Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, POV Shane Hollander, Autistic Shane Hollander, Coming Out, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, no beta we die like ilya's dad, Miscommunication, Rivals to Friends to Lovers, Canon Rewrite, Flirting, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, shane just doesn't know it yet, Anxious Shane Hollander, Protective Ilya Rozanov, a little bit, Fake Dating, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Oblivious Shane Hollander, fuck AI fuck it to death, Yearning, ooc eating habits for shane, aka he's like chill about food lowkey, Happy Ending, Angst with a Happy Ending

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-31 Completed: 2026-07-10 Words: 108,003 Chapters: 27/27

pull at the thread

Summary

Yuna slides a folder on the table closer, pulling out two packets of paper. She’d gone all out with the contracts. Mainly, Shane suspected, to ease his nerves about the lines of the relationship. Plus, she was always nothing if not prepared.

She hands one contract to Shane, then another to Rozanov. “As a reminder, this is not legally binding. If either of you wants out early, can’t meet obligations, or wants to change things down the line, that is perfectly fine, and we can work with that. This just lays out the exact timeline of the relationship,” she begins, “down to the start and end dates."

 
- or, Shane and Ilya never start hooking up in 2010. So eight years later, after they both come out on their own, Yuna Hollander (momager of the century) decides that a PR relationship would be very beneficial for her son and his infamous rival. And everything definitely goes exactly according to plan... or something like that.

Notes

you know my brainrot is bad if a ship can make me write a longfic.....

Chapter 1: one

Chapter Notes

Shane Hollander has let fear rule his life for too long.

During the years of being scouted and drafted, then in the first handful of years of his professional career, he’d been terrified that he would fail to prove himself. Terrified that he would fail to make his parents, his team, and Montreal’s fans proud. With every year of experience gained, that fear ebbed away slightly. By now, after almost a decade of playing for the Voyageurs, he feels as though he’s done enough to prove his worth. He knows his parents are proud of everything he’s done in terms of his career. 

While he feels secure enough about his legacy in the hockey world, that doesn’t mean that the concept of fear has escaped Shane entirely yet. There’s still always the tiny voice in the back of his mind reminding him that he can’t slip, lest the Voyageurs find another up-and-coming star to take his place as captain, the same way he’d taken it from a seasoned pro years ago. There’s still the constant eyes on him, the media and fans watching his every move — Shane forgets to breathe under the weight of the pressure sometimes. 

And then there’s the fear of the world’s heaviest, most daunting secret looming over him. It took him years to accept it himself, and even after he’d been able to do that, he’d still had to put on the performance of a lifetime to hide from everyone — his team, the media, his friends, and his family — that he’s gay.

For a long time, Shane believed he would die with this secret. He thought it was the only way. The NHL would never be accepting of an openly gay player on the ice. Or, god forbid, in the locker rooms. The idea of every ounce of work he’d put into his career being reduced to ash because of his sexuality? It was horrifying enough for Shane to not even consider any alternative to pushing it down, down, down. So far below the surface, Shane had almost convinced himself a handful of times that it could be a fluke. 

(It wasn’t, obviously. He would date women and try his hardest to find a spark of real interest beyond platonic feelings. But it would never work, and he would always be forced to face his reality. The closest he’d ever come to feeling something possibly real with a girlfriend was his most recent one, Rose. Which was ironic, because the reason she was the most recent, at a whole year and a half ago, is because after only a few months, she’d recognized exactly why she wasn’t doing it for Shane. She was still one of his closest friends, and had been the only person to know his secret for a while.)

It was nearly one year ago that Shane saw a potential light at the end of the tunnel. All because Scott fucking Hunter, the captain of the New York Admirals, had kissed another man, right there on the ice after winning the Stanley Cup.

Shane can still vividly remember the way his heart stopped in his chest. He can remember the way it felt impossible to inhale, to blink, to think something other than Oh my fucking God?

His coming out happened in stages. During the summer following the Admirals’ win, Shane had come out to his parents. He’d been mostly sure they would be alright with it. They were right beside him when Scott had kissed his boyfriend on the ice. Shane had heard their words of support, talking about how brave Scott was to do something like that. Still, it had been more than scary to tell his parents that Shane himself was gay. It was one thing to know his parents weren’t generally homophobic, but it was another thing entirely to look them in the eyes and tell them the son they’ve known for over two decades is gay. 

They had been nothing but incredible about it, of course. 

Next had come Hayden and his wife, then J.J. All of which had also been warm and welcoming. Not only had they assured him that it changed nothing about how they viewed him, but his two teammates promised to back him up when Shane told the rest of the team. That had gone… less than ideal.

A few of the Voyageurs had been supportive. A lot had been indifferent. A good amount had instantly become visibly uncomfortable. Shane had noticed a lot of side glances, had heard a lot of whispers, for the first few months of the season. He’d noticed the way certain players would leave the showers as soon as Shane stepped into them, like they were afraid he would suddenly lose all sense of self-control and come on to them. (Trust and believe, none of them were his type, but whatever.)

The animosity had faded over time during the season, but it never went away entirely. Which only made Shane more anxious in his own locker room, a place that had felt like home up until now. 

All of that was to say that Shane knew fear. He had lived and breathed fear for the better part of his life. And yet, there was something new and all-consuming about the fear currently taking hold of him as he prepared to post a statement to the entire world.

The Voyageurs had just barely failed to make it to the playoffs this year, so Shane was with his parents at their summer cottage. He had his own cottage now, just ten minutes down the road, but this one felt more like home after spending all of his childhood summers here. He wanted to be in the safest location possible to do this. He sat on the sofa with his parents on either side of him, and his agent on speaker phone. They were the only people who knew Shane was doing this today. He’d worried that if he told anyone else, there would be a higher chance of a leak and a media outlet grabbing the story before Shane could announce it on his own terms.

The first games of the playoffs start in two days, so they’ve decided that posting this now would give the media a weekend to go crazy before being forced to focus on the games. 

His mother rests her hand on Shane’s forearm, sliding up to clasp her fingers around his wrist. It calms the shaking of his hands.

“I know I normally say fuck what everyone else thinks,” Yuna says softly, making Shane chuckle at her rare use of a swear word, “but consider the good this will do. In the same way Hunter coming out helped you, this will do the same thing for countless young athletes. You don’t have to, of course, but I think you’ll be happier without this secret weighing you down and helping kids coming into the league.”

Shane nods jerkily. He does want to do this. He knows it will be helpful to other secretly queer athletes, and he is glad to be a voice for them, but it’s more than that. As long as he can remember, he’s been plagued by the heaviness. It’s attempted to drag him down and hold him back for his entire career, and he’s persevered despite it, but he wants to be free from that. He doesn’t want to be scared anymore.

The clock ticks closer to noon, which is when he plans on pressing post. When he does, his agent will release statements to five of the biggest sports and entertainment sites in Canada and the U.S.

“This is your last chance, Shane,” Farah says over the phone. “If you want to wait or change your mind, you have to decide now.”

Shane shakes his head, even though she can’t see him. “No,” he says. “I want to do this. I’m fucking terrified but… I want to.”

He can hear Farah’s grin through the speaker. “I was hoping you’d say that.” The clock strikes twelve. “Whenever you’re ready, then.”

Shane takes one slow breath in, then exhales. His thumb taps the screen. “Posted.”

The next two days are the most intense case of whiplash Shane has ever experienced. There are really two categories of people — those who believe Shane should be forced to leave the NHL, and those who are unrelentingly supportive.

He tries hard not to pay attention to the first group of people. He knew there would be anger and hatred. He’s faced a version of it in the form of racism a million times over the last decade, and he knew this would be the same, but tenfold. The homophobia surrounding the NHL has never been a secret. People have no shame in letting Shane know through every platform available that he’s a disgrace to the sport, to the world. That he should be forced to retire before the season starts again; otherwise, it would just be perverted and disgusting for him to share a locker room with other men. (He’s dying to point out that he’s gone his entire career without incident… but alright.) He’s seen more than one video of people throwing out their Voyageurs merchandise, or in one case, even going as far as tossing a Hollander jersey into a bonfire. 

Admittedly… It does hurt. He knows these people don’t matter, and he expected some level of backlash. But it doesn’t make it any easier, seeing people who have loved him for almost a decade flipping at the drop of a hat, all over something that Shane can’t control. Over something that doesn’t affect his ability to play hockey in the slightest.

On the flip side, the support has been overwhelming. There have been countless tweets and posts, even emails sent to his agent and Yuna, detailing how refreshing and important it is to have another openly queer player in the league. He’s seen people jump to his defense without second thought, getting into fights online in his honor. 

It’s… odd, in a touching way. This secret that he’d been so terrified of his entire life is out there now. And the world didn’t end. Not only did it not end, but he has countless people rallying behind him, supporting him. 

The media’s attention splits after those two days. Some outlets still focus on Shane — on how long he’s had this secret, on his authenticity in past relationships, on which of his male friends he’s secretly fucking. But the majority of their attention has shifted back to the playoffs, as Shane had hoped.

Shane stays off social media as much as possible, per Farah’s suggestion. His mom occasionally sends him a supportive email to read, just as a small reminder that people are looking up to him just for being himself. For brief moments, Shane can forget that the entire world knows. It never lasts, of course, as reality has ways of making itself known.

The first round of the playoffs ended yesterday, eliminating four teams from the chance at the Cup. Shane’s watching a commentary of the final game between San Francisco and Vegas with his parents when his phone buzzes on the table.

Once… twice… again, and again, and again. In the time it takes Shane to wipe his fingers on the napkin in his lap, set his mostly empty plate down on the coffee table, and grab his phone, it had to have buzzed at least twenty times.

“Someone’s popular,” his dad chuckles, glancing over.

“It’s probably just the team group chat,” he says. His phone is still buzzing constantly in his hand, even as he opens his notifications. Sure enough, it is the Voyageurs group chat, as well as separate texts from Hayden. They’re all talking so fast, mostly in claims of shock and disbelief. Shane can’t even scroll up in the group chat due to the incoming texts. He gives up after a few seconds, switching to Hayden’s texts.

Hayden
Holy shit did you see??
I guess this will take the spotlight off of you

Shane
I can’t even tell what the team is talking about.
What happened?

Hayden responds with nothing but a link to one of the large news outlets to which Farah had sent a statement when Shane had come out. When Shane clicks it, his eyes scan the text, and it only takes a few seconds to understand what Hayden meant by I guess this will take the spotlight off of you.

“Oh my God,” Shane whispers. Both of his parents look at him.

“What, honey?” his mom asks, her eyes instantly alert. She’s been a bit on guard since Shane’s coming out, quick to pull Shane away from anything too harsh and critical online. Shane just holds his phone out to her.

Her warm eyes flick over the screen, her eyebrows slowly raising. She glances at Shane, at David, then back to the screen.

Aloud, she reads, “Just twelve hours after the Boston Bears lose to Florida in the first round of the NHL Playoffs, captain Ilya Rozanov posts on his official Twitter the following message: I am very proud of my team. We tried our hardest, and we will continue to do so next season. In other news, I have recently been inspired by other players in the league to tell you all that I am bisexual. I am sure this is a shock, but I am very proud of this, too. See you next season, NHL.”

Aside from the television, the living room is silent. Yuna hands the phone back to Shane, where he reads the words over and over again.

His mom breaks the silence with, “Well, that is quite shocking,” she says. “But good for him, I suppose.”

Shane nods, unable to speak. Because if he speaks, he wouldn’t be able to hide the fact that Rozanov being bisexual isn’t shocking at all to Shane.

Toronto, 2010 

Shane can still hear his own voice echoing in his head as he leaves the locker room. 1410. It bounces around in his skull, almost taunting him for caving so easily.

He had just told Ilya fucking Rozanov his room number, only minutes after they had blatantly checked each other out in the showers. He can still see Rozanov’s hand travel down his own stomach, towards where he was fucking hard. Because he was looking at Shane. 

Shane has no fucking idea what any of this really means. Surely he couldn’t… do anything with Rozanov. The notion of it all was ridiculous and dangerous. When nine o’clock rolls around, Shane will just have to ignore the knock on his door. Because nothing good can come from whatever this was.

Except… the spark of curiosity in Shane’s gut feels like a burning ball of heat. For the first time in his short life, he's excited at the idea of being with someone. Absolutely batshit afraid, too, obviously. But despite that, he can't deny the hint of anticipation bubbling up inside of him. 

He forces himself to eat dinner. A light one, because his stomach is fluttering too much to handle more. He paces around his room for a solid twenty minutes. He changes his clothes four separate times, including an entire suit at one point. (As soon as he looks at himself in the mirror, he realizes he’s being an idiot and takes it off.) In the end, he decides on sweatpants and a t-shirt. 

With every minute closer to nine, his determination wavers. He goes back and forth with himself on whether or not he’ll open the door when he hears the knock. 

There are an infinite number of reasons he should not entertain this. They’re about to begin playing for rival teams in just a few months, for one. The entire world will have its eyes on the two of them, and whatever tension that lingers following this hook up(?) will surely be noticeable by someone. Plus, Shane’s too horrified to consider what this really means for himself. He hasn’t allowed himself to ponder too deeply about the occasional flashes of attraction he’s felt when faced with certain men in the past, but none of that compares to whatever went on in his body when he saw Rozanov earlier. 

But despite all of that, Shane knows that the what-if will haunt him forever if he doesn’t open the door. Even if they don’t hook up, or whatever Ilya could possibly want, Shane will always wonder, and it will drive him to madness. Curiosity killed the cat, or whatever.

Shane forces himself to sit in the armchair by the window. His phone sits on the table beside him, and approximately every nineteen seconds, Shane taps the screen to show the time. Nine o’clock approaches, hits, and then… passes. 

Right, well, no one is ever perfectly on time anyway. Except for Shane, but that’s besides the point. Minute by minute, nine o’clock gets further away. Shane’s brow furrows as he watches the clock. He hesitates for a second before checking his Twitter messages — he and Rozanov didn’t exchange phone numbers, so if he wanted to reach out, this likely would’ve been the platform where he would’ve done so. But there’s nothing. 

It’s nearing 9:30 when Shane is no longer nervous. He’s actually a bit irritated. And fucking embarrassed. He spent so much time stressing, all for what? All because Rozanov had toyed with him. For a split second, Shane panics, thinking Ilya might be telling people about how Shane Hollander gave up his room number in seconds, seemingly so eager to get with Rozanov. But then Shane recalls how Rozanov had literally jerked off in the showers, all of his attention directed at Shane.

No, this wasn’t entirely a game. There had been real desire in Rozanov’s eyes. But that only made his not showing up even more confusing. Perhaps an emergency came up, but if that were the case, it wouldn’t be hard for Ilya to reach out over social media and explain. Maybe he’d just wanted to throw Shane off his game months before their first season.

Shane scoffs, tossing his phone over to the bed where it bounces and hits the floor with a thud. He leans back in the chair, covering his face and exhaling slowly. He counts to three, ridding himself of all this tension, before he stands. Shane scoops his phone off the ground.

9:37 pm.

He shakes his head, grabs his TV remote, and crawls into bed. It’s probably a good thing that Rozanov didn’t show. It was a bad idea, anyway.

Chapter End Notes

let it be known that so far, ten chapters are written and i'll be posting every monday (once i finish writing, i may post more frequently. also chapter count may change we will see!)

come say hi on twitter!

Chapter 2: two

Chapter Notes

girl i need to set a reminder to post otherwise i will constantly almost forget until its 5pm. anyways enjoy

p.s. the chapter count has been bumped up and i'll probably do it again oops

For the third night in a row, Shane stares at Rozanov’s tweet. His screen brightness is all the way down, because it’s the middle of the night and it’s pitch black in his bedroom. He’s returned to his own cottage, mainly because he wanted a bit of privacy to properly freak out. 

It’s not necessarily just that Rozanov came out that’s so shocking to Shane. He obviously already knew that Ilya was queer in some capacity, if what happened eight years ago was any indication. Though a small part of Shane had always wondered if Rozanov had backed out that night because he’d realized he hadn’t actually wanted to fool around with another man. Shane usually wrote that theory off, though, if only because Ilya had been the forward one, touching himself right in front of Shane. He imagined someone might not do that unless they were at least somewhat confident in their sexuality. 

The shocking part of it all came down to a very specific part of his tweet. I have recently been inspired by other players in the league.

That had to mean Shane, right? There were only two players in the NHL who were out, and Scott came out an entire year ago. Yes, that’s still somewhat recent, and yes, Hunter was inspiring for making such a bold move, but it couldn’t be a coincidence that just under two weeks after Shane came out, Rozanov had, too. 

Plus, with their brief and oddly charged history, was it out of the question that Shane’s coming out had triggered Rozanov to do the same? And if it was directly inspired by Shane, did that mean anything in relation to what had happened in those showers? What could have happened in Shane’s hotel room?

Shane stares at the tweet. He’s been going back and forth on saying something publicly. When Hunter had come out, Shane had tweeted in support — he may not have been ready to come out himself yet, but he hadn’t wanted to get grouped in with the other homophobic players. And given that Ilya’s coming out was so soon after Shane’s, it just makes sense that he would show support. 

He’s afraid people will talk, rumors will spiral, and maybe even that Rozanov will think it means more than it does. Because it doesn’t mean anything other than supporting a fellow member of the LGBT+ community that’s facing the same criticism Shane is. Even if, countless times over the last eight years, Shane’s mind had flicked back to that night with Rozanov. That almost. That what-if. Despite the memory of what had happened, and the potential of what hadn’t happened, lingering in his mind after all this time, Shane's showing support didn’t mean anything personal. 

Obviously. 

Shane huffs a soft breath and begins to type a reply to the tweet. Farah and his mother will kill him for doing this without their knowing, and in the middle of the night, but Shane had been determined not to let fear sway his actions anymore. There's one glimmer of bravery shimmering in his veins, so he grabs it, and types.

It takes him a few minutes to perfect the response, and even after he finishes, he reads it five times just to make sure. He hesitates for only a moment before telling himself, no, you’re not scared of this, and hits post. 

With that, the anxiety creeps back in, so he puts his phone down and forces himself to go to bed. 

He doesn’t even have a single moment of blissful ignorance in the morning where he forgets what he did the night before, because it’s knocking on his bedroom door that wakes him up. “Shane!” his mom calls through the door. “Come downstairs as soon as you’re up.”

He sits up, sheets pooling around his waist. He feels like a child who’s about to be scolded, even though he’s in his own house that his mother had entered on her own volition, but he supposes his mom is valid for the reaction. Her entire job is managing his public image, and Shane had done something very public without at least consulting her. She likely would’ve been on board anyway, considering she was just as supportive of Rozanov, so that likely makes it worse that Shane didn’t talk to her first. 

He makes quick work of his morning routine and heads downstairs, his cheeks flushed like he’s embarrassed. His mom is sitting at the kitchen island, a laptop in front of her and her phone screen bright. She switches between them every few minutes, typing away. She’s so distracted that it takes her until Shane clears his throat to notice him.

She smiles tightly, setting her phone down. “Well, you were up late last night, hm?” she asks.

Shane’s shoulders drop as he sighs. “Okay, yes, I should’ve waited until morning or something,” he says. “Is anyone saying… anything about it?”

Yuna tilts her head side to side. “Officially, most of the news outlets are just bringing attention to the fact that you replied. No one is necessarily surprised, they’re more so just acknowledging your support and Rozanov’s response,” she says, turning her eyes back to her laptop. “However, fans are making up rumors about this meaning more than it does. Saying you’re dating, you like each other, you’ve hooked up. Things like that.”

She says it all with a roll of her eyes and a tone in her voice that says the entire idea is just absurd. Outlandish. Completely impossible. Shane’s entire body is tense, because in another world where Ilya had knocked on his door that night, it’s completely plausible that at least some of those things could’ve come true.

Shane exhales all of the air in his lungs until he replays her words and realizes something he’d missed.

“Wait,” Shane says, fumbling for his phone in the pocket of his sweatpants, “he replied?”

“You haven’t seen?”

“I’ve been awake for five minutes!” He navigates through Twitter, clicking the most recent account in his search history. He finds Ilya’s original tweet, then his own response. Below that is another from Ilya, posted only moments after Shane had tweeted last night. If he’d stayed awake for five more minutes, he would’ve seen it then.

It’s nothing crazy. Shane wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but the tweet only reads: Thank you, Hollander. I would not have found the courage to do this without you.

“Oh,” Shane murmurs softly. “It was because of me. I mean, I thought, but… I wasn’t sure…”

Yuna glances his way. “I could’ve told you that, sweetie,” she says. “I’m sure Hunter was inspiring, too, but it seemed very likely that Rozanov was directly influenced by you.”

Nodding distractedly, Shane reads the reply again. His chest feels warm. When he’d decided to come out, he’d expected that most of the people he’d be helping would be younger athletes who dreamed of being in the league. He’d thought of all the kids and teenagers working their asses off to make it to the draft. He’d even thought of rookies, stepping into the spotlight, potentially hiding their sexuality the same way he had.

He hadn’t taken into consideration the established players in the league that might’ve been hiding for years, just like Shane had. Admittedly, he had thought of Rozanov, but that was only because he already knew Ilya's secret. He had assumed it would stay a secret, considering Rozanov had built up a reputation for sleeping around in the last decade. He hadn’t actually expected Rozanov to come out, much less only weeks after Shane had. 

In the years following that night with Rozanov, they’d never been anything more than rivals. They’d chirped at each other on the ice, and made bare small talk at panels or award shows when cameras were on them, but that was about the extent of conversation between them. They’d definitely never talked about what happened. They’d never made eyes at each other since then. Not during ceremonies or games. Shane had honestly assumed Ilya had forgotten everything that had almost happened between them, and maybe he did, but it was still touching to know he’d had any impact on Rozanov’s life. Especially after he’d occupied Shane’s thoughts more than once over the years, despite Shane fighting it. 

Shane likes Ilya’s tweet. Part of him wishes he could respond again, but he’s not sure what else there is to say. Plus, if people are already speculating that this meager interaction means more than it does, it’s probably best not to add fuel to the fire. He’s about to lock his phone when he pauses, noticing something. His thumb hovers over the screen, staring at Ilya’s account. Without thinking about it much more, Shane hits the button that says follow back. Then he glances at his mom, whom he’d forgotten was there.

“I probably should’ve said something before doing this,” he says hesitantly, “but I did just follow Rozanov back.” So much for not adding fuel to the fire.

His mom blinks at him. “That’s… fine,” she says, her brows furrowing slightly. “It might add to the speculation, but people are just grasping at straws anyways, so it’s not a big deal.”

Shane sighs, a bit relieved. He generally avoids social media because he knows he can’t do anything without it being analyzed. His mother tilts her head, a faraway look glazing over her eyes. “Plus, I’m… thinking about…” she shakes her head, turning her attention back to her laptop. “Well, I’ll let you know if it actually ends up mattering.”

That’s a bit cryptic, but Shane has learned not to question his mom when it comes to his public image. She’s always steered him right, ensuring he works with the best brands and sponsors — best not only meaning the most prestigious or trendy, but also brands that have good morals and ideals. He’s seen countless athletes end up in brand deals with companies that later become involved in scandals. Yuna Hollander would never allow her son to even come close to those situations.

Shane rounds the kitchen island, opening his fridge. “Do you want a smoothie?” he asks, taking out a few tubs of fruits and vegetables. His mom looks up with a smile that can only be described as placating.

“I love you so much,” she says, her eyes dropping to the spinach in his hands, “but definitely not.”

When his mom had left earlier that day, it was with strict instructions to Stay Off Twitter.

Shane obeyed, mostly. He isn’t publicly doing anything on Twitter, so in the eyes of everyone but him, he’s not online. He is, however, heavily contemplating sending a direct message to Ilya Rozanov.

Nothing crazy. He just wants to tell Rozanov that he’s glad he could inspire him to come out. He just wants to see how Ilya is holding up, with the media shitstorm swirling around them. Until now, there was no one (aside from Scott Hunter, but Shane was not DMing him) who understood what Shane was dealing with. But Rozanov… well, they’d been side by side their entire careers. This was only another addition to that, and Shane knew he was struggling with all the eyes on him. He was just… curious about Ilya’s experience.

He hit the little envelope icon on Rozanov’s account.

@shanehollanderhockeyplayer
Hey. 

Not his best start, truthfully. But it takes a moment for him to type out another message that he’s happy with.

I just wanted to say it’s really brave that you came out,
and I’m glad that I could’ve had any part in inspiring you to do that.
How are you holding up with the media and everything?

A few minutes pass with no response. It’s evening, but it’s not too late. And considering Rozanov had responded to Shane’s tweet well past midnight last night, it seems unlikely that he’s already asleep. Shane distracts himself with the book on his nightstand, but he keeps glancing over at his phone.

When it buzzes, he all but leaps for it.

@ilyarozanov81
Hello Shane Hollander
Thank you. You were a very big help in my choice to
come out. You made it easy.
The media is very annoying, but it will not last forever.
Did you see that we are secretly dating? All because you
replied to me?

In the privacy of his own room, Shane's laugh sounds like an absurd giggle — a sound he's certain he's never made before. His cheeks grow warm at the acknowledgement of the rumors. He vaguely knew, from what his mom had said, but there had also been rumors about him and Hayden, or J.J. Those at least made sense in the way that he was actually friends with them. Rozanov, on the other hand, people have nothing to go off of aside from a Twitter interaction. 

I have heard something about that.
If tweeting my support was all it took, I’ve been dating
Scott Hunter for a year.

Ah, well that is a shame.
He is very old.
I’m a much better age for you.

He’s only like 30?
We’re 27.

Dinosaur.

Shane snorts. And then he blinks, realizing he’s having a conversation with his long-term rival. It should be weird, and it is a little bit, but it’s also oddly nice. Rozanov is funnier than Shane expected. Though Shane’s not really sure what he expected from Rozanov. He knows well enough by now that a player’s persona on the ice often differs from the real person. He hadn’t expected Ilya to be so… warm. 

Anyways, I should get to bed.
I just wanted to show my support again and
all that.

Bed?
Hollander it is 10 pm.
Are you a grandma?

Wtf no
I mean like. Just lying in bed.
Not sleeping yet.

You can’t talk to me while lying in bed?

Shane swallows, his thumbs hovering over his keyboard. Rozanov wants to keep talking to him? About what? Surely their conversation about Scott Hunter’s age and the media can’t last forever. Despite it, Shane finds that he kind of wants to keep talking to Rozanov.

Well, I was reading. So…

It is a good thing you are pretty and a
good hockey player.
Because you are also very boring.

Blinking rapidly in disbelief, Shane forces himself to read those messages a couple of times. They’d come in so fast, like Rozanov hadn’t even hesitated to type that out and send it. Shane isn’t sure if he should focus more on Ilya saying he’s a good hockey player, or calling him pretty. He’s never been called pretty in his life, aside from a few snarky chirps on the ice, some of which had come from Rozanov. Maybe his message now was supposed to be just as teasing. He chooses not to focus on it.

I’m not boring!

Oh?
Prove it.

Shane scoffs, because he walked right into that one. And yet, he reaches for his bookmark and slips it between his pages. He shuts the book and sets it on his nightstand, then takes off his glasses, setting them on top of the cover. Without thinking too much, he takes a picture of the book and sends it to Ilya.

There. My book is closed.

You wear glasses?

Only for reading.

Hm.

Hm?

I am just thinking your glasses probably make
you even more pretty.
How did you decide you wanted to come out?

The only thing more shocking than Rozanov calling him pretty was him calling Shane pretty again. But his next message comes in so quickly, Shane is forced to move on. He settles into his pillows and begins typing a response. They shoot DMs back and forth, the conversation never stopping for more than a few minutes at a time. When one topic naturally fizzles out, Ilya manages to seamlessly bring up something else. It’s easy, talking to him.

Shane wonders if they would have talked the night that Ilya was supposed to knock on his hotel door. He wonders if they had, if it would’ve felt as effortless and natural as this. Maybe they would’ve just hooked up, or maybe conversation would’ve been stilted and awkward. Obviously, Shane will never know, but he likes to imagine it would be like this. Maybe they would’ve just… clicked. 

Hours pass, and soon enough, Shane is genuinely struggling to keep his eyes open.

Okay, you can call me boring all you want, but
I’m going to bed for real now

Boooooo
But okay. I will let you sleep
I guess

Let me?

Yes. You are allowed now.
Is your reward for not being boring

Shane smiles at his screen. He’s been doing that all night, whether he realizes it or not.

Night Rozanov

Goodnight Hollander

Shane half expects Rozanov to message him in the morning, but he doesn’t. So Shane doesn’t either. Their late night chat might’ve been out of the blue, but it wasn’t like it really meant anything. It was just a one-off conversation. For almost four hours. 

Shane assumes he and Rozanov just won’t talk again, at least not until next season when they’re inevitably face-to-face again. He imagines the media would go insane if they managed to spark up a friendship in the aftermath of coming out — the dating rumors would never end.

As it turns out, though, he might be wrong about the next time he’ll speak to Ilya. Because his mother — the evil, devious, marketing genius(?) that she is — has a plan. When she tells it to Shane, he stares at her like she’s well and truly lost her mind. Because that must be the only explanation.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says slowly. “One more time?”

Yuna sighs patiently. “I think it would be beneficial for you and Rozanov to have a PR relationship for a while,” she says again. “You’re already dealing with rumors, so it would be believable. It would signify that you’re both proud of your identities and show it to all the homophobic idiots that this isn’t something about you that you’re going to change or hide anymore. Plus, you’d be showing the up and coming queer athletes that they can be open and proud about their love life, even if it’s different from their straight teammates. And, you could do joint photoshoots, interviews, brand deals. Things like that.”

“But, but—” Shane stutters, gesturing vaguely with his hands. “We’re rivals. How is that believable?”

Yuna waves him off, like that part didn’t matter. “People always say there’s a thin line between love and hate,” she says. “Plus, when you break up, it will make it easy to go right back to being rivals. And it will at least stop the dating rumors after you break up, too.”

Shane rubs at his temples. He hates that she’s making sense. He hates that it’s not the worst idea. And he hates that he enjoyed talking to Rozanov so much last night, because it only makes this idea even more appealing. “Have you… mentioned this idea to him, or his management?”

His mother shakes her head. “I wanted to tell you first,” she says, reaching over to pull one of his hands away from his face and clasping it between her own. “There’s no pressure right now, you can say no. It will be a lot more eyes on you, a lot more speculation and attention on your love life. It would be good for a lot of reasons, but that doesn’t mean it’ll be easy. So you can say no, for any reason, and I’ll respect that.”

Some of the anxieties in his chest ease up as he takes in her words. Knowing it’s not like Ilya is waiting on his answer takes some of the pressure off the decision. But it doesn’t change that Shane… wants to say yes. 

“What exactly would a PR relationship entail?” he asks slowly. There’s a spark of determination in his mom’s eyes, like she can tell that Shane’s teetering towards a yes.

“Public dates, posting together, the interviews and such that I mentioned. We could draw up a contract and everything to ensure the boundaries are drawn, giving everyone a clear guideline for expectations and for things like the length of the relationship.”

Shane spends a few moments contemplating. Or rather… pretending to contemplate. Because he’s going to say yes, and he knows it. It’s maybe a bad idea, forcing himself and Rozanov even further into the spotlight, but his mother makes good points, as usual. 

And secretly, Shane wants an excuse to be around Rozanov. If their conversation last night is any indication, he thinks they might get along well. And sure, he could just message Ilya and continue talking to him, but there’s no guarantee that will lead anywhere. This, however, gives Shane a chance where he’ll be able to sate his curiosity about Rozanov. 

“Okay,” Shane finally says. “Send the idea to his management team and see what they say.”

Chapter End Notes

in my head, ilya was in the clurb when shane dmed him and as soon as he saw the message, he did not gaf about anything else

come say hi on twitter!

Chapter 3: three

Chapter Notes

Rozanov says yes. A part of Shane is surprised. It was one thing to be friendly in the aftermath of coming out, but it was another thing entirely to tie himself to Shane for the next nine months. His mom had suggested the timeline — announce their “relationship” in a couple of weeks, towards the beginning of June, and break up in March, a few weeks before the playoffs. If both of them aren’t on track to actually make it to the playoffs, they could separate sooner, but this contract was under the assumption that at least one of their teams would make it.

It’s been a full week since Rozanov had agreed to this stunt. They hadn’t talked much in the interim, only because Shane’s mother and agent had been busy drafting up a contract — though that was a loose term for it, as it wasn’t technically legally binding. It was just a set of guidelines for both parties to follow. 

But now, they were back in Montreal, at Shane’s apartment, waiting for Rozanov and his manager. They had originally tossed out the idea of returning to Ottawa, but the most private possible location to meet there would’ve been Shane’s parents' house, and that felt like crossing a line. And Shane definitely hadn’t wanted to bring Rozanov to the cottage.

His apartment felt as neutral as possible, while still being private.

“Honey, stop pacing,” his mom says without looking up from her laptop. His father glances up from his book, watching Shane for a few seconds.

“I’m not pacing,” Shane says, as he continues to pace back and forth in his kitchen.

He wasn’t sure what exactly was wrong with him, aside from the fact that he was so fucking nervous. Aside from their single night of messaging on Twitter last week, he and Ilya had hardly ever had a real conversation that wasn’t circumstantial. And now they would be telling the entire world that they were dating. How were they meant to sell this? Shane has no idea how to fake intimacy, even something as simple as pretend dates and fabricated interview answers. He knows they’ll iron out the details, like how they supposedly got together and how they manage to handle the distance between them, but Shane is still terrified that he’ll slip up. It takes one mistake in the public’s eye for this entire web of lies to unravel. 

Yuna sighs softly. His dad shuts his book and rises from his bar stool, rounding the kitchen island. He never interfered too much when it came to managing Shane, as all of that rests on Yuna, but he was there for emotional support. Which is exactly what he provides now. His hands find Shane’s upper arms, stopping him in place. “You haven’t signed anything yet, you know,” he says calmly. “Once you discuss everything today, if you’re still unsure, you don’t have to do this.”

Shane blinks at him. He can feel his mother’s eyes on him now, too. “I know,” he says. “I want to, though. Assuming we… get along and everything.”

“Mm,” his dad hums shortly. “Could be a big assumption.”

His parents understood on a technical level that a lot of these “asshole players” were putting on a facade, but oftentimes, it still seemed hard for them to separate the persona from the player. Rozanov was probably the biggest example of that; his parents almost always turned their noses up at him. It’s definitely gotten better over the years. Especially after the time a Boston player had checked Shane into the boards hard enough that he’d been hospitalized, and Ilya had visited Shane to ensure he was alright. That was a thing captains of the opposing team did sometimes, but Shane would be lying if he said he hadn’t been surprised by the visit. 

After Rozanov had done that, Shane’s parents had disliked him slightly less, but they still weren’t his biggest fans. 

“It’ll be fine,” Shane says. “Probably.”

He glances at the clock on the microwave. It’s almost noon, which is when Rozanov and his manager are set to arrive. Shane gets nervous all over again. He forces himself not to pace anymore, but that doesn’t stop him from chewing on his hoodie string and tapping his fingers against his thigh. 

Moments later, just one minute after twelve, there’s a knock at the door. Shane had given Rozanov the code to his building, so he’d been able to bypass the entry buzzer. Stepping into the foyer, Shane opens his front door.

It’s a bit ridiculous that he feels shocked when Ilya Rozanov is actually staring back at him. 

“Hollander,” Ilya says, one corner of his lips lifting in a tiny smirk.

“Rozanov,” Shane parrots back. He steps back, creating room. “Um… come in.”

And then Rozanov is in Shane’s house. 

“Can you take—” Shane trails off as Ilya instantly toes off his shoes, leaving them beside the front door where several other pairs sit. “Thanks.”

As Shane shuts the front door, he realizes something. “Wait, is it just you?” he asks, noticing the lack of manager or agent, or whoever manages Ilya. Not all hockey players have personal managers, the way Yuna acted for Shane, but Shane had been pretty certain that Rozanov did. That’s who Shane’s mom had been in contact with, supposedly.

“Ah, yes,” Rozanov says, though he says it a bit distractedly as he looks around Shane’s house. The kitchen, where his parents are waiting, is just around the corner, but Yuna must have been able to overhear them because she appears almost instantly, her brows drawn together.

“Your manager isn’t here?” she asks. Ilya’s posture straightens slightly at the sight of Shane’s mom. Shane heads towards the kitchen, waving Rozanov along to follow.

“No,” Ilya says, trailing behind Shane. “I, um, fired him. So I am looking for new one.”

All three of the Hollanders raise their eyebrows in shock. “Why did you fire him?” Yuna asks. She picks up her laptop and moves it to the dining table, where it will be a little easier for all of them to sit. 

Shane swears there’s the lightest flush of pink on Rozanov’s cheeks as he says, “Well, he thought this was bad idea, so…”

Shane blinks, freezing in the middle of pulling a chair out. He stares at Rozanov. “You fired him because he thought this was a bad idea?” he asks, even though that was exactly what Ilya had just said. Ilya nods once as he pulls out the chair beside Shane’s.

“That, and he was very angry at me for coming out. He thought it was a bad idea, too, but I did it anyway.” Ilya shrugs one shoulder, but Shane had the feeling it bothered him more than Rozanov let on. “Plus, after I did, he kept making comments that were very… ah, what is the word? Like rude, but not rude at the same time?”

“Passive aggressive?” Shane supplies, sitting down. His parents sit across from them. “Like they weren’t directly mean, but you could still tell he was angry with you.”

“Sure, yes,” Ilya nods. “He was not supportive.”

Shane frowns. It was one thing to have the general media criticize them for coming out, but it was another thing entirely for someone in Rozanov’s personal circle to be homophobic.

Yuna hums. “Well, good riddance,” she says. She still looks a bit contemplative, though, and asks, “Why didn’t you say something about firing him, though? Before now.”

From this side of the table, Shane can see Ilya tap his fingers against his leg. Like he’s nervous. “I thought, maybe, you would ask to wait until I found new manager,” he says. 

Shane has no idea what to make of that answer. Or what to make of Ilya firing his original manager because he thought this PR relationship was a bad idea. It all makes it seem as though Ilya really wants to go through with this, but Shane can’t figure out why he’d want that so badly. Yes, it would help their images, and it would be beneficial to continue to pave the way for other queer athletes, but firing someone and hiding it felt extreme, all for a public image. 

“I see,” Yuna says. She briefly glances at Shane before turning her attention to her laptop. “Well, if you don’t mind proceeding without management on your end, then I see no reason not to.”

Rozanov’s shoulders drop infinitesimally, and he almost grins. Shane’s gaze snaps away, realizing he’s staring. Yuna slides a folder on the table closer, pulling out two packets of paper. She’d gone all out with the contracts. Mainly, Shane suspected, to ease his nerves about the parameters of the relationship. Plus, she was always nothing if not prepared.

She hands one contract to Shane, then another to Rozanov. “As a reminder, this is not legally binding. If either of you wants out early, can’t meet obligations, or wants to change things down the line, that is perfectly fine, and we can work with that. This just lays out the exact timeline of the relationship,” she begins, “down to the start and end dates, as well as some scheduled outings. Those can be shifted around if needed, but I thought it was best to have some set in stone before the season started, as well as based on the guaranteed days off once the season starts.”

Hearing the word relationship leave his mom’s mouth, Shane is suddenly reminded of what exactly they’re doing. The man next to him, whom he knows virtually nothing about, is going to publicly be known as his boyfriend for the better part of a year. Shane takes a long, slow breath and pulls the contract closer. The words swim on the page a little, but he just stares at them and listens to his mom talk about timelines and how they’ll have to revisit things once the game schedule for the next season comes out.

Her words feel further and further away as she keeps talking. Shane blinks a few times, trying to force himself back to Earth. Trying to stop himself from freaking out.

Suddenly, there’s a gentle pressure against the side of his socked foot. He nearly jolts as his brain grasps for something tangible to hold onto — the feeling of Rozanov’s foot pressed up against his. Shane glances over just in time to see Ilya look away, focusing back on his contract. But his foot doesn’t move.

It’s odd, but it’s a silent reminder that Shane is not alone in this. Despite their famed rivalry and the fact that they know little about each other, they are in this together. Shane keeps one part of his mind on the bit of comfort that Ilya is offering, and focuses the rest of his attention back on his mom.

“Once you announce it, we’ll be able to schedule interviews and photoshoots,” she says. “I imagine countless magazines and news outlets will be dying for the full scoop about your relationship.”

“What are we telling people about how this… happened?” Shane asks. “I think it’s important to have that story fully laid out and practiced. Since we’ll be asked about it a million times.”

Yuna hums. “Flip to the second page,” she says, nodding towards the packet of paper. “You’ll say that one of you — you can decide who — reached out via social media shortly after Rozanov visited Shane in the hospital after his injury last year. You intended to start a friendship, but it grew into something more. And then you began seeing each other around Halloween, meaning you’ll be about seven months into the relationship when you announce it.”

“Mm,” Ilya nods once. “I reached out to you, probably.”

Shane cocks his head back, looking at Rozanov. “What? Why you?”

Ilya shrugs, but his expression says the answer is obvious. “I was concerned about your injury, so I was checking up on you. Makes sense.”

“Or I reached out to thank you for visiting me in the hospital.”

“Sure, but…” Ilya trails off, tilting his head with a little smirk that says come on. Shane frowns. Mostly because it does feel more believable that Rozanov would be the more outgoing of the two of them. 

He doesn’t want to back down, but his mom says, “I agree it should be Rozanov who reached out.”

Shane turns his frown onto her, but she smiles in a way that also says the answer is undeniable. “If he came to the hospital, that already shows initiative, so it’s not unreasonable that he would message you.”

Shane huffs quietly, leaning back in his chair. “Fine.”

Ilya snorts softly.

“What?” Shane asks, realizing as soon as the word is out that his voice sounds just the tiniest bit whiny.

Ilya doesn’t make it any better when he says, clearly amused, “You are like angry kitten. Tiny thing, very mad.”

“I am not!”

“Okay,” Ilya says, his tone placating and still humored. He turns towards Yuna before Shane can respond. “How are we going to tell people? That we are dating?”

“You could either have media outlets break the story, or you could post something online yourselves. Or both,” she says. “Posting online, though, probably feels more authentic, especially since that is how you both came out — well, we also had media coverage prepared for Shane, but his post came first.”

“We could soft launch once or twice first,” Shane suggests. Yuna and Ilya both turn towards Shane, equally surprised — David also looks at his son, though it’s more so with confusion than shock.

“I am surprised you know what soft launch means,” Rozanov says. 

“How do you know what that means?” Yuna asks.

“What is… soft launch?” David asks, looking between the three of them.

Shane sighs. To his dad, he says, “It’s when you post something subtle about being in a relationship, but not actually directly posting who you’re with.” To Rozanov and his mom, he says, “And I know what it is because Rose taught me when we were dating, thank you very much.”

Considering Rose is an actress and the only person Shane had ever dated that matched his level of fame — or went beyond it, even — they’d teased things on social media for a bit, even after they’d technically already been spotted together in public. Shane hadn’t really understood the optics of it all, but he’d done it because Rose and her management suggested it. And it had gotten people talking about them, even before they’d confirmed anything, so Shane imagines it could work well in this scenario, too.

Out of the corner of Shane’s eye, he’s pretty sure that Rozanov rolls his eyes at something, but he doesn’t get to ask about it because his mom hums. “Right. Well, yes, that’s not a bad idea actually. You would just have to ensure that you’re not being too obvious, but it would get people interested before you actually announce anything.”

Yuna tilts her head in thought. “Actually,” she trails off. Her eyes flick between Shane and Ilya. “If you’re both agreeable, I was thinking it might make sense for you to spend some time alone before you sign anything. Just to ensure that you’re… comfortable enough around each other before getting into this.”

That is a very polite way for his mother to say they should be sure they can stand being alone for more than two seconds without arguing the way they do on the ice. Shane is sure that’s unnecessary, as he thinks that he and Ilya will get along just fine, but he doesn’t deny that he wouldn’t mind feeling things out before they sign away the next nine months of their lives.

“Yes,” Ilya says, nodding once. “That sounds good.”

Shane swallows. “We could— tonight? Here?” he suggests. “Since you’re already in Montreal.”

“Yes,” Ilya says again. Shane nods once, like he didn’t just agree to hang out with Ilya Rozanov inside his own house. They return to the contract, continuing to go over specifics and expectations. Shane imagines it’s all probably standard for a fake relationship, whatever the standard is for that. The only thing they currently have no real guidelines on is PDA.

“We could lay that out if you’d like,” Yuna says seriously, “but I imagine those guidelines may change the longer this goes on. It’s likely inevitable you’ll become more comfortable with each other and therefore, might become more comfortable with faking intimacy.” 

Shane feels like his cheeks are burning. He knew this was part of it. Obviously. He knew they’d have to be seen together, probably holding hands or touching each other casually. He isn’t sure how far that’s meant to go, but it feels difficult to create perfect boundaries with that, especially when they have no idea what scenarios they might find themselves in, in the public eye.

“I am okay with anything,” Ilya says. “Holding hands, hugging, kissing. Whatever. Is okay with me.”

The idea of kissing Rozanov hits Shane like a brick over the head — very suddenly, very vividly. He’s not… Well, he has no idea how to feel about that. And now he’s definitely sure he’s blushing. But if this is a relationship, it feels difficult to write that off completely. Right?

“Um,” Shane says. “I guess we can figure that out as we go. Like you said, as we get used to being around each other and everything, you know?”

“As long as you both remain transparent about your boundaries at any given time, and you trust each other not to cross lines,” Yuna says. She glances back and forth between the two men on the opposite side of the table. “If you don’t think you can trust each other yet, I’d suggest we lay things out on paper.”

Shane turns his head to find Ilya already studying him. Shane has never been the best at decoding facial expressions. There’s something serious, but also very soft, about the look in his eyes. It feels weirdly intimate under the watchful gaze of his parents. 

Knowing he could potentially be kissing him sometime in the next few months, even if it doesn’t mean anything real, has Shane looking at him in a new light. He’s always known that Rozanov is attractive. It was the entire reason he’d given Rozanov his hotel room number all those years ago. But now, looking at him in the natural light coming in from Shane’s windows, he sees that his left eye has a little section of green amongst the hazel. He’s certainly noticing the distinct shape of his lips, the way some of his curls seem to naturally tuck behind his ears, and the sharp lines of his jaw.

After Rozanov failed to show that first night, Shane never really allowed himself to pay this close attention to him. He hadn’t wanted to let himself spiral into thoughts of regret, or wonder about what he might’ve missed out. There had been walls around his attraction to Rozanov, and until right now, Shane hadn’t even considered allowing them to come down.

But they crumble now.

“I trust you,” Rozanov tells him. He doesn’t even seem to hesitate.

And it’s crazy. Insane, probably. Because Shane doesn’t really know him aside from a few circumstantial conversations and one night of messaging on Twitter. And yet, he means it sincerely when he says, “Yeah. I trust you.”

Because in a way, he does know Rozanov. He knows he’s a good hockey player. Not just in the sense that he’s good at the game, though he is, but he’s also a good captain. He’s a good teammate. He’s a great, challenging, honest opponent. Shane knows that he cares about his teammates, treating a lot of them like his friends. He knows that he’s a leader — a great one, based on Boston’s track record. 

He knows that despite their almost decade-long rivalry, he does things like visit Shane in the hospital, and tell Shane that he’s inspiring. 

Shane breaks eye contact just in time to see his mom glance over at his dad, her eyebrows raised. It’s quick, but he can tell they just had some silent conversation between the two of them. “Alright,” she says, the moment passing. “If either of you ever wants to amend that and add guidelines to the contract, we can do that.”

They go through the last page of the contract, detailing the breakup process and what’s to be expected in the aftermath. It’s bizarre to know so much about how their relationship is going to end, but Shane supposes it just highlights how false all of this is. 

“Any questions?” Yuna asks once they finish.

“We’re not allowed to tell anyone about this being fake, right?” Shane asks. “Not even, like, Hayden?”

“Pike?” Ilya asks. “He has big mouth. Would probably spill secret.”

“No, he doesn’t!” Shane defends, although Hayden has accidentally let secrets slip before. He once told his own wife about a surprise party he was planning for her. “But he’s my best friend. He knows me better than anyone; he might be able to tell if I’m lying.”

“Then we have to be convincing.”

“Don’t you have any close friends who know you well enough to figure it out?” 

Ilya hardly blinks. “That will figure me out? No.”

No? Shane finds it hard to believe that Ilya has no one in his close circle. He’s about to argue exactly that when his mother cuts him off. “I have to agree with Rozanov, Shane,” she says gently. “It’s not that you can’t trust Hayden, but the more people that know, the higher the risk of it getting out. This is a very public relationship that you’ll be in. The very last thing you need is the world finding out it’s fake.”

Shane grumbles under his breath. He’d hoped he’d at least have someone else in his corner about this, although he can’t imagine Hayden would be all that supportive about a PR relationship with Rozanov. He’s especially not going to be happy thinking Shane is actually dating him. 

“What about Rose?” Shane says. “She saw right through me when we were dating. She’s going to know.”

“How often do you hang out with your ex-girlfriend?” Rozanov asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“I mean… whenever she’s in town. And we text often,” Shane says, shrugging. “She’s trustworthy.”

“I would still say no, honey,” his mom says. “At least not right off the bat. Give her a chance to believe it. If, after a few months, she’s skeptical, we can revisit this conversation.”

“Okay,” Shane mutters. “Fine.”

Plus, if Ilya really didn’t have anyone to tell the truth to, it was only fair that Shane didn’t tell anyone either. They really would only have each other in this process. 

“Rozanov, any questions?” Yuna asks.

He hesitates. “No, but… You can call me Ilya.”

She blinks in obvious surprise at that being his only comment. “Ilya,” she agrees with a soft nod. “If that’s it, then you can both sign the contracts later tonight, as long as you both still agree to it after spending some time alone.”

Shane looks over at Rozanov. Under the table, Shane’s foot bumps into Ilya’s. There’s a spark of something in Ilya’s gaze. 

“You can come back over around five?” he suggests. He needs a few hours to mentally prepare before spending time with just Ilya. “I’ll, uh… make dinner. And we can watch the Vegas and Toronto game that’s on.”

There’s a small, tiny smile on Ilya’s face, but it makes that sparkle in his gaze look even brighter. “Okay.”

Chapter End Notes

my twitter!

Chapter 4: four

Chapter Notes

upped the chapter count again..... at this point its just a suggestion yolo

Six minutes before five o’clock, there’s a knock on Shane’s door. He exhales sharply. He thought he would have at least six more minutes to panic internally. Just like a few hours ago, he opens his front door to find Rozanov on the other side. And like Shane, he’d changed clothes. He looks… nice. A nice, collared shirt and dark jeans. 

Without being told, Ilya takes off his shoes and sets them in the exact spot they were in earlier.

“Hollander,” he says. 

“Rozanov,” Shane says, shutting the door behind them. Their soft footsteps are the only thing that breaks the tense silence between them as they walk into the kitchen. 

“Can I get you a drink?” Shane asks, feeling stupidly awkward. It's as though he’s never hung out with another human being ever. “I have soda, water, uh… maybe beer?” He opens his fridge to see half of a six-pack someone left here.

“Coke?” 

Normally, Shane doesn’t have it because he doesn’t drink it, but he has three cans left over from the last time Hayden and his wife were here. He pulls one from the fridge, as well as a ginger ale for himself. He slides the red can closer to Ilya. “These are Hayden’s, but…” He shrugs. 

Ilya grins. “Even better, stealing from Pike.”

Shane rolls his eyes. Telling Hayden that he’s dating Ilya Rozanov is going to be a fucking disaster. One problem at a time, though.

“I was thinking about making burgers later,” he says, tapping his fingers against his can. “Is that… cool?”

He glances up to see Rozanov tilt his head. “Are you nervous, Hollander?” he asks. “You seem very nervous.”

“I’m not—” he starts to say, but he knows that it’s obvious he’s lying. Of fucking course he’s nervous. If this goes poorly, chances are they won’t go through with the PR relationship. And for some reason, he is becoming more and more intrigued by the idea of it. And Shane has no idea how to make sure it doesn’t go poorly, which, yes, is making him increasingly nervous.

“I’m just not… great in social situations,” Shane says, shrugging. Not a lie at all, but not the full truth either. Ilya nods slowly, watching Shane’s fingers as he pops the tab of his ginger ale. Shane clears his throat after he takes a sip. “What did you think of the whole contract thing?”

He looks amused. “Very, ah, thorough.”

Shane huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, my mom can be like that.”

“She has always been your manager, yes?”

Shane nods. He’d assured her at the start of his career that she never had to do any of that, but she’d insisted. In all honesty, part of Shane had always enjoyed that she managed him. She was the person he was most comfortable around, he knew she would always genuinely be looking out for him, and he trusted her more than anyone. He never would’ve found that kind of comfort with another manager, especially not when he was so young and had so much potential.

“Were you with the same manager this whole time?” Shane asks. He’s incredibly curious to learn more about the man Ilya had fired. He wants to know how much of that decision had actually stemmed from his manager believing this relationship was a bad idea.

Rozanov shakes his head. “I had general manager for a while, with a few other Boston players. I got personal manager,” he tilts his head side to side, like he’s thinking, “maybe two years ago? Doing more sponsorships and stuff.”

“Mm, makes sense,” Shane says. “And the guy you fired, you think he was… homophobic? Or he just didn’t agree with the relationship thing?”

“Both,” Ilya says. “I was going to wait to find new manager before firing him, but then he said PR relationship was horrible idea, so I fire him sooner.”

“Oh,” Shane whispers. He nods towards the barstools on the other side of the kitchen island. “You can sit, if you want. I’m going to start cooking.”

Rozanov takes a seat, watching Shane move around his kitchen.

“So, you don’t agree with him?” Shane asks after a few moments of getting the ingredients out. “About it being a bad idea?”

“Mm, no.”

Shane pauses briefly as he seasons the burgers. “I’m surprised that you want to do this, honestly,” he says. “You’re… seen with so many women. I can’t imagine you’re excited to give all of that up.”

Ilya snorts. “You are calling me a whore.”

Shane’s eyes go wide. “N- No!” he shakes his head. Although… he’s not not saying that. “I just mean, like—”

“I know what you mean, Hollander,” Ilya says. “But is okay, I am little bit of a whore.”

“I… don’t even know how to respond to that,” Shane says. “But my point still stands. You’re okay with giving all that up?”

As per their contract, neither of them were allowed to be seen with any other romantic partners during the span of their fake relationship. They were lucky that in the time between Halloween and now, when their “relationship” would have supposedly been under wraps, Ilya was hardly spotted with any woman in ways that were too incriminating. (There had been a few women he’d publicly kissed at the beginning of the year, but if asked about it, they planned to say their relationship was not entirely exclusive until late March.)

Rozanov looks unbothered about giving up sex for the next eight months. Shane’s hands freeze for a split second as he goes to flip a burger, something occurring to him. Technically, they just had to publicly stay loyal. If Rozanov found someone discreet… he could continue sleeping with people.

Which was fine. It’s not like Shane could really say anything about that, as long as Rozanov was careful.

“I don’t mind,” Ilya says easily. Shane just nods once. It’s almost laughable when Ilya spins the question back onto Shane. “You won’t mind, either?”

Shane has hooked up with one singular person since being with Rose. He’ll have no issue at all. Of course, he doesn’t tell Ilya that. “I’ll be fine.”

They make idle, stilted chat about the contract as Shane finishes cooking. He plates the burgers and pulls the toppings he sliced earlier from the fridge, along with a salad he’d made. He’d been nervous about Rozanov’s return after his parents had left, so he’d kept his hands busy. He sits on the stool beside Ilya, and they eat in mostly silence. 

It’s still a little awkward, but less so as time goes on. A million questions fire through Shane’s head, but none reach his lips. Anything ranging from What’s your favorite city to play in? to Why didn’t you knock on my hotel door that night? He’s definitely not asking the latter, even if it has plagued him for eight years.

Ilya mercifully breaks the silence. “Who do you think is winning the cup this year?”

Shane tilts his head, reviewing all the teams still in the playoffs. “Either Tampa or Vegas. They’ll be the final two.”

Ilya grunts. “Fuck Tampa.”

“You’re just mad they beat you in five games.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, stabbing a tomato with his fork. “If it comes down to them, I am rooting for Vegas.” 

Shane hides his grin behind a bite of burger. From there, it’s marginally easier to keep the conversation flowing. Shane finally does ask where Ilya’s favorite place to play is. (New York and Los Angeles). Ilya parrots the question back. (Toronto and Ottawa, which Ilya instantly says are very boring answers).

Shane clears their plates, leaving them in the sink for the time being. As they walk the short distance from the kitchen to the living room, Rozanov’s eyes travel around the apartment. “Your place is nice.”

“Thanks,” Shane says. “I’ve had it for a while. Since around 2012.”

“You have another house, yes?” Rozanov asks as he makes himself comfortable on the sofa. It wouldn’t seem like this is only his second time in Shane’s house, but he looks right at home. It eases Shane’s nerves a tiny bit. They sit on almost opposite sides of the couch, about five feet between them. At Shane’s confused look, Ilya clarifies, “A cottage, or something? There was documentary on it.”

In an instant, Shane’s cheeks flush. “You saw that?” he asks. “I didn’t think anyone would actually watch it. I didn’t even want to film it, really.”

The corners of Ilya’s lips tug upwards into a smirk. “It was very boring,” Rozanov says. “But it was a very nice house.”

“Thanks,” Shane murmurs. “Usually I spend my summers there.”

“Not this summer?”

“Well… no,” Shane says. “We’re doing… this. And interviews or brand deals or whatever. I’ll probably go for a couple weeks right before the season starts, though, at least.”

“Ah,” Rozanov nods.

“What do you usually do during the off-season?”

Ilya looks away, and for the first time all evening, he looks uncomfortable. “I used to go to Russia.”

“And you’re not this year because of this?” Shane asks. “Or will you visit for a little bit?”

“I am not going at all,” he says slowly. “Because of this, but also. I have nothing there anymore.”

It takes Shane a few seconds to understand what Rozanov means by that, but it hits him suddenly. Last year, Ilya had taken a couple of weeks off because his father had passed away. “Oh, right,” Shane whispers. “I’m sorry about your father. Was he… your only family there?”

There’s a long pause of silence, and Shane amends too late, “If you want to talk about it. You don’t have to.”

“He wasn’t,” Ilya says after another pause, “but I still will not be returning.”

Shane is dying to know more, but he sees the way Ilya’s shoulders are tense, drawn up almost to his jaw. So he reaches for the remote and turns on the television. Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya relaxes. Maybe they’ll get to that story eventually. As his mom had said, it was likely inevitable that they would become more comfortable around each other as time went on. Shane certainly hopes so — it would be kind of unbearable if the next almost nine months are spent walking around on eggshells.

Shane’s never dated a man, obviously. Real or fake. With all of his past girlfriends, he’d always been mildly on edge around them because it had never felt completely right. Even with Rose, he felt so much closer to her now that they were only friends than he had when they were dating. Despite his relationship with Ilya being fabricated, Shane wonders if that level of comfort will come more naturally to them. Or if, because they’re faking everything, he’ll never manage to become completely at ease around Ilya.

He imagines they’ll at least manage to find some semblance of friendship, but how could it not be awkward on some level when the entire world thinks they’re dating? When they’ll have to include casual displays of affection towards each other under the scrutiny of the public? Rose was the only person he’d ever dated publicly, mostly because she was his only past partner who was just as famous as he was, and he’d sometimes hated being too publicly affectionate with her.

And now, this entire relationship stunt with Rozanov essentially depended on them being publicly affectionate. 

The question bubbles up out of Shane before he even has a chance to process it.

“Do you think we’ll have to kiss at some point?” he asks. Instantly, he feels his face flush. He wants to stuff the words back down his throat. “I mean—”

Rozanov doesn’t miss a beat. “Why? Do you want to practice?”

As if Shane couldn’t blush any harder. “Wha— No! That’s not what I— I'm— no! I just meant, like. Do you think there will be a scenario where that… comes up?”

Ilya laughs under his breath, watching Shane from across the couch. “You are so easy to make nervous, Hollander,” he teases. “Angry kitten, just like I said.”

“I’m not— You’re an asshole.”

Ilya just hums, though the amusement does fade from his eyes a little when he looks at the TV again. “We do not have to,” he says. “If you are uncomfortable, we do not have to.”

“But I mean… We’ll be dating.”

Glancing over at Shane, Ilya raises an eyebrow. “No one will be expecting us to make out on the streets, Hollander,” he says. Shane hates that he flushes. He hates that he’s thinking about making out with Ilya Rozanov. In a very fake, PR kind of way, obviously.

“Well, no, but…” Shane shrugs. It still seemed like a natural thing couples did. Shane was pretty sure there were a few paparazzi pictures of him kissing Rose before he helped her into her car, or while walking between shops on their days out. 

“And it’s not that I’m uncomfortable,” he continues, realizing after he says that, that it makes him seem very much open to kissing Rozanov (which he’s not not open to, but it’s just for the publicity stunt), “but I just want to know what the expectations might be.”

Ilya sighs, cracking one side of his neck, then the other.

“That’s not good for you,” Shane mutters.

“No,” Ilya agrees, before cracking his knuckles, too. “Like your mom said, we will trust each other. We will talk. I don’t know what the expectations are, but we figure it out, da?”

Slowly, Shane nods. It’s occurring to him now that this is Ilya’s first PR stunt like this, too. He doesn’t have all of the answers, the same way that Shane doesn’t. They’ll have no choice but to lean on each other and navigate this together. 

“Offer is open if you want to practice, though,” Ilya says again. Shane rolls his eyes, understanding now that Ilya is just saying shit like that to rile Shane up. It’s not working, because Shane is not easy to rile up. 

“Fuck off,” Shane mutters, watching the game again. They comment on the plays, on the shots that make it into the net and on the ones that don’t, on the teams. As the night progresses, they intermittently toss out questions to each other, just trying to get a feel for one another. Just like on Twitter last week, the back and forth of it all begins to feel natural. As much as Shane hates to admit it, Rozanov is just as funny in person. (He spends a lot of time holding back laughter, just so Rozanov doesn’t get a big ego about it.)

Some of the questions are serious — about their coming out experiences prior to their public announcements, about their past injuries in games, about their hardships as younger captains. A lot of the questions are simple and shallow — Shane learns that Ilya listens to music in languages he doesn’t know in the gym, he used to have his ears pierced, and he once shaved his head when he was fourteen. Supposedly, it wasn’t a good look for him, but Shane finds it hard to imagine that Ilya could look bad with any haircut. Ilya learns that Shane reads, on average, seventy books a year, enjoys Disney movies because of Hayden’s kids, and never wants to get a tattoo. 

(“Boring, boring, boring. Hollander, do you ever have fun?”

“Fuck you, I’m very fun.”)

By the time Vegas wins the game, they’ve gravitated towards each other on the couch. There’s still about a foot and a half of room between them, but it’s closer than they were. Shane turns the volume down and slings his arm over the back of the sofa, pulling one leg up onto the cushion and turning his body towards Rozanov. 

“So, you… still wanna do this?”

Ilya mimics Shane’s posture. It feels way too casual for people who barely know each other. Though he supposes it’s perfectly casual for people who are going to be perceived as dating for the next nine months. 

“Yes,” Rozanov says simply. “Do you?”

“Yeah,” Shane murmurs. He glances back towards the dining table, where their contracts still lie side by side. “Should we sign them, then?”

“Mm, yes.” But he doesn’t move yet. 

“And one of us should, like, post something, right?” Shane continues. “The, um… soft launch thing.”

Ilya snorts. “I cannot believe you know what that is.”

“I know things!” Shane defends himself, but he would’ve had no idea what the fuck a soft launch was if it weren’t for Rose. 

“Okay.”

With that, Ilya shifts forward so suddenly that Shane actually jumps a bit. One of his knees bumps Ilya’s, and he goes to move it, but Ilya’s hand clasps it gently. “No, stay,” he says softly. With their legs up on the cushion like this, they’re overlapping a bit, Ilya’s left knee crossing over Shane’s right shin. Heat ignites under Shane’s skin, but he stays put. He doesn’t even understand what Rozanov is doing until he slips his phone from his pocket. 

Oh. Right. The soft launch. The exact thing they had just been talking about. 

Shane watches as Rozanov takes a photo of their curled-up legs, Ilya’s large hand curved over the fabric covering Shane’s knee. After a second, Rozanov flips his phone around. It’s a cozy, intimate photo that gives nothing away about their identities. If it weren’t for Shane’s size and muscle, it wouldn’t even be obvious that they’re both men. 

“Okay?” Ilya asks. 

Shane nods once. He’s trying hard to focus on the fact that Rozanov’s hand is still on his knee. That they’re still pressed against each other. “Okay.”

Ilya takes his hand off of Shane, the spot instantly feeling colder, and taps the screen of his phone a few times. “There,” he says after a moment. Shane expects to feel nervous, because this is actually happening, but he doesn’t. 

Rozanov stands from the sofa. Shane just stares at him for a few seconds until he lifts an eyebrow, glancing back towards the dining table. “We are going to sign now, or…?”

“Oh,” Shane scrambles up from the couch. “Yes, yeah.”

He finds two pens from a drawer in his kitchen and brings them to where Ilya is standing by the table, glancing over the contract again. Their fingers brush when Ilya takes one pen from Shane. He turns it over in his hand. “Fanciest pen I have ever seen.”

Shane blinks, looking down. They are expensive. But why would he buy cheap ones if he can afford better? Plus, the ink is dark and rich, and it dries fast, and— Okay, maybe Rozanov has a point about him being boring. 

“Just sign the paper,” Shane mutters. Rozanov does, then Shane signs his own. Mostly to himself, he whispers. “Okay. Okay, okay.”

He looks up at Ilya, who is already watching him. “When do you go back to Boston?” Shane asks.

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

Ilya would come back to Montreal before they announced their relationship to the world, and stay for a while so they could conduct some of their initial interviews and photoshoots. Then over the course of the next few months, they would travel to wherever necessary to stay on top of the media train, taking breaks in their own cities in between. Shane would likely have to visit Boston, if only to be photographed with Rozanov there. The final two weeks before the pre-season began, Shane would retire to his cottage, and Ilya would probably return to Boston. 

“And then you’ll be back in two weeks?”

“Da,” he nodded. “We are announcing it on June third, yes? So I will come back the day before.”

“Okay. Yeah, uh, mom said we need to have pictures before we post so that we actually have, like, stuff to post.”

“Yes.” He reaches for Shane and hooks one finger through his belt loop. “Come here.”

“Rozan— what?” Shane sputters, nearly stumbling against Rozanov. Ilya throws an arm around Shane’s neck and squishes their cheeks together. “Smile.”

“You’re insane,” Shane huffs. Still, he tries to relax into Ilya’s touch. He grins softly, though he can tell he looks awkward. He certainly feels awkward. Ilya snorts, but takes a few pictures anyway.

“Yes, we definitely look madly in love.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Ilya pulls away, glancing down at his phone. Shane has to make a valiant effort not to touch his cheek where their faces had just been pressed together.

“I should go now,” Ilya says. “My teammates are blowing up my phone about what I posted.”

“Were they supportive?” Shane asks as they walk towards the door. “About you coming out.”

“Eh,” Ilya murmurs. “A few. Some were very mean.”

“Yeah, same here.” Shane leans against the wall while Ilya bends over to put on his shoes. His shirt rides up above his belt, exposing his lower back. In just that small space, Shane can count three freckles. He wonders how many more cover the rest of his back. Or his chest.

Ilya stands, a smirk already pulling at his lips. “Bye, boyfriend.”

Stupidly, Shane’s heart skips a beat in his chest. Probably just because the act of another man calling him that is so surreal, something he’s allowed to have now, even if it’s fake in this particular instance. He thinks he does a good job of not showing any of those emotions on his face, though, as he rolls his eyes.

“Bye, Rozanov.”

Ilya leaves, and just as the door shuts behind him, Shane’s phone buzzes twice in his pocket. He pulls it out to see two texts from his mother.

Mom
Everything set, then?
I saw that he posted

Shane closes his messages and navigates to Instagram, typing Ilya’s username into the search bar. There’s no new post on his feed, but there’s a circle around his profile picture, indicating a story. Shane clicks on it. It’s the picture he took earlier of their bent legs together on the couch. Shane can still feel the heat of Ilya’s hand on his knee if he focuses hard enough. The only difference between the picture Ilya had shown him earlier and the one he posted is the caption typed in the bottom corner. It reads Mine, with a little white heart.

Chapter End Notes

now we're getting into itttttt hehehe im so excited. i supposedly have about six chapters left to write (assuming i dont keep splitting them and upping the chapter count) so as soon as i finish writing everything, i'll def start posting more frequently

my twitter!

Chapter 5: five

Chapter Notes

It’s five days later when Rozanov posts something else. Shane, who is still avoiding social media, not that he was ever super present on it before, has no idea. It’s not until his mom is squinting at her phone screen that he finds out. 

“What?” he asks, glancing over at her. 

She doesn’t say anything at first, then she lets out a soft, “Huh.” She hands her phone to Shane as she says, “Rozanov posted again.”

His fingers close around the phone just as she says that, and Shane nearly freezes. He and Ilya had been talking occasionally over the last few days, but he hadn’t said anything about posting again. Shane taps Rozanov’s profile picture, pulling the Instagram story back up. 

It’s a picture of the can of Coke Shane had given him, but the more incriminating part was the blurred-out background. It’s Shane’s kitchen, and there’s a very blurry figure facing away from the camera. This must have been taken while Shane had been making the burgers. 

The caption reads You will never guess who I stole this from. Shane huffs a quiet laugh. He scans the background of the picture again, but there’s nothing instantly telling of whose house Ilya is in. Shane’s kitchen is so blurred out, and there aren’t a ton of people who even know what his apartment looks like. The only people who have been inside his house are his teammates and Rose, none of which are probably watching Ilya’s Instagram story. 

Shane hands the phone back over to his mom and reaches for his own. He opens his messages with Ilya. 

Technically you didn’t steal that coke from
Hayden since I bought it 

Rozanov’s response comes through seconds later. 

Yes but you bought for him
So I was stealing from Pike 

Sure
I have nothing to post, you know 

National boyfriend day is in three days
I was going to post selfie with big frowny face with caption
about how I miss my boyfriend
You post instead 

Shane’s fingers hover over his keyboard. They're going to tell the world they were dating in just over a week. The entire world would soon believe that he has a boyfriend. And yet, he feels stupidly nervous at the idea of posting something about it earlier, even without naming said boyfriend. Maybe it’s just because he knows the questions that are immediately going to hound him after he does. From the media, of course, but that can be ignored. His friends, though… they would be wondering. 

But Shane supposes it might make sense to tell his friends before he tells the world, anyway.

How do you know it’s national boyfriend day?

Because I am not boring Shane Hollander
that never goes online

Rude
Maybe I’ll post then

A few days later, Shane is pretty sure he’s not going to post. Except he kind of has no choice when roses get delivered to his door. At first, he’s sure it’s a mistake, because who is sending a bouquet of flowers to Shane? But then he sees the little card amongst the roses, and as soon as he reads it, everything makes sense. He looks at the flowers, almost in awe. They're deep red, tiny white flowers speckled between the petals. The card reads Now you have something to post, boyfriend ;).

And part of Shane feels like he has to post, otherwise it would just be a waste of Rozanov’s money. But a larger part actually wants to post them, because no one has ever bought him flowers. Even if it’s for social media, it was still an extra step that Ilya hadn’t needed to take. And just the gesture is… sweet.

He tosses the card to the side and slips his phone from his pocket. He takes a picture of the roses, smiling a little bit. He doesn’t overthink it as he posts the photo to his Instagram story with the simple caption Happy National Boyfriend Day!! with a heart. With that, he carries the flowers to his dining table. Shane briefly considers tossing the little note card into the trash can, but he decides against it. He sticks it to the fridge with a magnet, instead.

It takes approximately four minutes for Rose to call him.

“Hello—” he barely gets the word out before she’s cutting him off.

“What do you mean, boyfriend?” she asks. “How have I not heard about this?”

Shane huffs a soft laugh, muting his TV. “Because it’s been a secret,” he says. “We’re officially announcing it at the end of the week. This was just a… soft launch.”

“Aw, did I teach you that?”

“Shut up.”

Rose laughs. The sound is so melodic and sweet, Shane realizes just how much he misses her. They rarely get to see each other when she’s filming, and she’s been on set for the last six months. “Well?” she asks. “Who is he? When can I meet him? Is he being good to you?”

“One question at a time, Rose,” Shane says. He tucks his chin down to his chest, preparing himself to lie to his best friend. At least she can’t see his face right now, otherwise she’d be able to read his anxiety like a book. “You’re probably not even going to believe this, because it’s kind of… unexpected. But it’s, um, Ilya Rozanov.”

Silence. For several seconds.

“Like…” she trails off.

“Yeah,” Shane confirms. “Like that Ilya Rozanov.”

A little bit more silence. “Huh,” she says. “That is definitely unexpected. But he’s good to you? You’re happy?”

Shane thinks about the flowers sitting on his dining room table. He thinks about Ilya wordlessly calming him down when he’d started to internally panic during their contract reading. “Yeah,” Shane whispers. “He’s good to me.”

“Good,” Rose says, and she sounds like she means it. “And the most important question, when can I meet him?”

“You haven’t even seen me in months,” Shane complains. “Can we worry about when you can see me again before thinking about when you’ll meet Rozanov?” As soon as the words are out, Shane realizes he probably should’ve called him Ilya, but Rose doesn’t seem to think anything of it. 

“I can multitask!” she says. “I do miss you, though. I think we only have about a month of filming left, so I’ll try to make a trip up to Montreal as soon as I can.”

“I’ll probably be pretty busy this summer, because Ilya and I are going to be dealing with the media after coming out, but let me know when you’re free, and I’ll make time for you,” Shane says.

“Ah, so Ilya will be around anyway, so I can still meet him. Two birds, one stone.”

He snorts. “Sure,” he says. He thinks Rose and Ilya would get along well. They’re both quick-witted, laidback in a way that perfectly balances Shane's uptight tendencies, and are probably two of the funniest people Shane knows. They actually might be a little bit of a nightmare together, but Shane finds that he’s excited for it. 

“Ah, shit, I have to go,” Rose says. “I called you while I was on a break, but they’re calling me back to set.”

“Okay,” Shane says. “I’ll talk to you soon, then.”

“Love you!”

Shane echoes the words back and ends the call. He exhales slowly. A pinprick of guilt needles at his heart. He hates lying to the people he loves. He hates that Rose might meet Ilya and love him, only for his relationship with Shane to inevitably end. He hates that after their PR stunt is over, Shane will probably tell Rose that it was fake the entire time, and she’ll be hurt that Shane lied to her face.

“Ugh,” he groans, tilting his head back against the sofa cushions. On his lap, his phone buzzes, and Shane prays that it’s not Hayden, or anyone else he’ll have to lie to right now. 

Rozanov
No thank you for the flowers?
Worst boyfriend ever :( 

Shane laughs softly.

Thank you for the flowers
They’re very pretty

Yes
Just like you

Hayden never texts Shane about what he posted, and it honestly slips Shane’s mind until Rozanov is back in his house. But he should probably tell Hayden before he tells the whole world in four hours. 

“I, uh, I should call Hayden real quick,” he says aloud. Ilya and his mom both look up from their phones.

“For any particular reason?” his mom asks, her brows furrowed. 

“Well,” Shane just kind of… gestures between him and Ilya. Rozanov’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. 

“You have not told Pike?” he asks. “I thought he was your best friend.”

“He is.”

“But you did not tell him?”

“Well, he’s not going to be happy about it!” Shane says. “Plus I kind of just… forgot.”

Ilya presses a hand over his heart, an exaggerated frown pulling at his lips. “Oh, you forgot about your favorite boyfriend already?” he pouts. “Mrs. Hollander, it is like he does not even love me. Do you hear this?”

Yuna doesn’t respond, but Shane notices a tiny smile pulling at her lips. Traitor.

Ilya stands from his barstool and holds his hand out. “You can make it up to me by letting me call Pike.”

Shane stares at him. He’s sitting on the kitchen counter beside his stove, so he’s practically helpless as Ilya walks closer, slowly like he’s afraid Shane will startle. “What? No,” Shane says, shifting back on the counter.

“He will have no issue believing it, no?” 

“You’re not calling him.” Shane hides his phone behind his back.

“Okay, you call him, and I will just say hi.” Ilya closes in, his lower abdomen pressing against Shane’s knees. He reaches for Shane’s phone, but it’s obvious that he’s not trying as hard as he could.

“You’re crazy,” Shane says, leaning back as far as possible and pressing one hand flat against Ilya’s chest to push him back. “Get away.”

“Just one little phone call,” Ilya says, leaning hard against Shane’s palm as he reaches for the phone. Both of his arms reach around Shane, hands grasping at his forearm and wrist as he fights for the phone. In Shane’s attempts to shift backwards, his knees part enough for Ilya’s hips to slide between them, and it’s just enough of a forward push for him to grab Shane’s phone. In an instant, he’s gone, crossing the kitchen. Shane follows him, jumping down from the counter.

He doesn’t even think about it as his hands find Ilya’s sides, pulling him back as he tries to get away. “Give— Ilya, give me that.”

“Hey Siri,” Ilya says, “call Montreal’s 15th best player, Hayden Pike.”

“Rozanov!”

It’s clear that Ilya isn’t fighting hard as Shane presses his chest to Ilya’s back and reaches around him to take his phone back. “You are a menace.”

“I do not know this word, but I disagree, probably.”

Shane scoffs, opening his phone to Hayden’s contact. He glances at Ilya. “If he doesn’t believe me, you can say hi. Just… to prove it.”

“You should FaceTime him.”

It’s not the worst idea, so Shane does. When Hayden picks up, there’s a child halfway sprawled across his face. So, the usual.

“Hey, dude— Jade, ow, watch your foot, babe.” The camera shows the ceiling for a few seconds before Hayden reappears, child no longer covering his face. “What’s up, man?”

“Hey. I, um. So, I’m putting out a statement in a few hours about something, but I wanted to tell you first. So that you heard it from me.”

Instantly, Hayden looks concerned. Shane imagines he’ll only be more concerned once he learns exactly what that statement is.

“Okay,” Hayden says. “What’s up?”

Shane glances towards Rozanov for a split second, who is leaning on the counter opposite Shane and watching him intently. It was much easier to lie to Rose, who hasn’t known him for a decade and who couldn’t see his face. Shane digs his nails into his palm. “I don’t think you saw my Instagram story last week, but I have a— a boyfriend.”

Hayden’s eyebrows shoot up, but Shane presses on before he can speak. “It’s been going on for about, um, seven months? Give or take.”

“Holy shit, dude,” Hayden says, his smile spreading wide across his face. Shane wondered how long it would last. “That’s awesome. It must be pretty serious, huh? If you’re going public.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shane nods. “It’s… serious.”

“I guess it makes sense why you’ve turned down the guys I tried to set you up with,” Hayden laughs. Shane chuckles, but it’s a bit forced. He’d turned all those guys down because they’d had nothing in common with Shane, and had just been Jackie’s friends who happened to be gay. But in hindsight, it was good that Shane rejected those offers.

“Yeah, so the thing is…” Shane trails off. “It’s, um, Rozanov. Ilya Rozanov.”

Hayden’s smile doesn’t dim. He just blinks. “What’s Rozanov?”

“My… boyfriend.”

Again, Hayden blinks. Once, twice. And then, finally, Shane’s words settle in his brain, and his smile fades. The confusion creeps in. “Wait. What?”

Shane exhales, tilting his head side to side. “Yeah, I know it’s surprising, but—”

“No, like, you’re fucking with me, right?” Hayden interrupts. “I mean, Shane. There’s no way you’re dating fucking Rozanov. Like, like— what? You’re fucking with me.”

Across from Shane, Ilya rolls his eyes. He holds out his hand with a give it here motion. Shane sighs. He doesn’t hand his phone to Ilya, but he does spin so that Ilya is in frame. Like it’s second nature, Rozanov tosses an arm over Shane’s shoulder.

“Hello, Pike.”

Hayden’s brain visibly short-circuits. “Oh. You… aren’t fucking with me.”

“No,” Shane confirms. 

“So you’re dating Rozanov.”

“Yes.”

There’s a long pause as Hayden blinks several times. Ilya snorts, leaning his head against Shane’s. “Did we kill him?” he murmurs.

Shane hesitates. “Um, maybe.”

“No. No, you didn’t,” Hayden says. “I’m just… Rozanov? Really, Shane? Like… why?”

At this, Ilya’s eyes swing towards Shane. They’re glittering, and a small smile pulls at his lips. “Yeah, Shane. Why me?” he teases.

They’re so close to each other’s faces. Shane’s never studied anyone’s features so closely before. When Ilya’s eyes flick to Shane’s mouth, just for a split second, Shane ducks out from under his arm and focuses his attention back on Hayden. “Look, I get that it’s shocking, okay?” Shane says. “But we’re announcing it in a few hours, and I meant to tell you sooner, but it slipped my mind because of everything with the media, and with us preparing to tell people.”

Hayden scrubs his hand over his face. “Okay,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Okay. Okay.”

“Oh my god, Pike,” Ilya says, loud enough for Hayden to hear. “Are you sure you are not homophobic?”

“Ilya!” Shane chides, at the same time as Hayden says, “Rozanov, what the fuck?”

Hayden sputters for a few seconds before needlessly clarifying, “No, I’m not homophobic, you dick.” He opens his mouth to continue, but he has to cut himself off to call out to Ruby, who is apparently pulling Jade’s hair. When he returns his attention to his phone, he looks frazzled. “Look. If you’re happy, then… then I’m happy, too. I’m surprised, obviously, and I don’t really understand, but…”

“Yeah, I get it’s shocking, but I am happy.”

In his peripheral vision, Shane sees Rozanov smile a bit. Shane focuses on one thing at a time, and he chooses to ignore that grin. Hayden nods, looking a little bit like he’s still coming to terms with everything. Which is fair. Shane never expected him to be overjoyed right off the bat.

“Okay,” Hayden says, his voice a little softer. “Then I’ll learn to get used to it. And I’m happy for you.”

Shane grins. Even if Shane knows the entire situation is fake, he tries to feel content that Hayden would feel happy for him, were it all real. “Thanks, man,” Shane murmurs. “I, uh, have to go. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t find that out via Twitter, or whatever.”

“Yeah, I probably wouldn’t have believed it otherwise.”

They say their goodbyes, and Shane hangs up the phone.

“All things considered,” Yuna says, “that went well.”

Shane shrugs. “I definitely expected worse.”

Ilya tosses his hands up. “Am I the devil, or something?”

“To Hayden, maybe,” Shane says.

Yuna chuckles and stands from her seat at the dining table. “In other news,” she says, “I took these pictures of you guys earlier. One could be good to include in your post as a candid.”

His mom turns her phone around to show them her screen. Ilya leans closer, his torso brushing Shane’s arm as they both look at the photo. It’s from when Ilya was trying to steal Shane’s phone. His arms are around Shane, and Shane’s palm is on Ilya’s chest. They’re both grinning, even as Shane’s expression is twisted with annoyance. 

Shane hadn’t even realized he was smiling at the time.

It certainly looks like they’re fighting over something, but it looks playful. Shane nods once. “Uh, yeah, okay,” he says. “There’s also the picture Ilya took of us last time he was here. Just a selfie.”

“Mm, yes,” Ilya says. “There is one where you look like you might actually like me.”

“You caught me off guard!”

Ilya shows the picture to Yuna, who approves. 

“Is that enough?” Shane asks. 

His mom tilts her head side to side, thinking. She glances around the room, and her eyes glitter. “I have an idea.”

Ten minutes later, Shane is so tense, he feels like he might pull a muscle. It started off easy, with Yuna having both of them put on their jackets. She had Shane sit in one of the dining chairs, and Ilya had wrapped his arms around Shane’s shoulders, his cheek resting against Shane’s hair as they both looked down at Shane’s phone. A simple, staged candid.

Now, they were in different shirts and trying to look very casually posed together on the couch, Shane wrapped in Ilya’s arms. Which should be easy enough, except Shane has no fucking idea how to cuddle with Ilya Rozanov.

“You need to relax,” Ilya says.

“I am relaxed.”

“You are so stiff.”

“Fuck off.”

“Shane,” his mother chides. “He’s right, you know. You look miserable.”

That only makes Shane feel worse. He sits up, shaking off his tension. “Okay, well, this is fucking weird!” he exclaims. “Sorry that I don’t know how to snuggle with someone I barely know for a picture.”

Beside him, Rozanov sighs. “Okay,” he says. “Lay back down. Forget about the picture for a minute.”

“That doesn’t change that we barely know each other,” Shane argues, not moving.

“Just lay down, Hollander.”

Shane swallows hard. He tries to force himself to relax, and he lies down. He’s still tense, feeling incredibly awkward. It’s as though he can feel the camera on him, waiting for the right moment. Ilya reaches up and tilts Shane’s face towards him.

“You know that we have known each other for almost ten years,” he says, his voice soft. This isn’t meant for the photo. This is meant for Shane.

“I know,” Shane says.

“So really, we are not strangers.”

“I know, but… we still don’t know each other.”

“No?” Ilya asks. “What is my favorite candy? I told you only two weeks ago. Do not tell me you forgot, I will be very sad.”

Shane huffs out a tiny laugh. This had been one of the questions they’d asked each other that night Ilya had come over to spend time with Shane. To see if they could handle this.

“Swedish Fish,” Shane says. “I tried them again, you know. They are as disgusting as I remember.”

“I will change your mind one day, Hollander,” Ilya says, unbothered that Shane despises one of his favorites. “And what is my favorite holiday?”

“Halloween,” Shane says.

“Da, and yours is Christmas. Which is very predictable,” he says. “See? We know things about each other. And we will learn more.”

Without even realizing it, Shane has completely relaxed into Ilya’s touch. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “I guess we will.”

Yuna breaks up their quiet conversation with, “Aha! Got it.”

She shuffles closer, phone already outstretched to show them the screen. Somehow, Shane almost doesn’t recognize himself, wrapped up in someone’s arms. Their expressions are calm and pleasant, a tiny grin on Rozanov’s face as he watches Shane speak. If Shane is honest, they look… like a couple. It looks completely believable that they’re together. Maybe not madly in love, like Rozanov has been joking, but they certainly look like they like each other. 

Shane nods once, carefully pulling out of Ilya’s grasp. “Okay, yeah. That’s… that’s good.”

“Very nice,” Ilya agrees. 

“That makes four pictures for a joint post,” Yuna says, “which I think is enough. We’ll take a little break to chill, and then go over the caption in a bit and prepare everything for the post. And I’ll check with Farah to make sure everything is ready to send to the news outlets.”

“Sounds good,” Shane nods. His mom saunters back over to her laptop at the dining table, and Shane shifts away from Ilya, moving a few feet down the couch. He hesitates for a second before saying, “Thanks, by the way.”

“You are welcome,” Ilya says, like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t managed to effortlessly pull Shane out of his spiral. “Are you okay?”

Shane nods. “Yeah, yeah. I don’t know why I feel so… awkward about all of this.”

Ilya shrugs. “Is a weird situation, maybe.”

“You seem fine about it.”

“Yes, I think I am,” he says. “But we are not same person. Is okay if you struggle with it. We will figure it out.”

Somehow, it’s exactly what Shane needs to hear. Because Ilya has already proven that when Shane freaks out, Ilya will step in and ease the anxiety.

“Okay,” Shane whispers.

Ilya grins, like he understands just how much trust Shane is putting in him. “Okay,” he echoes.

A few hours later, they have their Instagram posts ready. It’s the four photos they discussed, and a caption that Yuna typed and Shane tweaked.

“Ready?” Ilya asks. There’s a look in his eyes that says if Shane isn’t ready, they can hold off. They can take a moment to calm down and destress. But Shane doesn’t feel any anxiety about this. He trusts that no matter what hits in the next couple of hours, they will handle it together.

“Ready,” Shane confirms. Together, they press post on their respective Instagrams. Alongside the four pictures, Shane’s caption reads: You’ve known us as rivals on the ice for the last decade, which is still the truth, but for the last seven or so months, Ilya Rozanov and I have also been in a relationship. I know this will surprise a lot of you, but we’re tired of hiding it. Ilya is so important to me, and I deserve to share that with the world the same way any other hockey player in a heterosexual relationship would. Thank you for your support, and thank you to Ilya. I couldn’t do this without you.

Despite the false nature of their entire relationship, Shane believes that the last line is nothing but the truth.

Chapter End Notes

im feeling a little mental about them guys

my twitter!

Chapter 6: six

Chapter Notes

chat if i finish writing chapter 19 by tonight (might be a long shot bc its hudcon met gala day but we'll try), then i'll post an extra chapter onnnn thursday

cw: use of a homophobic slur!

The internet, as expected, is on fucking fire. Along with their Instagram posts, Yuna and Farah sent stories to the same media outlets that broke the news of Shane’s coming out. Within minutes, the story is everywhere. Both of their posts are racking up likes and comments, their names are climbing the trending tabs on every social media platform, and both of their phones are buzzing constantly. 

Shane is all but trembling. Mostly from just being overwhelmed, but a little from anxiety. Texts from his teammates and coach are coming in so fast, Shane can barely get a good look at any of them before the next notification takes its place. What he has caught, however, has been anything but positive. He’s read a lot of what the fuck and are you serious texts. His coach has called four times, but per Yuna’s directions, Shane doesn’t answer. He knows his coach will be angry, especially from being kept out of the loop, but this is probably a conversation to have in person.

He barely catches a text from Comeau that starts with I wouldn’t have guessed that you’re—

Ilya takes Shane’s phone from his hand and places it face down on the table. “Hey!” Shane snaps, reaching for it, but Ilya just slides it further away. 

“Hollander, you’re shaking,” he says flatly. Yuna’s head jerks up from her laptop, eyes landing on her son. Ilya doesn’t look away from Shane. “The texts will be there later. Just… breathe for a minute, yes?”

Shane glances at his phone, then back at Rozanov. “Fine. Yeah,” he mutters, leaning back in his chair. Ilya opens his mouth to speak again, but then his phone starts buzzing on the table. The name Sveta flashes across the screen. A smile splits Ilya’s face, and he picks up his phone.

“Here, you will like this,” he says. “You can watch me get yelled at.”

The words aren’t nice, but Ilya is grinning, which tells Shane that he’s probably not serious about getting yelled at. However, when he answers the call and puts it on speaker, he can barely get out a greeting before rapid Russian in a female voice is coming through his speaker. Rozanov’s smile doesn’t fade. In fact, he chuckles a few times at whatever the girl is saying.

It’s a full minute and a half before the girl goes quiet. 

Ilya says something in Russian first, before he looks at Shane and switches back to English. “Say hi, Shane.”

Shane blinks. “Um. Hi.”

There’s a brief, silent pause, and then more Russian comes through the speaker. Ilya just tosses his head back with a laugh. (The sight is so carefree in the midst of Shane’s minor anxiety spiral, it’s almost enough to make Shane forget that half of his team hates him right now.) Shane stares at Rozanov, obviously confused.

“She says that she is going to kick my ass for keeping this big secret from her,” Ilya explains. Even though Shane is still wildly confused about a lot, the corner of his mouth does tick up. 

“I am going to kill you, actually,” the girl over the phone says, finally switching to English. She has a slight Russian accent, too, although hers is just a little less noticeable than Ilya’s. “Hello, Shane Hollander.”

Shane shifts in his seat, feeling a little uncomfortable about not knowing anything about the woman he’s talking to. “Hi… Sveta?”

“Svetlana,” Ilya corrects gently.

“Ah, no,” Svetlana says. “He can call me Sveta. He is your boyfriend, no? Your boyfriend that is serious enough for you to go public with, even though you tell me nothing.”

Rozanov smiles a bit, tilting his head as he looks at Shane. “I told you she would yell at me.”

Shane clears his throat. “You’re Ilya’s… friend, then?”

Ilya winces, and a second later, Shane sees why. “You didn’t even tell him about me?” Svetlana gasps, before switching back into angry Russian. Despite the fact that Shane has no idea what she’s saying, it is, admittedly, very funny to watch Ilya get chewed out. After a few seconds, he takes Svetlana off speakerphone and stands. 

“One second,” he murmurs to Shane. 

Ilya takes one step away, and as Shane reaches for his own phone, Ilya quickly backtracks and swipes Shane’s phone from the table. He stuffs it in his hoodie pocket.

“Rozanov,” Shane hisses, but Ilya just waves him off and walks down the hall towards the bathroom. Shane deflates back in his chair and looks over at his mom, who has a tiny smile on her face. “What?” he asks.

She shrugs. “Nothing, I just… I like him more than I expected.”

“Rozanov?”

“Mhm.”

For the entirety of Shane’s career, the thought of his mom saying she likes Rozanov would’ve been the most laughable thing imaginable. But now, after everything, Shane just huffs softly. “Yeah,” he agrees quietly. He swallows, pushing down thoughts of how supportive Rozanov has been through the beginning of this insane journey. “What’s happening online?”

His mom’s smile fades almost immediately. “It’s all over the place,” she says. “You’re getting a lot of hate, and a lot of support. A lot of people are just trying to wrap their heads around it, which is why we should try to schedule your first interview and photoshoot within the next couple of days. Give people more of a visual to grasp what this means.”

“Right, yeah,” he nods. “Has my coach reached out to you yet? He was calling me before Rozanov took my phone, so…”

The look on Yuna’s face says that Coach has, in fact, reached out, and it was not pleasant. “I have four emails from him, just within the last 25 minutes. They’re all angry and rude, so I’m going to give him some time to stop throwing a tantrum before I respond. I suggest you continue to ignore him for a bit, too. He’s just going to yell at you, and you’ve done nothing wrong.”

Shane shifts in his chair, reaching up to fiddle with his hoodie string. “Maybe I should’ve told him sooner.”

Yuna looks up. “No, Shane,” she says softly. “This is your personal life. He is not your manager or your agent. He doesn’t make decisions about this, and he would have tried to talk you out of it, which is not his place.”

He knows that his mom is right, and he knows that he didn’t do anything wrong, but he can’t shake the feeling of anxiety at the thought of returning to the Voyageurs next season with all of this unaddressed. He’s going to have to talk to his coach at some point over the summer.

Ilya returns to the room and finally hands Shane his phone back. “Svetlana is old friend from Russia,” he explains. “She also lives in Boston. She is probably the only close friend I have that is not on my team.”

“Ah,” Shane nods. “And she is… supportive?” 

“Yes, yes,” Ilya says, sitting down. “She was just angry that I kept you secret, but I explained.”

Shane’s eyes go wide. “Explained…?” he presses. Surely, Rozanov doesn’t mean that he explained the nature of their relationship — the nature being that it’s entirely fabricated. The implication is enough to make Ilya roll his eyes.

“Explained why I had secret boyfriend for seven months,” he says. “Not that we are faking, Hollander. Please relax. I would not violate contract twenty minutes into relationship.”

Shane relaxes, feeling a little ashamed that he would’ve expected otherwise. “Right, sorry.”

Ilya’s phone is still buzzing with texts, the same as Shane’s. As curious as Shane is to check his own, he keeps it face down for now. “What are your teammates saying? And your coach?”

Rozanov scoffs lightly and holds his unlocked phone out to Shane. “Take a look.”

Judging by the flat tone, Shane isn’t expecting anything good. It’s still somehow worse than he imagined. From what he can see, a total of three teammates are supportive. Shocked, definitely, but supportive enough. Everyone else is… not. Just from two minutes of holding Ilya’s phone, Shane’s stomach is turning from how many times he’s read the word faggot, and any variation of it. 

“Ilya,” he whispers, but he has no idea what to say. They knew this was a possibility. They knew the NHL had a homophobia problem. But seeing it is different. Seeing these awful, hateful words directed straight at Ilya is sickening. Shane is sure his texts will be just as bad. 

“I’m sorry,” Shane says. He doesn’t give the phone back to Ilya. He just places it face down on the table. Shane turns towards Ilya, their knees bump together lightly. Shane wants to offer more comfort somehow, but he has no idea what to do.

Ilya shrugs. “We expected this, no?”

“Yeah, but…” Shane frowns. “It’s still horrible. And unfair.”

Ilya inclines his head. “Yes,” he says softly. 

“Okay,” Yuna interrupts, drawing both of their attention to her. “Two days from now, you’ll be doing an interview and photoshoot with GQ, then another the next day with CBC Sports. That’s all I have confirmed so far, but I’m getting more offers as we speak, so I’ll keep you updated as I confirm more.”

Shane nods slowly. He looks over at Ilya, who is already watching him. The tension from the shitstorm on his phone already seems to be forgotten, his shoulders a little looser. “Okay?” Shane asks him softly. Things were already confirmed, the world already knew, but after everything he’d just seen, Shane felt like he still had to check in. The corner of Ilya’s mouth quirks up.

“Okay,” he agrees.

The next day is just spent holed up in Shane’s apartment. Since he has a guest room, and they wanted to avoid anyone seeing Ilya at a hotel, they’d just agreed to have Ilya stay at Shane’s place for the time being. 

They’re both silent as they sit on opposite ends of the couch, on their phones. The media has not died down — if anything, it’s worse. The influx of texts from their teammates, though, has seemed to dwindle. Shane has opted to ignore all of the ones that weren’t blatantly supportive, which meant there were only about three people he was responding to. But Shane had expected that number to be low, considering which of his teammates had been supportive when he’d come out. 

“Do you think it’ll get better or worse the more interviews and stuff we do?” Shane asks randomly. Ilya tilts his head back against the couch cushions and considers.

“Both,” he says. “The people who have no problem will only be more supportive, and hopefully that will drown out the bad. But the idiots will also say we are shoving it down their throats or whatever. So I don’t know. I think both.”

Shane nods. “It’ll just be a matter of who is louder.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “And we will get better at ignoring the idiots.”

Photoshoots have never been Shane's thing. He always feels awkward, and he has to heavily rely on the photographers to direct his posing. It is simultaneously better and worse with Ilya.

Better because the pressure is slightly reduced, as he’s not the only one being photographed. And because he’s becoming more and more comfortable with Ilya, it’s easy to lean into the familiarity of him.

It’s also worse because Ilya is a fucking natural. The photographer never has to tell him what to do or how to pose, how to direct his facial expressions, or where to put his arms. Shane already feels out of his element, but now he’s working with someone who seems to be perfect. The only plus is that Shane doesn’t feel at all like Ilya is judging him for falling so far behind. If anything, Ilya tries to help him. He murmurs to Shane between shots, either assuring him that his hands are in the right places or making tiny comments to relax him and make him smile.

The other thing that is driving him crazy — it was obvious that this was a couple’s shoot. That’s the whole point. Shane just hadn’t realized how intimate the photos would be. He’s glad that his mother is currently vetting questions for the interview later, so she’s not witnessing the way that her son is currently straddling Rozanov’s lap. Ilya is leaning back on his palms, and Shane is leaning close enough that their chests are only a few inches apart. They’ve taken pictures in this position looking at the camera, but now they’re meant to be looking into each other’s eyes. Shane doesn’t think he’s ever studied someone so closely in his life. It’s daunting, being so close to Ilya for so long. It must be the lighting and the light layer of makeup, but he’s so fucking… pretty.

“This feels like it’s going to add fuel to the bad side of things,” Shane murmurs after hearing the click of the camera. Ilya tilts his head slightly, just enough that the light catches the sharp lines of his jaw. 

“Or people are going to think we are very sexy.”

Shane huffs, hardly amused. He does not feel sexy. He probably never has in his life, but that’s neither here nor there. 

“Shane, can you take your left hand and put it on Ilya’s shoulder?” the photographer asks. Shane does, but when the camera doesn’t go off, Shane can tell he’s not doing it right. The photographer murmurs something to her assistant, and another girl steps into the frame to adjust Shane’s hand with a soft smile. She places it on Ilya’s jaw — note: not his shoulder, so how was Shane meant to know what she really wanted? — and returns to the photographer’s side. 

The flash goes off a couple of times. Ilya shifts slightly, and his hand rests on Shane’s hip. “Perfect, Ilya,” the photographer says. Shane withholds a sigh.

“How are you so good at this?” he murmurs. “I feel so stupid.”

“Mm,” Ilya hums. “I do not know. It just feels easy.”

“Ugh.”

Ilya’s lips twitch. “You do not look stupid,” he says. “You look very pretty.”

“Shut up,” Shane mutters. Without any direction, Ilya removes his hand from Shane’s hip and trails a knuckle over his jaw instead. Shane shivers at the soft touch, and it’s almost enough to ignore the constant click of the camera. 

“They covered your freckles too much,” Ilya says. One finger trails over the apple of Shane’s cheek.

“Good,” Shane murmurs. “I hate them.”

“Hollander,” Ilya chides. “Do not say that.”

Shane’s eyebrows furrow. “What?”

“Sorry,” the photographer cuts in, “Shane, can you, um…”

Ilya snorts. “Stop frowning,” he says. “Bad for pictures.”

Shane wipes the look from his face, but he’s still stuck on what Ilya had said. He doesn’t get to come back to it because the photographer repositions them. They're both sitting now, facing each other with their legs tangled around each other’s hips. Ilya’s arms are loosely looped around Shane’s waist, and Shane’s are extended over Ilya’s shoulders. Again, they take several facing the camera first, which cuts off most of their attempts at conversation.

“Just think,” Rozanov says quietly when they’re directed to face each other, “we will be professional models by the end of summer.”

“I think you already are one.”

There’s a spark in Ilya’s gaze. “Hollander, are you calling me hot?”

Shane almost rolls his eyes before remembering that they’re in the middle of a photoshoot. He’s been reprimanded enough. “Shut up,” he says, huffing out a tiny laugh. Rozanov knows he’s hot. Shane does not need to confirm it and inflate his ego. 

“Mm,” Ilya hums, like it’s a confirmation anyway. He pulls one arm away from Shane’s waist momentarily, just to slide one of the shoulders of his open shirt down his arm. That’s the other thing driving Shane crazy. Rozanov’s outfit is pale denim and an open flannel shirt with nothing beneath it. His entire chest and torso are on display. And yes, Shane has technically seen it all before. Rozanov has done post-game interviews without a shirt on; he’s posted shirtless pictures on his Instagram. Shane knows that Ilya is sculpted, as are most hockey players. 

But seeing it right in front of him is… different. Earlier, the photographer had told Shane to place his hand right in the center of Ilya’s torso for a few photos. And touching him is something else entirely. Ilya had seemed unbothered, but Shane had instantly categorized the feeling of Ilya’s muscles and the soft skin beneath his touch.

Ilya curls his arm around Shane’s waist again and scoots the tiniest bit closer. The camera goes off a few times, and then Ilya murmurs, “Move your hand to my shoulder, then down my arm. Slowly.”

“You just want to show off your biceps,” Shane mutters, but he does what he’s told. 

“They are nice, yes?”

“I’m not answering that.”

“Why?” Ilya asks, tilting his head again in that perfect way that catches the lights and shadows. “Because you will not admit I am hot?”

“You already think you’re hot,” Shane says. It must be the studio lighting, but Ilya’s eyes are glittering. “Why do you need my opinion?”

“Maybe I just want to hear it.”

“You are so—”

“Sorry, Shane, can we get a few without any smiling?” the photographer asks. Shane blinks, looking over at her.

“Huh?”

She grins apologetically. “You were smiling. Which was cute, and we got that. I just want to also get some without smiling.”

“Oh.” Shane hadn’t even realized he was smiling. He looks back at Rozanov, who isn’t smiling, but has this relaxed, sweet look on his face. Now that Shane is focused on it, he has no idea what to do with his face. It must show, because Rozanov exhales a tiny laugh through his nose.

“Remember how much you like me, Hollander?” he whispers. 

“Debatable,” Shane murmurs back, but he tries to relax into Ilya’s grip. 

“And remember how hot you think I am.”

“Now you’re reaching.”

Stupid studio lighting and stupid Ilya Rozanov for knowing all of his angles so well, because he shifts his head just the tiniest bit, and it shows off just how much his eyes are shining as he looks at Shane. Ilya looks at him like he has no issue pretending to be in love with him.

Finally, finally, they move on from the photoshoot. They’re redressed in new outfits and take a seat together on a loveseat. Shane, again, feels awkward, but Ilya just rests his hand casually on Shane’s thigh. It’s simple, but Shane focuses on it to ground himself. As a reminder that he’s not alone in this.

They spent a few hours yesterday going over interview answers, so they should have this in the bag, but Shane doesn’t feel any less nervous. The interviewer introduces herself as Amanda. She starts off with the basics, all the things they prepared for — how this started, how much of their rivalry was true, how they’re handling the media’s reaction, how they think it will affect the next season now that the world knows.

For what it’s worth, Shane and Ilya answer everything effortlessly. They bounce off of each other’s words, one of them always picking up where the other left off to add to an answer. It probably helps that they rehearsed things, but Shane also finds that they just seem to be in tune with each other. A few times, Ilya struggles to find a word in English, and each time, Shane fills in with the exact word he was looking for. Or when Shane stutters over an answer about how their teammates reacted, Ilya smooths his thumb over Shane’s knee and easily steers the conversation towards the general support they’ve received. 

It goes about as perfectly as it could’ve gone. Once it’s done, Shane exhales softly and leans his head on Ilya’s shoulder. He doesn’t even have it in him to feel awkward about it, because Ilya just squeezes his thigh. 

One down, a whole summer to go.

Hockey’s New It Couple

What it means for Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov

by Amanda Gold

GQ was lucky enough to be the first to sit down with NHL superstars Shane Hollander, of the Montreal Voyageurs, and Ilya Rozanov, of the Boston Bears. The two revealed just days ago that they’ve been in a relationship for the past seven months, and the entire world is eager to know more. The details of when, why, and most of all, how this happened.

Rozanov confirms that shortly after Hollander received an injury that took him out of a Montreal v. Boston game during the 2016-17 NHL season, he reached out to Hollander to check in on him again, despite already visiting him in the hospital the day after the injury. For anyone unaware, this is a common thing for captains to do when a player of the opposing team gets injured badly enough. From then on, the two of them developed a friendship, which later turned into a relationship around late October of 2017.

When asked about their decision to make it public, this was Hollander’s response.

Hollander: It’s incredibly lonely to keep a secret of this size. We hadn’t even told friends until shortly before posting about it. You have this thing that makes you so incredibly happy, and you just can’t talk about it. It’s lonely, and it’s heartbreaking. We didn’t want to hide it.

They spoke about how New York Admirals Captain Scott Hunter’s public coming out was a very big inspiration to be able to go public, as well as for them both to come out as queer. Rozanov also noted that without meeting Hollander, he likely never would have come out.

Rozanov: I have known for a very long time that I am bisexual, but I was okay to hide it. I could’ve only dated women, at least publicly, no one would have ever known. But my Shane was so brave, wanting to show young athletes that might be hiding that it is okay. That we don’t have to hide. It was very inspiring, and I wanted to be brave, too.

Gold: And from there, you decided to also announce your relationship?

Rozanov: Yes. Like we said, we did not want to hide. And we wanted to show people that we are proud of our identities, and we are proud of each other. Straight men in the NHL post about their girlfriends and wives all the time. We should be able to do the same.

Gold: So why not come out with everything all at once? Was there a method to doing it in stages?

Hollander: I wanted to go first. After wanting to for so long, it felt important to me. And Ilya was supportive, but we knew that it only made sense for us to come out close together, so we waited until Ilya was out of the playoffs. Admittedly, we did wait to announce our relationship because we thought if the response was really bad, if the league was really unhappy, then maybe it would be safer to keep our relationship under wraps for a bit longer.

Gold: So the league has been supportive? And your respective teammates?

Hollander: Well. Speaking for myself, um, there has been… It’s been a bit all over the place. It is a shock for a lot of people, understandably. Especially my teammates, who have known me for so long, so… it’s not easy for everyone to… 

Rozanov: We expected things to be hard. There will always be homophobic people in the world. But we have received so much support from all over the place. People who do not even like hockey have reached out to show support. We are grateful for anyone who says anything kind.

Hollander and Rozanov continue to share some of the details for how they plan to navigate the upcoming season, the ins and outs of their relationship, and how they hid everything for the last seven months. To read the full article and view new photos, subscribe to GQ Premium.

Chapter End Notes

this chapter was actually really fun to write, i liked the little article part at the end hehe.
now everyone tell me to lock in and keep writing

my twitter!

Chapter 7: seven

Chapter Notes

mwahah bonus chappie bc im just so excited to keep this going

Ilya had been on to something when he said they would be professional models by the end of the summer, because after just a week of photoshoot after interview after photoshoot, Shane can safely say he’s a million times more comfortable in front of the camera than he had been when they started. It continues to help that Ilya is with him, but he’s begun to understand the angles of the lighting and when it’s better for him to smile. 

Within the eight days after announcing their relationship, they’ve done five photo shoots and six interviews. They’ve gotten their answers down, as a lot of people are repeating questions. Shane no longer feels awkward each time he’s asked to straddle Ilya, or wrap his arms around him, or press their faces together. He’s become very familiar with Ilya’s face, as he’s been inches from it all week. (One might think after staring at him for so long, Shane might’ve become desensitized to the freckles and moles dotting his cheeks, the green laced through his hazel eyes, and the bouncy spring of his curls, but he hasn’t. Each time he finds himself so close to Ilya, he always manages to find something new to latch onto.)

They have a break in their hectic schedule coming up, where they’ll be traveling to Boston just so Ilya can return home for a few days, but before that—

Shane keeps the brim of his hat low as they walk through the LaGuardia airport. They have an interview with Vogue — which is fucking insane, by the way — and it had just worked out that they’d be able to stop in New York for a night on their way to Boston.

“You are walking too fast,” Ilya complains, trying to keep up. 

Shane hates airports. When they fly for games, they have their own plane, so there’s no worry about being recognized. Whenever he flies somewhere on his own, he might be able to pay for first class, but that doesn’t help the fact that he has to go through the airport with everyone else. And most of the time, there’s no issue. Occasionally, a nice fan will notice him and ask for a picture, which is still fine, but Shane’s extra on edge today, as this is their first time out together. It’s his first time in such a crowded, public area after announcing to the world that not only is he gay, but he’s also dating his very famous rival. 

And considering a good percentage of hockey fans hate them for that, Shane is very eager to get out of there.

“Our car should be here,” Shane says. 

“They literally get paid to wait,” Ilya responds, and Shane just knows he rolled his eyes. “Is fine.”

“Just— hurry up.” There’s a beat of silence, and even Shane realizes how rude that was. So he adds, “Please.”

“Wow,” Ilya deadpans. “You do have manners. I was about to call Yuna.”

Shane glances over at him. “Since when are you on a first name basis with my mom?” he asks. Ilya shrugs.

“She is very nice. She said I could call her that,” he says. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” Shane says instantly. It’s not a problem. In fact, it’s kind of nice to see that Ilya is becoming comfortable with his mom, considering she’s going to be one of the only people they can talk to about this whole PR stunt. “No, it’s okay.”

“Good, because I would not have stopped anyway.”

“Asshole,” Shane mutters. They exit the airport and get in their pickup car, which takes them straight to the Vogue office. They’ve worked with a wide range of outlets so far, but none of them were this intense. Shane had genuinely believed his mom was joking when she said Vogue wanted to interview them on their story, but she’d snapped up the chance instantly. 

“Do you think we make cover page?” Ilya asks as they’re getting their makeup done.

“You already know we aren’t,” Shane murmurs, careful not to move his mouth too much as his makeup artist applies lip balm to him. Though if some famous actress — Ilya had told him who, but Shane's already forgotten — wasn't getting married, they potentially could've made the cover page. Which sounds terrifying.

“A shame.” Ilya looks up at the girl who is evening out the discoloration under his eyes. “We should be on the cover, no? Look how pretty Shane is.”

“Ilya,” Shane chides, but the girl just laughs. 

“It would sure show those idiots who are out there burning your jerseys,” she says. 

“Exactly, you get it,” Ilya grins. Shane rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling a bit, too. It shouldn’t be shocking, meeting new people who are so blatantly supportive, but it is. Shane isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to his secret no longer being a secret.

The photoshoot is like every other one they’ve done, except scaled up by at least 110%. There are more people, more lights, more noise. 

“Good thing this was not our first one,” Ilya murmurs as he curls his arm around Shane’s waist from behind, his hand settling on Shane’s stomach. The back of Shane’s shoulder presses against Ilya’s chest, and he leans into the warmth.

“Don’t tell me you’re nervous,” Shane huffs. It would not bode well for him if Ilya is suddenly feeling the heat. But Rozanov only chuckles.

“Of course not,” he says. “But poor you. You might’ve run away screaming.”

“I would not,” Shane hisses.

“No?” Ilya teases. Shane hates that even though he can’t see him, he knows Ilya is grinning. But he’s grinning in that perfect, sexy way that actually works for the photos, so that no one yells at him for it.

“No,” Shane confirms. “I would’ve been fine. I would’ve had you.”

Ilya doesn’t respond. Shane realizes just how sentimental his words had been, but before he can try to take them back or turn them into a joke, Ilya’s head dips for the quickest second, and his lips brush Shane’s shoulder.

It’s so sudden and bizarre, Shane can’t help but tense up for a beat. Neither of them talks for the rest of the photoshoot.

Because of that little moment during the shoot, Shane half expects the interview to be weird, but it isn’t. They’re still just as in tune as they normally are. The only time Shane stumbles over an answer is when they’re asked about their plans for the future.

“We will go into the next season the same as all the other ones,” Ilya says easily. “Ready to compete and win.”

The interviewer nods, accepting the answer, but it becomes obvious that’s not exactly what he was asking about when he continues, “And your plans for the future beyond that? Beyond hockey in general?”

Shane blinks. He glances at Ilya, who seems to be processing the question. “Oh, after retirement, you mean?”

The man nods. And Shane’s brain short-circuits for a second, because how the fuck have they not planned for this question? Sure, they’ve only been “dating” for less than eight months, so it is kind of absurd to assume that they’re in it for the rest of their lives, but when have media outlets not been kind of absurd and invasive? 

But another look at Ilya tells Shane that he’s also struggling to figure out exactly how to answer this, considering they both know for certain there is no after retirement for their relationship. Shane tosses him a lifeline. “We still have so much hockey in us, you know?” he says, regaining the attention of the interviewer. “We haven’t talked much about the after, but we just want…” He looks over at Ilya, who is already watching him. There’s an oddly charged spark of something that passes between them. 

“We just want to be together, and to play as long as we can,” Shane finishes.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees softly. “I am not worried about the future.”

As if this insane, hectic day couldn’t get worse, Vogue was the one to book a hotel room for Shane and Ilya. Which was very kind of them, as they were the entire reason they were in New York for the night. However, considering they were booking a room for Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, who were very obviously In A Relationship, they booked a room with one bed.

A big one, at least, but still just one.

Shane holds in a sigh. He’s gotten very used to having Rozanov in his space over the last week, considering he’d been staying at Shane’s apartment while they were in Montreal. This would certainly be taking that to a new level.

“I am starving,” Ilya says, clearly unbothered by the situation. “I change clothes, and then we get pizza?”

“Pizza?” Shane frowns.

“We are in New York, Hollander,” Ilya stares at him. “Pizza is, like, the whole point of New York. Have you ever been to New York?”

“Of course I’ve been— shut up,” Shane says. “Yeah, fine. I’m going to rinse off in the shower first, then we can go.”

He gathers new clothes from his duffel bag and slips into the bathroom. New York City in the middle of June means sweat seeped through his clothes after being outside for three minutes. A few moments later, he reenters their bedroom. 

And is immediately affronted by Ilya’s bare chest as he rests on one side of the bed in nothing but shorts. A t-shirt is sprawled out over the foot of the bed.

“Pretty sure it would be public indecency to go outside like that,” Shane says, waving a hand towards Rozanov’s exposed skin. He’s seen it all countless times over the last week, because all of these media outlets love showing off as much of his skin as possible, but it never becomes any less distracting.

Ilya grins, sitting up and reaching for his shirt. “I think New York would say thank you.”

“Sure,” Shane says, looking away before he does something stupid. Like say thank you. “You ready?”

“Yes.” By the time Shane looks at him again, he’s fully dressed and slipping his shoes on. “There is good pizza place just one block over.”

“How do you know?”

Ilya blinks once at him. “Hollander, you kill me. Have you never heard of Google?”

“Fuck off,” Shane mutters, his cheeks heating. He leaves the room, not waiting for Ilya to follow.

As much as Shane hates to admit it, the pizza place is really good.

It’s tiny. So tiny, they don’t even actually have seating. There are a few tall, metal tables for people to stand at as they eat. Shane picked the one in the corner, hoping to stay out of the way as much as possible. 

“You do not like to be recognized,” Ilya comments. Shane is in another hat and sunglasses, whereas Ilya is bare of both of those. He’s just… himself.

Shane shrugs. “I like meeting fans, I appreciate them. I just feel… awkward every time.”

Rozanov hums, tilting his head side to side. “Fair. It can be awkward,” he says. “I think it is fun, though. I like meeting people.” 

Shane is actually glad he’s wearing sunglasses, because he studies Ilya out of the corner of his eye. He’s so relaxed. Carefree. He’s also absolutely demolishing his pizza in a way that should make him super unattractive, but it doesn’t. Shane doubts anything could make him unattractive. 

Because Shane is already looking at him, he sees the moment Ilya catches him staring, even with the dark shades. The corner of his mouth curves up into a smirk as he chews, and he meets Shane’s eyes right through the tinted lenses. Shane looks away instantly. 

They finish their pizza without another word. 

“Is there anything you want to do in New York?” Ilya asks as they leave the tiny restaurant.

Shane frowns. It’s evening, and the sun is beginning to set, but he’s still sweating. And he’s tired from the day of traveling and shooting. He sighs. “You’re going to call me boring.”

“Yes, probably.”

“I’d really rather go back to the room and just… relax before bed. Our flight to Boston is early tomorrow anyway.” 

Rozanov looks at him for a few seconds, a tiny smile pulling at his lips.

“Too boring?” Shane asks.

Surprisingly, he shakes his head. “No— well, technically yes. Very boring. But I want that, too.”

They return to their room, and Shane immediately remembers the whole bed situation. But if Ilya is unbothered by it, Shane will be, too. Ilya picks a movie, though he doesn’t watch it in favor of scrolling on his phone. Despite the film being something Shane would’ve never picked, he finds himself pretty engrossed in it. 

Until he fully dozes off.

“Hollander,” Ilya shakes him once, gently. Shane’s eyes snap open. The TV is off, and so is the lamp on Ilya’s side of the bed. And so is Ilya’s shirt, his bare shoulders visible from where he’s tucked beneath the covers. Ilya nods towards the other lamp. “Bedtime.”

“Oh, right,” Shane mutters. He also strips off his shirt — because again, Shane can be totally chill and unbothered, just like Rozanov — and pulls the covers over him. He clicks off his lamp.

The only light coming into the room is through the sheer curtains. It’s faint, but it’s enough to give Shane some visibility of the room. Of Ilya. He turns towards him, suddenly very awake.

Rozanov blinks back at him.

“Are you excited to go back to Boston?” Shane whispers. There’s no reason to be quiet; it’s only the two of them. It just feels right.

“Mm, yes,” Ilya says. “I like Montreal, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm,” he hums. “Canada is nice. And it was kind of a fun week. Crazy, yes, but also fun.”

Shane huffs a tiny laugh. “This has been fun? What do you normally do with your free time?”

“I do some of the same. Working with brands. But is more fun doing it with you,” Ilya says. “But nights are always parties. Meeting people, sleeping with people. This has been… nice. Relaxing after working. I am not as tired.”

“If you were tired when you were partying so much, why did you… do it?” Shane asks, furrowing his brows. 

Ilya lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I did enjoy it sometimes,” he says. “But also, people expected me to. So I did.”

In a sense, Shane understands. Because he has expectations placed on him, too, and he always feels like he has to adhere to them. Just because the circumstances of those expectations are different for him and Rozanov doesn’t mean the pressure feels any less intimidating. 

“Well, I’m glad you feel like you can relax, then.”

“Boring Canada makes it easy.”

Shane can hear his smile. He rolls his eyes. “I thought you said you liked Canada,” he says. Despite his very best efforts, a smile is creeping across his face, too. He hopes it’s too dark for Ilya to see it.

“I do,” Ilya responds. “Boring is not a bad thing, Shane. I like it.”

Ilya’s penthouse apartment is… kind of nicer than Shane’s. And Shane is kind of mad about it.

“What the fuck?” he mutters, looking at the glass fountain in the entryway with a tilted head. “Why do I want one of these now?”

“Is cool.”

“It’s unnecessary.”

“Yes, but cool.”

Unfortunately, it is cool. So is his dining table that can turn into a pool table. And his theater room with every console imaginable. And the view is obviously incredible, but at least Shane has one of those, too. 

“How long have you had this place?” Shane asks.

“Right after rookie year, I think.”

Shane hums. 

When Rozanov had been at Shane’s apartment, even the first couple of times, he’d been able to make himself right at home. It was like he’d had no fear of overstepping. That is not a quality Shane possesses. He sits on the sofa, feeling stiff and out of place. Ilya snorts, obviously noticing.

He tosses a pillow at Shane, which hits him in the shoulder. “Hollander, you do know how to relax, yes?”

“I am relaxed,” Shane lies.

Ilya sighs. He sits up a bit from his reclined position on his sofa. “Shane, this is our break from the media, yes? Is just me here.”

Shane stares at him for a few seconds, then he nods once. Instead of immediately melting into the sofa, as any other person might, Shane stands and crosses the room to where his bags are still propped against the wall. He digs around for the book he had meant to start on the flight to Boston, and his glasses case.

Once he’s on the couch again, book open and glasses on, he finally starts to feel like he’s allowed to relax. Except he can feel Ilya’s eyes on him, which is very much not relaxing.

“What?” Shane asks, just barely glancing over. 

“Nothing,” Ilya says. “I was right. About your glasses.”

Shane lifts his head, his eyebrows furrowed. Ilya is a little blurry, since the glasses aren’t meant for seeing far away, but Shane can see the way his head is tilted slightly. “What about them?” he asks, trying to remember when he’d brought up his glasses to Ilya. He hadn’t actually ended up reading on their flights, and the only time he’s worn them when Ilya was at his apartment was when he was alone, in his own bedroom.

“They make you look very pretty.”

Oh. 

Instantly, Shane remembers. He’d sent a picture of his glasses and his book to Ilya that night they’d spoken for a few hours over Twitter DMs. Ilya had said Shane probably looked even prettier with his glasses on, but the conversation had switched immediately. He’d completely forgotten about that. He refocuses his attention on his book, hoping his cheeks aren’t burning. He hates when Ilya says things just to get a reaction from him. He hates that, despite knowing Ilya is just trying to get a rise out of him, he still likes hearing those things.

“Fuck off,” Shane mutters.

They have three days in Boston. They hardly leave Ilya’s apartment, aside from a few times to get food. After their week, Yuna had been insistent on using this time to chill. Well, chill and also maybe post one or two things to remind people that they’re Together and In Love, or whatever. 

Ilya posts a photo of their dinner one night, captioned Dinner with Shane is much more fun when he’s not on stupid diet. Honestly, Shane can’t even argue with that because the pasta he’d been eating had been better than anything he’d had all season. Shane posts a photo of a Polaroid Ilya had found from when he was about five years old. He was bundled up for the Russian winter and holding two thumbs up at the camera, his face barely visible behind a scarf. The picture was stupidly adorable, and Shane had captioned it Ilya should bring this look back this winter. 

With each post, the number of hate comments became less and less as people began to realize that this was not something that was just going to go away. Typing out how horrifying and disgusting this was, telling Shane that he should be kicked from the league, calling them every derogatory name under the sun would not force them back into hiding. With each post, Shane felt more and more secure in what he and Rozanov were doing. Maybe, if they kept it up, people would be forced to normalize this. Or at least they would shut up about it if they had their own problems with it.

It’s Shane’s last full day in Boston, and he finds that he’s… disappointed about it. They’ll have a bit more of a break for a while, separately, before they’re meant to do some advertisement commercial in Ottawa. Shane scrolls through comments on Ilya’s recent post as he eats his breakfast.

Out of nowhere, two arms curl around his waist, and a chest presses to his back. Shane’s entire body goes rigid, and Ilya snorts.

“Relax, Hollander,” he murmurs. “Open your camera. To post a story.”

Still tense, Shane obeys. The two of them show up on his screen, Ilya’s chin resting on Shane’s shoulder. 

“It might be weird if my boyfriend does not post for my birthday, no?”

The words process, and Shane turns on his barstool to look at Ilya. He barely even registers that Ilya’s arms are still around his waist, because Shane is too busy looking at him in utter shock. 

“Your birthday? Today is your birthday?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I just did.”

“Yes, but. Before. Sooner.”

Ilya shrugs, but Shane notices how his eyes cut away. Like he’s uncomfortable. “I do not celebrate it, really. Is not a big deal. But you should probably just post, so people do not think it’s weird.”

Shane aches to press further. To know why Ilya doesn’t celebrate it. He almost pulls back, almost lets the topic drop. But… They've gotten close lately. They’ve been together for almost two weeks straight. Maybe Ilya would tell him if he asked.

So he does.

“You don’t celebrate it?” 

Wordlessly, Ilya shakes his head.

Shane hesitates for just a second. “Why not?”

There’s a long pause, and Ilya’s fingers briefly flex where he’s still holding Shane’s waist. Shane’s about to take it back, but Ilya finally says, “I did not have great childhood. So I do not have good memories of my birthday. Not after my mother died.”

A frown pulls at Shane’s lips. “Maybe… we can do something tonight?” he suggests. “So it will be a good memory.”

Ilya’s eyes finally flick back to Shane, and they’re sadder than he’s ever seen. For a minute, Shane thinks he’s going to agree. But he shakes his head, softly. “No,” he whispers. “Thank you. But no. I do not want to celebrate.”

Everything in Shane wants to push back, but he doesn’t. He’s already pushed enough, asking the question to begin with. “Okay,” Shane murmurs, and Ilya seems relieved. Shane turns back to his phone and holds it far enough back to get them both in frame. Ilya’s arms tighten around Shane’s waist, even though the picture doesn’t show anything below his chest. Neither of them mentions it. Once Ilya’s chin is back on Shane’s shoulder and they’re both smiling, Shane takes the picture.

Rozanov doesn’t move away.

He just watches silently as Shane types out Happy birthday to the biggest pain in my ass.

“Mm,” Ilya chuckles, right next to Shane's ear, as Shane decides which emojis to include. “Do you think people will read that and assume you are a bottom?” His voice is low and teasing, and Shane's face feels hot. Glad to know their previous discussion hadn’t ruined Rozanov’s mood too much.

“Oh, fuck off,” he mutters. He hesitates, considering deleting the caption and typing something else. But no one will really think that. And besides… “Pretty sure they’d be right anyway, so.”

Ilya's arms tense for half a second. So quick, Shane barely notices it. “Oh, only pretty sure?” Ilya asks, obviously still amused. But there’s maybe something else in his tone. Shane isn’t even sure why he said anything. 

“I mean, I've only ever…” he trails off, his voice quiet. As he speaks, Shane types out Ilya’s Instagram handle and then presses post. Distantly, he hears Ilya’s phone buzz in his pocket. “And I don't think I have a lot of interest in topping. So.”

“Ah.” Ilya goes to pull away, but Shane's hand clamps over his forearm. 

“Have you… I mean, are you…” He has no idea how to finish that question. He shouldn’t even be asking it. Ilya didn’t ask about Shane's sexual preferences. He made a joke, and Shane volunteered the information. 

Despite the rudeness of the question, Ilya answers. “I have done both,” he says. “But I much prefer one over the other.”

Shane turns his head, looking at Ilya. Their faces are close. “What do you prefer?” he asks. He doesn’t know why it matters. He doesn't know why he cares about Ilya's preferences. It’s not like Shane needs to know if they’re compatible, because they aren’t having sex. He’s just… curious. Plus, fair’s fair. 

But Ilya seems to be done offering up information. He just smirks. “Maybe I'll tell you another time, Hollander.”

With that, Ilya pulls away. And Shane isn’t sure what’s more disappointing — the lack of answer, or the lack of Ilya’s warmth around him. 

Chapter End Notes

ilya's apartment giving super rich fratboy is so important to me. i giggled about it

Chapter 8: eight

Chapter Notes

im pretty sure one of my earlier authors notes was me joking that i needed to set a reminder every monday bc i always posted late in the day...... all day yesterday i was like there is SOMETHING im forgetting to do and then at like 11:30pm, i remembered my beautiful lovely fanfiction that i did not update.... im sorry and here you go and ily, enjoy

(there are russian words in this chapter, and if you tap on mobile/hover on pc, you'll see the translation!!)

Shane forces his fingers to stop trembling as he opens the side entrance to the arena. It’s still the off-season, obviously, so Shane isn’t here for practice or a game, like usual. He’s here to speak to his coach. 

He’d finally had a long enough break in his schedule with Ilya to have an entire week free of interviews, and his mother had suggested reaching out to Coach Theriault. Shane really, really, hadn’t wanted to, but he couldn’t put this off forever. He was lucky he still had two seasons left in his contract with the Voyageurs, otherwise he might've been forced to talk to him sooner. 

He squares his shoulders as he walks through the familiar, empty halls until he reaches his coach’s office. He glances at his phone once before slipping it in his pocket and knocking.

“Come in,” a gruff voice responds. Shane shuffles into the room. His coach won’t even look him in the eye.

Coach Theriault has been with the Voyageurs for years now, and he’s a strict guy, but Shane’s always liked him enough. He’s a good coach because he’s strict. He’s decently understanding when it comes to issues outside of hockey, like when Hayden had to miss practice because his wife was sick and there was no one else to watch the kids. There was no problem then.

Shane has a heavy feeling of dread that tells him Theriault will not be that understanding this time around.

“Have a seat, Hollander.”

Shane obeys. He realizes after a few seconds that his shoulders are hunched, like he could curl in on himself and brace for impact. He forces himself to unfold. He makes himself appear braver than he feels.

Coach exhales harshly and leans back in his chair, finally looking up at Shane. “Commissioner Crowell is furious with you, and frankly, so am I,” he says. “Going public with something like this… Hollander, what the fuck were you thinking? A heads up might have been nice.”

Shane bites the inside of his cheek. “Is the issue that I’m gay, or that I’m with Ilya Rozanov?” he asks carefully. 

He’s gone over countless scenarios in his head about this conversation. He understands that being with Ilya could be an issue, considering there’s no precedent for something like this in the NHL. There’s nothing in any contract or any rule that allows for guidelines on two players from opposing teams — rival teams, at that — being together. In any other workplace, there are restrictions on coworkers getting involved with each other, and in the barest sense of the word, that is what he and Ilya are. So he can understand if that is the issue.

Though not much can be done about it now.

Regardless, Shane thinks this goes deeper than the logistics of players from different teams being in a relationship. Especially when Theriault’s jaw clenches, like he can’t answer that question.

“The issue is that you’ve created a PR nightmare for the league and the Voyageurs. And the Bears, I imagine,” he grates out. “Not to mention a logistics issue for the upcoming season. You are the captain, yet you expect us to trust you? When you’re dating the enemy?” He scoffs. The emphasis he puts on the word dating makes Shane’s spine tingle. He says it like it's some frivolous joke. Like it means nothing.

And Shane doesn’t even care that his relationship is fake, because his coach doesn’t know that. He’s under the impression that it’s entirely real, and he is still treating it as less than. And Shane knows the fact that it’s Rozanov is not the entire reason.

Theriault only confirms this when he continues, “And on the matter of trust, countless of your teammates have spoken about the matter of the locker room. They find it… inappropriate to be sharing a locker room with someone who is… someone who might…”

“Someone who’s gay,” Shane fills in for him.

Coach sighs. “It is the same thing as not allowing women in the locker room for the other guys.”

Shane studies the cup of pens on the desk. Yes, sure, it is the same. Except if the other men in the locker room knew basic human decency and respect, then, in theory, it wouldn’t be an issue if there were a woman in the locker room. Shane has known he’s attracted to men for years, even without ever acting on it, and it’s never been an issue. He’s never let his gaze linger on any of his teammates; he’s never even considered making a move or a comment about anyone. 

“I’ve been gay for years, Coach,” Shane says softly. “I’ve never caused an issue, and I will continue to respect my teammates.”

Theriault hums shortly. “There is nothing that can be done about it anyway, so I will have to trust that you’ll keep your word. If there’s any misconduct, your teammates will make it known.”

Shane almost scoffs. But this is what he expected from telling his secret to the world. He almost asks if his teammates do anything to make Shane uncomfortable or unwelcome, is he allowed to make it known? But he knows the answer to that. He knows that if his teammates are shitty and homophobic, the narrative will likely be flipped around to somehow villainize Shane.

Coach Theriault’s gaze is hard and determined when he says, “Crowell is calling for either you or Rozanov to be benched every time Montreal plays Boston.”

Shane’s heart drops to his stomach, and his eyes fly wide. “You can’t do that!” he protests. “I— We played several games after getting together, and it was never an issue.”

“Three games,” Coach says. “Since October, when you started… dating. We played three games against Boston. And we lost two of them.”

Shane’s mouth opens, but he has no defense. What is he supposed to say to that? The games were played fairly, but he has no way to prove that. “People will know the league is benching us for unfair reasons,” Shane says slowly. “There’s been a lot of support, you know. People will want to see us play against each other.”

Theriault just hums once, almost in dismissal. Shane’s brows furrow.

“Have you not seen the support?”

“Have you not seen the outrage?” His coach shoots back. “Yes, there is support from the general public and a small percentage of hockey fans. But the majority of NHL fans are angry, Hollander. They are the ones who will be filling the seats when the season starts. They don’t want to see that shit on the ice.”

Shane’s jaw clenches at another blatant show of diminishing his relationship. Before he can say anything else, his coach pulls a document from a folder and slides it across the desk. 

“I’ve spoken with the Bears’ coach,” he says. “Rozanov will have a document like this as well. It’s basically just ensuring everything discussed at practice, team meetings, and things of that nature stays between the team.”

Shane blinks at the page, then at his coach. “Are any of the other players signing something like this?”

“None of the other players are sleeping with someone on another team.”

“Dating,” Shane corrects instantly. “But other players have friends on other teams. They’ve never been accused of telling them any of our plays or routines.”

Theriault ducks his head, but Shane just barely catches him rolling his eyes. “The circumstances are different, Hollander. Unless you and Rozanov would rather terminate your… relationship…”

“You can’t be serious.”

His coach holds up his hands in surrender, like Shane was the ridiculous one. Nothing about this was fair. Shane had hoped that if the world believed he and Ilya had been together during part of last season, this might not be as much of an issue. But Shane was ignorant to believe the homophobia in the league wouldn’t be the root of all of this. Shane huffs quietly and picks up the paper, reading it carefully. It just states that if there is any proof of him divulging any information about the Voyageurs, in any capacity, to Rozanov, he could be suspended or have his contract terminated early, depending on the severity of the secrets spilled. 

Shane never plans to give Ilya any intel on their routines, so Shane just signs the stupid paper. 

“Anything else?” Shane asks, ready for this meeting to be over. He’s angry and hurt that his coach and teammates' trust in him has been so severely damaged by something like this. Something he can’t control.

Theriault looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. He just shakes his head. “That’s all, Hollander,” he says. “I’ll be seeing you at the charity gala in a few weeks, I presume?”

“Yep,” Shane answers, already moving to stand. “Ilya and I will both be there.”

With that, Shane leaves the office. As he walks back down the hall, he slips his phone from his pocket and pauses the audio recording. His mom had suggested it, just in case his coach had tried to wrongfully suspend him or make any blatantly discriminatory comments. And even though his mom had told him to call her as soon as he was done, Shane’s first instinct when he gets in his car is to call Ilya.

He picks up on the third ring.

“Hollander,” his voice carries over the Bluetooth speaker in his car as Shane begins driving. “You missed me so much you had to call?”

“I just finished talking to my coach.”

“Oh,” Ilya’s voice instantly switches to something more serious. “How did it go?”

“Well, whenever you speak to your coach, chances are they’re going to have you sign something that basically says if you tell me anything about Boston’s practices or whatever, you could get suspended or dropped,” Shane says, his fingers tightening on the wheel. “And I was kindly reminded not to perv on any of my teammates in the locker room, because they’re all uncomfortable around me and I must have zero self-control.”

“Why would you perv on them when you already have sexy boyfriend?”

“Why would I suddenly start looking at any of them when I’ve shared a locker room with them my whole career?” Shane spits. He knocks his head back against his headrest. “This is so, so fucking stupid. I’m— I’m the same person they’ve known for a decade. This shouldn’t change anything!”

“Calm down, lyubimyy (beloved),” Ilya says. Shane doesn’t even register the nickname. “We knew this might happen, no? I had a feeling that the league would be worse than the media.”

“Yeah, but…” Shane sighs. “It’s still just stupid.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “Very stupid.”

Shane turns into his parking garage, but doesn’t get out of the car yet. “Coach had said if I didn’t want to sign the paper, the other option is terminating our relationship.”

Rozanov is quiet for a few seconds. “Is that… do you want that?” he finally asks. 

Even though Ilya can’t see him, Shane shakes his head instantly. “No,” he says. “But if you do… before signing the paper.”

“Shane.”

He swallows. “Yeah?”

“I am not breaking up with you before our contract ends.”

Weirdly, Shane feels relieved to hear that. He had been kind of worried that Ilya would take an out once it was presented. He had no idea why he thought that, considering Ilya had never given him any prior indication that he would, but still. Shane had thought, maybe, whatever curiosity he’d had about Shane Hollander had been sated by now. He was happy to find that that wasn’t the case.

“No?” Shane asks, a tiny grin pulling at his lips.

“No,” Ilya says. “Poor Yuna went through all the trouble to make very detailed contract. I will see it through.”

Shane’s glad this is only a phone call, so Ilya can’t see the way his smile takes over his whole face. He nods once. “Okay.”

Shane has been dreading this charity gala all week, but he’s starting to see some perks of attending. Well, a singular perk and it’s in the form of Ilya Rozanov in a suit. A dark burgundy suit with a white, silk shirt underneath. The top two buttons are undone, showing off just a hint of collarbone, and the gold crucifix hanging on a chain around his neck. He looks… good. Like, so good, Shane nearly dropped his phone when Ilya had descended the stairs.

They haven’t seen each other in a week, since they were in New York again for another photoshoot, but they’ve talked almost everyday. Via text, but more frequently, over the phone, or occasionally a FaceTime. Sometimes they talk about things related to their PR relationship, like an interview coming up or a photoshoot that had just been published, but it’s becoming more and more common for them to just talk about… anything. Everything. Whatever comes to mind. 

Ilya pauses in front of the mirror hanging on the wall in the living room, checking his hair. Shane watches as he smoothes down one of his curls. He adjusts his necklace quickly before turning his attention to Shane. 

Shane’s eyes snap away. He’d been blatantly staring, and he hopes to God Rozanov didn’t—

“Ah, so I look good, yes?” Ilya asks. 

“You look fine,” Shane mutters.

“Mm,” he hums in response. “You are staring because I look just fine?”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“Okay.”

Shane rolls his eyes. Before he can say anything else, Rozanov steps into Shane’s space and he has no choice but to look up. Warm, hazel eyes scan over his face briefly before dropping to his dress shirt. Ilya’s fingers gently adjust the collar, then the lapel of his black jacket. 

“You look… khoroshen'kiy (pretty).”

Shane swallows. His fingers itch to reach out and touch Ilya in some way, but he has no excuse. His hair looks perfect, his shirt and jacket don’t need adjusting, there’s no dust to brush off his suit, or stray eyelashes to swipe from his cheeks. “What does that mean?” he whispers.

Ilya’s eyes flick up. “I’ll tell you…” he drops his hands but doesn’t step back, “if you tell me that I look better than just fine.”

Shane’s cheeks feel warm. His eyes drop away from Ilya’s, only because the eye contact feels too intimate, but when they fall to his lips instead, Shane realizes that’s even more intimate. His gaze lands somewhere over Rozanov’s shoulder. 

It’s a little embarrassing, but he’s so curious to know what Ilya had called him, so he says, “You look… good. Really good.”

Even without looking directly at Ilya’s face, he sees the pleased smile pull at his mouth.

“Yes, I know,” Ilya says, only grinning wider when Shane rolls his eyes. “And you look very pretty.”

The words make Shane feel more conflicted than they should. The only times Ilya has ever called him pretty was when he was trying to get a reaction out of him. Is that all this is? He nods once, taking a step back. 

“Oh,” he murmurs, turning away. “Thanks.”

Shane checks his phone, completely missing the flicker of confusion passing over Ilya’s face. 

“We should get going,” Shane says. He slips his shoes on, glancing at Rozanov out of the corner of his eye as he does the same. Shane goes to grab his car keys from where they hang on the wall, but before he gets the chance, Ilya curls an arm around his waist and tugs him closer, right in front of the mirror. 

“Wait,” he says, holding his phone up. “We have to show everyone how pretty you are.”

“Rozanov—“

“Smile, Hollander,” he says, squeezing his waist once. “You are supposed to like me, remember?”

Shane decides not to comment on that, because he’s not going to tell Ilya that he does like him. He leans into Ilya a bit and looks at himself in the mirror. He looks… fine. Good. He’s in a simple black suit with a crisp, white dress shirt. He looks ridiculously boring compared to Ilya, but isn't that how it always is? 

“Shane.”

He blinks, eyes snapping to Ilya’s in the mirror. Ilya just raises an eyebrow. 

“What?” Shane asks defensively. He had been smiling, like instructed. 

Rozanov just sighs. “Look at me.”

“I am.”

“Not through the mirror,” he says, nudging Shane slightly. “Turn your head. Look at me.”

Shane hesitates for just a second before obeying, turning his head. His gaze traces over Ilya’s side profile. The sharp angle of his jaw, the perfect slope of his nose, his long eyelashes. It never gets old, how good Ilya looks. Even more so when he puts extra effort into his appearance, like tonight.

“Better,” Ilya murmurs. He holds his phone closer to their faces to show Shane the photo he’d taken. Shane swallows, looking at the photo of him looking at Rozanov. There’s nothing fabricated about the way he’s memorizing Ilya’s features with care, like it’s the first time he’s seen them. It’s embarrassing, being caught studying Ilya like that, but it works for the lie of their relationship. 

“Okay,” Shane nods once. He takes a small step away, and Rozanov’s arm falls from his waist. Shane misses the weight of it immediately. He plucks his keys from their hook and leads them down to the garage.

He thinks he’s doing a good job at reigning in his nerves, but they’re only about eight minutes into the drive when Ilya asks, “What is wrong?”

Shane’s eyes flick over for the briefest second to see Ilya watching him. “What?”

“You are nervous, yes? Why?”

He doesn’t even know why he tried to hide it. Ilya has been able to read him like a book. “I just don’t like events like this,” he says softly. “They’re crowded and loud. It’s a lot of networking. And people’s attention is probably going to be on us more than usual, which is just making me…” He physically shudders, like the thought of everyone’s eyes is giving him actual hives. He can handle attention when it comes to hockey. He likes when people watch him on the ice because he’s in his element, he knows he’s doing what he was born to do. This — socializing, talking, connecting — is the further thing from his element.

Ilya’s hand gently rests over Shane’s on the gear shift, and only then does Shane realize he was tapping his fingers. That was probably what had given him away. 

“If you want to leave early, tell me and we go,” Ilya says.

They approach a red light, and Shane looks over. “What do you mean?”

Ilya shrugs one shoulder. “If the crowd and the noises are too much, you tell me. I will make up excuse and we will leave,” he says, like it’s nothing. “And we can go home, or go get food because party food always sucks, or just do anything else. Okay?”

“But…” Shane trails off. He’s forced to look away when the light reflecting on Ilya’s face suddenly shifts from red to green. “But it’s for charity, we can’t just skip out early.” This was a fundraising event for a Canadian children’s hospital that several of the eastern Canadian hockey teams sponsored.

“We stay long enough to be polite. Hour and a half, maybe. But after that, we leave whenever you want.”

Shane focuses on the warmth of Ilya’s palm covering the back of his hand. Ilya’s thumb smoothing over his knuckle. “Okay,” Shane whispers. 

Ilya doesn’t move his hand, and it gives Shane the courage to keep talking. “Are you nervous at all?” he asks. “There’s going to be a lot of people looking at us.”

“Good thing I am very sexy.”

“I’m serious,” Shane says, hoping to pull a real answer out of Rozanov. He’s not as good at reading people as Ilya seems to be. If there is something wrong, or if Ilya is nervous, chances are Shane is missing the signs. 

Ilya squeezes Shane’s hand once, softly. “Maybe a little,” he says after a moment. “I always worry about my English when I have to do a lot of talking, so I like things like this more when I have my team. Makes it a little easier when I am not alone. But I have you, so is okay.”

Shane smiles a bit. “Your English is great, you know.”

“Mostly yes, but I sometimes forget words. When I am under pressure, or upset, or answering questions. You have seen it.”

“It’s kind of charming, though. In a way.”

In his peripheral vision, Shane sees Ilya turn towards him and he just knows there’s some dumb, smug expression on his face. “Oh, you think I am charming, Hollander?”

“No.”

“You just said that.”

“I said you can be. Sometimes. And it’s other people that find you charming, not me.”

“Ah, my pretty boyfriend thinks I am so charming. Very good, since I will have to charm you all night in front of people.”

Shane chuckles, rolling his eyes a little. “I don’t think you have to charm me if people already think we’re dating.”

“Mm,” he hums. “Everyone knows how flirty I am, no? Only makes sense that I flirt with my boyfriend.”

Shane thanks every God imaginable that it’s dark out right now, because he knows his cheeks run warm at the thought of Ilya flirting with him all night. In front of people. He hates that he’s not charming and flirty, because that means he has no chance of making Ilya flustered in the same way that Shane is surely going to be all night.

“Just… keep it professional, too, you know?” Shane mutters. They’re approaching the gala venue, and Shane follows the signs towards the valet.

“Yes, boyfriend, I will behave myself.”

Shane withholds a sigh. This is going to be a long fucking night.

Chapter End Notes

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Chapter 9: nine

Chapter Notes

Shane fights the urge to lace his fingers with Ilya’s as soon as they step into the venue. It’s immediate, the way people’s eyes snap to them. The way people murmur to each other. The way they can’t believe Shane Hollander brought Ilya Rozanov to an event. 

Shane wants to shrink under the scrutiny, but he doesn’t, of course. He can’t. Ilya places a gentle hand on his lower back and steers them towards the long marble bar on one side of the room. 

“A drink might help, yes?”

“I’m driving.”

“I said one drink, Hollander. Not seven shots of tequila.”

Shane snorts. He glances around as they walk, taking in all the decor. Since it’s July 25th, the theme of the gala is Christmas in July, so it definitely looks like winter exploded in here. There’s a Christmas tree in every corner, with wrapped gifts under them that are toy donations for the hospital. Yuna had sent one each for Shane and Ilya, so those were somewhere among the others. There are snowflakes and greenery and holly, ribbon and streamers and garland. Admittedly, it is making Shane a little excited for Christmas, but he keeps that to himself, or Ilya would definitely tease him. 

They reach the bar, but Ilya’s hand doesn’t move. “Okay,” Shane agrees. “One drink.”

When the bartender greets them, Ilya leans forward with a polite smile. “Hi, what top-shelf vodka do you have?” he asks. The bartender lists a few brands, none of which Shane even recognizes, but based on Ilya’s expressions, he certainly has opinions on them. He orders one of them, neat, and then looks at Shane. “What do you want?”

“Um, vodka soda?” he says, like it’s a question. He’s not a big drinker, but he knows he doesn’t want a beer right now. Ilya looks genuinely offended. 

“I should dump you, mixing vodka with water,” he mutters. He turns to the bartender. “And a vodka soda, same kind of vodka, please.”

Once they have their drinks, Ilya holds out his own to Shane. “Try.”

Cautiously, Shane takes the glass and takes a tiny sip of the straight vodka. He tries to keep a stoic reaction, but it’s just… fucking gross. “Jesus,” he winces, quickly forcing it back into Ilya’s hand. “That is— eugh.”

Ilya laughs, sliding his hand up and down Shane’s spine once. “Weak taste buds,” he teases. “Although is not my favorite. Best of what they had.”

Shane takes a sip of his own drink, clearing out the burn of Ilya’s. He glances around the room. He sees several of his teammates, some of the Voyageurs’ staff, many other NHL players he recognizes, as well as players from other leagues. Almost all of the players who have wives or girlfriends have brought them, and Shane feels something bitter strike through him. No one will give any of them a second glance, but Shane will be on the receiving end of stares and whispers all night because he brought his boyfriend.

After a few seconds of looking around, Shane finally spots someone who won’t treat him differently. “Come on,” he tells Ilya, nodding in Hayden and his wife's direction. 

As soon as Ilya sees who they’re walking towards, he whines. “Shane,” he complains. “Not Pike.”

“Yes, Pike,” Shane hisses. “He’s one of the few people here who was blatantly supportive, and Mom said that we need to talk to as many supportive players as possible. We need to normalize this. That’s the whole point, you know.”

Ilya grumbles something in Russian under his breath, but he allows Shane to lead him in their direction. When Hayden spots Shane, he grins, but it quickly falls when his eyes flick to Ilya. Shane sighs internally. So much for support. 

“Hey, buddy,” Hayden says, wrapping Shane in a quick hug. 

“Hey, man.” Shane turns to Hayden’s wife and hugs her, too. “Hi Jackie, how are you? You look great.”

“Thank you, so do you,” she grins, but it’s obvious her attention is split between being polite to Shane and being curious about Ilya. Hayden isn’t even hiding the way he’s sizing up Ilya. 

Shane clears his throat. “Ilya, this is Hayden’s wife, Jackie,” he says, his voice a little stilted. “And obviously you know Hayden.”

Shane can physically see the switch as Ilya looks at Jackie, a genuine grin pulling at his features. It’s almost jarring, watching him turn on his charm. He shakes Jackie’s hand. “Is very nice to meet you. Shane has told me about you and your kids.”

And just like that, he’s cautious again as he looks at Hayden. “Pike.”

Hayden is just as stiff. “Rozanov.”

Jackie nudges Hayden, shooting him a subtle glare. Begrudgingly, Hayden reaches out and shakes Ilya’s hand. 

“Wow, very mature of you,” Ilya says, but he meets the handshake. This time, it’s Shane who elbows Ilya. Ilya, who visibly frowns, continues with, “Is… nice to see you. I guess.”

“And I’m the immature one,” Hayden mutters. 

“Oh, my God,” Shane rolls his eyes. “Can we please be nice?”

“I am being nice!” Hayden defends. 

“I am literally so nice?” Ilya stutters.

Jackie snorts softly, and Shane meets her eyes with a small shake of his head. “They’ll get used to each other,” she says easily. She turns her head back to Ilya. “How are you liking Canada now that you’re here for more than just hockey games?”

Charm, switched on. “Is very nice,” Ilya says, grinning. “We have been very busy this summer. Lots of photoshoots and interviews. But is very relaxing when we aren’t working.”

“I’m sure it’s a bit more laidback than Boston.” 

“Yes, yes,” Ilya nods. While they chat about Montreal, Shane leans closer to Hayden. 

“I know this is… weird—“

“You think?”

“—but I’m asking you to please be as normal about this as possible,” Shane pleads. “As normal as you would be if I were dating some girl, or even some guy that wasn’t Ilya.”

Hayden must catch the seriousness of Shane’s tone, because his grimace fades. “Okay,” he nods. “I’m trying, I swear. It’s just that it’s not some guy. This is someone we kind of have a bad history with, you know?”

“I know, but…” Shane glances at Ilya, who laughs at something Jackie says. His smile is so easy and real, no one would ever be able to guess he’d just been glaring at Hayden. “He’s really great, Hayden. Trust me, I never would’ve thought I’d be saying that before, but it’s true.”

Hayden studies Shane for a second, then glances at Ilya. “Okay,” he says, nodding. They tune back into Ilya and Jackie’s conversation to hear Jackie recommending a few restaurants around Montreal. 

Ilya hums. “Do any of them have bird food? Is basically what Shane eats.”

“Hey!” Shane complains as everyone else laughs. “I eat normal food during the off-season!” Ilya just smiles at him.

“Yes, moy lyubov (my love),” Ilya nods. The Russian words catch Shane’s attention, but he doesn’t comment on them. He can’t, not in front of other people. Ilya continues, “Lots of salads, bland chicken, and protein shakes. Very normal.”

“I had pizza two days ago.”

“With cauliflower crust, or…?” Hayden cuts in.

Shane frowns. “Okay, whatever,” he says. He looks at Ilya, who is obviously still amused. “We should find J.J. He also wanted to meet you. Well, officially meet you.”

They say their goodbyes to Hayden and Jackie, who — much to Hayden’s dismay — says that Ilya just has to come over for dinner sometime before the season starts. Shane will make sure that does not happen, if he can help it. 

Shane and Ilya keep their hands to themselves, sipping their drinks, as they circulate the room, looking for J.J., but their elbows brush over and over again. “Pike’s wife is very nice,” Ilya says after they say a brief hello to a Toronto player Shane knows. “I do not know what she sees in him.”

“I thought you were supposed to behave?”

Ilya pouts. Like, actually sticks out his lower lip in a little pout. “I did not even say that when we were talking to them!” he says. “I was thinking it. I did not say it.”

Shane huffs a laugh, taking another sip of his drink. As they pass by a table of a few people, he catches someone whispering his last name, and then the table breaks out in laughter. His spine goes rigid with tension, but he forces himself not to glance back. 

For a split second, Shane is glad when they finally do spot J.J., until he realizes that he’s talking to Comeau and his wife. Shane’s footsteps slow, and he looks at Ilya. “Maybe we wait,” he says. “Until later. When J.J. is alone.”

Ilya’s gaze assesses the table. “Comeau is an asshole, yes?”

Shane hates to say this about one of his teammates, but… “Yeah,” he mutters. “Pretty homophobic.”

“Mm,” Ilya hums. “We find someone else, then.”

And they do. They talk to a few of the Ottawa NHL players, who are nothing but supportive and kind about Shane and Ilya’s relationship. They talk to one of the lead physical therapists on the Voyageurs staff, who jokingly threatens to sit anyone who gives Shane trouble next season in an ice bath for double the time. They talk to a few reporters and journalists who are covering the events, like Yuna had told them to do, but they focus the interviews on the charity and the event, not their relationship. 

Shane’s drink is long gone by the time they near the hour-and-a-half mark. Through all of the conversations, he and Ilya haven’t left each other’s side. The stares and whispers become less and less concerning with every passing minute. Any time he starts to feel overwhelmed, he and Ilya pause and take a moment for themselves.

Shane lost sight of J.J. a while ago, but he spots him again towards the end of the bar. Weirdly, Ilya seems even more skeptical about meeting J.J. than when they’d talked to Hayden. 

“Hollander, there you are,” J.J. says, grinning. But just like with Hayden, the smile dims when he sees Ilya. Shane is exhausted already. “Ah, Rozanov. I have heard both of your names a lot tonight.”

“Are you enjoying the gala?” Shane asks. “Did you bring anyone?”

“No, no,” J.J. shakes his head. “I was seeing that girl for a bit. Melissa, you remember? But we broke up recently.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Shane frowns. He’s been so caught up in his own stuff this summer that he’s been slacking on keeping up with his friends. But J.J. just shrugs. 

“Eh, it is okay,” he says. His eyes flick between Shane and Ilya. “Are you having fun tonight?”

“Minus all the staring, yeah,” Shane chuckles. 

A serious look passes over J.J.’s face. “Has anyone said anything?” he asks. “I will kill them, you know.”

Shane laughs, but before he can speak, Ilya does. “You would defend Shane from assholes?”

J.J. blinks at him. “Of course,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like there’s no alternative. And as nice as it is to hear, Shane knows where this is going. He touches Ilya’s back, but he’s not swayed. 

“Hm,” Ilya hums. “Interesting that you seem to be such good friends with Comeau.”

J.J. just stares, and then his gaze slowly travels to Shane. “What?” he asks. “Is he— did Comeau say something to you?”

Shane’s slightly surprised to hear that Comeau hadn’t made any rude comments to J.J. Mainly because Comeau’s mouth is so big, and Shane didn’t expect him to be smart enough to withhold comments in front of J.J., someone so close to Shane. Admittedly, it does ease Shane’s conscience knowing J.J. hadn’t been all buddy-buddy with Comeau while knowing he was homophobic. 

“Not tonight, but when I came out… yeah.”

“I thought…” J.J. shakes his head. “I mean, I knew he did not like Rozanov. Which, no offense, I cannot blame him too much for that.”

Shane frowns, but J.J. keeps speaking. “But I did not know he had an issue with you being gay. I…” Something akin to anger flickers over his face. “I’m sorry, Hollander. I will kick his ass next time I see him, I promise.”

Shane quickly shakes his head. “No, no,” he says, “don’t do that.”

“I will help you,” Ilya tells J.J.

“No,” Shane repeats. “No.”

But as if they can’t hear him, J.J. just gives Ilya a look of approval. “I am beginning to like you a tiny bit, Rozanov. Barely, though.”

“Is okay,” Ilya shrugs. “That is more than I like you, so.”

“Okay, enough,” Shane says. “Be nice, and no ass kicking. At least, not here.”

“Mm,” Ilya hums, obviously dejected, but his hand finds Shane’s back again. A silent acknowledgment that he’ll go back to behaving. There’s not much tension left between J.J. and Ilya after that, so it’s easy for the three of them to chat for a while. Eventually, J.J. sees someone he needs to speak to and splits off with a goodbye. Shane sighs, glancing around.

He makes eye contact with his coach, who is talking with Comeau and Drapeau, both of whom glance in Shane’s direction, too. Two players who seemed to have the biggest issue with Shane’s coming out were talking privately with his coach, who also had an issue with Shane’s coming out. Wonderful. That conversation is probably lovely.

They’re almost at the two-hour mark of the evening, thankfully, so Shane reaches out and touches Ilya’s arm gently. “I’m going to run to the bathroom, and then we can go?”

Instantly, Ilya’s eyes scan Shane’s face seriously. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just…” he shrugs. “Ready to go, I think.”

Ilya nods, and they walk towards the section of tall tables near the hallway that leads to the restrooms. Ilya stands at one. “I will wait here, okay?” 

Shane nods and heads down the hall. The bathroom is mostly empty, and Shane just keeps his head down as he does his business and washes his hands. It’s quieter in here, no music and loud chatter, so it’s a nice moment for him to catch his breath. He almost thinks that he could go back out there and tell Ilya that they don’t actually have to leave yet; he’d just had a brief low moment, but as soon as Shane exits the bathroom and the noise hits him again, it just confirms his choice. He wants to go home. He wants to be back in his apartment with no one but Ilya.

Ilya, who Shane is certain will understand his need for silence in the aftermath of this event. Ilya, who will be content to just sit on the sofa with him for a few hours.

Shane is just about to turn the corner when he hears, “—happy that you’re alone now, Mr. Rozanov.”

He freezes in his tracks. It’s a woman’s voice. If Ilya hadn’t been at the table closest to the hallway, Shane likely wouldn’t have been able to hear her. But he can. And he can hear Ilya’s response, too. “I am just waiting for Shane.”

“Hm,” the girl hums. “How is that going, really? Dating Shane Hollander?”

“Is great.” He says it so matter-of-factly. Like it’s a very simple truth.

“Really?” the woman asks, like she’s actually, truly shocked. “You wouldn’t prefer someone more… I don’t know, fun?”

There’s a brief pause, and Shane’s stomach twists. He probably looks insane to anyone witnessing this. Him standing just around the corner, eavesdropping on Ilya’s conversation. He should move, make himself known, and tell Ilya that he wants to leave. But he just waits. He needs to hear the response to this.

“No,” Ilya says, his tone just a bit sharp. A bit defensive, in Shane’s honor. He continues, “I think Shane is very fun.”

The girl starts to respond with something that sounds like she doesn’t believe a word that just came out of Ilya’s mouth, but Shane finally forces his legs to work again. He rounds the corner, and Ilya’s eyes lock onto his, a smile pulling at his face to replace his obvious irritation. 

“Nice talking to you, Kelly,” Ilya says, leaving her alone at the table.

“It’s… Kierra,” she murmurs, a little stunned at the dismissal. Ilya pays her no mind, though, stepping into Shane’s space and pressing a hand to his waist.

“Ready?”

Shane blinks up at him. There’s something uncomfortable sitting in the pit of his stomach at the way this woman — Kierra — had just tried to blatantly disrespect their relationship. It almost makes Shane feel like… invisible, which is ridiculous because anyone who cares even a little about hockey has seen Shane and Ilya’s faces everywhere in the last almost two months.

And sure, Ilya hadn’t even pretended to entertain it. He’d written her off instantly. But he had to. That was in their agreement. 

“Do you… want to stay?” Shane asks softly. “I mean, would that be more, um… fun?”

Ilya doesn’t seem to make the connection to his conversation with Kierra, but he just grimaces, glancing around the room briefly. “No, Shane. I am ready to go if you are. This is more boring than watching TV on your couch.”

A tiny, minuscule spark of hope blooms in Shane’s chest. “Yeah?” he asks, needing the extra reassurance that he isn’t being difficult, asking to leave so soon.

“Yes,” Ilya nods.

“Okay,” Shane says softly, “let’s go, then.”

Ilya’s hand slides around to Shane’s lower back, where it’s been for more than half of the night, and begins to lead him across the room. They say goodbye to a few people, making excuses about how Ilya had an early flight to Montreal this morning. They’re almost to the exit when Shane pulls Ilya off to another table.

“Hold on—” he says, pulling out his phone and furiously typing out a text to his mom. “I just want to make sure we didn’t miss anyone that we were supposed to talk to.”

“Okay,” Ilya says.

Shane is just firing off the text when a few vaguely familiar voices from a nearby table whoop and clap. “Hollander and Rozy under the mistletoe!”

Shane’s head snaps up to see a few of the Ottawa players they had spoken to at the table next to theirs. Their voices were just loud enough to attract the attention of… everyone around them. Shane feels a string of anxiety threading through his ribs as he looks up. Sure enough, this particular table had been the only empty one because there was a sprig of mistletoe hanging above it.

One of the photographers milling around had also been in the vicinity, so his camera lens is instantly pointed in Shane and Ilya’s direction, joining in with the other cheers and encouragements.

“We do not have to,” Ilya murmurs immediately. “I kiss your cheek for photo, we make excuse, and we go.”

And Shane knows that would probably be completely fine, even with all the eyes and the literal camera on them. He knows no one will force them into kissing right now. Sure, some people might find it a bit weird, but given how half of the media is criticizing them for being together and being so open about their relationship, Shane imagines a good portion of people would be understanding if they didn’t want to overdo it with the PDA.

But…

Shane wants to. 

He can lie and say it’s the traces of vodka soda still in his veins (even though his barely-there buzz has been gone). He can say it’s the hint of possessiveness that had struck him when he’d heard Kierra flirting with Ilya (even though Shane knows Ilya isn’t really his to be possessive over). He could even say it’s the pressure to perform under all the eyes, which wouldn’t be a complete and total lie.

But really, Shane just wants to kiss Ilya. The closer they’ve gotten over the last two months, the more curious Shane has gotten about him. And the more Shane has begun to like him. And he’d be lying if he said he hasn’t thought about kissing Ilya once or twice (or more), even just in the context of their fake relationship. 

And maybe in other contexts, too, but those thoughts are reserved for the very middle of the night when there’s no one but the moonlight peeking through the blinds to judge him.

“No, it’s okay,” Shane says, looking up at Ilya. His lips are pink and a little wet, like he’s already swiped his tongue over them in the two seconds it took Shane to decide if he wanted to kiss him.

“Yes?” Ilya implores, eyes critical.

“Yes,” Shane whispers. Gently, he presses one hand to Ilya’s waist, under his jacket, so that his palm is against the thin, soft silk of his shirt. He just barely tilts his chin up.

With no further discussion, Ilya’s hand curves under Shane’s jaw, and he leans forward.

The kiss is soft and so simple. An easy press of lips against lips. In a way, even though they’ve never done this, it feels a little familiar. Maybe that’s just because Ilya is familiar now. Or maybe it just feels right. Like something that makes sense in a way he can’t actually explain.

A camera flash goes off, and there are a few whistles and exclamations, but Shane hardly pays them any mind. He’s entirely focused on the warmth of Ilya’s mouth against his, and the tender pressure of his hand curved against Shane’s jaw. All too soon, Ilya pulls back.

Shane scans Ilya’s face, the same way Ilya does to him. Both checking with the other to ensure they’re alright. After a second, the corner of Ilya’s lips curves up. Lips that Shane had just kissed after countless times thinking about it.

Ilya turns towards the crowd of observers, waving them away with a playful, “Okay, okay, show is over!”

People laugh, and aside from a few glances in their direction, everyone returns to their own business. Like it’s normal that Shane Hollander just kissed Ilya Rozanov in the middle of a charity event.

Shane’s phone buzzes, and it’s Yuna giving him a short list of people she’d wanted him to be seen talking to. They’d hit every single one, so Shane looks up at Ilya, whose hand has since dropped to the crook of Shane’s neck. 

“All good. Ready?” Shane asks.

“Yes.”

They leave the venue with a few more goodbyes and wait for the valet to bring Shane’s car back. They wait in silence. And then they drive in silence. For several minutes.

Finally, Shane breaks it. “That was, um, fine, right? Like, you weren’t uncomfortable, or…”

“I told you before I did not mind if we had to kiss.”

Right. Ilya had said that when they talked about boundaries and such. Because all of this was just guidelines of a fake relationship. Shane shouldn’t be secretly thinking about anything more than that, because that’s not what this was about.

“Yeah, cool,” he nods. “Just wanted to check.”

“And you? It was okay?”

Okay is one word for it. It was… great. How a simple kiss could feel like a piece of him had just effortlessly clicked into place, Shane had no idea. But it had. He’d liked it more than he’d probably ever be allowed to admit.

“Yeah,” Shane says, forcing himself to sound casual. “It was fine.”

Chapter End Notes

the actual lightbulb that appeared over my head when i decided to do a "christmas in july" gala just so i could have a mistletoe kiss in the middle of summer mwahahhaha

also the og chapter count for this was 21.... and now we're at 26 bc i changed the ending lmao. it SHOULD stay at 26 but who fucking knows

my twitter!

Chapter 10: ten

Chapter Notes

hi hi i just spent the weekend in nashville, which is why this was a day late and like i mentioned in the last a/n, next weeks chapter will also be posted on tuesday. mwah enjoy

As much as Shane hates it, he lets himself be as recognizable as possible when he lands in Boston. He’s literally wearing a Voyageurs t-shirt as he walks through the airport, and he even ends up taking a photo with a fan. The entire point of this visit was just to be seen with Ilya, so Yuna had told him that he was not allowed to hide behind sunglasses and a hat this time.

Ilya picks him up from the airport, though, which is a nice reward.

“It’s hot,” Shane whines immediately, pulling the seatbelt across his chest. “I miss Canada already.” Granted, it's hot there, too, but not this hot.

“Poor baby,” Ilya teases, pulling away from the curb. “You will be fine. We will be back in three days.” They’re staying in Boston for two days, stopping in New York again for one day, then heading to Ottawa afterwards. Since the off-season is coming to a close, Yuna had snapped up a few more photoshoots and a commercial this week.

“I know.” Shane tilts the air vent towards him, directing the icy air into his face. Aside from the quiet rap music coming through the speakers, they’re silent. It’s been about a week since the charity gala. Ilya had left Montreal the day after, and in an unusual turn of events, they’ve hardly spoken since then. 

Shane is certain it’s because of the kiss. It has to be.

Everything had been fine the night of the event, once they’d gotten back to Shane’s apartment. Everything had been fine the next morning, when Shane had dropped Ilya off at the airport. And yet, when Shane had texted him later that afternoon — about something completely random and inconsequential — it had gone unanswered for over a full day. Sure, Ilya was busy, that’s why he’d needed to return to Boston, but still… They usually made time for each other. 

Ilya clears his throat softly. “Sveta wants to come over for dinner tonight,” he says, a little hesitant. “I told her I would ask you first. See if it is okay.”

Shane is immediately sweating for a reason entirely unrelated to the warm weather. In the time they’ve been “dating,” Shane has heard a lot about Svetlana. Even without Ilya stating it explicitly, Shane has easily realized that she’s one of the most important people in Ilya’s life, if not the most important. They’ve been friends since childhood, and she all but followed him to Boston a year after he signed with the Bears. According to Ilya, she’d been looking for an excuse to leave Russia, and Ilya had missed having her close, so he’d helped her move. 

Even if Shane wasn’t actually dating Ilya, he still really wanted her to like him. 

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Shane says, forcing himself to be chill.

Ilya glances over. “Relax,” he says with a knowing chuckle. “She will like you.”

So much for being chill. Shane continues to forget that Ilya seems to know him better than almost anyone. “How do you know?” he asks, allowing his nerves to show a bit. 

Ilya just shrugs. “I like you. She will like you.”

I like you.

Shane hates the way his heart skips a beat at the words, because he knows Ilya doesn’t mean it like that. He knows Ilya means he likes Shane as a person. Maybe as a friend, though they’ve never technically labeled themselves as such. They are, though. Probably. After how much time they’ve spent in each other’s company, after how much they’ve shared, they have to at least be friends. 

Shane just nods. “Okay. Cool, yeah.”

Ilya snorts, almost to himself. The rest of the drive is spent in silence, but Shane can’t even concern himself with it now, too busy stressing himself out over meeting Ilya’s best friend. When Ilya had met Hayden, it was different. For one, they already technically knew each other — though Shane wasn’t sure if that actually made it any easier. Plus, they had been in a professional, public environment, where Shane and Ilya had already needed to be putting on a front for everyone else. This would be in Ilya’s home, a much more intimate setting where Shane could normally be himself. 

Svetlana knew Ilya probably better than anyone, and her entire attention would be on them. On their relationship. On Shane, trying to determine if he was a good enough partner for her best friend. Suddenly, all the interviews and outings they’d done felt easy in comparison to this.

Once they get back to Ilya’s, Shane sets his bag down in the guest room and then makes himself comfortable on Ilya’s sofa. He’s so lost in his head, he doesn’t realize Ilya is calling his name until his foot gently nudges Shane’s thigh. His head snaps over, blinking. Ilya just raises his eyebrows. “I asked if you wanted to pick movie.”

“Oh,” Shane murmurs, realizing the TV is on the Netflix home page. “Uh, no. You can pick, it’s fine.”

“You hate when I pick.”

“I mean, it’s your house.”

Ilya is quiet for a second, then he sighs. “Shane. What is wrong?”

He opens his mouth to say nothing, only to remember that Ilya sees through him like he’s made of glass. He tips his head back against the sofa cushions. “I just don’t want to fuck up later,” he says, looking up at the ceiling. “I mean, Svetlana knows you well, right? She could know if we’re… faking things.”

Ilya hums softly. “Just act how we normally do, Hollander,” he says. “I have told her that you are a little shy; she will not expect a lot of romance and kissing, or whatever.”

Shane’s eyes flick over to Ilya. He hates that the mere mention of kissing brings him back to last week. He hates that he hasn’t been able to get that kiss, as simple as it was, out of his head. He really hates how badly he wants to know if Ilya was affected by it even remotely as much as Shane was. He looks away, before Ilya reads his mind about this, too.

“Okay.”

For all of his time stressing, Svetlana makes it very easy to like her. From the second she walks into Ilya’s apartment, she’s instantly warm and kind. She hugs him, asks about his flight, asks about how he likes Boston, complains about the heat with him. She has an accent, like Ilya, but hers is a bit less noticeable. 

“Ilya, I have never seen your place so clean,” she says, glancing around. “You clean for your boyfriend, but not your best friend?”

Ilya just shrugs. “I don’t have to impress you.”

“Ah.” She looks at Shane. “He must like you a lot if he remembers how to clean for you.”

“It’s always clean when I’m here…” Shane trails off, which only makes Svetlana chuckle behind the rim of her glass. When she realized Shane wasn’t drinking, she switched out her vodka for Coke.

She says something to Ilya in Russian. And even though Ilya responds in Russian, it’s obvious he’s denying it, and Svetlana only laughs harder. Shane just blinks, and Svetlana puts her glass down. “I called him, ah— what’s the word for it?” She tilts her head, thinking, before laughing again. “Ah, whipped. I said that he is very whipped for you.”

“I am not.”

Stupidly, Shane feels his cheeks heat up. Like he’s embarrassed that the man who is supposed to be his boyfriend likes him. Maybe it only serves as evidence that Shane is shy, like Ilya had told Svetlana, because she notices his blushing instantly, and her smile widens. “Sorry,” she says. “I like to tease Ilya, but I do not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“No, no, you’re fine,” Shane says. He smirks a little bit. “He’s only a little bit whipped.”

Ilya’s fork clinks against his plate, wagging his finger in Shane’s direction. “Oh, not you, too,” he whines. “I am not whipped. Not even a little bit, no.”

“No?” Svetlana asks, grinning. “You talk about Shane all the time, but you are not whipped?”

Shane’s eyes snap to Ilya, whose cheeks actually look a little pink. “You talk about me?” he asks, unable to keep the shock out of his voice. He looks at Svetlana. “He talks about me?”

“All the time,” she says, nodding.

“Sveta,” Ilya whines, “you are embarrassing me.”

“That is fine,” she shrugs. “I do not mind embarrassing you.”

Shane laughs softly and decides to toss Ilya a lifeline. “It’s okay, I guess I’m a little whipped, too.”

Whatever embarrassment Ilya had been feeling seems to evaporate on the spot as he looks at Shane, his head tilted. “Oh, you are whipped? That means you are, what, obsessed with me, yes?”

“I never said obsessed—”

“Means same thing.”

“I mean, not really.”

“Pretty much same thing.”

“I wouldn’t— I mean, no,” Shane stutters, feeling stupidly hot under Ilya’s gaze. There’s something amused and a little curious in his expression, like he’s trying to figure out the best way to twist Shane’s words and get under his skin. Ilya just lifts a brow, grinning as he takes another bite of his food.

“God, please stop flirting in front of me,” Svetlana complains, but Shane can immediately tell she isn’t actually put off by it. She waves her hand. “I get it, you are in love, please.”

Shane’s hand tightens on his fork at her words. In love. He knew that he and Ilya could be decent enough at acting like they’re together, but he never would’ve assumed they seemed like they were actually in love. Ilya says something to her in Russian, his voice suddenly devoid of humor. Svetlana’s smile dims a little, and she responds. Shane just sits there, eyes bouncing back and forth as they have a discussion in their native tongue, and finally, Svetlana’s eyes land on Shane, like she just remembered that he’s there.

“Sorry, I am so used to only speaking Russian with Ilya,” she says. “I forgot you could not understand.”

“That’s okay,” Shane says. No one makes any move to fill him in on what the discussion was about, so he doesn’t ask. She also makes no more jokes about him and Ilya flirting or being in love, or anything like that. 

She leaves a couple of hours later, but not before hugging Shane tightly. “It was very nice to meet you. After years of hearing him complain about you, then a few months of hearing him become all sappy over you, I feel like I know you very well.”

Shane grins, but he can’t help feeling a little guilty. He’s making such an impression on someone so close to Ilya, only for their relationship to be over in about six months. Considering pre-season starts next month, Shane doubts he’ll ever see Svetlana again.

“It was great to meet you, too,” he says honestly. Once she’s gone, Shane helps Ilya clean up the dining room and the kitchen. 

“I knew she would like you,” Ilya says. 

“She was really cool.”

“She is the best, yes.” He nods. “Probably the only other person I really trust.”

“Other?” Shane asks.

“Besides you.”

Oh. Shane knew Ilya trusted him to some extent, obviously. They had to trust each other when it came to this situation they were in. But he never would’ve expected Ilya to put him on the same level as Svetlana, or anywhere close to her. But… At this point, Shane would say that he trusts Ilya about as much as he trusts Hayden. Or Rose. How could he not, with the time they’ve spent together and the scrutiny they’ve faced?

Ilya winces slightly out of nowhere, reaching for a glass from a cupboard and filling it with water. 

“You okay?” Shane asks. 

“Yes,” Ilya waves him off. “Headache. It has been coming and going all day.”

“Have you taken any kind of pain reliever?”

Ilya just shakes his head. “Is fine. It will pass.”

It does not pass. The next morning, from the second Ilya steps into his kitchen, Shane can tell that he’s only feeling worse. He’s sluggish, grimacing at the bright light, and when he speaks, there’s a thickness to his voice that wasn’t there yesterday.

“Ilya, you’re sick,” Shane says after Ilya tries to argue that a headache, sore throat, congestion, and exhaustion are all completely normal. 

“I am not sick.” Ilya follows up this statement with a sniffle.

“Yeah, okay.” Shane rounds the kitchen island to stand in front of him, gently pressing the back of his fingers to Ilya’s forehead. He’s a little warm, but not burning up. “No fever, but you definitely don’t sound good. Do you have any medicine?”

“I do not need medicine.”

“Rozanov, we have to fly to New York in, like, 24 hours. You need to take something if you want to feel better by then.”

“You are like a mother.”

“Where’s your medicine?” Shane asks, ignoring him. “You’re going to take some, and then you’re going to go back to bed.”

“We have to go on date today,” Ilya frowns. “We’re supposed to be seen.”

“No offense, but you look horrible—”

“Hey.”

“—so I don’t think you want to be photographed, or even seen, like this.”

Ilya frowns for a second. Sitting on the bar stool, his eyes flutter a bit like it’s too much work keeping them open. “You are very mean,” he whispers. “But maybe right. I do not want people to see me if I look sick. Even though I am not.”

“Let me get you some medicine, and then go back to bed, okay?” Shane says, resisting the urge to cup Ilya’s face when his head tilts forward, as if he’s too tired to hold it up. 

“Ugh.”

They get Ilya back into his bed, and Shane searches the medicine cabinets for anything useful. All he finds is Tylenol. He brings two pills in, and puts them into Ilya’s palm. “I wish you had Nyquil or something, but this is better than nothing,” he says. He watches Ilya take them, then finish off half of the glass of water. Shane tucks Ilya’s blanket up to his chin.

“You are like a mother,” Ilya says again, a tiny smile on his face.

“Go back to sleep, please,” Shane says. He doesn’t even really consider his actions as he reaches up and pushes Ilya’s curls back from his forehead. Sighing softly, almost contentedly, Ilya’s eyes shut.

Shane leaves him there, pulling his phone from his pocket to call his mom. “Hi, honey,” she says when she answers. “How’s Boston?”

“It’s… fine. Kind of,” he says. “Um, Ilya is sick. Chances are he’s not going to be able to fly tomorrow, so can you reschedule the photoshoot?”

He’s not sure why he’s nervous. Maybe because the start of the pre-season is so soon, and he’s worried about causing more stress on her to rearrange what they have left in their schedule. 

“Yeah, I’ll talk to them and see what we can do,” she says. “It may have to be for after the commercial shoot. Hm, or maybe even later, after you guys do that talk show.”

Shane nods, even though she can’t see him. “If I have to, I can push back going to the cottage. As long as I get one full week before practice starts up again, I’ll be good.”

“I doubt you'll have to do that, I’ll keep it in mind,” she says.

“And I’ll take care of our flights and everything, you don’t have to worry about that,” he says. “He’ll probably be good enough by the commercial shoot in three days, so I’ll just reschedule them to come back either the night before or that morning.”

“Oh,” his mom says. “You’re going to… stay in Boston that whole time, then?”

“What else would I do?”

“I just assumed you would come home today, since it’s not like you and Ilya will be going out for your date tonight, and you're not flying to New York tomorrow now.”

Shane blinks. He hadn’t even considered that he could, technically, go home now. Sure, Ilya was sick, but he was also an adult. He could, by all means, take care of himself. They were friends to some degree, but Shane was under no obligation to take care of him. Especially not for the next two days.

But he glances at the stool Ilya had been in earlier, remembering how tired he’d seemed even though he’d just woken up. He remembered the way he sighed softly when Shane brushed his hair back. He didn’t want to leave Ilya like this.

“No, I think I’ll stay,” Shane says. “Um, Ilya is pretty out of it, and he’s kind of stubborn about taking his medicine, so… might as well make sure he’s actually trying to get better, you know?”

Yuna is quiet for a second. “Okay, honey,” she says. “Just keep me updated on how he’s doing and all that. And, you know, try not to get sick yourself.”

“Yeah, of course.”

They hang up, and Shane spends the next several minutes rebooking their flights and canceling their reservation for tonight. Then he spends several more minutes researching Ilya’s symptoms, then researching the best ways to care for someone with a cold. He pokes around in Ilya’s kitchen for a moment before ordering medicine, tea bags, and Gatorade. He also sets a reminder to order soup in a few hours.

As he settles on Ilya’s sofa, he briefly remembers how awkward he’d felt the first time he was here. How it had taken him some time to allow himself to relax. Now, even though Ilya is absent, Shane doesn’t feel even a little bit awkward about grabbing the remote and pulling something up.

It’s hard to focus on it, though, because he keeps thinking about Ilya. He keeps wondering if there’s something more he can do. If he’s actually sleeping, or if he’s up on his phone, not allowing himself to rest the way he should.

Shane lasts about thirty minutes before getting up. Ilya’s bedroom door is still cracked, so Shane just barely pushes it open and peeks inside. Ilya is facing away from the door, but his shoulders rise and fall in even intervals. Over the next two hours, Shane checks again twice. Once because he’d been passing by the room, and once because he wanted to. He orders soup from a nearby restaurant, and once it’s arrived and transferred into a bowl, Shane carefully carries it, along with a blue Gatorade and the bottle of medicine, into Ilya’s room and sets it on the nightstand.

Gently, he shakes Ilya’s shoulder. 

“Mm,” Ilya hums, his eyes blinking open slowly. They focus on Shane after a few seconds, his brow furrowing. He winces slightly, like his head might still hurt. “Shane,” he murmurs.

“Here, I got you lunch,” Shane says softly. There’s just enough room for him to sit beside Ilya’s thighs, so he does. “And some better medicine, plus some electrolytes.”

Ilya squints. Blinks a few times. Stares at the assortment of stuff on his nightstand, and he pushes himself to sit up slowly.

“Where did you get all of this?”

“I ordered it.”

“From where?”

“Uh, convenience store down the road, and a nearby deli.”

Ilya is still looking at it all, like it doesn’t make much sense. “Why?” he finally asks, looking at Shane.

“Because… you’re sick?”

Ilya’s expression doesn’t waver. “But you did not have to do this.”

Shane shrugs, feeling a little shy. “I know,” he says. “I wanted to.”

He doesn’t know how to explain to Ilya the protective instinct that had come over him when he’d seen Ilya’s state this morning. He couldn’t explain his unreasonable desire to wrap Ilya up in a blanket, tuck him away from harm, and nurse him back to health. 

Finally, Ilya’s wariness melts a little bit. He picks up the bowl of soup and takes a spoonful of it. He hums. “Good choice, Hollander.”

“Good,” Shane says, pleased. He’d gone with a basic chicken noodle, because he wasn’t sure what Ilya preferred. “I have some for myself in the kitchen, I’ll eat it later.”

Ilya glances at the door, and Shane realizes that he might be hovering. He really is acting like a helicopter parent. “I mean,” he says, “unless you want me to go now. I don’t want to, like, crowd you, or anything.”

“No, is okay,” Ilya shakes his head. “I don’t mind.”

Relief flows through Shane, silently pleased that he’s allowed to stay. He would’ve left if he’d been asked to, but he’s glad Ilya didn’t want that.

“I, um, had my mom reschedule our New York shoot,” Shane says. “I figured you might not feel good enough to fly by tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry if that was assuming too much, but…” Shane shrugs. “I wanted you to feel better first.”

“Is okay,” Ilya says again. “You are probably right.”

Shane smiles a little bit. “Are you going to admit that you’re sick now?”

“I am Russian,” he says. “Russians do not get sick.”

“Mhm.”

Ilya lifts a brow. “You do not believe me?”

“I never said that,” Shane says, but he’s grinning. He waits until Ilya finishes his soup and takes some of the medicine he brought. Shane gathers the empty bowl and stands. “Sleep for a bit longer, okay? I’ll be in the living room.”

“Okay, mom.”

He feels a little bit less on edge this time, relaxing in the living room, and it’s another two or so hours before Ilya emerges from his bedroom. He has indented lines from his pillow and sheets on one side of his face and arm, his hair is rumpled, and his eyes are half closed. “Hi,” Ilya grunts, crossing the living room and landing on the sofa, almost directly beside Shane. “Thank you for soup. And medicine.”

“You’re welcome,” Shane says. Ilya still seems a little out of it, whether it be from the cold or from the sleepiness, and his head lands on Shane’s shoulder. If there were anyone else in the world, Shane might tense up at the proximity. He might try to find the politest way to free himself from this touch.

With Ilya, he just leans into it.

“How are you feeling?” he asks softly.

“My head does not hurt,” Ilya says. “I still cannot breathe very easy, and my throat is still sore.”

“I got you some tea,” Shane says. “You had some, but I ordered my favorite kind. I can make you some; it would help your throat.”

“Later,” Ilya says. “You are very comfy.”

Shane grins, only because Ilya can’t see his face right now. They’re quiet for a bit, watching the random nature documentary that Shane had put on as background noise. He thinks Ilya might have fallen back asleep until he says, “Are you nervous about hockey starting again?”

“A little,” Shane says. “It’s going to be weird, I think. My team knowing I’m gay, thinking we’re dating.”

“Mm, yes,” Ilya says. “Me too, a little bit. Good thing there is still a little bit of time before we go back.”

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. “I’m excited to spend some time at my cottage. Get away from everything.”

“Yes,” Ilya repeats, a little softer this time. “Boston will be… same as always, probably.”

And Shane has no explanation for what he does next. It’s something he’s thought about in passing once or twice, only because he never stops thinking about Ilya these days, but it’s not something he ever let himself consider in a serious manner. Not even now, in this silence before he says it, does he really consider the implications and the intensity of the question.

“Would you want to come with me?” 

For a second, Shane doesn’t react to his own question. Until Ilya lifts his head, and looks at him. Only then does he realize exactly what he’s asked. And the thing is, he can’t really take it back. Not without sounding like a total asshole. But even if he could take it back, there is a little part of him that doesn’t want to.

“To your cottage?” Ilya asks, like Shane could’ve meant anything else. 

“Yeah,” Shane murmurs.

He’s thought about it, of course. He’s thought about Ilya being with him everywhere at this point. His daydreams have spiraled so out of control, he’s thought about playing on the same team as Ilya before. That would never happen, of course, but it has crossed his mind once or twice on nights when he can’t sleep. So in comparison, thoughts of Ilya visiting his summer home aren’t that crazy. Not when it’s so remote, so private, so his that Shane can imagine anything he wants there.

It’s not insane to say that part of him does want Ilya there. He just never imagined himself actually offering, because he always assumed Ilya would say no. He never wanted to face that rejection. But the Ilya in front of him right now, albeit slightly dazed and sick, looks like the last thing he wants to say is no.

“Really?” Ilya asks. “You would want me there?”

“Yeah,” Shane whispers. “I’m going on August 16th. Coming back on September 3rd. You could come for… however long you want.”

Ilya blinks, his face a little disbelieving. He must still be feeling the sickness, because when his eyes scan over Shane’s face, they linger on his mouth for just a few seconds too long. There’s no confident, cocky teasing to go along with it, like he might be trying to get a rise out of Shane. Just a hazy, warm look in his eyes that makes Shane wish Ilya really wasn’t sick right now.

“Okay,” Ilya murmurs, his hazel eyes flicking back to Shane’s.

For a second, Shane almost doesn’t register it. He’d been so, so sure that Ilya would say no every time he thought of this before, it doesn’t actually click for a few seconds that he’s saying yes. “Okay?” Shane echoes.

Ilya nods and places his head back on Shane’s shoulder. “Yes. Okay.”

Chapter End Notes

just two Normal Friends about to spend some alone time in the middle of nowhere!

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Chapter 11: eleven

Chapter Notes

and we are back to our regular posting schedule next week!! also im so excited for the next few chappies

Shane’s mom is being weird. His dad, too, but his mom was being weirder. And considering Shane isn’t great at noticing when people are acting a bit out of the ordinary, it must be something really big for him to notice. Even though both his mom and his dad are insisting they’re fine, Shane is certain something is off.

They’ve been at their summer cottages for about four days now. Shane mostly resides at his own place, but considering his parents are only about ten minutes away, he visits them for lunch or dinner a few times a week. Now being one of those times, as he arrived just before noon. And everything was completely fine at first, or at least low enough weird levels that Shane hadn’t picked up on anything.

What changed? Shane thinks he knows the answer to that, too.

Casually, like it wasn’t a big deal — because it wasn’t — Shane had mentioned in between bites, “Ilya is coming to visit next week, by the way.”

It was like a genuine record scratch sounded, the way both of his parents froze, staring at him wide-eyed. His dad had been the first to unpause. “Coming here?”

“Yeah,” Shane nodded. “Well, my house. But yeah.”

Yuna wiped her mouth with a napkin, assessing her son with careful eyes. “I thought you were taking this time as a break from everything.”

“I am?”

Shane’s answer had only confused his parents further. “But…” his mom tilts her head forward a bit, “Ilya is coming.”

That had been the first moment Shane had realized she was being weird. “Yeah,” Shane said, tilting his head in confusion. “Just to hang out. Relax. I mean, maybe we’ll post a thing or two, but it’s not really for that.”

His parents had glanced at each other, just long enough for Shane to notice something pass between them. “What?” he asked. 

Yuna had just cleared her throat, picked her fork back up, and smiled. “Nothing.”

At first, Shane had let it go because maybe he was just imagining things. But now, a full thirty minutes later, he is certain something is off. They keep glancing at Shane, or glancing at each other, and murmuring. It’s distracting Shane from his book.

He slides his glasses off. “Okay, did I— is something wrong?”

Yuna blinks innocently. “What do you mean, honey?” 

“You guys are being, like… I don’t know. Weird. Secretive.”

His parents glance at each other again, and Shane sits up straighter, pointing a finger at them. “See! That! All the looks and whispers and stuff.”

His dad just shrugs a bit as he looks at Yuna, tilting his head slightly in Shane’s direction. Yuna just sighs, turning her body to face Shane on the sofa. “Nothing is wrong, Shane,” she says. “We’re just surprised that Ilya is coming to visit. I didn’t think you guys were so… close.”

Shane frowns. Of course, he and Ilya were close. They’ve spent the entire summer together, and when they weren’t together, they were still talking. They’ve been in each other’s proximity — sometimes very, very closely during photoshoots — for months now. They were friends.

Although something had shifted a little bit after his last trip to Boston, when he’d stayed to take care of Ilya. Those few days, they’d been closer than usual, and it hadn’t really been for the PR aspect of things. Sure, Shane had posted once — a photo of Ilya asleep on his shoulder, captioning the story post about how Ilya was a big baby when he’s sick. But that photo hadn’t been staged or anything. Ilya had been asleep on Shane’s shoulder for almost an hour at that point.

Shane had chalked it up to the cold. Ilya was apparently a bit clingy when he was sick. More than once, he’d leaned against Shane, wrapped his arms around Shane’s waist, held Shane’s hand between his own. On his final day in Boston, Ilya had been fully recovered at that point, and had been noticeably less touchy, but his gaze lingered more and he seemed to find more excuses to touch Shane. Or maybe Shane was just forcing himself to believe that, so it made more sense whenever Ilya would press his cheek to Shane’s or tuck his feet under Shane’s thigh for photos. 

Their commercial and photoshoot in the following days had been business as usual, but it was like Ilya always seemed reluctant to take his hands off Shane or stray too far from him. But again, Shane forced himself to believe he was just being hopeful. 

He’d last seen Ilya five days ago, and he was set to get into the Ottawa airport in another three days. They’ve been chatting like normal during the time apart. So yes, they were friends. Even if a little part of Shane hated that that’s all they were.

“We’re friends,” he shrugs. “I mean, that was kind of inevitable, right?”

Yuna eyes her son. “You invited him to your cottage in the middle of nowhere for— for how long? A few days, I imagine.”

“The week.”

She nods once. Slowly. “And you’re…” she trails off, watching him, “just friends?”

Shane’s head cocks back. That’s what this is about? “What? Of course,” Shane says. “I mean, obviously we’re pretending to be more but, but— we aren’t.”

His parents both still look a little skeptical, which only makes Shane feel like he has to try harder to convince them. Have they caught on to his secret feelings? If they catch on, would Ilya be able to see it, too? “We are!” he defends. “He was saying that Boston would still be busy and whatever, so I asked if he wanted to visit for a bit so that he could actually, you know, relax.”

Yuna hums. “Okay,” she shrugs. “Then I’m sure it’ll be nice for you to have company. You’ll have to bring him for dinner sometime.”

It feels like a rapid shift, the way she suddenly accepts the explanation, but maybe Shane just sounded convincing enough. Plus, it was perfectly believable that he would’ve invited his friend Ilya for the week. He’d had Rose over last summer, and Hayden and J.J. have visited several times. 

Shane relaxes a little, finding his marked page in his book. “Okay.”

It’s a little silly, Shane thinks, being this nervous. It’s just Ilya that he’s picking up from the airport. There’s no reason for him to feel anxious, considering he and Ilya have been together more often than not in the last few months. They've done countless interviews and photoshoots, parading their relationship around, as well as some advertisements and fake dates. When they were in New York, they even went out to the gay bar that Scott Hunter now owns, though he wasn’t there that night. (Shane is, admittedly, not too sad about that part, but it was still good press for both the bar, and him and Ilya.) So it’s more than safe to say they’ve become completely comfortable in each other’s presence. 

There was nothing different about them hanging out this time — except that this wasn’t for their PR relationship at all.

Sure, they’ve been alone together a million times, and have just hung out for hours on end. This was the same thing. And yet… he’s a little jittery as he catches sight of the sun glinting off familiar blond curls as Ilya walks towards the car. Shane pops his trunk and gets out. Ilya grins, squinting against the sun.

“Hi,” Shane says, taking Ilya’s suitcase and setting it in the back. As soon as his hands are free, before he can reach up to close the trunk, Ilya’s arms wrap around Shane’s waist. “Oh— hi,” Shane murmurs, surprised. He melts into the hug, though. It’s for the optics, of course. They’re in public, so their relaxing vacation hasn’t started yet. But still, Shane melts, his arms curling around Ilya’s shoulders.

“How was your flight?” he asks as he pulls away.

“Fine,” Ilya shrugs. “Little bit of turbulence, but we lived.”

“Oh, well, that’s good.”

Little by little, as they drive, Shane’s nerves dissipate into nothing. Which isn’t surprising, considering they’d had no reason to be present in the first place. He tells Ilya a little bit of the history of his cottage — how he designed it, how long he’s had it, how his parents are close by in the house Shane spent his childhood summers in. Ilya tells him about Svetlana’s birthday party, which had been the reason he’d needed to return to Boston for the week. They talk a little about the expectations in regards to posting things online in the next week. It was understood that they should post something, just since they were together, but neither of them wanted this to turn into work. And Shane didn’t want Ilya’s entire visit to feel like it was for purely fabricated reasons. When he’d extended the invitation, it hadn’t been because of their fake relationship.

It was because Shane wanted him there.

He leads Ilya into the house, ignoring his complaints about how Ilya can carry his own bag. They slip off their shoes. It looks entirely too domestic; both pairs settled next to each other.

“Wow,” Ilya says, looking around as he approaches the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the lake.

“It’s nice, right?” Shane says. He’s proud of his cottage. It’s one of the few places in the world where he feels completely at home, like nothing can touch him here. 

When he and Ilya had first agreed to this PR stunt, Shane never could have imagined allowing his long-time rival into this house. He never could’ve pictured Ilya Rozanov in a place Shane keeps so close to his heart. Now, Ilya owns a tiny piece of that heart, whether he knows it or not, so Shane thinks it’s only right that Ilya is here. 

“I can give you a tour, if you want,” Shane says. “Or make us something to eat, if you’re hungry. I, uh, got you Coke, by the way. Help yourself to anything in the fridge, or whatever.”

Ilya looks away from the window, and his eyes find Shane’s. They’re so green right now in the sunshine. The lights and shadows reflect off of Ilya’s face in a way that makes him so captivating, Shane loses his ability to speak for a moment. And Ilya’s lips curl up into a little smirk.

He turns, crossing the floor until he’s standing in front of Shane. 

“Don’t tell me you are still nervous around me, Hollander.”

Shane swallows. “I’m not,” he says. It’s a little bit of a lie.

“Mm,” Ilya hums. “You are a very good host, you know. Do you bring a lot of people here?”

Shane shakes his head. “Hayden and his family have been here, and J.J. And Rose was here last summer.”

Ilya lifts a brow. “Oh?” he asks, his voice a little dimmer. “You brought Rose Landry here?”

“Yeah, it— um, after we were broken up,” Shane says. He doesn’t know why he clarifies, exactly, but he does. “We were just friends.”

“Ah,” Ilya murmurs. 

Shane clears his throat. “I can show you your room, if you want.”

Ilya hums. “I am very picky, you know. About bedrooms.”

Narrowing his eyes, Shane deadpans, “Are you?” Ilya has stayed at Shane’s apartment countless times and in probably a million hotels. He’s never heard a thing about him being picky.

“Yes,” Ilya says, very seriously. “I will need a king size bed.”

“They all have a king size bed.”

“And a view, of course.”

Shane nearly rolls his eyes. He knows for certain they’ve stayed in hotels that had shit views. 

“They all have a view,” he says.

“Good, good,” Ilya nods. “Oh, and a— what do you call it? An ensuite bathroom.”

Shane gives him an exaggerated frown. “Mm, well, I’m sorry, but the only room with an ensuite is already taken.”

“Very disappointing,” Ilya says, eyes flicking in the direction of the master bedroom. “I will have to leave a bad review.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes again. Or smile like a fucking idiot, Shane reaches for the handle of Ilya’s bag without breaking their eye contact. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. “Hopefully I can make it up to you somehow.”

And Shane swears — he swears — Ilya’s eyes flick down to his mouth for the quickest second. So quick, Shane has to tell himself he’s just being hopeful again. “Yes, maybe,” Ilya murmurs.

As it turns out, Ilya has no idea how to relax. Not really. It’s a bit obvious, given the way that he watches Shane build a fire in the firepit with a hint of confusion in his eyes. And then, when Shane finishes and sits next to him, Ilya just blinks at the fire. Blinks at Shane.

“So we just… look at it?”

Shane huffs a laugh. “Yes, we just look at it,” he says. “When Hayden’s kids are here, we roast marshmallows and make s’mores.”

“Oh, I do not get this treatment?” Ilya asks. He finally leans back against the outdoor sofa, his body melting into the cushions. 

“Are you seven?”

“Maybe.”

“Poor baby,” Shane teases. “If we go to the store at all during the week, we can get things for s’mores. Sound good?”

Ilya tilts his head in Shane’s direction, a smile pulling at his lips. The firelight makes his eyes look amber, and darker than usual. “Yes.”

They’re quiet for a while. Feeling so at peace makes Shane wonder if Ilya has any places like this. Any places that he feels he can be completely himself at.

It makes him think about Ilya’s home country. They spoke about Russia once, very briefly. Ilya had said that he wouldn’t be returning, not only this summer, but in general. He said he had nothing there for him anymore. Shane hadn’t pressed then because they had barely known each other.

“Are you sad at all that you didn’t go back to Russia this summer?” he asks, his voice soft. 

For a moment, Ilya doesn’t respond, and Shane turns his head just enough to see Ilya in his peripheral vision. He’s staring into the fire, his brow furrowed. Shane just waits. He doesn’t push, but he also doesn’t reassure Ilya that he doesn’t have to talk about it. Shane feels confident that Ilya knows that.

Eventually, Ilya says, “A little bit, yes.”

Something in Shane’s chest loosens at the honest answer. Like his ribs feel a little lighter, not caging his lungs in anymore. Shane presses now, just a little.

“Why don’t you want to go back?”

Again, it takes a moment, but Ilya says, “I hate it there.”

Shane tries not to let his confusion show, but he knows it bleeds into his voice when he asks, “You hate it, but you’re sad you didn’t go back?”

He’s openly staring at Ilya now, who tilts his head back against the sofa cushions and looks up at the stars. He blinks a couple of times before his eyes shut completely. “I do not get along with my brother. Or my father, before he died. They only care about my money. I give them everything. All of me.” He grunts softly, wincing. “I have never talked about this in English. If it does not make sense, that is why.”

“It makes sense so far,” Shane whispers. Slowly, he turns his body on the sofa so he can face Ilya. He studies his side profile, the light flickering on his skin as the fire crackles. 

“The only reason I would go back before was because my father was sick. With Alzheimer's."

“I’m sorry,” Shane says softly. He aches to reach out and touch Ilya, but he’s not sure if he should. He’s not sure if it will help, or if it will only embarrass Ilya and cause him to shut down.

“He was… not good man. Mean. To all of us,” he says. “But he was especially mean to my mother. Very hard on her, and she did not deserve it. I hate him for it.”

Shane watches as Ilya’s chest and shoulders rise with a deep inhale. Then he slowly lets it out. His eyes shut again, almost like he’s bracing himself. Shane barely has a second to consider the implications of that before Ilya says, “I am sad that I will not go back to Russia because that is where my mother is buried.”

The pain in Shane's chest is something very physical, and entirely not his own. His hurt is completely for Ilya. He’d mentioned his mother once or twice before, but he’s never really spoken about her in detail. It’s immediately obvious from the sadness in his voice, from the difference in the way he talks about his two parents, that he loves his mother. That he misses her. 

“Ilya,” Shane mumbles. He finally scrounges up an ounce of bravery and shifts closer. Close enough to scoop Ilya’s hand up from the couch cushion and hold it between his own. His fingers are a little cold, despite the fire and the warm night, so Shane tightens his grip.

“I was young,” Ilya says, but his voice is hollow. Somehow, Shane thinks that only makes things worse. Losing your mother seems hard at any point, but especially when you’re young. Especially when you’re left with the family that Ilya had remaining. 

“How young?” Shane dares to ask.

There’s a moment where only the crackling fire speaks. 

“Twelve,” Ilya murmurs. “She…”

He pauses again, but not before Shane catches the thickness in his voice. He can’t help it this time. He moves closer, one of his hands sliding up Ilya’s arm and wrapping around his bicep. Shane’s head dips down to lie against Ilya’s shoulder. Whatever fear he’d had about this being too much vanishes when Ilya almost immediately starts talking again.

“She took her own life. I found her.”

Being hidden from Ilya’s line of sight, Shane squeezes his eyes shut tightly to fight off tears. “I’m so sorry,” Shane whispers.

This time, when Ilya takes a deep breath, Shane feels the movement. He rises and falls with Ilya’s shoulders. One of his hands is still intertwined with Ilya’s, and Shane feels him squeeze it once. He squeezes back.

“Is okay,” Ilya says after a moment. “I am mostly okay now. I am just sad I will not visit her again.” 

Ilya lifts his free hand and fumbles with the collar of his shirt for a second before he produces the gold crucifix from underneath the fabric. Shane lifts his head and watches Ilya smooth his thumb over the metal that shines in the firelight. “This was hers,” he says. “I never take it off.”

A tiny smile pulls at Shane’s lips. He’s seen that necklace a million times now, and he’s never known how important it was to Ilya. “So she’s always with you,” Shane says gently. “Even if you don’t go back to Russia.”

Shane’s eyes slowly flick up to Ilya’s face after a few seconds of silence, only to find the other man watching him. His eyes look just a little bit glassy, but Shane doesn’t comment on it. Ilya nods, a sad smile breaking up the seriousness of his expression. “Yes,” he whispers back. 

Maybe Shane should return to his side of the sofa, or he should give Ilya some space. Maybe he should say something else comforting, or ask if Ilya wants to go inside. 

He does none of that. Instead, he squeezes Ilya’s hand again and lays his head back down on Ilya’s shoulder. He shifts so that he can see the fire, and a moment later, Ilya’s cheek rests on top of his head. They stay there until their joint hands are sweaty, and the fire has dimmed. 

Chapter End Notes

yuna's braincells are rubbing together rn

short-ish chapter im sorrry but it's okay because in two chapters they ***** **** ***** ** *** *** *** and it all ends super well!! 😁

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Chapter 12: twelve

Chapter Notes

we're #soback to monday updates

Shane curls in on himself as goosebumps prickle over his skin. It’s the end of summer, of course, but on the lake, the wind always picks up, so he still shivers a little as he sits on one of the large, flat rocks right on the shore. Ilya seems to have no issue with the breeze as he swims, diving beneath the water over and over again. 

It almost feels like watching a kid play, just from the sheer joy and peace radiating off of him. Shane constantly catches himself smiling, wiping it away each time before Ilya notices. 

“I come all the way from Boston,” Ilya says with an exaggerated pout, “and you will not even swim with me.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t going to swim.”

“You are just watching like lifeguard,” Ilya says. He comes closer and places his hands flat on the rock, just a few inches away from Shane’s feet. He thinks for a second before his expression shifts into false sympathy. “Oh. Hollander, you should have just told me.”

Shane blinks. “Told you what?”

“That you cannot swim.”

Shane can’t even describe the way he reacts. His face contorts in shock, and a half-gasp, half-scoff escapes him. “Of course I can swim!” he exclaims. “You think I built a house on a lake, and I can’t swim?”

“I mean…” Ilya trails off with a tilt of his head and a shrug. “It would make sense why you are sitting there, like lifeguard. Not that you could save me if I drown, since you can’t swim, but…”

“Oh, fuck you,” Shane says, but he pushes himself up and hops from the rock into the water. It’s only waist level here, so he instantly crouches down and pushes off. His arms and legs cut through the water, and he looks back at Ilya, who seems very pleased with himself, paddling towards Shane. 

“See?” Shane prods. “I can swim.”

“Very impressive, Hollander.”

“You’re an asshole.” He punctuates that statement by splashing Ilya. Which he immediately realizes is a mistake, given the way Ilya’s eyes light up. “Rozanov, don’t you d—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because Ilya tackles him. Straight up tackles him, his arms curling around Shane’s waist, and all of his body weight is thrown into pushing Shane beneath the surface. They wrestle blindly, both pushing the other under the water, laughing whenever they come up for air. “You’re a menace,” Shane says, pushing down on Ilya’s shoulders to try to sink him.

“You started it!” Ilya shoots back, his hands pressing to Shane’s chest and applying enough force to knock him back under the water. Shane resurfaces, shaking the water from his hair like a dog. He blinks, clearing his vision, to find Ilya grinning widely. He must have shaken out his curls, because they’re a wild mess, and his eyes are reflecting the green of the water. Droplets cling to his skin as he bobs, his shoulders and collarbones rising and falling with the motion of the waves they’ve created.

He looks so fucking attractive. It’s a good thing Shane is already breathless from their messing around; he would’ve had no explanation for the way he couldn’t inhale properly.

“I hate you,” Shane says, panting. But he’s smiling.

“No, you don’t.”

No, he doesn’t. Maybe the furthest thing from hating Ilya, which is almost scarier. “Am I allowed to swim normally, now? Or are you going to drown me?”

“Yes, yes, prove that you can swim,” Ilya says flippantly, waving his hand. He flops backwards into the water, arms stretching outwards. Shane swims — because that’s something he does know how to do — away from the shore, going out a few yards before switching directions and coming back.

“Do you swim in here often?” Ilya asks when Shane is within earshot again.

He wipes the water from his eyes, treading water. “No, I usually stay in my pool.”

Ilya glances at the house. “Why are we swimming here instead of pool, then?”

Shane shrugs, feeling a little shy. “You wanted to go in the lake.” It had taken nothing for Shane to agree when Ilya had asked. He rarely goes in the lake unless it’s really hot, enough to make his pool too warm to be enjoyable. But when Ilya had asked, with those excited eyes and hopeful grin, Shane didn’t even hesitate.

“Ah, you are trying very hard to get good review, then.”

“Hoping for five stars,” Shane says, rolling his eyes. 

Ilya hums and swims closer. The water is shallow enough that they can touch the bottom, the waves lapping at their upper chests. Ilya stops just a foot away from Shane. On instinct, Shane’s hand presses to Ilya’s chest, like he’s trying to keep him from getting closer. “Don’t you dare push me under again.”

Ilya’s jaw drops in mock offense. His palm lands right over Shane’s hand, holding him there against his heart. Ilya’s body is so solid and warm under Shane’s touch that it makes his mouth run a little dry. He’s had his hands here before for photoshoots, but this is different. There are no cameras this time.

“Hollander, I would never.”

“You just did.”

“Well, I would never do it again,” Ilya grins. “I was just going to say you are at maybe 4.6 stars now.”

And he knows Ilya is being annoying. He knows that he’s teasing. But Shane’s constant desire for perfection flares up. “How do I get five?”

Ilya tilts his head, and his eyes scan Shane’s face slowly. His gaze touches every single feature so intently, Shane can almost feel it like a physical thing. But then Ilya blinks twice quickly, and his hand falls away from Shane’s. Having no excuse to keep it there, Shane’s hand drops, too. Ilya starts to fall into another backstroke. “I guess you will have to keep trying,” he tells Shane.

For maybe the first time in eternity, Ilya seems more nervous than Shane. Granted, Shane’s current level of anxiety is at a solid zero, so it doesn’t take much for Ilya to be the more tense one. “It’s just my parents, you know,” Shane says, pausing his onion slicing to look over at where Ilya’s fingers are tapping against his Coke can. His shoulders are drawn up to his ears. “I hope you’re not nervous about them coming over.”

“Of course not,” Ilya says, but his cheeks turn just the barest shade of pink, and he can’t meet Shane’s eyes. Shane puts the knife down.

“Ilya.”

“Hollander.”

Shane frowns. “Why are you all jittery?”

Ilya’s expression morphs into confusion, which at least seems to distract him from whatever is going on in his head. “Why am I what?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Jittery,” Shane repeats. “It means, like, nervous. Anxious. Shaky.”

“Oh. I am not.”

“Mm.”

“Do not hum like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you do not believe me.”

Shane smiles, picking up the knife again. He’s already torn up pieces of lettuce and sliced up a tomato, but he knows his dad also likes red onion on his burger. “I totally believe you,” Shane says placatingly. “But… if you were nervous about anything, you could tell me. So that I could tell you that you probably have nothing to be nervous about.”

Ilya is quiet, and Shane glances up just in time to see Ilya’s eyes dart away from where they’d been watching Shane. “I have only been around your parents a few times for the business stuff,” he finally says with a little wave of his hand. Shane waits for more, but nothing comes. 

“They like you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Shane says. 

“They like that we get good press. Media attention,” he responds, shaking his head once. “Is okay. That is why I am here anyway.”

Shane frowns. He wasn’t sure if Ilya meant that’s why he was here, like in this PR situation with Shane, or here, as in at the cottage this week. Either way, Shane finds that he’s telling the truth when he says, “You’re here because I want you to be here.”

Because even if Ilya is referring to their situation of a fabricated relationship, that only happened because they both agreed. It only came to fruition because Shane was interested. They look at each other for a long moment, the tiniest crease between Ilya’s eyebrows as he makes sense of Shane’s words.

“Besides,” Shane says, placing the sliced onion on a plate, “my mom was the one who suggested we do dinner or something while you’re here. Even after I told them you weren’t here for the whole relationship thing.”

Shane leaves out the way his parents had questioned the nature of his relationship with Ilya and speculated about Shane’s feelings. The last thing he wanted to do was hint at all to Ilya about his ever-growing feelings — Ilya might be a little flirty sometimes, but there was no way he would ever reciprocate Shane’s feelings. And even if he did, Ilya was always so forward, he probably would’ve said something by now.

“They were probably being polite,” Ilya mutters, dropping his gaze. “You Canadians are always so nice.”

A smile threatens to pull at Shane’s mouth, but it doesn’t quite make it. Ilya’s tone is so dismissive, like he’s looking for a reason to write off Shane’s reassurance. Like he doesn’t want to believe it. After setting the plate of sliced burger toppings in the fridge, he turns back to Ilya and places his hands flat on the counter.

“You know how I’m a little bit of an anxious person, right?”

“A little bit?” Ilya retorts. Shane can’t even be mad at the teasing, because Ilya is smiling again.

“Hilarious,” Shane deadpans. His eyes drop to somewhere around Ilya’s shoulder, a little too embarrassed to hold eye contact. “You have always been really good at noticing when I’m nervous or spiraling about something. And you’re good at keeping me grounded. Even from the very beginning.”

“Is nothing,” Ilya says with a little shrug.

“It’s not nothing,” Shane insists, unable to put into words exactly how grateful he is for that. “But that’s not the point. My mom has noticed that you do that. Sometimes, when I do commercials or interviews, especially several back-to-back, she likes to be there with me because she knows I get overwhelmed easily. After the first few this summer, she stopped coming with us because she saw how you… cared. About me.”

He finds the courage to look into Ilya’s eyes again. He looks a little struck at the confession. “I’m a grown adult, obviously, but that doesn’t mean it’s not hard for me sometimes. And she trusts you with me. She likes you.”

“Oh,” Ilya whispers after a second. “And your dad?”

At that, Shane chuckles. Ilya has only really met his dad twice, so most of his father’s opinion is built on what Yuna knows of Ilya. “He’s easier,” Shane assures him. “He trusts my mom’s judgement, so if she likes you, my dad does, too.”

Slowly, Ilya nods. The tension in his shoulders loosens. “Okay,” he says softly. Shane relaxes, glad to have gotten through to him.

As expected, dinner is a success. His parents get along with Ilya perfectly fine, and as far as Shane can tell, they’ve gone back to normal about their suspicions of anything more between Shane and Ilya. They chat a little about hockey, because of course. They ask Ilya more about Boston, his friends and teammates there. They share plenty of embarrassing stories about Shane’s childhood. Not once is the PR relationship or their plan for the media coverage in the upcoming months brought up, which Shane is grateful for. He hadn’t even mentioned it to his parents, but they’d both seemed to wordlessly understand that this week is not for work.

Everything about the night had been going perfectly. Until, of course, it wasn’t anymore. Because they’d decided to play Monopoly, and Ilya was a fucking cheater.

They’re all cross-legged on the ground around the coffee table, and in good faith, they’d allowed Ilya to be the banker. Shane nearly misses it, but he’s looking at the right spot at the right time when Ilya just barely shifts. 

Shane goes rigid. “Ilya.”

Ilya looks up from the countless property cards in his hands. “Mm?”

“Lift your thigh up.”

Ilya’s expression goes purposely blank, and he blinks twice. “No.”

“Ilya.”

“I am very comfortable, I do not want to move.”

“Rozanov, lift your leg up right now.”

“No.”

“Why not?” Shane asks, knowing damn well why not. His parents have both paused, the dice still in his mom’s hand.

“Because I am comfortable, I just said— ah, no!” His cards flutter to the ground as he reaches out to stop Shane’s hand from wedging beneath his thigh, where Shane knows he’ll find several hundred game dollars. “Hollander, get away from me!”

But Shane only shifts closer, trying to force his fingers under Ilya’s leg. Ilya leans towards him, putting all of his weight into keeping his thigh pressed into the carpet. 

“You’re cheating,” Shane exclaims. “He has money under his— Ilya.”

“Hollander, please, your parents are right here. You cannot manhandle me like this, is very inappropriate.”

“Oh, shut up,” Shane says, but his cheeks flush a little. It was a stupid, teasing comment that Ilya might’ve made even if they were alone, but remembering what his parents had asked the other week, he suspects they might read too far into it. Finally, with a combination of pushing Ilya’s chest away with one hand and wedging his other hand beneath his leg, he grabs a fistful of hidden money.

“Aha!” Shane says triumphantly, holding it up. “Rozanov, please explain to the table why you have—” Shane quickly and loudly counts the money in his hand, “—fourteen hundred dollars hidden beneath you?”

Ilya stammers for a second. “It was there when I sat down.”

Shane’s carpet was decidedly spotless when they all sat down. “Liar. Liar and cheater.”

“I would never cheat,” Ilya scoffs. “Yuna, please tell your liar son that I am not cheater.”

Yuna hums, tilting her head. “Well…” Now that Shane isn’t focused on exposing Ilya, he notices the humor on his parents’ faces.

Defeated, Ilya’s shoulders slump. “It is not fourteen hundred dollars.”

Shane looks down at the fourteen slips of paper in his hands. “Yes, it—”

Ilya lifts his thigh. “Was sixteen hundred,” he says, handing over two more yellow hundred dollar bills. Shane’s jaw drops, and his parents erupt into laughter. 

“I hate you,” Shane mutters, taking the remaining money. “I’m going to be watching you, so don’t even think about cheating again.”

Ilya grins slyly, picking up his property cards. “I would never, Hollander.”

They only have about two full days left of being at the cottage, and Shane finds that he’s dreading it being over. Of all the summers he’s spent at his cottage, even though this was the shortest, it’s been his favorite. Every day, he wakes up happy just knowing that Ilya is in his house and they have no obligations. 

They’ve each only posted one Instagram story each in the last six days, which proves that the optics of their relationship were not a priority for either of them. Though Shane supposes there’s about to be a third post, when Ilya turns his phone toward Shane. “Can I post this?”

Shane does a double take, his pool cue nearly slipping out of his hand. “What the fuck?” he says, grabbing Ilya’s wrist to take a closer look. It’s a photo taken just a moment ago from when Shane was bent at the waist, lining up his shot. Basically, it’s a photo of Shane’s ass. And to make matters worse, the caption is playing with balls!

“Are you insane?”

Ilya pouts dramatically. “We have been fake dating for many months, and I have not posted one pervy picture of you,” he says. “Is very unrealistic, no?”

“No,” Shane exclaims. “Even if we were dating, you wouldn’t be allowed to post something like that.”

“You are no fun, Hollander.”

“Wha—”

“Okay, I delete the caption, but I still post the picture. Yes?”

“No!” Shane says. He lays his cue on the pool table and reaches for Ilya’s phone, but he just pulls it away.

“Maybe I put emoji over your ass so no one sees it?” he suggests. “A heart? Or maybe a lock, so everyone knows that it is mine.”

“Rozanov, oh my God.” He presses up against him and grabs his wrist tightly, using all of his strength to fight Ilya and pull his phone closer. Quickly, Shane clicks the little X in the corner. 

“You can post something else if you want, but not my ass,” Shane says.

“Something pervy?”

Shane blinks at him. They’re still basically pressed together, Shane’s chest against Ilya’s arm, and his hand still around Ilya’s wrist. But Shane is so baffled by Ilya’s corrupted train of thought that he can’t even focus on their proximity. Until Ilya’s eyes flick down to Shane’s mouth and linger for a few seconds. Long enough to be very noticeable, even by Shane.

“Nothing pervy,” Shane insists. He should back away, but he feels a little frozen in place. 

Ilya’s mouth curves down in a pronounced, playful frown. “But how else will everyone know how badly I want to fuck my boyfriend?”

Shane’s brain short-circuits. Or maybe it just completely implodes. Because he can’t think of a single fucking thing to say to that. He knows it’s a joke. Another thing meant to pull a reaction out of him. But he’s still thinking about how Ilya had just looked at his mouth. 

Shane hates the teeny, tiny spark that feels like hope blooming in his chest. He knows Ilya is just being his irritating, flirty self, but it doesn’t stop images from flitting through his head. He takes an unsteady step back. “My mom follows you, you know,” he says, shaking his head. He picks up his pool cue to have an excuse to break eye contact. “I don’t think anyone needs to know— you don’t need to imply that to sell the relationship, or whatever.”

Ilya sighs dramatically, like it’s physically painful that he can’t post Shane bent over to his millions of followers. He sets his phone down long enough to take his turn in the game, sinking two striped balls before missing his next shot. While Shane takes his turn, Ilya is back to typing on his phone. 

“Here,” he says when Shane straightens up after missing the pocket for the eight ball. “Better, yes?”

This time, the photo is from last night. They’d been on opposite sides of the sofa, but their feet had been pressed together. It hadn’t even been for a photo. Ilya’s legs had just been extended, so Shane had put his out, too, until their socked toes had touched. In the picture, Shane’s glasses are on, and he’s obviously invested in his science fiction book. The caption in the corner reads I never want this week to end.

The feeling is incredibly mutual for Shane.

“Better,” he whispers, his heart panging a little. Ilya hits post, and they return to their game. Shane wins, and as he racks the balls again for another round, he says, “I’m glad you came to visit, by the way. It’s been fun having you here.”

He doesn’t know why he feels shy saying it, but he doesn’t look at Ilya. “This is my favorite place in the world, and I think this has been one of the best weeks I’ve ever spent here.”

Ilya is quiet for a long moment, but Shane doesn’t dare to look up. Finally, he responds, “Thank you for inviting me. I had a lot of fun.”

Shane smiles a little, his eyes flicking up to meet Ilya’s across the table. “Even if Canada is boring?”

Ilya’s face is completely serious when he nods. “Especially because it is boring.”

Chapter End Notes

cottage chapters you are so special to me

ps, i have about one and a half chapters to write before this story is complete so no promises, but i shall try to finish this week and once i do, i'll probably start updating every two-three days

my twitter!

Chapter 13: thirteen

Chapter Notes

lucky thirteen... allegedly

mwahaha enjoy

“You have never been drunk, yes?”

Shane’s hand freezes mid-reach for a ginger ale, his head snapping over to where Ilya is sitting on his kitchen counter. “What? Of course, I’ve been drunk.”

“But you do not drink often.”

“Well, no…” Shane trails off, grabbing a can and cracking it open. They have about eighteen hours left in the cottage, and they’ve barely spent a moment apart since waking up today. It’s a little embarrassing, probably, but Shane knows that once the season starts, they won’t really see one another outside of being in each other’s cities for games. “But I have been drunk before.”

Ilya hums. “So if I say we should drink the vodka that I brought tonight…” he trails off. Shane tries not to wince at the reminder of the vile drink currently stored in his freezer. He opened it earlier in the week and had insisted Shane try some good Russian vodka. Spoiler: it was not fucking good. 

“You can drink that,” Shane says. “I am not getting drunk off that stuff.”

“Shaaane,” Ilya whines, slouching. He kicks his foot out, pushing his toes against Shane’s thigh. “It will kill me, but I will let you mix it with your disgusting sparkly water. Or even ginger ale! Come on.”

Shane pretends like it’s the biggest hassle of his life to agree to Ilya’s plea, but it’s not. In almost every scenario, it’s harder to say no to Ilya than it is to say yes. “Fine, fine,” Shane relents, hiding his grin behind a sip of his soda. “I was also thinking about using the hot tub one more time before I have to drain it tomorrow.”

Ilya nods quickly. “Mm, yes. Is my favorite part of the cottage, I think.”

“Yeah?” Shane asks. “I’m glad you like it here. I’m, uh, I’m really proud of this place. I love it.”

Ilya’s eyes flick around the cottage, landing on the tall windows looking out over the lake. It occurs to Shane then that Ilya probably won’t ever be able to come here again. Once they “break up,” they’ll no longer be able to be seen together publicly without causing a scandal. They won’t really be able to be friends without the entire world speculating that they’re back together, or something. And sure, it’s not impossible that they could manage a secret friendship, but would Ilya even want that? Would it be worth the risk of millions of eyes on them if they ever got caught? 

Shane tries to hold back a frown. He’s loved having Ilya here. It’s a shame it has to come to an end.

They still have a few hours until nightfall, so Ilya picks a movie, and they sit beside each other on the sofa to watch. Only about ten minutes in, Ilya moves away, and before Shane can even allow himself to feel the loss of their arms pressed together, Ilya lies down and sets his head in Shane’s lap. It’s not something he’s ever done, but Shane doesn’t complain even a little bit.

He glances down at Ilya, silently wondering how many people he has in his life that he feels this close to. Svetlana, surely, but is there anyone else? Are there any of his teammates that he feels like he could physically lean on in times of need? He’d mentioned he’s close to Cliff Marleau, who had been supportive of Ilya’s coming out (less so about his relationship with Shane, but that seems to be the norm at this point), but how close? 

Shane thinks about how lonely it had been for him to keep his own secret. How, even though he’d been terrified, he’d been a little relieved when Rose had figured him out, because it meant he wasn’t alone anymore. 

Has Svetlana always known that Ilya is bisexual, or had he kept it locked away from everyone? Has he had anyone, this whole time? 

Weirdly, Shane suddenly regrets not reaching out after that night in Toronto, when Ilya had never knocked on his door. He’d been so hurt and embarrassed in the aftermath, he hadn’t paid enough attention to the fact that Ilya had been really fucking brave. Maybe a tiny bit reckless, considering he had no way of being certain that Shane was into men — though, maybe Shane had been more obvious than he’d realized — but it had been brave, too.

He’s not even sure what he would’ve said, and maybe Ilya wouldn’t have even cared to hear from him, given that he hadn’t shown up that night. But still… Shane could’ve acknowledged it in some way. He could’ve been brave, too.

Without overthinking it, one of his hands combs through Ilya’s curls. They’re a little tangled from the wind when they were outside this morning, so Shane gently undoes the knots. Ilya’s lips twitch into the barest smile. 

If Ilya could be brave eight years ago, when he’d known nothing about Shane, maybe Shane could be brave, too.

Once the sun goes down, it doesn’t matter that it’s the end of summer. It gets cold. The faint hum of alcohol in Shane’s veins offers a bit of warmth, but he’s only just finished his first vodka ginger ale. He’d purposely made it a bit weak, knowing he’s a lightweight, but he feels it regardless.

He sets his glass on the table beside the hot tub, clicking the button to turn on the jets, then the lights. They shift throughout the colors of the rainbow, the hues fading into each other. Ilya snorts.

“Gay.”

“Wha— I didn’t ask for rainbow lights.”

“The hot tub people just knew.”

“I think the lights are standard.”

Ilya puts his glass down beside Shane’s, shrugging a little. “Standard for gay people, maybe.”

“Get the fuck in,” Shane snaps, but he’s grinning. He watches as Ilya climbs up the steps and swings a leg over the edge, getting in. The ever-changing lights cast different shadows on his abdomen, some colors making his muscles more pronounced. It’s distracting.

He blinks when Ilya sits, his stomach disappearing beneath the water and effectively moving out of Shane’s view. He follows Ilya in, sitting across from him. Instantly, he relaxes, tilting his head back against the little built-in cushion. “I need one of these in Montreal,” he says. “On my deck, or something.”

“Mm,” Ilya hums in agreement. “We have one on rooftop of my building, but I do not want to share. Too many people probably have sex in it.”

Shane snorts. “Yuck.”

“Very yuck.”

The stars are so much clearer out here than in Montreal. They dot the sky in little clusters, some bigger than others. It reminds Shane a little bit of the moles and freckles speckling Ilya’s body. He almost laughs at himself. Even in his own brain, he manages to connect everything back to Ilya.

“One of my teammates’ wives is obsessed with stars,” Ilya says quietly. “Something about how they mean different things about people depending on when they are born.”

“Like astrological signs.” Rose had talked a little bit about star signs when they were together. She wasn’t big on the whole thing, but she’d said Shane was different from any other Taurus she’d ever met. Whatever that meant.

“Yes, but there is more, I think. Like, multiple signs. I don’t know,” Ilya says. “She made me do some birth chart thing. All I remember is that I am a Gemini, which Sveta told me a million years ago.”

“I wonder if we’re compatible,” Shane says, the words slipping out. He should’ve said he wonders if their signs were compatible.

“I do not need the stars to tell me that,” Ilya says softly, just barely audible over the sound of the jets. Shane swallows thickly, keeping his eyes on the stars for a few more seconds before getting up and leaning over the edge of the tub to reach for his drink.

“Mine, too, please,” Ilya says. Shane carefully slides back into his seat, holding both glasses, and he reaches across the water to hand Ilya his. Their fingers brush, and Shane chalks the little shiver that runs through him up to the soft gust of wind sweeping over them.

“There’s a cupholder on the ledge behind you,” Shane nods toward it. Ilya just hums, taking a long sip. How he drinks that and enjoys it is beyond Shane, but he says nothing. His own drink is bubbly and mostly familiar, minus the underlying taste of alcohol.

He sets his drink in the cupholder behind his head. As he readjusts in his seat, his foot brushes Ilya’s beneath the water. He almost apologizes, before remembering they’ve touched in countless more incriminating ways. Their feet brushing beneath the water is nothing compared to the way they’ve straddled each other, run their hands over the other’s torso and shoulders, pressed their faces together — pressed their lips together. All of that had been for cameras, of course, but it doesn’t change the fact that Shane knows Ilya in ways he knows almost no one else.

And even the other people that Shane has touched in some way, it’s never felt like it does with Ilya. Even when it’s all fake.

Well, mostly fake. Because they also touch when there are no cameras or prying eyes, albeit much more innocently. Heads on shoulders or in laps, arms pressed together, feet brushing under tables. Shane doesn’t think he’s ever felt this level of intimacy with another person.

He hates that it’s going to end. He hates that it means nothing beyond friendship. Pulling his eyes away from the sky, he finds Ilya watching him from across the hot tub, though his gaze flicks away after just a second of eye contact.

Maybe he’s insane and overly optimistic, but sometimes, he thinks he’s not the only one feeling something more. Maybe it’s just hope clawing its way out of his heart, forcing itself to be known and acknowledged. Maybe… whatever prompted Ilya to ask for his hotel room number all those years ago still lives beneath the surface. Certainly, whatever prompted Shane to give up said room number is still alive and well.

He takes another long sip of his drink, pretending that it’s the thing giving him courage, before he moves through the water to take the middle seat next to Ilya’s corner. Ilya doesn’t speak, but he’s watching. His eyes are so intense that it makes the words in Shane’s throat catch. Ilya just lifts a brow.

“What?” he says after a few seconds, his impatience obviously getting the better of him.

Shane swallows, finding that bit of bravery from before and holding onto it tightly. He looks at Ilya, but his gaze can only reach his mouth. “I was just… wondering if the offer to practice kissing is still on the table?”

Ilya blinks a couple of times, his lips parting in shock. For one horrible moment, he doesn’t respond, and Shane thinks he’s ruined everything. He wonders if he can write it off as being drunker than he is, or some kind of joke. Before he can figure out the angle he could play, the corner of Ilya’s mouth tugs upward, and he tilts his head. 

“We have already kissed, Hollander,” he says. Shane thinks his voice is a little teasing, a little amused. “Don’t you remember?”

Does he remember? Shane has spent the last month thinking about that stupid kiss constantly. He keeps wishing he’d found an excuse to kiss Ilya sooner, or wishing he’d deepened the kiss just a little, even with the camera and eyes on them. 

“I remember,” Shane says softly, hoping his voice carries over the jets. 

“Mm,” Ilya hums. “Was it no good, then?”

He’s definitely teasing now. Shane can’t tell if that’s helping his courage or not.

“It was… it was good.”

Slowly, Ilya sits up a bit, leaning just a little closer to Shane. “So why would we practice?” he asks. There’s something searching in his eyes, and it causes Shane to back down. He can only be so brave before his anxiety wins out. He shrinks back just a little.

“Fuck, never mind,” he mutters with a small shake of his head. He moves like he’s going to return to his side of the hot tub, or maybe even get out, but Ilya’s hand shoots out and curls around Shane’s wrist. He tugs, pulling Shane into his space. His other hand spans over one side of Shane’s jaw, and he draws him into a kiss. It’s immediately a million times better than their first, because it’s just them.

Effortlessly, Ilya’s arm curls around Shane’s waist, and he drags him into his lap, Shane’s thighs bracketing Ilya’s hips in the corner seat of the tub. Shane’s hands rake through Ilya’s hair, relief washing over him as he kisses, really kisses, Ilya. This isn’t the chaste, publicly appropriate press of lips against lips. 

No, Ilya’s tongue parts Shane’s lips instantly and slides into his mouth, causing a quiet moan to rumble in Shane’s throat. He’s been dying to know what Ilya really tastes like, and Shane can’t even be mad to find that, currently, it’s that horrible vodka he’s drinking. It tastes much better on Ilya’s tongue.

They’re flush together. Chests, stomachs, hips, thighs. Shane can’t possibly get any closer, but he tries, rolling his body forward. Ilya’s hands are strong and firm on Shane, anywhere they reach. They slide over his spine, down his thighs, over the curve of his ass. All of that just spurs Shane on further, tugging Ilya’s hair lightly as he kisses him hard.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya murmurs, right next to Shane’s ear as his mouth travels over the sharp curves of Ilya’s jaw and down his throat. Shane is suddenly devastated that they’re in the hot tub, because he has limited access to what he can kiss.

But not what he can touch.

His hands slide down Ilya’s abdomen. The definition of his muscles is familiar at this point, but Shane still finds the new context of this touch to be wildly exhilarating. Ilya arches into the touch, only encouraging Shane to keep going. He feels drunk, like he’s had four drinks instead of one and a half. 

Shane rolls his hips forward again, Ilya’s hands on his hips, guiding him. He’s already hard, straining against the fabric of his swim trunks. And it would be embarrassing that so little could get him to this point, except that Shane can feel that Ilya is just as aroused. His teeth scrape Ilya’s collarbone before his mouth begins to travel upwards again.

When he presses forward again, a tiny, “Please,” slips out, the word quiet and whiny against Ilya’s jaw. It’s humiliating, and Shane kisses Ilya again before he can tease him for it. That distraction only lasts a second before Ilya is pulling back, his eyes dark. 

“Such a polite Canadian,” he says, his voice low. “Please, what? What do you want?”

Shane swallows down his pride because he knows Ilya won’t cave and touch him until he asks for it. “Anything,” Shane breathes. “Just— anything.” It’s barely audible over the water, but considering Ilya is staring at Shane’s mouth, he gets the message. 

“Okay. Yes, okay,” he murmurs. One of his hands tugs at the strings of Shane’s trunks, loosening the waistband. He watches Shane’s face as he dips his hand below the fabric. Shane’s mouth falls open with a gasp as Ilya’s fingers curl around his erection. He leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. Ilya moves with slow, firm strokes, the pace driving Shane crazy. Sweat clings to Shane’s skin, the heat of the water and steam only pushing him further into delirium. 

“Please,” he mouths, unable to even form the word properly. 

He realizes he feels so drunk on all of this because this isn’t just months of desire and curiosity being acted upon; it’s years. Nothing ever happened back in 2010, beyond seeing Ilya touch himself and the failed promise for more, but that didn’t mean Shane hadn’t thought about it more than once over the last eight years. From time to time, the image of Ilya in the showers had crept into his brain. Occasionally, he’d daydreamed about what could have happened if Ilya had knocked. 

For years, whether Shane had wanted it or not, his attraction to Ilya had been tucked away into a tiny box, attempting to escape now and then. And within the last few months, it had not only escaped but spiraled into something uncontrollable.

And now… he’s in Ilya’s lap, with Ilya’s hand shoved down his shorts, jerking him off. Of course, it feels a little too surreal. 

Shane scoots back a tiny bit on Ilya’s thighs, fumbling with his drawstring. He needs to touch Ilya now, hoping the physical aspect will remind him that he’s not actually dreaming. Ilya lets go of Shane just long enough to lift his own hips and pull his shorts down a bit, until Shane can easily pull his cock out. Ilya’s hand curls around him again, and fuck, Shane thinks this only makes it feel more like a fantasy. 

He hates the bubbles of the jet, making it impossible to see Ilya beneath the water, but touching him is gratifying in its own way. He tries to match Ilya’s pace, even though it’s way slower than Shane has the patience for, occasionally swirling his fist around the head. His face drops into the crook of Ilya’s neck, his tongue gliding over his pulse. This position puts Shane’s ear right next to Ilya’s mouth, so he can hear each little grunt and pant that Shane manages to pull out of him.

And he hears it loud and clear when Ilya says, “Fuck, Shane.”

Shane moans just at the sound of Ilya’s ruined voice. Fuck being patient and slow. His hand moves over Ilya quicker now, which only causes Ilya to speed up, too. Shane moans into Ilya’s shoulder, mouthing at his skin. He tastes like sweat and chlorine.

Ilya’s free hand slides up Shane’s spine until his fingers thread through his hair, pulling his head and reconnecting their mouths. Shane whines, the feeling of their tongues sliding together forcing him closer to the edge. “Ilya,” he whines, breaking the kiss so he can breathe. “I’m— fuck.”

“Close?” Ilya murmurs, dark eyes peering up at Shane, who just nods emphatically. Their foreheads are pressed together again, noses brushing, lips grazing. As much as Shane wants to keep kissing him, he can barely breathe as it is. His eyes squeeze shut as he tries to hold off his orgasm as long as possible, not wanting this to end. But that’s useless when Ilya cups his jaw, thumb gliding over his lower lip, and tells him, “Let me see it, malysh (baby).”

Shane doesn’t even know what the word means, but the soft, sultry cadence of his voice as he says it tugs at something deep in Shane’s stomach. “Oh, God— fuck,” Shane moans, his hips jerking forward into Ilya’s touch as he comes. He feels lightheaded as Ilya strokes him through it. It takes him a solid ten seconds to remember that his own hand is still wrapped around Ilya’s cock, and he quickly resumes stroking him.

“Da, like that,” Ilya purrs, tilting his head back against the cushion. There’s a little crease between his brows, and his eyes are half-open, like he refuses to shut them. Shane almost lets out another please, like he’s begging Ilya to let go, to let Shane watch him let go, but he manages to refrain from embarrassing himself. As if Ilya had read his mind, though, his eyes finally pinch shut and he lets out a low groan, arching into Shane’s touch. Shane catalogues every detail as he works Ilya through it, his mouth practically watering at Ilya’s blissed-out expression. 

Shane leans forward, connecting their mouths in another kiss, this one languid and almost sweet. He rests his hands on Ilya’s chest, feeling his heart pound beneath the skin. He pulls back just enough to break the kiss, but they’re still breathing each other’s air. Shane huffs a tiny laugh. “It’s a good thing I have to drain this hot tub tomorrow.”

“Mm,” Ilya hums shortly. He blinks a few times, like he’s floating back down from his high. Shane’s hand slides higher, cupping his jaw.

“We should get out,” he murmurs. “And maybe you can finally stay in a room that has an ensuite bathroom, since it’s so important to you.”

He expects Ilya to laugh, or to smirk, or to tease him back. Shane expects some kind of taunting, playful reaction. But Ilya just blinks again, and then gently presses a hand to Shane’s stomach, pushing him back a bit. And he shakes his head.

“No,” he says, though Shane doesn’t hear the word over the sound of the jets. He just watches Ilya’s lips form the response. Despite the heat of the water, Shane’s blood runs cold. Dread seeps in.

“No?” he asks hesitantly.

Ilya shakes his head again. “No, we should not… we should not have.”

He doesn’t say what they should not have done, but Shane has a pretty solid idea of what he’s referring to. He almost scrambles off of Ilya’s lap, tucking himself back into his shorts beneath the water. 

“Hollander—”

Shane’s already on the other side of the hot tub, turning off the jets. The noise cuts off, and everything feels entirely too silent. 

“Shane,” Ilya tries again.

“No, it’s fine,” he lies, trying hard to be nonchalant about the fact that Shane had been selfish for maybe once in life and gone for what he wanted, only to be told he shouldn’t have done it all. Only to be told it was a mistake.

He moves to get out, but Ilya’s hand clamps around his wrist in an iron grip. Shane feels like an idiot. Dripping wet, standing in his own fucking hot tub, flushed from the heat and the embarrassment he was feeling. Shane tries to pull his arm away, but Ilya’s holding it so tightly that it almost hurts. “I am sorry,” he says. “I just… do not think it is a good idea.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“This is— we are friends now, but we are still doing business together, yes? It would make things, ah… harder? More, um, complicated. That is the word.”

Shane almost scoffs. How would it be complicated to go from pretending to date to actually dating? If anything, that should make this entire thing easier, to no longer have to fake everything. Unless… unless all Ilya wants is sex. Based on rumors and everything he knows about Ilya, he is used to that fuckboy lifestyle of sleeping around. Being with someone once or twice, then never again. Which is fine in other scenarios, Shane imagines, but not when they’re contractually obligated to stay together for the next six months. And even though the contract isn’t legally binding, and they could break it early if they so chose, Ilya wouldn’t do that just to sleep with Shane once or twice.

Shane tugs his arm lightly, and Ilya lets go this time.

“Yeah,” Shane says finally. “Sure. I get it. Sorry for…” he waves his hand towards the water, gesturing to everything that had just happened between them. He never should have instigated it, knowing who Ilya is and how he views sex. He should’ve known a real relationship is the last thing he wants.

Ilya opens his mouth to respond, but Shane’s already turning away. “Yeah, it’s fine,” he says, shaking his head as he climbs out of the hot tub. “Don’t worry about it.”

He grabs his glass from the ledge. “Are you… getting out?” he asks. “You could stay in, as long as you turn the lights off and put the cover back on before you come in.”

“No, I’m done,” Ilya murmurs. Shane nods, not looking at Ilya as he climbs out and picks up his towel. By the time Shane has moved Ilya’s glass to a side table, turned off the hot tub lights, and put the cover on, Ilya has already dried off and gone inside, leaving Shane alone. He sighs to himself, feeling so, so fucking stupid. This had been a perfect week, and he’d tarnished the entire thing. He glances up at the stars.

“So much for being compatible,” he mutters to no one. Shane dries off and wraps his towel around his shoulders before he picks up the glasses, pouring the remaining contents out into the grass. When he goes back into the house, it’s silent, and he doesn’t see Ilya again for the rest of the night.

Chapter End Notes

the comments: omg i can't wait for their first real kiss its gonna be soooo good
me: haha yeah so about that

ps last week i said i have a chapter and a half left to write. so i just finished that half this morning BUT i have nothing else to do today soooo i shall try to finish the last chapter and hopefully begin posting the fic more frequently once it's done! mwah see you soon

my twitter!

Chapter 14: fourteen

Chapter Notes

this has officially been completely pre-written which means i shall start updating every few days!! very excitinggg

there are russian nicknames in this chapter, and if you tap on mobile/hover on pc, you'll see the translation!!

tw: use of a slur

Shane can hardly focus on what they’re actually supposed to be doing at the first practice back. Partially because most of his teammates are blatantly being fucking weird around him — sideways glances, whispers to each other, ignoring Shane when he speaks. He’d hoped by now, months after he’d come out and announced his relationship with Ilya, they would at least be able to pretend they were normal. He’d hoped by now, back on the ice, they would remember that he was the same guy they’d known for ten years. 

Clearly not.

His only saving grace is that Hayden and J.J. are working overtime to normalize things. They act like nothing is different, because to them, Shane is the same guy — albeit with a boyfriend they don’t totally love, but they’re coming around. They ask casually about Rozanov, about how cool it’s going to be for Shane to play against his boyfriend, about how they’re going to “lovingly” chirp at Ilya on the ice. It helps a little, in the sense that the more they all openly chat about it, the fewer stares Shane gets from the more “neutral” players — if someone can be neutral about their friend’s sexuality. One of the players who’d originally texted him a few nasty comments after he’d announced his relationship with Ilya even apologized right before they went out on the ice. He’d said he didn’t understand, and he didn’t like Rozanov, but he could keep his comments to himself. (Though, he’d made sure to add that he would only do so as long as Shane kept any details of his relationship to himself. Which was a fucking given.)

It’s also hard to focus on anything because he can’t stop thinking about Ilya. His brain keeps replaying the moment in the hot tub. And not the good moment, but what followed. Where Ilya had told him whatever had happened between them was a bad idea. A complicated mistake, because Ilya only did casual, and that would ruin their business plan. He hadn’t said it in those words, obviously, but for once, Shane could read between the lines.

And he’s thinking about the morning after, how he’d all but forced them to be normal. He’d already been making a smoothie when Ilya had hesitantly come into the kitchen, and he’d instantly broken out into almost nonsensical chatter about his team, practice, going to the airport. Things that would’ve been completely normal if they hadn’t gotten each other off in the hot tub the night before.

“Hollander!” Theriault barks, even though Shane is just a few feet away, taking a sip of water with a few other guys. Shane sets his bottle down, glancing briefly at Hayden, before skating over to his coach. Theriault’s arms are crossed over his chest, his brow furrowed. 

“You and Rozanov both signed the confidentiality agreements.”

It’s not a question, but Shane nods once. “Yes, sir.”

“So I just wanted to remind you that any strategy discussed in practices and any plays we map out need to be kept to yourself.”

Shane’s jaw clenches. Considering that’s literally what confidential fucking means, he’s more than aware that he has to keep Voyageurs’ information out of Ilya’s hands. “Of course,” Shane grates out, blunt nails digging into his palm. “I like competing against him fairly. I won’t be telling him anything.”

Coach grunts. “That’s all then.”

Shane skates away, waiting until he’s out of earshot before sighing to himself, frustrated. Hayden watches him approach. “Everything okay?”

Shane shoves his hand back into his glove, more aggressively than necessary. “Just being reminded not to tell my boyfriend all of our secrets,” he mutters. “Like I would ever give him a one-up. Like he would even let me. We like beating each other, fair and square.”

Hayden raises an eyebrow. “Kinky.”

Shane hates that the back of his neck heats up, like he’s still in that hot tub, his thighs bracketing Ilya’s hips. It’s only been four days since they left the cottage, and minus that last day, Shane aches to return. He and Ilya have barely spoken since they’ve gone back to their respective cities, and Shane misses him so fucking much. If he’d known he would be losing Ilya as a friend, rather than just being rejected and moving on, Shane never would’ve kissed him. 

He forces himself back to the present. It’s bad enough that half of his team is barely listening to him as is; the last thing he needs is to start spacing out and giving them more reason to ignore him.

He hits Hayden’s arm with a roll of his eyes. “Shut the fuck up,” he mutters, forcing a smile. 

By the time they’re done with practice, Shane feels so fucking small and defeated. He feels like he just played the hardest game of his life and lost horribly. A part of him wants to lose it. He wants to slam lockers shut, yell at his teammates and force them to understand that he has always been this way. That he’s always been attracted to men — hell, that part of him has always been attracted to Ilya. He wants to force them to understand that he’s the same person he’s always been, and they’re the ones who are suddenly different. 

He wants them to know that when the Voyageurs inevitably fall apart on the ice this season, it will be their fault. Not Shane’s.

But he doesn’t. He bites his tongue so hard, the taste of metal fills his mouth.

He tells himself it’s just the first day back. They have a month before the official season starts, and they’ll work out the kinks by then.

They fucking better.

When Shane gets home, he opens his messages with Ilya. The last one is from yesterday morning, and it was just a few texts exchanged. The final unanswered one being from Shane. His thumbs hover above his keyboard. Chances are, anything he sends will go untouched for at least a few hours, but Shane almost doesn’t care. The only person in the world who understands him right now is the man on the other side of this text thread. And Shane misses him.

Shane
First day back at practice
Worse than I expected.

He walks into his kitchen, and before he can even open his fridge, his phone buzzes from where he set it on the island. For a second, he considers ignoring it because he doubts Ilya would’ve texted back already. But he caves and checks it. 

Rozanov
What happened?

Shane smiles, relieved. Only because he’s alone. Only because no one can witness how glad he is that Ilya isn’t shutting him out this time.

Well Comeau said he doesn’t take orders
from faggots
So.
And everyone else ignored me half the time or
were very obviously talking about me
We were missing basic passes because half of
them didn’t want to pass to me
And coach didn’t say shit.
Which isn’t surprising but still.
Sorry. Rambling. I’m just mad

They’re fucking stupid
All of them
They will ruin your team if they do not
get it together
Will make it too easy to beat you.

Shane snorts, the tension in his shoulders loosening a bit. He bends over his island, his elbows resting on the countertop. He hadn’t meant to dump all of that on Ilya. Once the words had started, he just couldn’t keep them in anymore. And he’s missed Ilya so much, now that he had him here, he was just dying to talk to him in a way that actually felt normal.

And then they’ll probably say I let you win
When do you go back? Have you had any issues?

Practice was yesterday

Shane blinks at his screen. He doesn’t know why it disappoints him that Ilya has already returned to practice and said nothing. Maybe that was because nothing eventful happened? Maybe his team is miraculously already over their homophobia.

Not as bad as I was expecting
Most of them are more mad about you than me
being bisexual
But we weren’t too bad as team

Shane’s head drops, hanging there for a few seconds. He’s glad that Ilya’s team seems to be slightly better about the whole situation, but now Shane is terrified that if Boston beats them, all of his teammates are immediately going to accuse him of letting his boyfriend win. He imagines if they do win, Boston will think the same of Ilya, but if the pre-season continues as today had gone, there is no chance they would beat Boston when they first face off in October. 

His head spins from the thought of his teammates directing even more vitriol towards him. The ones who were impartial to his sexuality would probably pick a side real fucking quick if they believed Shane did anything to sway a game. They have to know that Shane would never — how could they not know that this game, this team, is everything to him? And he likes Ilya a lot, more than he was ever supposed to, but he would never sabotage a game for him. Even if they were dating, Shane would never do that.

His throat feels tight, restrictive. Like air isn’t allowing itself into his lungs. His knees go a little weak, his arms supporting him as he leans further into the counter.

He’s not even convinced that he’s being dramatic, thinking that his teammates would blame him and hate him more if they lost. Those sideways glances would turn into overt glares. Those whispers would turn into shouts. Missing passes and ignoring orders would turn into playing around him, like he wasn’t even on the ice.

“Fuck,” he whispers. They really have to win their first game against Boston. And obviously, he doesn’t want Ilya to throw the game, not that he would. He wants to beat Boston fairly, and that will never fucking happen if they stay in the shape they’re in.

He lifts his head, tapping his screen so it lights back up, and he unlocks it. The texts from Ilya blur together. So do the letters on his keyboard. Shane squeezes his eyes shut a few times, but it hardly gets better.

A breathless whine leaves his throat, and heat pricks at the corners of his eyes, like he wants to cry. He’s freaking out over the prospect of losing a game that’s still five weeks away. His team hates him, and they’re going to lose to fucking Boston, and there’s nothing he can do to fix it because his team hates him.

When he realizes he’s not going to be able to respond over text, because he can barely see the letters, he blearily navigates to Ilya’s contact and calls him. He hits the speakerphone button just in time to hear, “Hollander?”

Shane’s mouth opens, but he realizes that he needs to sound normal so Ilya doesn’t realize that he’s losing it over something hypothetical. Plus, the last thing Shane wants is for Ilya to think Shane is inadvertently asking Ilya to lose on purpose.

“Hey,” he says, before wincing and clearing his throat. His voice sounds breathy and hollow. “Sorry, I’m— starting to cook, so I couldn’t text.”

It’s a shit excuse. There are a few seconds of silence.

“It does not sound like you are cooking.”

Fuck. Of course it doesn’t. And Shane’s hands are shaking too much to start cooking, just to keep up the narrative. He thinks if he stood up straight right now, the dizziness in his head and the panic in his veins would cause him to collapse. 

Maybe he was being dramatic. All this over a game they haven’t even played yet. He had to get it together.

“I’m wearing headphones, so maybe it’s just not picking it up,” he says, digging his nails into his palm. They’re blunt, but with enough force, he feels the prick of them anyway. 

“Right,” Ilya says. “And you are calling because…” he trails off. Shane realizes he has no answer. Their conversation probably wouldn’t have lasted much longer, even if Shane had responded back over text. They could only commiserate about their shitty teams for so long before one of them let the conversation drop. Shane had called because his brain had begun spiraling, and he wanted to hear Ilya’s voice.

“Um, I just wanted to…” he flounders for a reason, compelling his brain to focus on one thing. “Make sure you're doing okay. After the practice.”

Another shit excuse, and Shane can tell Ilya thinks so too, based on the way there’s another long stretch of silence. “Yes. I am fine,” Ilya says, almost sounding skeptical. “Are you fine?”

And, well. Shane has always been a bad liar. “Yes.”

There’s an instant switch in Ilya’s voice. It’s softer, but just as loud, like he was pressing the phone closer to his face. Shane understands the feeling, as if he gets close enough to the speaker, he could crawl through the device and find his way into Ilya’s presence.

“Shane, what is wrong?”

“Nothing,” he lies again. But they both know it’s pointless, so before Ilya can speak, Shane continues, “Fuck, I mean I think I’m just, um. Spiraling. A little. And maybe freaking out.”

“Freaking out about what, lyubimyy? (beloved)

Shane swallows, latching onto the Russian word rather than the question about his current state of mind. “What does that mean? Loo— what did you say?”

“Shane,” Ilya whispers, ignoring the question. “What is wrong?”

“We play Boston in, like, a month. We’re going to fucking lose, Ilya.”

“Okay…” Ilya says after a brief pause. “You have lost to us before. It is just the game, yes?”

“But they’re going to blame me, Ilya,” Shane says, a dry sob escaping him. “They already hate me. They hate me so much right now, even after everything we’ve been through. They’re already being horrible and mean, and they’re so angry at me for nothing, but we’re going to lose because they can’t get their heads out of their asses, and then they’ll blame me because we’re dating.”

“Hollander. Shane, breathe. Please, solnyshko (sunshine).”

Shane inhales shakily. He swallows, and it feels like sandpaper going down his throat. “Okay, you have to tell me what at least one of those words means,” he whispers. Ilya chuckles softly, the simple sound loosening the tension in Shane’s muscles just a touch.

“Solnyshko means sunshine, kind of. It is a nickname for… friends.”

The absurdity of it makes Shane laugh dryly. “I do not feel like sunshine right now,” he murmurs. Slowly, he unclenches his fist. There are deep purple indents of his nails in his palm, but he didn’t break skin — small victories. 

“You still are,” Ilya whispers. “It was only your first practice, Shane. You still have time to work things out. Give it a few days, and if they are still being assholes, whip them into shape. You are still their captain. Make them do bag skates until they die or something.”

Another laugh sputters out of Shane unwillingly, like his body just couldn’t help but give in to Ilya’s attempts at humor. “I can’t do that,” he argues weakly, but he kind of could. His coach would probably put a stop to it before they die, as Ilya suggested, but he could still implement rigorous drills into their practices to remind them who their captain is. 

“They would deserve it.”

“Maybe a little,” Shane whispers, grinning.

“Where are you?” Ilya asks.

“My kitchen.”

“Good. Get your water bottle from the fridge, if you do not have it already, and then sit down.”

Shane takes a slow breath, ensuring his legs are stable enough, before standing and following Ilya’s instructions. Instead of sitting in one of the barstools, which are obviously closer, Shane walks to his couch and settles there. As soon as he sits, he thinks about when they were at the cottage, and Ilya had rested his head in Shane’s lap. He would give anything to feel the press of Ilya’s cheek against his thigh again, Shane’s fingers twisted through his curls. 

“I’m on my couch,” Shane says. He takes the call off speakerphone and holds it tightly against his ear, like he can inject Ilya’s voice directly into his brain. 

“Good,” he says. “Are you feeling better? Or still panicking?”

“A little better,” Shane says. “I feel very, um, heavy? Like it’s exhausting to move or think or do anything.”

“So do not do anything,” Ilya says, like it’s easy. “Just sit here with me. I am also on my couch, so is like we are together.”

I wish we were. 

The words almost slip out of Shane’s mouth, but he holds them back. Ilya’s being a good friend right now, talking Shane down. The last thing Shane needs to do is bring attention to the feelings they now both know Shane has for him, and make things uncomfortable again. 

“My couch is more comfortable,” is what he says instead. 

“Your couch is leather.”

“Your couch is, like, a sinkhole. I literally can’t get out of it when I sit in it.”

“Yes, is what makes it very comfortable.”

Shane hums flatly. He doesn’t even care that Ilya’s couch is horrible. Shane would give anything to be there right now. The dull ache in his chest that has been there since he climbed out of that hot tub only burns brighter now, like a physical reminder of how much he misses Ilya. Even if he’s not allowed to.

He’s considering finding an excuse to hang up, just so he can sulk about his unrequited feelings in peace, when Ilya starts talking. About nothing consequential. He talks about Svetlana, who is meant to be coming over for dinner in a few hours; about how one of his neighbors got a new dog, who is very cute but very loud; about how he’s looking at yet another car, not that he needs it. Shane listens, each nonsensical word soothing something in him. He responds occasionally, laughs whenever Ilya manages to pull one out of him, but mostly just listens.

It’s a full twenty minutes later when the conversation naturally falls into a comfortable silence. There’s no more tension lingering in Shane’s shoulders, the swirl of emotions finally tamed. Shane chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “You didn’t have to… I shouldn’t have called you for this. But thank you anyway.”

“You can always call me, lyubimyy.”

Shane smiles. “You’re not going to tell me what that one means?”

“Not yet,” Ilya says. “Is really mean, terrible word, though. Biggest insult in Russian language.”

“Sure,” Shane says, not believing it for a second. Not with the soft, tender way Ilya had said the word. “I should go. I need to call my mom, and then actually cook dinner.”

“Mm, yes,” Ilya says. He hesitates for a second. “Good night, Shane.”

“Night, Rozanov.”

Another three days of horrible, shitty practices go by. With each day, more and more of Shane’s patience chips away. And he’s a really fucking patient guy when he has to be. But seeing the way his team is playing, he can’t handle this anymore.

They shuffle back into the lockers after practice on the fourth day and before anyone has even removed a single article of gear, Shane bangs his fist on his locker twice, instantly capturing everyone’s attention.

“I need to say something,” he says into the silence, allowing his anger to win out over his anxiety for a moment. “And I know a lot of you have been very keen on ignoring me this week, but if you want to win some games when the season starts, you’re going to listen.”

Even the biggest assholes of the team look slightly more interested.

“We play Boston in five weeks," he says. Jaws clench around the room at the acknowledgment of their biggest rival. “And I promise you this, I want to fucking win. I want to win every single game we play this season, but especially against Boston. But that’s not going to happen if we play the way we’re practicing right now. We’re going to embarrass ourselves if you all keep ignoring your captain on the ice.

“I know things are weird, and I know a lot of you guys see me differently now. And honestly, whatever. I can’t change your mind, so I don’t care.” It’s a little bit of a lie, because of course Shane cares that these people who were always his friends suddenly hate him. But he persists, “On the ice, though, I am your teammate, and I am your captain, and if you want to get anywhere this season, you will do well to remember that.”

“How can we trust you?” Comeau calls, leaning against his locker and crossing his arms. His eyes are dark and angry. “You’re fucking the enemy. How the fuck can we trust you?”

“I was dating Ilya last season, too. And we won against them,” he says. “I like my boyfriend, but I love hockey. And I love winning. But I need a team that has its shit together if I’m going to do that, so I need you all to snap out of this bullshit mindset when you’re on the ice. Do I make myself clear?”

There are a few murmurs, but it’s not the response Shane wants. It’s not the reassurance he needs. 

“Are you not professional fucking hockey players?” he asks. “Can you not keep your shit off the ice? I said, do I make myself clear?”

There are a few players who still say nothing, but this time, there’s a general “Yes, captain,” that carries over the room. Shane nods once.

“Good. Hit the showers, then.”

Two days later, they practice like a real team again, and Shane can finally breathe.

Chapter End Notes

"for once, shane could read between the lines" baby you aren't even in the same room as the lines......

my twitter!

Chapter 15: fifteen

Chapter Notes

might go crazy go stupid and update tomorrow AND monday since i dont have work hehe

“You ready for this?”

Hayden’s question is soft, for Shane’s ears alone. Shane squares his shoulders, nodding tensely. They’re a week and a half into the season, and finally facing Boston. 

So far, the first few games of the season have gone like any others — mostly wins, the occasional loss. The media seems to have its attention on the Voyageurs more than usual, but there’s not much they can gossip about when it’s not in relation to Shane’s relationship. Which means the media has been having a field day with the game tonight. 

Shane has stayed off of social media entirely today, too anxious to hear what speculations people are having about him playing Ilya. But he’s heard bits and pieces from his teammates in the locker room. There are bets going on if Shane will let Ilya score, and vice versa. Rumors are spiraling that Shane and Ilya have already privately decided on who would win their first game of the season, and more bets on who the victor will be. 

Even beyond the spectacle that the press and hockey fans are making, Shane’s teammates are spreading their own rumors and saying stupid shit around the locker room. He’s just heard Comeau snark to one of their right-wingers that if Shane or Rozanov pulled any gay shit on the ice, he’d check either one of them into the boards, regardless of whether he’s on the same team as Shane or not. One of their defensemen cuts in and murmurs that he plans on slamming Rozanov into the boards.

Shane whirls around, banging the end of his stick against the ground twice. “Listen up!” he barks. Everyone falls silent, giving Shane their attention, and he can see the vicious gleam in some of their eyes. They all want to win, like usual, but Shane knows instantly that it goes beyond their normal hunger. 

“I already know that I can’t change anyone’s opinions of my relationship, but know that if I see anyone targeting Ilya for any reason beyond the game, you will regret it. Do I need to remind you all that you are professionals, and you will keep your bullshit off of the ice?” he says. He clenches his jaw. “He’s just another player. We’ll beat them fairly, and without any unwarranted strikes.”

The general “Yes, captain,” is scattered and insincere. He doubts it will make any difference, but he has to at least try. They only have a few minutes until they need to go out into the tunnel, so he turns and picks up his phone. He has one text from Ilya.

Rozanov
See you soon

Shane
Good luck

He takes a slow breath, slipping his phone back into his bag. They shuffle out into the tunnel, waiting for their cue. Shane can’t tell if he’s glad that they’re on home ice tonight — it will be nice that the crowd will be cheering for them; it will be devastating if they lose and the entire arena blames Shane.

They skate out as their names are announced, Shane being last. Boston is already on the ice, warming up and stretching. It only takes seconds for Shane to spot Ilya, but he doesn’t acknowledge him yet. He focuses on his stretches, waving hi to a few kids sitting on the other side of the plexiglass, smiling at someone who made a sign reading Hollander + Rozanov! The sight of it eases him a little. A tiny reminder that there will always be people on their side, even if it’s not the majority when it comes to hockey fans.

They gather at the Voyageurs bench, everyone grabbing some water, before the first line skates back out onto the ice. Originally, Shane had been worried Theriault would actually bench Shane just because they were playing against Boston, but they all knew the crowd and the press would know why. Plus, they would really have no shot at winning if Shane were benched, and no one could argue that. 

What Shane didn’t expect, however, was to be chosen for the first face off. With Ilya opposite him. Theriault had leveled him with a stare before sending him out. “Nothing funny, Hollander.” Shane hadn’t even graced him with a response.

He skates out to the center of the ice, meeting Ilya’s familiar eyes. The chatter of the arena is deafening, everyone either excited or appalled that they would set them up in the first face off of the night. “Hi, Hollander,” Ilya says softly. 

“Rozanov.” They haven’t seen each other in over a month, and even though things had definitely been tense after the cottage, it’s slowly gotten better the more they’ve spoken over the last few weeks. And Shane has missed him so fucking much, even if he shouldn’t have. “I’ll see you… after the game, right?”

It’s just for the optics, so they could post together, but Shane finds that he doesn’t care. He just wants to see Ilya, now that things are no longer awkward between them. 

“Yes,” he says, gently knocking Shane’s stick with his own. “Good luck.”

“Yeah, you, too.”

The puck drops, and Shane wins the face off.

The game is brutal, as expected. The score teeters back and forth, both goalies are on top of things, and the defense lines are strong. A few Boston players chirp at Shane, the expected homophobic bullshit, but it barely reaches him. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard from his own team, at this point. 

Shane and Ilya’s overlapping ice time is limited; their coaches only pull one of them back into the game when it becomes obvious they’re absolutely needed. Whenever Shane isn’t on the ice, he’s watching the way his players interact with Ilya. He can tell a few of them make comments that are probably out of line, but Ilya seems to brush them off the same way Shane has been doing. One of their defensemen does check Ilya into the boards, but it’s a clean hit while they’re battling for control of the puck, and Ilya seems fine after it. 

The game is close, and it might’ve ended up in overtime if the Voyageurs’ goalie hadn’t caught that last minute shot on goal from Ilya. When the buzzer sounds, it’s 3-2, and Shane feels a stupid amount of relief settle in his bones. They won. Barely, but they won. 

“Fuck, yeah, baby,” Hayden says, knocking his helmet against Shane’s. “That’s how it’s done.”

“Thank fuck,” Shane mutters, almost to himself. They skate back out onto the ice, and a few of Shane’s teammates actually positively acknowledge him for once — as if winning against his boyfriend has suddenly proven his loyalty to his team of ten years. They line up for handshakes, and every single Boston player glares hard at Shane, even the ones Ilya has mentioned were on the supportive side. Every single player, that is, except for…

Shane’s hand locks with Ilya’s, both at the end of their lines. Boston is already skating back towards their tunnel, Montreal is celebrating their win as they wave to fans on the other side of the glass. Shane pauses there, in the center of the ice with Ilya, and he knows immediately that the majority of eyes in the arena are on them. 

“Good game,” Ilya says, his voice soft. 

In an instant, all of that previous relief vacates Shane’s system. Because even though Shane's team won’t be blaming him for a loss tonight, Ilya’s team will be doing exactly that to their own captain. The thing Shane had been dreading happening to him would now be happening to Ilya instead. 

“I’m sorry,” Shane whispers helplessly. But Ilya just shakes his head. He skates a little closer and lifts Shane’s glove to his mouth, kissing the back of it. Theriault would harp on him for that later, but Shane doesn't care.

“Is just the game, Hollander,” Ilya responds, but his forced grin doesn’t meet his eyes. “I will see you soon, yes?”

“Yes,” Shane says. He squeezes Ilya’s hand once, and they finally break apart. Shane can barely revel in his victory, thinking about what Ilya is going to be facing in the locker room and during the post-game interviews. 

In their own locker room, the Voyageurs are rowdy and excited, like they just won the cup instead of a random home game. 

“Hey, Hollander,” someone calls. Shane looks up, locking eyes with one of their newest players. A kid, only his second year in the league. He’s good, if a bit arrogant. He grins, like they’re in on some shared, secret joke. “Tell us. How’d you get Rozanov to throw the game?”

Shane blinks. A few of their players roll their eyes because they know damn well Boston did not let them win. But some of them tune in, looking at Shane with interest. Several insults lie on the tip of Shane’s tongue, the devil on his shoulder urging him to call them all fucking idiots for thinking Ilya would purposefully lose. 

Instead, Shane just laughs dryly. “You think Ilya threw the game, yet he still stopped you from scoring in the second period. Oh, and twice in the third, if I’m not mistaken.” 

He was not. 

“If that was him going easy on you, Castor, should we work on your offense next practice?” Shane asks, leveling him with an unimpressed stare. The kid’s head cocks back, like he was smacked. 

“That’s—“ But his stuttered defense gets drowned out by their other teammates laughing, slapping Castor on the back, and shaking him lightly. He keeps his head down as they finish changing. 

Shane feels outside of himself as he answers a few questions from interviewers in the tunnel. Yes, he’s happy they won against Boston. No, playing against Rozanov wasn’t any more difficult than usual, just because people knew about them. Yes, he knew more eyes were on him, and he’s determined to still do his best, despite the pressure. 

Everything grazes over his skin, none of the questions digging into him the way he knows is intended. It’s hard to focus on the support when he knows Ilya is likely getting bagged with the opposite right now. Shane just wants to go home, and he wants Ilya to be there with him. 

It feels like days have passed when he’s finally pulling into his parking garage. After he shuts his car off, he just sits in the darkness for a few seconds. It’s silent, aside from Shane’s slow, deep breaths. His phone buzzes, and Shane squints at the bright screen. 

Rozanov
Be there in 10

It’s enough to get Shane moving again. He lets Ilya know that the door will be unlocked for him and heads upstairs. He changes into something more comfortable, and as he’s stepping back onto the main level of his condo, his front door opens. Shane pauses at the bottom of the stairs, watching Ilya shuffle into the foyer. He slips his shoes off automatically. 

“Hey,” Shane says softly. 

“Hi.”

Things are awkward and a little tense, but Shane thinks it has nothing to do with the last time they saw each other, and everything to do with the heaviness of the world watching their every move tonight. Ilya cracks his neck, the popping sound making Shane wince. 

“I’m going to change,” Ilya says. “I need— I need to change.”

“Yeah, okay,” Shane nods, stepping out of the way of the stairs. He tries not to stare as Ilya passes him, but he fails, noting the tension in his shoulders. He walks into the kitchen, pulling out a Coke and a ginger ale, then he makes a pit stop at his pantry and finds the family-size bag of salt and vinegar kettle chips — the same brand Ilya always bought whenever he was visiting Shane over the summer, and that he’d had seven (Shane had counted) bags of in his own house. He brings everything to the living room, setting them on the coffee table just as Ilya descends the stairs. He pauses on the last step, looking at the little setup.

“What is this?” he asks, blinking slowly. “I thought you did not like those chips.”

“I don’t,” Shane says. He feels so stupidly shy. “But you do.”

“Oh.”

Shane turns away from Ilya before his face can become anymore red, and sits on the sofa. “You don’t have to eat them, if you don’t want,” he says dismissively, like that can reduce his efforts to cheer Ilya up into something casual.

Ilya rounds the sofa, stepping back into Shane’s line of vision, but he doesn’t sit. He looks at Shane, a little contemplative, a slight tilt to his head. “Can you… lay down? I have idea for photo.” 

Shane blinks once, then obeys, lying on his back. His head rests against a pillow leaning against the arm of the sofa. “Like this?” Shane asks. Ilya doesn’t respond. Or, he does, but not with words. Instead, he crawls over Shane and gently settles his weight onto him, resting his cheek right above Shane’s heart. Their legs tangle loosely together, Shane’s feet brushing against Ilya’s shins.

It takes everything in Shane not to go rigid with tension. 

He’s shocked, obviously, but the last thing he wants is for Ilya to think he’s uncomfortable, or in any way against being used as a mattress. Gently, Shane’s hands rest on Ilya’s upper back, one palm sliding up to meet the collar of his t-shirt. Shane’s thumb gently brushes over the nape of his neck.

“Am I heavy?” Ilya asks. “I can move.”

“No,” Shane whispers. Objectively, Ilya is heavy. He’s over 200 pounds of pure muscle. But he’s crushing Shane into the couch in the absolute best way possible, so of course he’s not going to complain. He watches as Ilya holds one arm out and snaps a photo of himself for his Instagram story, his face squished against Shane’s chest. From what Shane can see on the dim screen, his face isn’t even in the picture. It cuts off just below his chin, and only his chest and some of his fingers are in frame. With one thumb, Ilya types something out. Without pressing post yet, he tilts the screen for Shane to see.

“Okay?” he asks. Now that he can see it better, he sees Ilya’s soft grin and the way his skin crinkles from being pressed against Shane. The caption reads Lost the game, but I'm still winning. Shane hopes Ilya doesn’t hear his heart physically skip a beat inside his chest.

“Okay,” Shane confirms. Ilya posts it before reaching out and setting his phone on the coffee table.

He shifts slightly, like he might get up, but Shane instantly tightens his grip. “Wait—” he says abruptly. He doesn’t even have a reason, aside from not wanting Ilya to move yet. “Let me, um.”

Shane wedges his hand into his pocket, taking out his own phone. His other hand slides upwards, burying his fingers into Ilya’s hair, which is still damp from the shower at the arena. His nails trace back and forth gently over Ilya’s scalp, and Shane can all but feel Ilya melt into him. He holds his phone up, snapping a couple of pictures, but it’s mostly just an excuse to keep Ilya here for another few seconds. 

He moves his phone down so that Ilya can see the pictures. “I’ll post one in a few days or someth—” He cuts himself off when his phone starts buzzing in his hand, and they both see a FaceTime call from Rose incoming. 

Again, Ilya goes to get up. And again, inexplicably, Shane stops him. “Wait, she… wants to meet you anyway,” he says weakly. “You could just— stay. And say hi.”

Rose had hoped to make a trip to Montreal over the summer, but as soon as she’d finished filming her movie, Shane had gone to Boston for a few days. Just as he was set to return, Rose was called for a short press run. Each time they’d tried to make something work, one of them always had some obligation. Any time they managed to call each other, Ilya hadn’t been with Shane, so she’d yet to meet Ilya — in person or over the phone.

Ilya is tense for just a few seconds, but then he relaxes. “Okay,” he says softly.

Shane holds his phone up to his face, keeping Ilya out of frame for now, and he answers. Rose is instantly smiling at him. “Hello hello,” she sings. “I just got back to my hotel a few minutes ago. I saw the final score and a few clips of the game, but tell me everything. I’m guessing he’s coming over soon, so I can probably only steal you for a few minutes, right?”

“Hi to you, too,” Shane chuckles. “And, well…”

He holds his phone outward, pulling Ilya into frame.

“Hello, Rose Landry.”

Rose’s eyes go wide, her smile morphing into shock. “Shane! You didn’t have to pick up!” she sputters. “You were just telling me you guys haven’t seen each other in, like, a month. Honestly, I’m surprised you still have clothes on.”

“Alright,” Shane interjects, his cheeks instantly flaming. In the little window, he can see Ilya trying not to smile. “I figured you’d want to say hi, since you never got the chance to meet him this summer.”

Her smile returns, and she nods excitedly. “Yes, hi, Ilya!” she says, waving both hands. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to make it work this summer. That stupid movie set held me hostage. I have heard so, so much about you, though.”

“Yes, I have heard a lot about you, too,” Ilya says. “He loves to talk about his ex-girlfriend.”

“Oh, my God,” Shane mutters, but it’s barely audible over Rose’s laugh. 

“Trust me, I’m certain he talks about you more,” she says. “He never tells me anything juicy or dirty, though. He’s the worst at gossiping.”

“I’m right here, you know.”

“Yeah, and you’re the worst at gossiping,” Rose repeats, unashamed. Ilya reaches for Shane’s wrist and brings the phone closer to his face.

“Rose Landry, I am very good at gossiping,” he says seriously. “Give me your phone number, I will tell you everything.”

“Hey—” Shane pulls his wrist free, bringing the camera back to his own face. “He will not. Do not give him your number.”

But Rose is already typing away on her phone. “Ilya, check your Instagram DMs later.”

“Okay.”

“No,” Shane whines, but there’s a teeny, tiny part of him that’s pleased. Even if they’re teaming up against him, Shane had just known that Rose and Ilya would get along. He loves the idea of two of the people he trusts most liking each other. Still, he pretends this is his biggest nightmare. “You guys are the worst.”

“Oh, please. You love us,” Rose says, smiling.

“Yeah, Shane,” Ilya says, tilting his head so that his chin is resting on Shane’s chest. He’s already seeming to be in a much better mood than when he first arrived. “You love us.”

Shane swallows down something about just how true that might be.

“Okay, gross, right in front of my virgin eyes?” Rose’s words force them to break eye contact, and Shane’s eyebrows furrow as he looks at his screen.

“Your what?”

“My virgin eyes.”

“You are not a virgin.”

“You don’t know that.”

Shane blinks. “I literally do know that. Unfortunately, I know that very well.”

Rose visibly cringes. “Love you so much, but please refrain from ever mentioning the fact that we’ve had sex.”

Hearing her say it so plainly makes Shane cringe, too. “No, yeah, sorry,” he shakes his head. “For bringing it up, and for it happening.”

Ilya snorts, pressing his face into the front of Shane’s hoodie, like he’s trying to hide his smile. Rose laughs, too. “Eh, it’s in the past. And I’m sure you’re having much better sex now. I would hope so, at least.”

Shane very pointedly does not look at Ilya, but his brain flicks back to that final night at the cottage. If he removes the horrible ending of that moment in the hot tub, it was easily the best sexual experience Shane has ever had. 

“Anyways,” Shane says, “you are a menace, and I’m going to go now.”

“Have fun,” Rose sings, winking three times. “Ilya, it was so nice to meet you! I hope to meet you in person sometime! Next summer, at the very latest.”

Shane doesn’t allow his smile to fade, even as his brain reminds him that there won’t be a next summer for his relationship with Ilya. 

Ilya lifts his head, grinning at the phone. “Goodbye, Rose Landry,” he says brightly. “Very nice to meet you. I will text you lots of gossip soon.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Shane rolls his eyes. “Okay, love you, bye.”

“Love you, bye!” she says back, the words barely finishing before she ends the call. They fall back into silence, Ilya’s chin still propped up on Shane’s chest. Now, there’s no more excuses Shane can make about keeping him there, but Ilya hasn’t made any immediate attempts to move, so Shane lays his phone on Ilya’s back, like that might force him to stay.

On the table, Ilya’s phone has been buzzing this entire time, and it continues now. Ilya groans, his good mood vanishing.

“What?” Shane asks, pressing his palm to the space between Ilya’s shoulders. He’s quiet for a minute. Without looking over, he reaches over and picks up his phone. He unlocks it, taps on the screen for a few seconds, and then turns it in Shane’s direction. 

“Look.”

Shane takes the phone and scrolls through the Bears group chat. Everyone is either speculating themselves about all the ways Ilya swayed the game, or they’re sharing links to posts and articles about how other people think Ilya swayed the game. People are analyzing every move Ilya made during the game. Every tiny mistake, every missed pass — most of which were not his fault — every minor failure was being blown out of proportion.

“This is bullshit,” Shane says, his anger building as he scrolls. These guys are talking like Ilya isn’t even in the chat, like he can’t see every message being sent. “Saying you threw the game is fucking bullshit. How about they focus on the fact that you were the only person who scored? Once, while I was on the ice. You took the puck from me more than once. You almost slammed me into the boards.”

Ilya’s forehead rests on Shane’s chest. “Almost,” Ilya repeats weakly. “But I did not, because you moved. And obviously, that means that I purposely let you break away.”

His voice is so exhausted, Shane’s attention immediately redirects to Ilya rather than the phone in his hand. He mutes the notifications and sets the phone aside. No longer caring about needing an excuse or worrying about crossing lines, his arms curl tightly around Ilya’s shoulders. Slowly, Ilya melts into him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I know it’s not my fault, but it’s not yours, either. Anyone who thinks either of us would sabotage the game is a fucking idiot. They’re being horrible, and you don’t deserve it.”

“I will make them do bag skates until they die,” Ilya says, his voice muffled against Shane’s shirt.

“Good.”

His shoulders rise and fall a few times before he asks Shane, “Did any of them say anything to you? On the ice. I saw a few of them chirp at you. Were any of them assholes?”

“Yeah, a few, but I wasn’t even paying attention to who said what,” he says. “I was more focused on watching if my guys were targeting you.”

Ilya hums. “Oh, you were watching me, Hollander?” he asks, his voice lifting at an attempt to tease. Shane exhales a soft laugh. The truth is that he’s always watching Ilya. When they’re together, he finds it hard to look away. When they’re on the ice, Ilya is magnetic. When Shane watches Boston games, he can only ever focus on Ilya. But he can’t just admit that. The last time he was honest about his feelings, it was far from a success.

“Please,” he snorts. “You wish, Rozanov.”

Chapter End Notes

i was the person holding the hollander + rozanov sign its true

my twitter!

Chapter 16: sixteen

Chapter Notes

i love this chapter hehe

“You are going to be very mad at me.”

Shane pauses in the middle of buckling his seatbelt, eyes flicking up to Ilya. He looks stupidly good, as usual, in a dark gray crewneck and sunglasses pushed up on top of his head. Even in the ugly red interior of his ridiculous Maserati, he looks fucking edible. 

“Why am I going to be mad at you?” Shane asks slowly. They pull away from the pickup lane at the Boston airport. 

“Yuna called me.”

Shane turns his entire upper body to look at Ilya, blinking rapidly. “She— my mom called you? About what? When?” he asks. And then he realizes, and dread fills him. “No. There’s no way she told you that we have to go out tonight. I already told her we aren’t.”

“Hollander, it’s Halloween,” Ilya says. “We have to go out. Is illegal to not go out.”

“It’s also our supposed anniversary,” Shane argues, which is exactly what he told his mom repeatedly. “It makes perfect sense that we would want to stay in. We can still post about being together, and then we’re fine.”

Shane hates bars and clubs. He hates the loud music, the thick crowds, the drunk idiots. The only time he’s ever wrangled into going out is when his team forces him after particular games where the high of victory is so strong, they literally don’t allow Shane to say no. And even then, he always hates it, but at least he can hang out with Hayden, and he can go home to his own quiet, safe apartment. 

Now, he’s in a city that doesn’t belong to him with bars he’s never been to, and he’s with someone who is basically known for partying. It’s the perfect recipe for a fucking anxiety attack. 

“Shane,” Ilya presses softly. “I won’t force you. I know you are nervous. But it would be very good PR, and I would be with you the whole time. I already have a place picked, I think you will like it.”

Shane sinks into his seat, his arms crossing over his chest like he’s trying to curl in on himself. He feels like a child, the way he wants to fight Ilya on this. He already spent an hour arguing with his mom about it, only for her to go behind his back and call Ilya after she’d supposedly surrendered. 

But he knows they should do this. They haven’t really been seen together publicly since before Shane went to the cottage, aside from on the ice earlier this month, so it made complete sense from an optics standpoint that they should go out. Especially to a bar or a club, where it’s socially acceptable to participate in PDA, which would only give the media more fuel. Shane understands the logistics — he just hates it.

“What’s the place called?” Shane grumbles. 

“Raiders. Is a small bar, not as crowded as some of the other ones I’ve been to,” he says. “Will probably be a little busier tonight, because it is Halloween, but maybe still better than other places. And is not a gay bar, exactly, but I know we will be okay there. Is safe.”

Shane looks up from where he was typing the name of the place into the search bar. “Safe?” 

“The owner is gay, I have met him and his husband a few times. Very nice people,” he says, shrugging. “They kick people out for being assholes sometimes. And I have seen men kiss on the dance floor. No one cared.”

Shane blinks as he turns Ilya’s words over in his head. Did that mean they were expected to kiss tonight? Shane never paid much attention to couples when he was out, especially not ones that were all over each other. He has no solid idea of how much PDA is too much. Plus, he definitely has no idea how he’s supposed to kiss Ilya again, like that night at the cottage never happened. 

That had maybe also been another silent part of why he’d wanted to stay in tonight. Posting is one thing. It’s easy and calculated. People only see exactly what Shane and Ilya allow them to. When they’re out, there are constant eyes on them. They never have a single moment of peace, and they have to be on the entire time. Shane has to pretend that he’s only pretending to be in love with Ilya, who now knows that Shane has some level of feelings for him. 

He looks up the bar, clicking through photos and reviews. There’s a bar and seated areas, but there’s also a small dance floor. It definitely looks to be a bit more casual than the prestigious bars his teammates drag him to. Included under the information for the bar, it does say LGBT+ Friendly, only affirming what Ilya had said. 

Shane swallows. “How long would we stay?” he says softly. 

“Maybe two hours,” Ilya says. “But if it feels like it is too much for you, or if we get bored, we go sooner. As long as we are seen, that is what matters, yes?”

Tilting his head back against the seat, Shane exhales and accepts his fate. He takes some comfort in knowing that if he does get overwhelmed, he’ll be with Ilya, who has seemed to know how to ground him from the very start. “We don’t even have costumes,” he says weakly. But Ilya’s face just splits into a wide grin that only makes Shane more scared. 

“Do not worry about that, Hollander.”

“I am not wearing these.”

“Hollander, this is barely even a costume. It is a headband.”

“And a tail!”

“Come here, zaychik (little bunny).”

Shane stares blankly at Ilya. “Please don’t tell me that means bunny.”

“It doesn’t,” Ilya says, grinning. “It means little bunny.”

He takes the white rabbit ears from Shane’s hands, and puts them on his head, adjusting them carefully. “I’m not wearing the tail,” Shane whispers, which only makes Ilya smile wider. 

“Fine,” he says. “You are lucky this is last minute. You could have been Playboy bunny, but they had no fishnets in your size.”

“You’re not funny,” Shane mutters, his cheeks feeling a little warm. Mainly because he has no idea if Ilya is joking or not. Ilya puts on his own headband, a pair of gray bunny ears. Unfortunately for Shane, he looks really fucking cute. Especially with the happy little twinkle in his eye.

The only good part of this costume is that Shane is able to wear a t-shirt — one of Ilya’s, because Shane didn’t bring a white one. Ilya’s in a gray one, and he does have his little puffball of a tail clipped to the back belt loop of his jeans. 

“Come,” Ilya says, nodding towards the mirror hanging in the entryway. “Your mama wants a picture of our costumes.”

“I can’t believe you’re, like, friends with her,” Shane says, but he obeys, following Ilya to the mirror. He curls an arm around Ilya’s waist, and presses his cheek to his shoulder. The tips of Shane’s rabbit ears brush against Ilya’s hair. As soon as he does that, he freezes, realizing he may be misreading. “Oh, wait, are you just taking one for her or to post? I can move if you wa—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, because Ilya swings his arm around Shane’s shoulders. “Smile, bunny.”

“I hate you.”

Ilya holds up his phone and snaps a few pictures. He keeps his arm around Shane as he chooses one and sends it to a contact labeled Mama Hollander. Shane smiles at the sight of it. “What else do you guys even text about?” he murmurs. Ilya scrolls up. The messages are few and far between, and it’s mostly just coordination for PR stuff, but there are a couple from his mom about Ilya’s games. There’s one from the day after Boston played Montreal, telling Ilya not to listen to all the noise from people being stupid.

Boston had a short losing streak after that game, all because Ilya’s teammates felt like they couldn’t trust him. Shane had heard Ilya rant about it more than once, until he’d finally snapped and run them through the most ruthless practice. Ilya had said one of the rookies had literally begged him to stop their drills. 

Boston won their next game after that.

Ilya’s phone buzzes, and the chat scrolls back down to the bottom to show the new messages from Yuna.

How cute!!
I’m glad he listens to YOU about going out
Have fun!

Shane rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. The clock strikes 11 pm, and he lifts his head from Ilya’s shoulder. “Ready to get this over with?”

Ilya snorts. “You say that like this will be a horrible time, Hollander,” he says. Shane watches as Ilya orders a car. “You always tell me you are so fun, no?”

“I’m… a different kind of fun,” he frowns.

“Yes. A boring kind of fun.”

“Alright,” Shane mutters, rolling his eyes. He steps away from Ilya to slip on his shoes. Shane’s nerves are buzzing a little bit by the time they get in the car. Glancing over at Ilya, who is typing away on his phone, Shane dims his own screen and opens Instagram. They’d both posted for their “anniversary” earlier, and Shane pulls Ilya’s post back up. The picture he’d chosen was one from the cottage, when Ilya had randomly curled his arm around Shane’s waist from behind and tucked his face into the crook of Shane’s neck, snapping a few pictures of them. And Shane knows the caption is just a fabricated, generic remark, but in the most delusional corners of his mind, he likes to imagine Ilya means some of it.

My favorite holiday, and my favorite person. Happy anniversary, солнышко. I am so glad to be yours, and I cannot wait to make more memories with you. I love you.

The first time Shane had read those few final words, his throat had run dry. Obviously, if they had really been together for a year, they would be saying they loved each other. It only made sense. They had just never actually talked about saying those words to each other in a public sense. Shane’s eyes trace over them one last time, before he clicks his phone off. Maybe in another life, in another universe, Ilya is saying those words to Shane and meaning them with his whole chest. Just not this one.

“Sveta is very mad that she had to go to Russia for the week,” Ilya says. “She is texting me over and over about it. And she also says hi.”

Shane smiles a bit. “Hi,” he says back. “Tell her I wish she was here, too. I would probably be less nervous if I knew at least one other person.”

Instantly, Ilya’s phone goes dark and he drops it into his lap. He moves his leg to bump Shane’s knee with his own. “You will tell me if you want to go, da?” he asks. “I do not care if we are only there for ten minutes. We will leave.”

It eases something inside of Shane. For all of the weird bits of tension that still linger, for all of the anxiety Shane feels about his unrequited crush on Ilya, he still does trust him more than anyone. And he knows that even if he feels like a burden, or like some boring hassle that Ilya has to deal with, Ilya doesn’t see him that way. “Okay,” Shane whispers. “I will try to last longer than ten minutes, though.”

Ilya hums. “Because you are nervous, I will not make sex joke about that.”

“Gross.”

“I did not say it!”

The car slows to a stop, and Ilya winks at him once before getting out. Shane does, too, the chilly air hitting him. He’d wanted to wear something warmer, but Ilya had assured him the inside of the bar would be warm. And sure enough, the minute they step in, the chill is forgotten. The bar is busy, but as Ilya had predicted, it was not absolutely packed. Everyone is in costumes ranging from something simple, like a pair of cat ears and some drawn on whiskers, to entire suits that took up extra room, to elaborate group costumes.

Ilya laces his fingers with Shane’s, pulling him through the crowd. People recognize them, of course. Ilya first, because this is Boston after all, but then their eyes find Shane and go wide, because they’re both here, and they’re together.

Shane is pretty sure he sees a few people try to sneakily snap photos, but Ilya pulls him close before he can focus on it too much. They’re almost entirely pressed together at the end of the bar, Ilya’s arm curved all the way around Shane’s waist. “Do you want to drink?” he asks, dipping his head close to Shane’s ear. “I will only drink if you do.”

Shane hesitates for a second before nodding once. He doesn’t usually imbibe during the season, but he supposes one night won’t kill him. Plus, he feels a little bit like he needs it to get through this. Ilya smiles at him before turning towards the bartender and ordering what seems to be their usual — a vodka, neat, for Ilya, and a vodka ginger ale for Shane. While they wait, Ilya leans close again.

“I am going to guess you do not like to dance?”

Shane stares at him flatly. Even if Shane liked to dance, which he does not, he is not a good dancer, which means he is absolutely not going to embarrass himself in this Boston club where people are already taking pictures of them. It’s bad enough that he’s going to be posted all over the internet tomorrow with bunny ears on his head.

Ilya just laughs, sliding thirty dollars to the bartender after he sets their drinks down. “I will not be able to convince you, moy zaychik (my little bunny)?” he asks. “Even after a drink or two?”

“Absolutely not,” Shane says, taking a sip of his drink. He instantly winces at the strong taste of vodka. Ilya’s body shakes lightly as he laughs again.

“Oh, yes. Their drinks are strong. Poor bunny, you will probably only need one.”

“I hate you,” Shane mutters, probably too low for Ilya to hear. A few feet away, someone sitting at the bar gets up and leaves, so Ilya pulls Shane over. 

“Here, sit,” he says. “We can just stay here for a bit.”

Shane should argue, suggesting somewhere else like the dance floor or one of the booths near the door might be more visible, but he doesn’t really want to be seen any more than he has to be. So he sits on the barstool. Ilya instantly shoves a hand between Shane’s knees, parting them in a way that causes Shane to flush with heat. Ilya steps between his legs, bringing them just a little closer, and he sets his hand on Shane’s outer thigh. It’s so insanely intimate, Shane finds it hard to actually look up at Ilya.

“Is this where you normally go when you go out?” Shane asks, looking around. There are pink and blue lights dancing over the crowd, and several disco balls reflecting off the walls. A DJ booth in the corner plays decent pop music that everyone else seems to be enjoying, though Shane doesn’t recognize it. The bottles lining the wall behind the bar are backlit with soft lights, and the bartenders are both in tight, revealing costumes — a firefighter and a neon 80’s outfit. There’s some plastic bats and pumpkins hanging from the ceiling, and that fake cobweb stuff draped over the walls. It’s a nice vibe, Shane thinks. Better than most places he’s been to before.

“No,” Ilya says. “Sveta and I come here sometimes when we just want to dance. They play good music. But when I used to go look for a hook up, or go out with my team, I go to busier places.”

“Ah,” Shane murmurs, not really in the mood to think about how often Ilya might’ve gone out in search of a hook up. His eyes flick up. “Does that mean you want to dance?” he asks.

A slow smile pulls across Ilya’s face. “Yes, Hollander,” he says, leaning a little closer. Their faces are only inches apart. The last time they were this close, Shane was in Ilya’s lap and their hands were shoved down each other’s shorts. “I want to dance. I am hoping to convince you.”

“I’m going to need to be a lot more drunk,” Shane says, hoping the lights hide whatever desire he knows is written all over his face. It doesn’t matter that he’s not allowed to want Ilya; it doesn’t matter that Ilya doesn’t want him the same way. The simple fact is that Shane does want him, and it’s impossible to hide it when he’s this fucking close and looking at Shane like that. If Ilya wasn’t one of the best players in the NHL, he could have a career as an actor, because he’s so good at looking at Shane like he loves him.

It’s a little painful, sometimes.

Ilya presses his finger to the bottom of Shane’s glass, and raises it up to his lips. And he watches as Shane takes a long sip. “Good job, zaychik,” Ilya says softly. He suddenly feels like he’s playing with fire, toying with the idea of getting drunk while he’s this close to Ilya. But his eyes look so dark, and he’s so close, Shane thinks he could get off on the attention alone. Even if it’s not the exact kind of attention Shane wants from Ilya, he sometimes thinks he would take whatever is given to him.

He has no idea how to do casual, not when he’s already stumbling head over heels for Ilya. But he thinks if he had the opportunity to have Ilya like that, he would take it. It might kill him in the end, but their whole “breakup” was going to suck for Shane regardless. If he could at least have part of Ilya before they split, he would take it.

Not that those thoughts mean much anyway, when Ilya has already rejected him. But in their time apart over the last two months since the cottage, when Shane has allowed himself to think back to how fucking incredible that moment in the hot tub was before things went to shit, he’s realized he would do anything to feel that way under Ilya’s touch again. It was so fucking good. Maybe not worth the pain of the aftermath, but if he prepared himself for the bone-crushing end of the fall, he could handle it. It would be worth it.

Shane takes another long sip, forcing himself to blink back to the present. There was absolutely no reason to get lost in this spiral right now, because nothing like that was going to happen and he was only going to make things tense again if he let himself slip. The last thing he needs is to remind Ilya of Shane’s feelings for him.

“Why is Halloween your favorite holiday?” Shane asks, steering the conversation back to something more innocent.

Ilya shrugs, taking a sip of his horrible vodka. “Is fun,” he says simply. “I like dressing up. Sveta and I sometimes do matching costumes. We even won contest one year.”

“What did you dress as when you won?” Shane smiles. There’s a very faint buzz running through his veins, telling him to lean into Ilya’s touch. He doesn’t listen.

“I was Zeus, she was—” he scrunches his face like he’s thinking back to it, “—the pretty one. Goddess of love. I always mess up her name.”

“Aphrodite,” Shane supplies.

“Da, yes,” Ilya nods. “A few of her friends were also gods and goddesses, but we were the only ones that entered the contest and we won.”

Shane’s smile splits his face in two, and Ilya’s eyes flick down to his mouth for just a few seconds. “You’ll have to show me a picture sometime,” Shane says.

Ilya just smiles into another sip of his vodka. Shane glances around, catching a few people’s eyes. Despite the fact that they’re obviously being recognized, everyone seems to have the decency to leave them alone, aside from a handful of prolonged stares and cameras being subtly pointed at them. Shane finds that he prefers that over people coming up and interrupting their conversation, asking for photos or trying to talk to them. This way, Shane can at least sip his drink and do his best to ignore the attention. If he were alone, he would feel every stare like a physical weight against his skin, but it’s easy to focus on Ilya instead. 

Shane looks at him over the rim of his glass as he takes another drink of his vodka ginger ale. The colorful lights reflect off his skin, and it just reminds Shane of that stupid hot tub. How the rainbow lights shifted the shadows of Ilya’s muscles and his cheekbones. How the pink and red lights made him look sharper, but the blue and green lights made him look softer. 

Shane reaches up and gently adjusts Ilya’s headband, which has gone slightly crooked. Ilya says nothing, but something in his expression melts a little. Shane hates it, because he has no idea what it means. He tips back the rest of his drink, careful to keep the ice from spilling out. He places the glass back on the bar, then picks up Ilya’s plain vodka. 

Ilya raises an amused brow as he watches Shane take a sip. He laughs quietly when Shane can’t help but grimace. 

“Oh, you are trying to get drunk, Hollander?” 

Shane shrugs one shoulder. He can’t get drunk, because he has to keep his self-control intact, but he wants to feel just a little looser. He wants to be fun — not boring fun, but actually fun, for once. “How else are you going to get me on that dance floor?”

Shane orders a second drink, but he doesn’t end up finishing it. Mainly because he’s tipsy enough, bordering on drunk, but also because Ilya is tugging his wrist impatiently. It’s been a good fifteen minutes since Shane had suggested that he may be agreeable to a little dancing, and Ilya had been dead set on making it happen. 

“I’m not even a good dancer,” Shane complains as Ilya knocks back the last gulp of Shane’s vodka ginger ale that he’d planned on abandoning.

“Even better,” Ilya says. “I can teach you.”

“You can’t— that’s so embarrassing.”

Ilya slides his arm around Shane’s waist, pulling them flush, his thighs open around Ilya’s hips. “It will be very embarrassing for you when I carry you to dance floor if you do not stand up now.”

“You could not pick me up,” Shane sputters, but the thought lights him on fire. Ilya probably, definitely could pick Shane up. Which is absurd, and so fucking hot to think about. 

“Do you want to bet?” Ilya asks, tightening his grip like he’s going to follow through. Shane chokes on a laugh and pushes Ilya back, standing up on his own. The minute he’s on his feet, that tipsy feeling rushes to his head. 

He smiles, welcoming it. “Alright, lead the way,” Shane says, waving a hand towards the crowd. Ilya locks their fingers together, the familiar weight soothing Shane as he squeezes between people in costumes of superheroes, animals, and every occupation under the sun. Ilya picks a spot on the outskirts of the dance floor, away from the thickest parts of the crowd, but not completely isolated, either.

“The good thing about dancing at clubs,” Ilya says, pulling Shane close enough that their chests are only inches apart, “is that it is not really dancing. Just moving. Swaying.”

Shane hums, his hands gripping Ilya’s biceps lightly. He knows, theoretically, how to dance at a club. Rose made him do it more than once. It’s just that when he tries, even if he’s a little tipsy or loose, his movements always look and feel awkward. Like it’s his first day having limbs. He can be so fluid on the ice, but he’s so disjointed on the dance floor. He feels himself locking up now, unsure of how much to move his feet or which way to swing his hips.

But of course, Ilya is there to help him. His hands drop to Shane’s hips, and guide him with slow, rhythmic movements. “Like this, Hollander,” Ilya murmurs, his lips right beside Shane’s ear. Ilya’s hips follow the same pattern, so it’s like they’re moving together. If they were four inches closer, their lower bodies would be flush. If Shane had finished that drink, he might’ve had the courage (or the stupidity) to do so. 

He doesn’t recognize the song playing, but Ilya’s mouth is moving along with the lyrics. Everyone else around them is screaming it, too. Shane imagines if he knew more mainstream music, he could understand the appeal of dancing more. As of right now, the only part of this that Shane is enjoying is the view and Ilya’s hands on his body.

Ilya smiles suddenly, leaning closer to say into Shane’s ear, “You are bored.” He sounds amused, which is good considering that means he’s not upset that Shane is, indeed, very bored. He tries to deny it anyway.

“No, I’m not!”

“No?” Ilya pulls back so they can lock eyes again, his head tilting and his lips pulling up in that teasing smirk. “You are having fun?”

It’s not even a lie when Shane nods and says, “Yeah.” The dancing isn’t for him, but he is having fun. He likes the buzz in his veins. He likes watching Ilya watch him. He really likes how close they are. 

Someone behind Ilya either stumbles, or gets pushed, or something, because her shoulder knocks into his back. It forces Ilya closer, killing the space between him and Shane. “Sorry, sorry!” the girl exclaims, eyes wide, before quickly shuffling a few steps away. 

Before Shane can even consider his actions, one of his hands tightens on Ilya’s bicep, and the other arm slides around his shoulders. One of Ilya’s thighs slips between his. They’re somehow even closer than they were in that hot tub, or at least it feels that way. If Ilya wanted to, he could easily pull out of Shane’s grip and put that distance between them again. 

And for a moment, Shane thinks he might. 

He freezes for a split second, and then he melts into the touch, his hand sliding around to the small of Shane’s back. “Hi,” Ilya mouths. Shane smiles, saying it back.

This is a bad idea. 

A horrible idea, based on their track record of getting this close. At least this time, they have the excuse of being in public, but it doesn’t help that Shane’s thoughts are spiraling and twisting out of control right now. He can blame it on the alcohol, or the warmth, or the vibe, but really, it’s just the proximity to Ilya that makes his brain go haywire. It makes him want to throw caution into the wind.

He can’t. He won’t. Because even if they could use the excuse of their PR relationship, they both know it means more for Shane, and Ilya drew those boundaries. And Shane will respect them. But no one has to know if he privately thinks about obliterating them as he presses himself closer to Ilya, and keeps dancing.

Chapter End Notes

should i be evil and make you guys wait for halloween pt 2...

my twitter!

Chapter 17: seventeen

Chapter Notes

this is not pointed at anyone, but i did just want to make a little note to remind everyone that i (and all other ao3 authors) do this hobby out of love and for fun, and while it's very nice that everyone is excited about the chapters, i would just like to say that some comments come off as very demanding and rude sometimes. everyone pls be kind and remember to say more than just some variation of "give me the next chapter now"

okay enoy mwah

Shane can feel the bass of the music shaking his bones. They’ve been dancing for a while, their bodies never separating, which is something Shane is certainly not complaining about. The song changes again — something even more upbeat than the last. The only lyrics Shane can pick up are something about touching and kissing, which almost makes him laugh, considering that’s all he’s fucking thinking about right now. Ilya, still directing Shane’s movements, shifts the pattern and tempo of their hips, but he keeps them flush together. The lights are pink and green now. Shane finds it hard to look Ilya in the eyes, knowing his desire is likely written plain as day all over his face.

Instead, he glances over to their left, blinking when he sees there are two girls a few feet away dressed as colorful characters that Shane doesn’t recognize, with their mouths pressed together, smiling into the kiss. Shane averts his eyes quickly, but he grins. He had trusted Ilya when he’d said they’d be safe here, but it’s still another thing to see a blatant display of pride like this. 

To their right, a group of people in an obvious group costume of some sort are jumping to the beat of the music, shouting the lyrics. The lights shift to purple and pink. The floor feels like it’s vibrating with the dancing and the bass. 

Any other time Shane was in a situation like this, he would be so filled with tension and anxiety that he wouldn’t even be able to think straight. But here, with Ilya, he feels… okay. It’s still not his preferred scene, of course, but he’s not looking for the nearest exit. He’s not thinking of excuses to get off the dance floor. 

Ilya’s hand slides from Shane’s hip up his waist, over his chest, curling around the side of his neck. His thumb presses gently under Shane’s jaw and tilts his head, forcing his attention back to Ilya. 

Ilya, whose smile has since faded. Ilya, who is looking back and forth between Shane’s eyes and his lips. It takes Shane a few seconds to realize Ilya is maybe asking for permission. And if Shane were smart, he would say no. They don’t need to kiss to sell anything right now, and he knows this is so much more than PR bullshit for him. 

But Shane is not smart, not when it comes to preservation of his heart and these stupid feelings he’s not allowed to have. 

So he leans in just a bit, tilting his head back. His hooded eyes drop to Ilya’s mouth, and he hopes his expression says yes please I want this. Whatever his face is saying, it must be the right answer, because Ilya leans in and kisses him. 

And maybe this is why people like clubbing. There is something, Shane is finding out, so freeing about not caring about what anyone else is doing. There is something so relieving and weightless about being allowed to do whatever you want, and giving yourself temporary permission to ignore everyone else's opinions. Because as Ilya’s mouth opens against his, all of Shane’s thoughts flit away into nothingness. The only thing his brain is saying is IlyaIlyaIlya. 

Shane’s hand slides over Ilya's jaw and tangles into his hair, accidentally nudging the ridiculous bunny ears on his head. Their tongues press together, and a tiny, distant part of Shane thinks this is probably, maybe too much for a fake relationship. He doubts anyone is even paying attention to them anymore, so is this really even for the optics? 

(It is, obviously, otherwise Ilya would’ve never kissed him.)

But Shane doesn’t care right now. Right now, he just kisses Ilya. Because he’s tipsy and happy, and he just really fucking wants it. Ilya’s hand slips underneath the back of Shane’s shirt, his palm pressing flat to the base of his spine, and his other hand rests on Shane’s jaw, their bodies still fused together. Shane trusts that Ilya has some semblance of an idea about the rhythm of the music, since he’s still directing the sway of their movements. 

Ilya’s tongue licks into his mouth again, a little deeper this time, and Shane just hopes Ilya can’t feel the vibration of the moan that slips out of him. He wants to get closer, to touch him more, to climb him like a fucking tree, but he’s at just the right level of tipsy where he can be a little reckless, yet still practice self-control where it matters. It’s dangerous enough that he’s kissing Ilya like this.

Ilya breaks the kiss, his eyes scanning Shane’s face quickly. He dips his head closer. “You are okay?” he asks, lips brushing over the tip of Shane’s ear as he speaks. Shane shivers involuntarily. He feels like he’s on fire, but he’s not sure if it’s the crowd, the drinks, the dancing, or Ilya. 

Or a mix of those things, but probably mostly Ilya.

“Yes,” he says, using the pretense of responding to allow his mouth to move against Ilya’s jaw. “I’m hot.”

“Good thing you did not wear sweater, hm?”

“God, yeah,” Shane laughs. “Would’ve taken it off.”

“Public indecency,” Ilya teases. 

“Oh, big words for you.”

“Hush, zaychik (little bunny),” Ilya says, but he presses a quick kiss to Shane’s hair, right above his ear. “But you are okay, really? This is a lot, I know.”

“I’m okay,” Shane says honestly. “I’m with you.”

Ilya’s fingers flex against the small of Shane’s back. He pulls back enough so that Shane can see his face again, and the lights make his eyes look darker than usual. He looks like he wants to say something, but after a couple of seconds, he just nods once. 

They keep dancing, their bodies never separating for even a second. As much as Shane wants to kiss him again, he doesn’t. Instead, they laugh about how Shane hasn’t recognized a single song. They point out costumes that they find cool. Ilya adjusts Shane’s bunny ears once. 

Several songs pass before the warmth starts to affect Shane, the feeling of sweat pricking at the back of his neck making him feel gross. He leans in again, his cheek grazing Ilya’s, and says, “Can we get another drink? Or water? I’m so sweaty.”

“Yes,” Ilya nods, pulling away and taking Shane’s hand instead. No longer having someone attached to the front of his body already helps Shane’s temperature regulate. They get to the end of the bar, and Ilya turns toward Shane. “How much longer do you want to stay? Do you want to drink more?”

“One more drink, I think,” he says. If he starts to feel too drunk, he doesn’t have to finish it. Ilya orders another vodka for himself and a vodka ginger ale for Shane. He grins when Ilya hands it to him. “You could let me buy you a drink, you know?”

Ilya smiles. “I can’t treat my boyfriend?”

“You’ve been treating me,” Shane rolls his eyes. “Isn’t it my turn?”

“Mm, no,” Ilya says, not offering any reason. Shane huffs, taking a sip of his drink. He slips one of the ice cubes into his mouth and rolls it around with his tongue to cool himself down. They stand at one end of the bar for a bit, sipping their drinks and talking. They’re never more than a few inches from each other. 

“You know what costumes we should’ve worn?” Shane asks. 

“Oh, now you’re thinking about Halloween,” Ilya smirks. “What costumes?”

“Each other’s jerseys,” Shane says, smiling when Ilya laughs. “You could have been your favorite hockey player, and I could have been my second favorite hockey player.”

“Oh, I am your second favorite?” Ilya asks. “Who is your first? Yourself?”

“No,” Shane tilts his head like he’s thinking. “Maybe number 35 on the Voyageurs, he’s pretty good.”

It doesn’t take Ilya longer than a second. “Pike?” he scoffs. “He is so bad that your joke doesn’t even make sense because he is barely hockey player.”

Shane stifles a laugh with another sip, and Ilya leans closer. “You should have worn my jersey and those ears,” he says, his voice going low. “You could have been my little puck bunny, hm?”

Shane is so, so glad the lights are already pink because he can feel his face burning at the insinuation. He stutters a bit. “I am— no,” he exclaims. “I can’t be a puck bunny if I’m also a player, that’s— that’s not how that works.”

“Aw, you could be the first puck bunny in the NHL,” Ilya pouts.

Shane hates that he finds that so hot. Being reduced to a puck bunny should be degrading, but Shane feels anything but. 

“I hate you,” he mutters, not even caring if Ilya can actually hear it over the music. He must, because he laughs. His eyes flick to Shane’s mouth for just a split second.

“You do not want to be my puck bunny, Hollander?” he asks, before taking a sip of his drink. Over the rim of the glass, he looks at Shane’s mouth again. Shane licks his lips instinctively, even though he knows they’re not going to kiss again. On the dance floor, it may have made sense for the parameters of their relationship — the music and the movement got to them, of course, his boyfriend would kiss him. He wouldn’t do it again here.

“Fuck off,” Shane says, rolling his eyes. A little part of him means it, too. He does need Ilya to back off before he says something that he can’t pass off as a joke. Like, of course, he wants to be Ilya Rozanov’s puck bunny. Of course, he wants to be wanted by him, even if it’s only for a night.

Thankfully, Ilya does back off. Shane finishes most of his drink, as well as all of the ice that was in it. They don’t go back to the dance floor, though. They just stay there and talk, hands casually brushing over each other’s arms or hips or waists. Shane takes a few pictures of Ilya in his bunny ears. Not even to post, but because he wants to. They’ve been at Raiders for almost two hours when Shane finally pulls Ilya close and says, “I’m bored.”

Ilya barks out a short laugh. “Ready to go, zaychik?” he says, already loading the app to call a car. Shane still feels buzzy as he leans against Ilya, watching his fingers fly across the screen. They head outside when the car is close, and Shane wraps his fingers around Ilya’s bicep, pressing his cheek to his shoulder.

“I had fun,” he says softly. 

“Yes?” Ilya asks, dipping his head so he can try to see Shane’s face. Like he wants to be sure he’s telling the truth. Shane looks up at him, nodding.

“Yes,” he confirms. And he smiles. “See? I can be fun sometimes.”

Ilya’s gaze travels over Shane’s features. “I always think you’re fun, Hollander.” He says it so gently, so seriously, it makes Shane’s mouth run dry. Because he thinks, in some way, Ilya does mean that. And no one has ever thought that Shane is always fun. Even his closest friends, even his parents. They love him, and they don’t mind that he is someone who prefers to stay in and be boring, but they would never say that he’s always fun, even when he’s not.

The car pulls up, saving Shane from doing something stupid.

For the first time in the last two hours, they aren’t touching at all as they sit in the back seat of the car, and Shane misses it already. He looks through a few of the photos he’d taken earlier, smiling at one where just their eyes and hair are coming in from the top and bottom of the frame, their bunny ears overlapping between their heads. He posts that one to his Instagram story with no caption. 

When they return to Ilya’s apartment, Shane almost wishes he hadn’t suggested leaving because now the night is coming to an end. They slip off their shoes beside the door, Ilya’s hand shooting out to steady Shane when he almost loses his balance.

“Lightweight,” he murmurs playfully. 

“I’m, like, barely even tipsy anymore,” Shane says. “I just... lost my balance.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I did!”

“I believe you. Come,” he says, nodding for Shane to follow him. In the kitchen, Shane leans against the island and watches as Ilya turns to get two cups from the cabinet. A laugh bubbles out of Shane.

“Oh my God, I forgot you had a tail.”

Ilya glances over his shoulder, then down at where the little gray ball of fluff is still clipped to his jeans. “Oh, this?” he asks, shaking his hips to wiggle his tail around. Shane snorts.

“It’s a good look for you.”

“Everything is a good look for me.”

Well, Shane can’t argue with that. He watches as Ilya fills both cups with water and hands him one. As they both take a drink, Ilya reaches back and unclips his tail, tossing it on the counter. Shane sets his half-empty water down.

“I’m glad we went out,” he says. “Don’t tell my mom I said that, though.”

“Mm, maybe,” Ilya grins. He walks forward until he’s in front of Shane and sets his own cup on the island that Shane is leaning on. Ilya looks at him again. “Do you want food or aspirin? I do not want you to be so hungover tomorrow.”

Shane shakes his head. “No, I’m okay,” he says. “I paced myself, and I have water now.”

Ilya hums. He takes off his own headband, tossing it behind Shane. Then he reaches up and carefully takes Shane’s off, too. He smooths down his hair where it must be sticking up. “You do not need anything?” he checks again.

And… Shane is only human. So when Ilya Rozanov asks if he needs anything, while they’re standing this close together, it’s only natural that Shane’s gaze would drop straight to Ilya’s mouth. For a second, he thinks he does need it. He thinks one more kiss could fix him right up, and he needs it so badly, he might die without it. Until his barely tipsy brain remembers they’re alone now, and Ilya put those boundaries in place, so Shane needs to rein it in.

His eyes drop away. “No, I’m okay,” he says again, softly. He turns like he’s going to reach for his water again, but Ilya’s hand presses to the counter right beside his hip, caging him in on one side. Shane’s eyes snap back up, but Ilya’s attention is on his mouth. Shane’s breath catches in his throat, and he knows it’s pointless to try to fight the look of pure desire that surely shows on his face.

Ilya inches closer, their feet touching now. With his other hand, he hooks one finger through one of Shane’s belt loop. He’s still looking at Shane’s mouth, moving close enough that Shane can feel Ilya’s breath ghosting over his lips.

“Can I…” Ilya trails off. The words are so quiet, almost shy. Shane struggles to inhale properly.

“I thought you said it was a bad idea,” he whispers, swaying a bit like he wants to lean in. He does want to lean in. But he can’t. Not until Ilya confirms what this is. “You said it was complicated.”

“Yes,” Ilya murmurs, his eyes hazy. Shane doesn’t think it’s from drinking, though. Ilya didn’t have that much, at least not for what his tolerance is. “Maybe it is a little bit. But maybe… we do not have to make it complicated.”

Shane swallows, but it feels like a rock getting stuck in his throat. He hates what he’s about to say. He hates that it’s the only way he might be able to have any piece of Ilya that isn’t fake or friendly. “We could…” he digs his nails into his palm, “keep it casual? So it’s not complicated.”

It’s a long shot to suggest this, because Shane knows that Ilya knows about Shane’s feelings for him. But if Shane can pretend that they aren’t as serious as they are, maybe Ilya can overlook those feelings. If Shane suggests casual, maybe Ilya can be purposely ignorant and let Shane pretend that it’s just casual to him, too. 

Ilya blinks a couple of times, and Shane struggles to decipher his expression. It's almost as though he’s keeping it purposefully blank, and Shane can’t get a read on anything slipping through the mask. For a second, he wonders if Ilya is going to come to his senses and shoot him down again.

But—

“Yes,” Ilya says thickly. “Casual is good.”

There’s an equal rush of relief and gut-wrenching disappointment. It wasn't like he’d expected Ilya to suddenly profess his undying love for Shane, because of course, he wouldn’t. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt a tiny bit to hear that Ilya really does only want this to be sex between them.

But—

At least Shane has him. In whatever capacity he can get him in, Shane has Ilya. “Okay,” he murmurs. His eyes drop to Ilya’s mouth, wondering if he’s allowed to ask for Ilya to finally fucking kiss him again. But Shane doesn’t need to ask, because Ilya leans forward and connects their mouths without another word. Shane can’t even attempt to conceal the moan that slips out of him. Ilya’s hips pin him to the counter, his hands tilting Shane’s head back. 

Their tongues slide together easily. Shane’s fingers curl into the side of Ilya’s shirt, like he can ground himself in reality by touching Ilya. And God, he’s dying to touch him. He slips his hands beneath the hem of Ilya’s t-shirt, palms pressing to his skin. Ilya breaks away from the kiss just long enough to strip his shirt off. Shane can barely even get a good look at him before his shirt is coming off, too, Ilya dropping it to the floor beside them. 

Their stomachs press together when Ilya moves in for another kiss. Both of them run their hands over the other, wherever they can reach. Torsos, shoulders, abs, arms, hips. Ilya’s mouth descends down Shane’s neck, teeth grazing over his collarbone. “Fuck,” he breathes, his head falling back. He fumbles for the button on Ilya’s jeans, the sound of the zipper echoing louder than it should. Ilya grunts when Shane shoves his hand underneath the denim, fingers curling around his cock over his boxers. He’s already half hard, and Shane’s mouth waters.

Before he can allow himself to overthink it, he’s dropping to his knees.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya whispers, blinking like he doesn’t believe it.

“Can I…” Shane trails off, pulling at the waistband of Ilya’s jeans. His mouth ghosts over the patch of hair that disappears into his boxers. 

Ilya huffs, combing his fingers through Shane’s hair. “Da. Yes. Obviously.”

His voice already sounds rough, like he’s losing control. Shane grins, kissing across Ilya’s stomach as he forces his jeans and boxers down just enough to pull his cock out. Shane’s only done this once before, but he’s thought about doing it to Ilya countless times. Dreamed about it. He starts slowly, dragging his tongue up the underside until he can wrap his lips around the tip.

“Like that, malysh (baby),” Ilya purrs. “So good.”

And— oh. Shane’s stomach swoops at the praise. He’s never been with anyone who’s been very vocal during sex, let alone someone telling him if he’s doing a good job or not. His eyes flutter shut, and he hums a little, taking more of Ilya into his mouth. Ilya’s hands hold the sides of his head gently, sometimes moving to rake through his hair. Shane’s fingers shakily undo the button of his own jeans, allowing for a little reprieve from the way his erection is straining against the denim. 

Shane bobs his head, trying to take as much as he can without choking. Ilya is letting out quiet groans and little breathy pants, so Shane can only assume he’s doing okay. Suddenly, Ilya inhales sharply. His grip on Shane’s head tightens, and he gently pulls Shane off of him. “Okay, okay,” he mutters, out of breath. He tugs Shane up until he’s on his feet again.

“Was that— okay?” Shane asks, blinking.

Ilya huffs a soft laugh. “Very okay. Too okay, maybe.”

Something in Shane relaxes, and he grins. Ilya pulls him into another kiss, not seeming to care even a little bit that Shane had just had a mouthful of his dick. Ilya pulls back and grips Shane’s hips tightly, spinning him around so that he’s facing the counter. His hand presses flat between his shoulder blades, and he eases Shane down. The marble is freezing against his chest, cooling down his heated skin. 

“Stay,” Ilya murmurs, moving away for just a second to retrieve his wallet that he’d tossed onto the counter earlier. Shane turns his head to watch Ilya pull out a condom and two little packets of lube.

Irrational jealousy twists Shane’s gut, as if he isn’t the one currently bent over Ilya’s counter. “How long have those been in there?” he asks, and he knows his voice sounds a little sharp. He can’t help it.

Ilya chuckles softly. “Mm, since this morning.”

Shane freezes, unable to even process that. They were for him. Ilya had put those in his wallet in the event that he fucked Shane. 

The relief is sort of blinding.

“Planning on seducing me, Rozanov?” Shane asks, his skin igniting as Ilya puts his hands on Shane’s waist, dragging them downwards so that he can ease his pants and boxers down his thighs. It’s obscene, the way they’re not even fully undressed and still in Ilya’s kitchen. All evidence would suggest that they’re too eager to do things properly, but Ilya takes his time running his hands over Shane’s ass.

“I wanted to be prepared. In case you did want to be my puck bunny, mm?” Ilya teases. He picks up one of the packets of lube.

“Fuck off,” Shane huffs.

One of Ilya’s slick fingers brushes over Shane’s entrance. “You have done this before, yes?”

“Yes,” Shane says, crossing his arms on the countertop and resting his forehead in the crook of his elbow. “A while ago, but— yes.”

“And do you touch yourself here?” Ilya asks. His finger gently, slowly presses in. Shane chokes on a gasp, desperate to rock back against Ilya’s touch, but his other hand is holding Shane’s hip tightly, keeping him in place. 

“Sometimes, yes,” he gasps. The angle is awkward sometimes, but he’s been doing it more in the last few months. Imagining it’s Ilya touching him, every single time.

Ilya hums. He leans forward so that his chest just barely touches Shane’s back. “Is better when it’s me, though. Yes?”

“Yes,” Shane says instantly. “Please.”

“Don’t worry, zaychik,” he murmurs. Shane's brain buzzes at the pet name. He eases a second finger into Shane, fucking him open slowly. “I will take care of you.”

Somehow, that’s the hottest thing Ilya has said all night. Shane holds in another please, because what he wants more than anything is for Ilya Rozanov to take care of him. 

Two fingers turn into three, stretching Shane more than he has been in a while. The second Ilya lets go of his hip, Shane pushes back. Ilya moans at the sight of it. “So good, Hollander. Use me.”

“Ilya,” Shane whines brokenly. “I’m— ready. I’m ready. Please, I can take it.”

“Fuck,” Ilya murmurs, almost to himself. “Okay, yes. I got you.”

He eases his fingers out of Shane, who mourns the loss of them instantly. But then he hears the crinkle of the condom wrapper, and he nearly trembles in anticipation. Just like the last time Ilya touched him, back in that hot tub, Shane feels drunk on the experience. He knows the crash of reality will hit him again soon, but at least he’ll be prepared for it this time. It can’t hurt as badly if he knows it’s coming, right?

The blunt head of Ilya’s cock presses to his entrance, and then pushes in, just an inch. Shane’s mouth falls open on a sharp exhale. 

“Is okay?” Ilya asks, one hand smoothing up Shane’s spine.

“Yes,” Shane pants. 

Ilya gives him one inch at a time, leaning down to pepper kisses along his shoulder blades. Shane shivers when one of those kisses turns into a bite, Ilya’s teeth sinking into him. “So good for me, Shane,” Ilya murmurs against his skin. “Taking me so good.”

Shane moans into his arm, pushing his hips back a bit. Ilya hums, but it sounds like a purr, low and sweet in his throat. “Ah, you like hearing how good you are?” he asks. He bottoms out, his hips flush against Shane’s ass. 

“Fuck off,” Shane says weakly, but he can’t even deny it.

Ilya chuckles. “I don’t think that is what you want,” he teases. “Is it, zaychik? Do you want me to stop?” As he says it, he begins to pull back, and Shane almost panics, thinking Ilya might actually end this.

“No,” Shane moans. “Don’t stop. Please.”

“Hm, because you asked so nicely.”

Ilya presses back into him, moving in slow, easy thrusts. The angle is perfect, hitting a spot inside of Shane that makes his vision blur at the edges. “Oh, God,” he whines. “More. Please.”

It should be pathetic, how quickly he’s reduced to begging, but Ilya’s fingers tighten on his hips. His movements speed up, fucking into Shane steadily. The tension brewing in the pit of his stomach burns bright and hot, but despite the constant pressure against his prostate, he needs—

Ilya bats his hand away when Shane reaches for his cock. “Greedy,” he murmurs, but his hand curls around Shane’s dick. “This is what you need?”

“Yes, yes,” Shane whines. It hasn’t even been that long, but he’s so close. Every thrust forces him closer to the edge. “Fuck, Rozanov.”

Ilya slides his arm under Shane, pulling them both upright. If it weren’t for Ilya’s support, Shane might’ve collapsed to the ground, his head so dizzy with pleasure. Fucking him with firm, steady thrusts, Ilya’s hand tightens around Shane’s cock and matches the pace. He mouths along Shane’s shoulder. “Make a mess for me, Shane. Be good and show me.”

“Jesus Christ,” Shane moans, his head falling back.

“Ah, no, he is not here,” Ilya teases. “You say my name when I am fucking you. No one else’s.”

“Ilya,” he says automatically. It’s breathy and broken. God, he’s so close.

“Good boy.”

That does it. Shane grips Ilya’s arm that’s banded across his chest, fingers digging in as he lets out a shaky, choked moan. Ilya strokes him through his orgasm, his release painting the counter obscenely. “Fuck,” Ilya says before biting Shane’s shoulder. His thrusts become quicker and a little jerky. His hand comes up and cups Shane’s jaw, turning his head sharply so that he can connect their lips. Ilya groans into the kiss, his hips stuttering and stilling. Shane relaxes into Ilya’s touch, slowly coming back down to Earth. It’s a few minutes of kisses that slow and soften until Shane realizes it’s bordering on not-casual. He pulls back, his eyes blinking open and locking with Ilya’s.

God. He can’t believe that they just— 

Ilya pulls out gently, and Shane busies himself with pulling his jeans and boxers back up while Ilya takes care of the condom. Shane’s cheeks flush as he quickly rips a paper towel from the roll and cleans the counter he ruined. 

“You are okay?” Ilya asks, bringing Shane’s attention back to him. His jeans are still unbuttoned, but they’re pulled back up now. 

“Yeah,” Shane nods, unable to meet his eyes for more than a second. “Just— sweaty. Need a shower.”

Ilya’s quiet for a few seconds. “Yes, okay,” he says softly. Their footsteps are the only sound as they trail down the hall. The guest room is the first door on the wall, so Shane slows to a stop. Obviously, he’d prefer to be in Ilya’s bed after all of that. But that’s not casual. That’s not what this is.

Shane turns to Ilya, reaching behind him to grip the doorknob. “I’ll see you in the morning, then?”

Ilya blinks once, then nods. “Yes. Goodnight, zaychik.”

Shane frowns. “I’m not dressed as a bunny anymore.”

Ilya smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Then goodnight, solnyshko (sunshine).”

Chapter End Notes

right so who thinks that this will all go perfectly fine and no one will get hurt!!!!!

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Chapter 18: eighteen

Chapter Notes

hello my little chickens i hope you're all doing well, pls enjoy

For some reason, it’s colder in Boston than it is in Canada right now. It’s a weird thing for Shane to focus on, but it’s better than listening to the jabs his teammates are making about Ilya. It’s like everything he said about targeting Ilya before the first time they played Boston has completely left their heads. And he knows if he says it all again, he’ll just be ignored again. It’s becoming exhausting the way they pick and choose when they view him as a captain.

And selfishly, Shane is thinking about things other than his stupid teammates checking Ilya into the boards. Not very captainly of him, or even very boyfriendly, but it’s hard to think about anything besides Halloween, which is the last time he saw Ilya. Hence why it’s better to think about the weather instead, so he doesn’t get hard on the bus with all of his teammates around him. They get to the hotel, and Shane keeps his head down as they’re all assigned rooms. He’s with Hayden, as usual. But when they enter their room, Hayden tosses his bag to the ground and falls back on his bed.

“So I get the room to myself for the night when we play in Boston now, huh?”

Shane pauses, blinking at him. “What?”

“I assumed you’d stay with Rozanov since his place is probably a million times better than this place, right? I mean, he certainly seems like the type to live in some fancy ass penthouse or something.”

Stupidly, Shane feels a little panicked. Of course, it makes sense that he would stay with his boyfriend. He’d planned on going over after the game tomorrow, but that was because they were taking a late flight to Ottawa together — which was a whole thing in and of itself, but Shane would worry about that when it came to it. But he hadn’t even thought of staying with him tonight, which means he hasn’t asked Ilya if that’s fine. They’ve obviously stayed at each other’s places several times at this point, but Shane should’ve still asked.

“Oh, yeah, I’m pretty sure I am,” Shane says, setting his stuff down and whipping his phone out. “I think he said something about, um, having a friend stay with him right now, but let me double check.”

Shane
Can I stay with you tonight?
I’m sharing a hotel room with Hayden
But he just said something about how I was
probably staying with you
And I didn’t even think about that
Is that okay?
I can make something up if it’s not

Rozanov
Jesus Hollander
Calm down
Yes you can stay
I thought you would anyway

Oh
I never even thought about it
But I didn’t want to assume

Shane clears his throat. “Yeah, I’ll head over there…” He trails off when his phone buzzes in his hand again.

You can come over now if you want
I am not busy

“In a few, once the lobby clears out a bit,” Shane finishes, not even bothering to take his shoes off as he sits on the end of the bed that would’ve been his. He opens the app to call a car.

“Cool,” Hayden says. “You said he’s going back to Ottawa with you?”

The NHL usually gives players off Thursday and Friday for Thanksgiving, and even though Canadians celebrate that holiday in early October, this year, his mom’s birthday happens to fall on that Friday, so they were taking advantage of the break. Sometimes two Canadian teams will play each other during that time, but this year, none of them are. Shane hadn’t originally planned on bringing Ilya to his parents’ house, but Yuna had insisted.

“Mhm.”

“How do your parents like him?” Hayden asks. “I mean, they obviously didn’t like him much before because of the whole rivalry thing, but do they like Boyfriend Ilya?”

It’s not even a lie when Shane says, “Yeah, actually. They like him. Definitely more than they ever expected to.” It doesn’t matter that Ilya isn’t his boyfriend; his parents do like him as a person. Nothing about this entire PR situation is more shocking than all three Hollanders genuinely enjoying Ilya Rozanov’s company, but here they were.

“That’s good,” Hayden says. “At least the people closest to you are supportive. I hope that helps drown out all of the bullshit.”

Shane tosses a look over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows. “Oh, because you’re the picture of being super supportive?” he says, only half teasing. Over time, Hayden has gotten used to Ilya, and he’s even defended him from some bullshit chirps from their shitty teammates. That doesn’t mean it hadn’t taken a hot minute for Hayden to not automatically wrinkle his nose at the mention of Ilya, or to start actually asking about him unprovoked.

“I know, I know,” Hayden waves his hand towards Shane. “I’m sorry, alright? It was shocking and whatever, but I do think he’s good for you. From what I’ve seen and heard, at least.”

“Mm.”

“Even though that video of you guys making out on Halloween was a little traumatizing,” he says, visibly shivering. “And not because it’s gay or whatever, but because it looked like he was seconds away from taking your clothes off, and you’re, like, my brother.”

Someone had posted a six-second video of Shane and Ilya kissing on the dance floor in that bar in Boston, and it had gone slightly viral the next morning. If anyone had any doubts about their relationship, that clip surely obliterated them. Shane himself has watched it… probably an unhealthy amount of times. 

“He was not seconds away from taking my clothes off,” Shane defends, his cheeks pink. Then, just to fuck with Hyaden, he adds, “He was, like, a couple of hours away from doing that.”

“Eugh,” Hayden gags. “Go to your boyfriend’s apartment.”

“Sure.” Shane picks his bag up. “Try not to think about how he’s probably less than an hour from taking my clothes off again.” (That was probably a lie, though technically possible now, but it was worth it to see Hayden squirm.) A throw pillow flies in Shane’s direction, and he laughs as he smacks it away. 

He shoots Ilya a text to let him know that he’s on his way as he walks through the lobby before checking his rideshare app for the driver’s information. In the back of the car, his leg bounces. Things had been… fine after last time. Shane flew home the next afternoon, so there hadn’t been a ton of time for things to be awkward, really. And they had resumed texting like normal, even though Shane wanted to bring it up approximately 27 times a day. But they were being casual, which meant not talking about it, because it meant nothing.

But this was essentially his first time actually seeing Ilya after literally being bent over his kitchen island and railed. And forgive him, but Shane is very bad at casual, and he has no idea if he can just face Ilya again after thinking about that night constantly for almost a month. And he has no idea if he’s allowed to initiate something again, or how he would even go about that without any alcohol in his system. It was rare enough that he’d drunk on Halloween, but considering they have a game in less than 24 hours, he definitely wasn’t drinking tonight.

Maybe they wouldn’t even hook up. Which was also fine. Even though Shane actually kind of really wanted that.

He holds in a sigh as the car pulls up to the familiar building. It’ll probably be fine. He takes the elevator up to Ilya’s floor, stuffing his hands in his hoodie pocket after he knocks. Ilya is fucking shirtless when he answers, because of course he is.

“Hey,” Shane says.

“Come in,” Ilya nods, holding the door open. “I was thinking about ordering dinner soon. Are you hungry?”

Shane slips off his shoes, even though Ilya has told him before that he doesn’t need to. “Uh, yeah, a little.”

“Okay.”

He flops onto his couch, pulling out his phone. Shane sets his bag down by the hallway that leads towards the bedrooms and barely hesitates before joining Ilya, sitting a few feet away. Some trivia game show is playing on the TV. It looks like something his mom would watch, making Shane assume Ilya had been channel surfing or had put on something random as background noise. 

Shane blinks away from the TV as the cushions shift, and Ilya’s arm is suddenly pressed against Shane’s. He’s holding out his phone, some Italian restaurant menu pulled up on his screen. 

“Here, they have healthy stuff.”

Shane takes the phone, pretending he doesn’t feel his spine tingling when their fingers brush. He scrolls for a bit and ends up with a chicken dish with two veggies, being sure to specify sauce on the side. “Thanks,” he says as he hands it back. Ilya doesn’t move away, even after he submits the order. 

“I got your mom a gift.”

Shane’s head snaps towards Ilya. “You— what?” he asks. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Is nothing big,” Ilya shrugs. “Last time I saw her, she was telling me about matcha? I have never had until after she tells me about it, but I started getting a bunch of things on Instagram about it. All these videos about people making it in these pretty bowls with this wooden whisk-thing? So I got her a set.”

A smile tugs at Shane’s mouth. Partially because the entire notion is sweet, but also because Ilya must have a sixth sense — Shane’s mom had just mentioned three days ago how she accidentally dropped her chawan in the sink while cleaning it, and it broke in two.

“That’s really nice of you,” Shane whispers. “She’ll love it.”

“It is very pretty dark red and light blue. Voyageur colors.”

“Then she’ll definitely love it,” Shane says, smiling wider. 

“I was going to get her matcha, too, but there are so many kinds, and I do not know what is good, so…” he trails off with a little shrug. Now that Shane looks closer, Ilya looks a little sheepish. Maybe nervous?

Shane gently bumps Ilya’s arm with his. “Hey, she’ll like it. Seriously.”

Ilya’s shoulders drop just a bit, and he nods. “Okay,” he murmurs. He reaches for the remote. “Sorry. Forgot this was on.”

He changes it to some NBA game that’s on, and they sit in mostly silence until the food gets there. And then they sit in silence while they eat. And then they’re quiet after they finish. It’s not an awkward silence, exactly… but Shane is feeling antsy. 

And, admittedly, horny. 

Because Ilya has been shirtless this entire time. And now Shane knows exactly what he’s hiding beneath those sweatpants, and how it feels when Ilya touches him and kisses him. And because it’s been a month since the best sex Shane has ever had, and he’s been thinking about it every day since. 

“What is wrong?” Ilya asks out of nowhere, eyeing Shane. “You are— what is that word you called me? Jittery?”

Shane snorts. “I’m not jittery.”

“Yes, is what I said, too, and you call me a liar.”

Rolling his eyes, Shane puts all of his energy into relaxing so he doesn’t seem jittery anymore. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine,” he says, hoping he’s being convincing. He realizes very quickly, as his leg starts bouncing, that he definitely is jittery. He pushes himself up from the sofa. “Actually, I’m probably gonna go shower.”

“Mm. Okay.”

Shane picks up his bag and walks down the hall. Inside the safety of his guest room, he exhales slowly. It’s still too early to reasonably go to bed, so he’ll kill some time in the shower, force himself to chill for another couple of hours in the living room, and then retire to his room. 

The plan is immediately thrown for a loop when he opens his bedroom door to find Ilya leaning against the wall opposite him, right next to the bathroom door. His arms are crossed over his chest, instinctively drawing Shane’s eye to the toned expanse of skin. His pants seem to be riding even lower on his hips than before. Shane quickly forces his eyes back up, clutching the sweatpants in his hand.

“Hi?” he says, furrowing his eyebrows. 

Ilya looks amused. He uncrosses his arms, closes the few feet of distance between them, cups Shane’s jaw with both hands, and pulls him into a kiss. Shane lets out a muffled grunt, but he responds instantly. His clothes fall out of his hand, and he presses his hands to Ilya’s waist. 

Ilya turns them slightly and backs Shane into the door frame, his spine straightening against the wood. Ilya’s body leans against his, their hips flush. 

“This is all you wanted, Hollander?” Ilya murmurs, dotting kisses down Shane’s neck. “You should have just asked.”

A whine escapes Shane’s throat. “Didn’t— know how,” he breathes, arching into Ilya’s touch. 

“Mm. Is very simple.” His teeth scrape Shane’s pulse. “Say Ilya, will you please fuck me?”

“Oh my God,” Shane mutters, his head falling back against the door frame. He’s already achingly hard, from almost nothing.

“Ah, no. Try again, Shane.”

Shane lets out a tiny, breathless laugh. This man is so fucking infuriating, and it will be Shane’s downfall that he’s falling in love with him. 

“Ilya,” Shane rasps. Ilya lifts his head to make eye contact, which only intimidates Shane more, but he’s desperate enough to keep pushing. The words are barely a whisper, “Will you please fuck me?”

Ilya grins, his eyes looking downright predatory. “Very good, malysh (baby),” he says. Another new word that Shane doesn’t know, but he doesn’t have the patience to ask right now. Ilya nods towards the bedroom that they’re halfway inside. “Get on the bed.”

Shane smiles tensely at the woman holding the microphone two inches from his face. 

“Shane, how was playing another game against your boyfriend and his team? Did it feel any different being on their home ice instead of your own?”

“It’s always a fun time playing against the Bears,” Shane says politely. “They’re a great, competitive team, and their fans are very enthusiastic.”

“Boston and Montreal have equal wins against each other now,” she says. Shane’s smile tightens. The game had been tough, and the Bears had managed to pull an overtime win. “Do you think the rest of the season will progress similarly?”

“I imagine it will, yes,” Shane nods. “Like I said, they’re competitive and so are we, so I’d assume neither of us plans on giving up easily.”

“Even though the opposing captain is your boyfriend?” she asks, lifting her eyebrows once. As if his dating Ilya automatically means he would sway games to let Boston come out on top. But of course she thinks that. Everyone thinks that, including most of Shane’s teammates, given the amount of glares he’s received since the game ended. 

“Hockey is a team sport, and our games aren’t just Hollander versus Rozanov. The personal relationship between Ilya and me has no part in the outcome of the game.” The corner of his lips quirk up. “Although personally, beating Ilya is my favorite thing to do, and I plan to do everything possible to make sure I do it again the next time we face Boston.”

He might get in trouble with his coach for turning the interview towards his relationship, but he couldn’t help it. It’s the truth, anyway. And if anything, reminding people that their rivalry is still alive, even despite their relationship, is a good idea. It could remind people that neither of them is going to sabotage any games for the other.

He answers a few more questions before he’s able to get out of there. He ignores the jabs and sideways glances from his teammates. If they believe Shane threw the game, there’s nothing he can do to change their minds.

Over an hour later, he’s finally taking the elevator back up to Ilya’s apartment. 

“You look like angry little kitten,” Ilya says when he opens the door, pouting. 

“I’m never having sex with you before a game again,” is what comes out of Shane’s mouth. And he can barely even be embarrassed about it, because they both know that’s why Ilya played so well. Because Shane also played really fucking well. Ilya tosses his head back with a laugh. 

“Sure, kotik (kitten).”

Shane pauses in the middle of taking off his shoes, raising an eyebrow expectantly. Ilya grins. 

“Kitten.”

“Fuck off.”

Fighting off more laughter, Ilya checks his phone. “We have about hour and a half until we have to leave for airport. Do you want something to eat?”

Shane hums. “No, I’ll just eat at the airport.”

“They have bird food at airports?”

“You’re so fucking annoying.”

“Mm, too bad for you.” He holds out his hand. “Come, I want to post something.”

Shane flushes as he takes his hand. As if Ilya wasn’t literally inside of him yesterday. Ilya pulls him close and takes a photo of them in the mirror. Shane leans his cheek against Ilya’s shoulder, secretly enjoying the innocent closeness. 

Ilya hums softly, and in the mirror, Shane can see him smile. “You look so sweet in photos sometimes,” he murmurs. “Do you think people would believe that you just called me annoying?”

“Yes,” Shane says immediately. “It’s very believable that I would call you annoying.”

Ilya laughs, his arm dropping off of Shane’s waist. He types on his phone for a few seconds before turning the screen to Shane. The caption on his story post reads My favorite loser! with an array of hearts. Shane frowns. “I hate you.”

“Too bad,” Ilya says as he posts it. “You are stuck with me.”

Shane’s frown turns more genuine as he’s reminded that he’s only stuck with Ilya for another four months.

In all honesty, Shane has no idea why his mom insisted on Ilya coming with him to Ottawa. Sure, they could post one or two things about being together over this short break, but it wasn’t completely necessary. Plus, it was his mom’s birthday, which was a bit too personal to turn into work. But Shane certainly wasn’t going to turn down an opportunity to spend some extra time with Ilya.

To some degree, his parents’ house still feels like home to him. He hasn’t lived here in a decade, but he grew up here, so it’s always just one of those places that has an undeniable comfort to it. Shane had suggested they could stay in a hotel, only because Ilya was here, too, but his parents hadn’t even entertained the thought, which was sweet.

And it should’ve been fine because his parents have two guest rooms after converting Shane’s old childhood room into another one. But—

“I’m sorry, honey, we just ordered a new bed frame and mattress for the second bedroom,” his mom frowns. “It was supposed to be here yesterday, but I guess with the cold weather or something, it was delayed.”

Shane blinks at her. “Oh,” he says belatedly. “I mean… okay. There’s an air mattress, right? I could…” he trails off when Yuna tilts her head, her frown deepening. 

“It popped when your cousin and nieces visited earlier this month. We haven’t managed to get a new one.”

Right. Of course it did. “Um… okay.”

“But you and Ilya have shared a bed before, right?” she says, looking at him hopefully. “At some hotel, or something.”

“Yeah… in New York,” Shane says, recalling how he’d barely slept because he’d been so vividly aware of the body next to him. And that had been early into their “relationship.” And it had also definitely been long before they’d started sleeping together — not that his mom knew anything about that. Shane withholds a sigh and turns to look at Ilya. Who, of course, looks unbothered.

“Is fine with me,” he shrugs. 

Shane nods once and looks towards his mom again, who’s smiling softly now. “Okay. Yeah, that’s fine, then.” Plus, it was nearing eleven p.m. anyway, and Shane really didn’t want to take the couch. 

“Good,” she grins. “Go ahead and show Ilya the room, then. I’m heading to bed, so we’ll see you in the morning.”

Shane nods, tightening his grip on the handle of his bag. He glances at Ilya and nods towards the stairs. 

“Goodnight, Yuna,” Ilya says, and Shane can just hear the sweet smile on his face. It makes his own lips twitch.

“Night, boys.”

Shane’s childhood bedroom is mostly the same as it was, just without the countless hockey posters plastered all over the walls and significantly fewer trophies on the shelves. His parents kept a few of them, as well as moved some to more public parts of the house, and there’s some newer memorabilia from his professional career. But the walls, the duvet, the furniture — it’s all the same.

“Aw, am I the first boy you’ve ever had in here?” Ilya teases.

“Shut up,” Shane mutters, his cheeks flushing. Obviously, he was, but Shane wasn’t going to confirm anything. “And just so you know, we aren’t… doing anything while we’re here.”

“So your childhood room will remain a virgin forever,” Ilya sighs. “How boring.”

“A room can’t be— fuck off.” Shane rolls his eyes. He pulls out a t-shirt to sleep in — normally, he would only wear boxers to bed, but it’s mostly being in his parents’ house that stops him. They were both great, truly, but after their suspicions about Shane’s feelings for Ilya, he wouldn’t put it past his mom to peek into the room, curiosity getting the better of her. He slips off his sweatpants, folding them and setting them on the desk. “I’m just saying we’re not doing anything under the same roof as my parents. That’s just… eugh. No.”

Ilya snorts, reaching behind his head to effortlessly strip his shirt off. His sweats come off next, both tossed in a little pile beside his bag. And he climbs into bed like that. 

“Yes, Hollander, your parents will not hear how loud I make you moan,” Ilya says, like it’s obvious. “I will be very good boy.” Shane’s face must be bright red. He hates how easily Ilya can get him like this. 

“I hate you,” Shane mutters, getting into bed next to him. Sleep settles into his bones immediately. “Goodnight.”

“Mm, night night.”

Chapter End Notes

am i allowed to talk about the yuna thing yet.........

basically i was CACKLING when during the first few chapters, soooo many comments were like "omg yuna knows what she's doing" "yuna is totally setting them up" and at the time, that was just... so wrong lmao. yuna, at first, was VERY much in a business mindset. she definitely did not like ilya that much at all (similiarly to how she doesn't in canon before knowing he's with shane) BUT upon getting to know ilya AND realizing that shane like totally definitely likes him a non-PR-relationship kind of way, NOW she is masterminding the fuck out of this situation. i have to giggle i love you yuna hollander

ALSO this whole "thanksgiving" break was supposed to be one chapter but then i had to make them [REDACTED] next chapter sooooo

my twitter!

Chapter 19: nineteen

Chapter Notes

i've said it in some comments now but i just want to confirm that the upload schedule is roughly every other day, probably with a few extras thrown in there. sunday and monday are my days off work, so chances are i'll def post both of those days, as well as whenever i can during the week <3 enjoy pookies

It’s momentarily disorienting to wake up in the room he grew up in, but even more so with a heavy weight curled around his waist and a warm mass pressed against the back of him. And there’s an incriminating hardness against the curve of his ass, sending a punch of heat through his gut. Shane clenches his jaw and reaches for his phone, trying not to move too much. When his screen lights up, the most recent notification is from his dad, sent twelve minutes ago. 

We went out to pick up breakfast. Should be back in 30 mins.

Shane makes a split decision fueled by the insanity only Ilya Rozanov can cause, and a stupid amount of horniness. He spins in Ilya’s arm, not worrying too much about waking him up. In fact, he’s pleased when Ilya inhales sharply and grunts.

“Shane?” he says groggily. But Shane is already mouthing down Ilya’s stomach and pulling down the waistband of his boxers to take Ilya into his mouth. Ilya gasps hoarsely, obviously surprised. “You— I thought you said—”

Shane pulls off just long enough to say, “We have about fifteen minutes until they get back with breakfast.”

“Oh, fuck. Yes, okay,” Ilya mutters, pushing his fingers through Shane’s hair without another word.

By the time his parents return, Shane and Ilya are already on the couch in the living room, both clothed and innocently sipping coffee. 

“Morning!” Yuna says cheerily, carrying a brown paper bag and a drink holder with three colorful smoothies. “Ilya, honey, I wasn’t sure what kind of smoothie you’d like, so I got a strawberry banana and mango pineapple. Whichever you don’t want, I’ll have. Shane, yours in the green one, of course.”

Shane doesn’t hesitate to pick the green smoothie up from the holder, taking a straw. He glances at Ilya to see his brows furrowed slightly, looking at the smoothies like he’s never seen one in his life. He blinks once, then looks at Yuna. “You did not have to get me one.”

But Shane’s mom just waves him off. “It’s nothing, I was just hoping you weren’t allergic to anything — you aren’t, right?” When Ilya shakes his head wordlessly, Yuna just smiles. “Great, then take whichever you’d like. I have no preference. Oh, and,” She opens the bag in her hand, “I got us sandwiches. Shane, I got you a wrap because they had a whole wheat option, and there’s extra protein in it.”

“You’re the best,” Shane says earnestly. She pulls out the rest, checking the labels as she goes. 

“Okay, this one is David’s,” she murmurs, setting it aside. “He spilled his coffee on his hoodie, so he’s changing, then he’ll be down. Ilya, this one is yours. Again, I just kind of guessed based on the few times you’ve eaten with us.”

Ilya still looks a little bewildered, but he reaches out and takes the large, tinfoil-wrapped bagel sandwich. “Thank you very much,” he says softly. Shane sits back, inching close enough that his arm purposely brushes Ilya’s. He’s not even sure why he does it, because it’s not as though Ilya necessarily seems upset, but he just wants to offer a bit of subtle comfort. The way Ilya always does for him. 

Shane’s dad comes in a few moments later and effortlessly joins their conversation about yesterday’s game, their flight last night, the plans for Yuna’s birthday dinner tomorrow night. When their food is finished, David tosses the bag of trash out while Shane turns on the TV. The same trivia show that Ilya had been watching the other day is already on.

“Ah, I like this show very much, Yuna,” Ilya says, settling back into the sofa. His arm is fully pressed against Shane’s now.

“It’s entertaining, isn’t it?” his mom beams. Shane looks between the two of them.

“Wait,” he says to Ilya. “You were actually watching that the other day? I thought you had put it on by, like… mistake, or background noise, or something.”

“No, I was watching,” Ilya shakes his head. “Your mama told me about it a while ago because I was telling her I watch TV to get better with English.”

“Your English is good, though.”

“Yes, but,” he waves his hand towards the television, “they use words that I do not hear very often. More variety. I think.”

A smile pulls at Shane’s mouth. “Yeah, that makes sense,” he says softly. Something about this entire situation is so endearing. Not only that Ilya watches some random Canadian game show to improve his English, but also that Shane’s mom had been the one to suggest it. It’s odd, in a way, that his fake boyfriend is actually so close to his mom, but Shane finds that he loves it. He loves that someone who is constantly becoming increasingly important to him is fitting in so perfectly with his life. 

“Wait, this is a good photo op,” Yuna says suddenly, reaching for her phone. “Cuddle up, or something. You look so cute, all relaxed.”

“Mom,” Shane says. “I told you we were here to celebrate you.”

“So that means you have to do what I say,” she shoots back. “And it’s just one picture.”

“Come here, solnyshko (sunshine),” Ilya murmurs, curling one arm around Shane’s waist. “Turn a little. Put your legs over mine.”

Shane sighs softly, but obeys. He rotates his body away from his mom and puts his bent legs over Ilya’s thighs, his feet planted on the other side of him. “Good,” Ilya says. “Lean your head on my shoulder, yes?”

“Mhm,” Shane hums, easily melting into Ilya. If they had tried to do this just a few months ago, Shane would’ve been rigid with tension, terrified he was somehow overstepping despite knowing the whole thing was purposely staged. He would’ve overthought the position of his legs, the placement of his hands, his weight pressed against Ilya’s side. But now, even in a space that doesn’t require them to be putting on a facade for the media, it feels so natural.

One of Ilya’s hands is firm on his waist, the other curling around Shane’s ankle, and his cheek leans against Shane’s hair. Ilya is so warm, it only makes it that much easier to forget the camera and relax.

“I could fall asleep again like this,” Shane mutters.

“You can,” Ilya says. “We got in late last night.”

Shane shakes his head slightly. “Mm, no. I don’t wanna use you as a pillow.”

“I am very comfy, no?”

“You are,” Shane admits. “But still. Don’t wanna trap you on the couch.”

Ilya is quiet for a few seconds. “I would not mind.” He turns his head for a second, and it almost feels like his lips brush over Shane’s head. He doesn’t speak for a moment, and then, even softer, “You should know, your mama stopped taking pictures a minute ago.”

Shane’s eyes pop open, unaware he’d even shut them. “She— what?”

“Yes. She took a few and then stopped.”

Shane hesitates. “Why didn’t you let me go, then?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper. It’s these tiny moments like this where Shane thinks maybe his feelings aren’t completely unreciprocated. Maybe Ilya could like him, too, if he found a way to let go of the casual relationship style he’s used to. Shane’s not saying that he’s enough to change Ilya’s perspective on relationships entirely, but… maybe. Maybe he could be.

“You said you could sleep like this. If you are tired, you should.”

Shane swallows. He's just being kind. And it’s tempting. So tempting, to just shut his eyes again and let himself succumb to the exhaustion tugging at him. But it’s also dangerous to let him have this intimacy when it’s not strictly necessary for the PR of it all. It’s dangerous to act on his feelings when he knows they aren’t reciprocated, no matter how delusional he is sometimes about whether they could be. 

He pulls out of Ilya’s arms and swings his legs back over. He reaches for his mostly empty smoothie on the table and settles back into the cushions, and he pointedly doesn’t look at anyone as he focuses on the TV.

It’s safer this way, he thinks. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he slips it out to see the photos his mom just took, sent in a group chat with him and Ilya. Shane can’t see his own face in the photo, but it’s obvious that he’s comfortable. Some of Ilya’s face is obscured by Shane’s hair, but his eyes are shut like he could’ve fallen asleep there, too. 

“I want to post it,” Ilya says before Shane gets the chance. “I will tag you, and you can repost, yes?”

“Sure.”

A few moments later, the notification that Shane was tagged on @ilyarozanov81’s Instagram story drops down from the top of his screen. The caption in the corner is in Cyrillic — Мой малыш (my baby). He tilts his screen towards Ilya, pointing his thumb at it with a question in his eyes. 

“Says good morning,” Ilya says with a small shrug. 

“Ah,” Shane mumbles, reposting without another word. 

They turn their attention back to the trivia show. Conversation occasionally sparks from the topics talked about on the screen, but Shane doesn’t give much input. He just listens to his parents talk, to Ilya talk, to them interacting with each other like it’s the most normal thing in the world. 

A bit later, Yuna nudges Shane’s leg. “Your dad and I were thinking about seeing what movies are in theaters later. Would you guys wanna come with us if we find anything good?”

Shane’s eyes flick over to Ilya, who is already looking at him. His eyes are bright, and he nods. “I have not been to movie theater in forever,” he says. 

A grin pulls at Shane’s lips. “Sounds good,” he tells his mom. “I’m down for anything except horror.”

“So boring, Hollander," Ilya whines.

“It just freaks me out,” he frowns. 

“Yes, that is the point.”

“Well, I don’t like it.”

“Aw, poor baby. I can protect you from the killer.”

Shane shoves Ilya into the corner of the sofa. “Fuck off,” he mutters. It’s bad enough that Ilya flirts to get a reaction out of him, but it feels even more humiliating when he does it in front of Shane’s parents. The last thing he wants is for his parents to potentially think it means more than it does and get suspicious again. 

“Your dad isn’t fond of horror anyway,” Yuna interrupts. Ilya’s chest shakes with a silent laugh, and Shane can just hear the telepathic Oh, so you get your boring from your dad? from Ilya. He reaches over and smacks his thigh, only for Ilya’s hand to curl around his wrist and hold it in place. 

“There are a few comedies that look good, or maybe that new superhero one?”

“It’s your birthday, Mom,” Shane says, grinning at how concentrated she looks scrolling through the movies. 

“Well, I would prefer a horror movie, but…” she trails off, amused. She looks for a few more seconds before deciding on one of the comedies. “There’s a 2 pm showing, so we can get lunch in a few hours and then go see it?”

“Sounds good,” Shane says, finally wiggling his wrist out of Ilya’s grasp. Their arms are pressed against each other again, but neither of them moves away. 

“Ah, so we have time for a game of Monopoly?” Ilya asks, too innocently. 

“Do you want me to kill you before we make it to the movie?” Shane asks flatly.

“Hollander, I don’t even know why you would say that,” he pouts, tilting his head dramatically. He’s perfected this kicked-puppy look that is, unfortunately for Shane, really adorable. But Shane is also becoming more and more immune to it.

“Because you’re a cheater.”

“No, I do not remember this.”

“We were all there.”

“You must be thinking of some other cheater.” Ilya waves his hand flippantly. “I would not do this.”

Shane hums, sitting forward to slide open one of the drawers on the coffee table. He takes out the Uno pack, then slips down to sit on the floor. “Come,” he nods to the other side of the table. “The first time you cheat, I’m sending your ass back to Boston early.”

The movie theater is one of the ones with reclining seats, the chairs paired off into what essentially look like love seat sofas. There’s an arm rest between Shane and Ilya, but as the lights dim, Ilya pulls it up and inches closer.

“Do you hate when people talk during movies?” he whispers. Shane looks over, glaring.

“What do you think?”

“Mm,” Ilya nods, like he expected that answer. “But you will not hate it if it is me, yes?”

Shane rolls his eyes, but something inside him softens. Because he realizes Ilya is right. He could yap his way through this entire film, and Shane thinks he wouldn’t mind at all. He’s probably more interested in what Ilya has to say than whatever would be going on in the movie anyway.

“Just be quiet,” Shane murmurs. “I might not mind, but my dad will definitely tell you to shut up.”

Ilya exhales a soft laugh through his nose. “Okay,” he says, his voice barely a breath. “Only you will hear me, then.”

And God, does he ever. Ilya does, indeed, yap through the whole movie. It’s mostly commenting on inane things in the film, like jokes that are made or things the characters say or do. Sometimes it’s something completely unrelated, like what he’s craving for dinner or that the pillows on Shane’s childhood bed are flat as hell. Over the course of the first hour, Ilya manages to scoot close enough that he’s halfway into Shane’s chair. 

They’re pressed against each other, the way they always seem to find themselves. Shane’s hand has accidentally brushed Ilya’s wrist and forearm countless times, and he kind of aches to lace their fingers together. He won’t, because why would he? But he thinks about the familiar weight of Ilya’s palm against his and yearns for it.

“Have you ever had sex in a movie theater?” Ilya asks suddenly.

Shane jolts, head snapping towards him. Their faces are much closer than he realized. The glow of the movie reflects in Ilya’s hazel eyes. “What?” he hisses. “No.”

“Really?” Ilya tilts his head. “Not even, like, a handjob?”

“Rozanov, are you insane?”

“I am not saying we should,” Ilya defends. “God, Hollander. Your parents are right here, I am not that horny.”

“Oh, my God,” Shane mutters, turning back towards the screen. He barely even knows what’s going on in the movie anymore.

“I was just curious.”

Shane scoffs quietly. “No, I have not. I’ve only been to the movies for a date, like, once. And it was a first date.”

“Ah, so you do not put out on the first date?” Ilya frowns. “Very boring, Hollander.”

“That’s actually really normal, Ilya.”

“Sure.” Ilya frowns dramatically. “Do you kiss on a first date?”

“Why are you even asking me this?” he mutters, feeling his cheeks heat up. Mainly because no, he didn’t usually kiss on the first date. No first date with a girl had ever felt right — for obvious reasons. 

“I am just curious,” Ilya shrugs, but Shane knows Ilya just likes to get under his skin. “Wondering if the poor virgin movie theater has seen you do more than hold hands in the dark.”

“Pretty sure it’s seen enough from other people to not be considered a virgin anymore,” Shane mutters, suddenly feeling icky at the thought of other people doing stuff in the very chair he’s sitting in. Hopefully, they disinfect the seats. 

“Mm, but nothing from you?”

Shane stays silent. He hears the grin in Ilya’s voice when he keeps pushing. “No touching, no kissing, no sneaking around…?”

“No,” Shane finally snaps under his breath. “No touching, no kissing, not even hand holding. Are you happy?”

He tries to scoot further into the corner of his seat, away from Ilya. This is the exact kind of reaction Ilya had been looking for, and Shane just couldn’t help but give it to him. He doesn’t even know why he’s so annoyed, because he had a decent amount of experience (at least, for someone who dated girls without realizing he didn’t even like girls) outside of this movie theater cliche. Ilya just knows how to push his buttons in the worst way. 

“Poor virgin movie theater,” Ilya whispers, but his voice is softer. 

Fingers brush Shane’s wrist, and he doesn’t even register it because they’ve accidentally done that to each other countless times. But then they trail down Shane’s palm with purpose, and then Ilya’s fingers lace with his. Shane tenses, looking at Ilya. Whatever’s happening in the movie casts pinks and reds over Ilya’s face, reminding Shane a little bit of Halloween. 

“What are you doing?” Shane asks, feeling ridiculously breathless. Ilya’s holding his hand, not proposing. But it feels just as significant, in a different way. 

Ilya shrugs lightly, but he averts his eyes, looking at their joint hands. “Taking your virginity?” he jokes.

Shane can’t even make the words form to tell him that’s not how that works, on any level. He can’t do anything but blink stupidly. His hand tightens on Ilya’s, instinctively. They fit so well together. 

This feels… different. Like, it feels real. Which is insane, because this is the exact thing Shane needs to avoid. And it’s the exact thing Ilya doesn’t want. And yet, he made the move to hold Shane’s hand, even if it was for some silly joke derived from teasing Shane. 

If Shane’s parents weren’t five feet from them, Shane might be brave enough to remind Ilya he’s never kissed anyone inside a theater either. Or at least joke about how he’s never done anything in a theater, which could tie it back to sex and re-enter the actual parameters of their friends-with-benefits thing. But that tiny, evil, hopeful voice in the back of his head wins out, and Shane lets this happen. 

He slinks down his seat, pushing their joint hands down between their outer thighs, hiding it from his parents’ line of sight if they were to glance over, which really makes him feel like a teenager. His arm presses against Ilya’s again, connecting them from fingers to shoulders. He tunes back into the movie, but he has no idea what’s even happening in it anymore. Which is fine. He’s enjoying it anyway.

Shane wakes up with a pillow whacking him in the head.

He jolts, his eyes snapping open. Ilya is staring at him, the offending pillow in hand. Shane blinks. 

“Um. Hello?”

“Get up.”

Shane looks around quickly, like he’s expecting the place to be on fire or something. No flames or any other immediate emergencies make themselves known, but Shane still sits up, running a hand over his face. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“We are getting your parents breakfast,” Ilya says. “Because they got it for us.”

Shane stares at Ilya for a second before his vision blurs as he yawns. “We— what?” he asks.

“Breakfast.” The pillow Ilya is still holding comes swinging at Shane’s chest again, but he manages to catch it before it makes contact. 

“Yeah, I got that, but… why?” he asks, though he starts to pull himself out of bed. Glancing again at Ilya, Shane realizes he’s already dressed. He looks at the clock. It’s not even 8 am yet.

“They got it for us yesterday. I said this,” Ilya repeats, like that makes it make more sense. Shane just grunts softly and slips into thick sweatpants and a hoodie. Grabbing his phone and wallet, he nods towards the door. He plucks his dad’s spare car key from a drawer in the kitchen, and then they silently slip on their shoes by the door. 

He shoots his mom a text letting her know where they were going before getting in on the driver’s side. He exhales slowly, melting into the seat for a few seconds before actually starting the car. They quickly adjust the heat setting, turning it all the way up.

“I know you said we’re doing this because they did,” Shane says as he starts driving, “which is nice and all. But what’s the real reason?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Shane starts, trying to figure out how to word this without sounding like he’s jumping to conclusions. “You got kind of… quiet, and, like… I don’t know, weird when they brought us breakfast. Like you were surprised that they got you something, too.”

Shane knows he’s gotten something right when Ilya’s head instantly turns forward again, and he falls silent for a minute. “I was not weird,” he says flatly.

“Maybe weird isn’t the right word,” Shane says. “But it just seemed like there was something wrong. Was there?”

There’s another long moment where the only sound between them is the tires beneath them rolling against the road and the wind racing past them. Shane wants to say something else, but he just waits. He gives Ilya the space to figure out if he wants to talk about whatever’s going on in his head.

“It was very… nice.”

Shane waits. Ilya says nothing. So Shane nods once, slowly. “Yes, it was nice.”

More silence. “And your parents do not… know me well. I am not used to people like that doing nice things for no reason. Usually, it is only if they want something.”

Shane’s brows draw together, and he glances over to see a conflicted look on Ilya’s face. He wants to reach over and smooth the wrinkle between his eyebrows and the little dimple at the corner of his mouth caused by his frown. “So, we’re getting them breakfast because you think you… owe them?”

“No,” Ilya says, though it doesn’t sound convincing. “I just thought it would be nice.”

“It is nice,” Shane says softly. “But I hope you know they don’t expect anything from you in return. They like you. My mom, especially. She might like you more than she likes me, at this point.”

A smile twitches on Ilya’s lip, erasing that little dimple. Shane pulls into the parking lot of a little breakfast place, but neither of them makes a move to leave the car yet. “I like her very much, too,” he says. “Both of them, yes, but your mother…” Ilya huffs a little laugh.

“This is going to sound stupid,” he says, “but she acts like such a mother. Even to me, sometimes.”

Shane blinks, unsure if that’s a good thing. Sometimes, acting like a mother could mean acting overbearing or overprotective. And Yuna is protective, but it’s never felt like a bad thing. “Well,” Shane says slowly, “she… is one.”

Ilya laughs again quietly before his head turns towards Shane. “It has been almost sixteen years since someone has acted like a mother to me,” he whispers. “It is very nice. And surprising, coming from my archrival’s mother.”

Shane’s heart softens inside his chest, melting into a puddle. Oh. He swallows roughly, one corner of his mouth ticking upwards. “I think you surprised all of us, you know,” he says gently. “None of us ever expected to like you this much. No offense.”

Ilya snorts softly, making Shane smile. It fades, though. “I know things will be… weird after we, you know, break up. But we’ll still be friends. My family and I will still be here for you, if you ever, like… need anything. Okay?”

Ilya studies him for a few seconds. “Okay,” he says softly.

They bring home pancakes and waffles, and containers of fresh fruit. Shane got himself an omelet, but he’s eyeing Ilya’s pancakes so much that he eventually slides them closer to Shane. “One bite will not cost you the Stanley Cup, Hollander,” he says, urging his fork into Shane’s hand. Shane hesitates before he indulges — he avoids the parts soaked with butter, but he does allow himself some syrup. 

They all spend the morning playing a few board games. Shane keeps an extra close eye on Ilya, who continues to claim he is so innocent and would never cheat. (He ends up attempting to cheat at Uno, Yahtzee, and Candyland. Shane didn’t even know it was possible to cheat at Yahtzee, but Ilya managed.) They watch a few movies, which Ilya talks through — he’s allowed to talk louder than yesterday, though, because David has already seen these movies, therefore he doesn’t mind a bit of conversation during the film.

For the last half of the second movie, Shane puts on his glasses and reads the last few chapters of his book instead of watching. He almost expects Ilya to pester him anyway, but instead, he just takes Shane’s feet and pulls them into his lap, resting one of his hands on Shane’s ankle. Shane glances up at the wrong time and makes eye contact with his mom, whose eyes flick up from the casual point of contact between him and Ilya.

Shane has no defense, so his cheeks just flush, and he looks back down at his book. He should pull his feet away, because again, this feels different. And it’s not even as though they’ve never done something on this level of casual intimacy before. They have. That week at the cottage, they touched like this more than once. But that was before Shane made his feelings known in the hot tub. That was before they’d ever had sex. Things felt different now, because they both know this closeness means something more to Shane than it does to Ilya.

No matter how much Shane fights it.

When the movie ends, Ilya gently removes Shane’s feet from his lap.

“I, um, have birthday present for you,” Ilya tells Yuna softly, a little shy. Shane’s book instantly snaps shut, knowing how nervous Ilya is to give her this. 

Yuna’s eyes widen. “Oh, honey, you didn’t have to get me anything,” she says, one hand resting over her heart. 

“Is nothing big,” Ilya says. “I will go get it.”

The second he leaves the room, Shane’s parents both look over at him. Shane feels like a bug under a microscope. “Um, I got you the spa package you like,” he says slowly. “Like always.”

“I know, honey, thank you,” his mom says. “Did you tell Ilya to get me something?”

Shane shakes his head. “He did it on his own,” he says.

Her eyes soften, and she smiles. “Well, that’s very sweet.” There’s an odd twinkle in her eyes when she continues with, “I like him, you know.”

“Yes, I know.” Shane blinks, feeling like he’s missing something. Before he can figure it out, Ilya returns with a box wrapped in pink paper. Shane sits up, crossing his legs. Ilya gives the box to Yuna, who beams at him, before taking a seat beside Shane. Shane's socked toes brush over the outside of Ilya’s thigh, a silent reminder to relax.

As expected, his mom loves the gift. Even more so when Ilya explains why he chose the colors. Unexpectedly, she leans across the couch and wraps Ilya in a short hug. “I love it, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Ilya says softly, his voice a little distant. Shane silently wonders how long it’s been since any parental figure has given him a hug. He can’t imagine Ilya’s father did it in the years before he died, given what Shane knows about the man. Considering their conversation earlier, it makes sense that when Ilya leans back from the hug, he sinks into the cushions. This time, uncaring that his parents are right there, Shane leans forward and rests his head against Ilya’s shoulder. It really sucks that this is all going to come to an end, because Ilya slots into Shane’s family so damn perfectly.

Chapter End Notes

ok shane we get it ur oblivious as fuck but come on girl.... this is just embarrassing (says the author who made him painfully oblivious)

my twitter!

Chapter 20: twenty

Chapter Notes

we must use fanfic logic for this chapter and pretend the nhl gives players a WEEK off for christmas/new years... bc that is more important than the truth, which is like.. two days.

anyways enjoy mwah

December passes quickly. Montreal doesn't play Boston, but there are plenty of other games that help the days move by. There are still a few months until the playoffs, but so far, both Shane and Ilya’s teams are on track to make the cut if they keep playing the way they are. 

Shane’s not really worried about it right now.

Because right now, he’s working himself up to call Ilya and invite him back to the cottage for a few days. Shane and his parents usually went that way for Christmas, and this year would be no different. And when Shane’s mom had suggested seeing what Ilya was up to for the holiday, Shane had agreed. Well— originally, he’d protested. Because surely, Ilya had other things to do or other people to see. But the more he’d thought about it, the more he realized an invitation couldn’t hurt. And maybe, Ilya would say yes, so asking was still worth it.

Now he just actually had to work up the nerve to call him. He was being ridiculous. The worst Ilya could do is say no, which would be fine. Shane scoffs at himself before hitting the call button. It rings twice.

“Ah, you are calling for phone sex?”

Shane chokes on an inhale. “What the— no? What the fuck?” he sputters. “What is wrong with you?”

“Oh. so you are calling me for perfectly innocent reason at 10:30 at night? Is it not past your bed time, Hollander?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Shane sighs. “I am calling you for a perfectly innocent reason, thank you.”

“Ah. What is it, then?”

“Well,” Shane’s voice fails for a second, but he presses on. “I was wondering what you’re doing for Christmas. I know it’s next week, but my parents and I are headed up to our cottages, so…”

Silence follows on the other side of the line. “The cottage?” Ilya says slowly. “For Christmas.”

“Yeah. I, uh, I know Russians usually celebrate it in January, but since we have the time off from the league. If you don’t have other plans… you could come for a few days.”

It’s as though Shane can hear his hesitation in the pause before his response. He doesn’t take the offer back or rush Ilya into responding. He just waits.

“For… the PR, yes? So we can post?”

Shane frowns to himself. The smartest answer would be yes, because that should be the top priority when it comes to the two of them. But even if they can’t be what Shane wants them to be, they are still friends. He does still want Ilya around. He should be able to say that without I’m in love with you being written across his forehead.

“Well, we can do that, too. But it’s not for that. I just… wanted to know if you would come.”

“Because you want me to be there?” he says it slowly, and Shane feels like he should be decoding some secret message in the words. He can’t find one.

“Yeah,” he says, hoping it comes out casually. Like any totally platonic friend would sound while inviting their totally platonic friend to their private residence. “Plus, to be totally honest, my parents also want you there. I’m telling you, I think my mom likes you more than me, remember?”

That finally draws a little laugh out of Ilya. “Good, my plan is working,” he says. “Yes, I would like to come. But Sveta is having New Year’s party and she will kill me if I do not go.”

“Okay, well, you could leave—”

“Actually,” Ilya interrupts, “she wanted me to ask you. If you would be there. I have been meaning to, but I wasn’t sure if you would want to.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya whispers. “Do you want to?”

“Yeah,” Shane says without even having to think about it. He wants as much time with Ilya as he can get. “I want to.”

They arrive at the cottage in the early evening of Christmas Eve. Shane’s parents have already been at their own house for a couple of days now, but Shane had a game in Toronto last night. 

“I told my parents we’d just come over in the morning,” Shane says as they enter the house. It looks the same as how he’d left it, but with a light layer of dust coating things now. 

“Okay,” Ilya says. Shane watches as he sets his bag down to strip off his coat, then his hoodie, leaving him in nothing but sweatpants and a sleeveless shirt. His shoes come off next. The setting sun shines through the windows and highlights the muscles in Ilya’s arms. Shane swallows. Their phone call last week had actually turned into phone sex, and Shane’s gotten himself off at least once a day since then, too, but he hasn’t been touched by Ilya since Thanksgiving. And now they were alone, with complete privacy.

“So,” he starts. Ilya looks up at him, and something must give Shane away, because Ilya smirks slowly.

“So,” he responds casually. 

“Last time you were here, you mentioned you were picky about beds.”

“Mm, yes. I am.”

“Something about needing a room with an ensuite bathroom, if I recall?”

Ilya hums again, walking closer. Shane’s skin tingles with awareness. “Yes, is very important to me,” he murmurs. “And you still have not gotten five star review…”

Shane walks backwards, knowing his house like the back of his hand. Ilya follows like a puppy. Just before the few steps that lead up to the sitting area before his bedroom, Ilya reaches out and gently pushes Shane against the tall window. Without another word, he kisses him. Shane moans into it, his hands cupping Ilya’s face.

This part never gets old. Shane can count on his two hands the number of times they’ve hooked up at this point, but the kissing is his favorite part. “Fuck, Shane,” Ilya murmurs as he mouths down the slope of Shane’s throat. 

“We should—” Shane cuts himself off with a gasp when he feels teeth. “God, the bed. My bed, now.”

He forces himself to push Ilya away, lacing their fingers and pulling him up the stairs and across the room until they fall into his king-sized bed.

Afterwards, they lie in bed, their arms pressing together being the only point of contact. Shane doesn’t know if it’s casual behavior to sleep in the same bed as your friend-with-benefits, but he doesn’t tell Ilya to leave. He doesn’t want him to.

He exhales slowly. “So… five stars, or what?” 

Ilya snorts. “You are so annoying.”

“I think that’s my line.”

“And yet, you are the one being annoying.” Ilya turns onto his stomach and props himself up on his elbows. The sun is practically gone by now, bare traces of gold still streaking the sky, but not enough to offer any light, so it’s just the glow of the lamp that illuminates Ilya. He looks so pretty — cheeks flushed from fucking Shane through the mattress, hair a mess from Shane’s hands, lips pinker than normal from kissing Shane. Ilya is fucking covered in evidence of Shane’s presence. It does something horrible to Shane’s heart.

“Five stars,” he says, halfway between teasing and earnest. A smile tugs at Shane’s lips, and Ilya’s eyes drop to watch it form. His movements seem almost mindless as he leans in and kisses Shane again. It’s so soft and sweet, Shane almost stops breathing. When Ilya pulls back, Shane is positive that he has some conflicted look on his face. Something lovesick and tortured. He blinks it away.

“I’m going to get some water,” he whispers. “Do you want anything?”

He hopes that Ilya catches his silent plea for him to stay in Shane’s bed. He must, because he relaxes into his pillow. “Water would be good,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Sure.” Shane scoops up his boxers from the floor and slides them on, pretending he doesn’t feel Ilya’s eyes on him. Once he’s in the kitchen, he allows himself one moment to ruminate on how well and truly fucked he’s going to be when this all ends.

—

It is, by far, the best Christmas Shane has ever had. 

For starters, he woke up with his arm around Ilya's waist. That alone makes it better than any morning he’s ever experienced in his life. And then he’s with his parents, who he loves, and Ilya, who he loves. He doesn’t even care for a while that he and Ilya are only friends — the fact that he’s here makes everything better. 

They have breakfast, and Shane breaks his diet again because Ilya begs him to try the pancakes he made for everyone. 

They exchange gifts, they play games — Shane almost doesn’t mind when Ilya cheats — they watch cheesy holiday movies. Shane doesn’t even care about his parents’ proximity, or about being “casual,” when he leans his head against Ilya’s shoulder on the sofa and nearly falls asleep. Clearly, Ilya doesn’t mind either, considering he also almost falls asleep. (His mom takes a photo and sends it to Shane.)

The four of them make dinner together, which isn’t as chaotic as Shane expected it to be. It feels so… natural to have Ilya here, like he slots right into Shane’s family so effortlessly. If he weren’t in such a good mood, it would be a devastating thing to think about the fact that this is all going to come to an end in a few months.

They see Shane’s parents a couple of times over the next four days, but their time is mostly spent in Shane’s cottage. Predominantly in Shane’s bed, actually. Although even when they are in other locations, that doesn’t stop their hands and mouths from wandering. They steer clear of the hot tub this time — partially because Shane doesn’t want to refill it for just a few days, but also just because Shane really doesn’t want to relive the first sexual encounter there. 

The day before New Year’s Eve, they catch a flight back to Boston. Yuna drops them off at the airport and hugs Ilya just as tightly as she hugs Shane. Svetlana picks them up when they land, and she hugs Shane almost as tightly as she hugs Ilya. 

Something unpleasant settles in Shane’s chest thinking about the way their lives are so intertwined after such a short amount of time, but he’s determined to ignore it. Rose makes that task easy when she calls him while they’re on the way to Ilya’s place.

“Hey,” Shane answers. Both Svetlana and Ilya glance back at where he sits in the backseat.

“Please, please, please tell me you’re not busy for New Year’s,” she begs. “I’m free for a few days. Whether you’re at home or the cottage, I’ll fly wherever. And if you’re at the cottage, you don’t even have to pick me up from the airport! I’ll get an Uber or rent a car! Please, please, please.”

Shane sighs. “I am neither in Montreal, nor Ottawa, I’m afraid.”

Rose whines. “You’re in Boston, aren’t you?” she says. “I figured that was a possibility. I was waiting to see if my manager was going to have me scheduled somewhere on the first, otherwise I would’ve called sooner. I’m guessing you and Ilya are just staying in then, huh?”

Shane glances at Svetlana, then hums. “Well, actually… hold on a second.” He holds the phone to his chest. “Svetlana, is your party, like, a small or personal thing? Or could, hypothetically, Rose Landry come?”

Svetlana actually takes her eyes off the road for a few seconds to turn and face him. “Shane Hollander, of course Rose fucking Landry can come.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I figured that would be the answer.” His eyes swing to Ilya. “You feel like meeting Rose?”

“If I must hang out with your ex-girlfriend, I will.”

Shane holds the phone back up to his ears. “We’re actually going to a party that Ilya’s friend is throwing, and she says that you are more than welcome to come,” he says. “You’d have to get a hotel, since I’m obviously staying with Ilya, but we—”

“She can stay in my guest room.”

Shane blinks at Ilya. Because if Rose stays in Ilya’s guest room, that means Shane is staying in Ilya’s room. Which isn’t crazy or anything, considering they’d just spent the last few days sharing Shane’s bed. But he still wasn’t expecting Ilya to suggest Rose staying with them, meaning they’d have to be in Relationship Mode the entire time. “Um…” he says to Rose, “actually you can stay with us, if you’d like. Ilya just offered his guest room.”

“Oh, are you sure?” she asks. “I don’t want to, like, be all up in your space…”

“You literally love nothing more than being all up in my space. You’re the nosiest person I know.”

“Well, yes,” she says, “but I know you guys get limited time together because of the season, so.”

“It’s up to you, but the offer is there. And it means we can hang out more, so you know I don’t mind.”

“I’ll think about it. For now, I shall be booking a flight to Boston!” she says. “Would you rather I come tonight or tomorrow morning?”

“Whatever you prefer.”

“Okay,” she sings. “I’ll keep you updated, but see you soooo soon.”

Shane smiles, telling her how excited he is before ending the call. They’re almost at Ilya’s place, so Shane will just wait to make sure Ilya is actually okay with Rose staying with them. Gently, Svetlana clears her throat.

“Shane,” she says, her voice careful, “do you know if Rose Landry… is, maybe, into girls at all?”

Ilya snorts. Shane blinks. “Um, I have no clue.”

“Mm,” she hums back. “Okay.”

“I can… ask?”

“No, no,” Svetlana’s curls bounce as she shakes her head. “No need.”

Ilya glances over at her, amused. “You are a menace, you know. You cannot woo Rose Landry.”

“Fuck you, yes I can,” she shoots back. Shane grins to himself, listening to them argue back and forth. Rose is going to love them both, he can just tell. He feels giddy now, knowing that he’ll have two of his favorite people together soon. And, even though his relationship with Ilya isn’t real, he’s excited to get Rose’s full opinion on him. 

Svetlana drops them off, promising to see them tomorrow. On the way up to Ilya’s penthouse, Shane says, “You’re really cool with Rose staying here?”

“Yes, is fine,” he shrugs. “Plus, she is your friend. I want to make good impression.”

Shane fights a smile. “Okay,” he says softly. “For the record, I think she’s going to like you.”

“Well, yes,” Ilya says, like it’s obvious. He opens his door and lets Shane in first. “Most people do.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “I can’t imagine why.” 

The words have barely left his mouth before his back is pressed against the wall. Ilya’s tongue licks over the pulse point on Shane’s neck. His bag falls to the floor, hands automatically curling around Ilya’s shoulders. “I will show you,” Ilya murmurs against his skin.

And the words should light Shane up with the promise of them, but instead, something ugly twists in his gut. Because the words just remind him that a lot of people like Ilya because he’s good at sex. Shane is nothing special.

It’s almost 10 pm when Rose’s Uber pulls up to Ilya’s apartment. Shane is waiting for her in the lobby, and she lets go of her rolling suitcase to throw her arms around Shane. “Oh, my God, I missed you!” she says, hugging him with surprising strength.

“I missed you, too,” Shane says into her shoulder. “How was your flight?”

“Good!” she says, rolling her eyes fondly when Shane gently smacks her hand away from her suitcase, taking the handle and rolling it behind him. He takes her to the elevator and hits Ilya’s floor, listening to her talk about how the flight attendant recognized her and gave her several free drinks on the plane.

“Ah, that’s why you’re walking crooked,” he teases.

“Oh, and why are you walking crooked?” she parrots back, raising her eyebrows. “Hmm, let me guess—”

“Alright, enough!” Shane says, his face burning. “Come inside, Ilya is excited to meet you.”

She claps her hands together, her smile splitting her face in two. Shane pushes open the door and lets her in, both of them slipping off their shoes. Just as Shane rolls her bag up to the wall, Ilya rounds the corner. Shane can see the faintest hint of anxiety in his gaze, but Ilya smiles like it’s nothing.

“Hello, Rose Landry.”

“Hi!” Rose says. She hesitates for just a second. “I’m a hugger. Is it okay if I hug you? I’m so excited to meet you after hearing Shane yap about you all summer.”

“I don’t yap,” Shane mutters, but he’s ignored as Ilya leans down to hug Rose. Shane’s heart is going to explode. He leans against the wall, not even trying to tamp down his smile. Over Rose’s shoulder, Ilya winks at him.

“Is very nice to meet you,” he tells her. 

“Thank you for letting me stay with you guys,” Rose says when they pull back. “I know it was super last minute.”

“Ah, no worries,” Ilya waves her off. He holds a hand out, nodding towards her suitcase. “Here, I will take that to your room. Shane will show you the living room.”

They get settled on the sofa, Rose filling Shane in on all of her co-star drama and how her manager is driving her crazy with packing in interviews for her press tour. When Ilya re-enters the room, he sits beside Shane and easily tosses his arm over Shane’s shoulders. Rose’s eyes track the movement, and her grin widens ever so slightly, but she doesn’t draw attention to it. 

Shane only lasts for about thirty minutes before his yawning becomes too frequent to ignore. Ilya’s head tilts as he looks at him. “Poor, sleepy zaychik (little bunny).”

“Don’t start with that name again,” Shane rolls his eyes, hoping he isn’t flushing pink at the reminder of Halloween night. 

Rose’s eyebrow lifts. “Why? What does it mean?”

Shane sighs. “You remember how we had the rabbit ears for Halloween?” he asks. When Rose nods, already beginning to grin, Shane says, “It means bunny.”

“Ah, it is little bunny,” Ilya corrects.

“Aw,” Rose teases. “Shane is such a little bunny.”

“You get it,” Ilya nods at her.

“Okay, I’m going to bed!” Shane says, pushing Ilya off him to stand. He looks over his shoulder, locking eyes with Ilya. Shane has no idea if it’s a performance or an actual plea when he asks, “You coming?”

Regardless, Ilya says yes.

They all get breakfast in the morning, in a tiny hole-in-the-wall place that Ilya knows will be lowkey enough for them not to be recognized. The majority of the day is spent hanging out in Ilya’s apartment. Svetlana’s party doesn’t technically start until nine, but she had invited the three of them over early. Shane imagines this would’ve been the case regardless of if Rose was here or not, but after Svetlana’s comment yesterday, he thinks Rose is now the main reason she wants the three of them over sooner.

They get there a little after 7:30, helping Svetlana finish setting up. Well, it’s mostly Shane and Ilya standing around while Rose and Svetlana set up, because everything the boys try to do gets vetoed. (Shane doesn’t actually mind, because Ilya keeps an arm around his waist while they stand in the kitchen.)

Svetlana and Rose hit it off, which is somewhat expected. They’ve been there for about an hour when Ilya leans closer to Shane and murmurs, “Remember how Sveta asked if Rose was into girls?”

“Yeah.”

“I am going to guess and say the answer is yes.”

Shane looks over at Ilya, who is much closer than he realized. Their noses are almost brushing. “Why do you say that?” he asks, eyes unintentionally flicking down to Ilya’s mouth — he’s one and a half drinks in, sue him.

“They are very… touchy,” Ilya murmurs. His eyes are on Shane’s mouth, too. Shane hums, barely remembering what they were talking about. He gets brought back to reality by the sound of Rose bursting into laughter.

A few hours later, the party is in full swing. Shane knows no one except for Ilya, Rose, and Svetlana, but he’s tipsy enough to mingle anyway. Kind of. He is mingling, but he’s also attached to Ilya’s hip. Even when they’re talking to other people, they’re never more than six inches apart. At this point, Shane doesn’t even think it’s a matter of selling their fake relationship — they just like to be close to each other. 

They’re both talking to a few of Svetlana’s friends that she met through pilates, one of whom is looking around the party intently. “I’m trying to scope out who could be my New Year’s kiss. It’s, like, bad luck or something to not have one,” she says when Shane asks what she’s doing.

“Is it really?” Shane tilts his head.

“Not necessarily,” one of the other girls says with a small laugh. “You’re supposed to kiss the person you want to spend the year with.”

“That’s too much commitment for me,” the first girl says. “I just need one for good luck.”

Shane’s eyes swing to Ilya, who is already looking at him. The person you want to spend the year with. There isn’t a doubt in Shane’s mind that Ilya is that person for him, even if he knows it’s not possible. Even though he knows this all comes to an end in three and a half months. Shane sucks in a breath, looking away. “I’m sure you’ll find someone,” he tells the girl, grinning. Ilya’s hand slips underneath the shirt Rose had packed for Shane — like, literally brought from her own house to dress Shane in. It’s a black button-up shirt, made entirely of lace. Ilya’s eyes had gone black the second he saw Shane in it.

By the time the countdown is near, Shane's head has cleared up some. He wants to be sober by midnight. He’s kissed Ilya a million times at this point, but he wants this to be different, even if it’s only for himself. Maybe, if he wishes hard enough, he can manifest some miracle, and he can actually get a year with Ilya. It’s silly, maybe, but Shane wants it so badly.

There are still a couple of minutes until midnight, but Ilya wraps his arm around Shane’s waist, pulling him close. Their chests are flush. Ilya looks so good, too, in a white satin shirt that’s halfway unbuttoned. 

“Hi,” Shane murmurs, immediately falling into their own bubble.

“Hi, malysh (baby).”

Shane hums. “What does that one mean? It better not be another animal.”

Ilya laughs softly. “No, is not another animal.”

“What is it, then?”

Ilya hesitates for a second. “It means baby,” he says, studying Shane’s face for a reaction. Shane isn’t sure what reaction he’s supposed to give, exactly, but he just blinks. And then he smiles a little. Because even though he isn’t tipsy anymore, he still feels floaty enough from the ambiance of the party to let this wash over him in a good way. 

“I should start calling you names in French,” Shane says. “So you don’t know what I’m saying.”

“That is very mean.”

“Oh? So you’re being mean?”

“Yes, but I am asshole. Everyone knows this.”

Shane licks his lips — something Ilya watches with interest. “You’re not, you know,” Shane whispers. “You’re actually really…” he struggles to find a word that encompasses all of Ilya. He’s good, and funny, and kind, and caring, and attentive. He’s fucking everything, and there’s not just one word that can be used to wrap it all up.

“Really…?” Ilya prompts, looking at Shane like he wants to hear the answer. 

“Um… nice,” Shane tries. 

“Oh?” Ilya raises a brow. “I am nice?”

“And compassionate,” Shane says, words spilling out. “And funny, and smart, and caring, and—”

Everyone around them starts counting down from ten, but Ilya is already leaning down to kiss Shane. Not caring who’s around to witness it, Shane’s mouth opens against Ilya’s, who takes the invitation and slides his tongue against Shane’s. They kiss through the countdown, through the new year, through the cheers, through the flash of a camera. 

They only break away when it’s Rose’s voice that teasingly calls out, “Okay, get a room!”

Shane’s cheeks flush as he looks at her. Her arm is around Svetlana’s waist, and they both look thoroughly kissed. 

“Actually, maybe don’t get a room because I’m staying in the same apartment as you guys tonight and I didn’t bring headphones,” she says.

“Fuck off,” Shane says at the same time that Ilya says, “That is your problem.”

Shane smacks his arm, flushing even harder. But Rose laughs, like it’s totally normal to joke about Shane’s sex life. She pulls away from Svetlana to hug Shane. “Happy New Year, Shaney,” she says into his ear. “I’m so happy for you, you know.”

Shane presses his face into her shoulder, giving himself one single second to wallow about how useless it is that he wants Ilya so badly. He forces himself to let it go by the time he responds, “Happy New Year, Rosie.”

Chapter End Notes

sorry the pacing was weird for this one. it was lowkey a speedrun but it was necessary

my twitter!

Chapter 21: twenty-one

Chapter Notes

tw: use of a homophobic slur

The NHL All-Star game is slightly earlier than usual, taking place on January 21st in San Diego. Although it doesn’t actually matter, because for the first time since their rookie year, neither Shane nor Ilya is invited to play. The league has to be responsible for it in some way, because the internet is throwing a fit over it. There are even tweets and posts from people that are all something along the lines of “I don’t even fuck with Hollander or Rozanov since they decided to go all gay, but what do you mean they AREN’T playing in the All-Stars game???”

Shane has the same question. 

“Crowell isn’t responding to our emails,” he tells Ilya over the phone as he paces his kitchen. Shane, his mom, and Farah have messaged the NHL commissioner several times about the public’s votes for players, only to receive nothing. “This is so— I mean, it’s fucking useless now to try and do anything, the game is literally in a week, and they already announced the teams, but it’s fucking stupid. We would’ve been on the same team, so everyone knows they did this because we came out.”

That’s the most upsetting part to Shane. Not that he’s not playing, but that he’s not playing with Ilya on the East team. They played together before when the teams were divided this way, of course, but this would’ve been different.

“I know,” Ilya says softly. He’s quiet for a moment, then he continues, “We have the weekend off, though. Because of the game.”

For a second, Shane is still so lost in his angry spiral that he misses the implication of Ilya’s words. “You want to see each other?” he asks slowly, hoping he didn’t misinterpret Ilya’s words. They only had two full days off because of the All-Star game, but they’ve traveled for less time together. “I mean— yeah, I supposed it would make sense that we would take the excuse. And I’m sure us posting together always pisses Crowell off, so at least that could be… something, I guess.”

“I can come to Montreal?” 

“Yeah, okay,” Shane nods even though Ilya can’t see him. “And we can go to dinner or something, just to be seen, yeah?”

There’s a single second of silence that shouldn’t feel heavy, but for some reason, Shane thinks Ilya is hesitating anyway. “Yes, that is a good idea,” he says. 

Shane is still irritated about the whole thing, but at least something good will come out of it.

Except, three days later, their plans take a potential hit — a fucking big one.

Shane gets home from practice just in time to turn on Ilya’s game against Detroit. He keeps it on while he cooks dinner and folds his laundry. Based on the first two periods, it looks like it’s going to be an easy win for Boston, as they’re up three points. 

And then, six minutes into the third period, one of Detroit’s wingers slams Ilya into the boards so hard, despite him not even having the puck in his possession, his skates give out beneath him, and he collapses on the ice. 

“Jesus,” Shane mutters, crossing his arms as he relaxes into his sofa. But his posture quickly turns rigid when Ilya doesn’t get up. He sits forward, eyes intent on the screen as panic builds in his chest. “Get up, Rozanov,” he whispers.

The whistle has been blown, refs zooming over to Ilya to check on him. Ilya is conscious, nodding and responding to whatever is being said to him. Slowly, he gets to his feet, but it’s obvious he’s no longer in playing condition. On the sofa beside him, Shane’s phone is buzzing with a few texts from his mom, but Shane’s eyes are glued to the screen as Ilya sluggishly skates off the ice. The announcers say he’s out for the rest of the game, and as the next face off is set up, Shane finally tunes into his phone.

Mom
Oh my God, that hit was brutal
At least he’s on his feet
I texted him, but I’m sure you’ll hear from him first
Let me know how he is once you get in touch with him

Shane’s hands are shaking as he reads her texts. He needs to relax. Ilya is fine. He got up. He’s definitely being checked out by a doctor right now. It’ll probably be some bruises or possibly a concussion — nothing major. He’s fine. And yet, Shane’s breathing still hasn’t returned to normal. He ignores his mom’s texts for a moment and opens his chat with Ilya instead.

Shane
Holy shit
Are you okay?
Text or call me as soon as you see this please
That hit deserved a worse penalty
Jonas is a fucking asshole. You weren’t even near the puck???
Call me

He tells his mom that he’ll keep her updated whenever Ilya responds, before shutting off the game. He doesn’t care anymore. Even without Ilya, Boston probably has enough of a lead to pull through. 

But then he turns it back on, because he’s just sitting here, restlessly fidgeting while he waits for Ilya to text him. He knows it’s going to be a while. 

Boston does win the game, though Detroit almost manages to push the game into overtime. Their final shot on goal had hit the frame of the net, bouncing off and securing Boston’s win.

With no game to distract him, Shane gets up and carries his folded laundry to his bedroom. He puts his phone on the loudest ringer possible as he puts the clothes away. And then he cleans his bathroom counter. And then he clears off his nightstand, reshelving the two books sitting beside his bed. He keeps himself moving. The only time his phone dings, Shane flings himself across the room, only for it to be Hayden asking if Ilya is doing alright.

Shane ignores it, going back to cleaning.

Finally, two hours after the game, Ilya’s name lights up his screen. Shane answers immediately. “Hi,” he says. “How are you? That hit was fucking bullshit. Are you okay?”

Ilya huffs a tiny laugh. “I am okay, Shane,” he says gently, sounding exhausted. “My ribs and hip are bruised badly. The angle he hit me was awkward. A lot of pain in my left leg, but nothing is torn or fractured.”

Shane exhales softly, nodding to himself. “Good, good,” he whispers. “Are you out for any games?”

“Just for the rest of the week,” he says. “After All-Star weekend, we have game against Dallas and they will check if I am okay to play then.”

“Okay,” Shane says. “I’m glad it’s not worse. It was… scary. To see you on the ice like that, before you got up.”

“I am okay,” he says again. Shane repeats the words in his head over and over again. Ilya is okay.

“Do you want me to come to Boston this weekend?” he asks. “Instead of you coming here?”

“No, no,” Ilya says. “I will be okay, and I already have flight anyway. Is okay.”

“Okay,” Shane whispers. “My, uh, my mom said she texted you. I don’t know if you saw.”

“Ah, yes,” Ilya says. The next time he speaks, it sounds like he’s switched to speakerphone. “I will text her now. You Hollanders worry so easy.”

“Yeah, well,” Shane huffs. We care about you. We love you. It was horrible, seeing you laid out like that. He says none of this. “I get it from her, so.”

“Yes, I notice this.”

Three days later, Shane picks Ilya up from the airport and is very conscious of his ribs when he pulls him into a hug. “How are you feeling?” Shane asks into his shoulder.

“Fine, Hollander,” Ilya says, his voice fond. “All of my ribs are still intact. My legs still work.”

“Good,” Shane says, reluctantly pulling away. “Keep it that way?”

“I will try.”

They’ve changed their plans of going out to dinner to staying in and relaxing. Ilya insisted he was fine for one dinner in public, but Shane denied it. Honestly, Ilya didn’t fight that hard. At one point during Ilya’s stay, Shane has Ilya all but lie on him, with the excuse of wanting to take a selfie that way to post. Which he does, but even after he puts his phone down, Ilya lies there for several more minutes. Shane doesn’t argue.

Because of Ilya’s ribs, Shane shoots down each time Ilya tries to initiate a hookup. Which does kill Shane, because of course, he wants Ilya as much as possible before their relationship ends in two months. But it’s not worth the risk.

Except… Shane is only human. 

“What if I lay here, very comfortable and relaxed and not hurting my ribs, and you ride me?” Ilya asks, his big, hazel eyes gazing at Shane. He pats his thighs as he lies on the sofa. “Don’t orgasms help injuries heal?”

“No, they do not,” Shane says, but he can’t help but admit that riding Ilya could work, as long as he’s careful. (They test it; It works out just fine.)

When their weekend together comes to an end, Shane is in a horrible mood. He tries to hide it as he drives Ilya to the airport, but it’s useless. Ilya knows him so well at this point.

“What is wrong?” he asks. 

“Nothing,” Shane mutters, shaking his head. It’s a lie, and an obvious one. But how is he meant to tell Ilya that what’s wrong is that they have a month and a half left of this? Their breakup date is March 18th, one month before the playoffs begin. And February is short, cutting away a few days of their time. And, in that month and a half, they play each other twice, one of which is only four days before they break up. 

“Liar.”

Shane huffs. Mainly because Ilya is right, and Shane is annoyed that he’s right. But also because there is something wrong, and Shane can’t talk about it. Not really. Sure, it’s understandable that he’d be upset about their “relationship” ending because it also means the end of him and Ilya publicly being able to be friends, but it goes so much deeper than that for Shane, and he can’t tell anyone.

“Please just drop it,” Shane says, defeated. 

“So there is something?”

“Ilya,” Shane shakes his head. “Please.”

Ilya is quiet for a moment. Shane thinks he might actually drop it. 

“Okay,” Ilya whispers. “Can I… do anything?”

Shane glances over for a second. “What?” 

“To help,” Ilya clarifies. “You don’t have to tell me. But can I do anything to help?”

Shane blinks at the road. At the car in front of them. He swallows roughly. Yes, if Ilya could just magically fall in love with him, everything could be fixed. If he could just reciprocate Shane’s feelings that he’s not allowed to have, everything would be all better. But that’s not who Ilya is. Even if it was a simple, easy thing to request, Ilya has made it clear his entire career that he Does Not do feelings and relationships. 

So Shane just shakes his head silently. Out of the very corner of his eye, Shane is pretty sure he sees Ilya’s shoulders drop a bit in defeat. “Okay,” he says. 

When he drops Ilya off, neither of them says a word when Ilya hugs Shane for several extra seconds. And Shane is delusional enough to imagine Ilya pressing the tiniest of kisses to his shoulder, right over the fabric of his jacket. “I’ll see you in ten days for the game,” Shane whispers.

“Yes,” Ilya responds, just as softly. “Bye, Hollander.”

“Bye.”

Shane feels like he’s on autopilot as he drives home, the cavity in his chest growing the further away from Ilya he gets. He needs to get this under control. He’s known from the very start that this would come to an end, and he’s known from the moment he recognized his feelings for Ilya that it was going to hurt. He needs to find a way to compartmentalize this before the breakup actually happens, so it doesn’t mess with his head too much. It’s bad enough his team already believes being with Ilya is a distraction for Shane. The last thing he needs is for their breakup to actually fuck with his game and give them even more reason to hate him.

Shane exhales slowly as he watches his right winger lean down for the face off against Ilya. In most games, Shane and Ilya are never chosen to face off more than once. A winger or defenseman is almost always subbed in for one of them. Which is irritating and fucking ridiculous — as if Shane was going to spill some sabotaging secret right there on the ice, or lose control of himself and drop his stick to kiss Ilya right then and there. 

Ilya’s jaw clenches tightly at whatever the Voyageurs player says to him, which instantly puts Shane on edge. He can’t go one game without his team chirping something out of line, and the same goes for the Bears. Shane would’ve thought that by now, it would get tiring, considering Shane and Ilya never give them a reaction beyond a look of irritation or an eye roll, but their homophobia knows no bounds. 

Shane can’t even find it in him to be upset when Ilya wins the face off. 

The first two periods of the game go by with minimal contact between Shane and Ilya. They only have a few shifts on the ice together, as though their coaches are working together to minimize their joint ice time. But finally, at the top of the third period, Shane leans over center ice, and so does Ilya.

“Having fun?” Ilya asks.

Shane has been checked, cross-checked, tripped, pushed, held, chirped at, and penalized for fucking nothing. He’s got sweat in places that shouldn’t even sweat, and he knows his cheeks are flushed from exertion. Hayden and J.J. have threatened more than once to drop gloves in his defense.

But he glances up and meets Ilya’s eyes, instantly mesmerized by the sparkle in them. His smile sends a different kind of warmth up Shane’s spine. Of fucking course he’s having fun when he gets to play against one of the only people in this league that actually poses a challenge to him — even despite the bullshit he’s faced tonight.

“Yep,” Shane nods once. “Sorry I have to kick your ass to do it, though.”

“Mm, is okay,” Ilya hums. “You can make it up to me later.”

Shane snorts. The ref readies the puck, drops it, and Ilya wins the face off.

Shane had been somewhat exaggerating when he’d said they were kicking Boston’s ass, because they were actually only one point ahead, which Ilya evens out only fourteen seconds after gaining control of the puck.

“Oh, but I thought you were kicking my ass?” Ilya taunts as he skates past.

“Game’s not over yet, Rozanov,” Shane throws back, trying not to grin too wide, lest his teammates see it and believe Shane’s glad about his boyfriend scoring a goal.

In the end, Boston does win, three minutes into the sudden-death overtime. “Fuck,” Shane mutters to himself as he watches the puck slam into the Voyageurs net from the bench. Beside him, Comeau scoffs.

“This is fucking ridiculous, Hollander,” he says. Loud enough for the players in their general vicinity to hear, given that a few of them angrily murmur in agreement. Shane swallows hard. 

“We lost fair and square,” he says evenly.

“Right,” Comeau deadpans. “Fair and square. Which is why you were fucking giggling on the ice earlier with Rozanov, hm? Right before you lost the face off? And right after he scored?”

Shane rolls his eyes and pushes himself up, hopping the boards to line up for handshakes. Comeau is right behind him. “You won’t even deny it, huh? Because you know you fucking did it. You threw the game so your boyfriend will fuck y—”

Shane’s skates spray ice from how sharply he turns. “That’s enough,” he hisses, trying hard to keep from showing how fucking angry he is on his face. He knows there are eyes on them. “If you want to pull this stupid bullshit, you will at least wait until we’re off the ice. Be fucking professional.”

He skates away before he can respond. Shane and Ilya are both last in their lines, so their handshake closes out the game. Ilya holds his hand for a few seconds. “Are you okay?” he asks, searching Shane’s face. 

Shane nods once. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll meet you back at yours?”

“Yes, of course,” Ilya says, obviously not convinced that Shane is okay. But he drops his hand and skates away.

Back in the locker room, Shane keeps his head down. Normally, after a loss, he’d give some reassuring speech that they gave it their all, and they’ll get ‘em next time, and whatever else a good captain says to raise spirits. He says none of this. He knows his team doesn’t want to hear it. The last time they lost to Boston, he’d tried, and it had all been drowned out by scoffs and grumbles and hissed accusations. 

But Comeau hasn’t dropped his stupid train of thought from before. He must have one working brain cell, because he waits until Hayden and J.J. are in the showers, leaving Shane with no real support. “You know Hollander,” he says loudly, instantly making Shane’s shoulders tense as he shoves his padding into his duffel bag. “Rozanov must have one magical dick if he can fuck his way across the States, and make you his bitch, too.”

Shane inhales slowly. Holds it for a few seconds. Exhales.

“You think it’s not obvious that you lost the face off on purpose?” he asks sharply. He scoffs. “Smiling at each other like we aren’t in the middle of a fucking game, probably talking about whatever faggot shit you’re doing after this, and you let him have the puck. Did he promise to bend you over or something?”

Shane zips up his bag slowly, not giving in. The lack of reaction only pisses Comeau off more. And not just him.

“Not even going to fucking deny it?” Drapeau snarks. “Christ. You that desperate that you have to sabotage your own team for a fuck?”

Shane breathes again and finally looks over his shoulder. Several of his teammates are watching him with disdain, and even the ones who aren’t looking at him still have expressions twisted in anger. “What do you want me to say?” Shane says calmly. “You want me to convince you that I didn’t throw the game? I didn’t, but you won’t believe me, so why should I waste my time?”

“You should have some loyalty to your fucking team,” Comeau spits.

Shane opens his mouth to remind him that he should have loyalty to his captain. That Shane has never been anything but loyal to his team, even despite falling for his rival. He should tell Comeau, and Drapeau, and every other idiot player to learn how to be a fucking professional and separate their personal lives from the ice, like Shane can. But there’s so much anger in the room, it’s physically suffocating, and it just tells Shane that no amount of arguing valid points will convince them that Shane’s done nothing wrong, so he shuts his mouth. He shoulders his bag, ignoring when his teammates start taunting him again, demanding some kind of proof of loyalty or confession of guilt.

He slips out of the locker room, avoids the wave of reporters, and slips out a side exit to call a car.

Twenty minutes later, he uses the spare key that Ilya gave him to let himself in. He isn’t here yet — probably being a good captain and giving a speech about their victory and answering reporters’ questions. Silence surrounds Shane, save for the faint trickle of water from the glass fountain against the wall. Shane takes off his shoes and drops his bag, walking into the apartment and dropping onto the sofa, taking up almost the whole thing as he stretches out.

He’s so lost in his misery, he has no idea how long it’s been when the door opens.

“Shane?” a voice calls.

“Couch,” Shane calls back, his voice weak. A few seconds later, Ilya appears, rounding the couch to stand over him. Shane rubs his hands over his face before laying them over his stomach. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Ilya says back. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, you know,” Shane shrugs. “Obviously I threw the game because I’m your bitch and you must have made all kinds of promises to get me to sabotage my team. My team, who I obviously have no loyalty to after ten years. Oh, and I’m a faggot, obviously. Can’t forget that part.”

Shane’s never said that word aloud in his life, but he hates the way it feels like a punch to the gut. Because it’s his teammates — people he once considered family — calling him that. When Shane exhales, it’s shaky. He watches Ilya’s lips twitch into a frown.

“Watch out,” he murmurs, leaning down and gently nudging Shane until he shifts, lying on his side and flattening himself to the back cushions of the sofa. Ilya barely fits as he lies down, also on his side, and wraps his arms around Shane. Shane melts into his chest, not even caring about “being casual” and his feelings for Ilya potentially being very obvious.

“They are fucking idiots,” Ilya whispers.

“I know,” Shane says into his hoodie. “I just… there’s nothing I can do to make them stop. It’s so fucking tiring fighting a battle I can’t win because they’re too ignorant to listen to me.”

Ilya’s fingers twirl in the hair at the nape of Shane’s neck, the motion relaxing Shane. “By next season, they will get over it. We will not… be together, and they will move on. Just maybe do not date another NHL player after me.”

The joke doesn’t make Shane smile. Partially because he doesn’t want to think about how he and Ilya are breaking up in a month. But also because he doesn’t want to think about his future with this team. He wants to pretend that things aren’t changed forever. That they’ll trust him again, even after he and Ilya aren’t “together.” He wants to naively believe that these guys who have been his friends for ten years now will stop treating him like some diseased freak, just because he likes men.

But Shane knows none of that is the case. He’s lost this family forever, at least in the way they were before, all because they can’t get over something that doesn’t affect them and doesn’t change who Shane is as a person. He knows that as long as he’s with the Voyageurs, he’ll never feel at home again.

It makes him feel physically sick. So he forces it out of his head and leans into the comfort that Ilya is offering. Especially because he only has it for one more month.

“Thanks,” Shane murmurs. “For… this.”

Ilya somehow pulls Shane closer, his head dipping down to press his chin to the top of Shane’s hair. “Of course, solnyshko (sunshine).”

Shane chuckles weakly. “You always seem to use that one when I feel like anything but sunshine.”

“Mm,” Ilya hums. “You are still very sunny to me, even if you do not see it.”

Shane swallows hard. He thinks if anyone here is sunshine personified, it’s Ilya. Warm, intoxicating, all-encompassing. It feels like rays of sunshine are injected directly into Shane’s veins every time Ilya is with him. But saying all of that feels like the opposite of casual, so Shane just shuts his mouth and enjoys the warmth.

Chapter End Notes

oh my sweet sweet boys... im sorry for what's about to come. i mean what who said that <3

my twitter!

Chapter 22: twenty-two

Chapter Notes

i know i said in one of the last chapters that the posting schedule was a bit random but i've actually decided that im a big liar, and it will just be sunday, monday, wednesday, and friday. which means the final chapter will be posted by july 10th<3

ps for any girlies asking for ilya pov, be sure to read the end note after the chapter for a little peek into his head xo

Shane is playing like shit tonight, and he can’t even find it in him to care. He knows that if they lose to Boston again, he’ll face the same vitriol from his team that he did last time, except maybe even worse, because it will have been two games against them in a row. Even the fear of that anger pointed at him isn't enough to make him focus. His only slight solace is that Ilya is also playing worse than usual. 

For once, Shane is distracted on the ice. Because this is the final game against Boston where the world will believe Shane and Ilya are dating. They don’t technically announce the breakup for another few days, but tonight is their last time physically seeing each other while being “together.” 

Shane feels sick about it. His stomach hurts knowing that once Ilya leaves his apartment tomorrow morning, everything between them is essentially over. Sure, they can stay friends, as they’ve already discussed as much, but they can never easily be seen in public again. They would have to sneak around to great extremes if they wanted to hang out, lest they risk becoming a front-page story about potentially getting back together. 

After they’re broken up, they don’t plan to add any drama to their story and give the media any fuel to discredit their “love.” So the chances of ever hanging out again, let alone hooking up or anything like that, are essentially reduced to none. 

No wonder Shane is playing like shit. 

“Hollander,” his coach barks. “We’re switching lines at the top of the next period. You’ll be in for the face off.”

“Yes, coach.”

Shane watches the last few minutes of the first period with glazed eyes, following Ilya around the ice. He’s distracted, too. Shane can’t help but assume it’s because of their impending end, but that doesn’t make sense. Not really. Sure, they’re friends, but it’s not like Ilya is in love with Shane. It’s not like Ilya is losing anything more than a casual hook-up, which he’ll easily be able to find again as soon as the news breaks. The moment the world believes Ilya Rozanov is a heartbroken, eligible bachelor again, women (and probably men now, too) will be throwing themselves at him. 

Maybe, Shane thinks bitterly, Ilya is distracted because he’s so excited to be seen as single again. It's a weak explanation, but that would still make more sense than him just being upset about their fake relationship ending. Right?

Shane blinks as the buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the first period. They shuffle into the locker room for the intermission. Hayden nudges Shane gently. “Everything okay with you and Ilya?” he asks softly. 

Shane swallows. If he says no, he’s guilty of letting his personal life affect his gameplay — the one thing he’s been telling his team he Does Not do. If he says yes, he’s an obvious fucking liar. 

He clears his throat. “Just… a small argument. Sorry. I’ll focus on the game.”

Hayden’s brows furrow. “I wasn’t concerned about the game, buddy,” he says. “I was asking if you’re okay.”

Shane actually thinks that makes him feel worse. Because Hayden is being a good friend about Shane’s boyfriend, who he doesn’t even like, and Shane is still a fucking liar. “I’ll be fine,” Shane says. “We’ll… figure it out.”

“Okay,” Hayden says hesitantly. “I’m here for you if you need anything, you know.”

Shane nods, smiling briefly. When there are five minutes left in the intermission, they shuffle back out onto the ice, skating in circles to warm themselves back up before the first line takes their positions. 

And of course, opposite him in the face off is Ilya. Their first time really seeing each other aside from a quick greeting during warmups. 

“Hey,” Shane says. 

“We are both playing horrible tonight,” Ilya whispers. 

“Yeah, well…” I’m fucking in love with you, and you’re going to go back to sleeping with a different person every night, and I’ll probably see it all over social media for the foreseeable future. “At least it’s still a fair game if we’re both shit.”

Ilya snorts quietly. The puck drops, and Shane wins the face off. 

In the end, Montreal skates by on a pathetic win of 2-1. Shane is barely even relieved, too sick to care that his teammates won’t treat him like the villain for one night. He gives some bland, short speech about keeping it up for the last few weeks of the season. They're basically already set for a spot in the playoffs, but they can’t get too cocky. He answers questions from reporters, smiling politely when they practically ask him why he and his boyfriend both played one of their worst games of their respective seasons. 

By the time he gets home, Ilya isn’t there yet, but his mom is. She’s here to ensure they have all the details of their breakup squared away. She hadn’t even offered to get a hotel room, instead just suggesting that Shane and Ilya could share a bed for the night. Which he’d planned on doing anyway. He might’ve felt weird about it under his parents’ roof, but under his own, and on one of the last nights as a “couple,” Shane was absolutely set on getting fucked through the mattress. Just… very quietly, so his mom wasn’t aware of it happening down the hall from her.

“Hi, honey,” she smiles softly from her spot at his kitchen island. “Nice win.”

“Thanks,” he says, pulling a ginger ale from his fridge. “Horrible game, though.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything, but…” she tilts her head. “You okay?”

Shane just nods, though it fools no one. But he’s not going to get into the intricacies of his feelings for Ilya only moments before he’s set to arrive. His mom seems to be merciful today, because she lets the lie slide. They chat about nothing for a bit until the front door opens again. Shane’s heart skips a single beat when Ilya rounds the corner, looking tired. 

“Hey,” Shane says, crossing the kitchen to pull out a can of Coke. He still has four left, and they’re basically going to sit untouched since Ilya won’t be returning. “How was… everything with your team after the game?”

Ilya shrugs, sitting on the barstool beside Yuna. Shane takes that in, too — the last time he’ll see Ilya with his family. “They are stupid, as usual. Acting like this loss means we will be kicked from playoffs, and is all my fault.”

Yuna frowns, placing one hand on Ilya’s shoulder and squeezing. Ilya softens under her touch. “I hope you don’t listen to them,” she says. “Nothing was your fault, and you guys still have a few more points than Montreal, even after tonight.”

“Hey,” Shane frowns. 

Yuna clicks her tongue, scrunching her face with false sympathy. “Just the truth, dear.”

“Yeah, but… still. Ouch.”

Ilya smiles, which is enough to soften his mother’s betrayal (even if she was actually just stating facts).

Yuna clears her throat. “Should we go over everything, then?”

Shane’s stomach instantly hurts again. But Ilya nods, so Shane does, too. His mother opens her laptop, eyes scanning the screen. “Okay, so in the morning, Farah will send out a leak to two of the outlets that broke the news of your relationship. It’ll be anonymous, coming from a generic ‘reliable source,’ but it’ll be enough to get people talking. Three days later, on the 18th, you’ll post a statement saying you’ve split amicably. Right before you do that, though, you’ll archive or delete all the posts you’ve made of each other on your accounts. 

“From then on,” she continues, missing the way Shane’s fingers grip his soda can on the other side of the island, “you’ll avoid questions about the split as much as possible, just giving some basic form of things didn’t work out, please respect our privacy, et cetera.”

She looks at both of them. “I’m not rooting for either of you to be knocked from the playoffs, of course, but admittedly, I’m hopeful one of you does before you have to face each other. I know it’s possible that won’t happen, but the added media attention will just be an extra stress factor that I don’t want either of you to deal with. Plus, I’d hate that you’d have to play up the whole rivals aspect again, now that you’re friends.”

Shane nods slowly. In four days, the world will think he hates Ilya Rozanov again. And Shane is supposed to play along, even though that couldn’t be further from the truth. 

“Are we able to tell anyone that it was fake the whole time? Like, Rose or Hayden? Or Svetlana?” Shane asks. He needs to have one outlet where he can be honest and miserable about all of this. Otherwise, he might explode. 

But his mom tilts her head side to side, frowning. “Mm, I wouldn’t recommend it. I know you trust them, but…”

“What are we supposed to say the reason for breaking up was, then? The chances of Rose accepting we split amicably with no details is slim to none, even if I tell her to drop it.”

“The pressure got to you, the distance was too hard, you disagreed about something major. I don’t know, honey,” Yuna says. She studies Shane for a few seconds, and her shoulders drop slightly. “Ilya, you trust Svetlana?”

“Yes, definitely.”

“And Rose won’t tell anyone?”

Shane shakes his head. As much of a gossip as Rose was, she’s also a vault when it comes to secrets from the people she loves. Yuna sighs softly. “You can tell the two of them only,” she says. “I love Hayden and all, but I’ve seen that man try to lie. Don’t tell him anything, please.”

Shane nods. It sucks, but at least he’ll have Rose. Even if she’ll hate that he lied to her for so long. 

“Any other questions?”

Ilya clears his throat and stares pointedly at his drink as he asks, “How long should either of us wait before… being seen with someone else?” 

Shane’s stomach curls in on itself. Of course, he wants to know how long he has to wait before fucking someone else. Of course, Shane was right; he’s eager to get back out there. To fuck women again, or maybe even be allowed to be seen leaving bars and clubs with men. Shane struggles to breathe as his mother processes the question. 

“Well, that’s up to your own discretion, I think,” she says, her eyebrows furrowed. “I would say a few weeks, but…” She shrugs. 

“Okay,” Ilya says, his expression unchanging, even as his eyes flick to Shane for a second. 

Yuna reads over the “leak” that Farah will be anonymously supplying the media outlets, then the statement that both Ilya and Shane will post a few days later. They make a couple of tweaks, ensuring that the tone sounds neutral and devoid of any blame, but not emotionless either. It doesn’t matter what they say, though. No one ever believes people split amicably, and fans will always choose sides and place blame. 

When Yuna finishes, she shuts her laptop with a soft sigh. “For what it’s worth,” she tells them softly, “I think we achieved the goals we set out to do. Over the course of the months you’ve been seen together, the amount of hate you’ve both received has dropped significantly. Several NHL teams have come forward to speak against homophobia, and several of the league’s officials and players have all been held accountable for past discriminatory behaviors. It’s not a perfect world, of course, but you guys did good.”

“Thanks, mom,” Shane smiles. His heart might be shattering as they speak, but hey, at least the NHL hates gay people slightly less. Small victories. It's a bitter thought that he instantly feels guilty for. He is proud of what they accomplished. It just sucks that it came at the expense of his own feelings. But that was no one's fault except his own.

Before anyone else can speak, Ilya stands. “I should get Uber back to hotel.”

Shane goes rigid. “You’re… leaving?” he asks, blinking. He was supposed to stay the night. They were supposed to have a few more hours together. Shane was supposed to be able to kiss him again before things ended. He hadn’t even cared that his mom was staying with him tonight; he’d wanted to make it work anyway, just because it was their last chance. 

Ilya doesn’t look at him, nodding slightly. “Makes sense, no? We play badly, I don’t stay the night. Almost like we are fighting. Few days later, we break up.”

“Yeah, but…” Shane trails off. He has no defense. That does make sense. It adds a believable edge to their story. 

Shane just doesn’t fucking like it. And he doesn’t want him to go. But he has no excuse to keep him here. Even if he wanted to suggest they hook-up one final time, it’s not like he can say that with his mom sitting right there. He’s floundering, unsure of how he can keep Ilya. Until he realizes that’s the whole point. 

He can’t keep Ilya.

“Um. Okay,” Shane whispers after too long a pause. “Yeah. That’s… okay.”

Yuna slips from her seat. “I’m going to run to the bathroom,” she says softly. But first, she turns to Ilya and pulls him into a hug. “It’s been a pleasure getting to know the real you.”

Ilya visibly hesitates before hugging her back. “Thank you,” he says softly. “For everything.”

She pulls back and presses her palm to Ilya’s cheek, smiling at him. “I know you guys aren’t going to be able to see each other much anymore, but David and I are always here if you need us. You’re still a friend of Shane’s, so you’re still a friend of ours.”

Ilya’s face looks too blank as he nods, like he’s forcing all of his emotions down. “Thank you,” he whispers again. Yuna slips away, leaving the two of them alone. 

Ilya’s shoulders slump, and his eyes shut. Shane rounds the island, standing in front of him. “You don’t, um… have to go,” he says. “I thought— well. I know mom’s here but she’s taking the guest room, so I thought we’d maybe…”

Ilya’s eyes open, and they’re purposefully blank again. “Is easier this way, I think. Yes?”

For who? Shane wants to ask. For Ilya, he supposes. The sooner rumors swirl of them breaking up, the sooner Ilya can jump into someone’s bed. Shane can’t force him to stay, and he suspects begging won’t change his mind. So he just nods. 

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll see you out, then.”

Every step towards the door feels like he’s walking on broken glass. He leans against the wall as Ilya calls a car, then slips on his shoes. Shane realizes then that Ilya didn’t even bring a bag. He’d never planned to stay. Ilya seems to stall for a few seconds, tying his shoes slowly. When he stands, they look at each other. 

“I know we’ve talked about staying friends, even with whatever shitstorm that’s going to hit after we— after it’s announced, but I hope you know I mean it,” Shane says. “You’re important to me, you know. I don’t want to lose you completely, even if everyone thinks we hate each other again.”

Ilya blinks, then nods. “Yes, I want to stay friends, too,” he says. 

He reaches for the door handle. Instinct takes over Shane, and he leaps forward, curling his arms around Ilya’s waist. Because friends hug, and that’s totally normal. And also because Shane has no fucking idea when he’s going to see Ilya again somewhere that isn’t the ice. This very well could be the last private moment they have together, and Shane will take advantage of that. Ilya doesn’t even seem to hesitate before returning it.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into Ilya’s shoulder. “I know this whole PR thing benefitted both of us and whatever. But I’m glad you said yes. I had fun.”

Ilya’s cheek pressed against his hair. “I had fun, too,” he whispers. Shane smiles a little. 

“Even though I’m boring?” he asks.

Ilya’s chest rumbles with a small chuckle. “Yes, Shane. Even though you are the most boring man ever, I had so much fun with you. Really.”

He says it so sincerely, it makes Shane’s chest hurt again. He wants to ask again for Ilya to stay tonight. He wants to call off this whole breakup and try again for real this time. He wants and he wants and he wants. 

But he can’t have any of it, so he steps back from the hug. 

“Do me a favor and get kicked out of the playoffs early,” he teases, a little hollow. A tiny part of him means it, if only because he knows it’ll fucking suck if he has to face Ilya after everything. 

“You wish, Hollander,” Ilya shoots back. His phone buzzes in his hand, and any semblance of a smile vanishes from both of their faces. “My car is here.”

“Okay.”

Ilya’s eyes scan his face once. “Bye, Shane.”

Shane leans against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest, like he can keep his heart locked in his chest instead of it trying to jump directly into Ilya’s hands. “Bye, Ilya.”

When the door shuts and Shane is alone, he just stares at the spot Ilya vacated. Shane’s never experienced real heartbreak. He’s never been in love. He’s never been broken up with by someone he saw a real future with. And even though Ilya didn’t do it intentionally, and it’s not even his fault for doing it, Shane is certain this is what real, genuine heartbreak feels like. He’s positive that’s what this consuming, debilitating ache in his chest is. 

And it’s no one’s fault but his own, because he was the one who broke the boundaries of their agreement and fell in love. 

He completely forgets his mom is still in his apartment until she’s only a few feet away from him. He jumps out of his skin when she softly says, “Honey.”

He blinks at her, hoping his turmoil isn’t depicted on his face. But one glance at her sympathetic expression, and he knows it is. He still tries to play it off. “Sorry, zoned out,” he says with a tight smile. He breezes past her, walking into his kitchen. “Did you eat earlier? I can make you something if you’re hungry.”

“Shane.”

“I mean, I know it’s a bit late, but I’ve probably got some leftovers or meal prep you could have.”

“Shane.”

His hands freeze on the fridge door handles. She’s not going to let this go. His head drops, his chin tucking down to his chest. “What?” he asks uselessly. 

“Can you look at me, please?” she asks. 

He turns to find her a few feet away, watching him closely. He just waits for the inevitable pity. For the oh, honey, you knew this was supposed to be fake. For the honey, I’m sorry he doesn’t feel the same way, but he’s just not the relationship type.

“I feel like I would regret it if I don’t say something,” she starts, “but are you sure this is what you want?”

Shane blinks. Is he sure that he… wants to be heartbroken? Of course not. But what choice does he have, given the circumstances?

“What?” he asks. 

“I mean… breaking up,” she says. “Are you sure you want to go through with it? Don’t you think— well, wouldn’t it be worth a shot to tell him how you feel?”

“Mom—“

“And don’t lie to me and say you don’t feel anything for him, because I’m not an idiot, Shane,” she says, holding up a finger. “I know putting yourself out there is scary, but you’re not even fake-broken-up yet, and you’re already miserable.”

“Mom,” he tries again.

“Sure, the logistics of the playoffs might be tricky and the pressure would be crazy if you have to face each other, but—“

“Mom.” Shane’s voice cracks on the word, and she finally falls silent. “He already knows how I feel. I told him months ago.”

“You… oh,” Yuna says, visibly confused. She steps forward and places her hands on his upper arms, rubbing some warmth into them. “How? When? What happened?”

“The last night he was at the cottage over the summer,” Shane says, eyes squeezing shut as he relives the moment. “I kissed him, and he rejected me. He said things were complicated enough as is, we shouldn’t add to it.” It’s not the full story, obviously, but Shane’s not going to tell his mom all the details of how he and Ilya defiled his hot tub.

Yuna frowns. “You’re sure?” she asks. 

Shane nods. His vision blurs slightly, but the tears don’t fall. He feels like a loose thread on a shirt that’s been at risk of pulling for months, and it's finally caught, slowly starting to unravel and disintegrate. “I’m sure,” he says weakly. “Trust me.”

His mom only looks more confused. “I don’t…” she shakes her head. At Shane’s curious expression, she just shrugs lightly, like she’s stumped. “It’s just that I would’ve put money on him feeling the same. I really thought…”

Shane swallows hard. “He must be a good actor,” he mutters. “There were times I thought so, too, but… clearly not. And even if I hadn’t told him then, I’m clearly shit at hiding my feelings so he would’ve figured it out anyways, but he still never would’ve said anything. So…”

Yuna’s expression clears, and her eyes turn sad as she pulls Shane into a hug. There is the pity he was expecting. “I’m sorry, baby,” she whispers. The soft words are enough for the tears to finally spill over his cheeks, dampening her sweater. 

“It’s my fault,” he mumbles. “It was all supposed to be fake. It’s my fault I stepped out of line.” 

His mom runs her hand up and down his spine. “You can’t help who you fall for, Shane. It’s not your fault. He’s a good boy, he cares about you, and you were put in a lot of stressful, intimate situations this summer where you leaned on each other. It makes sense that you’d develop feelings.”

But Shane just shakes his head. It might make sense, but it doesn’t make it any easier. He should’ve tried harder to control himself. He should’ve forced some sense of distance when he realized what was happening to him. He shouldn’t have told Ilya he could do casual and started fucking sleeping with him, because he knew that was only going to make things worse. 

Shane sniffles, pulling back to wipe his tears away quickly. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he says, his voice thick. “I’ll have to get over it. I have to focus on the playoffs.”

Yuna smiles tightly, like she wants to say more. “Hopefully your team will stop being nasty, and you can earn them another Cup.”

Shane swallows hard. This is a whole other can of worms he hadn’t planned on opening, but while the mood was weird, he might as well…

“When my contract ends, I think I want to transfer,” he whispers. Yuna blinks in shock. 

“Oh. Okay,” she says slowly. “Um. We can talk about that. Where would you wanna go?”

Shane shrugs. “Somewhere still in Canada, preferably. Toronto, maybe. Ottawa is shit, but a lot of the guys there were super supportive. I know you love Montreal, but I just… can’t spend the rest of my career with these guys. They fucking hate me now.”

Anger flashes over his mom’s face for a second before it softens. She holds Shane’s face in her hands. “I love you more than I love a hockey team. If you aren’t happy, that’s what I care about. And if they’re going to treat you like this, fuck them.”

Shane sputters out a laugh, half shocked at the severity of her words. But she seems to mean it completely. 

“I don’t care if you go to the worst team in the whole league, baby. If you’re happier, that’s what matters.”

Shane smiles. He thinks being on a losing team would make him miserable in a different way — he loves hockey like he needs air. It’s in his blood. Winning is in his blood. Being someone on a losing team might make him spiral in a way he’s never experienced. But that, at least, can be worked on. That is a problem that can have a solution. The shit he’s dealing with now will never change, not if he doesn’t get out. “Ottawa is definitely in the running then, if we’re talking about the worst teams.”

“Oh, they’re horrible,” she confirms, making them both laugh. “But you know what else you’re not considering?”

“What?”

“That you’re Shane fucking Hollander, and you’ll make any team you’re on a million times better. Example A: the Voyageurs.”

Shane smiles wider. They really had been shit before Shane joined them. “You swear a lot when you talk about hockey, you know?” he teases. 

She just shrugs. “I have to get my point across somehow.”

Shane pulls her into another hug, already feeling a little bit lighter. “I love you,” he tells her softly. She squeezes him tightly. 

“I love you, too.”

As expected, the internet explodes when the news hits. Like before, there are two sides — people celebrating that “that gay shit” is off the ice now (as if this breakup suddenly makes Shane and Ilya straight), and people claiming love is dead and everyone should just give up on life. 

Unlike last time, though, the amount of homophobic cheering for Shane and Ilya’s downfall is largely drowned out by the people devastated by the news. 

Shane
Wow
Apparently we were a pillar of love and the
world should just explode because we broke up

It’s easier for Shane to joke about it. It’s either that or join in with half of the internet crying over this failed relationship.

Rozanov
Twitter acts like this when any famous couple breaks up
You should have seen when Selena and The Weeknd broke up

Who??

For fucks sake Hollander

Shane can’t tell if it’s a good or bad thing that they’re on par with other celebrity couples. Either way, he feels obsessive scrolling through conspiracy threads about how the breakup was a PR move to get more media coverage for their teams during the playoffs, or how there’s no way Hollanov (Ilya had to explain that one to him) was over, because here’s all this proof of how they’re so deeply in love. 

Those threads were especially interesting to Shane because it was just photos of them looking at each other with something called heart eyes. And Shane knows he looked at Ilya that way because he had actually felt something for Ilya. But it’s the photos of Ilya looking at Shane like he’s the most perfect thing he’s ever seen that get to him. 

It drives him crazy, and he hates that Ilya must be that good of an actor. 

Unfortunately, the majority of Shane's teammates join in on the celebration of the end of Shane’s relationship. Texts come in when the news hits full of clapping emojis and cheering that they’re going to fucking destroy Boston during the playoffs. 

Shane really, really hopes they don’t have to play them. 

But he’s not that lucky. 

Three weeks post-breakup, Shane is fucking miserable. He’s thrown all of his focus into hockey and preparing for the playoffs, forcing himself to drown out the edge of emptiness that threatens to creep in when he thinks about Ilya. Their texts dwindle with each passing day, which only hurts Shane more. 

The single decent thing that’s going for him is that he has yet to see Ilya with any other partners, but it’s also entirely possible that he’s keeping them on the down low to stay off news sites. Shane chooses not to think about it. 

The playoff round one bracket hit his coach’s email this morning, so they’re all sitting around the meeting room, waiting for the results. Shane’s leg bounces with anxiety. 

He’s praying for Boston to be put against some impossible team to knock them out after four games. He’s praying for Montreal to be put against some easy team that they can crush without too much effort. He’s praying to be up against anyone but fucking Boston. 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to see Ilya. Well, he kind of doesn’t want that. He has no idea how they’re meant to act around each other as exes. But it’s mostly that he doesn’t want the added pressure from the media and his team if they face them this early on. 

The door bangs open, and his coach enters, a folder in hand. All around Shane, the team is rowdy and excited. 

“Alright, alright,” Coach Theriault says, grinning. “Everyone settle.”

On the whiteboard, there’s a bracket ranking already drawn up, all the spots empty. On the first line in the uppermost right corner, he writes, Montreal. Shane’s teammates cheer like idiots. Any other season, Shane would be right there with them. But he’s too anxious to even smile right now.

Coach moves the marker down to the line right below Montreal, and for one split second, his eyes connect with Shane’s. 

And before he even writes it, Shane knows. Coach scribbles the word Boston on the line, and Shane’s eyes flutter shut as his team loses their minds. 

Of fucking course.

Chapter End Notes

so........ is now a good time to mention that in the original outline of this fic, which had like maybe 20 chapters, they actually never broke up and went into the playoffs as a real couple and then about halfway through writing, i decided to go rogue and hurt everyone's feelings instead?

sorry abt that<3 come yell at me on twitter if that makes you feel better

AS A TREAT, and since so many people have asked about ilya's pov which i did not write for this story, i will give a bit of insider info into his brain:
when ilya asked how long they'd have to wait before being seen with someone else, he's asking that because he is expecting shane to go get more experience with other men and be "casual" with other guys, and he was mentally preparing himself to see shane with other guys. which i think makes sense, given how he believes shane feels about him, but we'll get to that in chapter [REDACTED]. but ilya himself has no interest in being with anyone else #trust

Chapter 23: twenty-three

Chapter Notes

hi divas im so glad that everyone enjoyed the last chapter and no one at all was upset about it! today is more of that! enjoy<3

“How are the Voyageurs feeling about heading into the playoffs tonight?”

Three microphones are inches from Shane’s face. Four cameras are pointed at him. In addition to the interviewers holding the mics, there are three journalists holding recording devices. He wants to be literally anywhere but here, but he pastes on a calm smile. “We’re feeling prepared. We worked very hard to get here, and we’re ready to give everything we got.”

“How are you feeling about facing Boston in the first round?”

Shane’s smile does not budge. His eyes do not dim. His shoulders do not slump. He does not give any indication at all about how much he’s fucking dreading this game, and the ones that will follow. Yesterday, he and his mother spent hours preparing for this. She played the role of a reporter and asked all sorts of invasive, digging questions that Shane might face in the next couple of weeks, and they perfected all of their press-appropriate responses. 

“Boston always puts their best foot forward, but we can handle them. We’re excited to knock them out early.”

There are a few chuckles, but Shane sees the hungry gleam in these reporters’ eyes. They want real answers, even if they all already know Shane won’t give them anything. 

“You recently announced the end of your relationship with the Bears captain, Ilya Rozanov,” one of them says. “How do you feel going into the first game against him since the announcement?”

Shane doesn’t waiver, even though he fucking wants to. He wants to tell these people that he’s terrified and miserable and so fucking sad. And he wants to tell them that they’re all evil, horrible, inconsiderate assholes for asking questions like this with cameras and microphones pointed at him. And he knows that’s not fair, nor true, because none of them are evil or horrible for doing what they’re paid to do. He would argue that it is still inconsiderate, but they’re just doing their job. So Shane will do his, too. 

“I feel the same as I would about any other game. Eager to get on the ice and score some goals. Who we face doesn’t change that,” he says.

“But surely, you must be feeling a little apprehensive about facing your ex-boyfriend? Do you think it will pose a distraction for either of you on the ice?”

Shane has spent so much time working to compartmentalize his feelings for Ilya, he’s hoping that they won’t be a distraction. He managed to go the entire regular season without letting them affect him too much, save for that final game before they “broke up.” He really can’t afford for them to be a distraction during the playoffs. Now, more than ever, he has to win these games. Even if they don’t win the Cup, though he’s obviously gunning for that, they at least have to knock Boston out. 

He won’t be able to stomach another year with this team if they even halfway believe that he sabotaged their playoff games. 

“I take my job very seriously, and don’t allow personal things to affect my abilities on the ice. As I always have. I imagine Rozanov is the same.” He clears his throat lightly. “I can take one more question. Preferably not about my personal life.”

“Do you have any predictions about how the other teams in the playoffs will perform? Any guesses about who will make it to the next round?”

Something in Shane’s chest eases. “Everyone in the playoffs have worked their asses off to be here, so I imagine everyone will be giving 110%. It’ll be some entertaining games, for sure. I can’t say I have any predictions, but whoever gets through, I hope they’re prepared to face us,” he says, letting his smile turn a little more genuine. “Thank you guys.”

He retreats down the hall and reenters the locker room. He can’t even relax here because he can’t let his teammates know how weighed down he is about all of this. He settles for one short, sharp exhale before walking towards his cubby and preparing his gear. 

“How was the media?” Hayden asks softly. “Ask a whole bunch of shit about you-know-who?”

Shane shrugs. “A few things. It’s fine,” he says, brushing it off.

He’s been like this with everyone. Standoffish and vague about Ilya. Which, naturally, only makes him feel worse because it should be comforting and reassuring that his friends care about him. That they’re checking in on him to make sure he’s okay. But Shane knows that opening up to them just means he’ll have to lie more. 

He’s been avoiding Rose’s calls because he’s afraid to tell her that he’s been lying. She’s understanding and caring, and she’s the best friend he’s ever had. But she hates liars, and even if Shane had good reason to lie, he’s still not ready for the reality of disappointing her. Plus, he reasons, she’s busy filming a new project in Vermont, and her manager is pushing her for more social media exposure. Shane really doesn’t want to add to her stress. 

He can feel Hayden’s eyes on him, and probably several other players, but he focuses on gearing up. Behind him, his phone buzzes. 

Rozanov
Press will not shut up about you
Is very annoying 

Shane
Same here

His fingers hover over the keyboard. He wants to know how the fuck they’re supposed to act on the ice. They’re friends — supposedly, though they’ve barely spoken in the month since the breakup — but on the ice, not only are they rivals again, they’re exes. Shane’s never had an ex of this caliber, and definitely not one he’s faced again in front of the entire world. And Ilya I-Don’t-Do-Romance Rozanov hasn’t either, but somehow, Shane thinks he’s just going to skate out there and get everything right. Ilya Rozanov doesn’t flounder and bend under pressure. He’s fucking perfect, no matter what’s thrown at him. 

And Shane is good under pressure, but only because he’s learned how to be. He’s good with the media’s invasive questions because he has a decade of experience with them. This is entirely new territory that he has no idea how to manage. 

“5 minutes until warm-ups,” a staff member calls out.

He puts his phone away, abandoning any thoughts of texting Ilya How the actual fuck are we supposed to do this??? or Hey are you as fucking miserable as I am or??? He finishes putting on all of his gear, apart from his helmet. Most of his teammates are fully dressed or putting on the last few pieces. 

Shane inhales, exhales, and enters Captain Mode. He moves to the center of the room where everyone can see him. 

“Alright, listen up,” he calls out, capturing everyone’s attention. “For starters… let’s fucking kick Boston’s ass tonight.”

His teammates instantly light up, cheering and clapping. There’s so much energy in the room, Shane feels it in his bones. He tries to hold onto it. He forces himself into a headspace that crushes his anxieties about Ilya. Tonight is about winning, not who they’re playing against.

“Those are our fans out there, and they want to see us win. They’re here to support us, so let’s show that love right back and give them a game to be proud of. We worked hard as fuck to get here, let’s keep it that way until we win this thing.”

His team is howling so loud that the fans in the stadium can probably hear the echoes. But it quiets down real fast when someone calls out, “We allowed to beat Rozanov’s ass now, or what, Captain?”

Shane barely, barely, manages to not roll his eyes. So much for his Ilya-free headspace. “Last I checked, you’re all professional hockey players who can keep whatever personal vendetta you have against Rozanov off the ice.”

“Aw, but he broke your heart, Cap,” Comeau frowns dramatically. “Surely, you wouldn’t mind if we got a few hits in.”

It’s fucking comical that any of them would dare to use Shane’s broken heart as an excuse to play dirty against Ilya, considering none of them supported the relationship. They don’t care about avenging Shane. They want to target Ilya to punish him for fucking their captain, and they want to punish Shane for fucking the enemy.

“You will be professionals,” Shane reiterates. “Unless I’ve made a mistake, and you’re not the team I think you are.”

“We can kick Boston’s ass without giving Rozanov any career ending injuries,” Hayden inserts, which Shane is grateful for. Especially because when the news of the breakup came out, Hayden had been the first to threaten bodily harm against Ilya. Very kind, but wholly unnecessary. 

They’re being called for warm-ups, mercifully ending the conversation. “Anyway,” Shane redirects the conversation. “Get your asses on the ice and let’s fucking do this.”

The arena is explosive when they skate out for warmups. The crowd is a sea of blue and red, with tiny dots of black and yellow. The Bears join them on the ice, everyone remaining on their respective side of the ice as they stretch and shoot warm-up pucks into the net. 

Shane is stretching near center ice when a sudden shadow looms over him. He looks up into familiar hazel eyes and blanches, freezing mid-stretch. They’re not supposed to do this, right? Shane figured they would’ve ignored each other until physically impossible. 

He knows every set of eyes in this arena is on them, so he keeps his face neutral, even under his helmet. “Hello…” he says cautiously. 

Ilya’s voice is soft, almost inaudible over the crowd and sounds of skates and pucks. “Get some dirty hits on me tonight.”

Shane’s head cocks back, his ability to remain stoic failing instantly. “What?”

“Not your team, just you. Make it seem like you are angry at me.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?” Shane asks, standing. Even some of their teammates have diverted their attention from warm-ups to whatever this is. 

Ilya shrugs a little. “Maybe let people think I was the bad guy? Makes sense with my reputation, no?”

Shane is already shaking his head. “I’m not— no, I’m not fucking doing that.” He skates away, ignoring Ilya calling his name. He knows Ilya wouldn’t intentionally throw off Shane’s game, not like this, but what the fuck was he doing? Suggesting that, especially right now, minutes before the game? 

“Hey, man, you good?” Hayden asks, skating up to him. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Shane snaps. And then he softens, because the last thing he wants is to get angry and give Ilya what he wants, whatever it is. “Sorry. It’s nothing.”

“Okay,” Hayden says, obviously unconvinced.

“Let’s just win this one, okay?” Shane says. 

Hayden glances across the ice before looking at Shane. “Fucking right,” he says, knocking his helmet against Shane’s. 

And they do.

Montreal wins the game 5-3. Shane felt like he was on fire, scoring a hat trick with the final goal of the night. His team is electric back in the locker room, clapping him on the back like they’ve suddenly forgotten how they spent the better part of a year hating him. And Shane is enjoying the spotlight and the buzz, but he’s itching to get home. He needs to call Ilya and ask what the fuck happened to their amicable split, and keeping their names together out of the spotlight as much as possible. Because if they go on this route of Ilya being “the bad guy,” that whole plan crumbles. 

It’s almost two hours later when Ilya finally picks up his phone. 

“What the fuck was that?” Shane spits before he can even get a word in. “Why would we go with this narrative?”

“This… what?” Ilya says slowly. 

“This, like, idea. Why would we let people think you’re the bad guy in the breakup? Why would you want that?” Shane asks, trying to make sense of it all. “We said after we ended things, there wouldn’t be any drama associated with our names. The last thing I want is the media having any leverage, thinking this is why it shouldn’t have been allowed, because it’s all drama and distraction.”

“Okay, okay,” Ilya interrupts. “Yes, fine. It was not the best idea. I just thought… I don’t know. It would look better for you.”

Shane scoffs. “It would— why would it look better for me? Why does that matter?”

“I don’t fucking know, Shane,” Ilya says, frustrated. “I just thought it makes sense. You are golden boy of fucking Canada, and I am huge asshole. Would make sense since we are rivals again.”

Shane sighs. “Sure, yeah, it makes sense. But it’s not necessary. And I don’t want people thinking you’re an asshole about this. I don’t want speculation about how you, like… broke my heart, or whatever.”

Ilya is quiet for a moment. “Okay,” he says softly, sounding oddly defeated. Like he really thought this was some amazing idea that Shane was going to go for. “Sorry. I just wanted to maybe… protect you from the media. If I could. Sorry.”

Shane frowns. When he says it like that, it's sweet. But he doesn't need protection, and especially not if it comes at Ilya's expense. “It’s okay," he says, his voice softening. "The gesture is nice of you, but I don't want it. I don't want..." I don't want you to hurt more than you have to. "It's just not necessary, you know?"

"Okay." There are another few seconds of silence before Ilya says, “This hotel fucking sucks.”

A laugh bursts out of Shane. “Why does it suck?”

“Mm, I don’t know,” Ilya says. “Maybe it just sucks compared to your fancy apartment. Would rather be there, maybe.”

Suddenly, Shane isn’t smiling anymore. And it feels like he’s swallowing glass. “Oh, yeah?” he mumbles, eyes flicking around his apartment. To the dining table, where they first read over their contracts. To the kitchen, where they’ve taken countless pictures together to post. To the sofa that’s seen them in every position, from innocent cuddling for a photo to Shane straddling Ilya for only the two of them to see. Memories of Ilya are all over his apartment. 

Shane wishes he were here, too. But with all the press and media in Montreal to cover the game, plus all of Ilya’s team in the same hotel as him, the risk of him being caught is probably too high. Especially after they just talked about how they want to keep talk of them out of the news. 

“I wish it was easier,” Shane says softly. “To, um… be friends.” He feels stupid clarifying. But he knows that Ilya knows that he feels something, and he doesn’t want Ilya to think he’s pressing for more. Plus, it is still the truth. He does wish it were easier for them to be friends, considering that’s the only way he can have Ilya.

“Me, too,” Ilya says, just as quiet. 

Shane bites his lip. He almost, almost, asks Ilya if it’s worth the risk for him to sneak over anyway. Instead, he says, “I’m gonna get some sleep. I’ll see you on the ice, okay?”

Ilya sounds resigned when he says, “Yes, okay.”

A tiny, hopeful part of Shane wonders that if he had asked, Ilya might’ve said yes.

Games two and three go very similarly to the first, favoring Montreal. According to Ilya over the phone, his team is letting their anger get the better of them. They blame Ilya more than ever, their trust in him slipping. It doesn’t help that game three was their first in Boston, and the crowd was greatly disappointed that home ice didn’t help the Bears. 

Shane tells him that he needs to just whip them into shape. 

And God, does Shane regret saying that shit. Because whatever Ilya does works like a miracle, and Boston wins game four by a fucking landslide. By the end of the game, Boston’s fans are so loud that Shane can still feel his ears ringing as he lies down to sleep. On the nightstand, his phone buzzes. They have an early flight, so he should ignore it, but instinct tells him to check.

Rozanov
I told Sveta
That it was fake

Shane bolts upright. Thank God Hayden is already asleep in his own bed, just a few feet away, because there was no way Shane could’ve hid that reaction. He stares blankly at the texts, unsure of how to feel. He wants to know how she reacted. He wants to know if she hates Shane now. It wasn’t like he would ever see her again, but he still hopes she doesn't hate him. He hopes she at least knows that Shane cares about Ilya — that part was never, ever fake. He hopes that much came across as true. 

Shane
What did she say?

She was surprised

Shane’s mouth feels dry, trying to decipher what that means. At least, he thinks, if she was surprised, that means they were believable. If they could trick Ilya’s best friend, at least he feels secure knowing that no one else would’ve ever caught on to the entire thing being a ruse. But on the other hand, he feels worse. Because if she believed it, it must only make the lie more devastating.

Fuck, this is really making him more scared to tell Rose.

Does she hate me?
For lying to her?
Is she mad at me? Or us?

No Shane
She isn’t mad
She definitely doesn’t hate you
She just thinks we were very…
Convincing? I think this is the translation
of what she said

Shane huffs, falling back against his pillow. They were convincing because Shane wasn’t acting at all. Ilya was always good at pretending for the cameras — it makes sense that he could convince anyone, even his best friend. But Shane was shit in front of the cameras without Ilya’s guidance. If he hadn’t actually fallen for Ilya, Svetlana might’ve seen through him instantly.

Good
Can you tell her I’m sorry for lying anyway?
Even if we had good reason to. I’m sorry

I’ll tell her
See you on the ice, Hollander

Shane stares at his last name on the screen for a second before firing off a responding goodnight text, then setting his phone back down on the nightstand. He blinks up at the ceiling. He has to tell Rose. If Svetlana was understanding, Rose probably would be, too. 

He’ll wait, though. Maybe until after this round of the playoffs is over. Especially if, God forbid, they get kicked out due to Boston. He could visit Rose where she’s filming in Vermont, and tell her the whole story, hiding out in her hotel room to heal his broken heart. Or if they make it to the next round, he can at least grace her with a phone call and spill everything. Until then, he can go on dodging her calls for another week.

He gets approximately 36 hours of avoiding Rose before it blows up in his face. In hindsight, he should’ve realized that Rose Landry was the most impulsive person he’s ever met. Still, even despite knowing that, the last thing he expected when answering the knock at his front door the morning of game five was Rose on the other side.

Shane’s heart drops to his stomach as she flings her arms around him, pulling him into a hug that he’s too shocked to return.

“You— what are you doing here?” he asks, hoping he doesn’t sound like he’s panicking. But he’s totally fucking panicking.

“Surprise!” she says, pulling back. She kicks off her shoes and sets a small duffel bag on the ground. Shane shuts the door and follows her into his own apartment, which she navigates like she owns it. “And I know, I know you don’t like surprises. But what was I supposed to do, Shane? I find out via the internet that you and Ilya break up, and then you barely respond to my texts and calls. You barely tell me anything about what happened. If it weren’t for your games, I would barely even believe you were alive.”

“I’m alive,” he says. Rose frowns at him, dropping onto the sofa.

“I see that, but you look exhausted, you know.”

“Well, I am in the middle of the playoffs.”

“Yeah, against your ex boyfriend,” she says. Guilt curls through him. He has to tell her, but she chose the worst possible time. Bringing up all of these feelings right now, hours before the game he needs to win to kick Boston from the playoffs, will only send him into a downward spiral. Shane sighs, trying not to show how frustrated he is.

“Rose, I appreciate that you care, but now is a bad time to get into everything,” he pleads.

“I know, and I’m not expecting you to spill everything about the breakup right now,” she says, reaching for his hands. He takes them and allows her to pull him to sit beside her. “We can wait until after the games against him to get into it, if you want. I don’t want to distract you.”

He blinks at her. As much as he loves her, her being here is objectively a distraction. 

“But,” she continues, squeezing his hands, “I want to still be here for you. Not to coddle your broken heart or anything like that, but to support my favorite hockey player during an important game.”

Shane’s shoulders slump. He lets go of her hands to wrap her in a real hug, now. Now that the shock and immediate panic have worn off, he’s glad to see her. And as long as she stays true to not pressing him for details about Ilya, he’s glad that she showed up to support him. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “I promise I’ll tell you everything eventually. Just… not yet.”

“Okay, Shaney,” she whispers back, her hand running up and down his spine. Shane just hopes she’s still supportive when she learns that telling her everything doesn’t mean what she’s expecting.

Chapter End Notes

just feeling like i should make everyone nervous and let you know that i almost cried when i was writing the next chapter. anyways love yall and i hope that anyone else experiencing this heat wave is staying indoors and hydrated!!

my twitter!

Chapter 24: twenty-four

Chapter Notes

wdym we're in the final week of updates........ omfg

ALSO i made a strawpage which you can send me anonymous comments/questions on if you wanna talk about this fic (or anything really :P) and i'll be answering them on my twitter!

“You brought your ex-girlfriend to your game.”

Shane’s eyes flick up to meet Ilya’s across the face off spot. It’s the first puck drop of the night, and this is the first thing Ilya has said to him all day. 

“She surprised me this morning,” Shane says. “And she’s my friend, too, you know.”

“Mm,” Ilya hums. “Easy to be friends with that ex, but not me, hm?”

Shane’s hands tighten on his stick, his jaw clenching. It’s not like he wants things to be difficult. If he could still be seen in public with Ilya without the press exploding, he would. 

“Don’t be an asshole,” is all Shane can mutter, because they really don't have time for more right now. The referee readies the puck, and the conversation between them ceases. 

Not only does Ilya win that face off, but Boston wins the entire game. Their win from a few days ago must’ve lit a fire under their asses, because they end up crushing Montreal 4-1. Shane only got angrier as the game went on, realizing quickly that they were not winning this one, and he went out of his way to avoid Ilya on the ice because of it. The last thing he wanted to do was hear one stupid chirp and end up slamming Ilya into the boards like Ilya had suggested during that first game.

The locker rooms are silent and tense as they all shower and redress. It’s almost comical, Shane thinks, that just days ago, after a win, everyone in this room was smacking Shane on the shoulder goodnaturedly, cheering with him as they celebrated. Now, those same guys are glaring at Shane and muttering things under their breath about how it’s his fault.

Shane pulls on his shirt angrily. Hayden glances at him sideways. “You good, man?”

“Fine,” Shane snaps, sliding his feet into his sneakers. He’s not required to answer questions for the press tonight, since he did before the game and after all of their past ones this week. He slips out the side entrance to avoid the main tunnel where the reporters are waiting, and heads to the family suite where Rose will be waiting with his parents and the family members of the other players.

Normally, the WAGs would’ve jumped at the chance to swarm Rose Landry, but when Shane peeks his head in, Rose is only speaking to his parents. Her eyes light up, and she smiles sympathetically when she spots him. 

“You’ll get them in the next one,” Rose swears as she hugs him. “Even better to beat them on their home ice.”

“Yeah, hopefully,” Shane says as he hugs his parents. “I’m off media duty, so we can go if you’re ready.”

His parents head to their own car with promises to see him back in Montreal in a few days — Shane hopes by the time he sees them again, he’ll have moved on to the next round of the playoffs, rather than preparing for the seventh game against Boston. Once Shane and Rose are in the car, sifting through traffic to get back to his apartment, only then does Rose say something about Ilya.

“What did he say on the ice?” she asks softly. “During the face off. I could see you guys talking on the big screen and you looked irritated.”

Shane doesn’t want to talk about Ilya. He wants to avoid the topic completely so he doesn’t have to technically keep lying to Rose. He shakes his head. “Please don’t,” he murmurs. Rose is quiet for a moment, and out of the corner of his eye, Shane can see her nod.

“Okay,” she whispers. After a few seconds, she clears her throat. “Unrelated, but I have an idea and I know what you’re going to say but I think you should hear me out.”

Shane glances over at her briefly. “Should I be scared?”

“We should go out tonight.”

Instantly, Shane deflates. He can’t think of anything he’d rather do less. “Rose—”

“No, I know, but hear me out,” she says again. “We can leave by, like, eleven at the latest. Your flight tomorrow isn’t until four pm, and mine is at two, so even if we’re home at midnight, you can still get a full eight hours of beauty sleep. Neither of us will drink, but we’ll just go dance and hang out for a couple of hours. I think you just need a little change of scenery, Shane. And maybe… I don’t know, take a look at other guys…”

“Rose,” Shane says again, sighing.

“I don’t mean you have to do anything about it tonight!” she says quickly. “You don’t even have to talk to another guy, I won’t push you even a little. But we can just go survey the pond, you know. We can just, like, talk about boys. Maybe figure out your type for when you are ready, you know?”

Shane frowns. He knows his type, unfortunately. Tall, blond curls, hazel eyes. Plays hockey. Russian. His brain is still so flooded with Ilya, he has no idea how he’s ever supposed to find someone else attractive again. “I don’t know,” he murmurs. The only time he’s ever enjoyed a club scene was Halloween with Ilya. But maybe Rose is right. Maybe he needs this to shake off the heaviness weighing down on him.

“I just want to get you out of your head for a little bit,” she pleads. “Plus, I haven’t been to a club in literally forever so really, this is for me, too.”

Shane huffs a small laugh. He looks over at her as he parks his car. “We leave at 10:30.”

“Eek, okay!” Rose says, clapping her hands together. “I bought you another shirt that you can wear.”

“I have a closet full of clothes,” Shane whines as they get out of the car. Rose presses her lips together tightly, looking over at him with a small pout on her face.

“Oh, honey. I’ve seen the clothes in that closet. Why do you think I buy you stuff?”

“I am already slightly regretting this,” Shane says as soon as they step into the club. It’s not that crowded yet, since it’s only 9 pm, but it is loud. 

Rose grins at him. She had come prepared, obviously, so she’s in a short black dress that shines in the colored lights. And the shirt she’d brought for Shane is a navy blue, short-sleeved button-up, but the entire back of it is a panel of lace. She links hands with him, pulling him towards the bar where she orders a ginger ale and a Sprite. “Sit, sit,” she urges, pulling herself onto one of the barstools. “Okay, in a totally hypothetical sense, what kind of man are you into?”

Shane tilts his head, looking at Rose, amused. She keeps talking before he can even answer. “I mean, sure, we know you like a man who looks like he could pick you up and toss you around — which is probably limiting, by the way, because you’re huge. But is that all you’re into, or would you be into someone smaller than you? Hypothetically.”

Eyeing the ice in his ginger ale, Shane actually takes a second to think about it. He forces all of the attributes about Ilya that he finds attractive into a little box, pretending they don’t exist. Someone smaller than him would be fine, but not by too much — the first guy he ever hooked up with was a friend (and another ex-boyfriend) of Rose’s that she’d known since high school, and he had been roughly around the same size as Shane. Rose had suggested a handful of friends for him to see, actually, but a lot of them were closeted or out actors, but Shane hadn’t wanted anyone else high profile. 

His mind flits over all of her suggestions, trying to recall the photos of them she had shown Shane. He likes pretty eyes, regardless of the color. Longer hair, but not long enough to put into a ponytail or bun. Even if they’re smaller than him, he likes muscles. He finds unique smiles endearing, like when they’re a bit crooked or have imperfect teeth. He likes beauty marks, and accents, and curls…

Shane scoffs at himself. “You know, I was trying really hard to think about features that wouldn’t apply to just Ilya but…” he shakes his head. “Fuck.”

Rose’s smile turns sympathetic again. “It’s okay. Tell me some of the things you like anyway. We’ll figure out a way to make it not about he-who-shall-not-be-named.”

Shane chuckles. “You can say his name,” he says. “I don’t, like… hate him or anything.”

She bites her lip, like she’s trying to gauge how much information she can pull out of Shane without overstepping. “So, you guys really did end on good terms?” she asks cautiously. Shane nods silently. “Was it just… the distance, then? Or…?”

Shane swallows, his eyes flicking away. He should just tell her. Well, they should go home first, and then he should tell her, in case she gets angry and wants to yell at him for keeping such a secret. (He knows she won’t actually yell, but that doesn’t stop his brain from expecting the worst anyway.)

“I like dark eyes,” he says instead of answering. “And long-ish hair. And muscles.”

Rose must be somewhat disappointed at the topic change, because her mouth tilts into a frown for a moment before she seems to force herself to perk up. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” she smiles. “Hypothetically, are you open to dating or hooking up with one of my actor friends now? I totally get why you didn’t want to when you weren’t out, but now…”

Shane tilts his head side to side. Being in the spotlight this past year was both rewarding and exhausting, but he knows that it was that intense because they made it that way. If he were just a normal person in a normal relationship — or, as normal as a two-time Stanley Cup winner could be in an openly gay relationship with another famous person — maybe the press would be more tolerable. “Maybe,” he says. “I’d probably give it more than six months before going public this time, but maybe.”

Rose taps her finger to her lips, thinking. “Well, when you’re ready, I have a couple friends in mind that would literally jump at the chance to go out with you. Or even just to sleep with you, if you’re looking for that.”

Shane smiles softly. In a few months, once he can force himself to be over Ilya, that might be something he’s interested in. Hypothetically. Realistically, moving on from something that was never actually anything seems like an impossible daydream. 

“We’ll see,” Shane says softly. “What about you? Any boy drama? Or any girl drama? I mean, you never told me but did anything ever happen with Svetlana?”

Rose’s eyes cut away guiltily, and Shane has a feeling that if the lights weren’t a million colors, he would see her blushing. “Rose?”

“Well, we’ve kind of been talking since New Year’s, but nothing serious!” she says quickly. “I mean, I’m filming, and she was in Russia for a while. But this summer, I’m supposed to have like a whole month off, and we were gonna try to spend most of it together, just to see if there’s anything… there. But lately, I’m not sure if it’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

Rose just stares at him, that small, pitying smile on her face. It clicks for Shane after a moment. “Because of me and Ilya?” he asks, his eyes blowing wide. “Oh, God, please don’t worry about that. Like, seriously, Rose. If you like her, please go for it. Svetlana is great, and it’s not like Ilya don’t see each other on the ice, anyways. If we were around each other because of you guys being together, we’d be fine.”

Hearing that Rose is considering dropping this potential relationship because of Shane’s supposed breakup only reaffirms that he needs to tell her the truth about everything as soon as this round of the playoffs is over. Rose still looks contemplative, like she’s going to try and convince Shane of all the reasons she would rather be a good friend than go after a girl, but Shane doesn’t want to hear it.

“Would you believe me if I said I wanted to dance?” he asks, abruptly changing the subject.

Rose narrows her eyes. “No…” she trails off. “I wouldn’t. But you’ve already said it, so I’m taking you up on it.”

She hops up from her barstool and takes his hand again, pulling him to the edge of the dancefloor, closer to one of the walls. It feels a little less awkward, being on the outskirts, and Shane sways to the upbeat music as she bops around. He tries hard not to think about Ilya teaching him how to dance on Halloween, but it’s impossible. Memories of Ilya always have their way of worming to the front of Shane’s brain, whether he likes it or not. 

Surprisingly, though, Shane is having fun. Rose’s energy is contagious. Even though neither of them is drinking, she’s carefree enough for some of that to rub off on Shane. She takes his free hand and uses it to spin herself, then he ducks so she can spin him. At one point, her hands wrap around the back of his neck as her body wiggles to the beat, and it’s funny because they danced like this when they were dating, and it just feels so much more right now that they’re only friends.

For pockets of time, Shane does forget about Ilya. Occasionally, a song or a lyric he catches will bring him back into Shane’s mind, but he just has to focus on Rose again to let it go. He’s beginning to think he might actually allow Rose her suggested departure time of 11 pm instead of his 10:30, until he catches the quickest glimpse of curls all the way across the dancefloor. They move in and out of his vision so quickly, Shane realizes he’s imagining it. 

It makes sense. Ilya has been flickering in and out of his mind for the better part of a year now. Of course, he manages to infiltrate the moments where Shane is doing a decent job at blocking him out.

But then he sees the curls again. A million people have curly hair, though, so even if Shane isn’t hallucinating, that doesn’t mean it’s Ilya. Regardless, there’s no longer any chance that Shane is going to be able to block thoughts of Ilya out. Rose seems to notice the change in him. 

“Losing steam?” she teases, grinning. “We can get water, or another soda, and then go if you want.”

Shane is a little terrified to get closer to the bar, lest he hallucinate more visions of Ilya. Or, God forbid, manifest the real thing, but he is ready to go now. 

“Yeah, sounds good,” he says. Since it’s a bit more crowded now, he’s the one who leads Rose through the bodies on the dance floor. They reach the bar, no Ilya-hallucinations in sight, and Shane starts to relax again. He gets them two waters, and smiles at Rose as he hands her one. “This was a good idea, you know. Thanks.”

She beams at him. “I’m full of good ideas, Hollander.”

He huffs a small laugh and takes another long sip of his water. 

And he nearly chokes on it. Because there, on the opposite side of the bar, is Ilya. There are three girls around him, all hanging onto his every word. One of them has her small hand on his forearm resting on the bartop, her thumb dragging back and forth over his skin. Shane is completely rigid with tension, unable to pull his eyes away. He can only see part of Ilya’s face, but he’s smiling as he speaks.

“—it now? Shane? Shane?” Rose touches his arm, jolting his attention back to her. “Are you okay? What’s— oh.” Her eyes finally latch onto what Shane had just been staring at.

“Fuck, okay,” she says, so soft, Shane barely hears it. “Leave the water, let’s go.”

Her fingers are locked tight with his, and she drags him away from the bar before he can protest. Not that he would, because he kind of feels like he can’t do anything. His legs work on their own accord as he follows her through the crowd and out of the club. He distantly feels her lean him against a wall.

He figured Ilya was hooking up with people again, but just keeping it out of the media. It’s one thing to assume that to be true. It’s another thing to see him swarmed by girls, right in front of his eyes. He knows their relationship was actually fake to Ilya, but it still feels like an unfair betrayal that he’s able to just… move on. 

“Car’s here, babe,” Rose says softly, pulling Shane into the back of an Uber. He feels out of it as they ride, his only grounding touch being Rose’s fingers laced with his. In the morning, he’ll have to thank her again for holding him together. And then he’ll have to thank her again when he tells her that the entire thing was fake, except for Shane’s very real feelings that seem to have no intention of going away.

The familiarity of his apartment brings him back to Earth a little bit when they step through the door, but it only makes him think of Ilya more. Everywhere he looks in his own home, Shane sees memories of the man he loves and cannot have. He stands motionless in the foyer — the last place he hugged Ilya.

“Shane?” Rose says quietly, holding his arms gently. “Let’s head to bed, yeah?”

He focuses on her, and the sad look in her eyes seems to break him. His lower lip trembles for a split second before Rose is throwing her arms around him. “Oh, babe,” she whispers, “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“I love him so much, Rose,” Shane murmurs. He hates that a tear leaks out of his eye, because he knows she’ll feel it drip onto her shoulder. He hates that this relationship that he knew from the start was supposed to be fake has him crying in his best friend’s arms. He hates that he fell in love with someone who was never going to feel the same.

“I know, honey,” Rose says, rubbing his back. “I’m so sorry, Shane.”

She holds him tightly as more silent tears spill down his cheeks.

His trip to Boston was short and disappointing. For starters, he couldn’t even look at Ilya on the ice. Shane has a few texts from him that have gone unanswered, because they’re a link to an article about Shane and Rose at the club in Montreal, and Ilya saying I was here too?? I did not see you. 

Shane didn’t respond because he had no idea what to say aside from I saw you with three girls and it ended with me in tears. Obviously, he couldn’t say that to Ilya, his platonic friend who feels nothing romantic for him. 

On top of that, Boston won game six. Shane doesn’t know how they went from a 3-nothing lead in wins to the score being tied, but he’s just as pissed about it as his teammates. Even Hayden, who is trying to be as supportive as possible, is trying to subtly give Shane a pep talk as they dress for game seven. Something about beating Rozanov would be the ultimate revenge, and we can’t let him win the breakup. Shane isn’t really listening. 

Right now, he’s forcing himself to lock up all of his feelings for Ilya into a tiny box. It’s what he’s been trying to do this entire series, but he needs to do it now. They’ll still have games to play after this if they want to win the Cup, but this suddenly feels like the most important game of his career. 

Tonight, Ilya is just another opponent. He’s Shane’s longtime rival. He’s the same guy that Shane has beaten countless times. Shane refuses to think of him as the man he loves — at least for the next few hours.

All of a sudden, two bangs against a locker captures everyone’s attention. Shane’s head snaps over to see Comeau on his feet, his angry gaze on Shane. “Here’s how this game is going to go,” he announces to everyone. “Fuck Boston, fuck Rozanov, and fuck our captain for letting them even out the score. They are going to leave this arena with broken bones and bruises, and we are going to leave with a chance at the Stanley fucking Cup.”

Everyone is obviously confused at Comeau leading the speech, but there are some murmurs of agreement. Comeau raises his eyebrows, glancing around. “Did I fucking stutter? We’re going to win this one, no thanks to our captain.”

Some louder cheers, as well as some sticks tapping against the ground. Shane shoots up from his seat. 

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he snaps. “You’re all fucking idiots. You’re going to let your anger get the better of you, and that is going to be why we lose.”

“Or you’re going to let your boyfriend score another goal on us,” Comeau says with an innocent shrug. 

He’s not even my boyfriend! Shane wants to scream. He wants to lose it and let his team see how much they’re hurting someone they once considered a friend. Family. He wants to throw things and break sticks and lose his fucking mind, because they’re being so fucking unfair.

But he knows that doing any of that will only result in fights breaking out, and that’s the last thing they need going into this game.

“Here is how this game is going to go,” Shane says, his voice hard. “You’re going to listen to your captain, who’s led you to two Cups before. You’re going to play the hardest you’ve ever played without losing your heads. We are a team, and acting like one is the only way we will win this game. And you’re going to get over this bullshit vendetta you have against me and Rozanov, because it’s going to ruin us.”

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you started fucking him,” Drapeau interjects.

“Maybe I thought my team, who was like family to me, wouldn’t be such bigoted assholes about something I can’t control!” he snaps. “Fuck.”

Shane inhales sharply, running his hands over his face. “Enough,” he states, too fucking tired for this. He’s exhausted and heartbroken and angry, and he’s fucking ready for this round to be over. He needs to put this behind him. “For the next few hours, we’re going to do our jobs and we’re going to kick Boston’s ass. Got it?”

The response is noticeably louder than when Comeau tried to play captain. Hayden claps him on the shoulder, grinning. “We got this, man.”

When Shane leans down for the first face off, he feels entirely centered. They have this. He feels it in his bones. Ilya is opposite him, of course. 

“Good luck,” he says, his voice just a little teasing and cocky. It’s annoying, but it’s also the Ilya he’s always known.

“I don’t need it,” Shane says back. When the puck drops, he wins the face off. The game feels like the most intense thing he’s ever done in his life. By the end of the first period, Montreal is up 2-1. Shane’s ribs are definitely bruised from Marleau slamming him into the boards. Two minor fights have broken out, resulting in a penalty for each team.

By the end of the second period, Montreal is still up 3-1. Shane hates that he’s feeling a little cocky, but his team is somehow managing to pull this together despite almost throwing hands in the locker room. A tiny part of Shane is pissed thinking about how when they win, his teammates will celebrate alongside him like they hadn’t all but threatened his captaincy. He’ll table that anger for another time, though.

By the end of the third period, Shane is cursing himself for feeling cocky because the game ends up tied 4-4, leading to overtime. In the locker room, his team is rowdy, and Shane feels himself smiling a bit as he calms them down. “Alright, alright. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he says. “We’re close, but so are they. We just need one more goal, yeah?”

He feels on fire once they’re back on the ice. His team is executing flawless passes and making beautiful shots on the goal. If the Boston goalie wasn’t so on top of his game, they would’ve won ten times over by now.

He’s so on fire that he doesn’t even see it coming. The betrayal of his own feet, in his own trusted skates. He watches as Ilya intercepts Shane’s pass to Hayden and cuts across the ice. Shane chases after him, and he’s milliseconds away from being within range to steal the puck back when he tumbles onto the ice, his skate catching on fucking nothing. He’s up again instantly, but he’s too late. Because Ilya has closed the distance between him and the net. When Ilya shoots, Drapeau just barely misses the catch, and the puck slams into the back of the net.

Shane stares at the little black chunk of rubber where it sits in the ice. 

It’s over. They lost. Because Shane tripped.

“Come on, man,” Hayden says, pushing Shane gently and guiding him towards center ice. “Let’s line up for the handshakes.”

Shane can barely muster up a good game as he shakes the Boston players’ hands. When he gets to Ilya, he squeezes Shane’s hand once. Shane can’t even look at him.

He moves on autopilot in the locker room, not even registering the looks. It’s not until J.J., of all people, sighs defeatedly. “What was that, Hollander?”

Shane freezes. There’s no chance any of them will believe it was an accident, but he has no other defense. He shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says softly. “I— none of you will believe me. There’s nothing I can say to make you believe it was an accident. But I just… tripped.”

And of course, they don’t believe him. Even J.J. doesn’t look convinced. Shane takes all of their vicious comments and withering stares in stride — what else is he supposed to do? It might not have been on purpose, but it was still his fault. 

He bumbles his way through talking to the press. He doesn’t even feel conscious as he walks through the halls towards the family suite. His dad wraps his arm around Shane’s shoulders, and his mom takes his hand, and they leave the arena.

“It’s okay, baby,” his mom is saying. “By next season, this Ilya stuff will be far behind, and—”

“I want to get traded now,” Shane whispers. All three of them stop moving. Yuna blinks at him, and Shane can feel himself breaking. “Even though Ilya and I aren’t together anymore, they think I tripped on purpose. They think everything was on purpose. I—” he cuts himself off with a weak sob. “I— can’t do another season with them, mom. I know I only have a year in my contract, but we— I have to move. I can’t… I can’t.”

Both of his parents hold him tight. Shane doesn’t even care that other staff, other players, are walking through the lot right now. 

“Okay, honey,” his mom says softly. “We’ll figure it out. Don’t you worry.”

Chapter End Notes

i really love rose as a friend for shane, and i think she makes the most sense for a support system (not even just in this fic, but as a general consensus) so i reallllyyy enjoyed writing them in this and #trust she will make another major appearance and she will get shane's shit together for him, since men are so frequently incapable of doing it themselves (also just canon shane hollander i fear)

ps, shoutout to the person who guessed i would keep the trip from TLG in. im also curious to hear your guys' thoughts about shane wanting to transfer👀 i know it's ooc for shane, who canonically would've lived through the horrors, but i feel like it makes a lot of sesne for this version of him that's experienced real support from the world/other hockey teams

again, my strawpage and my twitter!

Chapter 25: twenty-five

Chapter Notes

Shane’s leg shakes relentlessly as he watches the television screen. It’s not that he’s rooting for Boston, exactly. That would basically be treason, especially in the eyes of his teammates. And he doesn’t really care about Boston as a whole. 

But he is rooting for Ilya, a little bit. He wouldn’t mind seeing him move on to the next round. At least one of them can get a happy ending to this fucked up season. However, for Boston to have a shot at moving on, they’d have to get their heads out of their asses and score some fucking goals.

It’s the fourth game in the round against Carolina. And Boston hasn’t won a single game against them yet. And this game has been like a tennis match, bouncing back and forth. Carolina in the lead, then tied, then Boston in the lead, then tied.

It’s nearing the end of the game, and Boston is up by one goal, but that means nothing. It would only take seconds for Carolina to score, and the game would go into overtime. And Shane knows how much Boston loves a fucking comeback. Clearly.

He tenses as Carolina nears the Boston net, then exhales in relief when the Boston goalie flawlessly blocks their shot. It’s only a few minutes later when the final buzzer sounds, and Shane can relax. Carolina’s fans in the stadium boo, but the only thing Shane sees is Ilya’s wide smile through his helmet. He picks up his phone.

Shane
Do you guys have to cut it this close every time?
Jesus
Good game though
That goal in the second was crazy

He knows Ilya won’t see it until later, but he doesn’t care. Hockey is a safe topic for them to talk about without things getting weird. Lately, their conversations are sparse, and when they do talk, it’s stilted. Like they barely know what to say to each other.

It’s killing Shane, even though the fault is shared between them. He’s been avoiding Ilya just as much as Ilya seems to be avoiding Shane — though Shane has no idea why Ilya would be avoiding him. He would ask… if he weren’t guilty of the same crime.

On the television, a reporter has pulled Ilya for a few questions right there on the side of the rink. He’s still sweaty, his helmet in hand. 

“How are you feeling about this win?” the woman asks him.

Ilya grins widely. “Good. We like to cut it close. Keeps people on their toes,” he says.

“I think Boston fans are definitely feeling that. What keeps you guys motivated and level-headed on the ice?”

Ilya shrugs lightly. “We do it for the people we love, and the people who love us. We want to make them proud, and we have to keep it together to do that.”

Shane half-watches as Ilya answers a few more questions. The other half of his attention is on his phone as he types out one more text.

Proud of you. By the way.

He hesitates for a few seconds before sending it. If Ilya remembers what he said during this interview, maybe he’ll put two and two together and realize that Shane is saying he loves him. It feels like the safest way to subtly express the extent of his feelings. 

It takes Ilya longer to respond than expected, but it’s because when he does, it’s not with a text message. It’s a phone call. Shane stares at his screen for so long that he almost misses the call.

“Hello?” he says when he picks up, putting his book aside and settling into his pillows.

“You watched my game?” 

Shane shifts uncomfortably. How is that even a question? Of course, he watched. “Well, I watch most playoff games, so you aren’t special,” Shane says. It’s not a lie, technically. He does put other games on. Ilya’s are the only ones he gives his undivided attention to, though. 

“Ah, but you are a Boston fan now, yes?”

“I never said that.”

“But you said you are proud.”

“Well, yeah.” Shane’s voice softens on its own accord. “Of you. Just because you happen to play for Boston doesn’t mean I’m a fan of the team now.”

“Mm,” Ilya hums, sounding somewhat amused. “So you are just Ilya Rozanov fan.”

Shane huffs a small laugh. That’s a very light way of putting it. “Definitely not,” Shane says. “I’ve actually heard he’s kind of an asshole.”

“You are hearing lies.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. I have heard he is very nice. A gentleman, actually.”

That makes Shane cackle loud enough that Ilya actually whines. “Shane, is very mean to laugh when I say that. I am nice. You say so.”

“Sure, you’re nice, but I wouldn’t call you a gentleman.”

Ilya exhales a soft laugh. “Okay, yes. Fair.” They’re quiet for a long moment. “You are in bed now, yes? Like little grandma, tucked in early.”

“Yes, I’m in bed.”

“Reading? With your glasses on?”

“You’re annoying, you know that?”

“Yes, I have also been told this,” Ilya says, sounding pleased like it’s a compliment. “Was just trying to picture it.”

Shane’s heart stutters in his chest. “Why?” he asks softly. What reason would Ilya have to picture Shane in bed?

Fuck, he hates that there are still moments where he wonders if he’s gotten everything wrong. If there is some part of Ilya that does have feelings for him, and Shane somehow never made his feelings clear enough. Maybe Ilya hadn’t initially felt anything for him when he rejected Shane in that hot tub, but they’d grown afterwards, and Shane had missed the signs. He hates that even now, he just hopes, and hopes, and hopes.

All for it to always mean nothing.

“Is a very boring picture,” Ilya says. “Will help me go to sleep early tonight.”

Shane forces out a small laugh. “You’re calling me a grandma, but you’re going to bed early, too?”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Early flight back to Boston tomorrow so I can meet Sveta for lunch.”

“Ah,” Shane whispers. The mention of Svetlana reminds him that he still needs to tell Rose the truth — she’s been too busy to call lately, and Shane is using it as an excuse to stall a bit longer. “Tell her I said hi, then.”

“Okay,” Ilya says. He’s quiet for a beat. “Goodnight, Shane.”

Shane swallows hard. There’s something about the gentle cadence of Ilya’s voice that makes his chest ache unexplainably. “Goodnight, Ilya,” he says back. 

The call ends there, and Shane forces himself to go to sleep, too. If he tries hard enough, he can imagine the other side of the bed dipping with Ilya’s weight.

Being on home ice is doing nothing for Boston tonight. There are four minutes left in the final period, and they’re down by two points. It would take a miracle at this point for them to come back. Shane frowns as he watches Ilya fight for the puck against the boards, only for the Carolina defensemen to knock it towards one of his teammates. 

“Come on,” Shane whispers around the hoodie string in his mouth. A Boston hoodie with Rozanov and his number painted across the back, at that. One Ilya had left here months ago that Shane had always sworn he would return. He never did, for obvious reasons, but he’d always intended to, which should be what counts. Tonight, he’d put it on in hopes of it being good luck.

It seems that it had the opposite effect, though, because in the end, Carolina wins. The Boston players all share matching looks of defeat and disappointment, but all Shane can focus on is Ilya’s slumped shoulders as he skates towards the bench. They cut away from the live feed of the ice, replaying a few highlights from the games as the announcers recap the goals. Shane shoots off a few texts.

Shane
I’m sorry the game didn’t go your way
You played well
I guess I’m a little bit of a Rozanov fan after all

Once the players are off the ice, he shuts off his TV and heads into his kitchen to refill his water bottle. He makes sure all of the lights are off and the security system is armed before climbing the stairs to his bedroom. He’s just about to get into bed after his night routine when his phone starts vibrating repeatedly.

Rose
HELLO???
have you seen twitter??
or are you watching the press coverage
why would he say that
does he want to get back together or something
SHANE
you have to call him
like. did you see his face
i don’t care why it ended, you HAVE to call him

Shane only gets more and more confused with each text.

Shane
What the fuck are you talking about?

Not even bothering to wait for her response, he opens Twitter and types Ilya’s last name into the search bar. It’s more than obvious who Rose is talking about, but the what part gets answered very quickly. There’s a post-game interview clip already racking up thousands of views. Ilya is in the tunnel outside of the locker room, still in his gear. 

Just as Shane starts watching, Rose sends him a link, but he swipes it away and focuses on the video.

“How are you feeling about tonight's loss?” the man holding the microphone asks.

Ilya’s smile tilts sideways. He does a good job at putting on a brave face, but Shane can see the clear frustration over the loss in his eyes. “We played hard, but Carolina was good. Is disappointing.”

“Can you tell us what happened out there on the ice? Are there any particular reasons things weren’t clicking with the Bears tonight?”

“Is not that we were not clicking, exactly. We made good passes. Lots of shots on goal. Sometimes other team is just a little bit better,” Ilya shrugs. 

“You’ve had a very interesting season personally,” the man says, and instantly, Shane knows where this is going. “Do you think your relationship with Shane Hollander, and now the ending of that relationship, impacted your gameplay at all?” Shane resists the urge to roll his eyes. They've both gotten this question in every interview, and their answer never changes, yet they never stop asking.

Ilya opens his mouth like he’s going to speak, then shuts it. He looks contemplative in a way that he shouldn't be, considering they have practiced responses for this kind of thing. Every muscle in Shane’s body goes rigid with tension. Whatever he’s about to say, this has to be what Rose was losing her head over.

“Can I tell you secret?” Ilya asks, leaning forward conspiratorially. Shane does, too, like he needs to be in on whatever secret Ilya's about to expose. Stupidly, the lie of their relationship agreement flickers through Shane's head, but he knows Ilya wouldn't do that. 

“Please do,” the guy says, not even trying to hide how eager he sounds.

Ilya’s lips twitch into the briefest smile. “I have been in love with Shane Hollander my entire career.”

Shane nearly drops his phone. He also nearly stops breathing, his heart nearly gives out, his brain nearly explodes. He can barely even blink as he continues watching, trying hard to process what he’s hearing. That was somehow infinitely more shocking than if Ilya had told the world the relationship was fake.

“We… I had an opportunity to maybe pursue him when we were younger. Not even rookies yet. But I messed it up, and I spent my whole career with big, gigantic crush on him. He never knew that because we were rivals, of course. But I have beaten him in countless games and I have won Cup against him. My game has never been affected by my feelings for him, and that has not changed. Not when we got together, and not after we broke up. This answer will not change.”

The clip restarts, and Shane barely has enough brain power to swipe out of the video.

He stares blankly at his screen. His phone buzzes again, probably another text from Rose, but Shane doesn’t register it. This… has to be some kind of joke, right? Or a lie. But if Ilya was going to come up with a lie for them to stop getting this question, why the fuck would he choose this? And if it’s a lie, why would he reference what could’ve happened in Toronto, almost ten years ago?

But if it’s the truth, why the fuck wouldn’t he have said something to Shane? Why did he ever reject Shane in that hot tub?

When Shane opens his text thread with Rose, there are a few more messages, but Shane ignores them in favor of calling her. “Oh, my God, did you see—”

“The relationship was fake,” he blurts out. Rose literally stumbles over her words, almost choking as she inhales.

“It— what?” she asks. “What relationship?”

“My relationship. With Ilya,” he says. His brain is moving a million miles an hour, and this was not how he wanted to tell her, but he needs to get everything out now. “It was a PR thing that my mom thought would be a good idea, but I fell in love with him for real. But I told him that in September and he rejected me, so whatever he said tonight has to, like, be a lie or something.”

“Okay, okay, pause,” Rose says. “I need you to take a deep breath.”

Shane does. And then another.

“Start from the beginning, please.”

So Shane tells her everything. He starts with what happened back in 2010 in that locker room, and how Ilya never knocked on his hotel door. He tells her how nothing came from that, but how Shane had always at least known he was attracted to Ilya his entire career. And then he came out, and then Ilya came out, and then his mom thought a PR relationship would be beneficial. Here, he inserts the obligatory yet very sincere apology about keeping this all a secret, but Rose brushes over that and tells him to keep going.

He tells her about how he started to like Ilya for real over the summer, those feelings eventually blooming into love. He spares no details about the hot tub, the rejection, Halloween, and the casual-but-not-really-casual hookups that followed. That final time they saw each other before the breakup was announced and how Shane felt like his heart actually had been ripped out of his chest that night, and how they’re still kind of friends, but things have definitely been different since they “ended things.”

At the end of it, Rose is quiet for several minutes.

“Okay,” she says finally. “Holy shit.”

“I’m sorry,” Shane says again. “I was allowed to tell you after we announced the breakup, but I really just didn’t want to think about it. And then we were playing against them in the playoffs, and I kept finding excuses to put it off. I’m really sorry for lying this whole time, and for keeping it from you even after I didn’t need to lie anymore.”

“Shane, honey,” she says. “It’s okay. I’m not mad.”

“You’re not?”

“No, babe,” she says. “My heart breaks for you, and I hate that this is hurting you so much, but I’m not mad. I know this was impossible for you, and I understand why you didn’t want to let it all out. It was a lot.”

God, he loves her so much. He needs to, like, send her on a paid vacation for how much of his shit she deals with. He tells her as much, and she laughs. “You know, I wouldn’t mind taking you up on that, but that’s for another time. Now, though, you need to call him.”

“What?” Shane scoffs. “What if it’s a lie and I’m making a big deal out of nothing?”

“What if it’s the truth, and you lose your chance at getting him back because you don’t speak up?” she counters.

“If it was the truth, why would he have rejected me in the hot tub?” Shane asks. “I mean, I kissed him for no reason other than I wanted to. Why would he reject me afterwards if he actually loved me?”

Rose hums. “Okay, walk me through that whole thing again. Spare literally zero details.”

“We both had about a drink and a half, so we were mostly sober. When we first started this whole thing, he made a joke about practicing kissing because he knew it would annoy me, so in the hot tub, I asked if that offer was still on the table just to, like... open that door, I guess. He asked why, I was going to chicken out and say nevermind, but he pulled me into his lap. We kissed a lot, literally jerked each other off, but when I said he should come to bed with me, he said the whole thing was complicated and we shouldn’t.”

“…Shane.”

“Rose,” he echoes. He’s certain he’s not missing any details, and even hearing it back, he doesn’t know what went wrong.

“Are you telling me that you never actually told him how you felt about him? You just kissed him?”

“I mean…” he trails off. Oh. Well… yes. That is what he’s saying. “Yes. I guess so. But why would I do that if I didn’t like him?”

“Maybe, my beloved, he thought you only wanted something casual,” she says slowly. “Which you later confirmed, when you lied to him on Halloween and said you only wanted casual.”

“Okay, but he said he wanted casual, too!”

"Did he say he wanted that in the hot tub?"

Shane thinks for a second, replaying it all. He's seen it enough in his nightmares to remember exactly how it all played out. "I mean... no."

“So maybe he was also lying on Halloween, when he said he just wanted sex.” Her voice is patient. “Maybe you were both lying because you were willing to take whatever the other person would give you. And maybe, when Ilya rejected you in that hot tub, he was trying to protect his feelings because he didn’t know exactly how you felt, only to later change his mind and take what he could get.”

“But…” Shane trails off. Fuck. That is… entirely possible. “Oh, my God.”

“You’re killing me, Hollander.”

“But I was so obvious about my feelings!” Shane tries to reason. “He never said anything. And... I guess there were sometimes I thought he might reciprocate, but I thought I was just being hopeful.”

“And maybe those times you were maybe being obvious, he thought that he was just being hopeful,” she says softly. “Shane, babe. From what I saw on New Year’s, I would put money on Ilya loving you. I would bet anything that he told the truth in that interview tonight.”

Shane feels the corners of his eyes prick with tears. There’s no way he’s been wrong about everything. There’s no way he could’ve had Ilya this entire time, and it was just a big misunderstanding that’s cost them months.

“Why didn’t he knock, then?” he whispers. “Back in Toronto.”

“That, I don’t know,” Rose says gently. “But you can ask him when you hang up with me, and call him.”

Shane shakes his head, even though she can’t see him. “I can’t, Rose. I can’t. What if… what if we are wrong? What if I call him and I just make a fucking idiot of myself all over again?” He lets out a dry sob. “Even if it was a misunderstanding, it was fucking humiliating to be rejected in that hot tub. I can’t do it again.”

“Okay, okay,” she says softly. She’s quiet for a few seconds, like she’s thinking. “Okay. Put me on speaker.”

He does, the slight static of the silence filling his bedroom. “Okay.”

“Open your texts with Ilya.”

“Rose…”

“Shane, I need you to put some trust in me here,” she says. If she were with him right now, Shane just knows she would be gripping his hand tightly. He closes his eyes and imagines the comfort of it. “Open your texts with him,” she repeats.

He opens his eyes and navigates to his messages with Ilya. The last ones are from before the game tonight. Ilya had asked Aren’t you going to wish me luck? ;) and Shane had replied Nope :). Maybe if he had, Ilya would’ve won the game tonight, and Shane wouldn’t be freaking the fuck out over a post-game interview where Ilya admitted to maybe actually being in love with Shane for almost ten years now. 

“Okay,” Shane whispers.

“All you’re going to do is ask him if he meant what he said.”

“Rose.”

“Shane,” she says in the same whiny tone that he’d used. “If he says no, then at least you’ll know. You’ll know, and you can move on, and it will be fine. And you're not admitting your feelings; if he says no, you can just say that, like, hopefully this works to get interviewers off your backs, or whatever.”

“Right,” Shane says, unconvinced. 

“But, if he says yes…” she trails off.

“Then he loves me.”

“Then he fucking loves you. And you get your ass on a plane to Boston and go make some grand declaration or something.”

The sound of that is terrifying, but Shane tables that for now.

He doesn’t respond to Rose, but he types out the text slowly. Letter by letter. He thinks back to all of those moments when he felt a little hopeful that Ilya might return his feelings. He thinks back to that moment in the showers, before anything fake and fabricated between them ever occurred. He can say with certainty that in that moment, Ilya at least felt something for him. It’s absurd to think those feelings of what could’ve only really been lust at the time had somehow spiraled into love, especially without him and Shane ever really knowing each other, but…

What if that is the case? What if Ilya fucking loves him?

Shane
Did you mean what you said in that interview
tonight?
Be honest

“I sent it,” Shane tells Rose. He immediately swipes out of the texts. He’s tempted to put his phone on Do Not Disturb, just so he can hold off on seeing the response for a bit longer. His nerves are literally buzzing with anxiety. “Fuck, Rose, what if he says no?”

“Just breathe, babe,” Rose says softly. “If he says no, then you accept it and move on. Just because you’re asking doesn’t mean you’re confessing your feelings yet, so if he says no, it’s not rejection. Yeah?”

“Right, yeah,” Shane nods. He bites his lip. “I meant to thank you again for that night we saw him in Montreal, actually. I was a mess. But I guess that proves I love him, huh?”

“Shane, I knew you loved him from the first moment you talked about him,” she says softly. “And I know you’re not the best actor, because you tried your very best to act straight when we were together.”

A laugh bursts out of him. It lightens the weight bearing down on him. “Yeah, fair,” he chuckles.

“And I’m pretty certain he loves you, too, you know. Svetlana and I talked about it once or twice.”

“You did?”

“Mhm. We were complaining about how disgustingly in love you guys seemed,” she says, laughing. “If I could see that you loved him, and she could see that he loved you, I’m pretty sure everything you’re feeling for him is mutual.”

Shane hopes she’s right. He hopes, and he hopes, and he holds onto that hope so fucking tightly.

His phone buzzes in his hand.

“He replied,” Shane says, his voice measured as he stares down at the response.

“What did he say?”

Shane blinks at the text. It’s one word. Very short. Only three letters long.

“He said yes,” he murmurs. He blinks again, making sure his hopeful heart is causing him to see things. “He… said yes. He meant it.”

“Well, then,” Rose says. Shane can hear her smile through the phone. “Looks like you need to book a flight to Boston.”

Chapter End Notes

how's everyone feeeeeellliiinnngggg?

another tiny peek into ilya's brain, bc this is maybe the one scene where i really wanted to write his pov: him telling the reporter about his feelings for shane was partially an attempt to shut down these questions in the future (and inadvertently protecting shane from them), but also as a last ditch attempt to make his feelings known to shane in a way that could be safe enough to play off as a lie, if shane happened to not return ilya's feelings.

also last chance to guess why ilya didn't knock in toronto...

my strawpage and my twitter!

Chapter 26: twenty-six

Chapter Notes

oh my god... we're almost done. anyone else kinda nervous or just me?🤭

Shane
Are you home?

It’s the first thing he’s said since last night, after Ilya had responded with that simple yes. Maybe he should’ve responded then, but he was a bit busy freaking out and rushing to buy a flight. Plus, Rose had convinced him that showing up unannounced would be much more dramatic and romantic. Shane is really regretting listening to her now, as he sits in his rental car in the parking lot of Ilya’s apartment complex. It’s just after 11 am, so Ilya should be awake. Yet Shane is chewing on his hoodie string — not a Boston hoodie this time — as he waits almost twenty minutes for a response. 

Ilya
Yes

Shane swallows hard. Part of him wants to stay in this car and drive back to the airport. He wants to throw his phone into a damn river and forget this ever happened. Yes, Ilya meant it, but what if there was another reason he never told Shane? What if he used to have feelings for Shane, but then getting to know him caused him to lose those feelings? What if Shane hadn’t been what he was expecting?

His phone buzzes again, but this time, it’s Rose. 

Rose
keep me updated!! you got this
my payment is all the nasty dirty details later ;))

Shane huffs a laugh. If he chickens out now, Rose might genuinely rip his head off. And he’s come so far; he has to see it through. Shane gets out of the car and enters the code to Ilya’s building. The guard at the desk looks slightly confused to see him — he knows Ilya quite well after years of him living here, so Shane imagines seeing Ilya’s famously now ex-boyfriend is unexpected. But he lifts a hand to wave politely as Shane walks to the elevator. 

Shane twists his hoodie string as he rises several floors until he reaches Ilya’s. He doesn’t allow himself to overthink it, raising his fist and knocking as soon as he gets to Ilya’s door. Mere seconds later, the door swings open quickly. Ilya looks like he’s seen a ghost. 

“Hollander?” he asks, shocked. “Why are you— what are you doing here?”

“Did you really mean it?” is what explodes out of Shane. Ilya opens his mouth, but nothing comes out at first. His gaze flicks back and forth between Shane’s eyes, hesitating like he doesn’t know what to say. Shane knows the answer already, obviously, but he needs to hear it again. He needs to see it in Ilya’s face.

Finally, a weak, “Yes.”

Shane exhales. “You— what? Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you never say anything? Why the fuck didn’t you knock ten years ago? What the fuck?”

Shane’s rapid fire questions seem to make Ilya aware that they’re having this conversation through a doorway. He opens it a bit wider. “Come in, maybe,” he says. Shane obeys, barely remembering to take off his shoes. Ilya clears his throat. “Do you want a drink or something? Breakfast?”

Unable to move from the entryway, Shane’s eyes narrow at him. “No, I don’t want— I want answers.”

Ilya stares at him before nodding once, leaning against the wall. This conversation would probably be better to have on the sofa or something, but Shane can’t wait any longer. 

“I mean… the whole time?” Shane asks softly. 

After a moment, Ilya nods again. “The whole time,” he confirms quietly. It feels like a gunshot straight to Shane’s chest. How had he gotten everything so wrong? How have they wasted this much time?

“So you agreed to this whole relationship thing just to, what, get close to me? Why didn’t you say anything?” Shane asks. He knows it’s partly his fault, too, for not being clearer about his feelings, but Ilya had always been the braver one. That’s not an excuse, but it’s a truth that Shane had unintentionally relied on.

“Yes, I… wanted to get close to you. I wanted excuse to be around you, I think. But it was supposed to be fake. It was fake for you. And then when we were fucking, you said you wanted just sex, so…” Ilya trails off, his eyes dropping. Shane’s lips part, but only a weak exhale escapes. Rose was right, as usual. He hadn’t made himself clear, so Ilya assumed that he’d only wanted it to be physical between them, nothing more. It was the same assumption Shane had made, but at least Ilya had a history of casual sex. Shane didn’t. 

“I am sorry if you are angry,” Ilya says quietly. “I did not mean to trick you. Or… manipulate you? If that is right word.”

Shane’s brain short circuits a little. Ilya thinks he’s mad? He realizes then he’s done nothing but spit questions at him, offering zero reassurance, so maybe it makes sense that Ilya believes that. It couldn’t be further from the truth, though. “No, no. I’m not mad. Maybe a little upset that you didn’t tell me sooner, but I’m not mad. I’m mad at myself, maybe, for not being more honest about my feelings.”

Slowly, Ilya meets his eyes. “Your feelings?” he asks cautiously. 

Shane nods. “You think I kissed you in that hot tub because I just wanted sex?” he asks softly. “Why would you think that?”

Ilya looks a little lost, shrugging. “I just— It seemed that way. It was just touching. You wanted to go to bed together. You say nothing about feelings. I don't know.”

“I thought you wanted it to be just sex. Casual, like we said. And you were rejecting me because you knew I wanted more.”

“Why would you think I wanted casual?”

Shane blinks. Respectfully, does Ilya Rozanov not know that he’s Ilya fucking Rozanov? “Be-because you’re you!” Shane says, gesturing uselessly towards Ilya. “All you do is casual. You don’t do relationships and stuff, so why would I think otherwise? That’s, like, your whole reputation!”

“Until you!” Ilya shoots back. He scoffs lightly. “It was. Until you.”

“But we weren’t— I mean, that was fake,” Shane says, confused. 

“We know that, yes. But the world does not. My reputation does not. Everyone thinks I broke my reputation for Shane Hollander, because I did.”

Shane shuffles his feet. When it’s put like that, he feels kind of stupid for never seeing it from that perspective. As far as everyone else is aware, Shane Hollander was the first and only person to lock the Ilya Rozanov down. Even if it wasn’t true, the perception is what mattered. Ilya’s reputation is a huge part of him, and he changed it for Shane. Even if he hadn’t realized that Ilya’s feelings were true, Shane should’ve recognized that much. 

“Oh,” he whispers, embarrassed. “I just thought… I told you I wanted casual because I thought you wanted it.”

Ilya is quiet, and when Shane looks up, he’s studying Shane. “I did not want to be casual.”

“I know that now,” Shane whispers. 

“And you did not want casual?” he asks slowly, like he’s nervous to ask. Nervous to be wrong and be rejected. Shane swallows, and he shakes his head. 

“I didn’t want casual,” he confirms quietly. “I wanted you.”

Ilya’s breathing picks up a bit, but he’s rigid, like he’s forcing himself to stay still. His voice is thick when he says, “Wanted? Past tense?”

The corner of Shane’s lips twitches. It’s not funny. But it is a little funny, considering it makes sense why they took so long to get here, if this is the confidence they have in each other. “You think I flew to Boston just to tell you that I used to love you?”

Ilya’s lips part, blinking in shock. He doesn’t even laugh at Shane’s attempt to lighten the mood. “Love,” he repeats, almost reverently. “You love me.”

Shane is torn between shaking some sense into this man, and breaking down in tears. All this time, he thought he’d been so obvious about his feelings. He thought Ilya knew and just didn’t reciprocate. And he sees now that he must’ve been better at hiding it than he thought, because Ilya genuinely looks shocked to his core that Shane could return his feelings. 

Shane tilts his head, a little devastated that they’ve gotten this so wrong. “Of course, I love you,” he whispers. “How could I not?” 

Ilya stares at him. Just when Shane thinks he’s going to need to bust out a powerpoint presentation to convince Ilya that he’s telling the truth, the other man is suddenly pushing himself off the wall, crossing the few feet of distance between them, and kissing Shane so hard that he stumbles into the wall behind him. He moans as Ilya’s weight presses him to the flat surface, his arms immediately curling around Ilya’s shoulder. 

He feels like crying, actually, because he thought he would never have this again. There’s a strength in Ilya’s grip that feels like desperation, like he’s just as surprised by this outcome. “God,” Shane moans when Ilya’s mouth trails over his jaw. 

“I love you,” Ilya murmurs into Shane’s neck. “Ya tebya lyubyu. (I love you) I love you.”

Shane breathes a laugh. “Oh my God, we were so stupid,” he whispers, his fingers digging into Ilya’s shoulders, like he can somehow get even closer. “We could’ve had this the whole time. Fuck.”

“We have it now,” Ilya says, teeth grazing his pulse. Shane’s brain halfway returns from where it was melting out of his skull, and he presses one hand to Ilya’s chest. 

“Wait,” he huffs regretfully. He hates to stop when he’s so close to having the thing he’s been aching for, but he has to. “I had another question.”

“Hollander, you always have questions,” Ilya says, but he pulls back obediently. “Too many questions.”

“Why didn’t you knock?” Shane asks, studying Ilya. “In Toronto. Nine years ago.”

Some of the desire leaves Ilya’s eyes, and he looks… embarrassed? Which only heightens Shane’s curiosity. 

“Oh, yes,” Ilya mumbles. His thumbs run back and forth over Shane’s sides, and Ilya seems unable to meet his eyes. “Is very silly, actually.”

“Tell me anyway,” Shane pleads. He’s spent years wondering this. 

Ilya’s shoulders slump, and he dips his head to rest his forehead against Shane’s shoulder. “I chickened out,” Ilya says, his voice miserable. 

“You— what?” Shane asks, almost thinking he heard wrong. Ilya doesn’t chicken out. He’s one of the bravest people Shane’s ever met. He was the one who had asked for Shane’s hotel room number to begin with. Shane curls his fingers through Ilya’s hair and lifts his head gently. “Why?” Shane whispers. “I would’ve opened the door. I… I waited for you.”

Ilya looks devastated. “I am sorry,” he says. “I was, uh… watching a few of your interviews before I came, because I wanted to know you as much as possible. And I realized I didn't just want to hook up with you. I liked you. But that was… too much. Too scary. I was not supposed to want you for more than sex.”

“Oh,” Shane whispers.

“It was different then. We were barely kids. My father was alive; I went to Russia every year. It was harder. I did not think I could hide how much I wanted you,” he says, looking down at Shane’s mouth to avoid his eyes. “If I could go back, I would knock. I should have. But back then, I thought it would be… safer. To stay away.”

“We could’ve been a secret, maybe,” Shane says. “I was scared, but I wanted you, too.”

Ilya looks up at him, and a slow, small smile pulls at his lips. He lifts his hand, and his thumb swipes over Shane's freckles gently, reverently. “You didn’t like me then.”

It’s a harsh truth, but a truth nonetheless. “Not really, no,” he agrees, making Ilya smile wider. “But I could’ve. If I had gotten to know you.”

Ilya’s grin dims into something sadder. “Maybe,” he says softly. “But I think, maybe I would not have let you know me then.”

Shane’s palms move to cup Ilya’s jaw, and he draws him into another kiss. “At least I know you now,” he whispers. The light returns to Ilya’s eyes, his smile turning genuine again. 

“And you love me,” he says, almost teasing. Voice light and airy, and so fucking happy. Shane grins, too.

“And I really fucking love you,” he confirms. Ilya kisses him again, slowly. It feels like they’re taking their time in a way they never got to before. He’s pressed firmly between the wall and Ilya’s body, but it’s not enough. He needs more. 

Ilya’s eyes are dazed with lust when Shane pulls back, so he knows there’s going to be no argument when he whispers, “Take me to bed.”

In an instant, Ilya bends down and loops his arms around the back of Shane’s thighs. Shane gasps, clutching him tighter. “That’s not what I— I can walk.”

Ilya laughs, his grip not faltering. Shane stops fighting. If his boyfriend wants to pick him up, then— boyfriend. Ilya is not his boyfriend. Shane leans back as he’s carried, looking Ilya in the eyes. 

“So what does this mean for us?” he asks. 

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “That we are going to have sex?” he asks, looking at Shane like this should be obvious. Shane huffs a laugh. 

“No, like, us,” he says. “Are we— are you my boyfriend? Like, for real this time?”

Ilya grins. He pressed Shane’s spine into the doorframe of his bedroom. “Am I?” he asks. “I think you were trying to say Ilya, I love you so so much, will you please be my boyfriend?”

“You are so annoying.”

“Yes, we know this.”

Shane taps his forehead against Ilya’s gently. “Ilya,” he whispers. “I love you so, so much. Will you please be my real boyfriend?”

Ilya’s smile is so fucking blinding, Shane doesn’t even care that he’s the most annoying man on the planet. “Yes,” Ilya says. “Any more interruptions? Or can I fuck my boyfriend now?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that would be an inter— oof!” He lands on the bed heavily, his boyfriend crawling over him to shut him up instantly. Their lips connect in a kiss that’s immediately hot and heavy, tongues and teeth clashing. It’s messy, partially because they’re so eager, but also because they’re both smiling. Ilya straddles Shane’s hips and sits back, reaching behind his head to strip off his t-shirt. Shane’s hoodie follows, then his shirt. Ilya’s hands glide over Shane’s shoulders, his eyes shining.

“So pretty,” he says softly. “My pretty boy.”

Shane swallows hard, feeling stupidly out of breath, even though nothing has happened yet. He feels dizzy from the way Ilya called him my boy.

“Yours,” Shane agrees with a soft nod. Ilya’s smile widens, and then he leans down so they’re kissing again. His hips grind down against Shane’s in slow, methodical rolls. Each one makes Shane tremble. He’s already hard, obviously.

He tugs at the waistband of Ilya’s sweatpants. “Off,” he mumbles between kisses. “Need you.”

“Mm, yes,” Ilya agrees. He’s still smiling as he rolls off of Shane, stripping his pants and boxers off in record time. By the time he grabs the bottle of lube from his bedside drawer, Shane is naked, too. He leans back against the pillows, and Ilya’s hips settle between his open legs. Shane’s hands tangle in Ilya’s hair as they kiss again and again. Their erections press together in between their bodies, making Shane whine.

It feels like every other time they’ve been together, but better because it’s real and it’s serious, and Ilya loves him. Shane pulls back just an inch, his nose still brushing Ilya’s. His eyes are pitch black, just a thin ring of hazel surrounding his dilated pupils. Shane purposely tilts his head down a bit so that he can look at Ilya through his lashes. “Please fuck me,” he begs in a hushed voice. Ilya breaks immediately, the most delicious exhale escaping his lips.

“Turn over,” he directs, pulling away from Shane so that he can flip onto his stomach. Ilya’s hands find his hips and pull him back until he’s up on his knees, face pressed into the crook of his crossed arms. He hears the cap of the lube, and he has to seriously hold himself back from shifting in anticipation.

One of Ilya’s hands slides down Shane’s spine, stopping at the base. With his other hand, a slicked finger brushes over his entrance and then gently presses in. Shane exhales a shaky moan. 

“Okay, lyubimyy (beloved)?” Ilya asks.

“Mhm,” he nods, rocking his hips back. He turns his head and glances over his shoulder. “You know, you never told me what that nickname means.”

“Can mean a few things.” Ilya grins. “Is, like… darling. Or favorite. Beloved,” he says softly. As he speaks, he eases a second finger into Shane. There’s a barely noticeable ache from the stretch hidden beneath the feeling of Ilya grazing his prostate. His head buzzes with pleasure, both from the stimulation, and from the pet names.

“Oh,” he whispers, his cheeks surely flushing. He hides his face in his arms again. 

Ilya’s free hand runs over Shane’s back, his nails gently raking over the skin. “You like that?” Ilya asks. “Being my favorite? Or my baby? My beloved?”

“Yes,” Shane gasps. “Yours. I like being yours.”

“Fuck,” Ilya whispers. He presses yet another finger into Shane, opening him up thoroughly. Shane is already trembling, and they aren’t even actually fucking yet. It’s just the knowledge that this is happening between them that is making everything feel ten times more intense. He’d given up hope of having this again.

“Ilya, please,” he says after a while. “I’m ready, I promise. I need you.”

Ilya grunts softly in acknowledgement, and then his fingers slip out of Shane. “Turn over again,” he says, patting Shane’s hip. “Need to see you.”

Shane sluggishly flips. Ilya leans down to kiss him a few times before picking up the condom that he must’ve grabbed at some point. Shane watches as he goes to rip it open, and the words spill out of his mouth. “Do you wanna go without that?”

Ilya freezes, his wide eyes flicking to Shane, who just shrugs softly. “I never have. And I mean, I’ve been tested before anyway, so, I’m… good. If you want.”

In true Ilya fashion, he flings it away dramatically. Shane huffs a laugh, but it doesn’t last because Ilya dives down to kiss him again. “You are sure?” he asks when he pulls back.

“Very sure,” Shane promises. Ilya grins, kissing Shane one last time before he leans back and slicks himself up with more lube. He wipes his hands on the sheets, which makes Shane cringe, then he grips the backs of Shane’s thighs and pushes them up. He lets go of one to line himself up with Shane’s entrance, and then, slowly, gently, he presses forward. Shane’s mouth falls open at the familiar stretch. Fuck, he’s missed this so much. 

“Oh, fuck,” Ilya mutters, his eyes fluttering.

“Tell me how it feels,” Shane slurs when Ilya’s finally all the way in. Ilya’s eyes are shut tight, and his arms seem to be trembling a little bit. They stay there for a few seconds, both adjusting.

“Insane.” Ilya’s voice is wrecked. “Hot. Tight. Fuck, Shane.” He lets go of Shane’s thighs, allowing them to wrap around his waist, and leans down to kiss him. Shane moans when their tongues slide together, and he arches into Ilya’s touch. 

Without Shane having to beg, Ilya finally begins to move his hips in slow, even thrusts. Shane breaks their kiss with a gasp. “Oh, fuck,” he moans. His hands slide up Ilya’s back and over his shoulders until they curve under his jaw, cupping his face. 

“I love you,” he pants, “so much.”

Ilya’s eyes blink open, dazed with pleasure. His pace speeds up, and he perfects the angle so that he’s nailing Shane’s prostate with every thrust. Shane whines, clutching Ilya’s face tighter. 

“Say it again,” Ilya demands, his gaze trained on Shane’s face. 

“I love you,” Shane tells him, breathless. “God, I love you.”

Something low and possessive rumbles in Ilya’s throat. He dips his head into the crook of Shane’s neck, and his teeth sink into his pulse. 

“Fuck,” Shane gasps, his fingers digging into his boyfriend’s hair to hold him in place. He’s pretty certain that Ilya is giving him a hickey in the most visible spot possible, but Shane doesn’t care. In fact, he wants it. He wants people to see him and know he’s taken, and he wants people to know who he belongs to. 

Ilya’s mind seems to be on the same track, because he murmurs, “Mine,” against Shane’s skin. 

“Yours,” Shane parrots. “Ilya, please.”

Finally tired of this easy pace, Ilya leans back so he can get more leverage, and he starts fucking Shane with purpose. He unwinds Shane’s legs from his waist and pushes them back into his chest to fold him in half. The air is punched from Shane’s lungs as he scrambles to find purchase on something, his hands squeezing Ilya’s forearms. 

He’s useless to do anything but lie there and take it as Ilya fucks him. “I’m— oh God,” he whines, trying to writhe against the way Ilya is holding him down. 

“Touch yourself, Hollander,” Ilya says. “Let me watch.”

Shane whimpers as he obeys, wrapping a hand around his cock and jerking it in uneven, distracted strokes. Ilya looks fucking incredible above him, eyes dark and glistening with sweat. Hot tension brews in the pit of Shane’s gut, his orgasm building. 

“I want to— I need—“ Shane can barely form a sentence as pleasure clouds his senses. 

“You are doing so good, lyubimyy,” Ilya groans. “Make a mess for me, I want to see it.”

Each word forces Shane closer to the edge. Ilya’s pace is relentless, and so is Shane’s grip on himself. He’s all but incoherent, repeating nonsense like Please, and Oh God, and Ilya’s name over and over again. Ilya’s strong hands squeeze the backs of his thighs, and finally, that hot coil of pleasure inside of him snaps. His release shoots all the way up his chest as he comes, his toes literally curling from everything he’s feeling. 

Ilya doesn’t stop, fucking him through it. “Da, like that, Hollander,” he groans. “So pretty. Fuck.”

“Ilya,” Shane whines, letting go of his cock after it’s spent. Some of his release is on his fingers, so Ilya drops one of his thighs, grabs Shane’s wrist, and brings that hand up to his mouth to suck his fingers clean. Shane’s dick manages to twitch at the sight.  

Ilya groans, his eyes rolling back. He removes Shane’s fingers from his mouth and thrusts into him with renewed intensity. It’s bordering on overstimulation for Shane, but he takes it. 

“Come in me,” Shane whispers, cheeks burning. Dirty talk is Ilya’s specialty, not his, but he wants this so fucking badly. “I— I need it. Please.”

“Fuck,” Ilya huffs. His hands squeeze Shane’s thighs tighter, his breathing becoming choppier, and his hips stuttering. “Fuck, fuck, Shane,” Ilya groans, snapping forward one final time before he spills inside of him. If Shane focuses hard enough, he can feel Ilya coming inside of him. 

Ilya releases Shane’s legs again, gently settling his weight on top of him. He presses a kiss to Shane’s chest, right over his wildly beating heart. “Holy fuck,” he mutters, his voice airy. “I am dead.”

“Yeah,” Shane pants, hands skating up Ilya’s back. “That was… yeah.”

They lie there for a moment or two, breathing together. Eventually, Ilya shifts his hips back so that he slips out of Shane. Propping himself up on his elbows, he looks down at his boyfriend with a small smile. 

“Hi,” he says softly. 

“Hi,” Shane whispers. 

“I love you.”

Shane grins. He can’t fucking believe this. He owes Rose that prepaid vacation, for sure. 

“I love you, too,” he says. He strokes his thumbs over Ilya’s cheekbones. He had spent his entire flight thinking about every outcome, and what he would do. Now that they’re here, and they’re together, Shane can barely remember everything he was thinking. 

“So we’re doing this for real this time?” he asks softly. 

“Yes,” Ilya answers immediately. “I am yours. I have always been yours, before you even knew.”

Warmth zips through Shane’s veins. “Good,” he says. Ilya shifts slightly, and Shane suddenly becomes very aware not only of how much they’re sweating, but also of Ilya’s release that is now leaking out of him. He grimaces. “Can we please go shower? I am… disgusting.”

Ilya laughs softly, giving him one final kiss before getting up. “Come,” he says, taking Shane’s hand and leading them to the bathroom. They never stop touching each other, even as Ilya leans into the shower to start the water. 

Shane turns toward the mirror, seeing the red bruise already forming on his neck. “I look like I was attacked.”

Ilya hums, wrapping an arm around Shane’s waist. “You were,” he murmurs, kissing Shane’s shoulder, and then biting gently. “And I will do it again and again, so everyone knows you are mine.”

Shane grins. That doesn’t sound so bad. 

In the shower, they take turns washing each other. It’s mostly an excuse to keep touching each other, though, as hands glide over the same spots again and again. Even once they’re clean, they refuse to separate completely. 

“I love you,” Shane whispers again. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more clear before. When I kissed you. I thought… I guess I thought I was being obvious.”

“Sometimes, I thought maybe you were. But then you said casual and I thought I was wrong,” Ilya says softly. “Thought you were just good actor.”

“I’m a horrible actor,” Shane says, making them both smile. “I was just never acting when it came to how I felt about you.”

Ilya’s face melts into something sweet, and he leans in for another soft, slow kiss. When they pull back, Shane whispers, “Come to the cottage this summer again? The whole time, maybe. If you can.”

Hazel eyes glitter with excitement as he looks at Shane, his lips splitting into a smile. “Yes, of course,” he nods quickly. He kissed Shane again and again, pressing his back into the tiles. Shane laughs at his excitement, but he kisses him right back. 

Later that night, after they’ve called Rose and Svetlana to fill them in on everything, after Shane has told his parents, after they’ve had sex two more times, Shane is pressed against the length of Ilya’s body as they settle in for bed. Everything has been such a whirlwind since he got there, and he realizes he forgot to mention something fucking huge. 

“I’m leaving the Voyageurs,” he whispers into the silence. Ilya goes rigid. 

“You— what?”

“There’s a no-trade clause in my contract, but after this how this season went, Coach and I talked. I’m being placed on waivers,” he explains. Being placed on waivers essentially means the remainder of his contract is up for grabs to any NHL team that wants it. “My agent reached out to a few other Canadian teams, but it seems like Ottawa might be the only one that bites.”

“Oh,” Ilya whispers. “Wow.”

“Shit team, I know. But we met some of the guys, you remember? And they were great. And I don’t know… maybe I can turn the team around. Like I did with Montreal. Maybe.”

“You can, yes,” Ilya says with certainty. “The Voyageurs will be shit without you. They are fucking idiots for letting you go.”

“Yeah,” Shane whispers. It fucking sucks that Shane feels like he has to do this, but he’s realized since coming out that being happy is worth more than being safe. He’s realized what a difference he’s made just by being himself, and if he’s going to do that, he can’t be fucking miserable with this team that hates him now. And if he can work out the kinks in Ottawa, maybe he can have both. Maybe he can have a winning team that is actually a real team.

“You know… I am free agent now,” Ilya says. 

Shane’s eyes pop open, staring into the darkness. He lifts his head. 

“Boston offered me another contract. I have not signed yet.”

Shane waits. 

“I was waiting because I did not know if Boston would be good for me. But when we were… together, I kept thinking about Canadian team. Daydreaming, maybe, about us being closer. Now that we are doing this for real…” he trails off. It’s impossible, what he’s suggesting. The only East Coast team that considered Shane was Ottawa, which means it was unlikely any of the others would consider Ilya, too. But they couldn’t both sign with Ottawa. Not in the same year.

Could they?

“They can’t afford us both,” Shane whispers. He knows Ottawa isn’t near their salary cap, but they’re Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov. There’s no way.

“Their second line center is retiring,” Ilya counters. “And, maybe I could take pay cut. I have lots of money, you know.”

“But that’s— you shouldn’t have to.” It’s insane. It’s absurd. If it works, though, it would be fucking perfect.

“I don’t mind,” Ilya shrugs. He studies Shane’s face. His voice drops to a barely there whisper, “As long as you are serious about this… about us. It could work, maybe.”

Shane wasn’t even questioning whether or not their relationship would work out or not. Maybe it’s illogical and irrational and fucking insane, but he knows this is it for him. He knows that Ilya is all he wants. He was just concerned with the logistics of everything before he got his hopes too high.

“We talk to our agents first thing tomorrow,” Shane says firmly. “I can’t— I don’t want to get too hopeful. This might not work.”

“Maybe not,” Ilya says, but he’s smiling like he’s already picturing it. And fuck, maybe Shane is, too. They’ve played together during the All-Star game before, and they were seamless, and that was before they were anything but rivals. Now, they’re so much more, and to be on the same team as Ilya — living in the same city — would be a fucking dream. 

He forces that hope down, trying to lock it away until they know more. He leans down and kisses Ilya. “We’ll figure it out, no matter what,” Shane says.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, his eyes soft. “Together.”

Chapter End Notes

first of all, i hope to GOD those texts work. they're just images, so they should, but please let me know if it looks weird lmao (ps imagine ilya and sveta's texts being in russian lmao)

second of all, hello???? it happened???? they communicated??? all that's left is the epilogue. i'll get very soft and sappy in the end notes of the next chapter, but for now, i hope you all enjoyed<3

also shout out to anyone who guessed why ilya didn't knock! i hope it wasn't anti climactic LMAO but i feel like it made a lot of sense given his feelings for shane by the time they are in the pr relationship

my strawpage and my twitter!

Chapter 27: epilogue

Chapter Notes

i meant to say last chapter that im only like. 70% i understand the whole waivers thing for an nhl contract idk i was deep in wikipedia trying to figure out. let’s all just pretend im right…

also happy canon hollanov wedding anniversary! it wasn't intentional, posting on this day, but look at that :’)

anyways ENJOY THE LAST CHAPTERRRR

Seven weeks later

“So,” Shane says after a few moments of lying in the morning sun together. They’ve been at the cottage for a month, and more than once, Shane has broken his routine of waking up at 7 am for a run in favor of lying in bed with his boyfriend. (Half the time, it’s a result of one of them waking the other with their hands or mouths, though that wasn’t the case today.) “Do I get five stars for hosting this time around, or…?”

Ilya laughs, his chest shaking beneath Shane’s cheek. “You are annoying. You know this, yes?”

“You started the whole star review thing!” Shane defends. It’s not his fault that he strives to be a good host. Still, Ilya just snorts.

“Six stars,” he says. Shane can hear his smile. “Would not recommend, though. Am gatekeeping, actually.”

Shane lifts his head, looking at Ilya in amusement. “Well, that’s not very nice,” he says. “I’m sure you know lots of guys I could offer all of my services t— hey!” He laughs as Ilya rolls them, trapping Shane’s body beneath his. His laughter quickly fades off into a soft moan when Ilya’s teeth drag over his neck. Shane’s body is littered with small bruises and bite marks from this past week; Ilya isn’t much better. 

Shane’s parents have been on a cruise since the middle of June and will remain there for the next two weeks, meaning they are well and truly isolated out here, so they’re taking advantage of it, marking each other up to no end. Once his parents return, Shane will find some sense of self control and at least limit where he can mark Ilya. For now, though, his eyes catch on the small hickey right on the underside of Ilya’s jaw, and he moans quietly at the reminder that this man is all his.

“You’re going to, fuck, kill me,” he breathes when Ilya’s hand travels down his stomach. “And I have to get — oh, God — get up soon. Farah is going to call me at nine. We should, Ilya— I need to shower.”

“Mhm,” Ilya hums, clearly distracted as his lips close around one of Shane’s nipples. Being at the cottage this past month has been so fucking perfect because on top of having so much time to themselves, they’ve really been allowed to explore what it means to be in love. They take turns worshipping each other, learning everything that makes the other tic. They’ve always been compatible when it comes to sex, obviously, but now, there are no barriers. Complete and total honesty between the two of them has been exhilarating. 

As much as Shane regrets it, he pushes Ilya off. “Later, baby,” he says. Ilya’s eyes are pleading, which is Shane’s least favorite expression, because he always caves so easily. “I’ll make it up to you. Whatever you want.”

That gets Ilya’s attention, his lips curling into a smirk that’s just as tempting to Shane. “Anything?” Ilya purrs.

“Anything,” Shane confirms, already wishing it was later. Ilya kisses his chest once more before climbing off. 

“I will make breakfast while you shower. Okay?” he asks. Shane grins, nodding once. He gets up from the bed and kisses Ilya again, just because he can, before making his way to the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, he steps downstairs as Ilya is plating their eggs and potatoes. They sit on the barstools at the island, their ankles locked together because they will just explode if they aren’t touching at all times.

Even when Farah calls him as Shane is finishing up his food, they stay there. Ilya takes Shane’s free hand and massages his thumbs into Shane’s palm, soothing out the shakiness.

Free agency for the NHL has just opened, and after switching agents so that Ilya was also under Farah, he has already received a contract from Ottawa. He’d been mostly transparent about being in a relationship with Shane again and had offered to take whatever pay cut necessary if they were able to sign them both. They’d kept him in the dark about whether signing both was an option, of course, but they’d still eventually offered him the contract. There was a slight pay cut, but it hadn’t seemed to be as much as they were expecting in order to also afford Shane. He signed it immediately, because even if Shane can’t get into Ottawa, Ilya still wanted to get out of Boston. Apparently, Vancouver had also been interested in Shane, and even though the distance would be harder, at least they’d be in the same country. Now they’ve just been waiting to hear word from Ottawa about the possibility of Shane’s contract.

“Hi, Farah,” Shane says. “Is it okay if I put you on speaker? Ilya is here.”

“Of course,” she says. Her voice is neutral, as always, which gives Shane zero indication of whether she’s calling with good or bad news. The morning after Shane had flown to Boston to confess his feelings, they’d told Farah that they were together for real, as well as their hopes for the plan to get them both into Ottawa.

“Hi, Farah,” Ilya says once she’s on speakerphone. 

“Hi, Ilya. How are you guys doing?”

“Good. How are you? How is your puppy? I saw on your Instagram. Very cute girl.”

“We’re both good, thank you.” Shane can hear her smile then, but it quickly switches straight back to business. “I spoke to the Ottawa GM yesterday.” 

Shane shifts, and Ilya’s fingers lace with his. They’ve talked extensively about how things will work if the only Canadian team that can pick Shane up is Vancouver — it will suck, but he’ll only have to play out the remaining year of his existing contract there. After that, he can negotiate and also take a pay cut to play in Ottawa if their salary cap hasn’t risen.

“How did that go?” Shane asks, expecting the worst.

“Apparently, they’d been looking into a trade with Detroit. If they had gone through with it, they wouldn’t have been able to afford you.”

Ilya and Shane stare at the phone. Finally, Shane gets out, “If they had gone through with it?” he asks. “They— did they?”

Farah lets out the tiniest laugh. “They have the chance to have Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov on the same team. Of course, they canceled the trade,” she says. “As of this morning, you have officially been picked up by the Ottawa Centaurs. Congratulations, you guys.”

Shane feels frozen in shock. Ilya, on the other hand, is out of his chair, clapping his hands together once. “Fuck, yes,” he says. His hands land on Shane’s shoulders, and he shakes him. “We are going to win so many Cups, holy shit. Holy shit!”

Shane huffs in disbelief. After Ilya’s pay cut was less than they were expecting, he was convinced there was some other reason he wouldn’t be able to play in Ottawa. He was worried there would be some other issue with the budget, or they wouldn’t actually be as supportive as expected. It’s one thing to say Hey, we don’t completely hate that you’re gay, but it’s another thing to want a pair of boyfriends on one team. He’d already unfortunately pictured himself across Canada, in an entirely new timezone, away from his parents and boyfriend. He’d forced himself to prepare for the worst, to not get his hopes up, but now he’s gotten the best case scenario, and he can’t even believe it.

“I’m— oh, my God,” he stutters. “It worked? I thought— I didn’t think—”

Farah laughs. “I’m emailing you some of the paperwork, but there’s nothing you need to worry about or sign right this second,” she says. “Normally I would call your mom, but I know she’s on vacation so you can choose if you’d like to tell her now or not.”

“Thank you, Farah,” Shane says, finally letting himself settle into the reality of it all. “For taking care of everything. I… holy shit. I really appreciate it.”

“Of course, Shane,” she says fondly. “Before I let you go so you can celebrate, the announcements about you both playing with Ottawa will likely come out next month. Do you want to announce your relationship again before that, or…?”

One glance at Ilya confirms to Shane what they’d already discussed. “We’ll wait to confirm after the trades are announced,” he says. “We want as long as possible to keep this away from the media, since it’s, you know, ours this time.”

“Understood,” she says. “I’ll have a statement ready by then, but it should be pretty straight forward. I’ll let you go now. Congrats, again. After last season, you deserve this, Shane. So do you, Ilya.”

“Thank you, Farah,” Shane says softly. “From both of us, thank you.”

The call ends, and then Shane is being pulled from his chair. Ilya hugs him so tightly that Shane’s feet actually lift off the ground. “We are teammates,” Ilya says, grinning wildly. 

“Holy shit,” Shane says again, arms curled around Ilya’s shoulders. “Holy fucking shit.”

Ilya tilts his head, eyes shining with happiness and amusement. “Ah, and I am your captain now.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shane huffs, too giddy to even care about losing his C. Plus, he knows Ilya will be such a good captain; he doesn’t even mind. Shane will do whatever he can to have the A on his jersey by the following season, and that’s more than enough considering he’s getting everything else he wants.

“Good thing that you are very good at taking orders from me, hm?” Ilya hums. “This will be no different.”

“Very different,” Shane says. His hands cup Ilya’s face, and he leans in to kiss him soundly. “I love you so much, you know. Like, so much.”

Ilya softens, that teasing gleam leaving his eyes immediately. “I love you,” Ilya echoes. “I am so fucking happy.”

“Yeah?” Shane whispers, a little bit of anxiety managing to creep in. “This is a big change. I would understand if you were, like, nervous or something.”

Ilya snorts softly. “You are the nervous one between us.”

“Well, yes,” Shane says. And he is a little nervous about everything, because this is bigger than just a big change. It’s a huge shift in his life, and he never would’ve thought coming out would lead him here. It will be an adjustment, for sure, but an amazing one. There’s no doubt in his mind that it’ll be worth it.

Ilya leans in, gently touching his forehead to Shane’s. “I am excited. I have beautiful boyfriend. We will have nice teammates that will trust us. We will win so many fucking Cups, no team will ever come close. Montreal and Boston will cry about how they gave us up.”

Shane smiles slowly, and he nods. “We’re going to crush them.”

“Aha!” Ilya grins, shaking Shane once. “That is the spirit!”

Shane laughs. He kisses Ilya again, their lips parting against each other in a slow, deep exchange. He smiles against Ilya’s mouth as he quickly bends to loop his arms around the backs of Ilya’s thighs, lifting him. Ilya lets out a sound of shock, limbs tightening around Shane instinctively. He looks at Shane with wide eyes.

“Oh, you are carrying me now?” he asks, baffled. “Mr. Big Strong Hockey Player, huh?”

He carries Ilya into the living room, grinning as he nods. He looks at Ilya through his lashes. “I just want to get in my captain’s good graces,” he says, purposely innocent. Ilya’s eyes darken, his thighs clenching around Shane’s waist.

“Say that again,” Ilya says lowly. Shane grins, sitting Ilya down on the sofa and sliding to his knees in front of him, the carpet digging into his skin. Ilya looks like a fucking God; chest already heaving, half hard, thighs spread as Shane’s hands slide up them.

“I want to be good for you, Captain.”

10 months later

Shane is fucking buzzing. It’s game five of the Stanley Cup finals, and if they win this one, they bring a Cup home to Ottawa during their first year of playing here. 

It had been a rocky start. The players were good individually, but they had issues meshing and learning how to play compatibly with each other. It had taken the first couple of months of playing together to work out all of the kinks. 

The press had a field day with those first several games, claiming Shane and Ilya had tarnished their legacies by transferring teams. They had said their relationship was even more of a distraction than ever. 

They weren’t saying that anymore. After a brutal losing streak in the first few months of the season, Ottawa had made the comeback of a fucking century. At one point, they’d gone twelve games in a row undefeated. 

They were up against Los Angeles now, back on home ice for the fifth and potentially final game. 

“Alright, listen the fuck up,” Ilya says, getting everyone's attention. He looks just as hungry for a victory as Shane feels. 

“Those fans are here for us,” he says, pointing towards the door. “We have turned this team around. All of us, we did that. And we will do it one more time this season. Tonight, we become Stanley Cup winners, together as a team.”

His eyes find Shane’s for a few seconds, and they both grin. Playing together has been fucking everything. For the first four months of the season, they lived separately, just because they’d been worried about moving too fast, but then they were spending every single day together anyway, so they just bit the bullet and moved in together. Shane has never been happier in his life. He wakes up with the love of his life; he lives twenty minutes from his parents for the first time in a decade; he has an amazing team that trusts and supports him. He didn’t even know it could get this good.

“There are some people who do not want this team to win, for obvious reasons…” Ilya clears his throat and vaguely gestures between himself and Shane, playfully rolling his eyes. “Those people are fucking idiots. And we will show them that we deserve to win this. Even if some of us are a little bit gay, all of us deserve this, yes?”

There’s a collection of laughter, cheers, and sticks tapping against the floor. Shane smiles. So does Ilya. 

“Or super gay, in Shane’s case,” Ilya adds, making everyone laugh again. And there are a few more cheers of support, which warms Shane to the core, even as he shakes his head fondly.

“Normal levels of gay,” he defends playfully. 

“Super, very gay,” Ilya waves him off. “Anyway. Let’s fucking do this, yes?”

Everyone is up, still whooping and chattering excitedly as they make their way down the tunnel. Ilya steps in front of Shane for his routine pre-game kiss. It’s short and sweet, but it still receives a few whistles from their annoying (read: wonderful) teammates.

“You ready?” Ilya asks, grinning. He looks so alive, and that energy feeds right into Shane. He nods once, determined to prove to everyone who said they were destroying their careers and legacies that they couldn’t be more wrong. They weren’t destroying anything — they were building something entirely new. Together.

Shane gives him one more kiss, just because he can. “So fucking ready.”

Chapter End Notes

idk if it's realistic that ottawa would pick them up in the same year but yolo who gaf. also ps, all of the twt users were literally random but sorry if i accidentally put your username on the jumbotron. AND the timestamps in the tweets matter, if you missed that ;)

guys i’m sick. i’m SICK. it’s over:’) thank you very very much to anyone who read, commented, left kudos, shared, etc!! i really appreciate it and it’s been so much fun reading the comments. i loveeee this fic and im very proud of it and it was a joy to write so thank you again to everyone who made it to the end, i am giving you all a big fat kiss on the mouth MWAH

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