped Ilya was genuine this time, startled enough to loosen something in his chest. “No, no. I think I remember what to say.” He exhaled and glanced toward the door. “Could use a drink, though.”

“Well, I’m not sure what I'll be able to sneak out of the bar past Yuna this close to curtain call, but I can certainly try.” David laughed.

Ilya swallowed, his sudden nervousness having very little to do with the ceremony waiting for him outside.

“No need. I, uh…” He hesitated, then turned toward the small bag he had brought with him. “I have something here.”

His hands were shaking when he reached inside.

He pulled out what should be a very familiar bottle of vodka, still sealed, the gold lettering catching the light as he set it carefully between them. Ilya watched David’s face rather than the bottle. Seven years was a long time. It had been one small gesture among hundreds since, and he wouldn’t be surprised if David had forgotten it entirely.

Ilya wasn’t sure how he’d feel if he had.

“Would you—” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat. “Would you like to share a drink?”

For half a second David only stared at the bottle, but then his expression broke into something unbearably fond. Every kid needs their stash.

David picked up the bottle, turning it once in his hands. “You kept it all these years?"

“Um. Yes.” Ilya coughed lightly, trying to clear some of the pressure gathering in his chest. “It is a good bottle. Genuine stuff. And during my rookie year, Marly could always get plenty of cheap vodka, so there was no reason to waste this.” He shrugged, attempting something nonchalant, though he was fairly certain he failed. “I did not want to waste it, so I kept waiting for the right occasion.”

David glanced down at the bottle again, and Ilya suddenly wished he’d rehearsed this part.

“But, uh. An occasion never came.” He rubbed his thumb against the edge of one cufflink. “I cannot think of a more special occasion than my wedding, other than maybe my funeral. But I won’t be there for that.” It was a bad joke, but the words were getting harder instead of easier, and Ilya needed to joke if he wanted to say what he needed to say. “Good vodka is supposed to be shared. With…” Ilya hesitated, his gaze dropping to the bottle between them. “With family. Before important things.”

There were more words stuck in his teeth, words Ilya couldn’t force past the tightness in his throat. His father wasn’t here. There was no world where Grigori Rozanov stood beside his youngest son on his wedding day, straightening his jacket and telling him not to be nervous, offering to practice his vows with him one more time, or share a drink with him before sending him off to start the rest of his life.

And Ilya—suddenly, desperately, childishly—wanted his dad.

He didn’t even know if his father was still alive, or if Alexei had buried him years ago—he had been degrading so quickly last Ilya saw him, but he wouldn’t seek out a confirmation either way any time soon. His lawyer had long since learned not to pass along any inquiries from his family, and Ilya had long since stopped asking.

But his dad was right here.

For one awful second, David was silent and Ilya couldn’t make himself look up.

Then his dad said, voice noticeably emotional, “I would be honored to share a drink with you, Ilya.”

Ilya dragged one knuckle beneath his nose and sniffed, trying to pull himself back together.

“Da,” he said shakily. “Okay.”

♡⊹˚₊🏒 The Evening of Shane and Ilya’s Wedding🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

♡⊹˚₊🏒 June 24th, 2017🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

By the time the sun was down and the moon was high in the night sky, his parents had bid them good night, the Pike kids had been put to sleep for the night, and only their main group of friends remained.

They were gathered on the stretch of lawn between the main deck and the lake. They had long since abandoned the bubbly champagne and glass flutes for red solo cups and a cooler full of ice, beer, and stronger liquor. The music had been turned off in the main house, but someone’s phone was connected to one of those nicer portable JBL speakers that had been brought a respectable distance away from anyone trying to sleep. Suit jackets were tossed onto the backs of chairs, ties had been loosened or were gone completely, and none of the girls were wearing their heels anymore.

Not exactly a rager, but it was the perfect blend of intimate debauchery that made Shane’s heart light.

Marly was sprawled out on one of the deck chairs they had dragged down onto the lawn, just finishing the beer in his hand, when he leaned back and asked, “Oh—have you guys seen all the shit they are saying about Hunter online?”

Shane made a face. Whatever batshit crazy discourse was being said about Scott Hunter online wasn’t particularly something he wanted to hear or talk about at his wedding. Next to him, half in his lap, his husband made a disgruntled noise that mirrored Shane’s thoughts almost perfectly. “You bring up dinosaur? At my wedding?”

Marly laughed. “Oh my God, I thought now that he’s part of the gay hockey alliance you’d like him a little more.”

“Pah,” Ilya exclaimed. “Boo. Terrible assumption. Just because the dinosaur is gay does not mean I read updates from his retirement home. Boys! Throw this man in the lake, I can’t even look at him!”

Connors and Victor were quick to jump to their feet with an enthusiastic “Aye aye, Cap!” with JJ not far behind them.

“Oh, fuck off! No way!” Marly shouted as he shot up off his chair and took off like a rocket.

What followed bore more than a passing resemblance to a cartoon chase scene. Marly had several advantages, chief among them being he was six-foot-eight, surprisingly quick on his feet, and—for the better part of a minute—managed to keep someone between himself and the lake at all times. He ducked around chairs, doubled back up onto the deck, and even vaulted the railing to evade capture. But eventually, even the mighty fall to conditions of absolute reality, and between the three of them, Connors, Vic, and JJ finally managed to tackle him into a sprawling heap on the lawn.

“Traitors!” Marly shouted as the three of them started hauling him down towards the dock, but no matter how much he twisted and bucked, Connors, Vic, and JJ’s hold was ironclad.

Ilya didn’t lift a finger to help, merely laughing with one arm draped over Shane’s shoulders as he presided over the whole thing like a monarch watching judgement be carried out in his name.

By the time the rest of their group migrated down to the dock, Marly had apparently accepted that he was getting thrown into the lake one way or another and redirected all his energy toward making sure he didn’t go alone. Just as Connors and Victor managed to heave him over the edge, Marly caught a fistfull of Connors and Victor’s dress shirts, and all three fell into the water in an enormous splash.

Everyone left on the dock lost it. Shane could barely hear the spluttering and swearing below them over the laughter—bright and strangely childish for a bunch of adults in their mid twenties—coming from the lot of them.

JJ was doubled over at the edge of the dock, guffawing so hard he failed to notice Hayden coming up behind him until Hayden sent him pitching forward toward the water. However, JJ managed to twist at the last second and catch Hayden’s arm and they both disappeared into the lake together.

Rose decided she would rather go voluntarily than wait to be pushed and jumped in after the boys with a shriek of laughter, Sveta and Jackie following closely behind her.

Shane’s stomach hurt from laughing, which was probably why he didn’t notice Ilya moving behind him until two hands struck his back.

“Ilya—!” Shane hit the water, the shock of cold stealing his breath. Shane came up sputtering, soaked hair falling into his eyes, his dress shirt plastered unpleasantly to his skin. “You asshole! You would betray your husband the day you married him?” but the insult was undermined by the grin on his face and the affection in his voice.

Ilya stood at the end of the dock, looking like the king of the hill, the only member of the wedding party still dry. His grin was positively feral as he leaned against the railing and looked down at Shane.

“Revenge, sweetheart.” he said with a smirk.

“For what??” Shane sputtered.

"2010"

Shane stared up at him, confused, but then his eyes widened in realization. “Oh my God. You are still mad about that?”

“Seven years I have waited for this moment.”

“Are you seri—!” but Ilya jumped before Shane could finish, spraying Shane with water.

He surfaced a few feet away and immediately swam toward Shane, still laughing, and Shane met him halfway just so he could shove both hands against his shoulders and try to dunk him, but Ilya caught him around the waist instead and dragged him close while Shane harped an increasingly creative assortment of affectionate insults in his ear.

This was, Shane thought, probably the closest he would ever come to understanding what those ridiculous high-school prom nights in the movies were supposed to feel like: everyone dressed far too nicely for the shenanigans they were getting up to, laughing and sputtering as they splashed each other with frigid lake water.

It was a perfect end to a perfect night.

Or, Shane amended, as Ilya’s hands trailed down to cradle Shane’s hips beneath the water and his teeth found the shell of Shane’s ear, a perfect end to this part of it.

♡⊹˚₊🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

There were worse ways to end a wedding than peeling soaking-wet clothes off each other before falling into bed, giggling like a pair of high-school sweethearts.

The morning after their wedding, the last of their guests vacated the cottage, and Shane and Ilya spent the next week in marital bliss: phones off, clothes off, rings on.

On the eve of their one-week wedding anniversary—and the two-year anniversary of their coming out—Shane and Ilya resurfaced just long enough to log onto Twitter and share a small, curated selection of their wedding photos.

As Shane uploaded his, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe things would go differently this time. Things were different this time. They weren’t alone anymore. They weren’t the only queer players in the league anymore. Scott Hunter was out now, and surely, this time, people would believe them... Right?

shollanderhockeyplayer
@shollanderhockeyplayer

I’ve loved you for a long time. I’m really glad I get to keep doing it for the rest of my life. ♥️

irozanov81 @irozanov81 · June 30, 2017

the boyfriend to husband pipeline is real (source: 📸)

1:24 PM · June 30, 2017

21.7K Retweets 10.2K Quote Tweets 55.6K Likes

ref.jpg1 @ref.jpg1 · June 30, 2017 Replying to @shollanderhockeyplayer

… am i the only one who thinks its kinda problematic that they are still making this joke even tho theres an actual out player :///

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sorrymaex @sorrymaex · June 30, 2017 Replying to @ref.jpg1

omg thank you!! it just gives me such an ick suddenly 🤧 like seriously wth?? They didn’t even go to the NHL awards this year eitherr 🤧🤧

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macklyn03 @macklyn03 · June 30, 2017 Replying to @sorrymaex

During Scott Hunter’s pride month no less 🙄🙄🙄

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pediyo @pediyo · June 30, 2017 Replying to @macklyn03

smh men ALWAYS disappoint

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… ah, well. Maybe not then.

Chapter End Notes

You were all so very kind to me last chapter 😭 I am happy to report I will not be deleting the interlude because you all really managed to change my perception on that chapter, so thank you all for your kindness <3

I am also happy to report all the advice and pray circles worked, and I am very happy with this chapter :) The best advice I got was to burn my previous attempts and plant a garden in their ashes or spin around really really really fast. I am happy to show the crops are thriving and I got so dizzy this chapter fell out of my head onto the page 💞 I am sorry I didn't write their vows 💔 I unfortunately hate reading vow scenes and I was not willing to compromise on my morals to write them 😔😔 So! We are all just going to pretend that I wrote the most heart wrenching vows you've ever read and we all cried reading them and they were so powerful that for sake of hearts, all of our brains had to block them out, okay? Okay 💞

In other news! I started my Ph.D this week :) That's been amazing and I am loving the transition so far :)

I wanted to warn my longtime readers that my weekly update schedule is going to transition to hopefully a monthly update schedule. During the summer I was really able to crank out a chapter a week, but with my new schedule I am going to have to slow down a bit. But! On the bright side I know exactly what happens from here to the end, so that is not the issue at all :)

All my love to everyone, always 💞 You all are really too nice to me sometimes

Next chapter: the long awaited crash out 💕

Chapter 15: Coming out Part 2 (And 3, and 4)

Chapter Summary

3 Times Shane and Ilya try to come out (again) and the 1 time everyone finally believes them

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

♡⊹˚₊🏒Early July 2017🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

♡⊹˚₊🏒1🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

Shane was happy for Scott Hunter. He wanted that established before anything else.

He could more than imagine the courage it had taken Scott to do what he’d done. He remembered what it felt like sitting beside Ilya two years ago with his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest while they waited for their posts to go live. He remembered thinking that nothing mattered more than the man sitting next to him and trying to convince himself that he didn’t care what anyone else had to say about it (But he did care, he hadn’t quite managed to convince himself otherwise).

Scott had gotten everything Shane had wanted for them; or—well—maybe not everything. Shane hadn't particularly wanted reporters parked outside his apartment building like they were with Hunter's or strangers dissecting his relationship online; but at least people believed him. He hoped Scott and his boyfriend were happy. He hoped every young player watching him felt a little less alone than Shane had at eighteen. He hoped the league actually meant all the things it was saying now about courage and authenticity and making hockey a place where everyone belonged.

Shane was happy for Scott. But he wasn’t the first out player, and it made Shane like something close to a feral cat to hear everyone call him that.

“I don’t think we need to make this complicated,” he said.

Farah, displayed on Shane’s laptop from the coffee table, looked at him over the rims of her glasses. His parents—who had come over that morning after Shane had called his mom in a near panic at the sheer amount of notifications he and Ilya had woken up to—were busying themselves in the kitchen, giving them an illusion of privacy, but Shane didn’t doubt his mom was listening in. Ilya sat tucked against Shane on the couch, one leg folded beneath himself, their thighs pressed together.

It was—considering the circumstances—a remarkably ordinary-looking meeting, despite the Looney-Tunes-ass scandal they had found themselves in after failing to convince everyone that they were actually married.

Farah sighed. “The problem is that ‘not complicated’ hasn’t historically worked particularly well for you two.” Shane made a face, but she continued before he could object. “You've already tried to tell people you’re romantically together. I don’t think another three-sentence post saying, 'actually, we really meant it', is necessarily going to help here.”

“What do you want us to do, then?” Shane asked. His voice came out sharper than he intended, so he tried to soften it in the next sentence. “I don’t want ‘us’ to turn into some huge spectacle for people to scrutinize, but we can't just keep letting everyone think we are homophobic assholes.”

Shane knew he sounded defensive—he felt defensive!—but for the last 18 hours people have been accusing him and Ilya of being insensitive, attention-seeking, dickwads for ‘joking around’ now that there was a 'real' gay player out. Last month, Shane and Ilya could call each other boyfriends on camera and nobody batted an eye. Now? That was being used as evidence to cancel them. Shane didn't particularly enjoy being told he was making a mockery of his own marriage, considering it was barely a week old.

Behind him, Ilya’s hand came up and settled at the base of his neck. His parents could definitely see it, but Shane doubted they thought anything of it anymore. Ilya touched him constantly when they sat together, sometimes without seeming particularly aware he was doing it. Ilya’s thumb worked slowly at the tension in his nape.

“Moy lyubov,” he murmured, “if Farah wants details, I can explain in very great detail how much I love you. I have many years of material.”

“Shut up,” Shane muttered, though he couldn't stop the smile that pulled at his mouth, nor the fact that some of the defensiveness in his shoulders was already giving way.

Ilya smiled too and kept rubbing the back of his neck.

“I don’t think we need to go quite that far, Ilya,” Farah said.

Ilya blew a raspberry, “Shame.”

Farah continued. “I agree with you Shane, we do need to do something. Right now, both of your reputations are taking a hit. You’ve both maintained pretty clean public images, all things considered, and this is starting to grate against that. Beyond just your reputations, I’m worried your sponsors may start to pull out of deals if this controversy gets any bigger or widespread."

Shane’s mouth tightened. “Forgive me for being blunt, but I really don’t care about my sponsors right now.”

Farah visibly conceded the point, then glanced down at something on her screen. “Fair enough, but as your manager it’s my job to think about stuff like that for you. Regardless, as I see it, we have two main options. The first: we acknowledge the criticism without challenging the assumption underneath it. You say you never intended to make light of anyone’s sexuality, you congratulate Scott, and you agree to retire the 'joke.'” She brought her fingers up to mime air-quotes when she said 'joke'.

Shane’s face twisted before he could stop it, and he felt Ilya’s hand tighten slightly at the back of his neck. Farah looked between them for a moment before continuing. “Or we finally ‘come clean’ and clarify.”

Shane turned toward Ilya. They’d already kinda talked about what they wanted to do earlier that morning, before his parents came over and either of them had really calmed down enough to call Farah. Which… maybe that hadn’t been their smartest decision. It was their first almost-fight since they got married, and Shane hated that it happened just a week into it. It helped that they had a common enemy, a clear end goal, even if they disagreed on how to get there.

Once they’d mostly calmed down and the sharper edges of their frustration dulled, Ilya suggested flying to New York and posting a video of them making out in the lobby of NHL Headquarters—the fact that it happened to be located in Scott Hunter’s New York was just a coincidental bonus.

“I am just saying,” Ilya had argued, “if it worked for Hunter, would probably work for us. We could show him how it's done.” He added with a suggestive wag of his eyebrows.

Shane had rolled his eyes, fond despite himself. “Yeah, no. I’m not making out with you in the NHL lobby just to prove a point.”

Eventually, they agreed on the mature option: call Farah and handle the whole thing like responsible adults instead of doing the numerous things Ilya argued would be more effective. Now, sitting beside him on the couch, Ilya caught his eye and smirked, but ultimately his hand only tightened encouragingly against his nape as he nodded.

Shane turned back towards his laptop.

“We want to come out,” he said, before adding, “Again, technically. But actually this time.”

“Okay.” Farah leaned back slightly. “I know when we talked about this two years ago, one of the reasons you both decided not to push the issue was because you were worried about retaliation in Montreal. Is that still a concern?”

Shane felt Ilya shift beside him.

“Um. Yes. It’s still a concern,” Shane admitted for them. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. There are guys who are probably going to have a problem with it. But maybe they won’t, I don’t know.”

There was no point pretending otherwise.

"But we—I," Shane corrected, "just... don't care anymore.” Shane wouldn’t speak for both of them on that. He knew Ilya’s thoughts on the matter, even if they’d both agreed it was time. Ilya’s hand continued its soothing path over the back of Shane’s neck, steady against his skin; a warm, physical comfort, “We want to come out—properly—this can’t be who people think we are.”

“Hmm, yes,” Ilya agreed, jumping in. “I have chirped Hunter plenty of times over the years. For being old, yes, for shabby stickhandling—” Shane choked on a laugh, and Ilya shot him a quick grin. “Though, maybe I cannot say that one anymore.”

His expression sobered a little.

“But—uh, not about this. Was very brave, what Hunter did, and now he is hero for gay rights in the NHL. Good for him.” Ilya shrugged. “We are not on the other side of that. We are not a part of the assholes giving him shit about this like everyone is saying.”

Farah was nodding—not that anything either of them was saying should have been particularly surprising.

“The Metros is full of guys like that; always have been, even before I joined.” Shane started. The shit his teammates said—the men who were supposed to be his brothers—in their locker was vile; no other descriptor. He'd preemptively muted the team group chat this morning and hadn't dared to look at it since. He didn’t trust himself not to spiral, or do what needed to be done, if he saw or knew what was being said, and he had no intention of unmuting it until they fixed this mess and finally, fully came out. He’d even asked Hayden and JJ not to tell him anything in the meantime—not even a sanitized version; he didn’t want to know.

“Ever since I became captain, I’ve tried to nudge the culture to something a bit more tolerant, but I didn't want to rock the boat too much and get myself in deep shit as a result, and after we tried to come out in 2015…” He trailed off, swallowing against the guilt that rose unexpectedly in his throat at the admission. “Maybe it was the right choice then—maybe it was selfish—I don’t know.” Shane looked down for a second before continuing. “But I don’t want to keep making it.”

He felt Ilya squeeze the back of his neck. Shane rested his hand against Ilya’s knee and returned the gesture. “There’s something else too,” he said.

Farah blinked, "Something else?"

Shane hadn't planned on talking about this yet, as there wasn't much reason to. He was still two seasons away from unrestricted free agency—assuming everything went according to plan—and two seasons was long enough time for things to change. But Shane had been thinking about this more seriously over the last year.

“I hadn’t brought this up because it’s still a couple seasons away,” he went on, “and I haven’t made any decisions or anything. But when I hit free agency... I don’t think I want to re-sign with Montreal. I don’t know where I want to go, but as long as I'm driving-distance to Boston..." He trailed off.

“Anywhere you want,” Ilya said quietly, just for him. “I will make the drive.”

It was so stupidly sweet that Shane had to look away for a second to hide the blush that bloomed on his cheeks, even if there was no chance in hell he was letting his husband regularly drive four-plus hours just to see him. They’d split the distance.

“Maybe Jersey, or one of the New York teams. Somewhere around there. And if the Admirals might be an option someday…”He mused aloud as Farah gave a small, considering hum. “I really don’t want us being their captain's public enemy number one and two.”

“That would make things more complicated,” Farah agreed.

“Yeah.”

Shane leaned back into the couch. Saying it out loud made the whole thing feel more real than when it was just him and Ilya talking in bed about options. There were too many variables to know what would happen. He could get injured, neither of the New York teams might want him, Boston might trade Ilya halfway across the country, or maybe they'd somehow find a team to sign them both. But Shane wanted options.

Farah was quiet for a moment before she spoke again.

“Okay. Then I think if we’re going to correct the record, we need to give people more than just a sentence or two; I mean context. People have been creating their own version of your story for years. If we want to change that, we need to give the public something more to work with. Here’s what I think we should do…”

♡⊹˚₊🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

penalty-playsx
@penalty-playsx

“... We came out publicly in 2015, and we meant it then just as much as we mean it now.” — from @shollanderhockeyplayer and @irozanov81 ‘s notes app response to the wedding fallout 💀

12:45 PM · July 6, 2017

13.7K Retweets 8.5K Quote Tweets 16.9K Likes

astrono-me @astrono-me · July 6, 2017 Replying to @penalty-playsx

Oh my god are they actually doubling down??

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hollandazed @hollandazed · July 6, 2017 Replying to @penalty-playsx

Oh my goddd Shane you’re Canadian just apologizeeee. Its in your bonesss 💀💀

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hearty-harliexx @hearty-harliexx · July 6, 2017 Replying to @penalty-playsx

I think the thing thats bothering me is the timing. Scott Hunter comes out and has this incredibly vulnerable, historic moment and less than THREE WEEKS LATER Hollander and Rozanov are basically like “um actually ☝️🤓” like??? read the room???

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sunsmittensunflower @sunsmittensunflower · July 6, 2017 Replying to @penalty-playsx

… am I the only one who believes them…? because I’m sorry but them genuinely having been together for seven years now makes WAY more sense than a multi-year joke…?

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mavricc7 @mavricc7 · July 6, 2017 Replying to @sunsmittensunflower

girl 😭 I am begging you to take off your rose-colored glasses and put on your critical-thinking cap.

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hollanov-truther @hollanov-truther · July 6, 2017 Replying to @mavricc7

Et tu, brute??

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Your Fav is Problematic
@YourFavIsProblematic

Ilya Rozanov!

Your Fav is Problematic @YourFavIsProblematic · July 7, 2017

Shane Hollander!

2:29 PM · July 7, 2017

8.1K Retweets 724 Quote Tweets 31.9K Likes

avorin @avorin · July 7, 2017 Replying to @YourFavIsProblematic

Hockey players problematic, fork found in kitchen? 🙄

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aeolian_leaf
@aeolian_leaf

Oh my god they got the girlies 😭😭😭

8:54 PM · July 7, 2017

920 Retweets 768 Quote Tweets 5.3K Likes

starling-342 @starling-342 · July 7, 2017 Replying to @aeolian_leaf

oh my godddd why is it ALWAYS the women’s job to clean up men’s messes 😭😭😭 leave Rose and Svetlana OUT OF THIS

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landrylane @landrylane · July 7, 2017 Replying to @aeolian_leaf

if Shane Hollander “comes out” as gay for PR and then publicly dumps Rose Landry because people got mad at his joke I will personally become the joker

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saraheliza-t @saraheliza-t · July 7, 2017 Replying to @aeolian_leaf

NO because why am I genuinely worried this ends with Rose and Svetlana getting publicly “dumped” so the boys save their reputations GIRLS GET BEHIND ME

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petalpress @petalpress · Replying to @aeolian_leaf

I am choosing not to catastrophize but if crisis PR kills Hollandry AND Ilyana in the same week I will never forgive either of these men. I s2g.

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calyx
@calyx

I’ve spent the last day trying to figure out how I want to say this, but in light of recent events, I’m putting ‘Between Blue Lines’ on indefinite hiatus.

11:03 PM · July 7, 2017

2.3K Retweets 1.8K Quote Tweets 4.9K Likes

calyx @calyx · July 7, 2017 Replying to @calyx

I have loved Rozander and this community for years, and writing this, and all my other fics, has introduced me to some of my closest friends. But with everything that has happened recently, I don’t feel comfortable continuing to write RPF about Shane and Ilya right now.

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calyx @calyx · July 7, 2017 Replying to @calyx

Their response to Scott Hunter’s coming out has left a really bad taste in my mouth, and I think I need to step back and reevaluate how I want to engage with them and with the fandom in general.

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calyx @calyx · July 7, 2017 Replying to @calyx

Thank you so much to everyone who has supported my fic. I’m sorry. ❤️

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shippingdiaster0023 @shippingdiaster0023 · July 8, 2017 Replying to @calyx

@calyx YOU’RE JOKING 😭

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palinode @palinode · July 8, 2017 Replying to @calyx

no sorry people outside the rozander fandom do not understand. @calyx putting Between Blue Lines on hiatus AND stepping away from fandom is our first and second tower

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faraday-fallaway @faraday-fallaway · July 8, 2017 Replying to @calyx

oh my god is this how i find out roz and holz are homophobic?????

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viridian_casxx @viridian_casxx · July 8, 2017 Replying to @calyx

girl same 😭💔 I privated all my Rozander fics right after the “wedding” post. I kept hoping it was just a misunderstanding but now I just feel gross about the whole thing #PrivateYourRozanderFics

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corvic-c @corvic-c · July 8, 2017 Replying to @calyx

Until Shane and Ilya apologize #PrivateYourRozanderFics

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911

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

♡⊹˚₊🏒Mid July 2017🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

♡⊹˚₊🏒2🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

Let it be known that Ilya had been happy for Scott Hunter.

No, seriously. He really had been. He might even have gone so far as to call himself fucking confelicitous.

But the operative word was had.

He still hoped Hunter and his boyfriend were disgustingly happy together; hoped every homophobic asshole in New York spontaneously developed kidney stones. He hoped Hunter enjoyed every award, magazine cover, interview request, and talk-show invitation currently being hurled in his direction. But if Ilya had to read about him being the first openly gay NHL player ever one more fucking time, he was going to cause a situation.

Now, if Ilya was the only one of the two of them who stood to lose anything, he’d have screamed it from the rooftops until his voice was hoarse two years ago. He loved being Shane’s; he’d made his peace with never returning to Russia after Sochi. The problem was Ilya wasn't the only of the two of them that stood to lose anything. The fact that their careers—Shane’s career—could be affected by this made Ilya’s hackles rise. Shane Hollander-Rozanov lived and breathed hockey, he belonged on the ice; Ilya knew this like he knew the sky was blue and the sun set in the west. Ilya would do just about anything if it meant he could keep Shane and Shane could keep hockey.

Fucking Montreal, the fucking NHL, fucking idiots online. Putting them between a rock and a hard place. Keep going as they had been, and their reputations were fucked. Come out (again), and face the wrath of every bigot with a platform—NHL contract or Twitter account, pick your poison.

The fact that a locker room full of assholes in Montreal had any say in whether Shane could call Ilya his made him fucking furious. At the same time, the thought of Shane going back to a locker room full of guys who could make his life hell for this made him nauseous. For not the first time, he hated the three hundred miles between Boston and Montreal, the three hundred miles that would separate him and Shane again in two months. But Ilya was done letting that fear make decisions for them. If they were going to do this again, then fuck it—they were doing this. Consequences be damned.

Which was why, despite them having finally done everything right—no jokes, no stupid innuendos, no giving people room to make what the will of it—the fact that they’d somehow made everything worse was driving him insane.

“I do not understand,” Ilya said for what was probably the fifth time, making another turn at the windows. “What other proof could there possibly be?”

Shane looked up from his laptop. “I don’t know.”

“Do they want interviews?” He asked, “We can do interviews. Press conference? Fine. I will call every reporter in North America myself. I will buy a fucking billboard outside the NHL headquarters, TD Garden, and Bell Centre.” Ilya swept one hand through the air as though unveiling it. “Big bold letters: SHANE HOLLANDER IS GAY. ILYA ROZANOV IS BISEXUAL. WE ARE MARRIED TO EACH OTHER. Maybe arrows and a neon fucking sign. Should we throw a party? Should we invite Bella Hadid?”

“Ilya—”

“What more is left?” He spread his hands. “Release a sex tape? Will that work?”

Ilya turned away again, already beginning another pass through the room, when he heard from behind him—

“Well, I mean…” Shane started. When Ilya looked over his shoulder, Shane was still sitting on the couch with the laptop balanced in his lap, except now his face had gone bright red. “Would that even work?” He finally asked.

Ilya stared at him.

“Like, not seriously, obviously,” Shane added quickly, “But at this point would that even—”

Ilya crossed the room in three steps. “Oh my God, I love you so much.”

Shane barely managed to move his laptop in time before Ilya dropped into his lap and caught his face between both hands. He kissed him hard, laughing against his mouth as Shane grumbled in kitten-like offense. Ilya kissed him again, softer this time, then pressed another kiss to his cheek because he genuinely couldn’t help himself.

“God,” Ilya said when he finally pulled back, still close enough that their noses nearly brushed. “I love you.”

Shane’s ears were bright pink. “Yeah, okay.”

“No, really.” Ilya kissed him again, quick this time. “So much.”

“Yeah, yeah, I love you too,” Shane grumbled.

Ilya leaned back enough to see his whole face and raised an eyebrow. “So this is yes to us filming a sex tape?”

“No!” But the answer came too quickly and the blush got worse; Ilya couldn't help but grin. “Fuck off.”

Shane shoved at his shoulder, but there was barely any force behind it, and Ilya let himself move only enough that he was no longer directly in Shane’s face. He stayed comfortably perched in his husband's lap instead, his hands cradling Shane’s neck while Shane’s hands settled at his waist. Ilya made a mental note to order a digital camcorder and absolutely film a sex tape before the off-season concluded. Not for public consumption, obviously. Private consumption. Ilya’s consumption.

Shane, unaware of the plans Ilya was making in his head, reached up and pushed a loose piece of hair away from Ilya’s forehead. His left hand settled back against Ilya’s hip afterward, and Ilya’s attention caught on the wedding ring around his finger.

And suddenly, he had an idea. Ilya reached for his phone.

“What are you doing?” Shane asked.

“I am emailing Bears." Ilya said, "I want my jersey nameplate to say Hollander.”

“What? Where did this come from?”

“I am a Hollander now. Well, Rozanov-Hollander,” Ilya corrected as he unlocked his phone. “If social media refuses to understand that, maybe seeing HOLLANDER-81 on my back eighty-two times next season will help.”

“Y-You really want your game jersey to say Hollander?” Shane stammered, his blush returning with a vengeance.

Ilya paused. A smile slowly spread across his face as he shifted his weight in Shane’s lap. “Is a good idea, yes?” he asked, suggestively. “A whole season with your name across my shoulders?”

Shane made a strangled noise and leaned forward to press his burning face into Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya could feel Shane growing hard beneath him, unmistakable through the thin fabric of their shorts. After a moment, “Send your email. Please.”

He rocked his hips once, just to hear Shane suck in a sharp breath against his neck, and laughed as he opened his email.

♡⊹˚₊🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

Inbox

”July 14, 2017”

Jersey name

Ilya Rozanov
”irozanov81@bostonbears.com”

”July 14, 4:09 PM”

to management@bostonbears.com

Hello,

I want to change the name on my jersey for next season. Instead of ROZANOV I want it to say HOLLANDER or ROZANOV-HOLLANDER.

Please send me the paperwork I need to do.

Ilya

Sabrina Burke
”sburke.management@bostonbears.com

”July 14, 6:37 PM

to Ilya Rozanov

RE: Jersey name

Hi Ilya,

For NHL registration and uniform purposes, the surname displayed on your jersey must correspond with your legal name and the one registered with the League. So, we’re not able to just change your nameplate to HOLLANDER or ROZANOV-HOLLANDER.

We understand that your request may be related to the current public controversy involving you and Montreal Metros Shane Hollander (#24). While we appreciate your desire to address the situation, a nameplate change is not something we can do as a response to scandal, nor would we recommend it.

The Bears Communications team has been monitoring the situation online and will be reaching out to you and your representation shortly so that we can coordinate on any further response. Until then, we ask that you hold off on additional public statements or actions related to the current controversy.

If you decide to legally change your surname in the future, we would of course be happy to help you complete the required paperwork and make the appropriate updates.

Best,
Sabrina Burke
Boston Bears Hockey Operations

↩ Reply

Forward

Ilya stared at that email for a long moment.

Call him childish, but Ilya signed out of his email on his phone.

♡⊹˚₊🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

Video Title: This isnt an apology, we are actually gay (and married)

Posted by: ihollander81

Views: 165K • Comments: 7.6K • 2 Days Ago

[The video opens on Ilya sitting too close to the camera. He reaches forward, adjusts it, and sits back.]

ILYA: Hello, YouTube.

[He gives the camera a small wave.]

ILYA: Since no one believes me and my husband are married and my team will not let me change the nameplate on my jersey yet—

[He reaches offscreen and comes back holding his wallet.]

ILYA: —I have decided we are going to do a new ID tour!

[He pulls out a card and holds it toward the camera.]

ILYA: Ooooh. What is this?

[He squints at it with exaggerated interest.]

ILYA: It is a Massachusetts driver’s license.! It is a very sexy picture of me. Look here. Ilya Rozanov-Hollander.

[He holds his Massachusetts drivers license up to the camera and taps the name with one finger before quickly pulling it back.]

ILYA: Obviously I am going to blur out everything else, no one is stealing my new identity today, but you get the idea, yes?

[Cut. Ilya is now holding his US passport.]

ILYA: Next, we have my passport! I was surprised this came in as quickly as it did, but all the better for this. The picture here is not as good as my driver’s license, but is still a good picture.

[He opens it to the identification page.]

ILYA: I became a US citizen last year after five years of paperwork and already I am requesting a new passport. Such is life, though, I guess, when you marry the love of your life.

[He points.]

ILYA: Rozanov-Hollander, Ilya.

[He looks directly into the camera.]

ILYA: Very Interesting, yes?

[Cut. Ilya places another document on the table in front of him.]

ILYA: And what could this possibly be?

[He picks up their marriage certificate with both hands.]

ILYA: Oh look! It’s our marriage certificate.

[He looks it over as if he has never seen it before.]

ILYA: Shane Hollander. Ilya Rozanov. Married June 24th, 2017. Wow. I remember this day—

ILYA, making direct eye contact with the camera: —like it was two weeks ago.

[He keeps eye contact with the camera for another second before lowering the certificate.]

ILYA: Shanya! Shanya, can I have your driver’s license?

SHANE, OFFSCREEN: What are you doing?

ILYA: Making a video proving to everyone we are married!

SHANE, OFFSCREEN: How are you—wait, are you doxxing us right now?

[Ilya looks back at the camera.]

ILYA: Pah. Never mind. Will already be enough work editing all my information out. You all understand.

[He starts collecting the documents into a pile, then stops and looks straight into the camera. His tone loses some of the joking edge.]

ILYA: But seriously. We are actually married as seen by—

[He gestures to the pile of documents on the table]

ILYA: We were not making a joke to make fun of Scott Hunter and his younger and more attractive boyfriend. We were both very happy for Hunter. Please stop calling us homophobic, thank you.

[He reaches toward the camera, then stops.]

ILYA: Oh. Also, Sabrina, if you are watching this, I still want Hollander on my jersey.

SHANE, OFFSCREEN: Ilya!

ILYA: Okay, bye-bye!

[The video cuts off.]

Comments (7.6K)

@doc-holiday_01 · 1 hour ago

wait…. please don't tell me they actually made fake ids for this???? Boys???? Would it not be easier to just apologize????

@bluelinebride-xoxo · 1 hour ago

is nobody else concerned that Roz is just casually holding up what is most likely a FAKE UNITED STATES PASSPORT???? Hello?????

@peregrine-flyer · 58 minutes ago

not to be that person but if that passport isn’t real they need to delete this video like. immediately. Ilya babe the FBI does not care about your commitment to the bit 😭

@valimee77 · 55 minutes ago

Everyone: please just stop making the gay joke and we’ll go back to liking you
Rozanov: what if I just committed several felonies instead, what then?

@waywardsonz15 · 51 minutes ago

I know everyone is laughing but I’m actually serious, aren’t fake government IDs like SUPER illegal?? who on their PR team approved this 😭

@tellytale98 · 48 minutes ago

⤷Girl I doubt their pr KNEW about this before Roz posted 💀💀 hell, I’m not convinced HOLLZY knew unless he was in on it

@blazing_f0x · 45 minutes ago

omg HOW are you people still not believing them??? He's literally showing us their marriage certificate and his updated IDs?? what in the cognitive dissonance is happening in this comment section 😭😭😭

@petricore-x7 · 42 minutes ago

⤷Girl how are you BELEIVING them?? This is the shadiest shit i’ve ever see

@goaliegirl31 · 39 minutes ago

okay look i KNOW we’re cancelling them rn but ihollander81 is kinda cute thooo 🫢😳 its like the Hollanders really adopted him into the familyy #RozanderGoals

@hollanov-truther · 36 minutes ago

⤷ROZANDER is what you got from this????????????

hollanov-truther
@hollanov-truther

4:01 PM · July 8, 2017

918 Retweets 760 Quote Tweets 1.1K Likes

♡⊹˚₊🏒Late July 2017🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

♡⊹˚₊🏒3🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

They had reached levels of PR crisis Shane hadn’t even known existed until they were in the middle of it.

Shane sat cross-legged at one end of the couch with his laptop balanced in his lap, while Ilya had arranged himself across the other like a consumptive Victorian invalid, sprawled against the cushions with his feet shoved beneath Shane’s thighs and one arm flung listlessly over his stomach. It was a marked change from the previous weeks, where first he'd been energized with his desire to fix this whole mess, then increasingly frustrated when their attempts failed, before finally tipping into a sort of aggrieved disbelief. Apparently there was a limit to how long Ilya could sustain righteous indignation before it burned itself out and left him draped across the furniture in mournful resignation.

There was something almost cathartic about watching Ilya turn their misery into theatrical melancholy. Shane could hardly blame him for indulging in it now, so he had mostly been leaving Ilya to it; seeing as his own anxious doomscrolling wasn’t any more productive. Neither of them was in much of a position to criticize the other’s coping mechanisms; Shane, and his habit of keeping his mounting irritation wound tight inside himself, and Ilya, content to air out his burnout to his audience of one (Shane). He kept one hand absently resting over Ilya’s ankle while he scrolled, occasionally rubbing his thumb over the bone whenever another particularly dramatic sigh floated up from the other end of the couch.

Neither of them had said much for the last twenty minutes. There really wasn’t much left to say, at this point. Every few minutes Shane refreshed his timeline despite knowing it was against his own best interests, read whatever fresh batshit interpretation had managed to gain traction since the last time he checked, and wondered why he continued to underestimate people’s capacity to be stupid. He always thought he’d finally found the bottom, before somebody showed up with a shovel.

“I think I’m kinda just at a loss,” he said eventually. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Ilya released another long, suffering breath toward the ceiling. “Apologize for being sexy and gay?” He let his head roll toward Shane, expression bleak. “For the shame we have brought to the L-G-B-T-Q community?”

The corner of Shane’s mouth twitched despite himself. Ilya noticed. “Laugh, Shanya. Is all we have left.”

He laughed then, squeezing Ilya’s ankle as he returned his attention back to his computer. They were 0-3 in coming outs, having only managed to cancelled for their efforts . Shane couldn’t even begin to imagine what a fourth attempt might look like at this point, let alone what fresh disaster it might produce. There were only so many ways they could say it before the burden of comprehension really ought to transfer to the audience.

He scrolled again, passing another thread about Hunter, one of his interviews, a photograph Shane had seen half a dozen times since the Cup Final. He’d become almost impossible to avoid online over the last few weeks, which—while not his fault—was really starting to get annoying.

Another article slid into view, and Shane nearly scrolled past it before the headline caught his attention.

First Out Gay NHL Player Scott Hunter Purchases Manhattan Bar With Longtime Boyfriend.

Shane made a small noise of interest.

From the opposite end of the couch, Ilya didn’t even open his eyes. “What fresh humiliation?”

“Hunter bought a bar,” Shane said, opening the article.

That earned enough interest for Ilya to lift his head a few inches from the cushion, although not yet enough to abandon his deathbed entirely.

It was called the Kingfisher—an old bar in the heart of Manhattan that had first opened sometime in the late nineteenth century and passed through any number of owners and incarnations since. At the bottom of the article, Shane found a link to the bar’s social-media account. Its most recent post advertised a new-owner night three days from now, and when Shane clicked through to the flyer, he was met with a frankly aggressive amount of color. Whatever the Kingfisher was originally, the event seemed to be at least partly a celebration of Hunter’s coming out and of the queer community that had very enthusiastically adopted both him and the bar in the weeks since.

Ilya finally abandoned the cushions and shifted over until his shoulder pressed against Shane’s, peering at the screen with considerably more life than he’d had a minute ago.

“Of course the dinosaur buys a bar. Perfect investment for retirement,” he muttered. “This is most typical old-man behavior possible.”

Normally Shane would have laughed, but he kept staring at the flyer while the beginnings of an idea slowly took shape.

“What if we talked to him?” Ilya glanced sideways at him. “Hunter,” Shane clarified. “What if we just talked to Hunter?”

The longer Shane considered it, the less ridiculous it seemed. Hunter was the only other openly queer player in the league now. He actually knew them, there was no way he thought this was all a joke or they were being homophobic.

“He has to know,” Shane said, more certain by the minute, “Right? There’s no way Scott Hunter, of all people, thinks we’re straight.”

Ilya froze, as the despondency began to lift from his face. “Oh my God,” he said. “He is gay. He has to have a functioning gaydar. Better gaydar than all these idiots, obviously. He has to know.”

“Exactly.” Shane said, smiling. “So if we just talk to Hunter and get him to back us up, maybe people will finally realize we were never joking.”

Ilya made a face, most likely at the idea of having to ask for Scott Hunter’s help with anything, but Shane just leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his husband’s cheek. He wished they could just call Hunter now, but neither of them actually had his phone number, and the idea of tracking it down through multiple layers of mutual hockey acquaintances somehow felt worse than just waiting to speak face-to-face. And really, if ever there’d been a conversation best suited to happening in person, this was probably it.

He looked back at the Kingfisher page. The new-owner night was in three days. New York was roughly seven hours away, barring any catastrophic traffic between their cottage, the border, and Interstate 81. Even if they left mid-morning, they could be there by the late afternoon.

“I guess we’re going to New York.” Shane said.

♡⊹˚₊🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

The Kingfisher was impossible to miss. Even without the line spilling onto the sidewalk, the old brick building adorned with enough rainbow flags and Admirals jerseys to make the destination obvious from half a block away. The windows were covered in flyers for community events and hockey memorabilia, making it difficult to make out the crowd packed inside. Every time the front door opened, music and laughter spilled out onto the street; it was clear the bar was operating in a capacity beyond its usual Friday night crowd.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he had expected.

The advertising for the night had seemed to split itself evenly between ‘Beloved historic bar under new (gay) ownership’ and ‘Come celebrate the Admirals Stanley Cup Win (with the team!)’, which left Shane with no real idea where on the spectrum between gay club and sports bar they were about to walk into. Though it looked like everyone else interpreted the mixed messaging just fine, as once they made it through the door, the crowd seemed to be an almost perfect combination of the two. It was a sea of Admirals red and white—Hunter’s 21 thoroughly represented—mixed in with colorful shirts, glitter, and painted cheeks. New Owner Night? More like Scott Hunter night, if you asked Shane.

It was, Shane realized once they finally stepped inside, probably the first gay bar he’d ever been to. Granted, Shane barely went to regular bars unless someone dragged him there, so maybe that was a moot point—there were probably a whole host of nightlife venues he'd never been to. But it felt notable, nonetheless.

He reached for Ilya’s hand before the crowd could separate them. Ilya’s fingers closed around his easily, and Shane let himself be pulled along as Ilya stopped at the bar to grab them something to drink before leading them through the crowd until they found a vantage point near the back wall—a place they could see most of the bar from as they looked for #21 himself amongst the red and white. Ilya kept hold of his hand while they searched, his thumb brushing once over Shane’s knuckles as Shane tried to pick out Hunter or any of his Admirals.

That was when Shane started noticing the looks.

Not from everyone. Most of the people in the bar either didn’t recognize them or didn’t particularly care. A few notably registered them but went back to whatever conversation they had been having. But the actual hockey fans were different. Shane kept catching them looking at the two of them. Nothing overt; nobody came over or said anything to them. But as he scanned the room, he would sometimes find someone already looking at them, only for them to look away as he made eye contact. A woman in an Admirals jersey near the bar pointed at them as she said something to her friend, a rather very pretty (no other word for it, really) man in a mesh shirt looked them up and down and pointedly turned away with a judgment frown, a group of what looked like younger NHL fans in pride night admirals jerseys kept whispering and glancing towards them.

Shit, right. Perhaps it had been the novelty of the bar or the fact that they’d been mostly avoiding the public eye since the season ended, but Shane had genuinely forgotten that he and Ilya were currently two of the least popular men in hockey—especially among queer NHL fans, which was honestly impressive considering some of their competition. Maybe it hadn’t been the smartest move to make their first public appearance in a gay sports bar. He tightened his fingers around Ilya’s.

It would be fine. They just needed to talk to Hunter. Once they talked to Hunter, it would all be fine.

But after nearly fifteen minutes and what must have been four or six songs blended together, there was still no sign of Hunter. Shane was beginning to feel increasingly conspicuous, every passing minute making him more aware of the eyes that kept drifting their way—when he spotted Carter Vaughn at the far end of the room.

“There,” Shane said, touching Ilya’s wrist before starting toward him.

Vaughn was speaking animatedly with a couple of people who Shane could only assume were Admirals fans—considering where they were and the starstruck looks on their faces. Vaughn was smiling, though—always charming with fans or nervous rookies alike. Shane saw the moment Vaughn noticed the two of them approaching and watched his smile drop.

It wasn’t blatant, but his posture changed and the easy looseness left his shoulders as he regarded the pair of them. While Vaughn hid it well, the fans seemed to notice, as they glanced between the three of them before thanking Vaughn and moving away without a word.

“Hollander. Rozanov.” Vaughn looked between them. “Didn’t know you guys were planning on coming tonight.” It didn't sound like he had been hoping they would.

“Hey, Vaughn. Sorry for the interruption, didn't mean to chase anyone away" Vaughn waved his apology off, gesturing for him to get on with it. Shane had to suppress a wince. This was not boding well for them so far, but they didn't exactly have any other back up plans or ideas at this point. So, he ripped the bandaid off: “We’re looking for Hunter.”

Whatever reserve had already been in Vaughn’s expression tightened. “He’s busy.”

“We only need a couple minutes.”

“For what?”

Beside him, Ilya quietly scoffed in disbelief. "For what? This is his party, is it not? Is the old man sorting bottle caps behind the bar?" Shane reached down and tried to subtly take Ilya's hand as Vaughn's expression twisted in protective indignation.

Before Vaughn could rebuttal him, Shane jumped back in—

“Look, it’s about everything online,” Shane placated. “We just want to talk to him, we’re not here to start anything.” For a moment, Vaughn only looked at him. “Please, Vaughn.”

Vaughn glanced over his shoulder toward the back of the bar. “Stay here,” he said finally. “I’ll see if he has a minute.”

Shane signed in relief, “Thanks, man.”

"Don't thank me yet." Vaughn muttered and disappeared into the crowd.

Shane let out a breath through his nose. This was really not boding well for them.

He and Ilya moved farther out of the flow of traffic while they waited, settling along a narrow strip of wall between two framed historic pictures of the Kingfisher. Up close, one of them looked old enough to predate their grandparents, the image faded almost sepia beneath the glass. Shane angled his head toward his husband as Ilya took up his place beside him.

“Do me a favor?” He asked.

Ilya looked over. “Anything for you, moy lyubov,” he said, with feigned sincerity.

Shane rolled his eyes. “Wait until after Hunter agrees to help us before you start chirping him.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched. “Hmm. This is very big ask. What do I get in return?”

Shane snorted, but Ilya was already leaning down to kiss him. Against his better judgement, Shane indulged and sighed against his mouth, one hand finding Ilya’s waist as some of the tension that had been sitting stubbornly in his chest since they walked in finally loosened. When Ilya pulled back, Shane kept his hand where it had settled at Ilya's waist.

“I can think of a way for you to repay me for behaving,” Ilya murmured, dipping his head again until his mouth brushed the shell of Shane’s ear.

Shane smirked. “Oh? Does it have anything to do with the camcorder that got delivered to the house two days ago?”

Ilya drew back just enough for Shane to catch the downright devious grin spreading across his face before Shane caught sight of Vaughn making his way back towards them.

Behind him, Hunter’s expression gave very little away. He looked tired more than anything, dressed casually in a rainbow-text Kingfisher-branded crewneck, his sleeves pushed up to his forearms and one hand holding a much fancier drink than beer. His eyes passed over Shane first, then Ilya, before dropping to where Shane’s hand was still resting against Ilya’s waist.

When he looked back up, his expression was cold.

“Seriously?” Shane blinked. Hunter stopped a few feet away, Vaughn hanging back near his shoulder, like a rather rude shadow. “I know this was just a joke or bit to you guys,” Hunter said. He kept his voice low enough that the music around them swallowed it beyond the four of them, his eyes flicking briefly toward the crowded bar before returning to Shane. “But doing this tonight? Here?"

‘Oh’. Shane stared at him in disbelief. ‘Oh, you had got to be fucking kidding.’

Before Shane could work out how to respond without sounding either defensive or completely insane, Ilya scoffed beside him. “Hunter, you do understand we were gay before you, yes? You are not trendsetter.”

Vaughn scowled as Hunter scoffed, something sour and disappointed finally breaking through the tired restraint in his expression. “Did you seriously drive all the way here just to give me shit?”

“No,” Shane cut in quickly. “No, that's not why we’re here.” He could feel Ilya still bristling beside him, and while Shane wasn’t far behind—they needed Hunter to believe them. They literally had no plans or ideas left. “We came because we were hoping you could help us. Did you…” He hesitated, still struggling to wrap his head around it. “Do you seriously think we're joking?”

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Hunter’s face, but it disappeared quickly. “You’ve been doing this for years.”

“We've been together for years,” Shane corrected.

Hunter’s expression tightened. “Well, what was I supposed to think? I don’t know what your whole angle was with this was, but I never thought you were the type of assholes to— "

Ilya made a sharp, incredulous sound beside him. “We’re the assholes? Look in a fucking mirror, Hunter. Nobody had a problem with us until you came out!”

Hunter shook his head. “Do you hear yourself right now?”

“Do you?” Shane snapped. "We were never joking, Hunter! Is it really so unreasonable to think hockey's macho-straight bullshit kept us closeted despite our efforts? We've been trying for years. Not everyone gets a Stanley Cup-winning stage to kiss their boyfriend on!"

Hunter looked more uncertain by the second, but something in Ilya finally seemed to snap. He threw both hands up. “Jesus Christ, Hunter. I know you missed that empty netter last season, but I know you’re not fucking blind.”

Vaughn’s expression sharpened instantly. “What the fuck did you—”

“Look!” Ilya grabbed Shane’s left hand and held it up beside his own. Their wedding bands glinted beneath the pulsing lights of the bar. “Look at us. Do you honestly think we spent years pretending to be gay? In this league? For what? What exactly do you think we get from this, Hunter? We are already the best.”

Hunter and Vaughn's eyes dropped to their hands, neither of them said anything as Shane watched disbelief slowly give way on their faces. Hunter looked from the rings to Shane, then toward Ilya, then back to their hands again as Vaughn’s arms gradually dropped from where he had crossed them over his chest.

“Oh my God,” Hunter said finally. “You're actually married.”

Ilya threw his hands up as he dropped Shane's wrist. “Yes! Thank you!”

“Holy shit,” Vaughn murmured, his eyes wide in shock. “The whole time?”

Hunter’s attention shifted back toward the bar around them, and Shane followed his gaze to find several phones pointed in their direction; their increasingly animated conversation had attracted more attention than any of them intended.

“Shit,” Hunter muttered. “Do we want to take this upstairs? I have so many questions and this probably should be a private conversation.”

Shane dragged in a breath and let it out slowly, his heart still hammering from the argument. “Yeah. Sure. That’s probably a good idea, whatever you want to know.”

Hunter nodded and led them toward a door marked ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY’. Just beyond it, a narrow staircase disappeared up toward the second floor. At the top of the stairs, Hunter pushed open another door and led them into a small office tucked away from the noise of the bar below. Inside was a man Shane recognized vaguely from photographs and videos from the Stanley Cup Final.

Hunter’s boyfriend—Christopher, or rather, Kip, his memory supplied—looked up the second the door opened, and whatever relief he had at seeing Hunter disappeared almost immediately when he noticed Shane and Ilya behind him. He straightened from where he had been leaning against the desk, his expression hardening quickly.

“Scott?”

“I’m fine,” Hunter said at once. “We’re fine.” He shut the door behind them, muffling most of the music downstairs, before rubbing a tired hand over his face. “Fuck. You were right. They’re married. Like, actually.”

Kip stared at him. His gaze dropped to Shane and Ilya’s hands, where their wedding bands were still plainly visible, then snapped back to Hunter. “Oh my God—”

“Please don’t say it.”

“I told you!” Kip exclaimed. “I told you there was no way they could’ve kept this going for that long if there wasn’t something actually happening, but you were so sure—”

“I know, I know. But in my defense—”

Beside Shane, Ilya made a wounded sound. “Oh my God, Hunter.” He looked between the two of them, visibly appalled. “You are telling me your very hot, much smarter boyfriend even told you we were married and you still did not believe us?”

Hunter muttered something under his breath that Shane was probably better off not hearing, while Kip’s mouth twitched despite himself. Whatever defensiveness had characterized Kip’s posture when they first walked up was completely gone.

“Sorry,” Kip said, turning toward them properly now. “It really is good to meet you. When Carter came to get Scott, we weren’t exactly sure what was going on, so he asked me to come up here in case…” He glanced at Hunter, then shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m just glad we were wrong.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Shane said, tightly. That was really all he could say to that.

“Yes, very nice. Although I do have to ask, as you seem very smart,” Ilya jerked his chin toward Hunter and raised an eyebrow, “Him?”

Kip laughed as Hunter scowled. “Alright, back off, Rozanov,” Hunter said, pointingly turning back to Shane and Ilya. “I’ve got to ask, really? The whole time?”

“Since our rookie season,” Shane confirmed.

“Mm, no.” Ilya tilted his head. “Summer before.”

Hunter stared at them for another second, visibly recalibrating the last several years in real time. “Jesus Christ.” He clearly had at least a hundred more questions now, but he just shook his head faintly, and dragged himself back to the present.

“Okay. That is… a lot to process.” He let out a breath. “I'm going to need to rethink about half the shit I thought I knew about you two, but I know you didn't drive all the way down here just to tell me that." It was phrased like a statement, but the underlying question was clear.

“No.” Shane glanced at Ilya before looking back at him. “It’s about everything going on online. We thought if you said something—maybe even just that you talked to us and know we’re not, like, making fun of you or doing a fucked-up homophobic bit—people might actually believe us.”

Hunter’s expression changed immediately; an odd flash of guilt. “Yeah. Of course.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Shit, Hollander. I’m sorry. That’s got to be really frustrating, I can’t even imagine if after I kissed Kip....” He trailed off, looking at his boyfriend before glancing back at the door. “Should we go back down and figure out who was recording us downstairs? I don’t know what they would have managed to pick up over the music, but…”

Shane looked at Ilya, and considered it, before Ilya shrugged. “Ehh. Maybe they will all post their videos and we will not even need your help anymore. Whatever we said worked on you, did it not?”

Hunter didn't look particularly convinced, but rather than argue, he conceded. He pulled one of the chairs away from the desk and dropped into it, while Kip shifted over to make room for the rest of them.

“Okay,” Hunter said, looking between Shane and Ilya again. “What do you need me to do?”

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

Sky Sport
@sky-sport

Videos circulating from the opening night of Scott Hunter’s newly purchased bar appear to show a heated confrontation between Hunter, Carter Vaughn, Shane Hollander, and Ilya Rozanov. While most of the exchange is unintelligible, Rozanov can clearly be heard in multiple recordings yelling: “Nobody had a problem with us until you came out!” Before the group moved the conversation away from the main bar, sparking outrage from Hunter’s supporters and queer NHL Fans.

10:04 AM · July 22, 2017

1.9K Retweets 3.5K Quote Tweets 33.4K Likes

Scott Hunter
@scott_hunter21

I want to address the videos from the Kingfisher and the situation as a whole.
Hollander and Rozanov did not come to harass me about coming out last night, and the clips being circulated do not give an accurate picture of the conversation we had. I’m more disappointed that a private conversation between myself and my coworkers was recorded and posted online.

11:23 AM · July 23, 2017

5.1K Retweets 7.2K Quote Tweets 65.9K Likes

Scott Hunter @scott_hunter21 · July 23, 2017 Replying to @scott_hunter21

Hollander and Rozanov are really upstanding guys, and off-ice, I have never known either of them to be homophobic or bigoted. The three of us have talked, and they were not making fun of my coming out when they posted their wedding pictures last month. Let’s cool it with the smear campaigns, please?

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22-1foreverx @22-1foreverx · July 23, 2017 Replying to @scott_hunter21

Scott honey you absolutely do NOT need to defend them 😭❤️

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gayforgameday @gayforgameday · July 23, 2017 Replying to @scott_hunter21

Notice how he said “off-ice” 👀 interesting interesting he felt the need to specify

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pedantic-cat009 @pedantic-cat009 · July 23, 2017 Replying to @scott_hunter21

You are a much bigger man than me scott hunter. The way i would NEVER shut up about this

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rinkside-rebate @rinkside-rebate · July 23, 2017 Replying to @scott_hunter21

Holy ‘NHL Mandated Concession’ Batman!

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hotmessexpress @hotmessexpress · July 23, 2017 Replying to @scott_hunter21

don’t worry scott we know you can’t make more waves rn, we’ll do it for you <3

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♡⊹˚₊🏒End of July 2017🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

♡⊹˚₊🏒+1🏒 ₊˚⊹♡

Rather than drive straight back to Ottawa and the cottage beyond after leaving New York, Shane and Ilya made a slight detour through Montreal to stop and see the Pikes. They were sitting in the Pikes’ living room while Jackie dealt with something involving the kids upstairs, the remains of their lunch abandoned on the coffee table between them. They hadn’t had much time to see or even talk to Hayden and Jackie since the wedding, aside from a message they’d gotten the week prior announcing that Jackie was pregnant again.

On that topic:

“What were you doing in our house, Pike?” Ilya asked, with theatrical disgust, to which Hayden immediately rolled his eyes. “That your wife is pregnant right after visiting?”

“She’s four months along, Roz. She did not get pregnant at your wedding.”

“Ah.” Ilya pointed at him. “But you are not denying having sex in our house. You see, I have learned recently that specifications like this are very important.”

“Jesus Christ.” Hayden said. Shane grumbled unintelligibly as Hayden shook his head, then looked between them. “Well, on that note,” he continued, “how are you guys doing with… everything?”

“Fine,” Shane lied.

“So, so good,” Ilya said at exactly the same time, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

Hayden raised an eyebrow and looked expectantly at Shane. Shane sighed, and, for roughly the next half an hour, they—for lack of a better term—complained.

There was certainly enough material to cover. Around the time they got onto one particularly stupid thread from a guy claiming he knew someone who made fake IDs—which seemed like an insane thing to not only admit but post publicly about in the first place—and therefore knew with absolute certainty that Ilya's updated identification was fake, Hayden's phone buzzed against the arm of his chair.

“Oh, shit. Hey, I really want to keep talking shit with you guys, but do you mind if I disappear for like five minutes?”

Shane blinked. “Sure?”

“I’ve been doing this FanMail thing on the side.” Hayden got to his feet, already unlocking his phone. “People send in requests and I record a video saying hi, or happy birthday, or congratulations on graduating, whatever. It takes me like thirty seconds and they pay me a frankly insane amount of money for it.”

Ilya gave him a considering look. “Oh? Are things not looking so good for Metro’s fifteenth-best player? Cannot survive on a twenty-four-million-dollar contract?”

“Man, shut up.

“You know we can help.” Ilya continued, “Our godchildren deserve only the best. Whatever Jackie wants, we buy it.”

“Hey, now. I’m buying her whatever she wants.” Hayden pointed at him. “And a new designer bag. And a spa membership. And It’s all supposed to be a surprise, so I needed money that wasn’t coming out of our shared accounts. So, shush.”

“Ahh, that is very sweet, Pike.” Ilya’s expression softened despite the smirk still pulling at his mouth. “Jackie has trained you very well.”

Hayden gave him the finger as he headed for the hallway. “You’re one to talk, loverboy. Five minutes. I'll be back.” He started making his way out of the room as he lifted up his phone and slipped effortlessly into an entirely different voice. “Hey, Brad—”

Whatever he said next disappeared around the corner.

Without him, the room fell quiet, other than the low hum of the television they hadn’t been watching and the occasional muffled sound of the Pikelings somewhere deeper in the house. One of Ilya’s legs was propped up on the ottoman, his head tipped back against the couch as he stared listlessly at the ceiling.

“This fucking sucks,” Shane said eventually.

Ilya turned his head toward him. “Yes.”

Shane exhaled through his nose. He didn’t know why admitting it now felt different. They had spent the last half hour saying essentially the same thing, just louder and with more creative language. But without Hayden there to laugh with them, all of the indignation fell away to reveal his simmering vexation.

“I’m so fucking sick of it.” Shane rubbed his palms against his jeans. “What the fuck else are we supposed to do?”

Ilya watched him for a moment. “I don’t know.”

It should probably have made Shane feel worse, but instead, something in him loosened at his husband’s admission. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Me neither.”

Ilya shifted closer, hooking an arm around Shane’s shoulders and drawing him into his side. His hand moved slowly over Shane’s upper arm once he had him there, thumb rubbing absently through the fabric of his shirt.

“Something will give,” he said. “People cannot be this stupid forever.”

“You say that, but—”

“And until then…” Ilya interrupted gently. He looked at Shane expectantly, prompting him to finish the thought as though the rest should have been obvious. And, annoyingly, it was.

Whatever happened next, none of it changed this. He had Ilya; Ilya was his, and he was had in return. They had their parents, their friends, their godchildren, everyone in their lives who actually mattered. In another couple of months there would be hockey again, and they’d be back to kicking the shit out of each other on opposite ends of the ice. This wouldn't change that.

“Until then, we’re okay,” Shane finished.

Ilya smiled. “We’re okay,” he echoed.

Maybe it was his smile, or the quiet certainty with which Ilya had said it. Whatever it was, his husband suddenly looked irresistibly kissable, and who the hell was Shane to resist that?

He leaned forward and pressed what was meant to be a chaste kiss to his lips, but Ilya’s hand slid from his shoulder to the side of his neck and kept him there a second longer. Shane didn’t even consider fighting the hold. He leaned into it instead, letting the kiss linger until the knot that'd been sitting beneath his ribs for God-knows how long finally eased a little.

When they parted, Shane rested his forehead against Ilya’s.

“It still fucking sucks,” he murmured.

“Yes, very much so.”

They stayed like that until footsteps sounded from the hallway.

Hayden came back into the room with his phone still in his hand. “All right. Sorry about that.” He dropped back into his chair, then seemed to remember something. “Oh! Before I forget—do you guys want to stay for dinner? Jacks has been testing this new recipe that I think you’ll like, Shane.”

Shane glanced at Ilya. “Yeah,” he answered for them. “That sounds great.”

“Awesome.” Hayden settled back into his chair. “Now, where were we?”

And just like that, they went back to talking shit, entirely unaware that the FanMail video Hayden had just sent off was already making its way onto Twitter—and that people were beginning to lose their minds over a certain something they could see in the background...

♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡

Brad Conrad
@brad-conrad11235813

wtf?? why are hollander and rozanov kissing in my video???

7:38 PM · July 30, 2017

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mavricc7 @mavricc7 · July 30, 2017 Replying to @brad-conrad11235813

Oh… oh my god

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viridian_casxx @viridian_casxx · July 30, 2017 Replying to @brad-conrad11235813

Oh fuckk. Oh shit, guys

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lauren_xo @lauren_xo · July 30, 2017 Replying to @brad-conrad11235813

Is it too soon to say…. hot 🫣🌶️

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vestayekta @vestayekta · July 30, 2017 Replying to @lauren_xo

Girl 💀💀 yes

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valimee77 @valimee77 · July 30, 2017 Replying to @brad-conrad11235813

Guys we fucked upppp, guys holy shit!! Quick, we’ve gotta uncancel them omggg fuckkk

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Chapter End Notes

Hello hello :))

It has been a very crazy month, let me tell you. Even though this update took a month, it feels like I’ve been writing nonstop since August 😅 Some of you subscribed to my profile will know I took a minor detour this month and wrote a one-shot about Ilya getting a Ph.D., and the response has been so overwhelmingly positive 😖😖 So, if you like smart!Ilya, I will shamelessly add a link at the end of this note :))

I swear this chapter was actually complete a week ago, but while prepping it for posting, I realized the characterization was completely off and had to overhaul the whole thing 😖😖😖 Regarding Montreal: some of you probably will notice I didn’t write their reactions. If I’m being honest... I didn’t want to. my!Montreal are not reacting well and are about to make a decision we will see the consequences of next chapter, but I didn’t want to spend the mental energy writing a group chat full of homophobic bullshit. To those worried: this is a 100% happy fic. Montreal is about to make one (1) decision they immediately regret and get their karma for, and it will ultimately be much better for Shane and Ilya.

Last thing: we have reached the last chapter of the fic. I briefly thought I might split this one into two, but it ended up staying as one. So the next chapter is the end. I don’t currently have plans for a sequel or follow-up, as this was already 100k longer than I expected.... That said, I am at a minor crossroads. My original intention for the ending was for Shane and Ilya to end up in Ottawa, but I have also grown very fond of my Bears. So... if you feel strongly either way, comment 🐎 for the Centaurs or 🐻 for the Bears (or both... if you are also split like I am). This will only change a handful of paragraphs in the final chapter, so nothing major, but I am curious on what others think :))

Thank you all so much for your patience. I was so worried about switching from a weekly to a monthly update schedule, but you all truly have been so sweet. All my love, always, to everyone here, in all capacities 💞

'Thats Dr. Ilya Rozanov-Hollander to you'

Afterword

End Notes

Hello! I’m a long-time AO3 lurker and usually more of a fanartist, but this idea sank its teeth into me and refused to let go.

I don’t have a beta, so any mistakes are my own. Since I’m not usually a writer, I’m mostly hoping this is easy to follow and that the jokes land the way I wanted them to.

Constructive criticism is appreciated, especially on character voice/personality!

Very inspired by:
re:hi by fleezerweezer
frequently, secretly fond of each other by milominderbinder
there is no heart for me like yours by profdanglais
so it's gonna be forever by Lila_Mac
Who Do You Love by dabforpalermo
(There is another fic I know/read where the boys try to come out and are thwarted by a comedy of errors but I can't remember the name)
you could never lose me by virtual_typewriter (Ch 11 where Shane talks to Rose in the gym was specifically inspired by this fic)
quantum mechanics by prettyshadow (theaujasmin) (the smut in ch 14 was heavily inspired by this series, and it it one of my favorite kinky hollanov oneshots)

+ the myriad of social media/coming out fics in this fandom ❤️

Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!

Preface

I’ll Believe in Anything (Except That)

Chapter 1: Divergence

Chapter 2: Canada

Lily

Today, 5:39 AM

Today, 5:39 AM

Today, 6:14 AM

Today, 6:38 AM

Today, 1:38 PM

Today, 2:56 PM

Today, 11:38 PM

Chapter 3: A Monk in Boston

Jane

Today, 2:18 AM

Jane

Today, 4:26 PM

Jane

Today, 10:12 PM

Chapter 4: Loverboy

Jane

Today, 9:21 PM

Jane

Today, 3:56 PM

Chapter 5: Terms and Conditions (May Apply)

Lily

Today, 4:21 PM

Hayden Pike (Montreal Metros)

Today, 7:51 PM

Lily

Today, 8:32 PM

Today, 8:46 PM

Today, 11:36 PM

Shane

Today, 6:38 PM

Alexei

Today, 5:03 AM

Jane 🥵🍑🔥

Today, 5:56 AM

Chapter 6: The Spirit of Christmas Is Competition

⋆˚✨Sveta🍒⋆˚

Today, 8:09 PM

Chapter 7: The Consolation Prize

Chapter 8: Bridges

Lily

Today, 10:32 PM

Lily

Missed Call, 9:53 PM

Today, 9:55 PM

Missed Call, 6:33 AM

Today, 6:34 AM

Missed Call, 10:42 AM

Today, 10:47 AM

Missed Call (2), 1:56 PM

Missed Call, 2:27 PM

Today, 2:27 PM

Missed Call (2), 3:04 PM

Chapter 9: Contention

Chapter 10: To the Edge of the World

⋆˚✨Sveta🍒⋆˚

March 3rd, 4:21 AM

Cliff Marleau

Today, 10:03 PM

Today, 10:16 PM

Today, 10:43 PM

Chapter 11: A Rose by Any Other Name

Today, 8:18 PM

Lily

Today, 8:09 PM

Unknown

Today, 11:32 PM

Lily

Today, 12:45 PM

Rose Landry

Yesterday, 11:32 PM

Today, 12:52 PM

Mom and Dad

Today, 1:09 PM

Mom

Today, 6:08 AM