Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Connors (Heated Rivalry), Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Original Characters, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hockey Player Ilya Rozanov, Personal Trainer Shane Hollander, Idiots in Love, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Happily Ever After, Soft Dom Ilya Rozanov, Autistic Shane Hollander, Whump, Medical Inaccuracies, Hockey Injuries, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Rimming, Cowboy Shane Hollander, they're so in love its disgusting, Anxious Shane Hollander, Protective Ilya Rozanov, A Lot of Hockey, probably some inaccuracies there too, thank you for your service reddit, Domestic Fluff, ilya's family doesn't really exist in this universe, good riddance amirite, Protective Shane Hollander, idk guys ill add more tags when I think of them, Rough Oral Sex, Light BDSM, Breathplay

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of the whump series

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-19 Completed: 2026-08-04 Words: 68,627 Chapters: 4/4

what might have been lost

Summary

shane has spent his whole life learning to watch closely—from the ice, from a hospital bed, and now from the bench of the boston bears, where observation is his entire job.

until one day, someone started watching him back, and changed everything.

the final installment of the whump series, set six years later.

Notes

hello again friends

I honestly didn't expect to write more in this universe but this story has completely swallowed me whole and im so excited to share this final installment. and then I need released from these chains.

minor technical note: if u remember the podcast epilogue bit in the last part, this is set around then, mostly not til part two. when they reference the trainer and stanley cup thing, that is actually from shane's clinical rotation season--before he was brought on as full time staff. just dont think too hard about it, when I wrote that epilogue I didn't expect to write this story so I had to loosely work around some of it. none of it matters though.

as always, huge shoutout to the loml, pointerbrother, who worked so hard beta'ing this for me and making it spicier and brainstorming with me at all hours of the night as we figured out the plot. if you've never read any of her fics, I strongly suggest u go check out her collection of works, she is in an absolute phenomenal writer and inspiration to me.

alright thats all for now. part two will come soon. :)

Chapter 1: part one

The hit came late in the third and Ilya didn't get up.

In all the years of watching him play, whether from a hospital bed or rinkside, Shane had seen Ilya take hits that would have ended other men's seasons and be back on his feet before the whistle blew. It was one of the things that made him Ilya fucking Rozanov; that stubborn refusal, the absolute physical certainty, the way his body just kept going.

This time he wasn't getting up.

Shane was over the boards before the play even came to a complete stop.

He got to him at the same time as the referee, dropping his medical bag as he crouched down, the ice cold through his knees. Ilya's helmet had come off somewhere in the fall, lying a few feet away with a crack running clean across the shell, and Shane's stomach turned over when he glanced at it. Ilya was on his side, and his eyes were open, but wrong—that half second delay and blankness that the brain papered over immediately—but not quickly enough. 

Shane had read about it in textbooks. He'd never seen it on Ilya's face.

"Hey." He put his hand on Ilya's jaw, tilting his chin. "Look at me."

Ilya's eyes found him, his pupils dilated. "I'm fine."

"You blacked out," Shane said.

"I did not—"

"Three seconds," Marlow said from somewhere behind Shane. "Maybe four."

Ilya's jaw tightened. He looked at Marlow, then back at Shane.

"I'm fine," he said again, trying to get up.

The thing about Ilya saying 'I'm fine' was that he always meant it. Even when he was wrong, he meant it with his whole chest.

Which was exactly the problem.

"Don't move," Shane said.

"I can—"

"Don't fucking move, Rozanov."

Shane did a quick check—neck, spine, asking Ilya to squeeze his hands, watching his eyes. Nothing structurally wrong. Just the delay, the thing that had nothing to do with bones and everything to do with what was happening inside his skull.

He glanced up once toward the bench, where Parker stood at the gate beside the EMS crew, spinal board in hand, waiting on a signal that wasn't going to come unless Shane gave it. He looked back down at Ilya.

"Okay," Shane said, more to himself than Ilya. "Okay. Can you get up if I help you?"

Ilya's eyes focused enough to shoot Shane a furious look. "I have been able to get up this whole time—"

"Then let's go."

It took almost two minutes to get him off the ice. Shane was aware of the crowd and the clock and Coach watching from the bench, but he couldn't focus on any of that right now. Now the only thing that mattered was Ilya's weight against his side and the look in his eyes, and Shane's hand at his back keeping them both moving forward.

They passed all the concerned and curious eyes watching them as Shane sat him down on a bench in the tunnel, away from the rest of the team, and pulled out his tablet. 

He knew by the second question.

The pause before third period was small. The pause before Ilya could place one of his linemates was longer. The eye tracking was off by just enough—a half beat, easily missed if you didn't know exactly what you were looking for. Shane knew exactly what he was looking for. 

He knew Ilya's baseline like he knew everything about Ilya; so completely and without effort that it had stopped feeling significant a long time ago. Right now, it felt like the most significant thing in the world.

He looked up from the tablet and Ilya was watching him with that look, the one that meant he knew and had already decided against whatever Shane was about to say.

He was eleven seconds off his baseline. Shane had never seen him more than three.

"No," Ilya said, already trying to stand.

Shane put a firm hand on his shoulder. "You're not passing."

"I am fine." He easily brushed off Shane's hand and stood up, all six-three feet of him, a head taller than Shane in his gear. "There are three minutes left in game. Now move."

"You couldn't place Anderson." Shane blocked Ilya from walking past him.

"I placed him."

"After four seconds—"

"Because you were rushing me!" Ilya shouted, his accent thick.

"I was not rushing you," Shane hissed, glancing around and seeing Parker at the end of the corridor watching them carefully, "that is just how long it took and you know it."

"I know that I am fine and I know that there are three minutes left and I know—"

"You know nothing right now."

Ilya's eyes went hard, glaring down at Shane. "Fucking say that again, Hollander."

Shane ground his teeth together, raising the tablet to wave it in front of Ilya's face, "These are your numbers. Your baseline. Look at the fucking gap."

Ilya didn't look at the tablet. Instead, he looked at Shane and gritted out, "Send me back out."

"No."

"Shane—"

"No."

Something shifted in Ilya's face, several emotions flashing through his eyes, ones that Shane wasn't used to being on the receiving end of. Slowly, he lowered his voice, and said in Russian: "You saw me go down and now you cannot separate what you feel from your own fear—"

"Don't." Shane's voice came out very quiet, knuckles going white around the edge of the tablet. He was too stressed to respond in Ilya's language, so he stayed in English. "Don't you fucking dare do that."

Ilya's brows raised to his hairline, where his sweaty curls were matted against his forehead. "Am I wrong?"

He wasn't entirely wrong. Shane had felt something tear open in his chest the moment Ilya didn't get up and it still hadn't fully closed up. But that wasn't why. That wasn't the reason and he needed Ilya to understand that, even if part of him understood why Ilya couldn't right now.

"This isn't about me," Shane said.

"I am standing right here telling you I am fine."

"And your numbers—" 

"Fuck the numbers!" Ilya's voice filled the tunnel, despite the noise of the arena getting restless and angry. The refs were undoubtedly trying to negotiate if the hit deserved a penalty or not. Right then, Shane caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and glanced to see their equipment manager hovering nearby with a new helmet in his hands.

"I have played in this league for seven fucking years," Ilya leaned in, back to Russian. Shane braced himself, knowing he only switched like that when he didn't want anyone else to hear. "You have been doing this job for nine months, do not stand here and tell me what I do not know."

All the noise moved to static in Shane's ears as he felt the blood rush from his face. For a second, he didn't move or say anything. He just stood there with the tablet in his hands and let the words find the places they were designed for, perfect fists nestling into his sore spots. 

"Right," he said finally, very quietly. "Okay."

"Shane—"

"Your helmet cracked. Clean across the shell. So don't tell me you're fine, because I have less experience than you, when we both know you have a concussion."

The hardness in Ilya's expression faltered, just barely.

"You're out." Shane's voice was completely even, drawing out every ounce of strength to keep this professional. "That's my call and I'm making it. You can be angry about it, but you're not going back on the ice. I won't let you."

Something broke open in Ilya's face, cold and unfamiliar, nothing like him at all. 

"Then maybe," he said, leaning close so only Shane could hear, "you should not be here."

__

Eight months earlier 

"That's a penalty." 

"Where is referee?"

"I'm the referee."

"You," Ilya said, arm across Shane's chest from behind, mouth close enough that his breath was warm against Shane's ear in the cold air, "are many things. But right now you are a man who has not touched this puck in many minutes. This is what you are right now."

"I'm letting you think you have it."

Ilya's arm tightened. His lips brushed the shell of Shane's ear, barely anything. "Very generous."

Shane drove his elbow back, felt Ilya absorb it and used the half second to spin out and take the puck and he was gone before Ilya had processed what happened.

The blades behind him changed, that shift from lazy to actually trying, and Shane went faster, cutting wide along the boards, the ice reading under him how it always had. No pads or helmet, just skates and muscle memory. 

His wrist snapped and the puck left his blade and he heard the satisfying ring of it hitting the post on the way in. He turned around just in time to see the disgruntled look on Ilya's face before he masked it. 

"Lucky," Ilya tapped his stick against the ice, like some kind of half assed applause before he went after the puck to bring it back.

"Which part?" Shane smirked, reaching up and pulling his backwards hat off briefly to run a hand through his hair, just because he knew it drove Ilya crazy and he was in the mood to drive Ilya crazy. "The backhand or the top shelf goal?"

Ilya's eyes darkened, fixed on Shane for half a beat while they both caught their breath, that crooked grin forming slowly. 

They drifted toward each other like they always did, and without all the gear between them, it was just Ilya's hand finding the front of his sports jacket, knuckles against his chest, and pulling. Shane went willingly. 

"I am going easy on you, Hollander."

"If you spent half as much time skating as you do…" Ilya's hand moved up and cupped Shane's jaw, tilting his head back as his long fingers traced along his cheek, "staring at me—"

Ilya's eyes were on Shane's mouth.

"—you might have caught me," Shane finished, a little more breathlessly than he'd hoped.

"I caught you now," Ilya murmured, thumb pressing slowly near Shane's parted lips. 

"Did you?" Shane's grip tightened on his stick, knuckles turning white. It was a struggle to keep his eyes from closing, to not lean in, but instead he licked his lip just to watch Ilya's eyes burn.

Shane felt the exact moment Ilya's focus narrowed to one thing—

And used it.

His free hand found Ilya's wrist and yanked it back, and in the same motion he dropped his shoulder and took the puck clean off Ilya's blade and out of his reach before Ilya had registered that anything had happened at all.

"Come and get me, Rozanov," Shane taunted, glancing over his shoulder, and then he was gone.

He heard Ilya behind him and went faster, his blades carving into the ice. He cut inside at the circle and put the puck in the exact same spot as before.

Shane spun around, stick above his head in victory, a shit-eating grin taking over his face.

Ilya had stopped at the blue line, just standing there with his stick at his side and his chest heaving and his eyes bright and hair everywhere, looking at Shane with an expression that shouldn't be allowed outside their bedroom.

Shane skated toward him slowly.

"You are showing off."

"Maybe," Shane said, unable to wipe the smile off his face. "I thought you liked it when I show off for you?"

Shane was close now, too close probably, but the ice was empty and the lights were humming and Ilya was looking at him like that and Shane had always had a problem with Ilya looking at him like that. Especially in a rink, something about the cold air and how sound carried and Ilya's cheeks going pink.

"You are very annoying."

"Am I?" Shane bit his lip, looking up through his lashes.

Ilya just shook his head and then his mouth was on Shane's and there was nothing slow or patient about it, tension unleashed with nowhere to go between the tight press of their bodies. It wasn't a competition, it was forfeit on both ends, but who the fuck was Shane kidding? Everything was always a competition with them. Who could press harder, who could get their tongue in first, who could make the other make a sound they hadn't planned on making. Shane fucking loved this game.

And just as Ilya's hand found the back of Shane's neck and pulled him in harder, a wolf whistle cut through the air followed immediately by loud hooting that bounced off every surface.

They broke apart.

Cliff Marlow walked out onto the ice with Connors right behind him, hands wrapped around a coffee cup and grinning stupidly at the both of them. 

At thirty-one years old, Marlow had been a Bear for over ten, which practically made him an institution at this point. He was abrasive and loud, like he'd never once been told to quiet down and had therefore never learned to. Shane had figured out years ago that underneath all of it, he was one of the most genuinely decent people he'd ever met.

"Captain," he boomed, tipping his cup accusingly towards Ilya. "Are you fraternizing with the staff?"

From the outside it probably just looked like what it looked like; Shane was close with Rozanov the way staff sometimes got close with players, how proximity and time made certain people inevitable to each other. 

From the inside, anyone who had been around long enough knew they shared an apartment and a history and that both of those things were nobody's business but theirs. 

Marlow and Connors were a different story entirely.

They'd known Shane before the staff badge, before the degree—back when he was just the quiet Freshman at Boston University who showed up to games and clearly meant something to Ilya without anyone saying so out loud. Even the Summer before that. It had evolved how these things did, gradually and without ceremony, until somewhere along the way it had just become a fact. 

Ilya grinned slowly, glancing at Shane with a wink. "Sorry, Marly, hippo laws, I can not say what happens between me and Hollander."

"That's not—never mind." Shane shook his head and turned towards Marlow. "You guys all ready to go?"

"Bus leaves in ten, Rook," Marlow said around a yawn that could have swallowed a small animal.

Shane rolled his eyes at the nickname. He'd been rolling his eyes at it since his first official week on staff last month, when it had materialized out of nowhere in the training room and spread like a virus, at pandemic speed. 

They filtered out together, pausing at the boards long enough to swap skates for shoes and grab carry-on bags—and then they were moving, the ice giving way to rubber flooring and then tile. The facility got louder as they went. Voices carried from the locker room, someone's music bled through a closed door, and underneath all of it was the charged, restless energy of a team about to fly out for their first matchup of the season against Montreal.

"You nervous?" Marlow asked Shane, out of nowhere, as the four of them walked down the long corridor towards the exit.

Shane looked at him confused. "About what?"

"Montreal." Marlow shrugged, chucking his empty cup into a trash can as they passed by. "First time on the bench there."

"It's not my first time and I'm not nervous."

"It's a lot," Marlow kept going, as if he didn't even hear Shane. "First time I played there I couldn't hear myself think."

"I've been to Montreal games before."

"Not like this you haven't." Marlow shoulder checked him, looking down with a smirk. "You'll see."

"He will be fine," Ilya said, from beside Shane, in a tone that closed the subject without making a thing of it. Shane briefly glanced at him and got a soft smile in return, their knuckles brushing together. 

They pushed through the doors into the chilly October air. A couple of photographers were stationed near the bus, cameras already up and snapping away. Shane kept his hands in his pockets and his expression neutral while Ilya paused to take selfies with the handful of fans that had shown up to see them off. 

The bus was idling, most of the guys already climbing in. Shane followed up the steps, nodded at Parker who looked up briefly from his phone when he entered, and took a seat near the front. He felt Ilya drop into the seat next to him a minute later.

"Their third line has been unreal lately," Marlow said, taking a seat in the row across from them. "That Gonzales kid—"

"Twenty years old," Ilya rolled his neck a few times. "Very fast."

"Fast and smart," Marlow added, "fucking annoying combination. Just like Rook when he's beating you at one-on-ones."

Shane blushed, reaching up to turn his ball cap around and down.

"Go fuck yourself, Marly," Ilya said simply.

Now Connors was plopping down next to Marlow, eyeing Shane and asking, "You watch Montreal's game on Sunday?"

"Yeah," Shane nodded. "Of course."

"They laid the Rangers out on their asses," Marlow said, resting his head back and closing his eyes.

"Everyone lays Rangers on asses," Ilya huffed. 

Shane knew he didn't love this kind of chatter before games, claiming it to be bad luck despite swearing he wasn't superstitious. Which was already bold, actually, coming from the guy who had once refused to let the team take their usual route to the ice because a rack of sticks had collapsed in the tunnel and Ilya had decided, with utter certainty, that this was a bad omen.

Shane's phone buzzed in his pocket and he lifted his hip to pull it out, swiping the screen open.

Mom: Section 112, row F! We found a tapas place nearby called Olive, reservation is at 10, we'll meet you there. Love you both! 🖤💛

Shane read it once and tilted the screen toward Ilya, who was already looking over his shoulder.

Whatever had been tight in Ilya's jaw released, and he softened in a way he rarely did in public; that warmth that Shane recognized as something reserved for a very small number of things in Ilya's life. His eyes stayed on the screen a second longer than necessary.

Then Marlow said something and the moment folded back into the noise of the bus and Shane quickly hearted the message before pocketing his phone, reaching into his bag for his tablet instead.

"And we haven't won on their ice in two seasons."

"Watch out for their defenseman, Boiziau," Shane said nonchalantly, just to add to the discourse as he powered his tablet on. "He's been pulling back on his right side for the last three games. Still finishing hits but something's off. Wrist, maybe. Which means he's compensating and leading with his left. Anyone going into the corner with him tonight needs to know that."

Everything went quiet as the bus lurched forward, slowly pulling out of the parking lot. Shane glanced up to find all three of them staring at him.

"What?" he asked, glancing at Ilya, who was already smirking. Shane knew that smirk.

"You watched a guy's hand," Marlow said slowly, "in three games that had nothing to do with us? Is that even in your job description?"

"I watch all the tape," Shane frowned, looking back down at his tablet and swiping through the apps until he pulled up the footage he'd flagged. He found the clip and turned the screen towards the guys. "See?"

Marlow stared at the screen for a long moment. Then he turned and leaned into the aisle, cupping his hands around his mouth and yelling out over the ruckus of the bus, "Parker!"

Shane couldn't see him, but he heard Parker call back warily, "What, Marlow?"

"Hollander's going to force you into early retirement!"

"Why do you think I hired him, dumbass?"

Shane's face felt hot as he looked at Ilya, who was doing absolutely nothing to hide how pleased he was about all of this. Ilya shifted just enough to press his leg against Shane's, and left it there.

__

Marlow was right. The Bell Centre was louder than he'd mentally prepared for.

He'd been to loud arenas. He'd grown up in them, spent his adolescence in rinks that smelled like cold sweat and adrenaline. He'd been here last season too, during his immersive clinical rotation—same bench, same noise, but standing half a step behind Parker like a shadow. This was different. Now he was making calls alongside Parker instead of deferring them.

Nearly eight-hundred thousand square feet of pure hockey religion, a crowd that didn't just cheer but participated, that created pressure you could feel in your sternum. The French chanting, the air horns, how it built and built and never quite released—Shane had been standing at the bench for six minutes and already understood why Marlow had said you'll see.

But none of the noise mattered, Shane kept his eyes glued to the ice because that was his job. His eyes were on the guys. Tracking every shift, every hit, every moment someone came off the ice looking slightly different than when they'd gone on.

St-Simon came off after a hard hit along the boards and Shane was already moving before he'd fully cleared the gate, hand on his shoulder and scanning his face.

"Ça va?" Shane asked.

"Ouais." St-Simon said quickly in rushed French, barely glancing at him with eyes still on the ice. "Ouais, ça va."

By the second period the game had turned into exactly the dogfight a Bears-Montreal matchup always became, regardless of what month it was or where either team sat in the standings. One goal apiece, both benches chippy. There was less than two minutes left when the whistle cut through the building and the bench erupted all at once.

Shane pulled his eyes up to the play—the Voyageurs' left winger, Pike, was down on the ice, one arm clutched across his chest, and one of the Bears was standing over him with both hands raised like a white flag. The ref's arm was up.

Considering the sound erupting to Shane's right, you'd think it was a war crime.

Ilya was at the boards immediately, both hands gripping the top, leaning over them as far as LeClaire's patience would allow.

"Oh, come on—" he shouted, followed by a string of Russian profanity. If Montreal was known for its theatrics, Boston was known for its hot heads. 

The crowd was already going, feeding off the call, and Ilya's voice rose to meet all of it.

"You see this? Same ice, yes? Same game?" A burst of rapidfire Russian, and then back to English because apparently one language wasn't covering it: "Nobody fucking touched him—Pike has been falling down since beginning of time, I have seen it many times, very committed to the bit—"

Shane crossed his arms, drawing a hand up over his mouth to try to mask the smile that was threatening to crack his face. 

"—maybe we give him award for this, yes? Most Dedicated. Very impressive career in the falling down—"

"Rozanov," LeClaire warned from behind them, and Shane worked extremely hard on not reacting, keeping his eyes fixed on the ice as their guy got escorted to the penalty box.

"Are your eyes working?" Ilya kept harassing the poor referee, voice going hoarse, "I am genuinely asking, maybe we get them checked, yes? I know very good trainer, he is standing right here—" he pointed directly at Shane without looking at him, "—he will tell you what is wrong with you."

Shane cleared his throat but he heard a few guys laughing under their breaths. The ref skated past without breaking stride, pointing a finger at Ilya, "I'll slap you with unsportsmanlike if you don't shut up, Rozanov."

"Oh, so now you want to slap me—"

"Rozanov." LeClaire said again, this time with a final tone even Ilya knew not to push. 

Ilya looked at Coach for a beat, his jaw flexing. Then he released the boards and dropped back onto the bench—but his eyes caught Shane's on the way down, just for a second, and he winked before looking away.

"I don't know how you put up with that," Parker muttered under his breath next to Shane. 

Shane glanced at his boss, and saw the corner of his mouth twitching. "To be fair, it did look like Pike was just trying to milk out a penalty."

"Roz's mouth is going to get a few penalties."

The last thing Shane needed to be thinking about was Roz's mouth. Or what it'd be getting later.

In the lull after the whistle, Shane's eyes drifted to section 112. It wasn't hard to spot them-- two specks of black and yellow in an ocean of red. He could only imagine what his mom was saying about Ilya's little tantrum that had been caught on the jumbotron. But he didn't have time for more than that and pulled his eyes back to the ice.

It was the end of the third when Hammersmith came off and Ilya went over the boards, and the crowd's booing swelled the moment his skates hit the ice—twenty thousand people who had not forgiven him for existing. 

Hammersmith was holding out his wrist without being asked, the tape job from warmups coming loose at the edge. Shane pulled a fresh strip and got to work.

"You're favoring your right skate," Shane said quietly, so no one else could hear.

Hammersmith frowned. "What?"

"You've been pushing off harder on the left all period."

"That's just how I skate."

"No, it's not." Shane smoothed the tape down with his thumb. "Blister or something else?"

A pause. "…blister."

"Why didn't you say something before warmups?"

"It's a blister, Rook, not a medical event."

"Come find me later," Shane said, then let him go.

He'd barely turned around when the sound hit—hands slapping the glass, the warning roar that something had escalated in the corner. Bodies were tangled along the boards, and then gloves were flying off and Pike got a punch in clean before anyone could separate them. Shane picked Ilya out just as his head rocked back, blood already running down over his mouth.

"Jesus Christ," Shane muttered under his breath.

"He's your problem," Parker chuckled from beside him before moving down the line. 

Pike was pointed toward the box while Ilya skated off the ice under his own power. There was blood smeared across his lip, dripping onto his jersey, and the fucker was grinning the whole way back to the bench.

"Sit," Shane ordered, gripping the front of his jersey and roughly guiding Ilya off to the side.

Ilya sat, tipping his head back automatically, the motion reflexive after years of this. Shane checked the bridge of his nose with two fingers. It wasn't broken, just bleeding profusely, which always looked worse than it was.

"So, how is your night?" Ilya asked pleasantly as Shane pressed gauze against his nose.

"Don't talk."

The equipment manager appeared with a clean jersey, and Ilya lifted his arms without being asked. Shane helped work the fresh jersey down over Ilya's head and tilted his chin back up gently when it dropped to track the play happening.

"Hold still."

"I am being very good." Ilya looked up at him through his lashes, blood drying at the corner of his mouth, his bright blue eyes doing the thing they always did to the butterflies in Shane's stomach. "You should reward me."

Shane pressed the gauze harder than necessary.

__ 

The arena had emptied fast once the final horn sounded—players showered, dressed, and gone within the hour. Outside, the streets were loud with Montreal fans celebrating their first win against their oldest rivals, scarves and jerseys spilling toward the bars in the cold.

Shane hadn't bothered changing, still in his polo and khakis, badge clipped at his hip, the whole day lingering on him. Ilya's curls were still damp under a toque he'd pulled on as soon as he was done with press interviews. He was in the dark suit, black shirt unbuttoned one button more than professional demanded, his chain catching the streetlight every time he turned his head.

They walked toward the address Shane's mom had sent, quickly talking over the game's highlights, hands buried deep in their pockets to keep from doing anything else. It was a habit that had gotten harder to break since summer, when keeping a careful distance in public had started feeling less like discipline and more like deprivation.

"That save in the third," Ilya said, looking both ways before they crossed the street. "I thought for sure was going in."

"They've been rolling their backup more than usual. He's been better than I expected."

The restaurant was small and dim, tucked two blocks off the main strip, and the outside noise died away the second the door shut behind them.

His parents had a table near the back, away from the windows. His mom was on her feet before either of them had fully cleared the doorway, crossing to meet them. She pulled Shane into a hug first, holding tight for a long beat before pulling back just enough to take his face in both hands.

"There you are." Her eyes did a quick pass over him, checking the way mothers did, his maybe more than others. "Hi honey. I've missed you so much."

Shane resisted rolling his eyes at how dramatic this greeting was turning, as if they hadn't spent three weeks in Ottawa just a couple of months ago. "Hi, Mom."

"You get more handsome every time we see you." Her thumb brushed his cheekbone before tugging lightly at a strand of hair near the nape of his neck. "This is getting too long though. You need a haircut."

"Ah, no," Ilya immediately protested from behind Shane. "Absolutely not."

His mom's attention shifted to Ilya at once, her whole face changing, and she let go of Shane to pull Ilya into the same kind of hug, holding on just as long.

"Hi, sweetheart," she said, muffled against his shoulder.

His dad was up by then, and he clapped a hand on Shane's shoulder and pulled him in for a shorter, firmer hug. "Good game, son." 

"We lost."

"You looked good," his dad corrected, then nodded towards Ilya, "not so much this one."

"David," Ilya rested a hand against his heart, "I am hurt."

His dad laughed and reached out to shake Ilya's hand, which turned into the same half hug it always did, because his dad didn't believe in handshakes when a hug was available.

"Tough loss."

"Tough loss." Ilya agreed, already sliding into the booth.

They all settled in—Shane next to Ilya, his parents across from them, the small table just barely fitting all four of them and their elbows. Instantly, Shane felt the warmth of Ilya's leg pressing against his and a hand sliding onto his thigh, like he'd been waiting all day to finally have the chance to touch Shane. If so, he wasn't alone.

"How's your nose?" his mom asked, looking at Ilya.

Shane's eyes went to Ilya's face on instinct. He looked unfairly good in the restaurant's low light, the candle catching gold in his lashes, full mouth curving up into a sly smile. He touched the bridge of his nose, testing it, then reached up and pulled the toque off while he was at it, curls falling unbearably well around his face.

"Not broken," he said, the hand on Shane's thigh squeezing gently. 

"I never see Pike play like that." His mom clicked her tongue, reaching for a menu. "You seem to bring out his worst side."

"Yes," Ilya said, no hint of shame whatsoever.

Shane rolled his eyes as he opened his own menu. "He antagonizes him."

"Sorry." Ilya pursed his lips. "I do not know this word."

"Please, your English is practically better than mine at this point." Shane nudged his knee against Ilya's under the table. "You don't get to play that card at this table."

Ilya squeezed his thigh again, this time digging his fingers in harder, little crescent shaped moons pressing in. When Shane met his eye, Ilya cocked an eyebrow and said, "Eto luchshe, chem tvoy russkiy, moya milaya malen'kaya shlyushka?"

Shane blushed furiously, cutting his gaze away before laserfocusing it back on his menu.

"Oh boys, I hate it when you do that," his mom chided over the rim of her glasses, "what did you say?"

"Ah, I am testing him," Ilya grinned, "what did I say, Shane?"

Moving his hand to Ilya's, Shane dug his own fingernails in and looked at his mom, keeping a straight face, "He just said he was really excited about trying the lobster dip."

"Oh, me too," his dad chimed in, not looking up from his menu, "It has good reviews on Yelp."

Mercifully, the waiter appeared right then, and the table turned toward ordering for a minute. His dad scanned the wine list and asked the waiter a specific question about a vintage, ordering without hesitation once he had his answer.

"So," his mom said, once everyone had their wine and could finally settle into the evening, "how has it been, your first official season? No one's giving you a hard time, are they?"

"Besides Ilya?"

"Hey." Ilya spread out further along the booth, swirling his wine glass, which looked comically delicate in his hand. "I do not give you a hard time."

"You're a full-time hard time." Shane looked at his parents. "The other day he came up to the training room so I could put a band-aid on his pinky."

Ilya looked affronted, spreading his arms out. "Is your job, no?"

"It is not my job to bandage your pinky, Ilya."

"It is exactly your job. You are athletic trainer. I had injury."

"It was a paper cut."

"Was bleeding."

"It bled for two seconds."

His mom was already laughing into her wine glass and his dad looked between them with a resigned expression.

"He's very brave," his mom said solemnly, to Shane.

"Thank you, Yuna," Ilya said, completely sincere.

"So," his dad said, directed at Shane, "are you going on the road with the team all season?"

"Parker and I will trade off." Shane took a sip of his water. "We've got a couple of guys on IR we need someone home for, so we'll tag-team it."

"If I have say," Ilya cut in, "Shane is on every road trip."

Shane gave him a look. "And that's exactly why you don't get a say. I don't want anyone thinking I get special treatment because of you."

"You are better than Parker."

"That's a biased opinion."

"It is everyone's opinion. Ask Marlow."

"Marlow's biased too."

His mom set her wine glass down. "Does the whole team know?" She paused, then gestured between them. "About you two?"

Shane shifted uncomfortably in the booth, glancing at Ilya who was staring intently at him. He cleared his throat.

"Yeah, for the most part. It's kind of an unspoken rule not to talk about it, since we don't want the public to know."

Something moved across Ilya's face—quick, then gone, replaced by the careful neutral expression Shane had learned to recognize over the years. He used to think it meant nothing was wrong. He knew better now. It was the same face Ilya wore right before he said something was fine when it wasn't.

Maybe it wasn't really about the public part at all. Maybe it was something closer to being managed—protected, the same way his body got protected on the bench, the same way his sport had always decided certain things about him needed handling rather than just letting him be. Shane was good at protecting people. It was practically his whole job. He wondered, watching Ilya's jaw set, if being protected by the person he loved felt any different than being protected by everyone else.

They'd talked about this before the season started—how much they wanted people to know, or in their case, how little. Shane had assumed they were aligned on it. Ilya had always kept his personal life locked down, long before Shane existed in it. His own family in Russia—or what was left of it—still didn't know about him and Shane. Didn't know about Shane at all.

Shane had always read that as caution. Now he wondered if it was closer to grief.

His mom was watching both of them now, her expression unreadable in the candlelight, the question apparently not as simple as she'd intended it to be.

"No one cares," Ilya said, before taking a long swallow of wine, downing nearly half the glass in one go.

"I think more people would care than you think." Shane chuckled, trying to make it sound lighter than it felt, but there was a knot forming in his stomach. 

"Why?" Ilya challenged, setting the glass down louder than necessary.

"Because—" Shane glanced at his parents, who were watching the two of them closely now. "If word got out, other teams could use it."

Ilya stared at him for a beat, his jaw twitching. "Use it how?" 

Shane could feel heat rising up his neck, growing more and more uncomfortable, but he kept his voice steady and eyes focused on Ilya's. "They could say I'm not making objective calls about your health. That I'm clearing you when I shouldn't, or holding you back when I shouldn't, because I'm compromised. It would follow you. Every game, every injury, people wondering if the call was medical or personal."

Ilya said nothing, his blue eyes shifting across Shane's face as he spoke.

"And it would follow me too," Shane added, quieter. "Like I only got this job because of you. Like I didn't earn it."

Ilya looked like he had more to say, needed time and privacy and not a restaurant table with Shane's parents sitting two feet away. But then the waiter arrived with their plates and the moment got swallowed by the practical business of food being set down, napkins shifted, careful, that's hot offered in passing.

Shane picked up his fork and didn't look at Ilya, and Ilya didn't look at him either, and everything left unfinished sat idling, like the most difficult truths always seemed to.

__

It was nearly midnight by the time they were saying their goodbyes and climbing into an Uber back to the hotel. The rest of dinner had been fine, easy enough to coast through on lighter conversation. But Shane knew Ilya too well, and it wasn't hard to clock that he was still parked firmly in a bad mood.

Ilya wasn't exactly trying to hide it either.

"It was nice to see them," Shane said conversationally, eyes on the window.

"Yes."

"Did you like the calamari?"

"Yes."

"The crabcakes were kind of dry."

"Yes."

"Are you going to be mad at me all night?"

"Yes."

Ilya turned his head at the exact same moment as Shane, and their eyes met across the small dead space of the backseat between them.

"Probably a good thing my room isn't on the same floor as yours then," Shane added, low enough that their driver wouldn't be able to hear.

The streetlights kept sliding past outside, rhythmically lighting Ilya's face in flashes and then dropping it back into shadow, only to show the outline of his jaw, mouth, the curve of his throat as he swallowed. In the dark between the lights, Shane caught the change that crept into his expression, felt the hunger of it, familiar and a little dangerous.

"Guess I'll just have to entertain myself," he said when Ilya said nothing. He watched Ilya's nostrils flare, imperceptible if Shane hadn't been zeroed in on his mouth. "All night."

And that's how Shane found himself pinned to the inside of his hotel room door the second it was slammed shut. 

Ilya pressed his tongue into his mouth, reaching up to grip Shane's jaw and tilt it roughly, almost mean about it. Shane moaned, sliding his thigh in between Ilya's legs and rubbing against his growing erection. 

They had to be quiet, or at least pretend to try.

Shane knew of one way to stay quiet.

He slid down to his knees, glancing up at Ilya as his arms braced against the wall, his dark eyes watching keenly. Shane made quick work of his belt and dress pants, shoving them down just far enough to see his cock straining his briefs. 

Leaning forward, he kept his eyes on Ilya and mouthed at his cock through the fabric, feeling him getting harder under his tongue. They held eye contact the whole time, almost like a dare to see who would break first. 

Shane wrapped his lips around the head of his cock and sucked gently, watching Ilya's chest heave underneath the strain of his button down shirt. He hooked his fingers into Ilya's waistband and slowly inched his briefs down while changing the pressure until he could taste Ilya through the fabric. 

"Fuck, Hollander—" 

One of Ilya's hands left the wall to slide into Shane's hair, winding long strands tight around his fingers and shoved Shane's face harder into his own crotch.

Shane pulled back long enough to get his cock free, and the movement caused the tip to slap against his wet lips, his chin and cheek. He gripped the base and kept doing it, waiting for the moment that Ilya would snap from the teasing. 

When the tip of Ilya's cock caught on his bottom lip again, Ilya cursed and pushed his head forward in time with own hips, until his cock slid into the heat of Shane's mouth and forcefully hit the back of his throat. 

Shane sputtered around his thick cock as tears sprung to his eyes, Ilya going blurry above him, and opened his mouth wider to keep taking it. 

He loved it like this. When Ilya lost himself and got rough with it, fucked his face until his jaw ached, mind pliant and helpless. It had taken months back in the beginning to get here, months of trust being built carefully, but once they did, Shane had discovered it got him off just as much as it did Ilya.

Shane pulled back, took a breath and wiped at his eyes. Then he went still—mouth open, tongue out, waiting.

Ilya grunted something in Russian, and before Shane had a chance to even try to translate it, his cock was shoved back into his mouth and it was game on. 

Shane moaned around him as his eyes fell closed, letting Ilya set the pace—quick snaps of his hips, a tight fist in his hair, each thrust punching air out of Shane's lungs. His hands flew to Ilya's hips, fingers curving around his muscular ass for support, aching cock pulsing hard at every sound Ilya made above.

It got sloppy fast, Ilya lost in the feeling, just using Shane's mouth—his throat—like he would his asshole, wild and instinctive, chasing his own. Shane could taste the precum on his tongue, saliva dripping down his chin, dizzy with it in the best possible way—loose and electric, floating just above the surface of himself.

Ilya's grip tightened on one last thrust, pressing Shane's nose flush against his groin as he came, loudly enough that Shane hoped the walls were thicker than they looked. Shane sucked hard through it, sealed his lips, swallowed everything.

Eventually, when Shane's breathing through his nose started becoming ragged, the grip in his hair loosened. But he still kept Ilya's cock in his mouth, loved feeling it spent on his tongue, until the sensitivity was too much and Ilya pulled out of him. 

When he looked up, Ilya was watching him with a look on his face that couldn't be described as anything but adoration, his hand gently petting Shane's cheek, thumb rubbing under his damp eyes and across his swollen lips. 

"You know I love you very much," he said quietly in Russian.

Shane's eyes closed. He leaned into his palm and nodded, hands smoothing down Ilya's legs to where his pants had pooled at his ankles, wrapping his fingers around them.

He was still hard, but less urgently than before, and he found he didn't really want to do anything about it. Maybe wait until morning. Maybe ask Ilya to wake him up with his mouth.

Opening his eyes, he smiled softly up at his boyfriend and said back, "I love you, too."

__

"Repeat the sequence back to me," Shane said, leaning against the table with his tablet in hand. "Backwards this time."

Doucette, who was a big redheaded slab of a defenseman—the kind built more for felling trees than for finesse, with a beard that had clearly been growing untouched since last playoff season—squinted in concentration. 

"Seven, two, nine. Wait, sorry." He blew his cheeks out like a puffer fish. "Nine…two…seven."

"Good." Shane made a note, already moving on. "Six, three, one, four, eight."

"I'm dyslexic, Hollsy, go easy on me."

"You're not dyslexic."

"I could be. Undiagnosed."

"Last one," Shane said, tapping his foot against Doucette's to keep him moving.

Doucette got it right, slower this time. Six months of recovery, carefully catalogued on a tablet, showed in the tight pinch of his brows as he focused. He'd been out since May—shoulder surgery and a long rehab, training camp watched from a bench with his arm in a sling. This was one of the last boxes to check before he was formally cleared.

"How'd I do?" he asked as soon as Shane set the tablet down.

"You're establishing a new baseline, there's no pass or fail," Shane said flatly, and then glanced up to see Doucette sulking. "But for what it's worth, you did great."

"Right on." Doucette beamed and held out his fist for Shane to bump. "So, you likin' being fulltime now?"

"Of course," Shane answered easily as he taped a mark on the floor and pointed at it. "Can you stand right here behind the line, please?"

Doucette huffed out a laugh. "We gotta get you to lighten up."

Shane didn't have a chance to say anything before the door banged open and the room went from quiet to absolute chaos in under a second.

"Douchebag is in the motherfuckin' house!" Marlow's voice hit before the rest of him even cleared the doorway. He chucked his gear bag in the middle of the room, beelining for Doucette. "I thought Coach was lying to get us to come to practice!"

The rest of them flooded in all at once—Carmichael vaulting half over a treatment table to get there faster, St-Simon yelling something in French, all of them dogpiling onto Doucette so fast that Shane had to jump out of the way. 

"Look who finally decided to show up," Connors said, hauling him into a hug that jostled his bad shoulder, which made Shane grimace more than Doucette.

"Careful—" Shane tried to say loud enough, but it was pointless.

"You look fuckin' terrible," Marlow announced with great affection, already reaching past Connors to mess up Doucette's thick head of hair. "Jesus, have you even seen the outside of a cell this whole time?"

Shane turned back to his table, putting his things away since the assessment clearly wasn't getting finished until the guys were done harassing Doucette. The noise kept climbing as more of the team trickled in from morning skate, most of them peeling off toward the ice baths or treatment tables with nothing more than a nod in his direction.

He didn't even register that Ilya had come in until he felt fingers brush along his lower back in passing, gone before anyone else could have caught it. Shane flushed from the touch, but he didn't bother looking up. 

"Welcome back, Tobias," Ilya said solemnly, shoving a couple of the guys away so he could get a good look at his teammate.

"Fuck off with that Tobias shit, you asshole," Doucette griped, hooking a massive arm around Ilya's neck and hauling him sideways into a headlock.

"I missed you so much," Ilya cried, dramatically pretending to claw at Doucette's forearm. "Every day I miss you more. I keep tally on wall. I talk about you constantly. Where oh where is the sixth best defenseman on this team?"

The room got louder around them—everyone talking over each other, somebody already trying to lock Doucette into plans for that night—and Ilya, still half tangled up with him, grabbed his bad shoulder and shook it for emphasis.

Shane had seen enough. "Okay, hands off," he called out. "That shoulder just cleared, you're not undoing it on day one."

"He is fine." Ilya jabbed his fingers into Doucette's side and grinned. 

"Let go, Rozanov."

Ilya let go like Shane had flipped a switch, hands raising automatically as he stepped back without a single word of protest.

Marlow watched, mouth left slightly open, and then patted Shane on the back. "Walk him like a fuckin' dog."

"Shut your idiot face, Marly," Ilya pointed at him, and in return Marlow pretended to zip his mouth shut. Shane just rolled his eyes and turned back to his work. 

A few minutes later, Ilya drifted over to where Shane was tapping away on his tablet and leaned casually against the table. "Lunch today?" he asked quietly.

Shane glanced up at him and frowned apologetically. "Oh, I can't. It's Monday."

A soft knowing smile pulled at Ilya's mouth.

"Okay," he said, and without looking around to see if anyone was watching, he reached out and hooked one finger under the strap of Shane's watch, dragging it slowly along the inside of his wrist before letting it go. 

__

The first Monday of every month—weather permitting—Shane sat on the same bench, in the same park, facing the same water. The willow at the edge of the little island was still green, but the maples around it had already gone deep red, the kind of vibrancy that made New England autumn look like a painting. 

"They were out of that nine grain shit you like," Palmer said, dropping onto the bench beside him without any kind of greeting first. "So it's on white."

Shane wrinkled his nose but took the sandwich anyway.

Six years hadn't changed John Palmer too much—same kind eyes behind the glasses, same brown skin, only a little more weathered now, more grey threaded through his temples than there'd been in that hospital room. And always, that easy half smile that always showed up a beat before anything funny had actually been said. 

"Look at you," he said, looking Shane up and down over the rim of his glasses. "Gainfully employed. Wearing a little badge and everything."

Shane rolled his eyes as he unwrapped his lunch, giving Palmer a wary side-eye, "Did retirement turn you into Mr. Rogers? What's with the cardigan?"

Palmer looked down at his yellow knitted sweater. "My sister made me this," he frowned, "is it that bad?"

"I don't know if dijon is your color."

"Brat."

Grinning, Shane took a bite of his sandwich. These meet-ups had technically started as check-ins back when he was a teenager, back when his body was adjusting to the new liver and he had to go in at least once every couple of months to make sure his enzymes were stable. Then, as the recovery held and his official hospital appointments dropped to a standard twice-a-year routine, neither of them had quite gotten around to stopping the momentum anyway. By year four, it was lunch.  By year six it was just a date blocked out on every month's calendar. 

"So how are your parents?"

Shane wiped his mouth with his napkin before shrugging. "They're good. We got to see them recently when we played Montreal."

"Ah," Palmer chuckled, swiping at stray crumps on his pants. "I watched that game. Rozanov put on quite a performance." 

"Montreal makes them all crazy." Shane snorted. "I don't know what it is, it's like as soon as we get to the arena they all become feral hyenas."

"Is it weird?"

Glancing up, Shane looked at him and asked, "Is what weird?"

"Being coworkers with your boyfriend."

"Oh." Shane paused, thinking about it for a moment. "I don't think so. It makes commuting easier, getting to use the HOV lane."

Palmer just shook his head, and for a few minutes they ate without saying much of anything. Shane squinted against the glare off the water, watching the light scatter across the surface. The park always felt quieter than it reasonably should, sitting right in the heart of the city like this. He'd miss it when it got too cold and they'd have to meet up in actual cafes again.

"And the team is treating you alright? You're feeling okay?" 

Shane crumpled up the wax paper and sighed, sitting back against the bench. "I'm not fucking fragile, you know."

"I never said you were. You have a complicated relationship with hockey, god forbid I ask if it's going alright."

"You sound like my mom."

"Yuna Hollander is a very wise woman." Palmer tutted, sitting back now too and crossing his legs. "I'm flattered."

Shane stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and rocked his knee until it bumped into Palmer's. "Enough about me. How's Rachel?"

There was a long pause, which Shane didn't really think much of until it was followed by a heavy exhale. He peeled his eyes away from the ducks and looked at Palmer, noticing the frown on his face. "What is it? Is she okay?"

"She left me."

It was too late to mask his surprise. Shane's mouth fell open and he just stared at Palmer like he'd grown a second head.

He'd met Rachel plenty of times over the years. Holidays, mostly. The odd backyard barbecue. She'd always made a point of waving him over, asking about school, stuffing him full of turkey one Thanksgiving like he was one of their own kids home from college. The memory that stuck out most, though, was the year they'd all roped him into the most aggressively competitive game of Catan he'd ever witnessed in his life. He'd been fairly certain at one point that he was going to become an accomplice to a crime.

But Rachel had always been warm with him, welcoming him into their family when he didn't have one of his own nearby in Boston. 

"She left you? Why?"

Palmer stretched his long legs out and crossed his ankles, not taking his eyes off the water as he said, "These things happen, kid."

Shane waited for more but Palmer didn't offer any, just looked ahead with the same flat patience he brought to everything.

"Okay," Shane said slowly. "So what happened?"

"You're really nosy, you know that?"

"Palmer."

"She'd been seeing someone. For a while, from what I can piece together." Palmer said it the same way Shane imagined him reporting a diagnosis; clinical and unaffected, voice carefully stripped of emotion. "Easier to manage when I was working eighty hours a week and barely home to notice. Once I retired, there wasn't anywhere left for it to hide."

Shane frowned. "You're being so calm about this."

"Would you prefer I wasn't?" Palmer looked at him again, and this time Shane saw a flicker of something in his eyes. He looked tired. "What would you like me to do instead? Cry into my sandwich?"

"Maybe a little."

"I did plenty of that a few months ago." Palmer said it simply, no defensiveness in it at all. "Stop giving me that look, Hollander, you look like a kicked puppy."

Shane huffed, wrapping his arms around himself.

"Tell me something good," Palmer said, glancing at his watch. "We only have a few minutes left. Give me your high and low."

"Oh god," Shane moaned, rolling his head back until he could only see a wash of blue sky. "Now you sound like a therapist."

"Your parents have been sending me checks for years," Palmer teased, bumping Shane's knee. "C'mon, give it to me, we don't have all day."

Shane blew out his cheeks and thought about it. "High…hm, I think I was kind of scared about being on a team, but not as a player. Like maybe it'd trigger something bad. But…" he paused, "it hasn't."

"That's a good high," Palmer smiled genuinely at him, well aware of the magnitude of a statement like that, coming from Shane.

"Low…" Shane hesitated, looking out at the water instead of at Palmer, and then said quietly, "I think Ilya and I aren't on the same page about something and I'm not totally sure what to do about it yet."

He let that sit there for a second without adding anything else to it, the admission heavier out loud than it had been in his chest, and Palmer didn't rush to fill the space either.

"Something you need advice on?" he asked eventually.

"No." Shane shook his head. "I'll figure it out."

"Alright." Palmer let it go easily, like he trusted Shane to mean that. He checked his watch again, then stood, joints cracking audibly. "Same time next month."

"Never get me white bread again."

"No promises." He was already walking, hands in his pockets, and Shane sat there a minute longer before gathering his trash and heading back out.

__

The elevator opened directly into the apartment, no hallway in between, just the soft click of the doors sliding apart into the space itself. 

It was dim and quiet inside, most of the lights off except the lamp on the side table that Ilya always left on for him, the city spread out dark and glittering beyond the floor to ceiling glass, with the harbor sitting like a smear of black past the lit edges of the pier.

Shane toed his shoes off just inside the threshold. He'd stayed late at the facility, a meeting with Parker that ran longer than it should have, followed by an hour lost in tape he probably could've left for tomorrow but hadn't wanted to, so it was well past nine by the time he finally made it home, tired in that bone-deep way that came less from the day being hard than from it simply being long.

Ilya was sprawled out on the couch shirtless, one arm thrown over his eyes against the glow of the TV, which was murmuring something on low.

Shane didn't bother announcing himself. He just crossed the room and climbed straight on top of him, dropping his full weight down without warning until his face found the warm space against Ilya's chest, like it had been waiting there for him all day.

Ilya grunted and his arms came up around Shane on instinct before he'd even fully registered what was happening.

"Hello to you too," he said groggily.

"Hi." Shane breathed him in, soap and warm skin, and let himself go slack against him, every muscle finally given permission to stop holding itself up. One of Ilya's hands found its way into his hair.

"Long day?" He felt the question more than heard it, the low rumble of Ilya's voice traveling up through his chest. 

"Parker wanted to talk through IR line management. Then I got stuck on tape for an hour."

"Whose tape?" 

"Doesn't matter." His own voice was muffled against skin. 

Ilya hummed, the hand in his hair never breaking its lazy rhythm. For a while neither of them said much of anything, the TV droning low in the background and Ilya's heartbeat steady under Shane's ear.

"You eat yet?" Ilya asked eventually, his voice gone slow with the same heaviness pulling at both of them.

"No."

"You should eat."

"In a minute."

Ilya laughed quietly.

Shane tipped his chin up to look at him, resting it against Ilya's sternum, his breathing lifting Shane's head with each rise and fall. He looked peaceful like this, the lamp's soft glow touching his skin and turning it gold.

Ilya's eyes opened, drawn by the attention, and found Shane's without hurrying, letting the moment linger gently between them.

"I love you," Shane said. He thought, briefly, of Palmer—whether he'd said it often enough, whether it would've made mattered if he had.

Ilya's lips curved into a small smile as his fingers threaded through Shane's hair, playing absently at the ends like he always did. "Say it in Russian."

Shane dipped his head and pressed his lips to the center of Ilya's chest, just below the crucifix that lived there, then looked back up. "Ya tebya lyublyu."

The fingers in his hair moved, tracing along his cheekbone, his jaw, and Shane leaned into it, watching Ilya's face do the thing it did when he looked at him—open and unguarded, almost too much to look at directly.

"I love you too," Ilya said finally, and pulled him up by the shoulders until they were level, until there was nothing left between their mouths at all.

Six years in and Shane still didn't know how to brace for it—being loved by Ilya like this, completely and without restraint, affection so abundant he might drown in it if he wasn't careful. He stopped caring about coming up for air a long time ago.

They stayed like that for a while, nothing more than slow mouths and shallow breath, until even that wound down with the rest of them, two tired bodies finally giving in to the weight of the day.

"Hey," Ilya said after a while, just as Shane was beginning to drift off, his cheek resting on Ilya's chest. "How was Palmer?"

Shane opened his eyes, watching the city lights cast moving shadows across the far wall and feeling a little sad. But when he responded, he just said, "He's good." 

__

Shane knew more about the human body than most people his age. He'd had to. There was a version of that fact that was sad, and a version that was learned along with a degree. He'd accepted a long time ago that his own personal knowledge had come from nearly dying.

What he hadn't expected was how much it would matter. Not just the medical knowledge—the immunosuppressants and the organ function and the bloodwork he could read like a second language—but the other stuff. Knowing what it felt like to be inside of a body that was fighting. Appreciating, more than just intellectually, the privilege it was to have a working body.

Turned out he was pretty fucking good at his job because of it, too.

October bled into November, the harbor going from gold-edged to dull grey within what felt like a single week. Shane spent most of it falling into a rhythm with Parker—less supervision, more genuine division of labor, the two of them moving around each other in the training room with a shorthand that only came from actually working a season together.

New things kept surfacing after every game, keeping Shane's hours at the facility longer and longer. St-Simon tweaked something in his groin against New Jersey and tried to play through it for a full period before Shane caught it and pulled him. Connors took a puck off the foot that bruised but didn't break, which still meant two weeks of him complaining loudly about a boot he was forced to wear. Hammersmith's blister situation, somehow, became a recurring bit the entire locker room had opinions about.

Parker stopped double-checking Shane's calls somewhere along the way. He just started handing things off and walking away—trusting Shane to run a full assessment solo on guys he used to want a second set of eyes on. There was no real moment to point to. One day Shane just looked up mid-shift and realized nobody was checking his work anymore.

The Bears went on a respectable run through the rest of the month—good enough to keep Ilya insufferable at team meetings, inconsistent enough to keep LeClaire pacing behind the bench with his arms crossed through any third period.

Somewhere in the middle of November, the rumor started.

"Heard we might be picking up a winger," Connors said one afternoon, halfway through getting his ankle wrapped before a game.

Shane had learned that this job came with an unofficial second title: training room confessional. He knew things he'd never asked to know—whose casual hook-up had recently gotten knocked up, who'd destroyed the bathroom badly enough after dodgy leftovers to trigger a full quarantine of the facilities, and which veteran got a DUI during the offseason that somehow never made it anywhere near social media.

"From who?" Shane asked, mostly just to be polite. And maybe a little nosy.

"My agent texted me about it. Something he heard running through the gossip mill." Connors shrugged. "Probably nothing. Half this shit never happens."

Trade rumors moved through a locker room like brushfire, and rarely matched up to the amount of excitement and drama they caused. Shane filed it away without really filing it away at all, and went back to wrapping Connors' foot.

The travel rotation kept its own rhythm too—Shane home for some stretches, gone for others, Parker covering the rest, the two of them trading the road like a relay. It worked fine most of the time.

It worked less fine when the team's first big trip of the season took them through the better part of the western conference. It was eleven days, the longest single stretch since the season started, and Shane was the one who stayed behind, which Ilya had been extremely mouthy about behind closed doors.

He'd watched the games alone from their couch at night and checked the injury reports every morning. They'd been in Vancouver first, where the Bears won and Ilya put up two mind-blowing goals and an assist within six and half minutes of the first period. After a long FaceTime session that left him flushed and sated, Shane had still watched the replay over half a dozen times before he went to sleep. Calgary and Edmonton came next, the Bears working their way through the rest of the west coast while Shane sat in Boston and did his job and tried not to think about how much he missed Ilya.

Shane was elbow-deep in the supply cabinet, counting rolls of pre-wrap and calling numbers out to Parker, when his watch buzzed against his wrist.

He glanced down to find a text from Ilya pop up on the small screen.

Ilya: thinking about the morning i left. can still taste u

Shane cleared his throat and kept his eyes on the shelf.

"How many?" Parker asked.

"Thirteen." Shane's voice came out normal enough and then his watch buzzed again a minute later.

Ilya: wanna bend u over something abd get u so wet and open and just watch ur hole beg for it

Shane exhaled a fuck before he could catch himself, hoping Parker didn't hear it. His jaw clenched, and kept counting boxes he'd already counted, because now he had forgotten the number. And then his wrist buzzed again.

Ilya: id fucking make u wait, u sound so pathetic when u beg, duck i love it

Heat crept up the back of his neck, and he rolled his shoulders like he could shrug it off.

"Hollander. You still with me?" Parker said. "Steri-Strips."

"Yeah, sorry." Shane cleared his throat. "Six boxes."

He moved to the next shelf. His watch buzzed several times in a row.

Ilya: fuck, shane, im so hard rn just thinyijy of ur mouth stretched around my cock

Ilya: ur so pretty when u cry

Ilya: looking down at ur fucking freckles and pink lips

Ilya: wanna fuck that mouth until u choke

Shane's hand actually stilled on the box of electrolytes tablets he was holding, and he had to consciously make himself keep moving, sliding it back onto the shelf and reaching for the next one. His face had gone warm, and he was suddenly acutely aware of every seam of his own clothes.

"There are four boxes of tabs." 

"You okay?" Parker asked. "You've gone kind of red."

"It's hot in here." It was not hot in here. "Is the vent broken again?"

"I'll check it," Parker said, already moving toward the thermostat, and the second his back was turned, Shane's watch buzzed again, back to back texts piling in.

Ilya: if u were here id have u bride my face until my tingue was buried deep inside

Ilya: rife

Ilya: ride

Ilya: fuck shane, im close

Shane closed his eyes for a second, breathed through his nose, and opened them to find Parker watching him with his eyebrows raised.

"I asked about ice packs," Parker said, gesturing at the freezer. "How many?"

Shane's watch buzzed again, right as he opened his mouth to answer, and the number that came out was not the number he meant to say.

"Nine."

He heard it a full second after it left his mouth and felt his whole face catch fire.

"Sorry—no. There are eleven. I meant eleven."

Parker looked at him for a long moment, pen hovering over the clipboard. "You sure you're feeling okay? You took your meds?"

"Of course, yeah, I'm totally fine." Shane's voice came out strangled, higher than usual, and his watch buzzed again, like to mock him.

Ilya: fuck, wish i could hear you rn

Ilya: bet you're trying so hard to be normal

Ilya: r u wearing ur glasses? 

Shane pressed his palm flat against the shelf and focused very hard on the box in front of him without absorbing a single coherent thought. He was, in fact, wearing his glasses and now they felt like an accessory to a crime.

"You look flushed," Parker said, concern now etching into his tone. "You feeling sick? You want to sit down?"

"I'm fine." Shane's voice cracked slightly. His watch buzzed one more time, and this one he didn't dare look at all, just let it sit there against his wrist, burning a hole through his composure.

"Hollander."

"What?"

"I asked if you wanted water."

"No. Yes. I don't know." Shane dragged a hand down his face, which did nothing to cool it. "It's just really warm in here."

Parker studied him another second, how he always did when he was taking inventory of Shane and not trusting him when he said he was fine. 

Shane's watch stayed quiet for almost a full minute before one final buzz came through.

Ilya: i miss u

__

Shane was in the training room the following morning, seeing to Cole Beckett, a third line winger who'd been traded to them last season, when he got the notification that the Bears' plane had landed. The rink was visible through the long window to his left, ice dark and empty without any of the arena lights on.

Shane kept his hands moving and his eyes on the joint when he felt it, the atmosphere of the room changing instantly like an invisible current in the air.

"Still pretty stiff in the morning," Beckett said, wincing slightly.

Beckett had been placed on LTIR with a grade two MCL sprain in the last few weeks. He was one of Shane's more straightforward patients—showed up on time, did as he was told, only asked how much longer approximately once per session. Shane considered this basically saintly behavior.

"That's normal." Shane pressed carefully along the joint line, feeling for resistance, deeply aware of the presence in the doorway behind them that he was absolutely not acknowledging. "Swelling's down a lot since last week, though. You're healing faster than I expected."

"So I'll be able to play soon?"

"It's doing good, but not that good."

"Ugh," Beckett groaned. "You're killing me, Hollander. So how much longer?"

"Realistically? Another three, four weeks before we even talk about contact drills."

"That's so long."

"You'll survive, I promise."

Beckett snorted. "Easy for you to say, you don't know what it's like."

Shane kept his eyes on the joint, fingers steady, and didn't say anything to that. It wasn't Beckett's fault, he didn't know Shane's history with hockey.

Shane reached for the brace and secured it back into place, checking the strap just as Beckett looked over his shoulder toward the door.

"Oh hey, Cap, I didn't even see you standing there." His eyes lit up, like most eyes did at the sight of his boyfriend. He couldn't really blame them. "You guys just get back?"

"Just now, yes," Ilya said from the doorway, his voice sounding raspy with exhaustion. Shane bit the inside of his mouth and rotated Beckett's leg one last time with the brace.

"Good trip?" Beckett asked.

"Very good. Four wins."

"That first period in Vancouver," Beckett whistled low under his breath, "fucking sick, man."

"Yes," Ilya agreed. Shane could feel the heat of his eyes on him, pinpricks of heat igniting under his skin.

"Can't wait til Hollander here lets me finally get back out there. This is torture."

"He knows best."

Shane cleared his throat and straightened up. He grabbed his tablet off the counter to make a note, saying directly to Beckett, "Ice it tonight, keep using the bands. Come back Thursday."

"Will do, thanks Hollsy." Beckett slid off the table, grabbed his bag, and clapped Ilya's shoulder on his way out. "Later, Roz."

Shane made a final note and set his tablet down on the counter that ran through the center of the room. He picked a stray piece of lint off the shiny surface, flicked it away, and straightened one of the containers of energy gels. And then he finally turned around.

Ilya was leaning against the wall next to the door, still in his post-game suit from the red-eye flight, blazer draped over one arm, his other hand in his pocket. The white button-down had its sleeves rolled to his elbows, doing considerable work containing the rest of him, the buttons at the chest pulled just slightly with every breath. He was looking at Shane the same way he'd been looking at him since the day he met him, the spark in his blue eyes piercing straight through.

It had only been eleven days, but Shane still felt the relief of his presence like a physical realignment.

"I think," Ilya said, clicking his tongue and shoving off the wall, "I have hurt my shoulder."

Like a reflex, Shane immediately started searching for something off in Ilya's posture as he stepped forward. There wasn't a single compensatory movement. No favored side. None of the tension around the eyes that showed up when something was actually wrong.

"Which one?"

Ilya pursed his lips like he was thinking, then shrugged. "Right."

"The one I taped a few weeks ago."

"Sure, yes." Ilya crossed the room and hopped up onto the table, directly beneath the row of championship banners, watching Shane with darkening eyes. "Is flaring up again."

Shane's mouth twitched, but he nodded. "Okay. When did it start?"

"Recently."

"You didn't mention this to Parker while you were on the road?"

Ilya swung his legs idly, and Shane had to physically restrain himself from staring as the muscles shifted under his dress pants.

"Very recent, maybe."

Shane resisted rolling his eyes, giving him a look instead. Ilya looked back, completely unashamed, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

"Shirt off," Shane ordered, leaning against the table and crossing his arms.

"Mm," Ilya wiggled his brows. "Bossy."

"Just doing my job, Captain."

Ilya's breath faltered for half a second, and his eyes went darker before his crooked grin took over. He reached up and undid the buttons without looking down, holding Shane's gaze.

When the shirt came off, Shane's eyes dropped for just a moment—to the scar catching the light, faded now and silver, sitting above his abs like it had always belonged there. Shane supposed it did, by this point. Just like his matching one.

He looked back up. Ilya was watching him with those eyes, that mouth.

Shane stepped forward and pressed his fingers along the curve of his shoulder, standing close enough that Ilya's knee brushed his hip. His skin was warm, and Shane kept his touch clinical, his breathing even and focused on what his hands were telling him.

Which was nothing. Because there was absolutely nothing wrong with him.

"How was the trip?" Shane asked casually, his palm gliding over dense muscle.

"Long." Ilya's voice had gone low.

Shane pressed two fingers into the shoulder cap and held them there, watching his face. "Shoulder feels good."

Ilya shrugged.

"Really good." His thumb dragged slowly down to the elbow. "Considering nothing was wrong with it to begin with."

"Miraculous recovery." Ilya's gaze dropped to Shane's mouth. Shane licked his bottom lip slowly, watching for the reaction.

When their eyes met again, Shane felt his face heat, caught off guard by the vulnerable look Ilya was giving him, the facade melting away.

"Hi," Shane whispered, his hand sliding up to the nape of Ilya's neck.

"Hi," Ilya said back, just as soft.

Then Ilya's hand curled into the front of his shirt, and that was it—Shane was already moving, closing the distance, the kiss immediate and graceless, nothing like the careful professional composure he'd been maintaining all morning.

Ilya's hands were everywhere, pulling him in. Shane's fingers found his hair and tugged, and Ilya made a sound against his mouth that Shane felt in his entire chest.

"I fucking missed you, Hollander."

"I know." Shane's hands tightened in his curls. "Me too."

They stayed like that for a while, stealing time, ever since the very beginning.

"How much more work do you have?" Ilya asked, pulling back just enough to get the words out.

"I'm done with IR. Depends if any of the guys need anything before they go home."

Ilya's hands slid down to grip his ass through his work pants, and Shane made a quiet sound against his mouth.

"They all went home," Ilya said, kissing the words along his jaw, trailing down his throat. "We have today off. Even Parker left."

"Oh fuck," Shane breathed, when Ilya's teeth grazed the sensitive spot near his shoulder, "then I could probably wrap things up here."

Ilya moved fast, and Shane found himself lifted onto the table, Ilya stepping between his thighs and gripping the backs of them until Shane's ankles locked around his waist. As soon as their bodies lined up, need shifted into overdrive; Shane arched into Ilya, hands fisting up his hair, the kiss going from urgent to frantic.

"Ilya—"

"Mmm."

"Can we—" his train of thought dissolved as teeth dragged across his pulse point, "—fuck."

Ilya lifted his head, eyes dark, mouth wrecked, hair destroyed by Shane's hands.

He grinned and reached for the bottom of Shane's team polo, sliding one hand underneath, "Okay. Do you want me to bend you over this way—" his other hand gestured towards the wall of glass that overlooked the dark rink below, "so you can have nice view of ice? Or towards the mirror, so you can watch yourself?"

Shane rolled his eyes, trying to mask the shiver Ilya's words and touch elicited. "Not what I meant, dickhead." He moved his hand to Ilya's face, stroking his thumb over his plump bottom lip until Ilya parted his teeth and bit at it gently. "Can we go home?"

A slow smile spread under his thumb. Ilya kissed the tip of it and nodded. "Yes, Hollander. Let's go home."

__

This time last year, Shane had still been in the final stretch of his master's program, splitting himself between heavy graduate coursework and a grueling clinical rotation that had been his first real taste of what it'd be like to work on a bench. He and Ilya had lived together even then, but their time together had still ended up hurried and frantic more often than not. Shane's schedule built around lectures and clinical hours, Ilya's built around a season that ran eighty two games deep with almost no real breaks in between—back-to-backs, cross-country flights, and a packed schedule that didn't pause for anything, least of all the two of them.

They'd meet up in the kitchen at odd hours, grab twenty minutes here, an hour there, and call it enough because it had to be.

Shane had thought, naively, that getting hired full time would fix that. That being on the same team, in the same building, sharing one schedule instead of two, would mean more time together, not less.

It hadn't worked out that way.

If anything the season had swallowed them both whole in different directions—Shane buried in the training room from six in the morning until whenever the last guy needed something, Ilya buried in practice and media and whatever the team needed from its captain on any given day. They lived together. They worked in the same building. And somehow there were entire stretches where they passed each other in hallways more than they actually talked, both of them needing the other in some quieter way than either had time to address, and going right on needing it anyway.

So when the schedule lined up—Carolina, then Tampa Bay and Nashville, three games in five days—and Parker told him he was on this one, it didn't feel like a hardship. It felt like the first real chance in weeks to actually be near Ilya without either of them having to be anywhere else.

"Did you put the load in the dryer?" Shane rolled his neck and dragged a hand through his hair, which had gotten long enough now to fall just past his eyes.

"Yes," Ilya grunted. "It should be done in twenty minutes."

"We don't have twenty minutes."

"Then you better hurry the fuck up."

"Did you grab toothpaste at the store earlier?"

"I put it in your toilet bag."

"Toiletry—"

"Goddamnit, Hollander, shut up."

Ilya jerked his hips up so forcefully that Shane had to slap his palms down on his chest to keep his balance, the sharp movement causing both of them to moan loudly.

For a few blissful minutes, Shane gave up on every responsible thought in his head and focused on the only thing currently within his control, which was riding the hell out of Ilya Rozanov.

He lifted himself up just enough that Ilya's cock almost slipped out of him and then rolled his hips to take him all the way down again, which made Ilya nearly fucking lose it. Shane loved reducing his boyfriend to this— to the look on his face, drunk off of how Shane used his body.

"Fuck, Shane—" he panted, gripping Shane's waist harder and lifting him up just so he could slam him back down, setting a brutal pace.

Shane's head fell back on a groan, thighs already shaking with the effort of keeping the pace. Ilya's hand found where Shane's was still pressed into his chest and covered it, lacing their fingers together without breaking rhythm.

"C'mon, baby," he said in Russian, "come for me."

Shane's free hand found his own cock, stroking in time with the snap of Ilya's hips, every thrust pulling him closer to the edge. He could feel it building low in his spine, tight and unbearable.

"Ilya—" His voice cracked. "I'm—"

"I know." Ilya's hips didn't slow. "I know, davai, let go—"

"Oh god," Shane gasped, riding him faster, his hand fisting his own cock relentlessly. On one final, punishing thrust, Ilya buried himself deep and held Shane's hips down, and they came together, their moans tangling and bouncing off the walls of the room.

Shane collapsed forward completely boneless, his full weight dropping onto Ilya's chest as they both fought to catch their breath. Ilya's hands moved slowly up and down his back, like he was trying to reactivate Shane's senses. He probably could have drifted off right there if it weren't for the internal alarm already going off in the back of his head and reminding him they still had a flight to catch and a dryer full of clothes that weren't going to pack themselves.

Ilya's fingers found his hair, curling around the ends and tugging just enough to tip Shane's face up.

Their eyes met and Ilya smiled softly at him.

"Ready?"

Shane smiled back. "Now I am."

__

The charter was loud, as anyone might expect a plane full of rowdy hockey players to be. Before joining the Bears, Shane had never experienced flights that seemed to be fueled entirely on testosterone. The first time, he'd spent the whole trip gripping his armrests and quietly fighting off a sensory overload panic attack—and not long after, a brand new pair of noise-cancelling headphones had shown up in his bag, courtesy of Ilya, no explanation given. Shane chose to interpret this as a gift rather than a subtle diagnosis.

It was barely past eleven in the morning and the enthusiasm on board was chaotic, a team running on far too many energy drinks while being locked in a box cruising thirty-five thousand feet above ground. Marlow and Connors were locked in an increasingly aggressive card game two rows back, another cluster of guys deep in a heated debate about some TV show finale, and somewhere in the middle of it all, a flight attendant was doing her best to collect trash and field snack requests at the same time.

Shane had his tablet propped against the tray table, headphones in, brows furrowed at the screen—Carolina's roster, run back for the fourth time, watching for anyone who hit dirty or led with an elbow, anyone coming off an injury who might still be compensating, anything that put his own guys at risk going into the boards with them. 

It wasn't technically a part of his job to watch the opponents tape—they obviously had a video coach for that—but it'd become such a habit when he was still in school that he just never stopped doing it. 

He didn't notice Ilya until the seat next to him dipped under new weight and a hand reached over to pull his headphones back.

"You have been working since we boarded."

"I'm just double checking—"

"Yes, like you were doing until midnight last night."

"Well, I noticed something about their goaltender that I think—"

"And you can think about it in twenty minutes." Ilya reached over and gently closed the tablet cover, easing it out of Shane's hands, and then lowered his voice, "Take a break, Shane."

"I don't need a break."

"You do. You have had this face since Boston." He pressed two fingers lightly to the spot between Shane's eyebrows, smoothing over it like he could iron the furrow out manually. His smile widened across his face, looking pleased. "There. Better now."

Shane rolled his eyes, but smiled despite himself.

"Twenty minutes," Ilya said decidedly, looking at his phone. "I will time for you."

Shane sighed, already losing whatever internal fight he'd already been losing. "Fine. Twenty minutes."

"Good." Ilya nodded, his index finger reaching out to brush across Shane's knuckles. Then his gaze fell to Shane's mouth, and for a moment Shane thought he might lean in, already feeling the instinct to meet him halfway. But then the sharp sound of laughter coming from a few feet away dropped him back into reality.

"Ilya," he whispered, glancing around the cabin. "Not here."

Something flickered across Ilya's face— not hurt exactly, but close enough that Shane felt the knot form in his stomach.

He could read a stranger's hesitation from broadcast tape, predict a guy's shoulder giving out before the guy felt it go. That was the job. And this was Ilya. Shane had logged every version of his discomfort the same patient way for years, able to read any injury in his body before Ilya even could. 

He had no idea what this flicker meant.

That was the part that bothered him. Years of meticulous data gathering, and he still couldn't get a clean emotional read on the subject that mattered the most. Maybe he'd just never let himself run the full diagnosis, because some part of him already suspected he wouldn't like his conclusions.

"Okay," Ilya said, settling back into his own space.

"It's not that I don't want—"

"I know." His voice had gone light, which made it worse. "Nineteen minutes, Hollander."

Shane wanted to ask, just like he'd ask any other body what was wrong with it. But Ilya had already closed his eyes, and Shane let the moment close right along with it. 

__

The locker room during second intermission carried the tension of a team that knew it was getting outplayed.

Shane worked his way through the room with quick hands and no smalltalk, streamlining that came from doing this exact thing under pressure enough times now that his body had stopped needing input from his brain.

LeClaire's voice stayed low and clipped, walking through the same defensive breakdown that had led to Carolina's second goal. Nobody was really listening. They were all still replaying it themselves, in their own heads, their own personal versions of where and how it had gone wrong.

"And you," LeClaire said, stopping in front of Ilya's stall, voice dropping even lower, "need to be better than this. You're the captain. They follow what you give them, and right now you're giving them nothing."

Ilya's knuckles went pale where his hands were laced together between his knees—the tell Shane had learned to watch for, the grip that tightened right before he swallowed something he wanted to say. The old rookie fire was still in there somewhere, buried deeper now under years of learned composure.

"Understood," Ilya said, flat, and let LeClaire move on to the next thing on the whiteboard.

Shane made it over to him a minute later, elbows still braced, helmet off, staring at the floor between his skates. He crouched down in front of him and tipped Ilya's chin up gently to check the cut above his eyebrow from the high stick in the first period. It was no longer bleeding, just an angry red line that would bruise tomorrow.

"You okay?" Shane asked, quiet enough that it stayed just between them.

"Fine."

Ilya didn't look at him while he said it, eyes still down. Shane let the silence sit there instead of pushing into it, checking beneath the cut for deeper swelling and let his thumb rest a beat longer than clinically necessary.

"Hey."

Ilya's eyes finally rose to his.

"You're doing great out there," Shane said. Then, quieter, with a small private smile tugging at the corner of his mouth— "You're Ilya fucking Rozanov."

Ilya's expression cracked a little, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"One minute," someone called from the doorway.

Ilya exhaled, like he was physically shaking something off, and when he stood, the brooding was already gone, replaced by something brighter and louder.

"Okay," he announced, clapping his hands once, voice carrying across the whole room. "We are down two. This is not a tragedy. We just played like men who forgot how skates work, and that is on me as much as anyone, because apparently I forgot how to lead today." Shane glanced at LeClaire without meaning to, but he gave no reaction at the slight dig. "So. We fix it. Now."

A few guys actually straightened.

"Carolina thinks this is over." Ilya was moving toward the door, energy radiating off him like heat. "Let's go remind them it is not."

Shane stayed where he was for a second longer, watching them all follow their captain. He'd seen this from a hundred angles by now, but it never stopped being something so remarkable, how Ilya could absorb a hit like that and still turn around and hand the room something to stand on.

They still lost to Carolina. But they left the ice with their heads up, and that counted for something. 

__

Tampa went better. The Bears took it 3-1, sloppy in spots but never in real danger. Ilya scored twice. Doucette got his first goal back since the surgery and celebrated like he'd won the actual Cup, crashing into the glass hard enough that the whole bench winced on his behalf. Marlow chirped somebody from the Lightning bench so thoroughly that the guy actually laughed instead of getting mad, which Marlow considered his single greatest achievement of the road trip.

Nashville finished it. 5-2, comfortable from the second period on, Ilya setting up two of the goals and looking thoroughly smug about it for the rest of the game. The locker room afterward had the unbothered noise of a team that knew exactly what kind of night it had just earned itself.

"We're going out," Ilya announced, coming out of the showers with a towel slung low on his hips.

Shane was in the middle of checking Connors' ankle, two fingers braced against the joint, when he glanced up at the wrong moment and lost roughly four seconds of brain function entirely. Water still running down Ilya's defined abs. Curls dripping. The towel leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.

"Ow," Connors said, flinching.

"Sorry." Shane's hands had apparently kept moving without his permission, twisting the ankle slightly further than intended. He cleared his throat and looked, very deliberately, anywhere else. "Sorry. That's—you're fine. Full range."

"You good, Rook?"

"Great." His face was on fire. "Totally great."

Connors followed his eyeline and grinned slowly, but mercifully kept his mouth shut.

"Obviously we're going out." Marlow looked at him like this was the dumbest thing anyone had ever clarified. "We're in God's country."

"I know of this really good honky-tonk bar," someone across the room said. "My cousin was telling me about it, they've got a mechanical bull."

"Fuck yes," Doucette exclaimed, chest already puffed up at the idea. "I want to see at least one of you get bucked tonight or this whole trip was for nothing."

In the corner, one of their Finnish defensemen looked up slowly. "What is this?"

"Mechanical bull," Doucette said. "It's a machine that moves like a bull and tries to throw you off."

Järvinen looked as mortified as Shane felt. "On purpose?"

"Yeah. It's fucking awesome."

Anderson slapped a hand onto his shoulder, looking genuinely offended on behalf of the entire country. "Brother. This is America. If you can't hang on to a bucking metal bull for eight seconds, then we may as well deport you."

"You guys are doing this to me on purpose," Shane groaned.

"Nobody's doing anything to you, Hollsy."

"I just got two of you walking again."

"Think of it as job security."

Järvinen looked over at Shane, and Shane mirrored his defeated look in solidarity, knowing the fight was as good as lost. Then he glanced at Ilya, hoping for the same.

Ilya just winked at him.

"Oh my god. You too?"

"I did not say anything."

"You're going to get on the bull."

"I did not say this either." His grin said otherwise. And then, because he was apparently committed to being the absolute worst, he dropped his towel to the floor without breaking eye contact, just standing there completely naked and unbothered.

Nobody else even glanced over. This was, evidently, just a regular occurrence.

"Sorry, Rook," Solderholm said, smirking up from the floor where he was mid-stretch. "You're outnumbered here."

"You're a goalie, you don't get a vote, you're all insane by definition."

Solderholm clutched his own chest like he'd been wounded, and a few guys laughed.

"Okay," Marlow clapped his hands together. "So Hollander's getting dropped off at the hotel before we go."

"Like hell I am." Shane shot him a look. "Somebody has to be there to make sure none of you idiots tear an ACL trying to look cool."

"That sounds like a yes to the bull."

"It is not a fucking yes to the bull."

"You're coming. That's a yes."

Across the room, Ilya was thankfully back in briefs now, pulling a shirt over his head— but he caught Shane's eye for half a second, something subtly pleased passing between them before he disappeared into the fabric.

__

Shane had survived a lot in his life—almost dying, the long grinding stretch of clinical hours that came later, years of dating a famous athlete mostly in secret. He had, on more than one occasion, worked on Marlow's shoulder directly after practice and before a shower, which meant surviving a smell that should have qualified as a biohazard.

Nothing had prepared him for Lower Broadway. It was basically his worst nightmare.

The whole street was a single unbroken wall of neon, honky-tonks stacked three and four stories tall on top of each other, every window glowing some shade of pink or blue. Live music spilled out of every open doorway at once, half a dozen bands all playing some version of the same six songs, none of them quite in time with each other. Somewhere above the noise, a man in a cowboy hat and apparently nothing else was playing a banjo from a second-floor balcony.

Shane stood at the mouth of it all and had the distinct sense that he had just walked into something he was not built for handling.

Ilya appeared directly behind him a moment later, close enough that his hand found the small of Shane's back, fingers spread warm and casual against his shirt, easy enough that anyone watching would read nothing into it.

"This place is weird," Järvinen said, warily watching a flashing neon sign where a trio of robotic cowgirls kicked their legs in a stiff, looping sequence.

"It gets weirder," Marlow said, already moving through the entrance.

"Weirder than the naked banjo man?"

"Stay close," Ilya whispered close to his ear, his hand moving from Shane's back to the cuff of his sleeve before tugging at the fabric to pull him along.

The bar swallowed them whole the second they walked in—heat and noise and a wall of bodies already three plus drinks deep, the band somewhere up front playing something with a fiddle solo that seemed to be going on for an unreasonable amount of time. Drinks appeared almost immediately, courtesy of Marlow, who'd informally appointed himself bartender liaison for the entire group.

"Drink," he said, pressing something neon-colored into Shane's hand. "Don't ask what's in it."

"That's not reassuring."

"It's not supposed to be."

The drink Marlow gave him was bright blue and tasted too sweet, but Shane drank it anyway. He'd decided somewhere between the locker room and the door that fighting this tide was a losing battle—twelve guys, a whole lot of country music and one extremely hot Russian making promises in his ear when no one was looking.

He leaned into the warmth of Ilya's hand, unable to tell anymore where the alcohol ended and the effect his boyfriend had on him began.

By the second round the noise had stopped feeling like an assault. By the third he'd stopped noticing it at all, which was its own kind of milestone—the kind he might have logged in a chart on any other night, a small data point his brain collected automatically even when it had absolutely no business collecting anything right now. Just this once, he could be a guy at a bar instead of a guy clocking everyone else's pulse and gait and pupil response.

"This is wild," Connors said, watching Shane finish his drink. "Hollander's actually letting loose."

"I let loose all the time." Shane frowned, slurping the remnants of his drink through the straw and surprising himself at how quickly that'd gone down.

"You have fun like a man completing a checklist." Marlow straightened up, holding an invisible clipboard and launching into an impression of Shane so bad it would've been insulting if he was sober. "Step one, attend social function. Step two, smile at appropriate intervals."

"I'm nothing like that," Shane lied, while smiling at appropriate intervals.

"I could tell you many stories of Hollander being the very opposite of boring," Ilya supplied, wiggling his brows at the guys as he draped his arm over Shane's shoulders.

Shane shot him a look. "Rozanov."

Ilya just grinned.

The night kept moving after that, fast and a little blurrier with every fruity drink offered to him.

Marlow lost an arm-wrestling match to a woman who looked like she could deadlift a Buick and took it with surprising grace. Connors bought the table a round of something flaming, which the bartender made with the long-suffering patience of someone paid well enough to deal with rowdy groups of athletes on the loose.

Doucette reappeared at some point dragging Anderson by his shirt, both of them red-faced and laughing too hard to fully explain themselves until they pointed at the dance floor, where a bachelorette party had apparently absorbed their usually unreadable defenseman entirely—Järvinen in a crooked pink cowboy hat and a sash that read in big sparkly words SAME PENIS FOREVER, which Ilya immediately whipped out his phone to take a grainy zoomed in photo of.

"He looks so calm about this," Shane said, chewing idly on his straw.

"Jarvy has accepted his fate," Ilya replied, watching with sincere admiration.

They ended up splitting off from the rest, leaving Järvinen and a few others behind as they pushed deeper into the bar, which seemed to multiply in bodies with every room they passed through. Shane was fisting a hand in the hem of Ilya's shirt to keep from losing him in the crowd—which was soaked through with sweat—and had to work very hard not to get distracted by it. He'd never managed well with a sweaty Ilya.

"The bull," Doucette announced eventually, slamming his empty beer bottle on a table. "It's time to find the motherfucking bull!"

"It's a few blocks down," Connors said, checking his phone.

"Saddle up boys, it's time to put on our mariachi pants."

Shane blinked at Doucette as he wiped the foam off his beard, and said, "Mariachi is a type of music."

They got sidetracked almost immediately by an open-air food hall, string lights crisscrossed overhead, a dozen vendors shouting over each other, until somebody spotted a wing stand with a heat scale that went up to something called Nashville Death Wish, and that was apparently all the invitation Marlow needed.

"I'm doing it," he announced.

"Doing what?"

"The hottest one. Death Wish. Right now."

"Fucking yes," Doucette said, already elbowing his way to the counter. "We're all doing it."

What followed was a clusterfuck of false bravado, dry heaving and general unattractiveness. Marlow lasted four bites before he started crying, actual tears, insisting through them that he was completely fine. Connors made it through one and immediately drank an entire beer in a single continuous gulp. Doucette went silent with closed eyes, like a man having a religious experience.

Ilya ate six in a row, chatting the entire time, apparently registering no sensation whatsoever.

"This is good," he said, reaching for another. "Very mild. Sweet, maybe."

"Mild," Marlow wheezed, fanning his own face with both hands.

"In my country, Russia—"

"Eat a dick, Roz," someone immediately interrupted him.

"Shut the fuck up, Rozanov."

"I'm actually going to die," Connors moaned.

"You had one, you pussy."

Shane just ate a corndog in silence, but it was probably the best thing he'd ever tasted, which was slightly unsettling. But Ilya seemed to be pretty interested in watching Shane eat it, and that was nice.

A group of girls a few tables over had already clocked who they were—Shane caught the moment it happened, the whispering and phones coming out—and within a minute the team was posing for pictures, Marlow throwing an arm around two strangers like he'd known them for years, Ilya and his megawatt smile looking straight into the camera, sauce smeared across one cheek and most of his chin, entirely unbothered.

Once the girls had wandered off, phones full of evidence, Ilya turned back toward Shane, still grinning.

Shane reached over without a word and wiped the sauce from his jaw with his thumb. Ilya let him, watching him the entire time with that same unguarded, beaming expression he'd had all night, and didn't pull away even after Shane was finished. Shane wondered if it would burn to kiss him.

The next bar they found opened into a back room with a small dance floor and a different kind of band entirely—more of a sway than a stomp.

Ilya's hand found the small of his back again, the same place it had been resting all night, except this time his fingers pressed in like he was considering something.

"We could," he said quietly, not quite a question.

Shane glanced around at all of the strangers, nobody paying them any attention at all, probably the safest version of this they'd ever get. And still some automatic part of him hesitated, just for a second, just long enough.

"Maybe," Shane said, his eyes meeting Ilya's in the darkened room, wanting to reach for him so badly it almost physically hurt.

Ilya nodded like that was a fine enough answer, and didn't push. For a second his hand drifted, like he might reach for Shane's properly, but then he caught himself, fingers curling back instead.

Shane didn't say anything. He just stepped half an inch closer instead, letting their shoulders press together a little more firmly than necessary, the closest thing to an answer he knew how to give in a room full of strangers.

The rest of the night kept moving forward in pieces after that, until they spilled into a louder, rowdier bar with a small crowd already gathered around a mechanical bull lit up in red, white, and blue. Somebody handed Shane another drink along the way and he took it without even hesitating.

"There are two bulls," he said, looking up at Ilya.

Ilya pressed his lips together hard, fighting a losing battle against a smile, and caught Shane's elbow when he swayed a little too far in one direction. "I think is time for water, moy—Shane."

Shane turned to argue the point and found, with some alarm, that Ilya now had two heads. That actually explained a great deal.

"Oh my god," he said, eyes widening. "Do you have two dicks?"

"What the fuck did Hollander just say?" someone behind them asked, delighted.

Shane tried to turn and identify his audience, but Ilya got an arm around his waist first and steered him bodily in the opposite direction.

"We will be back," Ilya announced, already walking.

Shane let himself be led, mostly because walking on his own seemed like a skill he'd misplaced somewhere around the second bar, and partly because he was now extremely invested in finding out the actual answer to his own question.

The outdoor patio was quieter, with a breeze cool enough to cut through some of the haze fogging up Shane's brain. Ilya deposited him onto a bench and disappeared saying something about water and Shane looked up at the sky while he waited, squinting at all the stars. Cassiopeia looked kind of rounded tonight, like it had curled itself into a ball. Maybe it felt shy, or overstimulated from all the street noise, or—

"Drink," Ilya said, suddenly back and pressing a water bottle into Shane's hands and sitting down next to him.

After gulping down half of it under the watchful eye of his boyfriend, Shane said, "The stars are really bright tonight. And beautiful," he added, hoping to make Cassiopeia come back out of its shell.

"There are no stars. Is a street light."

Shane looked up again. It was, in fact, a street light.

Ilya's hand found the back of his neck, thumb moving slowly against his skin.

"You are very cute drunk," he said.

"I'm cute sober too."

"Yes. But also possibly very lightweight."

Shane snorted. "I've had like a hundred drinks."

"Most of them were not actually alcohol," Ilya confessed with a shrug.

Shane's mouth fell open. "What about all the fruity ones? From Marlow?"

"I told him only two could have alcohol in them. The rest were virgin."

"Oh my god." Shane dropped his face into his hands. "That's so embarrassing."

Ilya pulled him in by the back of the neck until Shane gave up resisting and tipped sideways into him, head finding his shoulder, one of Ilya's arms coming around his waist to hold him there. "I did not want you to feel like shit tomorrow," he said, quieter now, mouth close to Shane's temple. "Drunk Shane is very funny. Hungover Shane is not so funny."

"I'm always funny."

"Mm. Sometimes."

Shane turned his face into the curve of Ilya's neck, breathing him in, and felt one of Ilya's hands settle warm against his back, the other still cradling the back of his head. Nobody was anywhere near them at all—just the two of them tucked into a dark corner, the bar's noise muffled and far away, and for once all night neither of them moved to put any space back between them.

Shane tilted his face up, and Ilya leaned in to meet him without hesitation. The kiss stayed soft, lips barely parting, but a current still ran straight through Shane's chest at the thrill of doing this out in the open, where anyone walking by could see exactly what they were to each other.

Shane chased it when Ilya started to pull back, fingers curling into his shirt.

Ilya caught his jaw gently and held him there, breaking the kiss with a small huff of laughter against his mouth.

"No," he said. "Not here."

Shane made a noise in protest, but Ilya just reached for the water bottle and pressed it back into his hands.

"More," he said.

Without breaking eye contact, Shane lifted the bottle and drank the rest of it in one go, his throat working as the cold liquid filtered into his system. When he was finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, watched Ilya track the movements, eyes coming to rest on Shane's wet lips.

Shane licked them on purpose, just to keep it lingering, then leaned in close enough that his next word landed close to Ilya's mouth.

"Ilya?"

It took a second for Ilya's eyes to move back up Shane's face, a shade darker than they'd been a moment ago. "Yes, Shane?"

Shane braced a hand on Ilya's thigh to steady himself and murmured, "Can I go ride the bull now?"

Ilya choked on absolutely nothing, shaking his head. "No."

"You didn't even think about it."

"I do not need to think about it." Ilya's hand slid into Shane's hair, fingers wrapping around the longer strands and tugging his head back gently. "But if you are good tonight, I will give you something else to ride later."

Shane's brain short-circuited, the low vibration of the words sparking up his spine.

"Fuck, can we—"

"Jesus Christ, here you guys are!" Connors burst onto the patio. "You guys need to come inside. Marlow's about to get into it with some cowboy."

They were moving before Shane's brain had fully caught up, Ilya's hand firm around his wrist, pulling him back through the door into the wall of noise and heat. The crowd had changed shape—tighter, denser near the bar, everyone's attention drawn toward something happening at its center. Shane could hear raised voices before he could see anything, Marlow's voice loud and sharp above the music, somebody else matching him.

They pushed through bodies until they broke into the open space where it was happening. Nobody seemed to actually know what was going on or how it had started, but where ego, alcohol and testosterone were involved, fights did tend to materialise without needing cause. Marlow had his hands up, somewhere between defensive and ready.

Ilya immediately grabbed one of Marlow's arms. Connors took the other side, both of them hauling him backward before he could get any closer to the guy at the center of it— cowboy hat, red-faced, every cliché of overly intoxicated machismo rolled into one person.

The guy looked between all of them and scoffed. "Oh good. The rest of your faggy friends showed up to save your ass."

"The fuck did you just say," Marlow said, going rigid.

"Say it again," Ilya said, low and dark, daring him to.

"Relax, princess." The guy grinned, clearly delighted to have gotten the reaction he wanted. "Didn't realize you were so sensitive."

Maybe it was the leftover neon-colored alcohol still working through Shane's system, but the next thing he knew, he was the one yelling.

"What the fuck was that? You're fucking forty-five years old, and that's the best you've got? My boyf—"

The guy's attention snapped straight to Shane just as he took a step forward.

In half a second, Ilya let go of Marlow and hooked an arm around Shane's waist, hauling him backward out of range. The guy's fist found nothing but air where Shane's face had been a second earlier, and Marlow—freed from Ilya's grip—shoved the man hard enough to send him stumbling backwards into the crowd.

"We're leaving," Ilya said, already pulling Shane toward the door.

"I wasn't finished!"

"Yes, you were."

Doucette showed up out of nowhere, the whole group suddenly moving as one unit, shoving toward the exit as the noise behind them spiked into actual chaos—shouting, glass breaking, someone yelling for security.

"Go," Ilya shouted, "go, go, go—"

They hit the street running, breathless and half-hysterical as they sprinted a couple of blocks before anyone dared slow down.

They ran until their lungs burned and laughed too hard to actually breathe right, the pandemonium of the bar collapsing into distant noise behind them. At some point they nearly collided with the rest of their group coming out of the bar they'd left them at. The tangle of everyone turned into one continuous mess of motion that didn't fully stop until they were a few blocks clear of anything resembling trouble.

"Fuck, Hollander," Marlow said, between gasping breaths. "I didn't know you had it in you."

Ilya was looking at him like he wanted to fucking pin him down and—

"We didn't even get to ride the fucking bull," Doucette said, mournful, and that was apparently the funniest thing anyone had said all night, the whole group erupting into fresh hysterics.

Shane stood in the middle of it, flushed and panting, and, for the first time, felt like he wasn't just the guy who fixed their bodies, but just—a guy. One of the guys.

__

Shane was having a hard time swiping his hotel room key because Ilya Rozanov was currently making a meal out of his neck.

"Ilya, wait—" Shane said, his head tilting back anyway, baring his neck even more. "I'm trying to get the door open."

Ilya's arms were already around him, practically pinning Shane to the door from behind, but he reached out and took the key from Shane's useless hand and on the first swipe, the door beeped and they were stumbling inside.

They'd made it back to the hotel with five minutes to spare before curfew, the whole group spilling out of the elevator still loud and buzzing from the run. Doucette peeled off toward his room, loudly announcing that he was never drinking again, a promise everyone present knew would last roughly until the next roadie. Connors gave Shane a parting fist bump that turned into something closer to a hug before disappearing down the hall with Marlow.

The door swung shut behind them, the lock clicking into place, and Ilya walked Shane backward until the back of his knees ran into the bed and he bounced onto the mattress, with Ilya crawling over him.

"You were so good tonight, moy malen'kaya shlyushka."

Shane gasped when Ilya bit down on his nipple through his shirt, his entire lower back arching off the bed as he made quick work unbuttoning Shane's clothes, saying, "So good. And you defend my honor."

Shane couldn't help the startled laugh that fell out of his mouth, raising his head off the mattress to look down at Ilya just as his jeans popped open. "Defend your honor, huh?" he asked, his chest heaving as Ilya's hands slid into his pants. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Yes, very brave." Ilya pulled back just enough to look at him properly, eyes dark and warm at the same time, softness underneath the heat. "My brave little hockey wife."

"Your what?" Shane's mouth fell open, the scoff dissolving into a moan as Ilya pulled his jeans and briefs down in one motion.

That same crooked grin that had been charming him since he was a teenager spread across Ilya's face as he dipped his head, tongue swirling once around the head of Shane's cock.

"My pretty little wife."

"Rozanov," Shane squirmed, "I'll kill you in your sleep if you call me that again."

This time Ilya repeated it in Russian, and whatever defenses Shane had left gave out the second the words were followed by his mouth—hot, wet, taking him all the way down.

"Oh fuck," Shane whimpered, his hands flying to the bed, fingers curling around the duvet to have something to hold onto.

Ilya looked up at him as his mouth worked, eyes sparkling in the dark room, watching Shane with every stroke of his tongue as his lips stretched further and further, until the head of Shane's cock was tapping against the back of his throat.

"Oh god, Ilya," Shane said, one hand releasing the bedding to bury itself in Ilya's golden brown curls, pushing them off his forehead and gripping hard enough to make Ilya moan around his cock, the vibration shooting straight into Shane's gut.

"I fucking love you so much."

Ilya's movements slowed, eyes still locked on Shane's as he bobbed his head in tiny shifts, alternating between sucking and swirling his tongue. The alcohol had burned off ages ago, but right now Shane felt drunk all over again. And he wanted more.

He pulled on Ilya's hair until he forced his cock free with a wet pop.

"Fuck me."

Ilya didn't say anything at first. He just stood and undressed quickly, clothes falling to the floor in a heap while Shane watched, fingers trailing idly across his own stomach, absently tracing the line of his scar like he always did without thinking about it.

"You have lube?"

Shane almost forgot they were in his room—they weren't officially assigned to share, even though everyone turned a polite blind eye to the fact that they almost never bothered following that rule.

"My bag's in the bathroom," he said, nodding toward the ensuite. Which meant he got the absolute privilege of watching Ilya stroll across the room completely naked, moonlight spilling over his pale skin and turning it every shade of blue.

Ilya returned a moment later and Shane bit his lip as he watched Ilya waste no time, pouring lube onto his fingers as he knee-walked across the bed until he was settled in between Shane's thighs.

But instead of slipping his slick fingers right inside like Shane expected, Ilya slicked up his own cock instead, then gripped the backs of Shane's knees and dragged him up until his lower back nearly left the bed.

"Oh—" the word caught in Shane's throat the second Ilya's tongue flattened against his hole, stubble rasping against the most sensitive part of him, dragging a full body shudder out of him.

"Oh fuck yes, holy shit, Ilya—"

It didn't take long for him to relax, his whole body growing heavier in Ilya's grip as he opened up. Ilya's face stayed buried between Shane's cheeks until he was a whimpering mess, fists tangled helplessly in the bedding, cock throbbing.

"Please, fuck, oh my god," Shane slurred, begging for more. "I need you now."

Ilya pulled back to press a kiss to the curve of his ass.

"How do you want it?" he asked, thumbs tracing idle circles into Shane's thighs, still holding him there. In any other world, with anyone else, Shane might have felt embarrassed in this position. Not with Ilya. Not with how he was looking at him right now.

"I don't care."

Ilya gave him a doubtful look and started to flip him over anyway.

"Wait, no—okay, okay—" Shane caught his bicep, stopping him. "On my back. Facing you."

His head had barely hit the pillow before Ilya was on him, kissing him roughly. For a minute that was all there was—tongue and teeth and the slow grind of hips. When Ilya finally pulled back, Shane chased him, but he was already repositioning them, and instead of reaching for more lube he just spit, slicking Shane's hole before pushing in.

They both moaned at once, Ilya's voice breaking into a slur of Russian that Shane couldn't be bothered to translate.

"Fuck, Shane." Ilya's hips snapped harder with every word. "You are so—" another thrust, sharper, "—fucking beautiful."

Shane's hands flew to any part of Ilya he could claw at. His shoulders, his pecs, his rippling abs and hips. He looked like a fucking god like this, every muscle in his sculpted body being put to work as he drove into Shane so hard, his entire body shifted up the mattress.

"Ilya,  not gonna last, I—oh god, shit, fuck—right there."

"No?" Ilya hitched Shane's hips enough to plant one foot on the bed, the change of angle devastating, so deep Shane felt it in his gut. "You are going to come for me already?"

"Yes, yes, yes," was all Shane could manage, turning his face into the pillow. His hand flew to his cock and he stripped it fast, matching Ilya's brutal rhythm, and it only took a handful of strokes before his whole body seized and he cried out, making a mess across his stomach.

That alone seemed to be enough for Ilya. A second later he buried himself deep and fell forward, the weight of him collapsing onto Shane as he pulsed inside him, murmuring Shane's name over and over against his skin.

"Fuck," Ilya said finally, the first one to come back down.

"Yeah." Shane sighed. "That was so fucking hot."

It always was. He didn't even know why he bothered saying it out loud, like it wasn't the most obvious thing in the world, but his brain was running at maybe thirty percent capacity right now.

"I think," Ilya said, breath still uneven, "you got very hot and bothered. Being called my wife. Even let me breed your cunt without condom…maybe you are my pregnant wife now."

Shane threw himself on top of him, finding the energy to pin Ilya's wrists down above his head, and Ilya just laughed, loose and sleepy.

"I'm not afraid to kill you, Rozanov."

"You just want to harvest me for my organs. Is nothing new."

"Oh my god." Shane swatted at him. "You're such an asshole."

Ilya just smiled up at him, and god, Shane loved him.

"I love you," Ilya said.

Shane smiled back.

Chapter 2: part two

Chapter Notes

this chapter is dedicated to john palmer, md. ur a real one.

In the beginning of January, the Bears got traded a new left winger.

It started somewhere near the equipment room, the way these things did—a phone buzzing, a name passed between two guys getting their skates sharpened, repeated to the next person before anyone bothered confirming it was true. By the time it crossed into the weight room it had already mutated twice, picking up extra details nobody could verify.

Shane was in the gym working through a resisted hip extension with Carmichael when Solderholm wandered in, coffee in hand, already shaking his head.

"We traded Jackson." 

Carmichael's head came up. "Seriously?"

"Yep. Got a winger back. Russian guy."

"That sucks." Carmichael frowned as Shane quietly prompted him back into position. "He just bought a house here."

Shane reattached the band and kept working through the rest of the set. He hadn't worked on Jackson much—a tweaked hip back in October, a couple of routine pre-game taping—nothing that left much of an impression beyond the basics. Now he was just one of the guys who'd eaten breakfast in this building yesterday, gone by lunch today, replaced by someone none of them had ever met. 

But trades happened fast in this game, whether anyone liked it or not. In his own way, Shane knew what it felt like to have everything turn over in a single night, to lose the home you had and somehow be expected to make room for one you'd never asked for.

By the time Shane made it into the lounge twenty minutes later, the whole place had already absorbed the news and started chewing on it from six directions at once. St-Simon looked vaguely irritated, which was how he always got about most things that disrupted his routine. Somebody had the new guy's stats pulled up on a phone, a small cluster of players hunched around, all adding their two cents worth of gossip.

"Third team in four years," Marlow was saying, scrolling. "That's not a good sign. Nobody gets moved that much unless something's going on."

"Maybe he's just unlucky," Beckett offered.

"Or a shitty fucking player."

"He's coming from Vegas," Connors said from somewhere lying on the floor, as if that explained it all.

A round of groans echoed around the room, the kind reserved for a team that everyone loved to hate.

Ilya was leaning against the wall a few feet off, arms crossed, watching the phone get passed around with a pensive expression—weighing something behind his eyes, already thinking in terms of lines and matchups the way he did whenever a roster shifted under him. He glanced up when Shane came in, and his face softened, mirroring back a soft smile for a brief second.

"Did you hear?" Beckett asked, looking over at Ilya.

"I heard." Ilya didn't move from the wall. "Russian, yes?"

"Roman Rykov," Marlow said. "You know him?"

"No." Ilya rolled his eyes. "Russia is bigger than your brain, Marly."

"Bet you'll have a whole new best friend in like a week," Beckett said, catching the phone tossed at him. "Russian solidarity, or whatever."

Shane glanced up at Ilya, wondering what he was thinking, but he just smiled at Beckett.

"Maybe," Ilya said, and left it at that.

__

The facility was still mostly dark when Shane got in the next morning, just the hallway lights on and the low hum of the ice plant somewhere below. Parker was already in the training room, going through a binder at the counter with two coffee cups sitting next to his laptop.

"Morning," Parker said, sliding a coffee towards Shane without looking up.

"Morning." 

Shane sat his bag down and shrugged off his jacket, hanging it up on a hook next to one of the supply cabinets. 

"Rykov should be getting here any minute. I'm going to have you do his onboarding."

Shane looked up. "Me?" He'd never done onboarding by himself before, but he'd shadowed Parker through it a couple of times during his intern year. 

"You're better at first impressions than I am. I scare people."

"You didn't scare me."

"You're an exception." This time Parker did look up, handing over the folder and saying, "Full intake. Medical history, baseline cognitive testing, you know the drill. Should take about an hour."

Shane flipped through the file—logistics mostly, an old injury report from two seasons back that looked relatively boring for a hockey player, which was a good thing. 

The door opened at six fifty-eight, two minutes early. Rykov came in alone, duffel bag over one shoulder—buzzed dark hair, pale skin flushed high on the cheekbones from the cold, tattoos visible on his neck and curling up one hand before disappearing under his sleeve. His eyes swept the room once, exits and equipment and the two of them, before landing on Shane and staying there a beat longer than they'd stayed on Parker.

"Rykov," Parker said, moving around the counter to greet him halfway. "Jacob Parker. Welcome to Boston."

"Thank you." 

The handshake was brief, his attention already drifting back to the room before it had fully ended. He looked young, even for twenty-three—none of the usual wear that the sport tended to etch into even the most baby-faced rookies after a season or two. Then again, his file made it pretty clear he hadn't played much. A lot of nights as a healthy scratch, buried deep enough on the depth chart that he probably hadn't taken enough real hits yet to show it.

"This is Shane. He'll run you through everything."

His gaze fell on Shane again, but he just nodded, offering the same handshake.

There was nothing nervous in any of it. No performance, no first-day eagerness to be liked. It was obvious that Rykov had done this exact thing three times already in his career, and he almost seemed bored with it.

Shane worked through the intake methodically, reflexes and range of motion and the standard checks. Rykov submitted to each one without complaint or comment, which was a relief for Shane, who was dreading coming up with any kind of small-talk. 

"Any recent concussions?"

Rykov shook his head.

"Allergies?"

"No."

"Anything bothering you that didn't make it into your file?"

Another shake.

By the time Shane was finishing up, the room had started filling around them. The first wave of guys arriving ahead of morning skate, dropping onto tables for Parker to tape wrists and ankles before anyone hit the ice. Rykov's eyes warily tracked every new arrival through the door.

"They're good guys," Shane said quietly, catching how Rykov's gaze kept snapping up at every burst of laughter and chatter. "They're just really loud."

Rykov just looked at him and didn't say anything.

Carmichael came in next, then St-Simon, then Marlow with a massive iced coffee in his hand, staring openly at Rykov as he passed on his way to get his shoulder wrapped. The noise climbed with every new body—somebody's music starting up, Doucette yelling across the room, the ordinary chaos of a full roster getting ready for the day.

Then Ilya arrived, voice carrying down the hallway before he'd fully cleared the doorway, and Shane felt that instant relief just knowing his favorite person was in the same room as him.

Ilya crossed the room immediately, his bag still slung over his shoulder as he extended his hand out to Rykov.

"Rozanov," Ilya said. "Welcome to the team."

Rykov stood to shake it. "Rykov."

"I watched some of your tape," Ilya said, dropping his bag and leaning against one of the tables. "You were buried on their third line when you did play. Smart F3."

Rykov nodded, a half second too slow, his eyes doing the small visible work of catching up to the sentence after it had already landed.

Shane recognized the lag instantly. He'd seen it before, a long time ago, in a hospital room—nineteen-year-old Ilya nodding along a beat behind every sentence, translating everything twice before letting himself respond.

Ilya clocked it too, and switched languages without missing a beat. "Better?"

"Better." Something in Rykov's shoulders loosened. "My English is fine, just slow some mornings."

"No shame in it. How do you like Boston so far?"

"I landed two hours ago. How would I know anything?"

"Fair." Ilya shrugged. "Big change from Vegas. You will need a real coat now."

Rykov deadpanned, "I am Russian."

"No shit."

"So you know I have survived colder than Boston."

Ilya let that sit there with the faint trace of a smile. The room had gotten louder behind them by now, and Rykov's eyes flicked toward the noise again.

"You'll get used to them," Ilya said, gesturing vaguely at the room. "Most did not finish primary school, I think. Very big children. You'll like them."

"I'm used to stupid Americans," Rykov said flatly.

Ilya laughed at that, and Shane had to keep himself from smiling as he busied himself with finishing up all the paperwork. But it was distracting with Ilya this close, watching him fill the space around Rykov with exactly the right amount of warmth, enough to ease a stranger's shoulders down half an inch without ever making it look like effort. 

Shane felt the same quiet, familiar pride he always felt watching Ilya be good at this, the reason why he earned the C that he wore on his chest. The gift of making people feel important.

From across the room, Marlow yelled a complaint about the music choice, and the moment folded back into the ordinary noise of the morning.

Ilya's attention shifted then, and he switched back to English like flipping a page.

"Hollander," he said, nodding at him cordially. "Good morning."

"Good morning," Shane said, dropping his gaze quickly.

Ilya clapped Rykov once on the shoulder and turned to go, voice already rising, captain mode fully online. Nothing on his face suggested that two hours ago he'd been pressed against Shane in the shower, mouth on his throat and a hand wrapped around his cock, both of them too sleep-warm to bother with words.

__

That night the arena was loud with twenty thousand people contained together, the constant slice of blades cutting hard turns, sticks cracking off pucks, the low rolling chant building and breaking every time either team got close to the net. Parker stood beside Shane with his arms crossed, eyes never leaving the ice. The third period was airless, both teams locked at one apiece and their offenses working overtime.

Ilya was already past thirty minutes on the ice, more than anyone else on either roster, and Shane had been quietly tracking him all period. He'd taken a knee on knee in the second that hadn't looked great, walked it off fine, but Shane still felt the small clench in his chest every time LeClaire sent his line back out, hoping nobody noticed him getting slow on that side, hoping he wouldn't have to be the one to pull him.

"Solderholm's glove hand looks a step slow on rebounds," Parker said.

"I noticed that in the first too. Might just be fatigue."

"Or that wrist he tweaked in November."

A few feet down their backup goalie, Smith, shifted his weight again. Helmet on, stick tapping impatiently against the boards. He'd been doing it for most of the period—leaning forward every time the puck got near their net, sitting back when it cleared, the restlessness of a backup who hadn't played in three weeks and was itching. 

During the next stoppage, Scott Hunter coasted past the bench while the ice crew worked on a divot near center.

"Did they let you out of the nursing home for this one?" Ilya called over, grinning. "What time is curfew? You need to leave early?"

"Fuck off, Rozanov," Hunter said, without slowing down.

Ilya looked extremely pleased with himself and Shane had to bite the inside of his mouth.

Beside Ilya, Rykov muttered something low in Russian, almost lost under the noise of the building resetting for play. "At his age, the only thing still hard is his stick."

Ilya threw his head back in a laugh, and clapped Rykov once on the back.

Shane shifted his gaze back to the ice, but something about the comment bothered him. It wasn't even different from the kind of thing Ilya or any of the others said constantly. But there was something underneath the words, like Rykov hadn't said it to be funny at all.

He was probably overthinking. 

They ended up winning, Ilya taking the goal three minutes into overtime. Shane tried to hide his own wince when the team slammed him into the boards in celebration, the same knee assimilating all that extra weight, and just hoped it didn't get more fucked up.

The locker room afterward was rowdy from the overtime win—always louder than a regulation goal. Shane moved through with his bag, working the room with the same checklist he ran after every game, while Parker split off toward the d-men.

He checked Solderholm's wrist first, had him flex and extend and got a "feels fine" that everyone loved to say whether it was true or not. He did a quick check-in with two of the forwards who'd taken hits, nothing that needed more than ice and a conversation about morning skate.

He found Ilya at his stall, chest gear off, working through the rest of it while guys passed by clapping him on the shoulder, taking the congratulations without much more than a nod. Quieter than he usually was after a goal like that—like the adrenaline had already burned off and left him tired.

Shane was finishing up tape on the stall beside his, smoothing the last strip down over a shoulder, when he caught Ilya rotating the knee slowly, testing it without really thinking about it.

"Rozanov." Ilya looked up. "After showers and press, come find me in the training room."

Ilya looked up at him, no quip back or crooked grin. He just nodded.

Shane gave him forty minutes, which he'd accounted for and it gave him time to restock his bag and update the injury reports. 

The whole arena was quiet by the time Ilya got there, and Shane had the table ready, thinking through what he needed since the second period.

Ilya's hair was still damp from the shower, only wearing a pair of shorts and his shower shoes with a towel wrapped around his neck. The bruising on his knee was already visible, a deep mottled red that would go purple by morning, sitting right on the lateral side of the joint where the other guy's knee had caught him. He sat down on the edge of it without being told, which was its own kind of tell.

"Hey," Shane said, catching his gaze briefly. 

"Hello." His softly accented tone sounded exhausted.

Shane crouched in front of him and started with his hands. He pressed along the joint line and Ilya's jaw tightened but he didn't make a sound—checking the medial side, then the lateral, watching Ilya's face as much as feeling what was underneath. He moved the knee slowly, tracking where the resistance changed.

"How'd it feel in OT?" Shane asked gently.

"Fine."

"How'd it actually feel?"

"Stiff. Tighter than usual on the push off."

"Okay." Shane kept moving, working the quad above the joint now. "I'm not seeing instability. Bruised, probably some soft tissue irritation. You're going to be sore tomorrow."

Ilya huffed. "I am aware of this."

Shane pressed into the muscle belly of the quad and Ilya's breath went out through his nose, sharp. "There it is."

"That's—blyat." 

Shane worked through it, slow sustained pressure until he felt the tissue give slightly under his hands. 

Ilya said nothing as Shane stood, his eyes following every movement Shane was making the same way Shane was tracking his. 

"Lie on your side. Left side down."

Ilya shifted, got himself settled on the table with the towel bunched under his head as Shane pulled the stool around. He found the IT band by feel, ran his thumb along it, and Ilya's face scrunched up, but he didn't make a noise.

Shane worked slowly, waiting for the tissue to respond. Ilya's breathing evened out gradually. 

"Good game," Shane said quietly.

"You waited a long time to say that."

"I was busy."

"Mm." 

Shane moved to his hip, feeling where the joint caught. Ilya let him move his leg without trying to help, which was harder for some people than it sounded. He'd always been good at going passive when Shane needed him to, trusting that Shane knew what to do with him.

It reminded him of school, back when Shane was still learning this—Ilya stretched out on the secondhand table they'd kept in the gym at home, letting Shane practice on him with no actual injury to work from, just the shape of a body and where everything sat under the skin. Shane had been so careful and clinical back then, until he wasn't. Until most nights ended with Shane bent over that table instead.

Their eyes met and held a second. Ilya's mouth curved at one corner, and Shane felt his own face go warm before he looked back down at the joint, hands still moving.

"What do you think of Rykov?" Shane asked. 

Ilya considered it, his body relaxing even more under Shane. "He is good, I think. Reads the ice well in practice. Did not play tonight, so."

"LeClaire's call."

"Yes." 

They were both quiet for a few moments and Ilya's eyes closed. After a minute he said, "Will be nice to have someone to speak Russian with."

Shane's hands didn't falter but he bit back the response that climbed up his throat quickly—I speak Russian—because he did, passably, enough to follow a conversation and be followed in return. But he knew what Ilya meant. It wasn't the same as someone who'd grown up with it in their mouth, who thought in it when he was tired or frustrated or didn't feel like translating himself. Shane knew that. He just didn't like picturing the easy version of Ilya that Rykov might get access to now, the one Shane only got in pieces, in the dark, when Ilya forgot to switch back.

"That's cool," he said instead, feeling a bit stupid as soon as he said it. 

Ilya made a sound that meant he didn't believe that, but was going to let it go, which was a grace Shane appreciated. He finished the last pass and didn't move right away, just rested his hand on Ilya's hip, the heel of his palm against the curve of bone. Ilya's breathing had gone slow and even.

"Hey," Shane said. "You can sit up."

Ilya pushed himself upright slowly. Shane stayed on the stool, making them eye level, and Ilya looked at him for a moment without saying anything.

Then he leaned forward and kissed him, soft as ever, his hand coming up to rest against the side of Shane's face, thumb moving once along his cheekbone and the freckles he so openly adored. It was one of Shane's favorite kind of kisses, the sweet ones that weren't leading anywhere, but somehow meant more.

When they finally pulled apart, Ilya didn't go far, their foreheads meeting and eyes closed.

"Ice tonight," Shane whispered. "Twenty minutes."

"As if you won't be the one wrapping it on my leg, Hollander."

"You're lucky to be living with the assistant AT I guess."

Ilya hummed, leaning to brush his lips against Shane's again. "The luckiest."

__

The social media team had taken over half the practice facility's lounge, ring lights and a tripod crowding the space where the ping pong table usually lived. Madison, the team's social media manager, had a clipboard with a list of trends that made every single player groan when she read them out loud, and two interns hovering behind her with phones already filming the reactions, because apparently that was content too.

"Absolutely not," Marlow said, when she got to the one involving a chair and synchronized choreography. "I have a fucking reputation to maintain."

"You made a TikTok account called Cliff's Notes, your reputation is already down the drain, buddy." Connors called out from across the room.

"That's different. That's educational."

"You made a six-minute video mansplaining how vaccines work and then argued with nurses in the comments."

"And," Hammersmith chimed in, "don't forget the one where he tried explaining Roe vs. Wade and somehow ended up explaining the Electoral College instead."

"And got both terribly wrong," someone else added.

Shane hid a laugh behind his hand, pressed against the wall as the room erupted into laughter and the roast of Cliff Marlow. And unsurprisingly, Madison ended up having to stand on a table to get all of their attention again. It was like wrangling a herd of feral kittens.

Eventually everyone started cooperating, which then turned into secretly competing to be the funniest one on camera while loudly insisting they hated it. Connors turned out to be weirdly good at the dance one. St-Simon refused to participate in anything that required him to lip sync in English and got a pass. Doucette knocked over a light stand and then helpfully filmed the cleanup for "behind the scenes content."

Shane ended up hovering near the snack table, off the clock with a rare gap in his schedule, mostly just enjoying watching grown men be idiots on command. Ilya got roped into "Hockey Slang or Sex Position," and answered each one with complete, unblinking confidence—wrong more often than not, and somehow making everything sound filthy. Ilya was good at anything involving an audience, no self-consciousness at all, milking every beat for the camera.

When it was over he peeled off from the group, crossed the room to where Shane was standing with a granola bar half-unwrapped, and leaned down and bit clean through it, straight out of Shane's hand and taking more than half in one go.

"Hey—" Shane jerked the remaining stub back too late, glaring at him while Ilya chewed obnoxiously.

"Asshole."

"Mm, you like it."

Shane blushed.

Ilya grinned and reached up to brush something—lint, an eyelash, nothing—off of Shane's cheek, a small automatic gesture that took maybe two seconds and meant nothing beyond the habit of touching Shane in small ordinary ways.

Shane rolled his eyes and shoved at him, and just as quickly as he'd strode over, Ilya winked and went back to the others.

But across the room, Shane saw him—Rykov, off to the side near the door, not participating, watching the whole thing with the same flat unreadable attention he'd had since intake. Except now his eyes weren't on the group. They were on the spot where Ilya's hand had just been, then up to Shane's face, then over to Ilya.

There was no judgment in his expression that Shane could pinpoint, nothing to clearly identify as wrong, per se. Just careful, quiet attention that made something feel uneasy in the pit of his stomach. It shouldn't have bothered him but it did, and he couldn't have explained why if anyone had asked him to.

__

"I think maybe we should be more careful," Shane said that night, setting down the knife that had been doing a poor job chopping lettuce, because the words had been wrestling to get out for hours and apparently that affected his hand coordination.

Ilya was hunched over the burner, cursing under his breath about the heat being uneven, and after a minute of no response Shane turned to check if he'd even heard him.

"Did you hear me?"

"What?" Ilya looked up, mildly irritated, sucking on the side of his finger like he'd been gravely wounded. "Careful about what? This fucking burner is broken, I turn it to medium and it goes straight to inferno. It burned me. See?"

He held the finger up. It looked completely fine.

"No, I mean—at work. With each other." Shane leaned back against the counter. "Like, in front of people."

Ilya's brows went up, but didn't say anything.

"I don't know. Just—not so much touching. In the hallways, at the facility. Stuff like that."

The kitchen had gone quiet except for the oil, ticking softly in the pan. Ilya looked at him for a long moment like he was waiting for the rest of the sentence to show up.

"Why?" he asked finally. 

Shane dropped his eyes to his socked feet, sliding one over the other. "I don't know, I just think it'd be smart. Lately."

"Lately," Ilya repeated, unconvinced. "The whole team knows about us, Shane."

"Not everyone."

"Anyone with eyes knows about us."

Raising his gaze deliberately, Shane said, "Exactly."

"The team is safe, Shane," Ilya said, sighing. "No one cares, we've talked about this."

Shane chewed on his lip, not knowing what to say. Up until a few days ago he would have probably agreed. 

Ilya fully turned to mirror Shane, leaning against the opposite counter and crossing his arms. "You know Zoe, yes? Video manager?"

Shane blinked at the turn. "Yes. Obviously I know Zoe."

"And you know Marissa, from HR?"

"Yeah, I know Marissa from HR," Shane said slowly, already knowing where this was going.

"That is Zoe's wife."

Shane stared at him. "Yeah, I—yeah, I know that, but it's not the same."

"How is it not the same? They are gay, you are super gay—"

"I'm not sup—it's just different, Ilya, it's not—" Shane dragged a hand through his hair. "I don't know how to explain it. It's not the same as us."

"Why not?"

"Because you're the captain."

"So?"

"That's different and you know it is."

"I do not know this, actually, please explain to me how."

Shane opened his mouth and then closed it again, because the honest answer—I don't know, I don't trust the new guy and I can't explain why— sounded stupid out loud.

"Can we just—try it," Shane said instead. "Like, for a while. I just want to be careful."

Ilya studied him a second, long enough to make the unease feel squirmy, then exhaled and went back to the chicken, jabbing it a little aggressively. "Fine. Less touching, even though that's all you do. Is your fucking job to touch, you touch everyone,  maybe Marlow is your secret lover—"

"Oh my god, just shut up, you big baby."

"I should report you to Marissa for all the touching."

"You're an idiot."

Ilya just grunted, but Shane could tell the tension was dissipating now, so he went back to the lettuce. Neither of them said anything for a minute, just the quiet hum of the range hood and Ilya's spatula against the pan, the two of them drifting around each other across the wide stretch of marble counter that didn't really require either of them to get close at all, and somehow always ended with Ilya crowding in anyway.

"For the record," Shane said after awhile, when he was assembling the salad that he'd probably be the only one eating, "I'm almost ninety-nine percent sure that Beckett has no clue about us and he's been with the team for over a year."

Ilya scoffed behind him. "Beckett has six concussions on his record, you of all people know this."

"I'm just saying."

Shane scraped the tomatoes into a bowl and leaned across Ilya to check the chicken in the pan, still pink at the center. "Turn it down, it's going to burn on the outside before it cooks through."

"Burner's fault." Ilya grumbled, but turned it down anyway.

A few more minutes passed before Ilya glanced back over, the start of something lighter creeping into his face. Shane knew that look all too well.

"So," he said. "What about kitchen?"

"What about it?"

"Hallway is banned." Ilya shrugged. "Kitchen, I do not remember you saying. And I take rules very seriously."

Shane shook his head, but the corner of his mouth had already given him away.

"You're ridiculous," he said.

"Yes." Ilya set the spatula down and crossed the small space between them, slow about it, like he was asking permission with the pace alone. "So?"

Shane let him get close, let him crowd him up against the counter. Ilya's hand found his chin, thumb dragging along his jawline.

"Kitchen is okay," Shane said, his words garbled from how Ilya was holding his face.

Ilya kissed him, tasting like the open beer on the counter and everything else that made him difficult to think around, and Shane leaned into it with both hands finding the front of his shirt.

When they pulled apart Shane stayed close, fingers playing with the hem of Ilya's shirt as he looked up through his lashes. "What exactly would you do to me in the kitchen?"

Ilya's hand slid from his waist and down to palm him through his sweatpants, one slow deliberate squeeze against his mostly soft cock that knocked the air clean out of Shane's chest.

"How hungry are you?" Ilya murmured, his palm moving until Shane began to harden.

Shane's eyes had gone slightly unfocused. "For what?"

"Food, pervert." Another squeeze and Shane's breath stuttered out against Ilya's lips.

"Um—" He was losing the thread entirely, which was exactly what Ilya intended. Then, from somewhere in the back of his brain, a responsible thought surfaced. "We should probably finish cooking. Chicken has to be a hundred and sixty five degrees internally or we'll get salmonella."

Ilya stared at him.

"I'm just saying."

"You are so unsexy sometimes, Hollander." Ilya removed his hand with great ceremony, like he was doing Shane an enormous favor, and picked the spatula back up. "Fine. We eat first."

"Thank you."

Shane reached for plates while the tips of his ears went pink. The argument from earlier was still sitting somewhere in the back of his mind, soft and unresolved—but that was the thing about Ilya. He never let anything stay sharp for too long. Shane wasn't sure if that was a gift or a problem. Tonight it felt like a gift.

__

January treated the Bears well—ten straight wins going into the All-Star break, the type of run that had the whole locker room walking a little differently, that brand of cockiness that came from a team that had been here before. Two back to back Cups will do that. 

Ilya and Marlow were the only Bears heading to Florida, which meant Shane's plans for the break looked a lot like their empty apartment and takeout, which was fine. It was only a few days. Shane could survive without Ilya.

Well. Technically he almost hadn't once. But that was neither here nor there.

It was the last day before the break, and Ilya was up in the offices somewhere working through the media commitments that came with being an All-Star, which he had been complaining about since Wednesday. Shane knew the schedule better than Ilya did at this point because Ilya kept leaving the printed itinerary on the kitchen counter and Shane kept reading it by accident. 

Less than half of the team had come in for optional skate but nobody's heart was fully in it, the general energy of people already mentally somewhere else. Shane was sitting rinkside scrolling through his phone, waiting for Ilya to be done so they could go home, when Marlow coasted up to the boards.

"Hollander."

"What?" Shane answered, not looking up.

"You gonna get off your lazy ass and play or what?"

The spark hit him before Marlow had even finished the sentence—that pull, the hollow in his chest that only one thing in this world could fill. His eyes went straight to the ice. But he hesitated for a second, just long enough for Marlow to catch it.

"Go dig around in the extra gear bin and get out here." He tilted his chin towards the tunnel that led to the equipment room. 

And that's how Shane ended up in borrowed gear ten minutes later, skating out for a friendly game of half-rink scrimmage. 

It never took long for his basic instincts and muscle memory to take over. 

The puck found him and he went, reading everything two seconds ahead the way he'd learned before he was old enough to understand what he was doing. He made a pass that was probably too good for a nothing scrimmage and cut toward the net on instinct, already knowing where the rebound was going to go.

The sound of the puck hitting the back of the net echoed through the rink.

"Oh, come on," Connors said.

"Are you kidding me right now," Beckett groaned. 

"Just as a reminder," Doucette's voice boomed from somewhere behind him, "this is a casual game of four on four with an empty net."

"Sounds like you might be a little intimidated, Douche." 

"You boys going to chit-chat all day or…" Shane smirked, catching the puck on his blade and flipping it with his backhand. 

"Show off," Doucette grumbled. 

Shane skated back up ice and kept his face neutral and his eyes forward and felt the ache that lived right alongside the pleasure of it, the two of them so tangled up he couldn't have separated them even if he'd wanted to. This was what it felt like. This was what it had always felt like. He got it in pieces now and he'd made peace with that, mostly, on most days. Today it just felt closer to the surface than usual.

"Maybe staff should not be allowed to play," Järvinen said after Shane ghosted around him effortlessly.

"He's a ringer," someone shouted. "Parker, did you know your guy was a ringer?"

Shane's face flew to the bench, he'd been so engrossed that he had no idea when Parker had shown up. 

"Yes," Parker said, watching them with barely masked amusement. 

It kept going, everyone loose and dumb with a week off sitting right on the other side of this. Shane let himself have it. He didn't think about anything else, didn't track anyone's stats or watch for compensating strides or think about the look Rykov kept giving him every time they skated close. He just played how he used to play, back when his body was completely his own.

He was somewhere in the middle of actually having fun when Rykov came in on the puck.

It all happened fast, both of them reaching the boards at the same moment, and Rykov's elbow caught him in the ribs as he went past—just an incidental contact that happened a hundred times a game. Except Shane wasn't wearing shoulder pads and the breath left his body all at once and his edge went with it. He went shoulder-first into the boards, the side of his helmet catching the plastic with a deafening crack before he dropped hard to the ice—knee first, hip second.

And in the half second that they were close, he heard Rykov say something in Russian. Words he had no idea that Shane could understand.

You don't belong here.

Shane lay there for a beat, the words sitting behind his ribs where they were probably going stay much longer than the bruise itself.

"What the actual fuck—" Marlow was there fast, Connors right with him.

"Bro," Connors said, to Rykov, looking offended on Shane's behalf.

"Guys, it's cool," Shane said quickly. He got back up on his skates, refusing the hand Marlow tried to give him because he wasn't a fucking child. "I'm good."

Shane pushed off the boards and skated toward Rykov, who was standing at center ice with that same flat expression. Like none of this was interesting to him, like nothing could wipe the boredom off his face.

Shane held out his fist. 

Rykov stared at it for a beat, then looked up at Shane blankly. And then he bumped it.

"Good takeaway," Shane said.

He'd spent years convincing himself that he belonged in any space hockey led him into. But hearing it from a stranger in four words, unraveled all of it in one breath. He turned away before his face could do anything he'd regret.

__

"That's going to be a nasty bruise," Parker whistled, tossing Shane an ice pack.

Shane caught the pack with a wince, sitting on one of the tables up in the training room now, for the first time as a patient. There was something uncomfortable about being on this side of it that had nothing to do with the bruise. He'd spent enough of his life being on this side while someone else stood over him with clinical eyes, and he hated the feelings it drudged up.

"Let me see the ribs."

"They're fine, I'd obviously know if they were fractured."

"Shane."

Shane sighed through his nose and lifted his t-shirt, slipping one arm out of his sleeve. Parker pressed two fingers along his side the same way Shane did on everyone else, and had already checked himself. 

"Nothing broken," Parker said. "But you're going to feel that for a few days."

"Yeah, no shit."

Parker gave him a look. "You shouldn't have been out there without full pads."

"It looks worse than it was."

Parker pressed the ice pack against his ribs and stepped back until he was leaning against the opposite table. "When's the last time you took a day off?" 

Shane frowned. "I take days off."

A judgemental brow raised. "Not one that involves coming in to reorganize the supply cabinet."

"That needed reorganizing."

"You should go to Florida."

Shane looked at him, confused. "But the league has their own trainers that work the All—"

"Not for work, I mean with Roz. Take a break, sit by a pool. Relax for once in your life."

Shane opened his mouth.

"Don't tell me you're relaxed."

He closed it. 

Before he could say anything else, the door banged open.

"What the fuck happened?"

Ilya's eyes landed on Shane immediately—on the table, shirt half off, ice pack—and his face did that thing when it went very still and controlled, which was somehow worse than if he'd just reacted loudly.

"I heard you went down," he said, crossing the room.

"I'm fine—"

"Let me see." He reached for Shane's shirt and Shane let him lift the rest of it off because arguing would take longer and accomplish nothing. Ilya's eyes moved over the bruise already going dark, jaw tight.

"It was just a scrimmage," Shane said. "These things happen."

Ilya didn't respond. His hand moved to the bruise, barely touching it, fingertips just grazing the skin. Then he shifted, palm sliding until it found what it always found without being directed there. It was warm under his hand. 

Years of that hand finding that spot, the unconscious arithmetic of it, how it had started as something cautious and now was closer to worship. Shane had stopped being able to feel the scar from the outside a long time ago, but he always felt Ilya's hand on it.

"Are you hurt?"

"No." Shane shook his head, holding Ilya's gaze and keeping his voice even. "I went down wrong. I'm fine."

Ilya looked at him for a long moment. Shane gave him nothing to work with and after a moment Ilya exhaled, the fight going out of his shoulders, his hand still flat against the scar.

Parker awkwardly cleared his throat from across the room. "Anyway." He picked up his bag, already heading for the door. "Rozanov. Take Hollander to Florida. That's an order." 

He rapped on the door frame once without waiting for a response and let it click shut behind him. The training room went quiet. 

"Florida?" Ilya's eyes were so blue under the fluorescent lights.

Shane scrunched his nose, helpless under the look Ilya was giving him. "Okay."

__

The balcony door was open, but it didn't offer any relief to the Florida heat pressing in, thick and salty, sticking to their skin. 

Shane had both hands wrapped around the top of the tufted headboard, using it as leverage as his body moved to the rhythm they'd set, which was growing in intensity with every thrust. Ilya's hands were on his hips, thumbs digging into the dimples at the base of spine. 

They were both breathing heavily, sounds from the pool below barely audible over Shane's whimpering and Ilya's constant babbling in Russian, both of them so lost in the heat of all of it to even register anything else. 

Ilya's chest pressed flat against Shane's back, damp with sweat, his mouth finding the back of Shane's neck—tongue dragging slowly over his skin, sucking at the sensitive spot there until Shane's whole body broke out in goosebumps. Shane turned his head as far as it would go and Ilya's mouth found his, messy and uncoordinated, kissing him deep while his cock dragged almost all the way out and then back in, changing to a slow grind.

"Fuck, right there," Shane moaned, his mouth falling away from Ilya's as his head dropped forward.

"Yes," Ilya said, fingers clawing at his hips hard enough to leave marks.

Shane could feel his orgasm building fast, but every time he got close Ilya would shift the angle, slow things down just enough, keeping him right on the edge and starting to feel genuinely cruel.

"Oh god, Ilya." His knuckles had gone white around the headboard. "I'm so close."

"Not yet."

And then Ilya was dragging them toward the edge of the bed, lifting one leg to plant a foot on the mattress, and Shane had no choice but to go face-first into the sheets with his hips held up by Ilya's grip, who drove into him hard enough to punch a series of completely incoherent sounds out of his throat.

"Ilya—" Shane's voice was muffled against the bedding. "Please, I need to come—"

"Not yet," Ilya said again, slowing to almost nothing, which at this point was just psychological warfare. One hand dragged up and down Shane's spine, soothing, letting Shane clench around him where he was buried deep and barely moving.

"You are so beautiful," Ilya said in Russian. "So perfect in this light. Made for me."

Shane could never respond when Ilya did this—had never gotten used to how he worshipped him so openly, even after all this time. So he stayed in Ilya's language, because it felt like the only thing big enough to hold what he was feeling.

"I love you," Shane breathed into the sheets. "I love you so fucking much."

"Yes, baby." Ilya leaned forward, pressing his lips to the notches of Shane's spine, beginning to move again so each kiss landed in time with his cock finding Shane's prostate. "I love you very much."

Shane rolled his hips back, trying to take back some control, and when that wasn't enough he took matters entirely into his own hands.

They went sideways across the mattress, the sheets tangling, both of them grabbing at each other with the automatic competence of two people who knew exactly how the other was built.

They wrestled for it, neither of them serious and neither of them letting go, sweating from the heat, the mattress taking the weight of both of them shifting and repositioning. Shane got his thigh in the right place, leveraged his weight, and came out on top.

He sat up triumphantly, leaning forward to grip Ilya's wrists above his head and smiling down at him. 

"I win."

Ilya smiled back, his curls stuck to his face, flushed and looking the most relaxed Shane had seen him in months. He was so beautiful like this, the sunshine filtering through the wall of glass and turning everywhere it touched into gold. 

"What do you win, Hollander?" 

Shane's lips softly met his, sliding his tongue into Ilya's mouth in lieu of an answer. 

He released one of Ilya's wrists and pulled away just enough to cup his palm in front of Ilya's mouth, a silent command. 

Ilya spit in his hand, his eyes locked onto Shane's, and then Shane reached back and wrapped his hand around Ilya's rigid cock, slicking it up with the spit and precum that was beading out of his slit. And then he shifted just enough to lift his hips and guide his cock back into his hole. 

They both moaned as Shane sat up, arching his back as his body stretched around his cock, inch by inch until he was fully seated. 

For a moment, they stayed like that, adjusting to the new angle, their chests heaving and eyes locked. Shane squeezed around him, watching Ilya's face go slack. 

"Hold on tight, Rozanov," Shane said finally after a minute, his eyes glinting down at him.

It went quickly after that, no longer held back with any restraint—not like they'd been that restrained to begin with—and Shane rode the fuck out him. His thighs shaking with the effort, the rhythm dissolving into something more desperate as both of them raced toward it. Ilya came first, loud enough that some distant corner of Shane's brain registered the open balcony door but didn't care even slightly.

He loved this—using Ilya's body after he was already spent, watching it move across his face, Ilya's hands gripping his waist hard while he tried to hold himself together. Loved how it felt after, the glide from Ilya's cum inside of him almost unbearably good, so full and claimed and entirely his.

Ilya wrapped a loose hand around Shane's cock and it only took two strokes before Shane came, spilling across Ilya's chest and stomach, his whole body shuddering through it.

He might have been louder than Ilya.

Collapsing forward immediately, Shane dropped his full dead weight onto Ilya's chest, his heart hammering.

"Fucking hell, Hollander," Ilya said.

Shane had no idea how much time passed. Eventually his pulse evened out, nothing left but the stickiness between them and a bone-deep satisfaction that made even the Florida heat feel like a reasonable trade-off.

"Your ribs are okay?" Ilya asked quietly, fingers gingerly touching the sensitive skin. Shane had completely forgotten about the bruise, which had turned deep shades of purple now.

"Mmhm, yeah."

He tipped his chin up, resting it on Ilya's chest and looking at him through heavy eyes. Ilya reached up and slid his fingers through his hair, long enough now to tuck a strand behind Shane's ear.

"We should go on vacation more often," Ilya said softly.

Leaning into his palm, Shane's eyes closed, humming in agreement. 

__

The last time Shane had been in Florida it was for a game, and he'd spent it in a cold arena under bright lights with his medical bag strapped across his chest.

Now he was in the sunshine, with nothing to worry about except applying sunscreen. Before they'd left the room, Shane had tried to put some on Ilya, but apparently the suggestion alone was offensive—I am Russian, the sun can not burn me and I do not want to smell like stupid coconuts, Hollander.

The resort pool sprawled out in front of him, impossibly blue and everything looked slightly unreal—the palm trees, the water, the general wildness that happened when you put thirty of the league's best somewhere warm with nothing to do until eight o'clock. 

Someone had started a game of water volleyball which quickly turned into something ridiculously competitive because they were all overgrown children. And right in the center of it all was Ilya, the worst of them all and clearly not understanding a single rule and making up his own with delusional confidence. 

Shane had dark shades covering his face, sprawled out on a chaise with an open book lying face down on his stomach. It was turning out to be extremely difficult to concentrate when a very wet and loose Ilya was on display in front of him.

"You're with the Bears, right? I saw you come in with Rozanov."

He turned his head toward the voice. She was one of the wives, sitting on the chaise beside him, slathering tanning oil across her shoulders. He didn't know which player she belonged to. When she ran her hands under the strings at her chest, he looked away, feeling heat crawl up the back of his neck. 

"Um, yeah," he said. "Athletic trainer."

"That's nice they let you travel for this, it's always such a good time." She had a warm, easy manner about her, probably the type of person who'd talk to anyone. "That's an impressive bruise. I thought maybe you were a player."

Shane looked down at his bruised ribs that were peeking out from the towel across his stomach.

"Oh. That's from—" 

"Could you get my back for me?"

Shane blinked at the bottle of tanning oil she was already holding out toward him and felt the heat in his neck migrate directly to his face. His hands, which spent the better part of every day on men's bodies, suddenly had no idea what to do with themselves. 

"Oh—yeah, sure," he said, because what else was he going to say, and took the bottle.

She turned, pulling her long dark hair over one shoulder, and Shane uncapped the oil and poured some into his palm and proceeded to apply it with the same energy as a man defusing a bomb, staying clear of anything that required navigating around a strap. Done in under ten seconds. 

"Thanks," she said brightly, turning back around.

"Yeah, no problem." Shane recapped the bottle and handed it back and picked up his book and opened to the same page he'd been staring at for the last twenty minutes.

He glanced toward the pool to find Ilya's eyes already on him, wiggling his brows at Shane with absolutely no subtlety whatsoever. Shane rolled his eyes back at him, restraining himself from flipping Ilya off.

She settled back against her chaise, reaching for a drink sweating condensation on the side table between them.

"So how long have you been with the team?"

"This is my first season," Shane said, not looking up from his book in hopes of seeming disinterested in small-talk.

"Oh, so this is your first All-Stars trip?"

"Yeah."

"You're going to love the social tonight, it's always such a good time. Very low key, open bar—" she laughed a little, "—which, honestly, is the only way to survive in a room full of hockey players."

Shane hummed. A beat passed and he turned a page he hadn't even read. 

"So you work with Rozanov…god, I can only imagine what that's like." She kept going. Shane sighed to himself. "My husband always jokes that they need therapy from the emotional damage they go through after playing him."

"Yeah," Shane snorted. "That checks out."

She reached for her sunglasses, and leaned towards Shane with a conspiring look on her face. "Did he bring anyone with him? His private life is like—such a mystery. Nobody even knows if he's single, he's never spotted out with anyone."

Shane kept his eyes on his book, the heat rushing back to his face. "Not sure," he said, keeping his voice as casual as possible. "I just work with him. I don't really ask personal questions."

She pursed her plump lips at that, looking disappointed before settling back into her chair. "Bummer, I was hoping for some hot goss to share with my WAG group."

Before Shane had a chance to say anything, the man himself hopped out of the pool and strode towards them. 

"Hollander," Ilya snapped his fingers, hovering over Shane and dripping water onto him, "Do you have money on you? I lost the bet."

Shane frowned, closing his book and slipping it onto the table next to him before it got ruined, and looked up at him. "You were betting?"

"Obviously. Is no fun without money involved." And then he shook himself out like a wet dog, directly over Shane.

"What the fuck—" Shane lurched forward, grabbing the towel and tossing it at Ilya and Ilya caught it, grinning widely. "I'm not paying your gambling debt, idiot."

Ilya didn't say anything, instead just dragging the towel through his hair, ruffling his curls up until they were wild and flying in every direction. Shane had to keep his face neutral, but god, his boyfriend was hot as hell like this.

He tossed the towel back at Shane with a wink and without another word, sauntered back off and Shane was glad his glasses were so dark, so no one could see his eyes staring blatantly at those swim trucks sticking obscenely to every curve and crevice of his insane ass.

When Shane turned back, he realized he was being watched, and her expression had changed. He followed her eyeline before he'd even fully processed why his stomach had dropped—his scar, sitting right there under the Florida sun, nothing between it and the world.

As casually as possible, he pretended to wipe the water off his stomach, and then left the towel there to cover it again. And he could feel her eyes tracking every movement. 

He braced for it, but it still made his heart race when he heard, in a quieter voice, "You and Rozanov have the exact same scar," she said, her sunglasses off now, looking at him with open curiosity.

Shane opened his mouth, but he didn't know what to say.

"Babe!" A voice boomed from somewhere behind them. "Jess and the kids just got here, they're looking for you—"

She turned, already reaching for her bag. "Oh, perfect timing—" and just like that she was up and gone, the conversation dissolving before it went anywhere.

Shane sat very still for a moment. Then he pulled his shirt from under the chaise and put it on.

__

Shane tugged on the sleeve of his linen shirt, which had stopped being a breathable choice hours ago, uncomfortably feeling trickles of sweat trail down the length of his spine. Apparently, Florida didn't cool down after the sun sat, and the humidity in the air made it feel like he was wading through water. 

It didn't help that he was shoulder to shoulder with what felt like half the NHL on a rooftop with nowhere for the air to go but back into the crowd.

"Fuck, I love this," Ilya said, after downing half a beer in one gulp. "Imagine living somewhere with summer all the time, Hollander."

Shane couldn't think of anything worse, looking at his boyfriend in disdain. But warmth looked so good on him, even with sweat beading around his hairline, his curls more wild and untamed than usual. 

"I like winter," he said a bit dumbly. But then his eyes fell to the sheen of sweat on Ilya's chest, glistening underneath the starry lights strung across the roof, and Shane momentarily reconsidered his stance.

Ilya was wildly distracted, a veteran All-Star who loved an opportunity to see everyone that he antagonized on the ice and have the chance to do it off as well. But even then, it was friendly. There was a camaraderie that only existed in spaces like these, rivalries checked at the door, everyone running on the same fumes of a long season and a rare week off.

Shane, for his part, was doing his best to enjoy all of it, but he'd been feeling off since the pool that afternoon. He'd been talking himself down for hours, that whatever had been exposed wouldn't linger once the day was over.

"Oh look—" Ilya elbowed him, bringing him back into the moment. "Is Scott Hunter—"

"Ilya." Shane groaned. "Just let him be—"

"Hey, Hunter!"

From near the bar, a dark head turned. Hunter's eyes found Ilya immediately with the reluctant resignation of a man who had been dealing with Rozanov long enough not to trust him.

Objectively, Scott Hunter was a very attractive man. He'd been in the league since Shane was a teenager, and if Shane was being honest with himself—which he tried not to be, about this specifically—Hunter had probably factored into the slow, confusing process of Shane figuring out why girls did nothing for him, whereas a certain kind of sports magazine spread definitely did.

That was information that Ilya could never know.

Hunter made his way over at Ilya's beckoning, drink in hand and when he got to them, he exhaled loudly. "Rozanov."

"Hunter." Ilya beamed. "You must be happy, yes? That this year is so close to your retirement community? Makes the commute very fast."

"Faster than your fucking backhand," Hunter shot back, which only delighted Ilya more and then turned to Shane, extending a hand. "Scott Hunter."

"Shane Hollander." He really hoped the heat disguised the flush he could feel rising. "I work for the Bears. Athletic trainer."

"Good to meet you." Hunter had one of those faces that had only gotten better with time, which Shane was noting in a purely observational capacity. "You draw the short straw traveling with this one?"

"Something like that," Shane said, smirking at Ilya.

"He is very lucky to travel with me," Ilya said, his fingers just barely grazing Shane's sweltering skin over his shirt where no one could see. "I am very good company."

"Mmhm, I'm sure." Hunter rolled his eyes.

"Very charming and handsome—"

"Very modest," Shane interjected.

Hunter laughed and Shane's cheeks felt impossibly warm, and he was extremely grateful for the fact that his drink gave him something to do with his hands.

"How long have you been with Boston?" 

"First season," Shane said, taking a sip from the watered down mocktail that had been sweating in his hand for the last hour.

"Tough bench to work." Hunter tilted his chin at Ilya. "Especially with this one throwing himself in the way of anything that moves."

"He's not that bad," Shane said, glancing at Ilya and scrunching his nose. "Most of the time."

Hunter's eyes moved between them for just a second, and Shane became very aware of Ilya's hand that was still hot against his back.

"Roz!" Marlow appeared out of nowhere and Shane startled at the sheer volume of his voice suddenly. He slung an arm around Ilya's shoulders. "I need you to settle an argument—"

Ilya looked at Marlow warily. "What argument?"

"Doesn't matter, come on—" Marlow was steering them away before Ilya had agreed to anything, and Ilya went, glancing back at Shane once with a look that was half apology and half amusement before the crowd swallowed them both.

Shane quickly downed the rest of his drink and dropped his empty glass on a tray as a waiter shouldered past them. 

"So, how'd you end up in athletic training?" Hunter asked. It sounded like a genuine question, like he was actually curious rather than filling silence. 

Shane took a breath. "I played juniors, up in Kingston," he said. "Ended up going a different direction and landed here."

It was the short version. Simpler.

"Are you good at it?" Hunter asked, after taking a drink. It left a little foam on his lip and somehow, even Scott Hunter could make that look attractive.

"The training?" Shane asked. "Yeah, I think so."

Just then another waiter came by, and Shane quickly grabbed another drink off the non-alcoholic side of the tray. When he glanced back up, Hunter was looking at him curiously.

"I meant hockey."

"Oh." Shane shrugged. "Yeah. I was pretty good."

Hunter's mouth curved up. "What position?"

"Guess."

He had no idea why he said that. He took a long sip of whatever ginger thing was in his glass and kept his expression neutral.

Hunter leaned back against the rail behind them. He took a long pull from his beer and looked Shane over—arms, legs, build, the way he was standing. Shane's chin came up slightly despite himself, shoulders pulling back. He could feel the heat in his face.

"Well, definitely not a d-man or goalie."

"Why not?"

"Too short."

"I'm not that short," Shane said, rolling his eyes.

"What are you, five ten?"

"Five eleven."

"So five ten," Hunter said, tipping his bottle at him. And then said, "Center."

Shane bit the inside of his mouth, trying to disguise his smile, but he nodded. "Good guess."

Hunter took another drink before tilting his head, eyes still watching Shane.

"Kingston, huh? Which team?"

"Frontenacs."

His brows went up slightly. "Wow, so you were actually good."

"I said I was," Shane said quickly, the corner of his mouth pulling despite himself, that twinge of pride he didn't often get to feel in his chest. The Frontenacs felt like a different lifetime ago—a different body, really. He'd been captain going into his final year, which was the year everything was supposed to happen, the year scouts showed up and futures got decided. He didn't let himself think about that version of things very often. It didn't do anything useful.

Hunter was quiet for a moment, turning his beer bottle slowly in his hand. Then, casual as ever, asked, "So what happened?"

Shane looked at him. Hunter wasn't looking back this time, instead watching the crowd, giving Shane the space to answer or not answer, which somehow made it easier.

"Just wasn't in the cards." Shane said quietly after a beat. 

Thankfully, Hunter didn't push, and Shane wondered if the grief he usually kept buried underneath the surface was being worn on his face. He dropped his gaze.

"Nice pivot," Hunter said. "Most trainers don't have a background in hockey, that gives you a nice edge, understanding it better than most."

Before Shane could respond, someone came over and said something to Hunter that he didn't catch, but Hunter just nodded and finished his beer, giving Shane one last glance.

"Nice to meet you, Shane." He pushed off the railing. "Tell Rozanov I said go fuck himself."

"He'll be thrilled."

Hunter disappeared into the crowd and Shane stood there for a second, still warm in the face, and puffed out his cheeks in a long exhale. It wasn't often that he opened the lid on that box and now he felt weird in the aftermath, wanting to close it before his mind took the opportunity to remind him of everything he could have been. 

How he could have been one of these players, elbow deep and swapping stories about games, instead of just the trainer hiding in the shadows with his back against the rail. 

He looked up and found Ilya across the rooftop without even trying, how he always found him in a crowd without meaning to. Ilya was mid-conversation with someone, hands moving constantly, curls wild from the humidity—and then, like he felt it, he looked over.

Their eyes met across the noise and the string lights and the crowd moving between them. Something passed between them, something that didn't need words after long enough. Ilya held his gaze for just a beat, then said something to whoever he was talking to, clapped them once on the shoulder, and came over.

"Your face is very red."

"It's hot," Shane said.

Ilya grabbed Shane's drink from his hand, took a sip and handed it back. His eyes hadn't moved. "What did Hunter say to you?"

"We were just talking about hockey."

Ilya stared at him before looking away and grumbling, "He is so annoying. I don't know why he even came over."

Shane snorted. "You literally called him over."

Ilya sniffed and rubbed the side of his nose. 

And then Shane recognized it, his mouth falling open. "Are you jealous?"

"Of what?" Ilya deadpanned. "His AARP discount?"

Shane laughed, quiet enough that it stayed between them and some of the tightness in his chest loosened by a fraction. He looked out at the rooftop, the string lights swaying, the crowd getting louder as the drinks flowed.

Ilya didn't say anything else. Just stood there beside him, close enough that their arms touched, the silence between them turning into familiar comfort.

It was enough. It was more than enough, actually.

__

The energy coming back from the All-Star break was palpable, guys restless after a week off, just long enough to make them hungry for it again. They were having an exceptional season, and if they kept the momentum going, they all knew they were looking at a third straight Playoff run. But they also knew better not to talk about it, superstitions already falling into place as the season tightened.

Shane and Parker had their hands full the last couple of days, getting the team ready for their first home game in almost two weeks, the training room buzzing with a non-stop flow of taping limbs before practice.

Currently, Shane had Rykov on his table, working on his shoulder and Shane couldn't help himself from remembering how that shoulder had knocked him down onto the ice, which was the last time they'd interacted with one another. But Rykov offered nothing than his usual dead-eyed stare as his eyes stayed glued on the wall over Shane's shoulder while he worked. 

"Rykov!" 

Both of their heads turned at Ilya's voice. He came through the door with a giant grin on his face, the pre-game energy rolling off him. "I talked to LeClaire," he said in Russian. "You're in tonight."

Rykov straightened slightly, nodding. "I won't disappoint you," he said back in Russian. 

"Good." Ilya rapped his knuckles on the side of the table, giving Shane a quick glance.

And then Marlow appeared in the doorway behind him with a soccer ball and the room immediately turned rowdy. The guys hanging around were on it within seconds. Someone got a foot on it, someone else intercepted, Ilya was in the middle of it immediately, and it devolved from there, loud and completely stupid.

"Anyone not on a table," Parker called out, without looking up, "get out of my room. Now."

It took another thirty seconds and one near-miss with a supply cart before they actually went, Ilya last, still arguing a call that nobody was officiating, the noise of them trailing down the hallway and fading.

The training room went quiet.

"These fucking Americans made him soft," Rykov said in Russian, low and to himself.

Shane's eyes moved before he could stop them, following Rykov's eyeline to the door they'd all just walked out of.

When he looked back, Rykov was watching him. Shane held his gaze for exactly one second and then he looked down at his work, ran his thumb along the last strip of tape, and said, "You're good to go."

Rykov didn't say anything as he slid off the table, and whatever just happened between them hung in the air as he walked away.

For a second Shane stood there with the roll of tape in his hands, his heart racing from the words getting stuck in his chest, anger pinching at him. And he had no idea what to do about it.

"That's everyone," Parker said from across the room, snapping off a glove. "Few hours before game time. Go eat something."

Shane looked at his watch.

"Yeah," he said, reaching for his jacket. "I've got somewhere to be."

__

"You're late."

Shane shrugged off his jacket and dropped into the chair across from Palmer, looking around at the cafe with his nose already wrinkling. It was packed, every table full, the espresso machine whirring every thirty seconds. 

He was still trying to shake off the annoyance sitting under his skin, which had only gotten worse on the ride over—he'd gotten a driver who apparently believed noon was an appropriate time to subject a stranger to thumping club music at a volume that had rattled his back teeth loose.

"Why did you pick this place? It's so loud."

"It wasn't loud twenty minutes ago." Palmer stirred sugar into his coffee without looking up. "If you'd been on time."

"I was busy, one of us has an actual job."

"You seem grumpy," Palmer looked at Shane over the rim of his glasses before raising his cup and taking a sip, his pinky sticking out. "Maybe you should try the chamomile." 

"I'm fine." Shane scowled, picking up the menu and glancing over it quickly. 

"Shane."

"What.” 

"What's wrong?"

Shane sighed, his shoulders dropping. It was pointless ever trying to hide anything from Palmer, the man who could read him with one glance across a cafe just as well as he did in an exam room. 

"I don't know," he said honestly. "It was just a weird morning."

The server came over before any more could be said, and they both ordered sandwiches and Shane did, in fact, get the chamomile. 

"Weird how?" Palmer asked, picking right back up as soon as they were alone again. 

Shane thought about it for a second, but he still couldn't really put a finger on what was bothering him so much. The thing about Rykov was that there was nothing he could point to directly—no single moment that would hold up, nothing that didn't sound paranoid when he tried to arrange it into words. Just a collection of small things that kept accumulating, sitting in his gut with no clean shape to them.

"I don't know," he said. "Forget it."

Palmer stared at him for a minute, trying to read whatever was in between the lines. Whatever he saw must have been enough to move on. 

"So," Palmer sat back in his chair, crossing his legs. "You're looking very tan. Did you take a little tropical vacation?"

Shane flushed at the memory of Florida, because he couldn't help it, not when most of his time spent not at events was spent getting fucked to an inch of his life over every surface of their hotel suite. Not to mention the balcony, which they'd reserved for sunrise the morning they were flying out, and Shane had come with his bruised ribs against the railing and Ilya's hand clamped over his mouth. 

"Uh, no." He cleared his throat. "Not really. I just went with Ilya to Florida for the All-Stars."

Palmer sighed dramatically. "Must be nice. You know, maybe I should think of buying a home down there, might as well follow the bachelor retirement plan."

Shane's tea was dropped off just then, giving him something to do with his hands before asking, "So still going through with the divorce, huh?"

Palmer inhaled deeply, his whole broad chest expanding, before saying, "It's not exactly up to me."

"But…do you still love her?"

Palmer looked at him for a second, like he was surprised Shane had asked directly. Then he picked up his coffee. "Yes."

"What are you going to do about it?"

At that, Palmer laughed, but there was no humor behind it. He glanced towards the window, where a large glass pane separated them from the dreary Boston afternoon. When he looked back at Shane, his dark eyes looked sadder. "Sometimes you have to love something you can't have, Shane. You of all people know that."

Shane's brows cinched together. "It's not the same thing."

"No, it's not."

Their food came eventually, and they fell into companionable small talk while they ate, leaving the heavy topics behind and mostly talking about things that didn't really matter—Palmer's new apartment and his upstairs neighbor from hell, the book Shane was reading, a reality dating show Palmer had gotten obsessed with, and so on.

After their plates were cleared, Shane glanced at his phone reluctantly. 

"Ilya's going to be here in a few minutes," he said. "He's picking me up on his way home. We have a few hours before we need to be at the arena."

When he looked back up, Palmer was studying him carefully, and for a moment, Shane wondered if there was food on his face. He wiped his mouth anyway. 

"What is it?"

Palmer just shrugged, saying nonchalantly, "I was just wondering how things are going between you two."

"Good," Shane said reflexively.

"Good," Palmer repeated.

"...okay?"

"Relax, Shane." Palmer leaned forward and dropped his elbows on the table. "It wasn't a loaded question."

"It felt loaded."

"Most things do, with you." He said, giving Shane a pointed look. "How are things actually going?"

Shane focused his gaze on the little succulent in the center of the table, which he was fairly certain was plastic. 

"Things are good," he said, slightly less quickly this time. "Florida was—yeah. It was really good actually."

Palmer waited, giving Shane the rope and letting him decide what to do with it.

Shane fidgeted with the tea string hanging out of his mug, then finally said with resignation, "There's a guy."

"Oh…" Palmer's brows shot up in surprise, his body going a little rigid, sitting up straighter.

"No, no," Shane said quickly. "Jesus, not like that, you idiot. I mean there's a new guy on the team. Something is off about him, but I can't explain it."

Palmer relaxed, asking, "Off how?"

"I don't know." Shane looked at the window, his eyes going a little unfocused. "It's just—small things."

Palmer was quiet for a moment. "Does Ilya know?"

"No." Shane shook his head quickly. "And I can't—there's nothing to tell him. That's the thing. There's nothing I could say that wouldn't just sound like—" he stopped.

"Like what?"

"Like nothing. Like I'm making something out of nothing."

Palmer considered that. "But you don't think it's nothing."

"No," Shane said quietly. "I don't."

The cafe was growing quieter around them, now that the lunch rush was dissipating, so Shane shifted in his seat, leaning closer on his elbows.

"He's Russian, the new guy. And Ilya—" he paused, trying to find the right words for it. "Ilya hasn't spoken to his family in years, not since his dad died. You know that. And I think having someone around who just—I don't know. I think it's nice for him or something."

Palmer nodded slowly.

"So I can't say anything," Shane said. "Even if I wanted to. Because what am I going to say? I have a bad feeling about the one person on the team who makes Ilya feel less alone?" He shook his head. "It would just sound like—"

"Jealousy," Palmer said simply.

"Yeah. Exactly."

Palmer looked at him for a long moment. "Is it?"

Shane thought about it honestly, but it was still an easy answer. "No, I don't think so. I just—I don't trust him. And I don't know what to do with that."

"You don't have to do anything with it yet," Palmer said. "Sometimes you just have to carry a thing for a while before you know what it is."

"That's not helpful," he said.

"No," Palmer agreed. "But that's all I got, kid."

"You're useless now that you're unemployed."

"Retired. You're somehow brattier the older you get."

Shane just smiled. Just then the obnoxious roar of an engine climbed up the street and both of their heads turned toward the window. A neon orange Porsche with blacked out windows pulled up to the curb, and outside, a few people on the sidewalk stopped just to stare at it. Shane resisted rolling his eyes.

"Good god," Parker muttered under his breath. 

"At least it isn't the Ducati," Shane said, already standing.

"I just think," Palmer said, pulling his wallet out and setting a few bills on the table, "that one might argue he's overcompensating."

Shane shrugged his jacket on and smirked. "He's not, I promise."

Palmer closed his eyes briefly. "What happened to that sweet, innocent kid who couldn't even make eye contact without turning red in the face?"

"You put part of Ilya Rozanov's liver inside of him and this is what happened."

"I'd say I regret it, but then you'd be dead, so I guess I do regret it."

"Same," Shane laughed, shaking his head as they walked out of the cafe.

Ilya hadn't gotten out of the car—just rolled the passenger window down when they got closer, sunglasses on despite it being February in Boston and the sun nowhere in sight.

"Palmer," he greeted, leaning across the console.

“Rozanov." Palmer stopped on the sidewalk, looking at the car in mild amusement. "I didn't know you could buy traffic cones."

"You can buy anything you want at twenty million a year," Ilya said pleasantly. "I could buy you a new sweater, so you do not have to make these sad ugly ones yourself."

"Alright," Shane turned to Palmer, clapping him on the shoulder. "See you later."

Palmer nodded. "See you next month, kid. Take care of yourself." He turned to go.

Ilya watched him. "Love to see you go, but hate to watch you walk away!" he called out.

“Ilya,” Shane groaned, and slid into the car as gracefully as possible. 

__

They were tied 2-2 against Pittsburg with a little over three minutes left in the third, two of their guys in the box and the Pens making the most of the power play advantage. And Shane was currently right in the middle of it, trying to get Marlow's nose to stop gushing while the guy wouldn't stop trying to dodge him so he could watch the ice.

"The quicker you work with me here, the quicker I'll be done," Shane said, a little more agitated than usual.

Everything felt amplified from inside the penalty box, closer to the ice than his normal position behind the bench, and Shane could practically feel the skates cutting through ice beneath his own shoes. 

"Fuck!" Marlow yelled at his teammates battling it out, making Shane wince. "Clear it! Just fucking clear it!"

"They've got to send Roz back out there," Doucette said from beside Marlow, holding an ice pack against his left eye.

Shane grabbed a pair of long cotton dental rolls from his kit and forced Marlow's chin up with one hand and shoved the plugs deep into his nostrils, ignoring the murderous scowl on Marlow's face.

"Hold fucking still," Shane said, gripping his jaw harder.

He could hear the crowd counting down the clock of the power play and worked faster, tearing off a piece of gauze to swipe away the red streaks trailing down Marlow's chin.

And then he heard the loud, mechanical clank of the lock being opened, and Shane threw his hands up and stepped back as Marlow and Doucette bolted off the bench and back onto the ice, launching themselves back into the game.

The heavy door slammed shut before Shane could even grab his bag, forced to finish the game stuck in here. The crowd had gone quiet, twenty thousand people holding their breath as the clock bled down.

The line change came and Shane watched as Ilya vaulted over the boards, finding his footing in one stride with Rykov right behind him, the two of them moving into position as if they'd always done this. From inside the box Shane watched as they fell into formation—still new and figuring it out in real time, but something clicking into place between them that hadn't been there one month ago.

Rykov got the puck along the boards and held it longer than seemed reasonable. And then he found the seam, threaded it through two defenders like they weren't there, the pass landing on Ilya's stick in exactly the right place at exactly the right moment.

Ilya shot without hesitating. The puck hit the back of the net and the arena came apart. 

His arms went up immediately and Shane could see him yelling, guys pouring over the boards, and then Rykov was there and Ilya threw himself at him, gloves flying, both of them crashing together like they'd just done something enormous. Rykov's face, usually so flat and unreadable, had cracked open—something genuine underneath it that Shane had never seen before. Ilya was laughing, pulling him in by the back of his neck before they got engulfed by the rest of the team.

Shane stood alone in the penalty box with his bag at his feet and watched all of it, the glass cold against his palm.

__

They only made it as far as the couch later that night. 

It took awhile getting out of the arena, later than usual with Ilya's press interviews taking longer and Shane working solo on the whole roster afterwards. So by the time they made it through their door, they were both so exhausted that even climbing the stairs to their bedroom seemed like an impossible chore. 

Ilya laid down on top of Shane, his entire body slacking into dead weight with his cheek pressed against Shane's heart. 

They didn't really talk much, just occasional comments and responding hums while Shane's fingers gently threaded through Ilya's curls. He was pretty sure they'd end up sleeping here if one of them didn't try to get up soon. But moving would mean losing Ilya's warmth, and Shane wasn't ready for that. 

"Is very funny," Ilya mumbled against Shane's chest.

"What is?" 

"You. Watching from penalty box."

"You saw that?"

Ilya's fingers gripped Shane's side, digging into his waist. "I always see you."

Shane smiled, scratching Ilya's scalp in response.

Silence enveloped them again, the city had long gone quiet behind the glass panes of their apartment as the moonlight filtered across the walls. Shane could feel the even rhythm of Ilya's breathing and was certain he was knocked out, but then after a while, he heard him say something else. 

"What was that?" Shane asked, twirling a curl around his index finger.

"I said, I think Rykov is going to be very good, I want LeClaire to try him on my line more."

Shane didn't say anything, didn't know what to say even if he tried. Rykov was good, he knew that just by watching him in practice. He just wished he knew how to name the feeling he felt in the pit of his stomach. 

__

"—and look, we talk about this every week at this point, but Ilya Rozanov is doing something we genuinely have not seen since prime Crosby. Boston's what, eleven-and-two since the break?"

"Twelve-and-two. And it's not just him carrying it anymore, that's the part that should scare everybody else in the East."

"You're talking about the Rykov line."

"Obviously I'm talking about the Rykov line. Roman Rykov got traded in January and then moved onto Rozanov's wing in February and all of a sudden this is maybe the most dangerous five-on-five duo in the league. Rozanov's teeing him up, Rykov's finding him in soft ice nobody else sees—"

"It's a little bit uncanny how fast that chemistry happened."

"Which, look, it's a tough break for Cliff Marlow, if we're being honest. Marlow's still getting his minutes, he's still valuable on that roster, but he's not the automatic second name next to Rozanov anymore."

"It happens. LeClaire's not sentimental."

"And Marlow's a pro, he's not going to say a word about it publicly. But you have to wonder how that sits with a guy who's been the other half of that duo since Rozanov's rookie year."

"Here's my question heading into the stretch run, though—Boston's chasing a three-peat, which nobody's done since the Voyageurs in the late nineties, and they're doing it with Rozanov logging insane minutes again, he's basically never off the ice—"

"He's fine."

"I'm not saying he's not fine, I'm saying at some point the workload catches up. This is a guy who's had a scary hit or two over the years and always bounced right back up, and the medical staff over there has been, I mean, frankly excellent about managing him—"

"They've been great with him."

"—but three-peats aren't won in March, they're won in June, and you don't get to June if you're not careful about April."

"Sure. But that's a good problem to have. You'd rather be the team managing a horse than the team looking for one."

"No argument there—"

"Fucking turn it off, Hollander."

Shane looked up from the couch just as Ilya came down the stairs from their bedroom, wearing nothing but a pair of black briefs clinging to the muscle of his thighs, still half-asleep on his feet. Shane didn't know whether to be turned on or endeared.

He reached for the remote and shut the TV off just as Ilya collapsed beside him, dropping his head into Shane's lap. Shane's fingers went straight into his hair, and Ilya's arm wrapped around his waist, hugging him like a pillow.

"How did you sleep?" he asked.

Ilya just grunted, the sound muffled against Shane's shorts. One of Shane's hands drifted to his side, tracing carefully over the bruises still blooming along his ribs from the last game.

"I think I could sleep for a month."

It was their first real day off in over a week—back to back wins on the road, then a red-eye home—and it was already pushing noon. Shane had been up for hours but hadn't had the heart to wake him, not when Ilya had looked so peaceful sprawled across the bed like nothing in the world was chasing him. He'd even left his work laptop shut, which was harder than he'd like to admit, it felt like forbidden fruit taunting him from where it sat untouched on the counter.

They were halfway through March now, and everything had started to feel a little heavier with the pressure of clinching a spot in the playoffs. 

Today, none of that was allowed in the apartment.

"I talked to my mom earlier," Shane said, his hand smoothing up and down Ilya's back. "She said to tell you hi."

He felt Ilya's smile against his thigh. "Hi back."

"They're hoping to come down here next month."

"That would be very nice."

They stayed like that a while, quiet, until Shane's eyes drifted past the top of Ilya's head toward the windows, out at the harbor and the boats moving slowly across it, so small from up here. There was something about the uneventful luxury of having nowhere to be, he couldn't even remember the last time he had sat this still. He thought of years ago, of the two of them dragging an IV pole down a hospital hallway just to have somewhere to walk, of the merry-go-round in that little park tucked between two brownstones, learning how to use a body that had just been handed back to him. 

He hadn't known, at the time, that he'd be craving something as small as this moment.

"Hey." He nudged Ilya's shoulder, shaking it a little. "Let's go for a walk."

"That sounds terrible," Ilya grumbled.

"C'mon," Shane said, tickling Ilya's side until he squirmed. "It'll be fun."

Ilya turned his head to look up at Shane, the sun catching on his thick golden lashes, his eyes blinking sleepily up at him.

"I'll make you a deal," Shane said, repeating one of Ilya's infamous propositions, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "If you go on a walk with me, I'll do whatever you want for exactly one hour this afternoon."

Ilya's eyes lit up before his face did, keeping it stoic for the sake of defiance as he pretended to contemplate. "One hour is very long time in my hands."

"I think I know how to handle your hands, Rozanov."

"This sounds like a challenge," Ilya said, suddenly looking energized. The arm around Shane's waist tightened. "You might regret giving me this much power."

Shane wiggled out of his grip and pushed off the couch before Ilya could hold him down. "Who said you're the one in power here?" he tossed over his shoulder, already jogging toward the stairs.

Ilya was up a second later, chasing him two steps at a time, both of them laughing too hard to actually run, shouldering into each other on the landing hard enough that Shane nearly went down. Ilya caught him by the front of his shirt instead, pinned him to the wall, and kissed him until Shane pulled back, batting him off.

"Morning breath."

"Is afternoon."

"That's even grosser."

Twenty minutes later they were down on the street, both wearing dark sunglasses over their eyes and Ilya wearing a ballcap pulled low.

They didn't walk anywhere in particular. That was the whole point, if there was one—just wherever the sidewalk happened to go, letting the conversation drift wherever it wanted without steering it back toward anything important.

"That one," Ilya said, nodding at a reddish coated golden doodle bounding after a tennis ball, tripping over its own feet as they passed a little corner dog park. "is Doucette."

Shane snorted, digging his hands deeper into his jacket. "That's actually accurate."

"I know. I am very good at this game."

"How are your ribs, by the way?"

"Fine."

"I'll check them again later."

"You worry too much." Ilya reached over and tugged gently at the loose strands falling around Shane's face, hanging free from the small knot he'd pulled the rest of his hair into.

Shane's face went warm. "Does it look stupid like this?"

Ilya's eyes went dark, dragging slowly over him. "No, Hollander. I love this fucking hair."

Shane held his gaze long enough to feel the heat bloom under his skin and down his spine, then remembered they were in public and probably shouldn't be looking at each other like this, and dropped his eyes.

Eventually Ilya started talking about the summer, the way he did more and more lately, restless for a break without directly saying it. "We should go somewhere in July, besides Ottawa. Somewhere with no phones."

"You'd last one hour without your phone."

"I would last two, at least." 

A little yorkie passed them outside a salon, freshly groomed with a bow in its hair, trotting along with its nose slightly in the air.

"St-Simon," Ilya said, squinting at it.

Shane laughed, but he wasn't actually wrong. "That's mean."

Ilya just grinned and knocked his shoulder into Shane's, and they kept walking, the conversation drifting onto the kitchen cabinet that had been hanging half off its hinge since before Christmas, both of them agreeing every week that they'd deal with it and neither of them actually doing anything about it. Ilya insisted it added character and Shane pointed out that a cabinet door was not supposed to have character. 

Then the dry cleaner where they took Ilya's suits, apparently locked in some kind of turf war with the one two doors down that had opened last fall, according to Ilya, who had strong and entirely unverifiable opinions about the whole thing.

"Neeson started doing free button replacement," Ilya said earnestly. "Because the other place does it. So now they cry over spilled milk."

"That's not—I don't think you're using that correctly."

"Ah, yes, I am."

Shane gave him a look but let it go as they turned a corner, stepping around a couple of women with strollers. "Why do you even bring up the other place with him?"

"Because it is good drama, you should see his face when I mention it."

"I've never even talked to Neeson before."

"Yes, I know." Ilya rolled his eyes. "He says you are very serious, all business. I think he thinks you are my assistant."

"Oh my god."

"My pretty little housewife."

"Rozanov." Shane warned, shoving at him. "I didn't realize you guys were so close."

"I feel very trusted, he confides a great deal to me."

Shane just shook his head, but couldn't help but smile. His boyfriend was so stupid and he was so hopelessly in love with him.

A few blocks later, a massive, slobbery Newfoundland came bounding around the corner ahead of its owner, nearly taking out two trash cans in the process, tongue lolling, seemingly thrilled about all of it.

"It's Marlow!"

Ilya was already crouching, hands out, cooing at the dog in a mix of English and Russian that made no grammatical sense in either language, and the dog barreled into him, nearly knocking him back onto the sidewalk. Its owner apologized twice but Ilya waved her off without looking up, scratching behind the dog's ears and dodging a tongue to the face.

Shane hung back, watching, and let his mind drift somewhere it hadn't meant to go.

He hadn't talked to Marlow much lately—just saw him hanging around the training room heckling Doucette or dragging someone into a debate they didn't want to be dragged into. He tried to place the last real conversation they'd had and came up mostly empty. A fist bump after Thursday's win. None of it was that abnormal, but it still felt that way. 

He thought about the last month of tape, the shift charts he wasn't technically supposed to be paying attention to but always ended up seeing anyway. Marlow's minutes had been quietly shrinking since the All-Star break, a few seconds shaved off here, a shift skipped there, nothing dramatic enough for anyone to flag out loud. 

And Rykov's had been climbing at almost exactly the same rate, like a scale slowly tipping. LeClaire didn't explain his lines to anyone, least of all his medical staff, but for some reason, no one was talking about it. Not even Ilya.

"Have you talked to Marlow lately?" Shane asked, once they were walking again. 

Ilya glanced over, brow furrowing. "What? I see him every day."

"No, I mean—really talked to him."

"He sent me screenshot this morning." Ilya dug his phone out of his pocket, scrolling, then thought better of it halfway through and turned the screen away from Shane instead, smirking. "Actually, no. Is not appropriate for you."

"What?" Shane balked. "Now I have to see it."

"Is just some girl's picture, you would not be interested."

Shane huffed, a bit indignantly. "I'm gay, Ilya, not blind."

Ilya laughed, pocketing his phone, and the rest of the unspoken conversation hung there in the cool afternoon a second before fading into the ordinary noise of the street. 

__

They had barely made it out of the elevator when Shane found himself pinned against the wall of their entry hall, Ilya's mouth on his instantly, a hand at his jaw holding him in place while his tongue slid past his lips.

Shane's hands flew to Ilya's chest without separating their mouths, sliding up to his shoulders and shoving his jacket off until it dropped somewhere behind them. From there they stripped in pieces as they stumbled through the apartment, a trail of clothes marking the path. At the base of the stairs Shane fell backwards onto the step, and Ilya used the angle to drag his jeans off him entirely.

"Fuck," Ilya muttered when they caught at Shane's ankles, shoving until his feet came free.

Just to be a tease, Shane didn't get up right away. He leaned back on his elbows instead and climbed the stairs like that, one at a time, hips rolling with each step, watching Ilya's eyes go darker with every inch of distance he put between them.

"Trying to get away from me, Hollander?"

Shane licked his lip, arching back to take the next stair. "Aren't you going to come and get me?" His voice had gone hoarse.

Ilya followed him up on his hands, until he was braced right over him, caging him against the step.

"Is this game?" He dipped his head, biting at Shane's earlobe. "I am cat, you are mouse?"

"Depends." Shane tipped his head back, baring his throat. "Do you know how to bite?"

Ilya's jaw flexed, and instead of answering he leaned down and dragged his tongue along the column of Shane's throat, teeth grazing skin just enough to make him gasp, and Shane used the distraction to slip out from under him and climb another two stairs before Ilya caught up, laughing under his breath.

"You are going to regret this."

"Doubt it."

They kept going like that, stair by stair, Ilya's hands finding some new place to touch every time he closed the gap—the inside of Shane's thigh, the dip of his hip, the line of his ribs—only for Shane to squirm free and put another stair between them, breathless and grinning, until they were halfway up and Ilya finally lost patience with the whole arrangement. 

He got a hand around Shane's ankle and pulled, dragging him flat onto his back. The edge of the stair caught him hard across the shoulder blades, sharp enough to sting, and Shane's laugh cut off into something closer to a moan.

"Ilya—"

"Shh." Ilya mouthed along the outline of his cock through the fabric, making Shane's breath hitch. "You wanted to be caught." He looked up at him. "Be caught."

He hooked his fingers into the waistband and dragged Shane's briefs down and off, tossing them over his shoulder, and then he bent low and dragged the flat of his tongue up the length of him slowly, little kitten licks at the head that had Shane's hips jerking up off the stair before he could stop himself.

"Shit."

Ilya pinched his thigh, looking up at him with a look that told Shane to shut up, and Shane's brain went quiet on command. "You said one hour."

Shane swallowed thickly, didn't trust himself to speak, and just nodded.

"Hour starts now." Ilya bit roughly at the jut of his hip bone, hard enough to leave a mark, and Shane's breath caught somewhere in his throat. "And you do not talk. Only nod."

Shane nodded again, chest heaving.

"You know how to stop it."

He nodded a third time, already knowing he wouldn't need the word tonight any more than he ever had in the last six years, but something about Ilya asking anyway, every single time, made him feel warm and cared for.

"Good boy." Ilya hauled him up by both hands, all the earlier chase burned off into something slower and far more dangerous. "Go to the bed. Wait for me there."

Shane went, legs unsteady beneath him, and lowered himself onto the mattress how he knew Ilya liked—back against the headboard, knees drawn up loose, hands doing nothing, waiting. He'd never been good at doing nothing. Ilya had spent years teaching him how.

Ilya took his time crossing the room. He shed his briefs at the foot of the bed without ceremony and stood there a moment, wrapping a hand around himself, giving his hard cock a few slow pumps while he just looked, like there wasn't a clock running at all, like Shane wasn't already trembling with the effort of staying still and silent. His eyes never left Shane's the entire time, dark and patient, cataloguing every twitch, every shift of his weight, like he was reading a body he already knew better than his own.

"Already so gone," Ilya said quietly. "And I have not even touched you."

Shane's hands twitched against the sheets, wanting to reach for him, but he made himself hold Ilya's gaze even though he could feel himself already slipping away, all his senses getting blurred and electrified at once.

Ilya smiled slowly, taking a step forward until his knees hit the end of bed.

"Crawl to me."

Shane got onto his hands and knees, and for a second he just stayed there, breathing, feeling the weight of Ilya watching him.

Then he started moving.

He kept it slow, every shift of his hips and drag of his palms across the sheets timed to the low sound Ilya made in his throat. The vulnerability of it should have felt unbearable, being watched like this, on his hands and knees, moving like he didn't even belong to himself.

Halfway across the mattress he glanced up through his lashes and found Ilya's jaw tight, his hand still gripping his cock, and something fierce curled low in Shane's stomach at the look on his face. He was the one putting that look there, a look no one else got to see.

He didn't stop until his hands hit the edge, until he was close enough to feel the heat coming off Ilya's skin. He sat back on his heels, chest heaving, and looked up at where Ilya's cock stood flushed and heavy right in front of his face, waiting for permission he hadn't been given yet.

"Fuck, Hollander." Ilya's free hand found the knot still holding Shane's hair back and pulled it loose with one rough tug, and Shane's dark hair spilled down around his face, framing the hungry, upturned look he was giving Ilya.

And then Ilya dragged his fingers through it slowly, making Shane's eyes flutter shut, before winding most of it around his fist and pulling hard, until Shane's breath left him in a rush.

"Ah—" Shane cut himself off, gasping.

"This fucking hair." Ilya said, his accent getting thicker. He tugged until Shane's head tilted up as far as it could go. "Look at me."

Shane's eyes opened, mouth hanging slack, dizzy with the desperate need coursing through him.

"Get on your back," Ilya said. "Shoulders at the edge of the bed."

Shane's brows drew together for a second, the instruction taking a beat to land through the fog he was floating in. Then it clicked—head dangling off the mattress, exposed, at Ilya's mercy—and blood rushed straight down to his dick at just the thought of it.

He nodded and moved, limbs heavy and slow like he was underwater, every shift taking twice the effort it should have. When he finally got himself flat, he found Ilya upside down above him, and held his gaze one long second before he let his head fall back over the edge, hair falling down over the side, and exhaled.

The hand on Ilya's cock started moving again, right above Shane's face, close enough that he could see the veins standing thick along its length, his mouth watering at the sight of it. Ilya's other hand drifted across his cheek, gentler than anything he'd done so far, tracing the line of his cheekbone, his jaw, down to the column of his throat—and stopped there.

Shane's eyes went glassy watching him, entranced by how intently Ilya was staring, looking at the way his Adam's apple moved when he tried to swallow. Then Ilya's gaze lifted to his, silently asking.

Shane nodded.

Ilya closed his hand around his throat and pressed, never once breaking eye contact, until Shane's breath narrowed down to just his mouth, just this, just him.

"Look at you," Ilya breathed, thumb pressing along the side of Shane's throat, feeling for the flutter of his pulse under his palm. "Letting me choke you, and you are so hard for it."

Shane made a sound that barely qualified as one, more air than voice, and was distantly aware of his own cock lying flushed and heavy against his stomach, throbbing, and he had no idea how he was going to survive the rest of this hour.

"Such a good little slut for me." His hips shifted forward, just enough to drag the head of his cock along Shane's bottom lip and chin, watching Shane's tongue chase it on instinct even like this, upside down and half-strangled and glassy-eyed. "You don't even have my cock in your mouth yet and you're already drooling for it."

He eased the pressure at Shane's throat for one breath, just enough to let him gasp air back in, and then tightened again the second Shane's chest had fully expanded, watching his eyes roll back with it.

"That's it," Ilya murmured, voice gone rough and low. "Just like that. You take everything I give you so well, sweetheart. So fucking perfect."

Shane moaned, the sound catching and garbling under Ilya's hand, his own hands twitching against the sheets, inching toward his hips, desperate to wrap around his cock.

"No." Ilya caught the movement instantly. "You do not touch yourself. You know better than that, baby. This is my hour. Not yours."

Tears sprang hot to the corners of Shane's eyes, frustration and arousal knotted so tightly together he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. It was only then he realized Ilya had switched to Russian somewhere along the way, and he had no idea how long his brain had been quietly translating it without him noticing at all.

"You know I love you, yes?" Ilya's hand tightened around his throat again.

Shane nodded, a tear slipping loose and tracking down his face, helpless against all of it.

"Good." A slow, wicked smile spread across Ilya's face. "Because it is about to feel like I don't."

Shane's whole body arched off the bed at that, hips jerking up into nothing, squirming under Ilya's grip, and a bead of precum welled up at the tip of his cock, just from the words alone.

Ilya's eyes dropped to it immediately, and he raised his brows. "Really, Hollander? That turns you on?" He slapped his cock against the side of Shane's face. "You want to feel like I do not love you? Like you are just a fucking hole to me? Yeah?"

A whine clawed its way up Shane's chest, but it never had the chance to go anywhere—Ilya's cock was already sliding into his mouth, cutting the sound off at the root.

From this angle there was nothing gentle about it. Ilya stood over him, hips driving forward with nothing to brace against but his own weight, one hand still wrapped tight around Shane's throat as he thrust in deep, further than he ever let himself go right-side-up, the head of his cock sliding straight down Shane's throat without any resistance to slow it. Shane's eyes rolled back, spit gathering at the corners of his mouth, his own moan swallowed whole and turned into nothing but a wet, muffled sound around him.

"Fuck—" Ilya's hips snapped forward again, setting a brutal pace, savoring every inch of give Shane had left to offer him. "You were made for this."

Shane's hands found Ilya's thighs, just to have something to hold onto, nails digging in. Tears were streaming freely now, sideways into his hair, and he'd never felt more out of his own body and more entirely Ilya's at the same time.

"Keep your eyes open," Ilya demanded, voice ragged as he shoved forward.

Shane did as he asked, but from this angle he could barely see anything, only hear—the wet sound of himself gurgling around Ilya with every thrust, spit and precum dripping down into the mess already blurring his vision.

"I want you to know." Ilya's thighs trembled under Shane's fingertips, breath gone ragged. "What you do to me. I want you to feel it in your blood, who you belong to."

Shane groaned and tried to swallow down some of the spit pooling in his mouth, and it only fed Ilya deeper, and his throat constricted around it, choking almost violently.

And then, without warning, Ilya pulled back, his cock sliding free, and Shane gasped for air, chest heaving and coughing.

A frustrated whine tore out of him before he could stop it but his body was already moving bonelessly as Ilya hauled him upright. He couldn't even hold his own head steady, eyes heavy, letting Ilya arrange him however he wanted.

"Shane."

Ilya's hand found his jaw, tipping his face up. Shane tried to open his eyes and couldn't manage it, everything too far away, too difficult, until a sharp sting across his cheek startled them open—not hard, but enough to make him more aware.

Ilya's gaze moved across his face, searching, his other hand smoothing Shane's hair back and tucking it behind his ear.

"Look at me, sweetheart." Ilya's voice had dropped every trace of performance, gentler now. "Hey. You still with me?"

The question took a second to land, syllables arriving slower than they should, and Shane blinked hard, trying to force himself back into a body that felt like it belonged to someone else.

"Mm," he managed, which clearly wasn't enough of an answer, because Ilya's thumb pressed firmer against his jaw, waiting.

"Words, Shane. Just for a second."

"I'm here," Shane finally slurred out, and then, feeling the concern gathering behind Ilya's eyes, some small furious part of him surfaced enough to be annoyed about it. He wasn't scared. He wasn't anywhere near scared. He was having the best day of his life and Ilya dragged him halfway back to shore to ask if he was drowning.

"Don't stop," he rasped, voice wrecked, barely audible. "I'm okay. I'm so good, Ilya, please—"

Something shifted in Ilya's eyes, the moment he realized that this wasn't just a body gone soft and pliant under him, that Shane was still in here, awake enough to reach out and choose this, choose him, again and again, every single time.

Ilya's hand slid from his jaw into his hair, and he kissed him, slow and adoring, nothing like the pace from before.

"Okay," he murmured against his mouth. "Okay. I have you."

He guided them down onto the mattress properly this time, Shane's head against the pillows instead of hanging off the edge, and settled over him face to face, close enough that Shane couldn't look anywhere but directly into his eyes. There was nowhere to float off to like this. No angle to disappear into. Just Ilya, watching every flicker that crossed his face like he intended to memorize every single one.

"This time," Ilya said quietly, reaching down to wrap a big hand around both of their cocks. "I want to see you."

He didn't take anything else from Shane after that. 

He gave, relentlessly, like Shane's pleasure was the only project left in the world worth finishing, watching his face the entire time with an attention that felt almost unbearable, like being studied and venerated in the same breath. 

Every time Shane thought he'd reached the edge of what he could feel, Ilya found another inch past it. He lost language and all thoughts entirely, reduced down to something that only knew Ilya's name and the weight of him and the low, constant murmur of Russian against his skin that he couldn't have translated if his life depended on it.

They came together like that, tangled and pressed close, mouths sharing breath and broken sounds, neither of them looking away. Ilya kissed him for what felt like hours after, murmuring praises against his lips and cheeks, forehead and throat, everywhere he could find to kiss words against Shane's skin. Ilya's finger traced over the spatter of freckles across his nose, like he was taking an inventory and counting each one, leaning forward every so often to softly press his lips against them.

By the time Shane surfaced again, aware of his own limbs, aware that he was no longer shaking, he had no idea how much time had passed at all. His voice came out cracked and useless when he finally found it.

"How long," he whispered. "How long has it been?"

Ilya went still, then glanced at the clock, and dropped his head to Shane's shoulder with a quiet huff of laughter.

"Not even forty minutes."

Shane covered his face with both hands, groaning instead of laughing. "Oh my god."

"You want me to keep going?" Ilya's hand slid between them, giving his spent cock a light squeeze that made him flinch away. "Use the rest of my minutes?"

"Fuck—asshole—no." Shane batted his hand off. "We're saving it."

Ilya's palm settled at his hip instead, dragging down to cup his ass, mouth finding his collarbone. "Like dirty coupon."

Shane laughed weakly, too tired to form a response, and his eyes fell shut as Ilya settled his weight over him exactly the way he knew Shane liked best. 

Eventually Ilya's fingers found their way into his hair, and somewhere in the drift toward sleep, Shane thought that this was the only version of quiet he'd ever really trusted.

__

Practice ran long a few mornings later, LeClaire keeping them past the normal cutoff to run breakout patterns twice more than usual. By the end of it everyone on the ice had the kind of tiredness that made tempers shorter than they should've been this early in the day.

Shane sat on the bench beside Parker, elbows braced on his knees, tablet held loosely between his hands. He'd been leaning forward like that long enough that his lower back had gone tight with it, that low knotted ache that had nothing to do with how he was sitting and everything to do with what he was watching.

"He's doing that again," Parker said, tilting his head toward the far boards, where Marlow was rolling his shoulder in slow circles between reps, waiting for his turn in the drill.

Shane frowned, watching Marlow wince faintly on the backswing before catching himself and dropping his arm like nothing had happened. "I'll grab him after."

"Good."

A whistle cut through and the drill reset.

Ilya and Rykov were running the same corner battle for the third time, and Shane couldn't take his eyes off the scene unfolding in front of them. Ilya chirped everyone. He'd been doing it since his rookie year, had a whole arsenal built for half the roster, wore guys down in any language he vaguely knew until they either laughed or told him to fuck off, sometimes both. That wasn't new.

What was new was Rykov actually cracking.

Shane could read Ilya's lips and tell he said something in Russian right before the whistle, grinning the whole time he said it, and Rykov's mouth twitched—and then he laughed loudly before he caught himself, shoving Ilya playfully.

Nobody else got that out of Rykov. Doucette had been trying for two months with the usual playbook—nicknames, bad impressions, the kind of relentless needling that worked on everybody eventually—and gotten nothing back but the same dead stare that seemed to be frozen on his face.

Shane loosened his grip on his tablet and flexed his fingers.

Marlow was next in line, waiting a few feet off, stick tapping restlessly against the ice. Shane watched something move over his face as he watched Ilya and Rykov that Shane recognized, because he'd been wearing a version of it himself for weeks now. 

"Marlow, you're up," LeClaire called.

Marlow skated in, and when the drill reset and he went into the corner against Beckett, he hit harder than a practice drill called for. Beckett went down, blinking in surprise before pushing himself back to his feet.

"The fuck, Marlow," Beckett said, more startled than angry.

"It's a battle drill." Marlow was already skating back to the line, not looking at anyone. 

LeClaire didn't say anything, which either meant he hadn't noticed or had decided not to make it a thing, and the drill kept moving. Shane glanced sideways and found Parker already looking at him, brows raised just slightly. Neither of them said what they were both thinking, because it wasn't their job to have an opinion about how a line was clicking, or who was getting chirped at in a language no one in the room could follow, or why one of the easiest guys on the roster had started playing like he had something to prove in a regular morning drill.

Across the ice, Ilya hadn't noticed any of it. He was still laughing, head thrown back, the kind of laugh that came from someone who'd never once had to watch his own good mood land on somebody else and wonder what it looked like from outside.

Shane sat back finally, spine protesting the movement, and looked down at the tablet without writing anything, because there was nothing here that belonged on a chart. 

"You good?" Parker asked, not looking away from the ice.

"Yeah." Shane's voice came out steadier than he felt. "All good."

__

The training room was busy after practice, guys cycling through for tape and ice, the dull clang of a bar dropping in the weight room next door. Shane had Marlow's shoulder in both hands, working through a range of motion test while Marlow stared at the ceiling, lying flat on his back. 

"Lift here," Shane said. "Tell me when it pulls."

Marlow lifted, got about halfway, and stopped. "There."

Shane pressed two fingers into the joint, feeling for the catch, and Marlow's face tightened, a muscle jumping along his jaw, but he didn't make a sound. Making a sound would mean admitting something hurt. And Shane knew all too well of the stubbornness that flowed through the veins of hockey players, he used to be the same way. 

"Sharp pain, or just tight?"

"Tight mostly. Sharp when I reach overhead."

"Since when?"

"I don't know. Sunday, maybe."

"Did something happen Sunday, or did it just start?"

"It just started. Nothing happened."

"So it had nothing to do with landing on it wrong after blocking that shot against Buffalo?"

Marlow stared up at him. "You can be really annoying, Rook, you know that?"

Shane didn't say anything. He just pressed a little harder into the joint, and Marlow's breath hissed through his teeth, but he still refused to complain.

He worked the shoulder through another pass, slower this time, watching Marlow's face instead of the joint. Dark circles under his eyes that hadn't been there a couple weeks ago, his usual easy grin nowhere close to the surface.

"You hit Beckett pretty hard out there," Shane said, not looking up from his hands.

"It wasn't that hard."

The door swung open and Ilya came through it bare-chested, sweat still drying along his collarbones, with Rykov half a step behind him, both of them mid-conversation in Russian, low and fast enough that Shane couldn't catch any of it. Ilya reached over without breaking stride and scrubbed a hand roughly over the buzzed back of Rykov's head, and Shane could feel Marlow tensing underneath his hands.

Ilya caught sight of them then, and his face opened up. "Marly! You are hurt again?"

"I'm fine," Marlow said flatly.

"He is always hurt," Ilya said, grinning widely at Rykov. "Biggest baby on the team. Worse than rookies."

Rykov didn't say anything at all. He barely glanced over, eyes sliding past Marlow toward the ice bath in the corner, already moving that way like the rest of the room wasn't worth the attention.

Ilya hopped up onto an empty table nearby, uncapping the water bottle he'd carried in with him, and found Shane's eyes across the room without seeming to look for them at all. He drank, watching Shane over the top of the bottle, something behind his eyes going considering.

Shane didn't look away right away. He let Ilya see it, whatever was sitting on his face before turning his gaze back down to Marlow.

"I noticed the shift chart," Shane said, quieter now, a few minutes later once the volume in the room shifted into its usual volume once Ilya entered it. "If that's what this is about."

Marlow's eyes cut to him, something sharp and unreadable passing through them, but it passed as quickly as it came.

"Coach plays who's clicking," Marlow said after a beat. "That's the job."

Shane moved to Marlow's elbow, testing the joint below the shoulder, giving them both something to look at that wasn't each other's face.

"He's good," Marlow said, under his breath, chin just barely tilting towards the ice bath across the room. "Rykov. I'm not gonna pretend he isn't."

"I know that too."

Marlow exhaled through his nose and closed his eyes. After a minute, he muttered, "Doesn't mean it doesn't feel like shit."

Shane didn't say anything to that, just kept his hands moving, not even sure how to respond. He never knew what to say to quiet confessions that came along with lying on his table, it was the one thing school hadn't taught him.

"It's just me overthinking it. Right?" Marlow asked eventually, opening one eye.

Shane's hands stilled. "Overthinking what?"

Marlow looked at him hard, and for a second Shane thought he might say it outright—might say whatever it was neither of them could point to and call wrong. But he didn't. He just held Shane's eyes a beat longer, like he was hoping to be told he was imagining things. And Shane didn't have an answer for that either.

"Forget it," Marlow said.

Shane finished the last pass on the elbow and let his hand fall away. When he looked up, Ilya was still watching them, water bottle forgotten in his hand. Shane wondered if he'd learned how to read lips in a second language too.

__

The bar was the kind of place that got warm fast when it was full, and right now it was packed with nearly the entire Bears roster, riding high off another win. Shane had his back against a brick wall near the end of the bar, a full beer in hand with a disintegrating label from the condensation.

Across the room, Ilya was holding court, and Shane watched him without meaning to, because he had never learned how to keep his eyes off of him. Ilya was laughing at something, and the sound of it carried over the noise of the bar and a couple of guys near him turned instinctively toward it like plants toward light. That was the thing about Ilya in a room.

He was in the corner with Connors, letting the noise wash over him without needing to participate in all of it. Connors had been in a good mood all night, and at some point his eyes caught on Rykov standing off by himself near the pool table, not talking to anyone, just watching the room in that infuriating way Shane had grown to hate.

"Rykov!" Connors waved him over, an easy, generous gesture that had nothing behind it except a guy trying to make sure nobody got left out on a good night. "Come here, man, you're being weird standing over there."

Rykov glanced over, considered it for a second longer than the invitation really deserved, and then crossed over to join them. Connors shot Shane a quick look—a silent I'm just being nice—and Shane gave him nothing back.

"Good game tonight," Connors said, once Rykov had planted himself against the wall beside them, holding a glass filled with clear liquid. 

"Thank you." Rykov's eyes moved over the room, his face drawn in disinterest. Shane didn't even know why he bothered coming out with them at all if he was just going to act bored. Though, he supposed his face didn't look much different. 

"That pass to Roz in the second was filthy."

"Yes."

Connors waited for more, and pushed forward anyway with the easy persistence of someone who genuinely didn't clock awkward silences how Shane did.

"You liking Boston so far? Better than Vegas?"

"It is fine."

Shane was only half listening, his eyes drifting to Rykov's hand where it was wrapped around his glass, tracking the line of ink that trailed from his knuckles up the back of his hand. He'd seen the tattoos before, plenty of times, working on Rykov's shoulder or his wrist with the same clinical distance he brought to every other body on the roster. He knew the tattoo on his neck went further than the collar, and knew there was another one along his ribs and back.

He didn't know what any of it meant or if they meant anything at all, or if he was just looking for something to read on Rykov's body to put a name to the gut feeling that was gnawing at him, desperate for anything that would make sense.

"You are staring."

Shane's gaze snapped up, heat crawling into his face. "Sorry. Just—" He gestured vaguely at nothing. "Tired."

Rykov studied him for a beat, then looked away.

Connors, oblivious to the exchange, launched into something about the upcoming roadie that Shane only caught pieces of, nodding along at intervals to seem present.

"Heading out," Parker said, appearing out of nowhere and already shrugging on his coat. He clapped Shane on the shoulder. "I'll see you bright and early."

"Yeah, of course." Shane nodded, suddenly wishing he was the one leaving.

Rykov watched Parker's retreating back without comment, took a slow sip of his drink, before his eyes drifted back toward Ilya's side of the room, lingering there.

Before any of them said anything else, two hundred and twenty pounds of Cliff Marlow materialized and dropped a heavy arm around Shane's neck, nearly taking him off his feet. He reeked of whiskey, and Shane could probably get contact drunk off the fumes alone. It was more than Shane had seen him drink in a long time, and something about the loudness of it, the too-big laugh he'd been throwing around all night, sat wrong. Even if it could be chalked up to just enjoying the win along with everyone else.

"Rykov," Marlow said, swaying slightly, "you tryin' to steal Hollsy from me too?"

Rykov's eyes cut to Shane, and then back to Marlow, but didn't say anything.

"Jesus." Marlow rolled his eyes. "You're a hard Russian to crack, you know that? Roz laughs at everything I say." He cupped his hands around his mouth without letting go of Shane's neck, nearly taking them both down with the motion. "Roz! I love you, man!"

Across the bar, Ilya looked over, already grinning, and started making his way through the crowd toward them.

"You know what we should do, Hollander?" Marlow said, poking Shane in the chest, then frowning at his own hand like he didn't know where it had come from.

"What?" Shane asked warily.

"We should do shots. You look like you could use one."

Shane frowned. "No, I don't—"

Ilya arrived in time to catch the tail end of it, sliding in close, one hand finding the small of Shane's back, hidden by the corner of the room. "What did I miss?" he asked, looking between them, his other hand bringing his beer to his mouth. Shane dragged his gaze away from watching his throat move.

"We need to get your boy to do shots," Marlow slurred.

Ilya huffed out a laugh as he glanced at Shane, switching into Russian the way he always did when something amused him and he wanted to keep it between the two of them. "How drunk is he?"

"Very," Shane said back easily. "He needs water, not more…"

He caught Rykov's eyes on them, tracking Shane's mouth as it spoke, and the rest of the sentence trailed off before he could finish, suddenly very aware that the language wasn't just for the two of them anymore.

Ilya's hand was still at the small of his back, the same familiar place it had rested through hallways and locker rooms and hospital corridors, the touch Shane had built an entire language of safety around without ever once having to think about it. But right now it felt like a hand resting on a wound instead of protecting one. 

He shifted his weight, just enough to slide away from it, and Ilya didn't notice at all, already turning towards Marlow.

"Marly," Ilya said, switching back to English, fond and put-upon. "You are beautiful disaster. I say this with love—you need water, food, and a responsible adult who is not your captain. Come, I will help you find all three."

"But the shots—"

"Yes, yes. We will discuss." 

Ilya glanced back at Shane with a soft smile, already steering Marlow toward the bar, one hand on his shoulder and motioning for the bartender with the other.

Shane watched them go and wished he had just taken the opportunity to go along with them. Connors had drifted off somewhere in the noise, and for a moment Shane just stood there with his undrank beer, trying not to look at Rykov and failing.

Rykov hadn't moved, watching Shane now with something different behind his eyes than before—recalculating, maybe, running back through every conversation he'd ever had within earshot of Shane and realizing how much of it might not have stayed private after all.

"So, rumors are true." Rykov said in Russian, making Shane's eyes snap up. He said it quietly enough that it barely carried past the two of them as he took a long sip of his drink. Shane felt exposed, no longer able to hide behind the comfort of a false language barrier.

It wasn't a question. It didn't need to be. Everyone already knew, and there wasn't anywhere left to put the answer except into the open, standing here with no one around to overhear it and soften what it meant.

But no words came out of Shane's mouth. He knew his eyes already held the answer Rykov was looking for and there was nothing he could do about it.

For once, Rykov's eyes didn't leave Shane's face, even as he swallowed down the rest of his drink and dropped the glass loudly on the table next to them, making Shane flinch.

And then he leaned in, forcing Shane's eyes to hold his gaze as he said, "I hope it does not become problem."

Shane's stomach dropped. It wasn't quite a threat but it wasn't quite nothing either. It sat exactly in the flat, careful space Rykov kept everything in, the same space he'd kept every other unreadable thing he'd said or done since January, and Shane had no idea what to do with it now any more than he had then.

"Do not worry," Rykov said, switching to English, and reached out to graze two fingers along Shane's wrist. Shane went rigid. "You are not my type."

Shane pulled his arm back.

Rykov's mouth curved and he straightened up, completely unbothered as he buttoned his jacket. 

"See you, Hollsy."

He walked off into the crowd. Shane stood there a moment longer with his beer sweating in his hand, not entirely sure what had just happened, or why it felt like something had.

Chapter End Notes

yell at me in the comments, i love it. ;)

edit: gentle reminder that it’s a HEA xxxx

Chapter 3: part three

Chapter Summary

this has been a labor of love, blood, sweat and tears. if u feel like getting the whole cinematic experience, listen to "on the nature of delight" by cello octet amsterdam after u get thru game 7. or, just like stare at a wall and listen to "the wolves (act I and II)" by bon iver afterwards. ily guys so much, ive never been so nervous about a chapter before, and I really hope u like it. <3

Chapter Notes

The Bears clinched a playoff spot on the first Saturday in April, beating Dallas 4-3, and by the time they made it off the ice the locker room was chaotic, guys still half in gear, laughing and congratulating each other with slaps on the back.

Someone had wheeled in a cooler of beer before the guys had even finished showering, and by the time Shane made his way through the room most of the team were already relaxing with a bottle in hand, stats and tape the farthest thing from anyone's minds. It honestly felt like relief, after months of chasing a number and finally hitting it. 

"I need everyone's goddamn attention!"

Shane glanced up from where he was crouched on the floor in front of one of the guys, rotating an ankle, to see Doucette standing on the beer cooler with two bottles raised over his head. He was wearing nothing more than his soaked-through compression pants and jock strap, and had that wild look in his eyes he got when he was feeling primal, sweaty red hair sticking up in every direction. 

The room quieted, guys turning to watch, grinning and knocking elbows because they knew what a Tobias Doucette speech was like. 

"Tonight we clinched a spot in the playoffs for the third year running, and I need every one of you to shut your mouths, because I'm about to say something important."

A couple of guys let out a low, encouraging howl, which just made Shane shake his head as he stood and moved to the perimeter of the room.

"Boys." Doucette jabbed a bottle towards his audience, spilling beer all over the place, looking around and lowering his voice to a theatric cadence. "I once tracked a grizzly through eighteen inches of fresh snow for four days with nothing but a knife between my teeth. I have wrestled a full-grown lynx off my own porch with a garden hose and pure force of will."

"You're a fucking beast, Douche!" Marlow shouted, everyone cackling and slapping the benches, egging Doucette on.

"I have stared down a wolverine at four in the morning and made it back away first." Doucette paused for dramatic effect, swaying slightly on the cooler. "And I am telling you right now that that man—" he pointed the beer again, this time straight at Ilya—"is the single most terrifying animal I have ever laid eyes on. Including the fucking bear."

Shane bit back a laugh, watching Ilya drop his head into one hand, shoulders shaking, clearly caught somewhere between mortified and delighted.

"That is not a man. That is a force I do not have the words for. I have looked death in the eye. I have shaken hands with death. And I am telling you death has looked at that man and turned around with its motherfuckin' tail in between its legs."

Now everyone was howling. It was all becoming a little too primeval for Shane.

"This man carried this team through the whole season. Led the league in points, wore the C like it was branded into his skin, and dragged this fuckin' team to a third straight playoff berth." Doucette raised both bottles higher with foam sloshing out and running down his arms. "To Ilya. Fucking. Rozanov. The man I'd trust to hide a body, deliver my child, and win us—" he paused between each word, raising his voice more with each one—"another fucking cup!"

"To Rozanov!" The room roared back, bottles raised, stomping their feet against the floor.

Shane watched Ilya stand and grab Doucette's arm to force him off the cooler before catching the giant defenseman in his arms.

"Thank you, Doucette," Ilya said sincerely, voice thick as he hugged him. "You are very concerning."

As the ensuing noise and ruckus in the room intensified, Shane pushed off the wall to grab his bag, knowing his job was done for the evening. A minute later, Ilya found him, beer in one hand, face so overcome with joy that Shane couldn’t bite back his own smile.

"Hello." Ilya said, his face beaming down at Shane.

"I'm so proud of you, Ilya," Shane said, aching to reach out and touch. 

Ilya blushed, and the ache became physically painful.

"I am very happy you are here," Ilya said lower, just for Shane.

Now Shane was the one blushing. They were so dumb. For a minute, the room moved around them in a blur, like they were trapped inside of their own little bubble, speaking only the language of mirrored grins and eyes that knew each other too well.

But then the bubble burst, Ilya turning to announce: "We are going out. Everyone. Tonight. This is mandatory." He turned back to Shane and nudged him with his elbow. "You too, Hollander."

Shane's stomach dropped, but he said nothing, keeping his face carefully neutral and letting the thought of the reservation, of his parents probably already on their way to the restaurant, stay a problem of his own, not Ilya’s.

Ilya was still talking, still riding the high of it, listing off bar options when he suddenly stopped mid-sentence, his face falling.

"Wait." He turned back to Shane. "Fuck. I forgot dinner."

"It's fine," Shane said immediately, shaking his head. "Don't worry about it. You need to go out, this is huge, you have to celebrate with everyone—"

"Shane—"

"Seriously, it's fine." Shane zipped his bag, not quite meeting his eyes. "I've got a headache anyway."

Ilya studied him for a moment, uncertain. "You are sure?"

"Positive." Shane forced a smile. "Go have fun. I'll tell them you say hi."

"I will only go for a little," Ilya said. "One drink, maybe two, and then I come to dinner, I promise—"

"You don't have to—"

"I want to." Ilya's hands found his face, and Shane froze, glancing around on instinct. Ilya pressed his forehead against Shane's, holding it there, and Shane's breath caught, more from paranoia than proximity. 

"I will be there before dessert, I promise. And we have all day tomorrow, yes?"

Shane nodded, pressing into Ilya's weight for one self-indulgent second—and then, over Ilya's shoulder, he caught it.

Rykov, across the room, standing near his own stall, half undressed, water bottle in hand and eyes steadily fixed on the two of them. The hair on the back of Shane's neck stood up, as he realized Rykov was cataloguing this just the same as Shane was.

Shane held Rykov's gaze for exactly one second before looking away first, hating that he'd been the one to break, hating more that it felt like losing.

__

Shane felt the cool rush of air sweep across the restaurant as the front door opened, his eyes moving toward the entrance just as a couple came bursting through, laughing and collapsing their umbrella as the hostess greeted them. His stomach sank. He glanced at his watch, but there were no new messages waiting for him.

"Shane, did you hear me?"

He looked up to find his parents watching him, and he had no idea what they'd just asked.

"Sorry," he said, pushing his empty plate away. "What did you say?"

"How did your last appointment go?"

"Good. Fine." Shane reached for his water and took a sip. "Dr. Schultz didn't have much to say, which is basically the goal."

"Are you still on the same dose of everything?" his mom asked casually, though Shane knew she never forgot a single number once she'd learned it. Yuna Hollander practically had a PhD in Shane’s medical history. "The tacrolimus, I mean."

"Lower than it used to be. They've tapered it a few times. Kidneys looked good this time too, that's the main thing they watch now." 

"Good." She reached over and squeezed his hand once, like she needed the physical confirmation as much as the verbal one. He squeezed back. "It's too bad Palmer retired, I'm sure you miss having him as your doctor."

"Yeah." Shane shrugged and traced a line through the condensation on his glass. "Feels wrong having someone else look at my chart."

"You still see him for lunch?" his dad asked.

"Once a month." Shane nodded. "When I don't cancel on him. The next couple months are going to be nuts, now that we clinched."

"Three-peats are a big deal," his dad said, leaning back. "You boys are making history."

"First round's probably going to be Buffalo. Maybe Carolina."

"Who do you want?" his mom asked. 

"Buffalo, probably. Their d-corps have been banged up all year."

His dad glanced towards the door, just as it opened again. "Have you heard from Ilya, yet?"

Shane checked his phone, even though he already knew there wasn't anything there, some part of him hoping it might have changed in the last few minutes. It hadn't.

"Not yet."

"Well, they're probably having too much fun celebrating, he deserves the night out," his mom said easily, already moving on, and Shane was grateful for it even if it didn't do much to loosen the knot in his chest. "So. Ottawa. Should we actually pick a week?"

"I'll check the schedule once we know who we're playing," Shane said. "If we go far, it'll have to wait til July."

"Your mother wants to redo the guest room before you come," his dad said, looking at his mom warily. "That's really why she's asking."

"Redo it how? I like it the way it is."

"It involves a mood board."

"Oh, it does not," his mom exclaimed, swatting at his dad's arm before turning back to Shane. "Just a little refresh, that’s all."

They went back and forth about paint swatches for a few minutes, the familiar bickering that had been background noise in Shane's whole life, and he let himself sink into it, laughing when he was supposed to, nodding along, half of him still catching on every sound near the entrance.

A waiter passed by their table and began quietly clearing candles from the two-tops around them, blowing them out one by one, the small ceremonial signal that the restaurant was winding down for the night. The couple who'd come in earlier were already gathering their jackets. 

Shane looked at his phone one more time. Still nothing.

He hated how it made him feel. It's not like he'd expected Ilya to join them, he'd basically told him not to, but it wouldn't be the first time he said something he didn't mean. 

"It's getting late," he said finally, when he realized they were the last lingering table. "We should probably get out of here. Sorry, I'm wiped."

"Don't apologize," his mom said, already sliding out of the chair, gathering her purse. "It's been a long day for everyone."

His dad flagged down the server for the check, waving off Shane's attempt to grab it first, and within a few minutes they were out on the sidewalk, streetlights smeared soft against the wet pavement. Shane pulled his jacket tighter around himself.

"What time's your flight tomorrow?" he asked.

"Not till the evening," his mom replied, pulling her hood up against the mist. "Six, I think? Are we still doing brunch?"

Shane nodded. "Ilya and I can come pick you guys up." 

He said it with more confidence than he currently felt about any of it, but it wasn't a lie, not really—Ilya had promised, and Ilya kept the promises that actually mattered to him, even if tonight hadn't been one.

"We'd love that," his dad said, pulling him into a hug, rain beading on the shoulder of his coat. "Tell Ilya congratulations."

His mom hugged him next, holding on a beat longer than his dad had, and pressed a kiss to the side of his head before pulling back to look at him properly.

"Get some sleep," she said, quieter now, just for him. "You look tired, honey."

"I will."

"I mean it."

"I know." He managed a smile that was mostly real. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He watched them climb into their Uber, waving once before it pulled away into traffic, the taillights blurring red through the rain. And then he stood there a moment on the empty sidewalk, hands in his pockets, waiting for a text that wouldn’t come.

__

Shane heard the elevator door slide open sometime after two, the soft mechanical chime carrying through the darkened apartment. He'd been lying awake for the better part of two hours, staring at the ceiling.

He heard Ilya's footsteps in the entryway, slower than usual, a low chuckle at something only he found funny, the sound of shoes dropping to the floor. The soft rustle of a jacket coming off and landing somewhere it didn't belong.

After a few minutes, the bedroom door opened slowly, and Ilya's silhouette appeared in the gap against the moonlight, pausing there like he was checking whether Shane was actually asleep, or maybe considering turning a light on. Shane didn't move or say anything, and after a moment Ilya crept in quietly, clearly careful not to wake him.

It would have been sweet, if Shane wasn't lying there resenting every second of it. And he hated himself for feeling that way.

"Shane?" Ilya's voice came out in a hushed whisper.

Shane sighed and rolled over, giving up the pretense as he reached over and turned on a lamp. "I'm awake."

"Sorry." Ilya didn't sound sorry at all, already crawling onto the bed on his hands and knees, uncoordinated and grinning, curls a mess, shirt hanging open unbuttoned. He collapsed half on top of Shane, face pressed into his neck, breathing him in. "You smell good."

"You smell like tequila."

Ilya hummed and nuzzled closer, one arm slung heavy across Shane's middle.

"Can you at least take off your outside clothes?"

Ilya groaned, but he rolled over enough to fumble with his clothes, taking an astronomical amount of time to strip down, kicking and grunting at his jeans until they finally untangled from his ankles. When he was finished, he fell back down on top of Shane even heavier than before.

Shane resigned himself to it—or maybe he was just powerless to staying mad at Ilya long enough to reject cuddles—and shifted so Ilya could fit himself in properly, weight settling warm against his side. Ilya sighed contently, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his jaw, then another, missing Shane's mouth and landing near his chin.

"You are very warm and soft," he mumbled. "Moy plyushevyy mishka."

Shane's hand found its way into Ilya's curls, scratching lightly at his scalp, and felt him melt into it completely, a low, satisfied hum vibrating against Shane's chest. Ilya moved impossibly closer, and for a while he didn't say anything at all, staying heavy and pliant, one hand wrapped around Shane's waist.

"We are in playoffs," he said eventually, like it had only just re-occurred to him.

"I know. I was there."

Ilya pressed a kiss to his collarbone. 

Shane's fingers kept moving through his hair, and Ilya's breathing evened out further from it. Shane almost forgot he'd been upset earlier.

"You are so patient with me," Ilya murmured, maybe sensing somehow, despite his drunken state, that Shane was more tense than usual. 

"You're not that bad."

"I am a little bad."

"A little," Shane agreed, and felt something in his own chest give a little. He didn't want to be the person keeping score against someone who didn't even know a game was being played, and he sort of hated himself for that, too.

"Missed you tonight," Ilya mumbled into his shoulder, one leg hooking over Shane's like he was trying to climb into his body. 

"Yeah?"

"Yes." He huffed something like a laugh. "Roma kept buying shots, I think I lost count. I feel very old around him now."

Shane felt the warmth draining out of him. "Who?"

"Rykov." Ilya said it easily, thumb tracing idle circles against Shane's skin.

Shane lay there, blinking up at the ceiling, Ilya's weight still heavy and warm against his side, and felt the whole evening rearrange itself around that single word.

Roma.

Not Rykov. Not even Ilya's usual clipped last-name shorthand for everyone on the roster. There was no reason it should bother Shane. It was nothing. Just a nickname.

So why did it feel like it was crushing his chest?

"Ilya," Shane whispered, not even knowing what words he wanted to follow. Maybe just needing to say the name that no one but him said.

There was no answer, because Ilya was already asleep.

Shane didn't move him. He just listened to the rain start back up again outside, tapping softly against the window, and thought about how strange it was that the same hand curled loose around him could feel like the safest thing in the world one minute and like something slipping away from him the next.

He didn't sleep for a long time after that.

__

Shane's alarm went off at nine, which felt cruel considering he'd gotten maybe two hours of actual sleep.

He silenced it before it could wake Ilya, and lay there a second longer trying to summon the energy to move. His eyes felt sandy and dry, and his head was throbbing from the mental labour of turning one name over for hours on end, until the wheel spinning in his skull had worn a groove into his brain stem.

The alarm went off again.

Ilya just groaned, and then curled in closer, one hand sliding up the inside of Shane's thigh. His fingers slipped under the edge of Shane's briefs and pushed them up higher, brushing along the sensitive spot that usually had marks left by his mouth like tattoos. 

"Ilya." Shane caught his wrist, stopping him.

Ilya grumbled, half-asleep still, and wriggled his fingers deeper until they grazed the base of Shane's cock. It twitched reflexively, despite the fact that Shane was very much not in the mood, but it sort of had a mind of its own when it came to Ilya. He forcefully pulled at Ilya's wrist and shoved it away with a grunt. 

"Stop it, we have to get up." 

"Nooo," Ilya whined, shifting closer and trying to move his hand back, "is good for hangover." His mouth found Shane's shoulder, lips dragging across the muscle before his teeth were nipping at Shane's chest. "Just give me ten minutes."

"I said no," Shane huffed, and pushed himself up onto his elbows, frowning down at his boyfriend.

Ilya's hand returned a second later anyway, palm flat against Shane's stomach, apparently unperturbed by the first two rejections. 

"Ilya." Shane caught his wrist a third time and held it firmly, and this time Ilya went still under it, blinking up at him through the mess of his hair, confusion slowly working its way across his face.

"What's wrong?" he asked, sleep-slurred and raspy. 

"We have to pick up my parents in forty minutes for brunch. Or did you forget about that too?"

It felt too mean as soon as it left Shane's mouth, and he immediately wished he could take it back. Because Ilya hadn't done anything wrong. In fact, he'd done exactly what Shane had told him to, to go out with his teammates, to have fun and celebrate. 

The confusion in Ilya's eyes washed over to hurt, and Shane's stomach dropped from being the cause. 

"Ilya, I—" 

"I did not forget."

Ilya tossed the covers back before Shane could say anything, sitting up on the other side of his bed, his broad back facing Shane. For a moment Shane just watched the slow rise and fall of his ribs as he breathed. He stared at the constellation of moles and freckles that he knew by memory, could touch each one and know where to drag his finger to the next like connecting the dots. 

"I'm sorry," he eventually mustered up. 

Ilya didn't reply, but his head turned slightly, enough to show the line of his nose and mouth through his curls. He looked like he might say something. Instead he stood, crossed the room, and started digging through a drawer. Shane sat there useless, twisting the sheet in his lap.

Neither of them spoke much after that. They took turns in the shower. They stood side by side brushing their teeth without looking at each other. They made awkward room for each other in the closet getting dressed, lacing shoes, shrugging on jackets. They didn't speak sliding into Shane's Jeep, and didn't speak pulling onto the freeway.

__

"You should get the eggs benedict, Shane."

"I don't want that."

"You do not want Hollanderaise?"

Shane looked up over his menu at Ilya and rolled his eyes. It was the first time they'd broken their silence, and he knew Ilya was trying to lighten the mood in front of his parents, testing the water to see if it was safe yet.

"That joke's not getting funnier."

"You are just resistant to comedy."

"Wow, big word, Rozanov." 

Their eyes locked then, and Shane's heart ached at the small hesitant smile Ilya was offering him. He cut his gaze away, focusing back on his menu, because looking at his boyfriend made him want to cry, and he couldn't explain why. 

"You looked good out there last night," his dad said to Ilya once the server had gone. "That second goal was something else."

"Was lucky." 

"I don't think it's luck anymore, honey," his mom laughed, reaching out to squeeze Ilya's arm. 

The server came and went, and Shane rattled off a response when it was his turn, unsure what he’d even ordered. His stomach had been knotted since he woke up, a persistent gnawing feeling that couldn’t be sated by stuffing it full. In fact, the idea of eating anything right now made him nauseous.

They had picked a place off the beaten path, a small cafe Shane had been to several times with Palmer and knew was low-key, tucked into a quiet neighborhood so they wouldn't have to worry about Ilya being recognized. Even so, Ilya wore a hat low on his head, probably out of habit more so than anything else.

"You two have good chemistry out there." 

Shane snapped back to attention at his dad’s words, his stomach tightening as he realized, a second too late, who they were about.

"He is easy to play with." Ilya shrugged, reaching for his coffee. 

Shane's gritted his teeth. He is easy to play with. Said so simply, like it meant nothing at all, like it hadn’t been stuck under Shane's skin for weeks.

"Is he from Moscow too?" his mom asked, tilting her head, all innocent curiosity. Shane almost envied her.

"Magnitogorsk." Ilya took a sip of his coffee. "We talk sometimes, about home. Is nice, having someone who…"

He stopped there, mid-sentence, something graver flashing through his face. Shane knew that look. He'd catalogued it years ago, back when it used to surface more often, before time had worn most of the sharp edges off it—the quietness that settled over Ilya whenever his mind wandered somewhere Shane couldn't follow, somewhere back to a version of family that had splintered apart long before they met. 

And for one guilty second, watching it, Shane wondered if that was really all this ever was, this Rykov thing; two men, who'd left the same country behind, finding solace in one another. Maybe Shane was just too wrapped up in his own perspective to let it be that simple.

His mom noticed too, her easy warmth from a moment ago fading into something more cautious. "Have you talked to your brother lately?"

Ilya blinked, coming back slowly, like he'd had to travel some distance to get there.

"No." He shook his head, adding quietly, "Not since my father…"

"I'm sorry."

"Is not your fault." Ilya's eyes dropped to the mug in his hands, and Shane watched his thumb rub the handle, the same way he always rubbed it along his index finger when he was anxious. "He was very angry with me the last time we spoke. For not coming to Russia for funeral. And then he asked me to pay for it all and I…" 

Nobody moved to fill the silence for a while. Shane's own spiral quieted just enough to actually look at Ilya, see the practiced flatness he’d pulled over his face like a mask. Shane knew this one because he wore it too, sometimes, when something hurt too much to let show.

He also knew what his parents didn't—that Ilya hadn't flown home to honor a man who hadn't deserved mourning. That some of the bruising his father left behind had never really faded, buried far below the skin.

"That's not an easy thing to carry," his dad tried, and Ilya just shrugged one shoulder, like it was something he'd folded up small enough to fit in his pocket a long time ago.

"It is fine." He glanced up, and for a second his eyes found Shane's. "I have a good family now."

"Yes, you do," his dad agreed firmly, reaching over the table to squeeze Ilya's shoulder.

Shane's heart stung, guilt and love tangling with everything else left unresolved. He didn't say anything. He wasn't sure he trusted his voice not to give the wrong thing away if he tried.

Food came eventually. Shane picked at his without much interest, cutting things into smaller pieces mostly to have something to do with his hands, pushing eggs around his plate without taking a bite.

Conversation drifted back to hockey—something about one of Ilya's brand deals, the ESPN special his parents had caught about the Bears' undefeated run before clinching, the podcast that his dad loved that had recently spent two and a half hours dissecting Ilya's career. Forks clinked. Coffee got refilled around the table.

Shane was only half listening. Rykov kept circling back through his head like a vulture, and it pissed him off, how much space the guy had managed to carve out for himself in there—like he was filing away at the insides of Shane’s skull with every spin he took, thinning down the walls until a simple word was enough to bring them crumbling down.   

"Shane redid our whole recovery protocol this year, you know. Everyone is sleeping better, lifting better. Coach says is best staff we've had," Ilya said, glancing at Shane, clearly meaning it as an offering, something to bring him into the conversation. 

"I don't need you bragging about me doing my job."

"Ah, yes, I do need to brag because you will not—"

"Can we not talk about fucking hockey for once?"

It came out louder than he meant it to, harsh enough that a couple at the next table glanced over. Shane heard the words and immediately wished he could take them back, his own face going hot.

Nobody said anything for a second. His dad's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. Ilya just stared at him, his expression surprised and maybe even a little hurt. 

"Okay." His dad set his fork down slowly, looking between Shane and Ilya. "You alright, bud?"

"I'm fine." Shane stared at his plate. "Sorry. That was—sorry."

His mom didn't say anything right away. Her eyes moved from Shane to Ilya and back again. "Is everything okay?"

The between you two went without saying.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Shane said again, carefully avoiding every set of eyes burning his skin as he reached for his water. "Just tired. Sorry."

"I didn't ask if you were fine, honey." Her voice stayed gentle. "I asked if everything's okay."

Shane's throat tightened. He didn't answer right away, and in the silence, her gaze slid briefly to Ilya, just for a second, the question now aimed at both of them.

"We're okay," Ilya said quietly. It didn't sound entirely convincing, even to Shane, but it was enough to allow for the moment to pass.

Under the table, Ilya's hand found Shane's knee, the same gesture he always used to ground him, to reconnect, and Shane let it sit there without leaning into it, without covering it with his own hand the way he normally would. He felt Ilya notice. Felt the small pause before his fingers pressed in once, questioning, and Shane didn't answer it.

Ilya's withdrew his hand a moment later, slowly, like he was still giving Shane the chance to stop him. Shane didn't.

Shane stared down at his untouched food with a dull headache building. Something caught the light outside—a quick glint, maybe from a windshield or someone's phone. But when he looked up there was nothing to see. 

He rubbed at his temple and looked away from the window.

__

The drive back from the airport was quiet, both of them choosing silence over whatever might come out if they opened their mouths. Ilya sat in the passenger seat with his phone in his lap, not really looking at it, and Shane kept his eyes on the road, hands ten and two. 

They pulled into the parking garage beneath their building, and Shane guided the car into their spot, put it in park—and left the engine running.

Neither of them moved. Ilya glanced over, and Shane could feel it without looking, the question sitting there unasked.

"Shane." Ilya's voice was hesitant. "Can we talk about—"

"I have to go to the facility." Shane said it fast, cutting him off before he could finish, still staring straight ahead through the windshield at the concrete wall in front of them. "There's some stuff I need to catch up on before tomorrow."

"Now?"

"Yeah."

"It is Sunday night."

"I know what day it is." Shane's hands tightened slightly on the wheel. "I just—I'll be back later."

Ilya didn't say anything for a moment, studying him in the low light, and Shane could feel the weight of it, could feel exactly how transparent the lie was, how little either of them believed it. But Ilya didn't push. He never pushed, not when Shane got like this.

"Okay," Ilya said with finally, not without a resigned sigh, and reached for the door handle.

He paused halfway out of the car, one foot already on the concrete, and looked back at Shane like he wanted to say something else, something bigger than okay—but whatever it was, he let it go, and shut the door instead. Shane watched him cross the garage toward the elevator in the rearview mirror before putting the car back into gear.

__

The practice arena was empty at this hour, the overhead lights dimmed to their after-hours setting, nothing but the low hum of the building's ventilation system and the sound of his own footsteps echoing down the hallway toward the rink. Shane hadn't come here to work. He hadn't even pretended to himself that he had—he'd grabbed a pair of skates and a bucket of pucks from the equipment room the second he walked in.

After lacing up, the first stride opened into a long, clean glide. The ice was one of the few things that had never betrayed him—no matter how many times his body had—it had been the one thing that still stayed with him, that rush of adrenaline that filled his veins the second his blades cut through the surface. 

He dumped the bucket out near the blue line and started shooting.

The first one was almost gentle. A warmup, muscle memory reactivating, the puck sliding cleanly into the net with a soft thud against the mesh.

Keep playing like this, and you're not staying in juniors much longer—scouts are going to fight over you, Shane. You're a generational talent, kid. Another shot, swishing into the net with pristine accuracy. 

You're at the top of the list now—I wish that sounded like good news, but it means your liver's not going to last much longer without a transplant. The puck skidded past the posts. 

Competitive hockey at a high level isn't possible going forward. Shane caught a rebound on the edge of his blade and grunted, sending the puck right back, hitting the back of the net dead center. 

You were just going to leave, without saying anything. His eyes got blurry, so he stopped to lift the hem of his sweatshirt up and smear away the angry tears. 

It will be very distracting seeing you sitting on the bench, Hollander. He took another shot.

These fucking Americans made him soft. Another shot, harder this time.

You don't belong here. The puck slammed into the boards behind the net and flew halfway across the ice.

He thought about the calculated way Rykov's eyes tracked him like he was intending to use it against him. He fired another, and another, barely giving himself time to reset his feet, the sound of impact coming quicker, each one landing with more force than the last.

I hope it does not become problem. The shot went high, cracking off the crossbar.

You are not my type. Another, lower this time, drove with everything in his shoulders until they ached.

He thought about Marlow's face in the training room. 

The exhaustion of loving someone who couldn't see what he was doing to the people around him. Because he wasn’t doing anything. Was he? Another shot. His arms had started to burn but he didn't slow down.

Roma.

Shane hit as hard as he'd ever hit anything in his life, and every ounce of ire he'd been holding drove through his stick and into the puck. It screamed off the ice and into the back of the top of the net with a crack against the bar loud enough that it rang through the entire empty building.

He didn't stop there, some violent current still coursing through him with nowhere left to go. He swung the stick down against the ice, the second impact splitting the shaft clean in half with a piercing sound bouncing off the glass. The broken half skittered away from him, spinning across the ice, and Shane stood there with the jagged remainder still clutched in his white-knuckled hands, chest heaving, breath fogging in front of his face. 

He was glad he couldn't see his own reflection in this moment, because he knew he wouldn't recognize it.

"Shane."

His head snapped up.

Ilya was standing on the other side of the boards, his hands gripping the ledge, his gaze so intense Shane could feel the heat of it from where he was trembling. 

"What are you doing?" Ilya asked cautiously, not moving his gaze, his eyes arresting Shane at center ice.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" 

"Making kindling for a campfire?" One of Ilya's hands motioned towards the broken stick still dangling from Shane's hand. 

"Did you fucking follow me here or something?" Shane let go of the stick, kicking it away with his skate and then grimacing at the realization that he broke the team's equipment. 

"It's been two hours." Ilya stepped through the gate now, walking a few steps towards Shane in his sneakers, but still keeping his distance. "I was getting worried and you did not look at your phone."

"Oh." 

"Oh." Ilya's brows rose. "That is all? Oh?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"Something. Anything." Ilya gestured at the wreckage around them. "You have been somewhere else for fucking weeks, Shane. You snap over nothing—"

"It's not nothing." Shane's voice came out more emotionally charged than he meant it to.

"Then fucking tell me!"

Shane looked away, out toward the empty bright yellow stands, suddenly getting a visceral image of his nineteen-year-old self sitting up there, twisting his fingers together and trying to walk himself back from a panic attack. Fuck, was that what this was?

He didn't know where to start, or if starting was even something he wanted to do right now, two hours and one broken stick deep into something he still didn't fully have words for. Why was it so fucking hard to just use words?

"Is this about Rykov?" Ilya asked, taking a step closer.

Shane's blood ran cold again, but he didn't say anything, answering only with a glare.

"I am not trying to upset you. I am asking, because I do not know what else it could be." Ilya took a careful step closer, hands spreading slightly like he was trying to show he was unarmed. "If you are worried about—if this is jealousy, Shane, you do not need to be. He is not into men. He even left the bar last night with two different wom—"

"Fuck you, that's not—that's not what this is." Shane pressed the heel of his hand against his eye, a short, disbelieving laugh escaping him despite everything.

His chest loosened anyway, some stupid knot he hadn't even realized he'd been carrying until it wasn't there anymore. He hadn't let himself consciously wonder about it, hadn't wanted to give it that much air, but some part of him had clearly been holding the question at arm's length regardless, and hearing it answered, without him even having to ask, undid something. 

It didn't matter. It wasn't the point. It had never been the point.

"That's what you think this is?" he asked, once he'd found his voice again. "You think I'm fucking jealous?"

Ilya threw his arms in the air, saying loudly, "I do not know what this is, that is why I am asking—blyat! Fuck!" He turned his head and spat, like he was trying to physically rid himself of a feeling.

"I don't like him." 

There. He said it. He finally said the four words he'd been harboring for months, scared of saying out loud. Because he was Shane Hollander, a nice Canadian boy who gave everybody a chance and hoped to never make anyone feel disliked or uncomfortable. It was finally sitting right here in between them. 

Ilya snorted, his blue eyes glinting. "Ah, no shit, Hollander." 

Shane frowned, but didn't say anything, because now Ilya was closer and without skates, they were nearly eye level, and it was suddenly very distracting. 

"Then what is it?" Ilya's voice had an edge now too, cracking through the patience he'd been holding onto. "Why don’t you like him? Fucking talk to me."

Shane opened his mouth, and for a second the whole thing sat right there, ready—every single thing he'd been carrying alone for weeks. He could feel it close enough to say. 

But then he looked into Ilya's eyes, open and pleading, and thought of everything Ilya was carrying— the weight of the season, the captaincy, all of it managed without a single complaint. Shane didn't want to add to that. Not now, not at the cost of driving a wedge between teammates right before playoffs, when trust mattered more than it ever had and so much more than hockey was riding on it.

So he didn't say it.

Something in him deflated instead, the fight going out of his shoulders all at once, feeling more tired than angry now. "He’s not…" he tried, dropping his eyes. "It's— I don't know. It's a lot of things. I think I'm just stressed."

"Shane," Ilya said softly, some of his own frustration ebbing at the shift in Shane's tone. He reached out and gently cupped Shane's cheek, drawing his face up to force their eyes to meet. "Are you okay?"

No. Shane nodded.

Ilya studied him for a long moment—wanting more and holding himself back from it, probably aching as much as Shane for them to move past this for now. 

"Okay," he said finally, his thumb brushing across Shane's bottom lip. "Okay."

He kissed Shane, and instantly Shane responded, pouring all the words he couldn't say into it, letting Ilya know how much he loved him.

That was the other thing that had never betrayed him.

__

Shane had heard the national anthem nearly a hundred times this season, standing in his usual spot behind the bench, using the two minutes to run through his mental checklist—who to keep an eye on, who might need extra tape after their first shift, making sure everyone stayed hydrated. 

The entire arena was hushed, a sea of black and yellow and thousands of twinkle lights as people swayed their phone flashlights through the chorus, the energy magnetic, stirring a low vibration of adrenaline into a hum under Shane's skin.

He scanned the ice, landing on Ilya who was subtly rolling his neck, a little habit Shane picked up while watching him from an iPad screen all those years ago. He wasn't even sure if Ilya knew he did it, but the familiarity of the simple movement was oddly comforting. 

It was round one and they were up against Buffalo, as Shane had predicted. Since they were higher seeded, they had the advantage of home ice the first couple of games, which was good luck that no one voiced out loud. Obviously.

The horn sounded. The puck dropped.

The game itself felt different immediately—heavier, more physical, every check more intentional than anything in the regular season, but disciplined with it, guys staying out of the box like their season depended on it, because it did. Nobody wanted to be the reason a five-minute major put them down a man in a series opener.

Ilya's line was out constantly, Rykov's stride matching his beat for beat on the forecheck, the two of them reading each other well enough now that Shane had mostly stopped being surprised by it. They were good. Genuinely, undeniably good, the chemistry LeClaire had built a whole new system around, and Shane hated how easily he could see it, even now.

Marlow's shifts were shorter. Shane clocked it—Marlow hopping the boards, playing his usual heavy, physical game like he had something to prove, and then coming right back off again a beat sooner than he used to. By the third period he'd logged maybe eleven minutes total, a number Shane knew without needing to check the tablet.

"He's not getting ran like he used to," Parker said quietly, following Shane's gaze toward the bench, where Marlow sat holding his stick, watching Ilya's line circle back for another shift.

He glanced back at Parker instead of responding, exchanging knowing looks.

Nobody said anything about it beyond that. Marlow didn't complain, didn't say a word on the bench besides the usual encouragement he threw at everyone else, loud and generous even from the far end where he'd started sitting more often these days.

The Bears won 4-2, the guys riding the high of having a series opener in the bank. Marlow was loud, louder than anyone, dragging Beckett into a headlock and hollering something about the next three games being a sweep.

Shane watched him laugh with his whole body, watched him mean every second of it, and still couldn't shake the eleven minutes ticking restlessly in the back of his mind.

__

"Hollander."

Shane looked up from where he was sprawled on the couch, his work tablet propped up against his knees, a quarter through rewatching the second period of the last game. He paused the screen and watched Ilya stalk toward him, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist and a dangerous look in his eye. 

His playoff beard was coming in fuller than the usual lazy stubble he kept most of the time, and Shane had been dying slowly over it for days now, wanting it to brand his skin, right between the thighs, where no one else could see.

"What?" Shane asked, tipping his head back when Ilya reached the edge of the couch, looming over him, water sliding down the line of his throat.

"What is this?" Ilya asked, gesturing wildly over Shane's whole body.

Frowning in confusion, Shane glanced down at himself, dressed in his regular blue pajamas and a pair of socks. He looked back up. "What is what?"

Ilya sighed gravely and pinched the bridge of his nose, while Shane watched a bead of water track a slow line down his sternum.

"You. This." He reached down and ran a finger along the inside of the headband Shane had on to keep his hair out of his face, snapping it lightly against his head when he let go. "You know we have no-sex rule, and so you decide, hmm, this would be good time to flaunt around my sexy little bow—"

"It's not a fucking bow." Shane scowled, reaching up to pull the plain headband off, but Ilya caught his wrist before he could.

"And glasses like smart little sex demon—"

"Oh my god." Shane could feel the tips of his ears going warm.

"And on top of all that, you wear this—" Ilya leaned down, tugging at the collar of Shane's shirt, which—admittedly, he had left completely unbuttoned for maybe this exact reason. With Ilya this close Shane could smell the soap still clinging to his skin, and he tossed the tablet to the side and wrapped his long fingers around Ilya's bulging bicep, blinking up at him with feigned innocence.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" Shane bit his lip, watching Ilya's eyes drop to them. He arched his back subtly, just enough to shift the fabric so it fell open wider across his flexed abs.

Ilya growled. Jesus, he really needed to limit his hangouts with Doucette.

"You are very, very bad."

Shane slid his hand down slowly, until his fingers caught on the edge of the towel, which was hanging on about as well as Ilya's sanity looked to be at this point.

Ilya grabbed his wrist again, pulling it back until his hand hovered uselessly in the air between them.

"Ah, ah, ah." He tutted. "No sex. Rule is rule, Hollander."

"So you can't even be naked?" Shane teased, cheeks flushed, enjoying this far more than he probably should.

"Mmm, no." Ilya shook his head solemnly, water droplets falling onto Shane. "Because then my dick will see you, and I have to protect him."

Shane laughed and swatted his hand free. "You're so weird."

"And you need to go put on something respectable."

"What, you want me to walk around with a sheet over my head?"

"Yes." Ilya leaned down until two arms were braced on either side of Shane's head, hands gripping the arm of the couch. "You are trying to torment me, Hollander."

Shane's hands automatically slid up Ilya's chest, the firm muscles underneath his fingers twitching as he watched Ilya's eyes roam over his face, the vein pulsing in his neck. He was so beautiful.

"Hi," Shane said, smiling softly and wanting to count every gold-tipped eyelash blinking down at him. 

"Hi back," Ilya said, leaning forward just enough to kiss the tip of Shane's nose.

"We should go over the rules, I think there might be some loopholes."

"Oh?" Ilya kissed his cheek, his beard brushing Shane's skin. "What kind of loopholes?"

Shane's eyes fluttered closed when Ilya's lips pressed against the spot right by his ear, using his face to tip Shane's to the side so he could gain access to more of his favorite places. Shane's hands drifted lower, fingers just barely brushing skin as he traced the trail of hair down until it disappeared beneath the towel, feeling Ilya shudder under the light touch.

"Well, some people don't consider blowjobs to be full sex."

"Some people?" 

"Mmmhm," Shane hummed, hooking his fingers around the towel until they slipped under and accidentally grazed the base of the hardening cock. 

Ilya's mouth opened against his neck, wet and lush, tongue dragging over skin already prickled with goosebumps, breath catching when his teeth grazed the spot before sucking harder. He pulled back an inch, and Shane shivered when he gently blew over the mark he'd just left.

"These sound like very smart people," Ilya murmured, one hand sliding up to knock the headband off, fingers threading through Shane's hair instead, tipping his head back further.

Fuck it.

Shane yanked the towel loose until it puddled at Ilya's feet, their eyes locking—and then he slid out from under him, shoved Ilya down onto the couch, and dropped to his knees.

Looking up through his lashes, he licked his lips. "Don't come until I say you can."

And then he swallowed him all the way down.

—

They'd spent nearly five days in Buffalo for Games 3 and 4, which was its own kind of insanity—Sabres fans who wanted their heads on stakes, one group of them literally parading a papier-mâché effigy of Ilya's face through the streets, which Shane had the misfortune of witnessing firsthand during a coffee run with Parker.

If Shane had thought an eighty-two game season was exhausting, nothing had prepared him for a playoff run. He'd technically been part of one last year, back on student placement, but he'd never traveled with the team then, always sent home long before the real work started. He had been rinkside for the final, though, and even now he could still feel the pure, dizzying rush of it—Ilya skating straight to him for a hug the second the horn sounded. Shane wondered if it would happen again. If history repeated itself. If Ilya would find him first, the way he always had.

The training room was packed before Game 5, the team getting more banged up with every game, a line forming as guys waited their turn to hop up on a table for taping and adjustments. Shane hadn't seen Ilya in hours, barely able to look up long enough to wave the next guy over.

When he finally did look up, his stomach dropped straight through the floor.

Rykov was watching him, bored, arms crossed over his inked chest, standing next in line. Shane swallowed and glanced over at Parker's table for backup, but Marlow was flat on his back over there, one knee bent up to his chin, Parker's full attention occupied.

"Next," Shane said, and motioned Rykov over.

Rykov didn't move.

He stayed exactly where he was, arms still crossed, staring at Shane with an eyebrow raised like in challenge.

Shane refused to accept it.

"I said next," he repeated.

Without a word, Rykov tipped his chin toward Connors, who was standing behind him in line, and stepped back, motioning him forward instead.

Shane's jaw flexed. He didn't say anything—there wasn't really anything to say to that without making a scene, and some small, humiliated part of him was almost relieved not to have Rykov on his table at all, one less thing to manage today. But relief and anger had never been mutually exclusive, and both showed up at once now, curdling together until he wasn't sure which one was actually running the show.

Connors hopped up onto the table in front of him, propping his legs up for Shane to tape the ankle that was still giving him problems after recovery.

Shane worked in silence for a minute, wrapping, testing the range of motion while Connors stayed uncharacteristically quiet.

Until, finally, he leaned in, voice pitched low enough that it wouldn't carry past the two of them. "That was weird, right?"

Shane didn't look up from the ankle. "It's not that weird, it's okay to have a preference."

"I don't know, man, I get weird vibes from that guy."

Shane refused to look up, aware that his face would give him away. This was his problem and nobody else’s, and he certainly wasn’t going to hand it over before he even knew what to do with it himself.

"He's just Russian," Shane said casually as possibly, "you know Ilya was hard to read when he was a rookie."

Connors snorted. "Ilya was like a kid set loose at Disneyland jacked up on energy drinks when he was a rookie."

That surprised a real smile out of Shane.

Then someone said Ilya's name, and Shane's head came up automatically, tracking him as he entered into the room—slapping guys on the back, pre-game energy radiating off him, head high, pumping everyone up on his way through. Shane waited for their eyes to meet the way they always did.

They didn't.

Ilya crossed straight to Parker's table instead, where Rykov sat, and bumped his fist. And then Shane watched as Rykov's whole face cracked open into a smile that was so foreign it was unnerving.

Shane looked back down and kept wrapping.

__

To no surprise to any of the Bears, fans, or sports analysts, Boston took the first round.

Which gave them the luxury of a break while they waited for the other Eastern teams to catch up—though break was a generous term for Shane.

Ilya had scored two stunning goals within minutes of each other in the opening of Game 5. His ice time kept creeping dangerously high with every game, nearly tipping into twenty-seven minutes, and Shane couldn't shake the dread building with every fresh average. But he was Ilya Rozanov, the beast of the Bears, and for whatever reason LeClaire didn't seem concerned about running their captain into the ground.

Ilya's body was bandaged and bruised and in desperate need of rest, which he mostly got when he wasn't being treated, sleeping in most mornings while Shane was already gone by seven. He had to be at the facility along with Parker and a handful of their medical team to work through the long list of guys who'd taken the brunt of five games and needed real attention before Round 2 started chewing them up all over again.

"Järvinen's hip is still not right," Parker said on the third morning, tapping his pen against the same imaging they'd already gone over twice earlier. "I think we need to send him in for an MRI."

"I already called," Shane said, not bothering to glance up from his tablet where he was going over the new baseline he'd just completed with one of the guys. "He's going in this afternoon."

"Thanks." Parker clapped him on the shoulder before reaching for the next chart—Hammersmith's, still logged from a blocked shot in Game 4 that had left a hairline fracture in his foot nobody outside the room knew about, which just meant a different skate boot and a fresh round of painkillers before puck drop. "How's Roz doing?"

"The ultrasound showed zero tearing in the cuff or labrum. There's some localized swelling and he's tender right on top of the collarbone, but I've been having him—"

"I know he's being taken care of," Parker interrupted. "I mean, how is he doing mentally?"

Shane blinked. "Oh. I think okay."

"Good. Keep him that way. He gets in his head during playoffs."

Shane didn't reply, even though he wanted to ask what version of Ilya he was supposed to be watching for. But he just tucked the information somewhere he could find it again later, and went back to work.

By the end of the week, Doucette needed his shoulder drained twice, and Beckett had been quietly icing a groin strain on his own for days before Shane caught him wincing in the hallway and dragged him onto a table by his collar. Anderson had a deep bone bruise in his wrist he swore didn't hurt, the kind of injury that would've been weeks on LTIR in the regular season, but Shane was quickly learning that nothing was handled the same during playoffs.

He didn't get home most days until well after dark, dragging himself through the door to find Ilya sprawled across the couch or already asleep in bed, which was itself a small miracle after the season they'd had.

Tonight it was the latter. The apartment was dark except for the small lamp Ilya left on for Shane, and when he switched it off in passing, the moon took over, glowing through the long wall of windows and guiding Shane up the stairs. He showered fast, too tired to do much more than rinse off the day, and by the time he crawled into bed, his whole body felt like it had been wrung out.

Ilya stirred the second the mattress dipped, and then he rolled over instinctively, sliding an arm across Shane's middle and tucking his face into the curve of his neck, exhaling softly. 

"Missed you," Ilya murmured, lips parting against Shane's skin as his breathing evened back out, like he hadn't even fully woken to say it.

The ache in Shane's shoulders and back finally started to give for the first time all day. He tried to push away all the injury reports, the growing list of things he would have to do tomorrow, and Parker's voice saying he gets in his head during playoffs. 

He'd gotten disturbingly good at pushing most things down lately, though, and pressed a kiss to the top of Ilya's head instead as his eyes fell shut.

__

"—and now we need to talk about what happened in Toronto."

"It was a sweep, man. What's there to talk about?"

"Well, for starters, we could talk about how happy everyone is that Dallas Kent won't be lifting the Cup this year."

"He was never going to get close to it, not with Rozanov in the way."

"Rozanov had, what, thirteen points in that series?"

"Thirteen points in four games. Ilya fuckin' Rozanov had thirteen points in four games and somehow that's not even the top headline this week, because apparently we're all just numb to it now."

"We are numb to it."

"We shouldn't be numb to it!"

"I'm just saying, at a certain point excellence becomes background noise. That's not a knock on him, that's just what happens. He's so good that we can't even see it now."

“Okay, but that number should also worry us a little, right? He’s still logging what, twenty-eight, twenty-nine minutes a night in a sweep?”

“In a sweep. You don’t need to run your captain that hard when you’re already up three games.”

“LeClaire’s clearly not touching that line while it’s working, though.”

“Sure, it’s working, but is it sustainable?”

“Fair point.”

"Meanwhile, Marlow's minutes are going down again."

"He's still logging shifts."

"I didn't say he wasn't logging shifts, I said his minutes are down. There's a difference. You've got Rykov playing south of twenty a night now on that top line and Marlow's what, ten, eleven at most?"

"There could be an injury they’re hiding, forcing him to slow down."

"Or everyone's so busy watching Rozanov and Rykov that they aren't even realizing Marlow's getting replaced."

“Replaced is a strong word, I don’t know if I’d go that far—“

"I don't know what else to call it."

"It's like you guys have never seen lines change before."

“I have a hard time with change.”

"Anyway. Conference Final."

"Conference Final. Admirals."

"Admirals are legit this year, by the way. People are sleeping on them."

"Nobody's sleeping on the Admirals, they just beat the two seed."

"I'm saying nationally. Nationally people are still doing the Bears-are-inevitable thing, and I get it, three-peat, historic run, all of that—but the Admirals have Scott Hunter playing out of his mind right now."

"Scott Hunter's always played out of his mind, that's not new."

"It's different this year. He looks hungry. He's a UFA this summer, everybody knows it, this might be his last shot at this with that team."

"You think Rozanov and Hunter still have beef?"

"They've always had beef."

"I don't think Hunter even knows there's beef."

"Anyway, I'm not picking a sweep this time."

"I'll take Bears in five."

"I'll take Bears in seven."

"I'm taking Admirals in seven, and I think it's ugly."

__

"Can you try this? I don't know if it needs more salt."

Shane held up a spoon, and Ilya crowded in behind him, leaning forward to wrap his lips around it, dragging it out slow enough to make the whole thing far hotter than it had any business being.

"Mm, yes," he said when he released it, taking the opportunity to kiss Shane's cheek. "More salt."

Stupidly, Shane blushed before turning back to the pot, reaching for the salt. 

He was attempting an overly ambitious pesto sauce from scratch, following his mom's texted instructions step by step, and already regretting not just ordering in after the pasta got overcooked because Ilya had pinned him against the counter and neither of them had heard the timer go off. Cooking around Ilya was always a liability. Something about the domesticity of it seemed to do it for him, some switch Shane still didn't fully understand but absolutely kept in his back pocket for future reference.

It was the night before the Conference Final started, the team still riding a mix of adrenaline and low-grade anxiety after a clean sweep of Toronto in Round 2. With a rare full day off, they'd invited Marlow and Connors over to watch Game 6 out west, and it wasn't looking good for anyone rooting against Vegas. Which was basically everyone.

Shane tasted it again, and then held the spoon out. Ilya ignored it entirely, catching Shane's jaw instead and turning his face up for a kiss, tasting salt and basil right off his tongue.

"Perfect," he murmured against his lips.

Shane rolled his eyes, though he was smiling, and gave Ilya's chest a shove.

The elevator dinged from down the hall a moment later, followed by the low rumble of Marlow's laugh and Connors's voice trailing behind it. Ilya squeezed Shane's waist and turned to go greet them.

"Shoes off, Marly," he called out as he walked out of the kitchen. "I can hear your Sasquatch feet from here!"

Shane shook his head, reaching to turn off the stove and pulling the pot off the heat. Their voices rose as they made it down the hall, greeting Ilya loudly as Shane heard shoes dropping along the way before making it into the kitchen.

"Look at this, Chef Hollander," Marlow said, dropping a case of beer onto the counter, which Shane side-eyed warily, considering the strict no-alcohol before a playoff policy. Marlow must have caught the look, adding quickly, "It's NA, don't worry, Hollsy."

"I wasn't going to say anything."

"Your face says everything for you, my brother."

"We brought apples," Connors supplied with a beaming smile, sidling to the counter with a bag.

"Why?" Shane's brows furrowed, looking between the bag and their faces.

"Because Marlow said we should bring a dessert." 

"Ah, this is so nice and random," Ilya exclaimed, grabbing the bag and moving towards the fridge to put them away. "He loves apples for dessert."

Shane narrowed his eyes at Ilya when he turned back around. "Did you tell them to bring apples because I said we were out earlier?" 

"Anyway," Ilya clapped his hands together, ignoring Shane. "We should eat, game is starting."

"Can't believe I'm actually rooting for the fucking Wild," Marlow groaned, grabbing beer out of the case and passing off to Connors and Ilya. 

"Or a Hughes brother," Connors added.

They all grimaced.

They ended up crowded on the couch instead of at the actual dining table, plates balanced on knees, the game broadcast murmuring low in the background while they dug in.

"Okay," Marlow said around a mouthful after they’d watched first period in silence, "this might be the best thing you've ever made."

"High bar." Shane snorted. "Not hard to clear."

"No, I'm serious, this is actually fucking good, Hollander."

"He called his mom twice before making the sauce," Ilya said with a shit-eating grin, twirling pasta around his fork. "Very nervous and cute."

Shane glared at him, tossing a crumpled napkin at his head before sliding his empty plate onto the coffee table and sitting back. Instantly, Ilya shifted, dropping his socked feet into Shane's lap, and Shane's hands wrapped around them out of habit, squeezing gently.

Connors reached for more parmesan, glancing at the screen as the broadcast cut to a graphic breaking down both teams' numbers. "Maybe we should have Rykov give us Vegas intel, if we end up meeting them in the final."

Shane stared at the screen, holding his face perfectly still.

"As if he'd even talk," Marlow scoffed, setting his empty plate down and reaching for his beer. "I've never heard him say more than two words at once."

"Seriously," Connors added. "What's with that guy?"

"He's quiet," Ilya said from where he was sprawled sideways across the couch, "not everyone needs to be loud like you people."

"Why did Vegas trade him?" Connors asked, glancing at Ilya. "Has he ever told you?"

Ilya's jaw flexed, the tendon rippling as he clenched it. Shane could feel the tension traveling straight down through his feet where they were still resting in his lap.

"Trades happen all the time," Ilya said finally. "He plays well. That is all that matters."

Marlow's eyes flicked toward Shane for half a second—just long enough for their gazes to catch—before he looked back at the TV.

"Would it kill him to try to act like he likes being on the team, though?" Connors laughed, like it was a joke. When Shane glanced at Ilya, his face had gone harder, eyes guarded.

"Maybe he finds you two annoying," he said, sniffing.

"I'm pretty sure he finds everyone annoying," Connors kept going, and Shane really wished he'd just shut up at this point.

But then Ilya sighed, adding, almost reluctantly: "He got drafted out of MHL and wanted to stay. He was going to sign in the KHL, stay in Russia. But when the war started, everything changed. The economy, the money—it went bad. He had to come here to support his family back home. But he is very private. He does not like people knowing this about him."

Three heads turned to Ilya, each their own level of surprised. And for whatever reason, Shane felt the guilt settle bitterly, all wrong. An ugly thought occurred to him, that Rykov holding his family together from six thousand miles away was so commendable that it unfairly absolved him of everything else. What kind of heartless asshole could hear a story like that and still dislike the guy?

"Oh shit," Connors said, a little more empathetically, "that's too—" 

"Why didn't you tell me that?" Shane blurted out, before he could stop himself.

Ilya's eyes flicked toward him, his face carefully guarded. "It is not anyone's business, Hollander."

"I'm not anyone." 

At that, something shifted in the room—Marlow's beer stopping halfway to his mouth, Connors going very still, both of them clearly recalibrating whatever casual conversation they thought they'd been having. And the fact was, if this information had come from literally anyone else, Shane would've just absorbed it without much more of a thought. It wasn't like some huge betrayal, it wasn't hardly anything. He knew that. In theory.

"Shane." Ilya's voice dropped, a warning wrapped around his name.

"No, I just—" Shane shoved Ilya's feet off of his lap, sitting forward, old exhausted frustration surfacing faster than he could stop it. "It would have been nice knowing—"

"Why does it fucking matter?" Ilya errupted, his voice rising louder than the TV, the game completely forgotten. 

The room went very quiet. Marlow set his beer down carefully, like he was trying not to make a sound, while Connors's eyes darted nervously between the two of them, clearly wishing he'd never brought up Rykov's name at all. 

Shane blinked rapidly, looking past Ilya's face and picking a spot on the wall behind him to fixate on. He was full of so many words, but all of the sudden, talking felt too hard to do.

"Can we not do this right now," Ilya said quietly, glancing pointedly at Marlow and Connors. Shane didn't look at anyone.

Instead he stood up, grabbing empty plates off the table, in desperate need of somewhere to put his hands, and marched straight into the kitchen, leaving the three of them behind.

Hours later, when Shane crawled into bed, Ilya was practically hugging the edge with his back turned and arms wrapped around himself. Shane ached to reach out, to say something that started with an apology, but eventually, he fell asleep with three feet between them.

__

"Fuck, I've gotta pull Carmichael."

Shane's head snapped up from where he was crouched, jamming a doughnut pad against St-Simon's ankle bone after a puck caught him flush, the whole bench a mess of noise and bodies.

"What?"

Carmichael was already limping through the gate, one arm slung over a teammate's shoulder, and Parker was moving before Shane could even process it, calling over his shoulder, "Tell Coach I've got him, five minutes for an update—"

Fuck. Shane hauled St-Simon's skate the rest of the way up. "You good?" he asked, not really waiting for the answer, already moving before St-Simon finished nodding.

It was Game 3 and the Admirals series had turned into a bar fight with skates on, both teams throwing everything they had into every single shift, no quarter given anywhere on the ice. Every whistle brought someone new limping to the bench. Every stoppage meant another decision made in under thirty seconds—tape it, ice it, get him back out there and deal with it after, because that was the math now, that was the only math that mattered until the final horn.

"Coach,” Shane said, moving to where LeClaire was standing with his arms crossed, eyes tracking every movement happening on the ice. "Parker's taking Carmichael to medical—"

"We're down to five D!" LeClaire barked out before Shane had even finished talking.

"Hollander—”

Shane spun at the sound of Ilya’s voice. He was at the boards mid-stoppage, chest heaving, squirting water into his mouth and spitting it straight back out, sweat pouring off him as someone shoved a towel into his hands.

"I need a snap."

Shane's hands were moving, digging into the bag at his hip, fingers finding the capsule and pinching it until it popped between them. He held it out and Ilya took it without hesitation, head snapping back as he inhaled, before flinging the empty capsule down onto the ice.

Their eyes met for half a second. Ilya's pupils were blown wide and glassy, something in them Shane didn't have time to think about before the whistle cut through everything and Ilya was gone again, swallowed up by the game.

Parker jogged back a minute later, chart raised high enough to block his mouth from the cameras trained on the bench, said something to LeClaire and then disappeared back down the tunnel just as fast.

Whatever had happened to Carmichael, it wasn't good. 

The Admirals scored with only sixteen seconds left on the clock and Hunter and his team celebrated down at the other end. Shane felt the whole team's frustration radiate off of them.

The walk down the tunnel afterward felt endless. Skates scraped concrete in an uneven rhythm, sticks dumped one by one into the equipment manager's outstretched arms without a word. Nobody looked at anybody. Everyone was still breathing hard, and the smell of the locker room hit before the door had even fully shut. Shane could practically taste the sweat and blood in the air.

The second the door clicked shut behind the last guy in, the silence was broken by one man.

"We lost three guys tonight, and we still had chances to win that game." LeClaire's voice cracked across the room like a whip, and every head came up at once, exhausted eyes finding him one by one over the tops of their gear. "Two-on-one in the third, and Rozanov turned it over at the blue line trying to force a play that wasn't there. That is not a mistake I expect from my captain in a playoff game."

Shane's stomach dropped. He'd been able to watch during that exact shift, close enough to see it happen in real time—Ilya had made the right read, except Rykov hadn't been where he was supposed to be, a half-second late peeling off his check, and the puck had sailed through the space he should have occupied and gone straight to an Admirals stick instead. 

It hadn't been Ilya's mistake at all. But Ilya wasn't saying that. His helmet was in one hand, chest rising and falling too fast, sweat dripping steadily off the ends of his hair onto the floor between his skates. He was just sitting there, taking it.

"Anyone want to explain to me why we took four minors in one period? Four." LeClaire's gaze swept the room, daring anyone to respond. Nobody moved. 

Shane pressed himself further against the wall, wishing he could just disappear, but feeling the humiliation of the team as if he was a player himself.

"That's not playoff hockey, that's undisciplined. That's a team that's rattled. And I don't know what's rattling you, but you need to find it and fix it, because if we play like that again, this series is over."

Marlow sat hunched forward on the bench, elbows on his knee pads, staring at a spot on the floor while Connors had gone completely still, blood crusted dark along one eyebrow that nobody had gotten to yet. Beckett picked at the tape on his glove with far more focus than the task required, refusing to look up.

And then there was Rykov. Standing apart from the rest of them, spine straight, face carved out of the same unreadable stone it always was. 

"I have coached a lot of teams in twenty-six years," LeClaire said, quieter now, which was somehow worse. "I have coached teams that lost because they weren't good enough. That's not this team. So when I watch us lose our composure the way we did tonight, I have to ask myself what's actually going on, because it is not a talent problem."

His eyes swept the room again, slower this time, before landing on Ilya and staying there.

"Rozanov."

Ilya lifted his head, but his eyes stayed unfocused like he was staring over LeClaire’s shoulder. Shane wrapped his arms around himself, keeping his face neutral even though his insides were screaming.

"You're better than that turnover. You know you're better than that turnover. So I need you, more than anyone else in this room, to be the one who gets us back on track. Because whatever happens to you happens to this whole team. That's what being captain means. You don't get to have an off night where it counts."

It wasn't his fucking turnover. But Ilya just nodded once, and looked back down at the floor, absorbing an entire team's worth of blame for something that hadn't been his fault at all, and not one person in the room corrected it.

Shane caught Marlow's eyes flicking toward Rykov for half a second. So did Connors's. And then, as if they both felt it, they looked at Shane. He dropped his gaze first.

"Carmichael’s out." Parker's voice came from the doorway. "MRI in the morning.”

A low collective exhale moved through the room, nobody surprised, but everybody hoping anyway.

LeClaire sighed, moving towards the door. “Get some sleep. Watch tape in the morning, not tonight. We're better than what I just witnessed. Prove it Thursday."

The room stayed quiet a beat longer after he left, his footsteps echoing down the hall before the guys slowly starting to peel off gear as low murmurs began to fill the silence. 

Shane's eyes found Ilya across the room again, still sitting exactly the same with his elbows on his knees, staring at nothing, and for the first time all night Shane didn't know if he was looking at his boyfriend or a stranger wearing his face.

__

Shane stared at his reflection as the elevator climbed toward the top floor. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was falling loose from the elastic it had been tied up in all night. Only then did he notice the tension headache, reaching up to pull the tie free and running his fingers through his hair, tucking it behind his ears. He looked like shit.

He felt Ilya's eyes on him and caught them in the reflection beside his own. Shane wanted to reach for him, to do anything to connect them—but Ilya just stared back with a kind of bone-deep exhaustion that left him hollowed out, and Shane genuinely didn't know what to do with his own hands.

Neither of them looked away as the elevator climbed, each soft ding marking another floor. Shane’s fingers flexed against his hip. But then the elevator stopped at their floor and the door slid open, cutting the moment short.

Ilya went first, bag slung heavy over one shoulder, and Shane followed a step behind, watching the line of his back the whole way down the hall. Shane dropped his bag and moved toward the kitchen, filling two glasses of water and setting one on the counter without a word as he chugged his own. He heard Ilya a moment later, the quiet shuffle of him kicking off his shoes before walking into the kitchen and picking up the glass of water waiting for him.

Shane reached for the compression wrap they kept with other medical supplies in the cupboard by the pantry, and Ilya took his blazer and shirt off, each button slower than the last. He let himself be moved by Shane’s hands, standing still while Shane wound it snug around the joint, tucking the end in with gentle fingers. 

They brushed their teeth side by side, Shane leaving the water running a beat longer than necessary so Ilya wouldn't have to wait for it to warm. Ilya reached out afterward and gently tugged the hair tie loose from around Shane's wrist, setting it on the counter where he'd find it in the morning.

By the time they made it to bed, the unspoken thoughts had gone quiet between them.

Shane got in first and lay on his back and opened his arms. Ilya hesitated only a second before he moved towards him, his enormous body somehow seeming smaller as he curled into Shane, one hand wrapping around his collarbone as he tucked his face into Shane’s neck.

It was the most they’d said to each other all day.

__

Shane had never fully understood what Game 7 actually did to a building. The Bears hadn't played one in years—hadn't needed to, not with the kind of dominance they'd had—and now here it was, waiting on the other side of the tunnel, the whole arena holding its breath before puck drop.

The locker room was quieter in the warm-up, guys going through their routines with more focus than noise, headphones in, eyes somewhere far away. Shane moved through it as wordlessly as possible, helping anyone that needed something from him, and even his hands felt steadier than usual, like his body understood the enormity of this moment.

Ilya hadn't said much all day. That in itself wasn't unusual—he got quiet before big games, always had—but tonight it felt heavier, and Shane had spent the whole day watching him from a careful distance, still unsure what he was looking for.

Then, ten minutes before they were due out on the ice, Ilya stood up in the middle of the room.

He didn't say anything at first. Just stood there in full gear, and let the room full of players notice him one by one, until it had gone completely silent, all eyes on their captain.

"I do not care what happened before tonight," Ilya said finally, voice low and rough. "I do not care about three-peat. I do not care that we have lost three games. That was yesterday, that was before."

He looked around the room slowly, every pair of eyes following him.

"Tonight there is only one thing,” he said. “I. Need. To. Win."

Nobody moved.

"I have watched every one of you do something impossible this year. So do it again. Take everything out there—your legs, your lungs, your fucking blood— because there is no saving anything for later. This is our fucking ice. This is our fucking building. These are our fucking fans. Nobody takes it from us tonight."

He paused and Shane felt goosebumps underneath his jacket, holding his breath as Ilya’s gaze did one last sweep of the room, breathing heavily through his nose. 

"Tonight we make fucking history."

The room exploded—sticks banging against the floor, a roar rising up loud enough that Shane felt it in his bones, guys on their feet, pounding each other's pads. 

Marlow clapped Ilya on the shoulder, grinning wide. "Great fucking speech, Cap."

Ilya just shoved him off, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Go fuck yourself, Marly."

Doucette was next, bumping his helmet against Ilya’s with a strong hand at the back of his neck, his eyes wild. “If anyone tries to bite you tonight, I will fucking bite them back. I’m a rabid coyote.”

Ilya just smiled tightly, patting him on the arm. “Okay, maybe no biting, but thank you.”

Briefly, his eyes flicked to Shane’s, and he nodded quickly before turning to lead his team out. 

Shane stood in his usual spot during the anthem, arms crossed, and didn't even bother running through his usual checklist. He just watched the building instead, thousands of people on their feet, the noise already climbing before the anthem singer had even finished, a pressure in the air that hadn't existed in any of the previous six games of this series.

The puck dropped and the game began exactly the way everyone knew it would—fast, physical, both teams throwing away any pretense of caution.

The first period passed in a blur of near-misses. Hunter hit the post twice. Ilya set up Rykov for a chance that just missed wide, the kind of shot that would've been a goal on any other night. But somehow, miraculously, no one ended up in the penalty box.

The second period tightened further, both benches shorter-tempered, goalies standing on their heads. By the third, the arena had stopped being loud in the constant, rolling way it had been all night and started being loud in bursts instead—breath-held silence broken by sudden explosions of noise every time either team got close, the whole building riding the same fraying nerve.

Shane's eyes never left the ice for long. He tracked Ilya's shifts, noting fatigue in the little things; the half-second delay before he changed direction, the way his stride had shortened slightly compared to the first period. The clinical part of Shane’s brain had taken over, even with his heart in his throat, skipping beats every time Ilya took a hard check.

With three minutes left, tied at only one apiece, Ilya carried the puck through the neutral zone, head up, looking for the pass.

He never saw the hit coming.

In all the years of watching him play, whether from a hospital bed or rinkside, Shane had seen Ilya take hits that would have ended other men's seasons and be back on his feet before the whistle blew. It was one of the things that made him Ilya fucking Rozanov; that stubborn refusal to quit, the armour-like physical resilience, the body that just kept going.

This time he wasn't getting up.

Shane was over the boards before the play even came to a complete stop, the crowd noise dropping out from under him like the floor of an elevator, his pulse pounding in his ears.

He got to him at the same time as the referee, dropping his medical bag as he crouched down, the ice cold through his knees. Ilya's helmet had come off somewhere in the fall, lying a few feet away with a crack running clean across the shell, and Shane's stomach turned over when he glanced at it. Ilya was on his side, and his eyes were open, but wrong—that half second delay and blankness that the brain papered over immediately—but not quickly enough. 

Shane had read about it in textbooks. He'd never seen it on Ilya's face.

"Hey," he said, his own voice steadier than he felt. He placed his hand on Ilya's jaw, tilting his chin and forcing eye contact. "Look at me."

Ilya's eyes found him, pupils dilated, unfocused for a beat too long before they sharpened. "I'm fine."

"You blacked out," Shane said.

"I did not—"

"Three seconds," Marlow said from somewhere behind Shane, skates cutting hard stops into the ice as he crouched down too. "Maybe four."

Ilya's jaw tightened. He looked at Marlow, then back at Shane, defensiveness already building behind his eyes.

"I'm fine," he insisted, trying to get up, one hand braced flat against the ice.

"Don't move," Shane said, a hand flat on his sternum, holding him down.

"I can—"

"Don't fucking move, Rozanov."

The rink had gone eerily quiet around them, nothing but the low murmur of concern rippling through the stands and the distant, tinny sound of the broadcast booth still talking somewhere far above them. Shane did a quick check—neck, spine, asking Ilya to squeeze his hands, watching his eyes track a penlight he didn't remember pulling from his bag. Nothing structurally wrong. 

He glanced up once toward the bench, where Parker stood at the gate beside the EMS crew, spinal board in hand, waiting on a signal that wasn't going to come unless Shane gave it. He looked back down at Ilya.

"Okay," he said, more to himself than Ilya. "Okay. Can you get up if I help you?"

"I have been able to get up this whole time—"

"Then let's go."

It took almost two minutes to get him off the ice—Ilya's full weight leaning into Shane's side more than he’d ever needed before. Shane was aware of Coach and the team all watching them, the opposing players skating in slow circles near center ice, but he couldn't focus on any of that right now. Now the only thing that mattered was Ilya's weight against him and the look in his eyes, and Shane's hand at his back keeping them both moving forward.

They passed all the concerned and curious eyes watching them as Shane sat him down on a bench in the tunnel, away from the rest of the team. He pulled out his tablet, hands shaking.

He knew by the second question. Ilya was eleven seconds off his baseline. Shane had never seen him more than three. He looked up at Ilya, and his face must have given it all away before he spoke.

"No," Ilya said, already trying to stand, one hand braced against the tunnel wall.

Shane put a firm hand on his shoulder. "You're not passing."

"I am fine." He easily brushed off Shane's hand and stood up, a head taller than Shane in his gear, chest still heaving. "There are three minutes left in game. Now move."

"You couldn't place Anderson." Shane blocked Ilya from walking past him, pressing his palm on against his chest.

"I placed him."

"After four seconds—"

"Because you were rushing me!" Ilya shouted, his accent thickening the way it only did under real stress, voice bouncing sharp off the walls.

"I was not rushing you," Shane hissed, glancing around and spotting Parker at the end of the corridor, watching them carefully, like he was deciding whether or not to intervene. "That is just how long it took and you know it."

"I know that I am fine and I know that there are three minutes left and I know—"

"You know nothing right now."

Ilya's eyes hardened, glaring down at Shane, close enough now that Shane could feel the heat still radiating off him. "Fucking say that again, Hollander."

Shane ground his teeth together. "These are your numbers. Your baseline. Look at the fucking gap."

Ilya gritted out, "Send me back out."

"No."

"Shane—"

"No."

Several emotions flashed through Ilya’s face, ones that Shane wasn't used to being on the receiving end of. Slowly, he lowered his voice, and said in Russian: "You saw me go down and now you cannot separate what you feel from your own fear—"

"Don't. Don't you fucking dare do that."

"Am I wrong?"

He wasn't entirely wrong. Shane had felt something tear open in his chest the moment Ilya didn't get up and it still hadn't fully closed up. But that wasn't why. That wasn't the reason and he needed Ilya to understand that, even if part of him understood why Ilya couldn't right now.

"This isn't about me," he said.

"I am standing right here telling you I am fine."

"And your numbers—"

"Fuck the numbers!" Ilya's voice filled the tunnel, despite the noise of the arena getting restless and angry somewhere above them, muffled and distant. The refs were undoubtedly trying to negotiate if the hit deserved a penalty or not. 

"I have played in this league for seven fucking years," Ilya leaned in, back to Russian. Shane braced himself, knowing he only switched like that when he didn't want anyone else to hear. "You have been doing this job for nine months, do not stand here and tell me what I do not know."

All the noise moved to static in Shane's ears as he felt the blood rush from his face. For a second, he didn't move or say anything. He just stood there with the tablet in his hands and let the words find the places they were designed for, perfect fists nestling into his sore spots.

"Right," he said finally, very quietly. "Okay."

"Shane—"

"Your helmet cracked. Clean across the shell. So don't stand here and tell me you're fine, because I have less experience than you, when we both know you have a concussion."

The hardness in Ilya's expression faltered, just barely.

"You're out." Shane's voice was completely even, drawing out every ounce of strength to keep this professional. "That's my call and I'm making it. You can be angry about it, but you're not going back on the ice. I won't let you."

The look on Ilya’s face was cold, nothing like him at all, and Shane felt his blood draining from his face before he even spoke.

"Then maybe," he said, leaning close so only Shane could hear, "you should not be here."

Shane didn't move, frozen in place as the words registered, the pulse in his ears replaced by a ringing static as the hall tilted to one side, like the axis was shifting.

Ilya's chest was still heaving, sweat dripping down the side of his face, and for one torturous second his eyes actually flickered—some awareness of what he'd just said catching up to him half a beat too late, the way water catches up to a stone already sunk. But he didn't take it back. 

Shane gripped the tablet with both hands, because he didn't trust what his hands might do otherwise, hugging it to his chest as he swallowed thickly. He had to just get through this, one step at a time. Even if everything inside of him was screaming, wanting to punch Ilya and run away from him all at the same time.

"Okay," he said. His voice came flat and professional, the voice he used with strangers, with his own doctors, with anyone. "I’m going to have Parker take over."

"Shane—"

"Don't." He still hadn't looked back up. "Don't fucking say my name like that right now."

Parker appeared beside them now, prying the tablet from Shane’s death grip, and saying firmly, "Why don’t you go check on Beckett in the medical room?"

Avoiding all eyes on him, Shane nodded and pulled himself back from the huddle. He couldn't feel his legs moving beneath him, only Ilya's eyes on his back the whole way down the hall, until he finally rounded the corner and was gone.

__

There was no one in the medical room, and it took Shane a full minute to realize that Parker hadn't sent him here to check on anyone. He'd sent him here to breathe.

He climbed onto the exam table and folded forward, head between his knees. His mind wouldn't stop spinning, and his heart ached with a tight, pulling pain on his left side that made him distantly wonder if this was what a heart attack actually felt like. 

Shane clenched his eyes shut and tried to concentrate, but every inhale pressed the words further into his ribs, and every exhale only got stuck in his throat.

He was so fucking furious at Ilya. Part of him wanted to march back out there, grab him by the front of his jersey, and shove him until he understood exactly how hard his words had hit. Another part of him, smaller and more pathetic, wanted the door to open right now and for Ilya to be standing there instead—wrecked and apologetic—saying he hadn't meant it, that it was the concussion and not him, that he didn't even recognize the version of himself who'd said something so cruel.

Both things could be true. Shane knew that, even gasping for air on an exam table. Ilya wasn't cruel. He'd just, for one terrible second, sounded exactly like someone who was.

And that was when it came back to him, like a thumb digging into an old bruise. You don't belong here. The same words almost, from a different mouth entirely, and the wound they'd left reopened all over again.

Maybe he didn't belong here. Maybe they were both right, and the job really was too big for him—too personal, too compromised, a guy who couldn't separate his own heart from his hands. Maybe Rykov was just the only one with the nerve to say out loud what everyone else on that bench had already been thinking for months.

“Shane.”

Shane’s head stayed where it was in between his knees, too heavy to pull upright. 

“Yeah,” he answered, muffled against the fabric. 

“We’re sending Ilya down to imaging,” Parker said quietly, shutting the door behind him, “just to make sure his head is okay, but I think he’s fine.”

At that, Shane lifted his head. “I made the wrong call.” It wasn’t a question, because he knew the answer. He’d fucked up.

Parker's brows drew together, his eyes moving carefully over Shane's blotchy face—no way to hide any of it under the glaring fluorescent light. Shane couldn't think of anything more humiliating than falling apart in front of his own boss. Well, maybe having his own worst insecurities confirmed by his boyfriend, right to his face.

"You made exactly the right call."

Shane blinked at him, mouth parting like he needed to argue.

Parker didn't let him try. "You did everything right, Shane.” He paused for a second. “Ilya's a different animal during playoffs—you've just never been this close to it before. It's been like this since his rookie season. I'm not sure he's even aware of it himself."

Since his rookie season.

Shane didn't remember most of that run at all, only fragments. The glow of an iPad screen propped against a pillow, the first game or two blurred into flashes he couldn't separate from dreams. Ilya's weight climbing into the hospital bed behind him, tears against his neck and murmured Russian words that sounded closer to prayers. The lights overhead, hallway ceiling tiles sliding past fast as wheels and sneakers screeched. 

"Shane?"

He blinked. Parker was still looking at him, waiting.

"Yeah," Shane pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to push the bad memories away. "What happened with the game?"

"We lost. Admirals scored a minute into overtime. Season's over."

Shane nodded slowly. He wanted to ask if he’d be blamed for another playoff loss, but he buried the thought, knowing he probably wouldn’t handle the answer well right now.

"Alright,” Parker pushed off the wall. “I’ve gotta go see how bad shit is out there. But you should go. It’s been a rough night. I’ll text you Ilya’s results later.”

"Okay. I will in a minute.”

Parker gave him one last look, one that reminded him of his mom, and then left the room. And god, his parents. They were probably blowing up his phone wanting to know if Ilya was okay. He wasn’t ready to face them, or anything, once he passed through the door. 

Shane pulled his phone out anyway, ignoring the swarm of sports app notifications, one headline catching his eye before he swiped it away—Bears in shock as season abruptly ends—and opened his messages instead. His parents had already flooded the group chat with Ilya a dozen times over, begging for updates, telling them both to call the second they could. Shane typed something he hoped sounded reassuring enough and shoved the phone back in his pocket.

The hallway outside was quiet with a team still nursing its wounds, and he made his way toward the training room to grab his bag from his locker. After grabbing his stuff, he passed a cluster of reporters near the tunnel entrance, phones and cameras raised, and kept his head down. 

Shane rounded the corner and didn't see Rykov until they nearly collided.

Rykov's shoulder clipped him hard enough to spin him half a step, and he didn’t as much as glance back.

"What is your fucking problem?" The words tore out of Shane before he could stop them, months of silence detonating all at once.

Rykov stopped.

He turned around slowly, and looked at Shane like he'd been waiting for exactly this moment to arrive, like he'd rehearsed it somewhere behind that dead fucking stare he always wore.

"What?" he asked, tilting his head to the side. "You come to fuck whole team now?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Rykov actually had a hint of a smile, like Shane’s outburst amused him. "This is how you get job, no? Fucking the Captain? You know what they say…do not shit where you eat?"

Shane’s heart was thudding in his chest, anger overtaking him so fast he forgot how to speak. 

"Oh, sorry. I mean, fuck where you eat. Or, I suppose in your case—Captain fucks you?” 

The echo in the hallway buzzed out, every sound collapsing into a single high, ringing note in Shane’s ears. He took a step forward. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

“Aw, why?” Rykov frowned exaggeratedly. “You are so very fun to mess with.”

Shane didn’t even realize he was moving until two hands were grabbing at him, pulling his arm back mid-swing, his feet dragging against the concrete floor.

"Whoa, whoa, hey—" Marlow's hand was wrapped hard around one of Shane's arms, Connors already on his other side, both of them turning Shane around and forming a wall between him and Rykov.

“Get the fuck out of here, man.” Shane heard Connors say to Rykov, his voice tinny and far away.

Shane's chest heaved, hands shaking, and he didn't fight the grip because there was nothing left in him to fight with. Whatever had surged up in him drained out all at once, leaving him empty.

“You okay?” 

“Hollsy.”

“Hey—Shane, look at me.”

Shane looked up to find them watching him carefully, like checking for damage. But they couldn’t see it from where it sat under his skin. He nodded, squirming out of their holds, and kept nodding until his head felt dizzy.

“Yeah, I’m—can one of you stay with Ilya tonight?”

Marlow and Connors glanced at each other briefly, with mirroring concern on their faces, but Marlow said quickly, “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

Stupidly, Shane just kept nodding, like he couldn’t get his head to stop. He repositioned his bag on his shoulder. “Thanks—I’ve gotta—I need to—I’m just going to go.”

He turned and started walking away, hearing them call after him, but everything got blurry after that. It was only when he slid into his Jeep in the dark parking garage, the key trembling in his hand, that he finally allowed himself to cry.

__

When the door opened, Shane didn’t even look up. He just walked in and rubbed his eyes into focus before turning around as Palmer quietly shut the door behind him. 

“Can I stay here?” His voice was scratchy, a small version of itself that he hadn’t heard in years, but probably one that Palmer recognized. 

“Of course,” Palmer said, his eyes looking over Shane with that same awful concern that Shane kept having directed at him tonight. He fucking hated it. 

Palmer reached out and grabbed the bag off Shane’s shoulder, dropping it onto the floor before he tilted his chin towards the small lamplit living room off to the right of the hall. “Go make yourself comfortable. I’ll make some tea.”

Shane nodded, since that seemed to be one of the only forms of communication he’d been able to master in the last hour, and turned to go sit down. He’d never been to Palmer’s apartment before, but he’d sent him a text asking for his address with zero context and Palmer had responded without question, a small mercy that Shane had been grateful for. 

“I watched the game,” Palmer said, his voice carrying through from the kitchen. “Is Ilya okay?”

Since Palmer wouldn’t be able to see his head bob, Shane forced his voice to work again. “Yes.”

Thankfully, Palmer didn’t ask any more questions as he rummaged around. Shane sat on the couch with his hands on his lap, staring straight ahead. There was an old mid-century console along the wall with a record player and stack of vinyls, the top open and needle pointed up, and he absently wondered what kind of music Palmer listened to. He listed off any artist he could think of in his head, just to give his mind something to do that wasn’t Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. It didn’t really work.

“Here.” A hot cup of tea was being pushed into his hands, so he wrapped his fingers around it.

They sat in silence for a while, and Shane almost thought about asking Palmer to put one of the records on, but that sounded stupid. 

“What’s going on, Shane?”

Shane closed his eyes because they started burning again.

“It’s my fault,” he finally whispered. 

“What’s your fault?”

He stayed silent for too long as he thought of all of the things that were his fault, letting them dogpile onto his brain until he felt the weight all the way down to his chest. He looked over at Palmer and, for a second, felt eighteen again, lying in a hospital bed as empathy pooled in Palmer’s eyes. Right then, it was comforting. 

“He lost the playoffs because of me.”

Palmer took a long sip of his tea, his gaze never leaving Shane’s face as he mulled over the self-inflicted sorrows. When he finally spoke, he asked, “Did you pay that defenseman to take that hit on Ilya?”

Shane almost choked on a surprised laugh. “What?”

Setting the tea down on the coffee table, Palmer sat back and raised his brows. “Well, I’m just trying to figure out your thought process on how this is your fault. So, I assume you hired a hit-man.”

“Of course I didn’t—what? No. I mean…I pulled him out and they lost.”

“Were you following protocol?” 

Hesitating, Shane’s brows cinched together as he stared at Palmer, saying slowly, “Yes, obviously.”

“And was Ilya off his cognitive baseline?”

“...yes.”

“Pupils dilated?”

“I mean…yes, but that could also be from—”

“Did your boss agree with your decision?”

Shane huffed, setting down his own tea and hugging his arms around himself. “Yes.”

“And would you make the same decision again tomorrow?”

Dropping his gaze, Shane nodded.

“Then this isn’t about medicine, Shane. You did everything right, what you would have done with any other player because you are good at what you do.”

Shane raised his eyes again, warily meeting Palmer’s. 

"This is fear talking, and exhaustion, and maybe a hundred other things that have been sitting in you a lot longer than tonight. You made the correct call, medically, ethically, every way that matters. If Boston's season depended on one player staying in a game with a concussion, then Boston wasn't winning the Cup.”

Shane tugged at a stray thread along the seam of his pants, looking back down as he processed the words. Palmer kept going, his tone softening.

“And what happened six years ago has nothing to do with any of this either—that was Ilya's choice, made with his heart, and it doesn't owe repayment, it was never a debt. You're trying to make two separate griefs make sense of each other because your brain wants there to be a pattern, some kind of narrative where you're the common variable, because that feels more bearable than the truth."

"What's the truth?" Shane asked, still looking at his lap.

"The truth is sometimes terrible things just happen. Concussions happen. Playoff losses happen. Almost dying happens. But you can’t keep putting the blame for all of those things on yourself.”

Shane swallowed thickly, turning to rub his nose against his shoulder. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, and Shane could hear the faint tick of a clock hanging on the wall. Everything felt so heavy and he was so tired of holding it all. When he looked back at Palmer, his vision had gotten blurry again, but he took a deep breath and said, “What if Ilya changes his mind?”

Palmer tilted his head in question. “About what?”

“About me.” Shane felt like he was drowning just saying his biggest fear outloud.

But Palmer smiled, shaking his head. “I think you might be underestimating him.”

“It happened to you.” Immediately, Shane’s face turned warm. “Shit, I didn’t mean—“

"It did," Palmer agreed. 

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"You can say it, Shane. It's not a secret." Palmer leaned back slightly, one arm resting along the back of the couch. "Rachel and I loved each other for a long time. And we didn’t survive in the end. But one of those facts doesn’t take away from the other."

Shane's throat tightened. "That's kind of my point, though. It could just—not be enough."

"It could." Palmer didn't offer him a lie, and somehow that felt gentler than reassurance would have. "I’m afraid that's part of the deal. You don't get certainty in exchange for love. You just get the chance to love them anyway, knowing you can't control how it ends."

"That's not comforting."

"It's not supposed to be comforting." Palmer studied him for a second, something steady in his gaze. "But you're asking me the wrong question, kid. You're asking if it's possible to lose him. Of course it's possible. It's always possible—that's not unique to you and Ilya, that's just what it means to actually love someone. Love always comes with the possibility of loss. Sometimes it survives. Sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes it gets bodychecked on the ice and needs a minute to get back on its feet."

Shane wiped roughly at his eyes with the back of his wrist.

"The question is whether you trust what you have enough to let it stand without deciding the outcome for him in advance. Because, as I see it, right now, you're not actually afraid of Ilya changing his mind. You're afraid of finding out you were never worth it to begin with.”

Looking away, Shane felt a tear slide down his cheek, staring at the wall again.

“I've known you a long time, Shane,” Palmer continued, knocking his foot against Shane’s, probably trying to make sure he was still with him. “And I’ve known Ilya nearly as long. And I watched him grieve the idea of losing you before he even knew he loved you."

Shane pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes again, trying to gasp for air quietly. Palmer stood and crossed the room, coming back with a blanket and pillow in one arm and a tissue box in the other. He dropped all of it onto the seat next to Shane and squeezed his shoulder.

“Get some rest. I’m sorry I don’t have a guest room, but this will have to do.”

“Thank you,” Shane whispered, sniffling. “I’m sorry.”

“The only thing you need to be sorry about is crying over a man who drives a neon sportscar.”

That made Shane laugh wetly, looking up at Palmer and rolling his eyes. “Fuck off.”

Palmer disappeared down the hall and for a moment Shane just stared at his cup of cold tea until his eyes dried out from unblinking. When the apartment went completely silent, it felt like the entire night exhaling. He grabbed the pillow and blanket and rearranged himself until he was curled up, and as soon as his eyes fell shut, his mind finally went blank.

__

Shane’s head was pounding—an incessant thud of skull against wood, throbbing behind his eyes with every strike. He groaned, groping blindly for a pillow to smother himself with, but the pounding didn’t stop. It only got louder.

“Good god, what is going on?”

Shane’s eyes snapped open. For a second he didn’t recognize anything—rumpled on Palmer’s couch, blanket bunched at his feet—and then it came back to him all at once, along with the realization that the pounding wasn’t in his head at all. It was the door. 

Barely any light leaked through the curtains yet, just the gray edge of sunrise, as Palmer crossed the room and down the hall, robe thrown over his pajamas, muttering under his breath. Shane pushed himself up on one elbow, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, and froze at the sound of Ilya’s voice tearing through the apartment the second the door opened.

“Where is he?” 

Shane sat up fully just as Ilya walked into the living room, stopping at the entry. He was wearing a hoodie over a ball cap pulled low, but all the blood rushed from Shane’s face at the look on his face. It was full of more terror than Shane had seen on him in years. 

“What?” he asked quickly, swiftly catastrophizing every possible scenario that could make Ilya’s face look like that. “What’s wrong?”

Ilya didn’t move, his eyes wide as they swept over Shane. He took one small step forward, as if he was afraid to scare away a spooked animal. 

“Have you been on phone?”

Shane’s brows furrowed, automatically glancing around to locate it. “No, I don’t even know—it’s probably dead.”

“It’s not dead,” Ilya said, his voice remaining eerily steady. “I could still see your location, this is how I find you.”

Oh. That made sense. 

“Okay, well, it's around here somewhere.” Shane went to stand up, but Ilya moved forward, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

“No,” he said, crouching down in front of his knees. “Sit. I need to tell you something, but I want you to keep your eyes on me, okay?”

Shane searched Ilya’s face, heart beginning to pound, only vaguely relieved that it wasn’t the same hardened face that had been etched behind his eyes since last night. This Ilya was looking at him intensely, but there was no trace of anger.

“What’s going on, Ilya?” Shane asked, briefly catching Palmer standing off to the side, giving them space but not leaving entirely, the same worry wrinkling his forehead. “You’re scaring me.”

Ilya stretched out his arms, bracketing them on either side of Shane’s thighs from his position, making them eye-level. Shane wondered if Ilya was worried about a flight-risk and it only made his pulse race faster.

“There is video,” Ilya started, voice low and even. Shane gulped, already imagining ten ways this could go with no idea which direction.

“Last night,” he kept going. “From the tunnel, of you and Rykov.”

Shane stopped breathing.

“I don’t know who took it, but,” Ilya paused, moving one hand to grip Shane’s in his lap. “It has gone viral.”

“Viral,” Shane repeated, the word tasting like acid on his tongue. 

Okay. Fuck. He’d almost punched Rykov, hadn’t he? Marlow and Connors had to grab him, it probably looked so bad— “Oh my god, am I getting fired?”

Ilya frowned. “No, just listen, okay?” 

Shane nodded, pressing his lips together. 

“People have…” Ilya paused, and then took a big breath, before just coming out with it: “They have put things together. About us. There have been a lot of photos on Twitter. And they—they somehow found medical records, I do not know how—all the pieces have been clicking, and more photos, photos we had no idea had been taken—of going on walk, brunch with your parents, even some from years ago—it is all out there.”

Shane was trembling now, unable to speak even if he’d wanted to. 

“I know—I know this has been your worry,” Ilya’s voice softened as he squeezed Shane’s hand tighter. “I’m so sorry.”

Shane wasn’t sure which part he was sorry about, but it didn’t matter. He was paralyzed in his own body, thinking of everything that was imploding outside of this bubble. 

“Coach saw the video, too. He is putting Rykov on temporary suspension for breaking code of conduct.”

Shane didn't say anything. His mouth had gone dry, his tongue thick and useless behind his teeth.

Ilya's grip on his hand tightened, and for the first time since he'd walked in, something in his composure slipped—eyes glassy, not yet fully broken, but close.

"Shane. I tried to call you, but reporters are already trying to get in touch with both of us, they want—" He stopped, swallowing hard, like he couldn't make himself finish the sentence. 

Shane's chest was heaving, small and shallow.

“They want statements, but my agent says we should just keep our phones off for now, okay? And we will deal with this together, yes?”

Shane opened his mouth. Nothing came.

"Okay, just nod."

Shane did as he was told as Ilya reached up and cupped his face in both hands, thumbs brushing gently along his cheekbones. 

"There is one more thing," Ilya said, voice dropping lower even though Shane had heard a door close down the hall at some point, knowing Palmer must have quietly left them alone. "What I said to you. Last night."

Shane's eyes instantly filled, spilling over before he could stop them. Ilya’s face broke in half, and he tried desperately to wipe the tears away as quickly as they fell.

"What I said." Ilya's voice cracked audibly this time, no longer holding it together. "It was so mean, I have hated myself for saying that to you, I’m so sorry, Shane. I was just so—” he paused, shaking his head, frustrated with himself. “Stupid playoffs, I do not know why, they make me remember so many terrible things, and I—”

Shane made a small, broken sound, and it wasn't anything close to language, just raw and helpless.

"I am so sorry," Ilya whispered, forehead dropping to rest against Shane's, both of them shaking now. "I do not have excuse good enough. I just need you to know I did not mean it, I have never meant anything less in my life, and I am going to spend as long as it takes making sure you never have to wonder if I meant it. I can not lose you, Shane. I almost did once, I will not survive—"

Shane's hands came up and fisted in the front of Ilya's shirt, and he tried—God, he tried—to say something back, anything, I know, I love you, it's okay, but his throat had sealed shut completely, nothing left in the space where words used to live.

Ilya felt him try, and instead of pushing, instead of waiting for something Shane couldn't give him right now, he just pressed his lips against Shane’s over and over. 

"Okay, malysh." His thumbs kept moving, steadily against Shane's wet cheeks. "I know you cannot talk right now. That is okay. I do not need you to talk. I love you. I love you more than I love anything.”

It was like a dam breaking, releasing the only words that mattered as Shane whispered back, “I love you, Ilya.”

They kissed longer this time, apology pressed into Shane's mouth, met with something that felt like forgiveness before Shane had even decided, both of them clutching at each other hard enough to lose their breath entirely.

When they pulled apart, they stayed close, breathing into each other's mouths and grasping hair, shoulders, necks, hands moving like they were just relearning what it was like to be able to touch again. 

Ilya's eyes were on him, blue and glassy and so full of pain, and Shane's chest ached with the understanding that love could hold both suffering and devotion at once, without contradiction.

“Are we going to be okay?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

Ilya rubbed his nose against Shane's, inhaling deeply like he was trying to breathe him in. "Yes," he said. "We are more than okay. I promise you."

__

"So, uh. This episode was supposed to be about Boston getting eliminated in seven."

"Nobody gives a fuck about hockey today."

"We have to just say that up front. We are not doing X's and O's. We are not breaking down the power play. There is exactly one story in this sport right now."

"And you know I have to say it—"

"Say it and get it out of your system."

"I told you so."

"There it is."

"I'm not gonna dwell on it. I said my piece, I was right, we can move on."

"You will never move on from this."

"I will move on from this the second one of you admits I was right."

"We are not doing that. Moving on. Okay, so, where do we even start with this?"

"Start with the video."

"Okay, the video. Which, by the way, that video is genuinely hard to watch. I don't care what side of this you're on, watching a guy get called out like that in a hallway right after his boyfriend just got carted off with a head injury—that's not a hot mic moment, that's cruelty, and I hope that gets addressed by the league beyond a suspension."

"The suspension already happened, by the way. Bears announced it about an hour ago."

"That was fast."

"Very fast. Which tells you something, honestly, about how that room feels about it internally."

"Okay but then it just—it snowballed. Like within hours."

"The internet interneted."

"And unfortunately that means the absolute sewer of humanity interneted too."

"I've been avoiding my mentions all morning because some of the stuff people are saying is just vile."

"And that's the thing—I don't want people thinking this is some universally wholesome story. It isn't. There are a lot of people celebrating them, which has honestly been incredible to see. There are also people saying some really ugly shit."

"Some of it's just homophobia—"

"Just homophobia?"

"You know what I mean. There are legitimately some people who think they shouldn't be allowed to work together, which is so stupid because we all know staff and players have a long history of marrying in house. Some of its also people acting like Rozanov somehow lied to fans because he...had a private life?"

"The league's got a real problem on its hands if it thinks this story ends with suspending one guy."

"Exactly."

"But this story is crazy—not because it's about two men, but because of the history."

"In a super intrusive way that is absolutely none of our business, there is something sort of incredible seeing all the pieces being revealed, a love story that started when they were teenagers? It's just not something you see every day."

"The scars."

"Dude, the scars. Somebody zoomed in on a recent photo from Florida, and Hollander is standing in the background and you can actually see it, and I—look, I've seen a lot of internet sleuthing in my life, I did not expect hockey Twitter to out-detective actual detectives, but here we are."

"And then the medical stuff. Which, whoever leaked that, that's a real problem. That's not fans doing internet archaeology anymore, that's an actual privacy issue, and I hope somebody's looking into that seriously."

"Completely agree. Separate issue. Real issue."

"I think the part that actually broke my brain a little was the rookie year stuff."

"Also, can I just add—we've seen Rozanov without his shirt on like...a million times."

"No one loves getting naked for a camera more than Ilya Rozanov."

"I mean, I wouldn't wear clothes either if my body looked like that. He did that Calvin Klein ad three years ago—"

"We remember. You didn't shut up about it for a week."

"Your girlfriend almost broke up with you because you made it your lock screen."

"My point is—we've all seen his scar. We just never put it together because we're so used to hockey players looking like they've been stitched together in a garage."

"I honestly feel kind of stupid now."

"Over the fact that he disappeared during his rookie playoffs, came back with a scar, and we just...never questioned it? Yeah. We might be a little stupid."

"Okay, say more, because I don't think people who weren't around for that even remember how big a deal that was."

"So, for anyone who doesn't remember—Rozanov just vanished, mid-playoff run, his rookie year. No explanation. Team goes on to get bounced without him. This was a massive story at the time. There were a lot of conspiracy theories."

"The mafia."

"I'm not doing the mafia bit today. This is a respectful conversation."

"Fair, fair."

"And now, six years later, we find out the actual reason was—his boyfriend was in a hospital bed dying, and Rozanov donated half of his own liver to save his life, and never said a single word publicly. Not once. While getting absolutely dragged by the media for disappearing on his team."

"That's the part that got me."

"Same."

"And listen—there's another layer here. Russia isn't exactly welcoming to LGBTQ+ people."

"Exactly. People keep saying, 'Why hide it for six years?' Guys...he's Russian."

"And not just that. Russian NHL players have spent years getting dragged into conversations about politics they never asked for. Add being queer on top of that? Yeah, I'd probably spend six years looking over my shoulder too."

"And Rozanov has always been insanely private. We know almost nothing about his family, his home life, any of it. Looking back now, I don't think that's because he was trying to be mysterious."

"I think it was protection."

"But now seeing all the evidence—like that photo from the hospital? Did you guys see that?"

"It was blurry, but yeah. He's standing outside the hospital hugging who we now know was Shane Hollander. Six years ago."

"And here we are now, first year with Hollander as the Bears' assistant trainer."

"It's insane, and it also explains so much about this season that people were speculating about without knowing why. Remember all the chatter early on about how close they seemed?"

"People were reading it as just a good working relationship."

"Honestly, most people weren't reading it as anything. Because why would you?"

"Exactly. There wasn't a reason to assume anything. Looking back now, though, none of it was new. It was already a six-year relationship."

"And apparently a lot of that locker room already knew."

"From everything being reported, teammates knew. Staff knew. People inside that organization knew for a long time."

"And nobody leaked it."

"Not one person."

"Think about how insane that is in professional sports."

"Seriously. One of the biggest stars in the league, one of the biggest secrets in the league, and not one guy ran to a reporter."

"Which honestly makes me respect that room even more."

"It sounds like they treated it like family."

"It sounds exactly like family."

"And, ironically, that locker room sounds healthier than parts of this fanbase right now."

"One hundred percent."

"I've seen people saying they're burning Rozanov jerseys."

"I've also seen people buying eighty-one jerseys for the first time because of this."

"You really are getting the absolute best and absolute worst of sports all at once."

"Rozanov is a game-changer."

"He always has been."

"I just hope those two get some peace."

"Same."

"Genuinely, same."

"Okay. We do have to talk about actual hockey eventually. The Admirals are headed to the Cup Final—"

"Scott Hunter is on a tear."

__

Shane stared at his own reflection as the elevator climbed toward the top floor. His eyes looked tired behind his glasses, hair messily falling out of the half-assed tie he’d pulled it into earlier. But then he felt strong arms wrap around him from behind and watched Ilya in the mirror, dropping his chin onto Shane’s shoulder and simply looking at him.

He tipped his head back and felt Ilya’s lips press against his throat, gentle as ever, trailing a slow path down until they lingered in the hollow where his neck met his shoulder.

“Do you want tea?” Ilya murmured against his skin as the elevator continued its soft, steady ding.

Shane nodded, laying his hands over Ilya’s forearms and hugging him closer.

Neither of them moved when the elevator stopped.

The doors slid open onto the empty hallway and stayed there for several quiet seconds before beginning to close again. Ilya caught them absently with the toe of his shoe, eyes never leaving Shane’s reflection.

“Sorry,” he murmured, though neither of them had actually been trying to get anywhere.

This time they stepped out.

They walked into the apartment quietly, turning on lamps and shrugging out of jackets and toeing off shoes, stretching every ordinary part of coming home just a little longer than they normally would. Everything felt fragile, as if one wrong word might shatter whatever was left of the day.

Ilya filled the kettle while Shane changed into sweats, the familiar sounds of water running and cupboards opening seeming louder than usual. They still didn’t speak. By the time the tea had steeped, Shane had already rehearsed a dozen different ways to start the conversation, and discarded every single one.

He knew they needed to talk, knew that Ilya knew it too and that there was no way they could dance around it anymore. He’d been mentally preparing for it all day, but even as they settled onto opposite ends of the couch with hot mugs warming their hands, Shane still had no idea where to begin.

For several long minutes, they simply looked at each other.

Twice Shane opened his mouth before closing it again. Once Ilya did the same, his fingers tightening imperceptibly around the handle of his mug. Neither of them seemed to want to be the first to make the evening real.

Eventually Ilya looked away, staring out at dark pier beyond the windows for so long that Shane almost thought he'd decided against saying anything at all.

"How long?"

Shane swallowed thickly. He thought he knew what Ilya meant, but suddenly he wasn't sure.

"How long what?"

Ilya blinked, turning back toward him. He leaned forward to set his mug on the coffee table before speaking again.

"How long was Rykov..." He waved a frustrated hand through the air. "...doing whatever the fuck that was?"

Shane dropped his gaze to his tea, thumb tracing slowly around the rim of the mug.

"I guess..." He exhaled. "Since January."

He finally looked up after a long stretch of silence.

Ilya's jaw had gone tight enough that the muscle flexed beneath the scruff along his cheek. His eyes drifted somewhere far away, piecing together six months of memories Shane realized were rearranging themselves in real time.

"I think..." Ilya paused, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I think you need to start from the beginning."

So Shane did.

That night the conversation cracked open the box Shane had been nailing shut for months, finally spilling everything—not all at once, and not all that night, but in pieces over the course of several evenings like it.

"He said this to you," Ilya repeated after one revelation, like he needed to hear himself say it out loud to believe it. "He said you are a problem?"

"Well, not exactly, he was just insinuating—"

"Shane." Ilya groaned. "Stop using big stupid words when I am upset."

The second night, it was about that same time at the bar, everything else that had happened after Shane stopped telling the story the first time. Ilya went very quiet for a very long time, before suddenly standing and leaving the room entirely. Shane heard him pacing the hallway, back and forth, ten full minutes of angry muttered Russian before he finally returned to the room.

"Why didn't you tell me? Why would you protect me from knowing this?"

Shane didn’t have a good answer for that one. He claimed he was trying to protect Ilya from having to shoulder another stressor during the season, because that was the truth, as stupid as it sounded. But the more Shane shared, the more he realized that protection was just the word he'd been using to disguise something closer to fear—that if he handed Ilya one more thing to carry, he might finally decide to set it down.

"You are not his type because you are mine," is what Ilya eventually said. 

"Okay, I think we should maybe dial it down a notch."

"Dial it down? Dial what down? Another man touches my husband and I am to be normal about this?"

"Your what?"

Which led to a three night hiatus from discussing anything at all, because they spent all their spare time re-christening their apartment in ways that left them more bruised than a playoff game.

It would have been easy to stop there, but there were still things Shane had left until last.

The scrimmage. The words that left wounds punched into Shane's ribs that reopened the night of Game 7. It stayed stuck in his throat for a long time before he finally forced it out, watching Ilya's face the whole time.

Ilya went completely silent, emotions flickering fast behind his eyes—recognition, maybe, or the sudden, sickening arrival of it—before his hands came up over his face, and he just sat there like that for what felt like an eternity. Shane pulled him in without waiting to be asked, Ilya's face pressed against his neck like something in him had simply given out, as though the wound had just been made all over again, even though Shane had forgiven him for it days before.

Eventually, after hours of talking through more feelings than either of them had managed in all their years together combined, the weight finally started to lift.

"I didn't see it," Ilya whispered in the dark, holding Shane close to his chest. "I told everyone he was just quiet, just private, and the whole time he was—"

Shane didn’t know what to do with that, watching Ilya fall apart over someone who wasn't even the one who'd hurt him the most. But that was Ilya—capable of holding fury and heartbreak in the same breath, mourning a version of Rykov that had never actually existed while still burning for the version that did.

By the time the sky outside had gone from black to grey days later, they'd said almost everything there was left to say—every name, every date, every small cruelty Shane had spent months trying to convince himself he was partway making up. Ilya had cried more in those few days than Shane had seen him do in all the years he’d known him. Maybe some box inside Ilya had cracked open too. 

And on the morning of the final team meeting, Ilya walked into the facility beside him, matching his stride, neither of them looking away from a single face in that hallway.

__

Shane took a deep breath, staring at the door in front of him, unsure of what he was about to be met with on the other side. He’d only been in this room for tape reviews and other less important administrative meetings. This time was different. 

Ilya squeezed his hand, and Shane looked up to find Ilya already watching him, a small crooked smile on his face. 

“It is same team as before, Shane,” he reassured him. “And I am right here.”

“Okay.” Shane nodded. “I’m ready.”

From what Shane had heard, these end-of-season meetings usually ran loose—half the guys already checked out into summer, joking through paperwork while coaches ran through breakdown logistics nobody really listened to. 

Today nobody was joking. Chairs had been pulled into a tight half-circle instead of the usual sprawl, and the air itself felt careful, everyone's eyes flicking toward Rykov's seat near the back—present, per team policy during a suspension review, unreadable as ever—and then away again just as fast.

This time Shane didn’t look at him, refusing to give Rykov anything to read for once. Instead he sat down beside Parker, and folded his hands in his lap, doing his best to look like he wasn't the reason half the room kept glancing his way.

It was now two weeks since the video, and the first time Shane had faced the entire room with the staff altogether. He knew the internet was being loud and relentless on one side of it, but he and Ilya had mutually decided to stay offline, at least for a while until they were ready to say something. 

Yuna Hollander had no such restraint. She’d apparently spent the better part of the first week replying to haters on Twitter with such righteous fury that his dad had to confiscate her phone and threaten to deactivate her account entirely. They’d both offered to fly down immediately before Shane talked them out of it, promising they were fine—but argued less when Ilya suggested that they just fly to Ottawa after the meeting, their bags already packed and waiting for them in their car.

Shane's actual job hadn't stopped for any of it; there were exit physicals to run, equipment inventory, closing reports to file before the offseason officially began, and he'd gone to the facility every morning like always, grateful for something ordinary to do with his hands.

LeClaire cleared his throat at the front of the room, calling things to order, and Ilya stood.

"Alright," Ilya said, clapping his hands together and turning to face everyone. "Listen up."

“Rozanov,” LeClaire said, sighing. “Is this your meeting?”

“Ah, yes, for one second please.”

The room quieted fast, everyone’s attention shifting to Ilya, weeks of unbroken tension finally finding somewhere to go.

"Hollander and I are together." He said it flatly, almost like he was reading it off a teleprompter. "Most of you already knew this. This is not some big scandal so we do not need to discuss that part further." 

“No shit,” Carmichael deadpanned, from where he was sitting with his leg in a cast, propped up on a chair. A ripple of laughter moved through the room, some of the tension breaking loose with it. “We can see how you stare at him, we have eyes.”

“I do not stare.”

“I never saw you staring, Captain,” Järvinen added innocently, getting booed for whatever reason.

“You do,” Beckett confirmed. “It was actually kind of creepy.”

Shane wanted to sink into the floor as Parker knocked his elbow with a smirk.

“This is unrelated.” Ilya waved a hand, unbothered. “We will not be talking about my non-existent staring habits today.”

The laughter faded quickly after that, the room settling as Ilya’s tone shifted, dropping some of its ease.

"What I do need to say is this."

He looked around the room slowly, until his gaze landed on Rykov near the back and held there.

"He earned this job because of his skill and talent. Every single one of you has trusted him with your career and health because he is the best at what he does. We are fucking lucky to have him on this team.” He glanced at Parker. “No offense, Parker.”

Parker waved him off.

Shane wanted to laugh, but his throat tightened instead, heat rising to the tips of his ears. 

“He is the smartest person I know, and I never want to see one single person in this room doubt that. We are a team, we work as a team, and if he tells you that you have a concussion, you listen. You do not argue with him. You do not tell him he is wrong.” A small, wry shake of his head. “Trust me, I tried this already. Did not go well for me.”

Marlow started barking and Shane shot him a glare, shutting him up quickly.

Ilya let the silence sit a moment longer before his tone shifted again, lighter now, almost businesslike as he turned to look back at LeClaire with raised brows. "I am still captain, yes?"

LeClaire, caught off guard, blinked. "...Yeah?"

Ilya smiled brightly. Oh no. Shane knew that smile.

"Good."

He cracked his neck and shook out his arms, then turned and started walking straight toward Rykov's chair as everyone’s heads turned like a wave to follow him. 

It took LeClaire almost three full seconds to realize what was about to happen.

"Wait—Rozanov—"

Too late. Ilya's fist connected with Rykov's jaw in one clean, premeditated motion, no wind-up, just slow-building vengeance condensed into a perfectly placed punch that sent Rykov's chair skidding back and Rykov himself sprawling half out of it.

The room exploded in shocked noises—half the guys wincing on Rykov’s behalf, someone's chair scraping back fast, Doucette on his feet with both fists in the air like he was ready to go next.

"For fuck's sake, Rozanov!" LeClaire was already moving, physically inserting himself between the two of them, though Ilya wasn't even trying to go for a second hit, just standing there shaking out his hand, looking entirely satisfied with himself.

"That wasn’t permission!" LeClaire's voice cracked in disbelief as he stared at Ilya like he genuinely couldn’t process the last four seconds of his life. 

"I asked if I was still captain." Ilya shrugged, still flexing his knuckles. "You said yes. This is captain business."

Rykov pushed himself back upright, jaw already swelling, blood at the corner of his mouth, and said nothing. But for the first time since January, he looked a little ashamed, and Shane was shocked to discover that he sort of felt bad for the guy. 

Ilya settled back into his seat like nothing at all had happened, reaching over to steal Shane's water bottle without asking, taking a long swig from it, entirely at peace with the world.

"Okay." He set the bottle back down and looked expectantly toward the front of the room, like a student waiting patiently for class to resume. He waved his hand around toward LeClaire. "You can start boring meeting now."

Chapter End Notes

the epilogue will be posted soon xx

also massive shout-out to my close personal friends from WhatChaos! for being my podcast bros and not knowing it lmao. they've taught me so much over the last 9 months lol

Chapter 4: ilya's epilogue

Chapter Notes

Ilya Rozanov had won a lot of things in his life.

World Juniors.

First pick of the NHL draft.

Hart Memorial trophy. Four times.

Art Ross. Six.

Back to back cups. Back to back Conn Smythes.

And a bunch of other really boring trophies that mostly collected dust in his trophy room.

But none of it compared to the carefree look on Shane Hollander's face when he smiled up at him, freckles bunching across his nose, like he'd forgotten the rest of the world existed. It was so stupid, how quickly that smile made his heart race—faster than chasing a puck over the blue line or scoring an overtime winner. Faster than thousands of people chanting his name like he was something larger than life.

Nothing in the world came fucking close.

"What are you staring at?" Shane asked, his cheeks growing pinker, playing his dumb little game of pretending like he didn't know why Ilya would be staring at him. 

Ilya leaned down, kissing one of his favorite clusters of freckles that lived right below Shane’s right eye. "Just making sure," he said, moving his lips across to the other side of his nose, "that my freckles are all still here. I must count each one."

Shane's eyes closed, which Ilya took advantage of, gently pressing his lips against each lid, feeling the way they fluttered underneath his mouth. 

"You're so stupid," Shane murmured, a little raspier than a moment ago. 

"No, I am very thorough," Ilya said the word slowly, his accent curling around the R. "I am taking inventory and doing statistics, this should be turning you on, Hollander."

And because Shane's lips were right there, Ilya kissed those too. Shane's back arched until their bare stomachs brushed, and he was moaning softly against Ilya's mouth as their tongues met lazily, taking their time because time was something they finally had.  

The last couple of weeks since the video came out had been a whirlwind, though Ilya privately thought whirlwind sounded much nicer than what had actually happened. Shitshow was more accurate. Every morning he'd wake up thinking surely there couldn't be anything left for the internet to discover, only for someone to dig up another old photograph or some intrusive fact about his family before breakfast. 

And then there were all the reporters, social media influencers, PR managers, and approximately a million other strangers who suddenly wanted to know more about Ilya and Shane's relationship than even they knew about it.

Ilya had learned a lot of things, like how shipping had nothing to do with boats, and that the supporters were almost more terrifying than the haters.

They'd apparently gotten married three different times, engaged another half dozen, and—much to Shane's utter horror—yesterday's airport photos had convinced a bunch of people on Twitter that Shane was pregnant. Ilya still wasn't entirely sure how a man became pregnant simply by looking well-rested, but he was willing to try his best. Shane had made him delete the app after that.

But none of it mattered, not anymore, not while lying here in the grass with Shane's head on his chest, the lake glinting somewhere past his feet, the early evening sun warm against their skin and their legs tangled together. Neither of them had even flinched when a group of kayakers had gone by.

It felt good, being seen. 

Marlow and Connors were checking in constantly like mother hens, while Doucette's messages all seemed to carry the implication that certain problems could simply disappear if Ilya gave any kind of signal. It was a strangely reassuring thing to discover about one's teammates, though perhaps not for reasons HR would appreciate. It did explain, at least, why people were always so quick to joke about Russians and the mafia. Apparently Canadians from the North weren't much different.

The punch had been a high point.

He'd gotten a call earlier from LeClaire to inform him that the league had decided to suspend him for two games at the start of the following season, fined him enough money to buy a small house, and were making him attend three anger management sessions once they returned to Boston.

"Off the record," Coach had said, after Ilya accepted his consequences. "Rykov deserved that and you didn't do anything I wouldn't have done in your shoes. I hope Shane knows we're grateful to have him a part of this team, he's one of ours—you both are."

So as it turned out, Coach was more human than Ilya had ever given him credit for the last seven years.

And Ilya, riding the small window of goodwill, had tried his luck and brought up his minutes—thirty a night in a sweep, the kind of workload nobody should have carried through a full playoff run.

There'd been a long enough pause that Ilya thought the call had disconnected.

"We'll look at it," LeClaire had finally muttered, sounding like he was regretting even saying that much.

Ilya considered that a win, too.

But the worst part of the last two weeks still arrived at three in the morning, with Shane asleep beside him, and one thought that kept circling back no matter how hard he tried to push it away: he'd hurt the one thing that had never once needed protecting from him.

He'd spent half his life terrified of finding out he had more of his father in him than he wanted to believe. And then he'd stood in a tunnel and, for one terrible minute, sounded exactly like the man he'd spent his whole life trying not to become.

He would never know what had happened in her life, to make his mother choose his father, but he knew exactly what kind of man he intended to be instead.

He and Shane had made a quiet agreement after everything happened: no more deciding for the other person what they could handle. No more carrying hurts alone until they became too heavy to lift. They were both terrible at it so far, if Ilya was being honest, but at least now when one of them reached automatically for "I'm fine," the other had started asking, "Are you really?"

It wasn’t natural yet, but they were trying.

"You've got that look again," Shane said, resting his chin on Ilya's chest, catching the sun just right, the hidden amber around the edges of his dark eyes showing itself. He frowned and reached up, pushing at Ilya's eyebrows until they weren't cinched together. "What are you thinking about?"

That I wish my mother could have met you, Ilya thought. 

"She would have loved you."

Shane shifted his body more sideways, propping his head up with his hand and keeping one leg thrown over Ilya's thighs. His other hand moved to cup Ilya's face, eyes moving to Ilya's lips as he brushed his thumb across them. 

"What was she like?"

"Beautiful," Ilya whispered, biting the tip of Shane's thumb gently. "Too kind for this world."

"I wish I could have met her, too."

Ilya's chest ached. He tugged Shane down by the back of the neck and kissed him slowly, tasting the lemonade they'd had earlier.

"You are getting sunburned," Ilya said, pulling back to study the bridge of Shane's nose. "Your freckles are multiplying. I cannot keep up with inventory like this."

"I'm wearing sunscreen," Shane protested.

"Very fast growing."

Shane's cheeks flushed more, and Ilya wanted to burrow under his skin or something, just to feel it.

"My little garden." Ilya kissed the reddening spot for emphasis, ignoring the eye roll he got in return. "I am very proud of you. Excellent freckle yield this year."

Shane laughed, the sound vibrating right through Ilya's chest, and shoved weakly at his shoulder. "You're insane."

Ilya tipped Shane's chin up and kissed him again, one hand sliding up and down his back before he pushed his fingers just barely under the waistband of Shane's swim trunks. Shane made that tiny pleased sound he loved, and Ilya immediately chased it with another kiss just to hear it again. When Shane laughed and leaned away, Ilya caught him and stole one more anyway.

"Boys!" 

Shane flinched and immediately hid his face in the crook of Ilya's neck at the sound of his mom's voice carrying across the yard, just as the screen door slammed open. 

"The game is starting in five minutes!"

"Okay, thank you," Ilya called back, tilting his head upside down to see Yuna on the deck, shielding her face from the sun. "We will be right up."

The door shut again before Shane came back out from hiding, his face redder than before, now looking furiously at Ilya.

"What? Now it is a crime to enjoy kissing my pregnant zhena in broad daylight?"

Shane narrowed his eyes at Ilya. "I'm naming the baby after Marlow." 

That led to them wrestling in the grass until Ilya was pinned under Shane and crying, "Hvatit, hvatit, hvatit!"

Inside, the living room smelled like popcorn and sunscreen and something sweet that David had baked after dinner, cooling on a rack in the kitchen. Yuna was sitting in the middle of the couch, a bowl of chips balanced on one knee, and David was fussing with the TV volume, muttering about the pregame coverage being too loud.

"Sit, sit," Yuna said, patting the cushion beside her. 

Ilya settled in next to her, and Shane dropped down onto the floor in front of him, back against Ilya's knees, reaching for a can of ginger ale someone had brought out in anticipation. Ilya's hand found its way into Shane's hair, fingers combing through the long damp strands still drying from their last dunk in the lake, and he leaned back into it immediately.

"You'll put him right to sleep doing that," Yuna said, glancing over, amused.

Ilya grinned, giving her a conspiring look. "Shh. Is the goal."

"During the Cup Final?"

"Yes, then he can't talk about zone entries for the next two hours."

"Hey," Shane said, flipping Ilya off without turning around.

"Everyone put your bets in the hat," David said, passing Yuna an old McGill ball cap with a notepad and pen, which she quickly took, uncapping it with her teeth and shielding them from seeing her answer.

Shane turned to look at Ilya. "It's tradition, you just write your score prediction on it and whoever loses by the most points has to clean the kitchen."

"Ah, very serious," Ilya said, nodding solemnly before taking it from Yuna. "What does winner get?"

"Bragging rights," David said. "Which these two will milk for a whole year."

The game started, and the living room turned nearly as loud as a locker room. Ilya had known for years how seriously the Hollanders took their hockey, but for half of the seasons he'd known them, he'd been the one on the TV, not the one watching it beside them. This was new, and he almost liked it more.

There was something almost dizzying about it, sitting here absorbing all their commentary and half-arguments, and for one brief second his mind slipped back to a cramped hospital room, his English still new enough then that he'd spent most conversations quietly translating in his head, always a beat or two behind, never quite catching up in time to actually say anything.

"Does it hurt?"

Ilya blinked, pulled back into the present by the soft sound of Shane's voice. He looked down and found Shane had taken the hand that had stilled in his hair, thumb tracing lightly over the dark bruising still faded into his knuckles. He was looking up at Ilya with eyes that looked less concerned than his tone suggested. 

"No," Ilya said, flexing his fingers before wrapping them gently around Shane's neck. "Not anymore."

Shane's eyes softened as he held Ilya's gaze a beat longer before finally looking back toward the TV, reaching up to cover Ilya's hand with his own.

Of course, Yuna had caught the exchange, saying, "That boy deserved more than a punch—"

"Yuna," David looked at her.

She threw her hands up. "What? I'm just saying! Fuck him for talking to Shane like that. Fuck him right up the ass!"

"Mom," Shane groaned.

"He would probably like that too much," Ilya shrugged, glancing at Yuna. "Like Sha—"

"Ilya!"

David turned the TV up.

The Admirals won in overtime, a scramble in front of the net that ended with the whole bench pouring over the boards, and Ilya groaned into the couch cushion, though he privately thought at least it was not Vegas, an admission he would take to his grave.

"Fucking dinosaur," he muttered, watching Hunter get mobbed on screen. 

Yuna was already up, pouring herself a glass of wine with the smug satisfaction of a woman confident she'd won the hat, and David had it open on his knee, going through the slips and unsurprisingly giving his wife a congratulatory nod for having the closest prediction.

"Wait," Shane said suddenly, sitting up straighter against Ilya's knees. "What's he doing?"

Every head in the room turned back to the screen at once.

The broadcast had cut to a wide shot of the ice, champagne-soaked chaos still unfolding while cameras zeroed in on Hunter near the boards, motioning someone down from the stands with both hands, grinning wide enough to read from the nose bleeds.

The room quieted as they watched a man climb over the low wall separating the crowd from the ice, and immediately Hunter's hands came up to cup his face before anyone had fully processed what was happening, all of their mouths falling open silently as they watched.

Hunter kissed him. Full color, full audio, thousands of people roaring in both celebration and shock while cameras caught the kiss from six different angles.

"What the fuck?" Shane breathed out, eyes wider than saucers. "He's—oh my god—Scott Hunter is gay?"

"Grebanyy gey dinozavr," Ilya grumbled, leaning back into the couch with his arms crossed. "Unbelievable. Disgusting."

"Disgusting?" Yuna raised her brows. "That feels a little contradictory, honey."

Ilya shot her a look, waving a hand at the TV. "You do not think he does this on purpose?"

Shane didn't peel his eyes from the screen, apparently too fucking enamoured by a dumb sloppy kiss. "On purpose?"

"He steals our thunder!" Ilya's voice cracked up, frustrated by the stifled laughter already filling the room. "Is it not a very stupid coincidence that we come out—"

"Technically, we got outed—"

"—and then he decides, oh, you know, I will copy Rozanov, take his Cup, get very hot boyfriend—"

"You think that guy's hot?" That made Shane turn. He scowled up at Ilya, looking like an angry kitten, which was probably a deliberate tactic to distract Ilya.

"This is just so typical." Ilya shook his head. "Fucking Scott Hunter. Never lets me have anything."

"He's literally never taken anything from you, you've beaten all of his records and always have."

Ilya grunted. “I bet he is trying to figure out how to give his boyfriend a liver now.”

"I think it's kind of nice, actually," David offered, unhelpfully. "Solidarity, you know?"

"Oh my god." Ilya threw his head back against the couch with a loud groan. "I am not holding hands with Scott Hunter in gay little circle of solidarity."

"Well, I hate to break it to you," Yuna said, taking a sip of her wine and hiding a smirk, "but I'm afraid you're on kitchen duty tonight."

"I lose hat, I lose Cup, I lose title of only NHL player with hot boyfriend. This is worst night of my life."

Shane rolled his eyes. "I don't think you're allowed to be the victim here."

"I contain multitudes."

"You contain a tantrum."

Ilya finally let his arms uncross, reaching down to drag Shane up off the floor and onto the couch beside him instead. "Fine. I do the dishes. But I want it on record that I am doing it under undress."

"Duress," Shane corrected, elbowing him.

"Noted," Yuna said, placating him with a pat on his knee. "Oh, look, they're replaying it again."

"Please do not replay it again."

"It's very sweet, Ilya."

"It's the most boring kiss I have ever seen, it embarrasses my community."

"Oh, so now you have a community?" Shane teased, tucking himself into Ilya's side, and Ilya, despite every ounce of performed outrage still radiating off him, wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close and kissing the side of his head.

Later, once everyone had gone to bed and Shane was breathing steadily next to him, Ilya grabbed his phone off the nightstand, glancing sideways to make sure Shane was actually asleep before swiping it open. He'd just hit post when Shane stirred, catching the screen a second before Ilya could tilt it away.

"Oh my god." Shane groaned, half-asleep, making a lazy grab for it. "I thought you deleted Twitter."

"Shh." Ilya dropped the phone out of reach. "I did not do anything."

Shane squinted at him in the dark, clearly not buying it and too tired to fight about it either. "Fine. Kiss me goodnight again."

Ilya smiled as he cradled Shane's face and kissed him with his whole heart, the first piece of himself Shane had ever carried.

__

@ilyarozanov81 congrats @scotthunteradmirals on the homosexuality that has never once been done before in nhl history, especially like two weeks ago.

Chapter End Notes

its finally the end. :((

idek what to say, I never in a million years expected this story to blow up. thank u to every one who has taken time to read and fall in love with these characters the way I have, for all the kudos and comments...it truly has left me speechless and I feel so grateful for the love. and to my babysmoofangel pointerbrother for beta'ing and being so patient and encouraging the last 4.5 months as this story totally took over my brain. there is so much I want to say, but it'd take too long. I just love and appreciate every single one of u that has been along for this journey. im probably going to go into a mini depression now lol.

i posted this on twitter, but for everyone who does not have twitter, here is something I wrote about rykov and his motives bc I wanted to join the discourse but its too much to try to respond to everyones comments.

rkvov came to boston already knowing who ilya rozanov is—the russian superstar, captain, first overall pick, all the records, art ross/hart memorial/conn symthes—and i think he had this idea in his head of who ilya is supposed to be before he ever actually met him. he was prob excited abt getting to play with a legend, someone from his country. they’re the only two russians in the room, they can speak their own language, they have this immediate chemistry on the ice, and ilya genuinely starts to like him and wants to help him find his place on the team.

but then the closer rykov gets to ilya, he resents that this man he had built into some ideal of russian masculinity and greatness is actually this: loud, ridiculous, queer, affectionate, soft with his team, and shamelessly devoted to another man. so when he messes with shane, part of what he’s doing is punishing ilya through shane.

shane becomes the evidence of everything about ilya that rykov can’t reconcile. he isn’t jealous of shane in a romantic sense and he isn’t trying to steal ilya.

ultimately, shane represents this whole part of ilya that rykov sees as weak and humiliating.

so instead of questioning his own beliefs, he decides shane is the problem. and shane is easier to destabilize, and from rykov’s eyes, he is everything that is wrong with ilya.

and ilya really does lose someone in a weird way. he thought rykov was this alienated young russian kid who had bounced around the league and needed someone to understand him, and ilya wanted to be that person for him. maybe parts of rykov really were that person. but rykov came to boston looking for someone in ilya he could recognize himself in, discovered instead that ilya had built his life around everything rykov had been taught to despise, and took that disappointment out on the person ilya loved most.

he doesn’t create any of the problems in their relationship. shane’s insecurity was already there. ilya’s playoff trauma (which is another part I could write a whole thing abt) was already there. the secrecy, the professional conflict, the homophobia, all of it was already there. rykov just finds every existing fault line and keeps pushing until something finally breaks.

tl;dr: rykov is homophobic, despises that ilya isn’t who he thought he was, and in some weird way wanted ilya to stand up and be who rykov thought he should be. but ofc he was never going to change ilya, so he just messed with shane instead. also, there’s a part of me thinking rykov could also be racist, but there just wasn’t enough space to truly unveil everything abt him and his psyche.

and, being in shane’s POV, we were never going to learn everything going on in rykov’s head. which is why it remains so ambiguous. but this was the character profile I made for him.

i hope that gives a little more perspective on him as a character. and im sorry for anyone who didn't feel totally justified, but there's only so much I can pack into one fic. haha.

until next time, A.