Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Rape/Non-Con

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike, Shane Hollander & Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Hayden Pike, Farah Jalali, Theriault (Game Changers), Coach LeClaire (Game Changers), Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, pre tuna melts episode, Rape/non-con is NOT between Shane/Ilya, Sexual Assault, Forced Outing, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Miscommunication, Texting, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Racism, sexual assault is mostly off screen, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Esteem Issues, breaking up, as much as you can when you don't believe you're together, Getting Together, Good Friend Hayden Pike, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Explicit Sex, Blowjobs, comfort!!!!!!!!!!!, Fuck the Metros, Suicidal Ideation, a little bit for fun

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-07 Completed: 2026-10-08 Words: 73,245 Chapters: 7/7

комната оборудования/Gear Room

Summary

It was a Friday when the video dropped.

“What is happening?” He asked St Simon, who was holding his phone tight to his chest, his expression odd. “Someone has died?” 

Across the room he could see Marlow moving slowly upright from where he had been doing floor stretches, his phone in his hand as well, his face pinched. 

“It’s Hollander,” St Simon said. 

The bottom of Ilya’s stomach fell out, closely followed by the rest of Ilya’s organs. His chest hurt so acutely that he thought he must be having a heart attack. 

“Not dead,” St Simon added quickly, reaching out to grab Ilya’s shoulder when Ilya’s knees actually buckled. “Jesus, sorry. I should have - no it’s just -” 

“Someone tell me what the fuck is going on,” Ilya snapped, “and everyone else shut up.” 

Marlow reached him now, held his phone out to Ilya, open already to an article with a headline huge enough Ilya could easily make out the HOLLANDER blaring out of it even before his eyes focused and he took the phone from Marlow. 

A video is posted online, for Shane it feels like a death sentence. For some parts of him, it is.

Notes

CW.As the tags say, the sexual assault is mostly offscreen, and the references to what happens is quite diffuse, but this story is still about sexual assault and is therefore unavoidable while still reading the story.

xxx

Chapter 1

FRIDAY

---

It was a Friday when the video dropped. The Bears were having a conditioning day, and Ilya had reached the point in his treadmill run where all he was was rushing blood and the thud of his feet. He had been listening to music, which was why he didn’t notice the state of his team for a few moments. Long enough that by the time St Simon tapped his elbow, almost everyone in the gym were already off their machines, or slumped over one with their phone out. 

He jumped, legs spread, to land on either side of the treadmill’s tread rather than slowing it down, and stopped the machine. The trainers hated when he did that, but Ilya was the captain of a team that appeared to be collectively losing their minds, and that took precedent over running rules. 

His calves twinged painfully, and he ignored them as he tugged his headphones off to hang around his neck, and stepped off the treadmill. 

“What is happening?” He asked St Simon, who was holding his phone tight to his chest, his expression odd. “Someone has died?” 

Across the room he could see Marlow moving slowly upright from where he had been doing floor stretches, his phone in his hand as well, his face pinched. 

“It’s Hollander,” St Simon said. 

The bottom of Ilya’s stomach fell out, closely followed by the rest of Ilya’s organs. His chest hurt so acutely that he thought he must be having a heart attack. 

“Not dead,” St Simon added quickly, reaching out to grab Ilya’s shoulder when Ilya’s knees actually buckled. “Jesus, sorry. I should have - no it’s just -” 

“Knowing his room, he may well be dead,” someone - Ilya thought it was one of their new rooks, Jords - called out from one of the rowing machines.

Marlow, who was striding across the room towards Ilya and St Simon paused briefly to smack the back of his head. It was Jords.

None of this was useful information without any context. Ilya’s organs were back inside him, but they all seemed to be writhing. 

“Someone tell me what the fuck is going on,” Ilya snapped, “and everyone else shut up.” 

Marlow reached him now, held his phone out to Ilya, open already to an article with a headline huge enough Ilya could easily make out the HOLLANDER blaring out of it even before his eyes focused and he took the phone from Marlow. 

-----

TWO WEEKS EARLIER

---

FRIDAY

-----

Shane wouldn’t usually still be in the building so long after practice - not the day before a game, especially not one against Boston. His routine should have had him at home already, running plays through his head while he decompressed with a yoga routine in his lounge. He had been looking forward to the long shower he was planning to take after the routine, and the chance to think about a different sort of play he wanted to make after the game. 

It was still new, having Rozanov coming over after games - but not so new that Shane wasn’t reasonably certain he would be getting at least one orgasm wrung out of him after the game. 

Rozanov had texted him that morning; i am thinking i get hattrick on you tomorrow, and also that i will make 3 goals in game

Shane had, in spite of himself, been amused and felt almost fond about how quickly this stupid text had made him horny, and had replied as non-hornily as he could. 

I am thinking that you’re not going to score at all tomorrow if you keep talking shit.

Rozanov had replied with a laughing emoji, a crying emoji, a prayer hands emoji, and an eggplant emoji, and Shane had not deigned to reply to that.

Instead of being at home, stretching and looking forward to thinking about how Rozanov could stretch him, Shane was in the gear room. 

Comeau had asked if Shane could stay behind to talk after practice, after Comeau had seen the team physio, and Shane had agreed because he hadn’t expected it to take very long. And then their gear guy Rodney had been collecting all the shit Shane’s team just dropped carelessly everywhere, and Shane had told Rodney to go home and let him clear it up. Rodney had put up a bit of resistance, because as he said, it was literally his job, but Shane shrugged and said he wouldn’t tell if Rodney didn’t, and he was here, so he may as well, and eventually Rodney had thanked him and cleared out. 

So Shane had gathered up all the random gear and carted it to the gear room, and sorted it into what could be put straight away and what needed to be wiped down. If Comeau came back while Shane was still wiping shit down, he could join in. Repayment for making Shane stay this late. 

He was more than halfway finished when his phone buzzed with a text from Comeau; désolé capitaine - just got home. forgot we were going to talk. catch you tomorrow. 

He sure fucking would catch him tomorrow. Catch him and make him do bag skates. Except he wouldn’t, because he needed his whole team fresh for Boston, not wobble kneed like Comeau got for hours after bag skates. 

He texted back - okay. And only felt mildly bad about being so short with it. 

Which meant now he was just sitting in the fucking gear room cleaning gear for no reason. Well, at least Rodney got to go home a bit early, but Shane’s routine would be fucked. Maybe he could do a half yoga session. Or cut each pose down to half the time they were supposed to be held. That would probably make the poses less useful though, so it would probably be better to do a cut down version of the routine rather than a sped up version. He had already been running plays through his head while he cleaned, so at least he wasn’t completely off beat for tonight. 

He jumped when someone knocked on the door lintel to the gear room, and only just managed to bite down on his yelp of surprise. 

“Sorry,” the man in the door said, smiled at Shane and held his hands up in front of him, “I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

“It’s fine,” Shane said automatically. He was sitting on the floor with gear on his lap, and a rag in his hand. He squinted up at the man, but couldn’t place him. “Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met before? I’m Shane.”  He held his non rag hand up and out to the man to shake. 

“Oh, I know who you are,” the man said, stepping forward into the room to shake Shane’s hand. “Shane Hollander, captain of the Metros, yes, I think the knowledge is just beamed into the mind of anyone who steps into Montreal, let alone this place.” He braced his weight, and then pulled. 

Shane allowed himself to be heaved up to his feet, did most of the work himself, but noted the man’s strength. 

“You’re a player?” He asked, “Sorry, I didn’t know there would be -” 

“Yeah,” the guy said, and then shook his head. He was still holding Shane’s hand. He was kind of sweaty and Shane would really like him to let go before he had to pull away himself and look rude. “I mean, I am, but not at like. This level. Not yet. I would like to be, it’s just. Well - I actually came here wanting to talk to you.” 

Shane blinked at him, and the man finally released his hand. Shane forced himself not to immediately wipe it on his pants to dry it off. Smiled politely. “Oh?” He asked, “I - I’m not usually here so late, so you’re lucky.” 

“I am,” the guy nodded fervently. “I wanted to come earlier - I’m cousins with one of your guys actually, so he was going to let me in, but I got held up. Thought I would try my luck anyway, and it’s a good thing I did. Could we? Chat?” 

Shane would really like to say no. To point out that he was not officially supposed to be here right now, and maybe this guy could like, call the office and ask to make a meeting or something? And who was his cousin who didn’t even bring this up with Shane? He fucking hated surprises. But. He had to be here for a little while longer anyway, he couldn’t leave without cleaning and putting away everything, he couldn’t do Rodney dirty like that. 

“Okay, yeah,” Shane shook his head. “I was just - just helping out our team, so if you don’t mind me cleaning while we chat, I have about ten minutes I can spare.” God he hoped he could be on his way out in ten minutes. 

“Perfect,” the guy beamed. “This is way better than meeting in the locker room with the other guys, actually,” he continued, before Shane could sit down again. “It’s kind of - well - a sensitive matter.” 

Shane was not a fan of sensitive matters. “Oh.” 

“I heard some, uh, rumours,” the guy said, and he glanced over his shoulder as he did, before lowering his voice. “About you. And I was hoping they were true.” 

Fuck. Shane could guess what rumours there were about him. They were the same as they had always been. Most of them very unoriginal, even the ones where people thought he might be a literal robot. He’d had a rookie a couple of years ago ask him if he was waterproof or if his fuses would bust in the shower. Most of the rumours were about him somehow being here illegally, or, about his sexual preferences. He hoped that this guy was going to ask him if it was true he was asexual, or if he reproduced via mitosis or something. 

He said nothing. This did not deter the man, who was honestly standing a little too close to him. 

“I’m gay,” the man said, “and I don’t really tell people that because it’s not really accepted in locker rooms, right? But I thought, if the captain was gay, that would make for a safer room.”

Sometimes Shane felt very guilty about this. About how he was definitely…not just straight, and yet allowed so much homophobia from his team. He often thought that if he were fully straight, he would try to be more vocal about it, be an ally. That kind of thing. Shut down the outright slurs at the very least. Because the first thing anyone replied when you shut down the anti-gay talk was an accusation of you being gay. It wouldn’t hit Shane as hard if it wasn’t true, and he knew he didn’t have a good poker face. It would hit him hard, and everyone would see it hit him hard and know that he was in fact some type of gay. It wasn’t safe. 

That’s what he told himself. 

“Oh,” Shane said. Cleared his throat. He couldn’t look this man in the face. Hoped it didn’t come off as homophobic, like he hated gay people so much he couldn’t even look at them. “I - that’s a brave thing for you to say,” he said slowly. “And I think, yeah, if a captain was an out gay man, the locker room would probably be safer for other gay guys.” 

“Right,” the guy said. “So, like, you’re saying it’s not safe here because you’re not out?” 

“I’m not,” Shane hesitated, shut his eyes. He didn’t know what to say, here, how to deny this. How to come away clean. How not to betray himself more than he did every day. “Does your cousin know? About you?” 

“Yeah,” the guy shrugged. “He’s chill with it. Hey, cap, you can say it here, y’know? One gay guy to another.” 

Who was this guy’s cousin? He looked kind of familiar, but like, also very bland. He could be half the teams’ cousin and it would make sense. 

“I can’t say I’m gay,” Shane said eventually, kept his eyes averted even as he heard the guy suck in a sharp breath. “I don’t know what - look. I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m really -” 

He wasn’t expecting the hand on his face, warm and firm as it cupped his cheek, and he especially was not expecting the kiss that landed right after. It wasn’t a bad kiss, all things considered, but Shane very much did not want it. He didn’t even know this guys name. What was this guy fucking doing? Did he know how much trouble he could have been in if he had done this to some other guy? He could get fucking punched for this. More than punched. 

He pulled back as quickly as he could without coming across as cruel, pushed his hand against the guy’s chest to hold him back, glanced around the room. “Sorry,” he said, “I think you’ve got the wrong end of the- oh, fu-” 

He tried to step further away from the guy as another man stepped into the room, tried to make the scene look less… gay, but the first guy gripped the front of his shirt and stopped him.

Shane wasn’t frightened yet, just anxious about how this looked, and pissed off for the way his evening was unfolding. 

“Hey,” he said, “let me go.” 

“You got it, right?” The guy who was not letting Shane go, directed over his shoulder to the new man. He didn’t fully turn to look, just jutted his chin in his direction, kept his eyes on Shane. 

The new man nodded, said; “Sure did.” He was holding his phone up, almost like he was filming, and then he reached behind himself and closed the gear room door. 

“What the fuck is going on?” Shane asked. The room was too small for three grown men - especially ones who were all built for hockey, the new man was bigger than the first - and the air around them was tight and smelly. “Who are you two?” 

“Come on, sweetie,” the new man said, his voice saccharine, “you could at least look happy to see the guys who are gonna fuck your brains out.” 

Shane’s brain was not computing this properly. Everything that was happening was so out of the norm. This kind of thing didn’t happen to him. When he was off ice he didn’t need to be on the look out for threats. He wondered if there was anyone still in this end of the building who would hear if he yelled. He shook his head.

---

They turned the light out when they left, like a final joke, a final kick. It was better, honestly, in the dark. The white glare of the strip lighting had been burning into his eyes when they’d pushed him onto his back near the end, and the dark was like a salve. Made it easier to catalogue the rest of his body when the front of his head wasn’t throbbing so viciously. The back of his head ached. They’d pushed him up hard against the door near the beginning, in his thwarted attempt at an escape, and smacked his head back on it until he’d stopped resisting, because he couldn’t afford a concussion, not now, not at this point in the season. 

He didn’t think he was concussed, but he couldn’t be sure, because he didn’t know if the untethered feeling in his head was his mind trying to escape his body, or just a result of being hit hard. 

He should be… relieved they came prepared. With condoms. Because there was a lot less mess on him than there could be, and he was pretty sure that he would be coping a lot worse if he was covered in more of their fluids. The spit was already too much, making his skin feel too small and itchy. He would still have to go get an STD check, to be safe, but he ought to be okay. He was bruised - mostly on his arms - from where they held him down, but those were small hurts in the grand scheme of things. He could feel the ache of the bruises blooming, but he’d had worse from practices. 

The worst pain - asides from the one in his chest, which he was ignoring for now because it was too familiar to warrant attention - was his ass. He had a, not new, but newer respect and thankfulness that Rozanov had taken so much time and care with fucking Shane for the first time. Care enough that the worst Shane had ever felt was on his own, not using quite enough lube on his dildo. They fucked harder now, but it had never been… like this. He almost wanted to text Rozanov something stupid like, your cock was bigger than both of theirs, or, help me, or, thank god for lube, huh? 

He obviously did not text Rozanov at all. Did not text anyone. 

He waited until his chest hurt a little less, and then he pulled his trousers on with the light still off, and went to the bathroom. 

He cleaned up the best he could - mostly just wiping away the blood and spit, and shoving toilet paper into his underwear to make the world’s most uncomfortable pad so he wouldn’t ruin his pants. He washed his face, combed his hair out of his eyes with wet fingers. Checked the back of his head wasn’t bleeding. Then he went back to the gear room and turned on the light so he could see the damage. 

Some of the equipment had been knocked over, but most of it had managed to stay upright in the struggle. There was blood on the floor, but not much. He grabbed a fresh cleaning rag, the cleaning spray, and got to work cleaning it up. 

-----

SATURDAY

-----

Ilya texted Hollander when the Bears finished checking in to their hotel. 

i am in your city, when can i be in your hole??

He hadn’t gotten a reply yet, but Hollander was often squirrelly on game days. Ilya could imagine him reading the text with a bright red, angry face. That was part of the fun of it, getting Hollander mad, because it wasn’t real, true anger, it was just him getting horny and malfunctioning, and then when Ilya got his hands on him later, he would be all beautifully pissy and demanding and then cave so pretty once Ilya kissed him enough. Not that he would ever say any of this to Hollander or anyone else. 

He thought nothing more of it - except to occasionally imagine Hollander’s furious face moments before sinking down to suck Ilya off like he was born for it - until they arrived at the rink for warm ups, and coach gave them the run down of the play tonight. And Shane Hollander was on IR. Which was not how the Boston vs Montreal games were meant to go at all. Especially because Ilya knew that Hollander wouldn’t go on IR unless he had to - he had seen Hollander get on the ice with injuries that would have sent rookies home to their mamas. 

He texted Hollander again while they got ready in the visitor’s locker room. They had first ice time, and usually when that happened he would stay on the ice as the Metros came on, just so he could get an extra chirp in for Hollander. Infuriating to miss out on. 

you are dying??? or is it that you want your team to die tonight? ;))) 

He had a reply waiting for him when he got back to the room, first in for once seeing as he hadn’t dawdled for Hollander related reasons. 

Throwing up. They’ll still beat you.

Fuck! A throwing up Hollander was unlikely to still want a hook up. A Hollander with a sprained ankle would probably have been persuadable, but this? Dreadful. 

i think captain hollander is just wanting break from being on losing team

maybe after i beat your team i come bring you a win and you pause throwing up for a bit

It was pathetic, the way he was texting right now. He shouldn’t be acting as if he was eager enough for sex with Hollander to risk getting thrown up on. Even if he maybe was. Not that he wanted to get thrown up on, but it wouldn’t be the worst thing. And he could like, give Hollander a reach around or something, so he wouldn’t be in the firing line. He would even be happy to just go over and like, jerk off next to him. Or watch tv with him. He could ask the team medic for those ant like norshas. Ant I Nor Jas. Stop feeling sick medicines. The chewy ones because Hollander liked chewing things. And they tasted like strawberries. 

Shane texted him back.

Throwing up is not an at command type of thing.

Surely if anyone could master the art of simply telling your stomach bug you were done now, it would be Hollander. He was very good at self discipline, except for when it came to sex with Ilya. That was something that made him unreasonably happy, that he could be so… alluring (he loved this word) that Shane ‘I hate joy’ Hollander would break all his monk celibacy vows for Ilya’s cock. He replied, his fingers moving faster than his brain. 

you are such slut for my cock i bet you could stop throwing up for it

It wasn’t the dirtiest thing he’d sent Hollander, nor was it the grossest. Hollander usually replied to texts like these with the thumbs down emoji, or by not replying. So Ilya was not expecting to receive the series of texts he got five minutes afterwards, while he was trying to persuade Marlow to make a bet on how many Metros they could knock down in a row. (Marly thought he could get four, easy, but Ilya didn’t think Marly’d make it past two before he got knocked down. Ilya on the other hand was certain he could knock down three, because he’d get them all lined up and get them in one sweep, and Marly told him he was full of shit.)

We can’t do this anymore.

Sorry. Have a good game. 

I’m going to block you, because I think that’ll be easier for both of us. 

Goodbye, Lily. 

What the fuck. He said it out loud when it didn’t make him feel at all better in his head. Then he yelled it, and Marly jumped. 

“What the fuck, man,” he said, grabbing his chest with one hand and reaching to shove Ilya with the other. “What the fuck was that for?” 

“Nothing,” Ilya growled. Stared at his phone screen like that would change the messages. He thumbed out a quick series of; ??????? and sent it as an experiment, and then near immediately received the notification that his message could not be delivered. “Fuck!” 

“Jesus,” Marly groaned, stood up from his cubby, and came and shoved his huge ass down next to Ilya’s. There was not enough room. The Metros’ visitor cubbies had obviously been made small to throw opposing teams off. He slung his arm over Ilya’s shoulders, and looked down at Ilya’s phone, which Ilya had turned the screen off as quickly as possible. “Jane problems?” 

“No,” Ilya snapped, “because Jane problems means Jane is thing that could be problem and she never was.” 

“Ah,” Marly said, squeezed his arm tighter around Ilya. “She call it off, buddy?” 

“Fuck off,” Ilya was aware he sounded whiny. He wanted to tuck his head in against Marly’s shoulder, but that would be far too much. “Why would anyone call off anything with me? Have you seen me, Marly? I know you have seen my god like body. I am like, how is it, carved of marbles?” 

---

No Captain Shane Hollander meant that Ilya had to face off against fucking Pike, which Ilya always disliked, because Pike’s intimidating expression was annoying. Tonight he still disliked it, but at least it gave him a moment to speak without anyone else hearing. At least until the ref made his way over with the puck. 

“Your captain playing hooky?” He asked, when Pike skated up to the mark. “I thought he was too good boy to do that.” 

“He’s sick,” Pike said shortly, dropping into position, and staring at the mark rather than at Ilya. Said nothing more. 

“That is what he says, huh?” Ilya narrowed his eyes at Pike, despite Pike being boring and looking at ice. “Really he is probably so bored and tired of playing with terrible players, like you.”

“Fuck you,” Pike snapped, his head lifting so he could glare ineffectively at Ilya. Ah, he was so easy. “I was literally at his house hearing him throw up, he’s sick as fuck.” 

Well, at least that was confirmation, not that Ilya really needed it. Although maybe Hollander, if he was sick as fuck, was so sick he was feverish and didn’t know what he was doing. Maybe when he got better he would unblock Ilya and say they would make up for it next month in Boston. 

“No defence for yourself?” Ilya asked, grinned sharklike at Pike. “You know you are terrible player?” 

“Fuck you,” Pike repeated, “I’m a better player than half your team.” 

That was funny. Ilya laughed. Luckily for Pike, the ref skated over to them, so he kept his chirps for later. 

He would wait a few days for Hollander to feel better, and then he would text him again if Hollander hadn’t already texted. 

-----

Shane couldn’t decide if it was a stroke of luck, a symptom of what had happened, or bad luck that he had begun throwing up. It meant that he had an on hand excuse for getting out of the game tonight, from coming to the arena at all. It meant he didn’t need to go in to the team medic to be checked out, because everyone assumed it was one of those twenty-four hour bugs, and what was the point in coming in just to throw up on someone else. It was also a good way to dissuade himself and Rozanov from coming over after the game. 

There was no way Rozanov would risk being thrown up on just for a handy - which was all Shane would have been able to handle tonight, if anything. And there was no way Shane could have Rozanov here without Rozanov being able to tell something had happened. 

Especially if he got Shane’s pants off, which wouldn’t have been happening tonight, but sometimes Shane felt like his brain stopped working properly around Rozanov. Like he got so horny he threw everything sensible out the window. 

Stupid. 

He was currently so un-horny that even Rozanov’s horndog texts had only made him feel a little revolted with both of them, rather than a little revolted with both of them and a lot horny like they usually did. 

He just had to make it through the next few days with as few people as possible seeing him before the most obvious bruises cleared up a bit more, and then he could be normal again. They didn’t have skate tomorrow, and the next day was optional, and Shane never skipped optional but maybe he could just this once, and then after that he would look okay again. He’d checked himself out as thoroughly as possible in his mirror when he’d woken up that morning, in between bouts of throwing up, and decided that any… downstairs injuries were puck shaped enough, or inside enough that he could still change in the locker room without anyone noticing. 

---

He’d thrown his entire routine out when he left the arena yesterday evening. Had finished cleaning up the gear room, putting away gear, and then driven to a sexual health clinic an hour away so he was less likely to be properly noticed. He’d even pulled on a non-Metros branded hoodie to hide in. He’d gone in, and he’d been hoping that everything would be chill and normal, and cool, and instead the receptionist had looked at him, and then asked if he would come into another waiting room with her. 

He had thought he’d been recognised, but when she’d gotten him into the other room and shut the door, she had told him that they did rape kits, and had services available for domestic abuse help, and other things. She had said it all in much nicer words, and in a very kind way, and he had been unable to say anything except for thank you. She told him someone would be with him soon, and to help himself to the hot drinks, or the water, or the snacks, and then she left. 

He couldn’t remember if he’d seen anyone in the parking lot on his way to the car, or while he was walking in to the clinic. Did he look so immediately like a rape victim that anyone could just see it on him? How obvious was he? He needed to lock it down. He needed to get a hold of himself. 

When the doctor came in, it was another woman, who introduced herself and asked if Shane was comfortable with a female doctor or if he’d prefer a male one, and Shane had shrugged and said it didn’t matter, and she had asked him questions which he was pretty sure he had answered, but he couldn’t recall now what any of those questions or answers had been. Except for the one when she asked if he wanted help pressing charges, or going to the police station, and he had said no. 

Because what the fuck would the police do. What could anyone do? Shane had no idea who the men were. He doubted they were telling the truth about being a team member’s cousin. He hadn’t looked at their faces properly, even in the middle of it when he was telling himself he ought to because that was what you did, so you could report it after. And you should scratch them to get DNA. And he hadn’t done that either, because they’d held him down, and anyway his nails were always bitten too short to collect DNA. 

If he went to the police he would have no evidence, no proof, no clues to give them. And maybe it would get leaked, and people would know what had happened, and they would know what Shane was, and he would be kicked off the Metros, and he would never play hockey again, and his mum had worked so hard for him to be where he was and would be sad if he threw that all away, so no one could ever know. It was bad enough that the receptionist and the doctor thought they knew. Bad enough that the doctor had to talk him down from a panic attack twice. Bad enough that they had let him give a fake name that they all knew was fake because the receptionist winced at it. Bad enough that they had given him pamphlets to encourage him to go tell the police, or to tell his family and friends for support. Medication to take just in case, until all his labs came in, and medication to apply to the bloodied ripped open bits of him, and medication to take if he started to have a panic attack again. 

If he could have gotten away with it, he wouldn’t have gone to the clinic at all. But he knew he couldn’t live not knowing if they’d given him something. He could barely share a water bottle with his closest friends (the water bottle incident with Rozanov was something that horny Shane had done to normal Shane that normal Shane was still pissed off about), without feeling disgusting, let alone everything that had happened in the gear room. 

---

He had been throwing up on and off since he’d woken up in the morning, which was not great for taking medication, but he was trying. Texted his coach to let him know he was throwing up, and then had to answer his coach’s phone call from the bathroom as he gagged between words which persuaded his coach he was definitely too sick to come in. He hadn’t texted Hayden, but he guessed their coach had, to let him know he’d have to step up as captain for the game, and Hayden texted Shane asking if he needed anything, and Shane had said no. 

Hayden had turned up about an hour before warm ups started, with a pack of Canada Dry Ginger Ale, and the anti-nausea medication that Shane preferred, and a card from Ruby and Jade that had a piece of macaroni glued to the front of it. 

He’d stood and gagged outside Shane’s bathroom door while Shane threw up again, but had stayed there, outside the door, talking to Shane before he’d had to go again. Shane was thankful he’d given the Pike’s an emergency key, because it meant Hayden had never had to see Shane. 

He appreciated the care. Appreciated the anti-nausea pills as well, especially when they made him feel about twenty percent better immediately. 

And then Rozanov had started to text him, and Shane wished horny Shane was available, because all he was right now was fucked up Shane, and he didn’t know how to text Rozanov at the best of times without coming off as needy or weird. And then Rozanov had pointed out that Shane was a slut for cock. Which would have maybe been fine if horny Shane was at the helm, but he wasn’t, and. 

And the problem was was that Shane was a slut for cock. And apparently it was so obvious that two men he’d never met before had… smelled it on him or something. And he couldn’t remember the whole thing properly, it was like snapshots and physical memories, and what if he hadn’t even said no to them? What if he was such a slut for cock that there was a part of him that had wanted what had happened, and he already knew he had failed the very first basic steps of being a victim. He hadn’t looked at them, he hadn’t fought back enough, he didn’t know if he said no. If he was put in front of a judge right now and asked to swear that he said he didn’t want it, he wouldn’t be able to. Just because he knew he didn’t want it now wasn’t good enough. 

Some part of him made people think he wanted it. Rozanov had been able to see it, years ago, back when they were both seventeen and Shane hadn’t even known he’d wanted it. And Rozanov had been right, and had continued to be right. Just because these men hadn’t been right didn’t mean it wasn’t obvious to everyone else who Shane was. 

He needed to not be who he was. He needed to not be so obvious. He needed to be in control. 

It wasn’t a break up text, because Rozanov would have been the first to say they were nothing - had in fact said that - but it was something. Shane took one of the pills he’d been given for the panic attacks, and he blocked Rozanov, and he went to bed without watching the game. 

-----

MONDAY

-----

Hollander did not text him. He also skipped the Metro’s optional practice two days after their game, which Ilya only knew because someone else was talking about it, not because he’d looked it up. It was stupid that an entire article had been written about Hollander skipping one optional skate, really, just because he hadn’t before, didn’t mean it was worth a thousand fucking words, Sarah F. Duke, hockey journalist. He hadn’t looked it up, it had just been in his sports news’ alerts, which he had because he was a serious athlete. And he wouldn’t have looked if he hadn’t heard Connors mention it. 

---

TUESDAY

---

Hollander also did not text him the next day, and he had not unblocked Ilya, which Ilya found out by sending a text that was as much of the Bee Movie script as he could copy and paste into messages, only to have it marked as undelivered. 

Carmichael was the one to mention Hollander that day, though Ilya had already seen Sarah F. Duke’s latest article, in which she pointed out that ‘the brief illness Hollander had caught must have really taken it out of him, poor guy,’ because he had hollows under his eyes, and his jaw looked almost bruised. She didn’t, however, mention what Ilya noted in the brief video of the Metro’s practice, that Hollander was also moving stiffly, and his edges were rough, and his face looked like someone had just told him that all the dogs in the world had died. 

And Ilya was happy to admit that he had a big ego, but he didn’t think this was due to not getting laid the other night. Something had happened, and Ilya couldn’t even message Hollander to bug him about it because he was still fucking blocked. Stupid. He got Carmy to come box with him, and did not think about Hollander at all. 

---

FRIDAY

---

Especially did not think about Hollander when he sat down six days after the game in Montreal to watch Montreal Vs Toronto, which he was doing because he was a good captain and studied the games of their opponents. And watched as Toronto fucking slaughtered Montreal like the Metros were a fucking junior team on the wrong rink. And yeah, sometimes the Metros were sloppy, not connecting as well as a team of their calibre ought to, but usually Hollander held it together. It was one of his magic tricks - being in all the gaps the rest of his team left. It looked like he was out of magic tonight. He was still skating stiffly, though more like himself than before, but he was also… not skittish. Something. He was going after the puck and then not connecting. He was pulling away from skirmishes like he was allergic to them. And his team was worse. Sending passes to players that weren’t there, losing simple puck to tape catches, fumbling turns and falling. He could have sworn that one of them had skated into Hollander on purpose at one point, knocking the both of them down. 

Fucking embarassing. He sent five texts to Hollander, none of which were delivered, and then went and kicked the rubbish bin in his garage. 

---

SUNDAY

---

Montreal’s next game was another home game, which was usually a good thing for those on home ice, but somehow it looked like Hollander was playing worse than he had in Toronto, which ought to be impossible. Ilya watched the game on his tablet on the flight to the Bear’s next game, Marly watching over his shoulder. 

“Oof,” Marlow grunted, about halfway through, “what the fuck is up with Hollander?” 

Ilya grunted. 

“Seriously,” Marlow added, reached over to stab at the screen where Hollander had just fumbled a shot on goal so badly that even the goalie looked surprised. “Is this some kind of like, alien body snatching situation? Who the fuck even is that?” 

“He was sick.”

“Yeah, last week,” Marlow huffed, “if I was playing like that, you’d take me out back and shoot me, Roz.” 

“I would,” Ilya agreed, “because you’re a mediocre player on your best day.” 

Marlow shoved him, but laughed. “Right, okay,” he said, “so you’re saying for someone as amazing as Hollander they should call in the fancy vet and spend millions to fix him up?” 

“Yes, obviously,” Ilya snapped. “They should be. Why is he in game? There is obviously something wrong, Marlow. Maybe he had fever and boiled his brain? They need to give his brain ice bath. They need to take him to private hospital and put him in machine that says what is wrong. This is player cruelty.” 

Marlow laughed a little again, which Ilya needed, because if he got too serious about this he was going to start throwing things. But seriously, was no one else watching this? Was it just him and Sarah F. Duke watching Shane act like he was concussed while everyone around him just watched? 

“Surely he’s been cleared to play,” Marlow said, his voice a little more sincere. He elbowed Ilya. “He’s their version of you. They’ll be looking after him.” 

“Right, sure. Fuck!” Ilya’s grip on his tablet tightened so hard that he heard the metal crunch slightly and still couldn’t bring himself to loosen it. A metro - Ilya couldn’t make it out on the small screen - had just highsticked his own fucking captain. “What the fuck, that is - the fuck - I am not - you are seeing this cock yes?” 

Marlow stared at the game on the tablet, then at Ilya. “Okay, something is fucking wrong in the land of the Metros,” he said, unbuckled himself, and hoisted himself upright using the chair in front of them. Connors complained, Marlow ignored it. “Hey coach,” he yelled down the aisle, “have you seen the fucking Metro’s homegame?” 

---

what the fuck wsas that hollander

!Message Not Delivered!

your team is tryiung to kill you

!Message Not Delivered!

what is going on

!Message Not Delivered!

you need help? yes? bears come and save you? 

!Message Not Delivered!

fuck fuyck fuck fuck fuck blyat chert fuck hollander!

!Message Not Delivered!

---

When Ilya asked, the coaches had nothing to say about Hollander. Nothing that wasn’t public knowledge anyway. He was playing like shit. He had been sick. Obviously there was some tension in his team right now.

---

TUESDAY

---

Whatever it was, it appeared to be gone by the next game. Which was good, because if it hadn’t, Ilya had been going to do something fucking stupid and fly out to wherever Hollander would be next and demand answers to what the fuck was going on. 

Which would have been stupid of him, especially with Hollander having blocked him and obviously not wanting anything to do with him. 

And also good because now maybe people could talk about anything other than Hollander. He was sick of hearing about Hollander. 

The Metros managed to scrape out a win, and Hollander scored two of the goals and assisted with the third. He was moving almost like normal again now, except he was still flinching, even as he continued to skate through the skirmishes and hits. Like he’d gotten the yips and was working through them. Except Hollander did not get the fucking yips. And highsticking your captain should never fucking happen. He knew it was Comeau who had done it, now, had gone to rewatch once he was off the plane. Had read the articles about it. Watched the stilted media appearance after the game in which Hollander said it was an accident and everything was fine. These things happen. He read tweets about Comeau being more closely genetically related to a rock than a human and had to stop himself from liking it. He probably could have liked it, but it felt too revealing. 

Sarah F. Duke fell out of Ilya’s begrudging good graces when she posted her next article in which she seemed certain that everything was fine again, and whatever was wrong had obviously been fully resolved. Sarah F. Duke and everyone else who thought the same were blind and stupid. 

---

THURSDAY

---

Even as the Metros continued on to win the next two back to back games, and Hollander continued to score goals, something was fucking wrong. He was used to seeing people call Hollander a hockey robot, and he had never agreed. Hollander played like a hockey demon, fluid and nasty. Right now though, even as he was winning, Hollander was a hockey robot, and it was wrong. 

---

FRIDAY

---

He sent Hollander another text that brought back the !Message Not Delivered! Notification that he had begun to hate like it had insulted his mama, and then climbed onto the treadmill, resolving that he would figure the fuck out of this. He just had to wait until Montreal came to Boston and then he would… he wasn’t sure. Invade the visitor’s locking room? Kidnap Hollander? Stalk him back to his hotel room? Maybe kidnap Pike and demand he do better, because wasn’t he supposed to be Shane’s best friend? Look after him. Fuck! 

He put his headphones on, turned them up as loud as he could before it started to hurt, and began running. 

Chapter 2

-----

FRIDAY

-----

The Metros were boarding their flight when the video was released, and were mid-flight when it became news. 

Shane was never on his phone during flights, because he liked to use the time to nap and to plan. Occasionally he sat with the coaches to talk game play, but only before big games, and tomorrow’s game wasn’t set to be particularly difficult. Not that Shane wouldn’t be giving it his all anyway, he just didn’t need to be extra prepared. Which meant that this flight was supposed to be a nap. 

It hadn’t been a nap at all by the time people’s phones started buzzing with a million notifications. He had been sitting there with his eyes closed, his head phones on and turned off just to deter people. He wanted to nap, because he had been sleeping badly, and he knew he needed sleep. 

Instead of sleeping he had been replaying the previous week like someone had attached tape to his inner eyelids. He had played so badly that it made him literally nauseated to think about. He had been, therefore, nearly constantly nauseous for the last two weeks. He’d been basically living off the chewable anti-nausea meds that Hayden had brought him. 

His body kept betraying him. Over and over. 

He had spent so much of his life training and pushing himself and carving himself to be the best. To be able to ask his body to do something and have it just do it. He had set himself on a diet that made him a nuisance to be around and meant he only allowed himself his favourite food once a year, and in return his body worked exactly how he wanted it to. 

He had made himself force so many feelings inside so he could walk into locker rooms, and arenas, and media rooms with confidence and smile. Had pushed down anything in him that wouldn’t fit the image of him that everyone wanted. 

And all it took was one slip up. One time of giving in to what he wanted rather than what he should be doing. 

Not really one time. Multiple times with one person. One vice he had allowed himself. And that vice had curled its way around his skeleton and burst out of him and betrayed him and now everything else was falling apart. 

He couldn’t sleep. He was nauseous all the time. He’d skated like he was actively dying, for several days on ice, even when his physical injuries weren’t even very painful. He couldn’t make his brain shut up. It kept going, and going, and going.

Here is everything you gave up for control. Here it is. Here is how it hurt and hurt and hurt. Here is how none of it matters. Here is how you lose everything. Here you are tripping over nothing, here you are fumbling a goal, here you are letting down everyone, here you are getting fucked in the gear room, here you are getting a stick to the face, here you are as a coward, as a fag, as a failure. 

---

Hayden was sitting next to him, in the aisle seat. He always said he preferred the aisle, and Shane mostly believed him, because if he really wanted to sit by the window, there were some free rows he could be sitting in. But Hayden sat next to him on almost all their trips, had since Shane had joined. Like a travel buddy, find your partner, hold hands. Not that Hayden held his hand, though he had been clingier than usual the last couple of weeks. Which was fair, because Shane had been an insane mess the last couple of weeks, and Hayden kept looking at him like he was waiting for Shane to tell him that he was dying or something. 

The buzzing of phone notifications, and then the louder buzzing of team members whispering to each other, had been going on for a good few minutes before Hayden jolted in his seat like he’d been stung, and then he shook Shane’s shoulder. 

Shane hadn’t been asleep, and Hayden knew that, so he didn’t pretend. “What’s happened?” He asked, not opening his eyes, keeping his voice low. “Someone get traded?” 

“Shane, fuck,” Hayden hissed, and he sounded panicked in a way Shane hadn’t heard since he’d gotten the call from the hospital when Jacki was bleeding out after the twins. He had hoped he would never hear that voice again. “Fuck, I think - fuck it’s everywhere.” 

Shane ducked his head down to look at Hayden’s phone as he lifted it towards him, saw his own name, saw the words SEX TAPE and GAY. Saw the video thumbnail. 

-----

“No one fucking watches,” Ilya snarled, his fingers painful around Marlow’s phone. He kept staring at the article. This wasn’t one by Sarah F. Duke. He was going to find out who wrote this article and then fucking kill them dead. 

DISGRACED METROS CAPTAIN SHANE HOLLANDER SHOWS TRUE COLOURS IN LEAKED SEX TAPE

He hadn’t managed to scroll down further than the headline yet, scared of what he would see. Was trying to remember every time he and Hollander had had sex, if there was any way they could have been seen, filmed. He didn’t think so, but what the fuck did he know? It couldn’t be with him, though, could it, or he would be in the headline as well. 

“Do you fucking hear me?” He said into the silent room. He finally tore his eyes away from Marlow’s phone and stared around at his team. Faces that looked varying shades of horrified, of guilty, grimaces, and shock. “Fuck!” He yelled. “Who has already seen?” He knew he was too angry, knew he was boiling over and could not stop it. He pointed at Mathews because Mathews always showed everything on his face and he looked like a painting of guilt. “You watched?” 

“I - fuck, I didn’t mean to,” Mathews blurted out. “It autoplayed! I was just watching random videos and I scrolled down and it started playing. I didn’t know what it was until I saw - fuck - I didn’t fucking know.” 

As the captain of this team Ilya should not be considering burning the gym down with all of them inside of it, but murder suicide seemed one of his more sensible options in that moment. 

“It’s everywhere, cap,” St Simon said, then. Cleared his throat. “I - like, I saw it on twitter. The video. And it was on insta, too. There’s - it looks like it was dropped a couple of hours ago. That’s the oldest video of it I’ve seen, so far.” 

“Media ban,” Marlow said loudly, stepping up beside Ilya and clapping his hand on his shoulder. “I won’t take your phones yet, unless someone does something stupid and posts about this. No one watches the video. No one posts about it. Don’t even fucking message people about it, we don’t want any leaks until we can talk to management and figure out what the fuck is happening.” 

“Oh c’mon,” Lakers groaned, calling over from by the weights. “What the fuck is the problem, here? He made a sex tape, it got leaked. Shit happens. He’s a big boy - I saw it - he can handle it, and - woah! Fuck -” 

Marlow had managed to grab Ilya as he lunged, but was also dragged a couple of steps towards Lakers before he managed to ground the both of them, Connors coming up on Ilya’s other side to grab his arm. Ilya was yelling something, he wasn’t sure what. It was at least in Russian, so whatever shit he was screaming would be nonsensical to them. The whole room was a mess of noise, everyone talking and no one listening.

“Fuck, fucking hell, Rozy,” Marlow grunted in his ear. “Come on. We’re going. Fucking heel, man!” 

Ilya managed to make his mouth shut up. He had dropped Marlow’s phone when he lunged, and his hands tangled in the fabric of Marlow’s and Connors’ work out singlets, gripping tightly to force himself still. Hollander would fucking hate it if he knew how Ilya was acting. He was being too obvious. He was too angry. This was not normal behaviour. 

His brain kept running a million miles an hour, throwing hurried and horrid thoughts at him, making him breathless with it. Got himself together enough to make his mouth do stupid English. 

“You did not hear Jords witty comment?” He spat, directing this to Lakers before turning his head to glare out at the rest of the room. “You have no thought in your brains? You think this is safe thing for Hollander? Is not ha ha, is real fucking danger. You make joke of this and I smash faces in.” 

“Okay, okay,” Connors said, gripped Ilya’s shoulder tight, and then moved to grip the back of his neck and squeezed. “Let’s go, man. It’s not funny, we know.” 

---

Somehow they ended up in one of the offices downstairs. Ilya didn’t really remember how, but they did, and St Simon and Carmy had followed them in, which Ilya also hadn’t noticed until they were all sitting down around the table. It was one of the open offices, to be booked for team meetings and break out spaces and whatever. Ilya had booked it once to have a nap. 

“You done freaking out, Roz?” Marly asked. 

Ilya was holding his water bottle. He was pretty sure he’d just drank from it. “I do not freak out,” he said. His voice felt painfully brittle. His heart was still beating hard enough he could feel it in his toes. “I do not do this.” 

“Okay,” Connors nodded, “sure. Just - fuck, man.” 

“LeClaire’ll be here in about ten,” St Simon said then, he was still holding his phone, tapping at it quickly. “Team wide media lock down,” he added, “PR and HR are already on it.” 

Ilya should probably have been more a part of all of this. He was the one with the C. He shook his head. He wanted to ask them if they had seen the video. If they saw who was with Hollander in it. If Hollander had looked as into it as he did with Ilya. He couldn’t ask them that. He couldn’t ask them anything about it. He needed to call Hollander. He could not call Hollander. Because Hollander had blocked him. Was it about this? Somehow? 

“I have to piss,” he mumbled. Marly stared at him, eyebrows raised. “My bladder is supposed to pick better time?” He snapped in response. “I put body on hold until we all know how to react to fucked up news?” 

“Jesus,” Marlow groaned, “fucking go piss, and then get back here. I mean it, Roz.” 

---

Locked in the single room bathroom two hallways down from the office room, Ilya hated himself and did it anyway. Because even if no one else had clocked it being Ilya yet didn’t mean it wasn’t him. And if it was him, it was only a matter of time before someone recognised his cock, or his stomach, or something. He had seen the blogs and posts about himself - compilations of all the half naked photos he posted to his instagram stories, or page. His magazine shoots. He had seen a post from someone claiming they could recognise him from his bellybutton alone. Which must surely be a lie, but maybe not.

His phone screen was fucked with notification banners. All his little apps had numbers on them. Hollander hated it when he saw Ilya’s phone screen, hated the way Ilya left notifications and numbers on apps and all his apps loose and covering the screen. Said it was messy and didn’t make sense. Inefficient. Ilya checked his messages with Jane, just in case. There was nothing, obviously.

Hollander would hate him for this, but probably not as much as Ilya would, so that likely evened it out. 

He didn’t even need to search. He opened reddit and it was on the front page. The video. It was a black thumbnail. He still had his headphones around his neck, and he pulled them back onto his ears, checked they were connected to his phone, and pressed play. 

The audio started immediately, the edge of it sharp and awkward, the voice intimately familiar to Ilya. And probably to thousands of other people. 

Shane Hollander, out of shot, his words clear and audible; “-I’m gay-” and then the audio was just rustling, muffled noises. The view had been of a dim hallway, and then it was moving, bumpy, and turning a corner to see Shane Hollander and another man framed in the doorway of an equipment room. Kissing. The kiss ended, and Hollander’s hand pressed to the other man’s chest. The video cuts and there was Hollander’s back, his shirt rucked all the way up, and his ass, the pants pulled down his thighs. And this man with his hands on him, this man who is not Ilya and everything about it was off and bad and wrong. 

He should turn the video off. Because now he knew it was not him. He should not do what he had told everyone else not to do. This pervert thing. He knew Hollander would be in a spiral right now. His breath would be not working. If he could see Ilya doing this he would be mad for real, not fun mad. Not make it okay with a kiss mad. 

He was going to exit out. Was going to close his phone. Was going to not kill anyone until he knew more about how it was leaked. Except then Hollander’s back was not right. That was not how his shoulders should be. That was not the way his hips moved.

He brought the video back to the beginning. Watched the kiss in which Hollander did not kiss the man who was kissing him, and his body did not look like how his body looked when he got kissed. 

There had been no more audio after the not kiss. When the video had cut from kiss to Hollander on the floor the audio had cut with it and not returned. And if it was Ilya making a sex tape with Hollander, he would rather cut off his own feet than the sound, because Hollander always made such good noises. Good noises when he was enjoying himself. When his body looked right. 

He watched the whole video, becoming more certain with every fucking frame. All the jerky cuts of the video. The two sets of hands holding Hollander down. White knuckled. Both of the men moving too fast. The way Hollander’s face looked in the last shot. Smeared with come, but with his jaw so rigid it made Ilya’s hurt just to see it. His eyes were wrong. His lip split. Not once had Hollander reached out to touch. 

When Ilya killed the men in the video he would probably be sent to prison in Russia, but it would be worth it. Maybe eventually Hollander would forgive him and send him letters. Ilya could write the next great Russian novel and then get shanked because he would sneak gay sex into it.  

He came out of the bathroom and Marly was leaning against the wall by the door. He put his hand on Ilya’s shoulder like he was already under arrest.  

“Jesus fuck, Marly,” Ilya snapped, “I am not child. I can piss by myself. Fuck off.” 

“You weren’t pissing,” Marlow said, “you were watching the video.” 

Ilya should deny it. It was already a brick of acid in his gut. He trusted Marlow to know he had not watched it because he had wanted to. Didn’t know how to explain why he had watched it, and had to hope that he would be allowed to not explain it yet. He nodded, cut his eyes to Marlow. “You saw it, too.” 

“Not all of it,” Marlow said. His voice was odd. Cut up. “I saw, uh, some gifs, though.” 

“Blyat!” Ilya was going to have to start a kill list. Anyone who made a gif of the video was on it. Anyone who had reposted it. Anyone who had made it so easy to find that Ilya hadn’t needed to look to find it. 

Marlow waited, like he knew Ilya was going to say something else. Like he wanted to say it, but didn’t want to be the one to say it first. And now Ilya had seen the video, he could be the one to say it. 

“Blyat,” Ilya said again, for good measure. “Was not sex tape,” he ground out. “You know it was not sex tape.” 

“Yeah,” Marlow said. 

“Why are they saying is sex tape?” Ilya snapped. Knew he was close to yelling again. Had to pull his own forearm to his mouth and bite down for a moment until he was less scared of screaming. “Is obvious is not a - video was crime. Is crime. Of crime.” 

Marlow didn’t say anything, but Ilya could see him nodding out of the corner of his eye. Ilya bit his arm again, and Marlow groaned and gripped his wrist to pull it away from Ilya’s mouth. 

“He was playing so shittily,” Marlow said, once Ilya’s teeth were not digging into his own flesh. “Like he was hurt. Bad. And now this. People will put it together soon.” 

Honestly Ilya wasn’t sure what was worse; the fact that it hadn’t been the original headline, or that people would realise. He didn’t know which one Hollander would hate the most. 

“He is on plane,” Ilya said. 

“What?” Marlow was still holding his wrist, which was good, because otherwise Ilya was going to have gone for another chomp. 

“Shane,” Ilya snapped. “Hollander. Metros are in air now.” 

“Okay,” Marlow nodded, exhaled heavily. “That’s - I mean. It’s not ideal, but at least it’s going to be pretty private? He’ll have his team with him, and - fuck, I know some of them are cunts, but he’s their captain, he’ll have his guys rallying around him.” 

Ilya did not think that was true. Except for the bit about some of them being cunts, and that was only a half truth, because most of them were cunts. If he ever got to speak to Hollander again, he would ask for a list of who had been bad, because if he was going to be a serial killer he might as well gut as many cunts as possible. 

“We’re going back to the office,” Marlow said. “LeClaire is there. We have to talk about how we handle this, yeah? The Bears are going to put out a statement. I think he’s also going to want to talk about making sure sex tapes are locked down, in case there’s, I don’t know, some fucking idiot going around leaking NHL player sex tapes.” 

“That is stupid,” Ilya said. He was made out of stone, he was pretty sure. That is what his body felt like. He didn’t think he had any sex tapes, but he had had a lot of sex, and sometimes he was maybe not sober at all and did not remember the sex, so theoretically someone could have made a tape, but - that wasn’t what the fucking problem was. “Why is our team making statement? What does it have to do with us?” 

They were walking down the hall now, Marlow with his arm slung around Ilya like he was leading him. Ilya letting him lead him. 

“Setting the tone, I don’t know, buddy,” Marlow sighed. “I’m as lost as you are, okay.” 

“Do we tell LeClaire,” Ilya mumbled. “That is not --- that someone needs to go get Hollander and make sure he is okay.” 

“I think we have to leave that to his team,” Marlow said. “They’ll look after him.” 

-----

Shane had always hated using airplane toilets. He hated the size, the configuration, the smell. He hated how close they were to everything and everyone else. He hated the flushing mechanism. He hated how Hayden had been knocking on the door for what felt like forever while Shane tried to remember how to breathe. He especially hated how he could still hear, even over the roar of the engine, and the metal can suffocation of the bathroom, and the knocking on the door, he could still hear his team yelling. 

Shane’s phone was in his carry on bag, tucked under his plane seat where he had put it when he got on the plane, but he was still clutching Hayden’s phone. 

It had been on Hayden’s phone that he had scrolled down to see the full video thumbnail and seen his own face staring out at him with a pixelated pink blob pressed to his cheek like he was posing for a porn shoot. 

He had pressed play, his thumb moving of its own accord, and the video that had played was obviously a heavily edited clip, cutting roughly from frame to frame, pixelation blur taking over half the screen. It was only five seconds long, and when his eyes managed to move down the page, he saw that it was taken from a larger, longer video, which the site hosting the article didn’t feel like they could show. Despite the fact that they had shown enough to fuck Shane over. To ruin his life. 

When he had looked up from the phone it was to the sight of his team looking back at him, clear on their faces that they had all seen at least five seconds of what had happened to Shane. That all of them were building a new narrative on top of what they already knew about him. 

People had been speaking, but it was like Shane had gone underwater. Nothing was making its way to him, it was just muffled noise and movement, and the lights on the plane were too bright, and his lap belt was too tight, and he should have taken another anti-nausea when he got on the plane. 

He had had to physically push his way past people to get to the bathroom. One of them had been Theriault, he thought, who had put his hands out to Shane like Shane was a runaway horse, and tried to block his way. He shouldn’t have barrelled past his coach like that, but he couldn’t stay where everyone could see him. Couldn’t breathe. 

He had only had a brief moment of relief upon locking the door behind him, because once he was locked in, he was locked in. He had nowhere else to go. He was trapped. He was a fish in a bucket. He was dead. He was fucked. 

There was nowhere safe to sit in the bathroom, everything felt dirty. Even the air felt dirty, but it was better than touching anything. So he stood as still as he could in the middle of the room, clutching his body as tight to itself as possible so he wouldn’t brush up against the door or the sink or anything sticky. He prayed for clear skies and no turbulence. 

---

Hayden’s phone was buzzing constantly in his hands, something he had tuned out until the phone actually rang and reminded him it wasn’t just a part of his shaking body. It was Jacki calling, and Shane hoped she wouldn’t be too mad at him or at Hayden when he ended the call, and then turned the phone on to Hayden’s super focus DND which he knew Hayden only used when he was taking a gnarly shit and wanted to watch videos on his phone. He didn’t know why he knew that, or why he even thought of it now while his brain wasn’t working properly. 

With the buzzing finally subsided now DND was enabled, he could see it as a tool. He knew he had seen only a small amount of what there was to see. Knew that when he was eventually dragged out from this horrible room he would be dragged out by people who would have seen it all. 

He opened a private tab on Hayden’s phone, because that felt polite, and if Hayden ended up hating him after this then at least Shane wouldn’t be adding insult to injury by leaving his search in Hayden’s history. 

Shane Hollander, Sex video, gay

There were too many options as results. Some of the top results were porn pages, little thumbnails with his face in them, emblazoned with bold text and too many exclamation marks. He needed to see what the extent of what was out there was first. 

Shane Hollander, full sex tape

Switched results to videos. Chose the longest one. Pressed play. Hoped no one else on the plane would be able to hear him watching the video. God. What if they thought he was watching it to get off. What if they thought he was the kind of person who would do that. Who did they think he was now? Who was he? Who was he? Who was he? Who was - 

Out of Hayden’s phone he heard his own voice saying that he was gay. Which he hadn’t said, he hadn’t said he was gay, had he? He had said he wasn’t. Or that - or said he - he didn’t say he was gay - 

The video showed the hall outside the gear room. It was pointed down near the floor. Shane knew the big scuff along the skirting was from when Anderson had tripped over his own duffle and his foot had gone skating out from under him against the wall, and every so often some one said they should get it cleaned up or painted over and it hadn’t been done yet. 

How long had the second man been out there. He had tried not to think about it afterwards. Tried not to think about how they had decided to do this, because it had had to be planned, right? It wasn’t just a spur of the moment thing. Except he didn’t know how they would have planned it. How they would have lured him somewhere like the gear room and made sure he would be alone. He refused to believe Rodney would have had any hand in it. Especially not when he had seen Rodney just a few days later and Rodney had thanked him for doing the wipe down of the gear before putting it away. 

It made a little more sense with the video. Not how they had done it, but a little of why they had done it the way they had. Trying to cajole him into admitting he was gay. Trying to soften him up to say the lines they wanted him to say. Or was it just that they wanted to humiliate him? 

The video moved on to show the gear room, and the first man kissing Shane, and Shane could see the cleaning rag still in one of his hands. He hoped Rodney wouldn’t watch this. 

When the video cut to the next scene, he paused it. Tried to remember how it had gone in between the cut. Why they had skipped it. Felt stupid a moment later. All the notifications Shane had seen popping up on Hayden’s phone, and the articles he’d seen were all calling it a sex tape. A leaked sex tape. Which was something that people made of themselves. Having sex. Not being assaulted. Not being. Not being hit against things until they became compliant enough to hold down. Not with the words Shane had been saying. He still didn’t know if he had said no, he hoped he had, but he knew he hadn’t said anything that would have seemed sexy. He had been confused after the kiss. Stupid. That didn’t make a good sex tape. That wouldn’t look good. They had to cut to the next scene where it looked more like sex because otherwise it was something else. 

He pressed play, and watched the something else. 

Sometimes when Rozanov fucked him, he would talk all in a rush, fizzy with the fucking, like he couldn’t keep the words to himself. Sometimes they would be in Russian, or mostly in Russian, but English came through enough. When Rozanov fucked him from behind he would tell Shane god you take me so good, and I love the way you move your fucking ass, and, fuck you are hot, so pretty, so beautiful Hollander, look at your beautiful back, you should see this, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Shane didn’t see it. Whatever it was Rozanov saw, Shane couldn’t. Maybe it was just an act, something Rozanov did to make his partners feel good. Shane’s back was ugly in this video. It was just there, being pushed down on. A muscle just above his ass was spasming, and that was ugly too. More of Shane’s body not doing what it was supposed to do. Why could he never do it right? Could never make himself fit. 

He didn’t remember what the men in the video were saying to him while they fucked him. Maybe they were trying to say porn lines to be good for the video and he had ruined it by crying or making awful noises or maybe by just lying there like a corpse. 

The video always cut between positions, between men. They had been careful to keep their faces out of it. To keep any obvious struggle out. He kept seeing bits of gear on the ground. Hoped he’d wiped it clean before he’d put it away afterwards. Wondered if they really were hockey players, if they cared at all about any of the mess they had made. Cared that some other hockey player was going to strap on that padding that they fucked the captain of the Metros on. 

About three minutes in, one of the men accidentally kneed him hard in the left butt cheek while they were getting in to position, and it’s almost nice to know that that was how he’d gotten that particular bruise. He didn’t know how long the actual event had lasted, when you put back in all the cut parts, but the video was only five minutes. Five minutes and forever. At least there wasn’t any audio after the clip of him saying I’m gay. No one would know he was watching it. 

He hadn’t remembered that one of them came on his face. He must have washed it off, but he’d forgotten that as well. That was where that first article had gotten the clip of his face with a cock against in, though. He remembered how they had grunted when they came, but not how their voices had sounded otherwise. If he tried, he could probably replicate their coming noise.

In the last shot he could see the fucking bare bar light bulb reflected in his wet eyes, so out of it he couldn’t even think to close them against the glare, even though it hurt. Pathetic. He didn’t know when he’d started crying. If it had been when they’d hit his head enough, or when they started to actually push in and he knew for certain that this wasn’t a prank taken too far, wasn’t something else, wasn’t a bad dream, was just this. Him. Being held down and raped and not doing anything about it. 

After the video he read articles. Looked for the sports news ones first. Read people’s shocked takes on it. Gritted teeth smiles about how it was such a surprise he was gay, but how truly disappointing he would let down his fans with a sex tape like this. And wasn’t that the Metro’s training center? Someone has let us know that that is indeed the gear room at the Montreal Metros training center, and isn’t that just disrespectful to the organisation, and the fans, and honestly, Montreal as a whole - 

---

He heard the change in the engine tone. Enough of a shift to break through. Hayden hadn’t been knocking for a while, but he spoke again now, like he knew Shane could hear things again. 

“Hey,” he said, and Shane couldn’t hear anyone else talking. “We’re getting ready to land, and apparently you can’t be in there for that. Um. They say they’ll unlock the doors if you don’t come out yourself. So, buddy, if you could - it’s going to be okay, okay? Just, unlock the doors, and, and -” 

He paused, like he’d heard himself say come out and remembered what was happening and decided he couldn’t say it again. 

Shane’s body had been letting him down, but he could still switch it to automatic. He let his body unlock the door. Let his head turn to look at his team, half of which were not looking at him, and the half that were looking at him did not look pleased to see him. Someone, one of the ones not looking at him, spoke in a high pitched voice. 

“Oh, please come out, tell us you’re gay, captain, tell us you’re a fag to our faces.” 

Someone else grunted out what could have been a reprimand, or a laugh, or anything. 

Shane let Hayden put his hands on his elbows and steer him to a seat in an empty row. An empty row surrounded by empty rows. Because his team had all congregated near the back of the plane, packed in side by side with no empty chairs beside them, as if maybe he was contagious. Honestly, having been in the bathroom for so long, Shane might have picked up some evil ailment that could pass on to them, so, wise move. Good game plan. Fuck, he was fucked for the game tomorrow. No one would pass to him, would they? Not if they thought they might catch a case of homo. 

Hayden sat down next to him. Reached over his lap to do the belt up. Did his own belt up. Shane’s bag was sitting like a miracle under the seat in front of him. He wondered how many messages he had. He wondered if Rozanov had tried to message him. Or if now Rozanov understood, and was pleased Shane had cut ties when he had. Cut him free before any of this could leak onto him. Keep him safe. 

The back of the plane was buzzing. He knew it was conversation, but he couldn’t parse any of it. His brain kept going in and out of service, like he was passing through dead spots of air. 

He remembered the phone in his hand and gave it back to Hayden, who took it, and immediately switched the DND off, angling his phone away from Shane like Shane was going to look over his shoulder, like Shane wanted desperately to see everyone’s opinion of his soft cock, or his lack of enough body hair, or the way you could tell he was gagging for it, I knew he was a fairy, he’s always been too soft - 

-----

SATURDAY

-----

Ilya had not slept well. He had still slept though, and for a moment when he woke up he was angry at himself for it. And then he was angry at himself just in general. 

He’d spent the day previous in a jitter of anger and some stomach aching dread that felt like his lungs were punctured. Had spent it with LeClaire, sitting through impromptu lectures on internet safety, and sex video safety, and media etiquette with the whole team. Spent it eyeing every member of his team up and trying to decipher what they thought about it. If they were going to go online and make anonymous comments about the fag hockey player, or complain to their friends about how no one would care if their sex tape was released, some guys don’t appreciate the fame. Something Ilya had seen tweeted before Marlow had removed Ilya from his phone, and also from the room he had been in at the time. 

The Metros didn’t post a statement until late in the evening, and then it was only a bland statement about acknowledging there had been a breach of privacy, and they expected their players to uphold a certain moral standard, and of course management was looking in to everything, go Metros! 

There had been another update from the Metros that just said that Shane Hollander was marked as a healthy scratch from the game. So. It was good he wasn’t playing immediately. But jesus. 

None of that had filled Ilya with much hope that behind the milky facade of the Metros media Hollander was being looked after at all. 

Marlow took Ilya home with him. Didn’t give him his phone back. Gave him vodka and pizza. Played video games. Sent Ilya to sleep in his spare room. Still without his phone. Probably Ilya could have gotten it back if he’d tried, but he wasn’t sure he could trust himself not to break something. And he was a guest right now, so he probably shouldn’t break things. And Marlow would be mad if he broke himself. 

He didn’t especially mind that Marlow had appointed himself as his babysitter, because apparently he did fucking need it, but. But fuck. Fuck. FUCK. 

He had no reason to be crashing out as hard as he was crashing out, and he knew it, and everyone knew it. Not about this. Maybe they thought it was the rivalry. Hollander can’t have all the attention. 

---

Marlow brought him breakfast in bed, which was a warning sign. In fairness it was a lukewarm mcgriddle and a coffee that could have done with some more sugar, but still. 

“Say it,” Ilya said, once he’d inhaled the mcgriddle and drank the coffee, and Marlow was still sitting on the end of his spare bed looking at Ilya like he was a hand grenade whose pin may or may not be pulled. “Fucking spit out, Marly.” 

“Me and the boys,” Marlow said, slow, “are worried about you.” 

“Jesus,” Ilya pulled the blanket up over his head and flumped backwards against the pillow. 

“Rozy,” Marlow said, but didn’t pull the blanket down. “Seriously. I -” 

“They appoint you as their speaker?” Ilya asked through the blanket. “Poor Marlow. I hope they owe you favours for ever.” 

Marlow put his hand on Ilya’s knee over the blankets, and squeezed it when Ilya tried to kick at him. Didn’t let go. 

“You went a bit out of your head,” Marlow said. “About the news.” 

Ilya did not bother to reply to this, because yes, he had. They all knew. Old news. 

“It seemed. Um. Personal,” Marlow said, his voice was a little gruff. Ilya bet he wished he could hide under a blanket right now too. “Like maybe. With how quickly you saw that the video wasn’t, uh, consensual. That maybe, um -” 

Oh jesus fuck. 

Ilya ripped the blanket off his face and stared up at Marlow, who was somber and pink faced. 

“No,” Ilya said. 

“Roz -” 

“No,” Ilya repeated, firmer. He sat up, shoved his hair off his face. “Is not that. Don’t look at me like that, fucking Clifford. I saw it was wrong because Hollander looked wrong. Did not look - fuck - you saw it, too. You are telling me, fuck -” 

He broke off to rub his hands over his face, and then gripped his hair tightly, and tugged until he felt like he was back in the front of his mind. Dropped his hands to his lap. 

“Marly,” he said, cleared his throat. “Is this you telling me, instead, that you - I will kill someone for you if you want it, yes? If someone has hurt you like this. I have been making list of people, a lot of twitter handles, I can add more people, will be no big deal.” 

“You’re a fucking train wreck, Roz,” Marlow said, but he smiled a little. Looked less somber. “No. I - not me. Had a friend who went through something similar, back in high school. I don’t know what to say man. I guess I saw the same thing you did. That he was wrong. And with how wrong he’d been for the last couple of weeks, yeah.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay,” Marlow said. His hand was still heavy on Ilya’s knee. “Please. Just. I don’t need to worry? About you? There’s no one I need to kill for you? Because you know I would, right, Roz? Fuck, I’ll join in on your crusade, help you track down the people behind the twitter handles.” 

Ilya wasn’t sure what to say. Because he wanted to say that, correct, Marlow did not need to worry about him. He and the boys had seen the wrong thing in Ilya’s reaction, which was actually a relief. Because if they had seen the real thing in it, Hollander would be so fucking mad at how obvious Ilya had been. And Hollander already had so much on his fucking plate, it wouldn’t be fair to add being mad at Ilya to it. 

But also Ilya still felt like he was going to shake apart like a video of some glass thing shattering in slow motion on youtube, or a water balloon popping in slow motion. That was what his guts felt like, his insides. Like everything was going wrong, but slowly, and he couldn’t stop it. 

He wanted to tell Marlow that he had dreamed about Hollander. About the last time they had been together, and Ilya had fucked him on the floor in a position similar to the video, and in his dream he had been filming, and Hollander kept reaching out to him even though his face was so wrong and upset. 

“I think,” Ilya said to Marlow’s hand on his knee. “I think I am so fucking scared, Marlow.” 

Marlow didn’t say anything, but he gripped Ilya’s knee tighter. 

“Is not because I - I have made no tapes. And I - I haven’t had. That. Happen to me. Not like that. But because maybe someone has video anyway. Of me. And if they maybe have video of me, then maybe that video of me may be one of the times that the person I am with is a man. And I think maybe I am coward. I think maybe yesterday I should have been better captain. And instead I was what I am, and now team will remember that, and maybe if they find out about the sometimes men, they will think. I don’t know.”

Marlow had waited patiently for Ilya to finally spit out the last stumbling part of whatever he was trying to say. Or maybe he was frozen in disgust, but that seemed unlikely, because Marlow always wore pride jersey for pride nights, and he helped Ilya call out teammates who used slurs. And he had helped Ilya learn what the slurs were when he first joined, so Ilya wouldn’t repeat something he thought was just an insult and wasn’t. 

“Okay,” Marlow said. His hand was still on Ilya’s knee. “I think this is what one of my cousins once called a bisexual crash out.” 

“Fuck you,” Ilya snorted. Tipped forwards until his head hit Marlow’s shoulder with a light thunk. Marlow patted his head. “Maybe you are right.” 

“I usually am,” Marlow said. “I might not be quite yours and Hollander’s pedigree, but I am pretty fucking good, Rozy.” 

“I know,” Ilya said. Closed his eyes. “I don’t know what to do.” 

“About which thing?”

That was a good question. Ilya also didn’t know which thing. He didn’t know what or which or even how. 

“I want to call Hollander,” Ilya said eventually, muffled a little in Marlow’s bulk. “But I - he - he has blocked me.” 

Marlow snorted, and then leaned back, putting his hand on Ilya’s shoulder to shove him upright so he could see his face. “If he’s blocked you, then maybe that should mean you shouldn’t call him? Just a thought? Just because you’re both in the gay hockey player club doesn’t mean you need to reach out right away. He’s probably getting a million calls right now. If I were him, my phone would be off.” 

“Fuck,” Ilya groaned. “I hate it when you are right twice in a row.” 

“You can set your clock by it,” Marlow said, which didn’t make any sense at all. 

---

They watched the Metros game on Marlow’s couch. Marlow had still not returned Ilya’s phone. The game was a mess. Players kept getting into fights while nowhere near the puck, and the refs were getting a crazy work out skating around to get in between them all. 

“Might be a good sign,” Marlow offered, “if his team is fighting for him.” 

“Does not mean they are fighting for him,” Ilya said. He was sticking with guilty until proven innocent for the Metros. “I can see everyone on both sides being villain here.” 

Marlow sighed, like he wanted to argue back, but had realised, sadly, that he agreed. 

They watched a few more fights before Ilya realised who had been on the bench the entire game so far. 

“Pike is benched,” he said, leaned in closer to the tv as if that would make the picture zoom in on the huddled figure. “He is Hollander’s close friend. They do not have him playing.” 

“I would say that maybe they figured he would be fighting and they didn’t want fights tonight,” Marlow said, “but, uh. That’s not happening. Why would they bench him?” 

“I don’t know,” Ilya said. “Do you have his number?” 

“Uh, no? Why would I have Pike’s number?” 

Ilya shrugged. “I know, is silly. He is Metros’ fifteenth worst player, not on your radar, you are with the hot shots like me and Hollander. Who would have Pike’s number? Connors?” 

Marlow snorted, shoved Ilya. “I’ll tell him about this,” he warned, and then shook his head. “I can ask in the group chat,” he offered. 

“Fuck me, Marly,” Ilya said. “Give me my phone back. I promise not to bisexual bilingual bi-crashout okay? I will be so good and well behaved you will think I am saint Ilya.” 

“I don’t trust you when you speak all nice like that,” Marlow said, but then rolled his eyes. “Okay. But seriously, man, the way you were looking at your phone the other day had us actually planning, I don’t know, wrapping you up in a blanket and putting you in a quiet room.” 

“Ah, putting me in mad house,” Ilya said, “yes. I have been threatened with this before. Not as nicely. Get my phone, Marlow. I can be not nice if that is the way you like me to be.” 

“That’s not what I said, jesus,” Marlow said, standing up, “if anyone asks, you fucking promised to give me the phone back if you got too angry again, okay?” he called from the other room. 

Ilya rolled his eyes. Watched Pike on the bench. 

---

In the end it was Jords who had Pike’s number. Ilya scrolled through the Bears’ group chat while he waited for the number, checking out what everyone had been saying. So far no one needed to be on his kill list, which he was thankful for because he did really like his team mates. 

Everyone else in the entire world though? Thin ice. 

He sent Hollander a text. Just in case. Needed to know that he had tried. 

if you need anything i will do. i have friends with bratva connections. 

It was not delivered. Probably even if Hollander had changed his mind about blocking Ilya, it wouldn’t exactly be top of the list of things to do right now, he guessed. Still. It hurt. Which he hated, because it was not fair for him to feel hurt right now. 

He had been debating whether or not he text Pike as Lily. Because he knew some of the Metros knew Hollander had a Lily the same way some of the Bears knew Ilya had a Jane. And Pike would probably be more likely to respond positively to him as Lily than as Ilya. Unless Hollander had told him who Lily actually was, now that he had been outed. And then that would be much worse and Pike might actually try to kill him. Assuming Ilya was right about Pike being on Hollander’s side. God he hoped. Fuck he hoped he was wrong about every other Metro. That they were all being so fucking good to Hollander. Standing up for him. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

He wondered if people were realising that this wasn’t actually a sex tape yet. It was still being mostly referred to as a sex tape, but he had been trying not to look too much because he thought Marlow actually would confiscate his phone if he got too mad again. And he would get too mad again if he looked. Unavoidable.

---

Hayden Pike, this is Ilya Rozanov. I need to know Hollander is ok. I know he is not OK ok, I just need to know he is looked after. 

Fuck off. 

after you say if he is ok. 

No comment.

i am not reporter, pike. 

Well you’re not ilya fucking rozanov either, so good luck with your next fucking scam.

Ilya called him before Pike could block him. Hopefully. Hoped Pike was mad enough he would answer so he could curse out whoever he thought this was and Ilya could get a word in edgewise. 

He was still at Marlow’s, under Marlow’s watchful eye, though he’d perched himself on the top of an armchair while Marlow stayed on the couch, so they had a little space between them. Marlow always told him he was fucking weird, sitting on top of the back of the chair like a cat, but it was comfy, and Ilya like to tuck his feet in to the sides of the seat cushion all cosy. 

“Okay, okay,” Pike answered his phone, he sounded pissed as all hell. “Give me your best fucking Russian accent, then.” 

Okay. “Privet, Pike,” Ilya said, “you know my voice well enough? Or do I need to say some chirp so you recognise? Last time I see you you try to say you are better player than half my team, and then three minutes later are tripped by our rookie.” 

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone, which was better than a dial tone. Marlow was staring over at him incredulously, but at least he wasn’t coming over to pluck his phone away. 

“Jesus,” Pike said. “Fine. Fuck. What the hell do you want, Rozanov?” 

“I tell you already,” Ilya said, gritted his teeth and willed his anger to stay tucked a little further down. “Is he okay? Is he - fuck - is your fucking room safe for him?” 

Another moment of silence. Ilya didn’t like this one nearly as much. In fact he kind of hated it. 

“Why do you want to know?” 

“Blyat,” Ilya spat. “Is not enough to be worried?”

“No,” Pike said. He sounded mad as well. That was good. “Because I don’t fucking trust you. Because you’re an asshole. Because you don’t give a fuck about Shane.” 

“You do, though, yes?” Ilya asked. “You are being good to him? Tell me this, at least, Pike. Tell me he has at least one person on his team who is giving a fuck.” 

“Fuck you,” Pike spat, “of course I fucking do. He’s my best friend. This doesn’t change shit.” 

That was better than nothing. Marlow was still staring at him, still incredulous. Pike had still not hung up. Ilya breathed in and out. Kept pushing the rage down. He wished they had had their game today so he could have fucking punched someone. Knew it was better they didn’t. Wondered if he would get benched tomorrow, if Marlow was still worried about him. 

“Can you,” Ilya said, felt his voice do an embarrassing thing like a stutter, like something that wasn’t rage had slipped up past his throat instead. “Let Shane know. That I called. Please.” 

This time he could hear Pike exhale heavily, rather than silence, before he spoke again. “Fine. Look. He’s. Not okay.”

Fucking finally. Fuck. Ilya shut his eyes, because he couldn’t keep catching glimpses of Marlow’s expression. “No fucking shit,” he breathed. “Is - is he - has he gone home? His parents will be there, yes?” 

Another heavy exhale. “Fuck,” Pike grunted. “I don’t know if I - shit. Fine. No. He’s not gone home. He’s still. He’s still with the team, here. He talked to his parents yesterday and told them not to come. I don’t fucking know, man. I told him to go home. It’s like he’s not fucking in his body.”

Ilya could have told him that just from watching Shane play hockey the last couple of weeks. Robot Shane. Gone Shane. Hurt Shane. What if real Shane wasn’t there anymore? What if it was too pushed down. What if the last time he’d talked to Shane it had been a text that had been accidentally shitty enough for Shane to block him. Fuck. 

It had been a mistake to keep pushing his rage down, because with that tucked deep in his guts, the sadness was filling his lungs, and he wasn’t as good at pushing that down. 

“And the room is bad,” Ilya guessed. “Your coaches?” 

“Not, uh, outwardly mean,” Pike said. He sounded strained. “But it isn’t. It isn’t good. It’s. It’s actually bad.” 

Ilya shoved his fist into his eyeball, sniffed hard. “Where is he now? Is he safe right now?” 

“He’s in his hotel room,” Pike said. “I offered to - to room with him, if he wanted company, and he said he didn’t want to crowd me, and closed the door. And then he texted and said that if I roomed with him the other fucking guys would think I was gay too, and it was better if I just. Fucking stayed away so it wouldn’t fucking taint me. I shouldn’t be telling you this shit, Rozanov. If you fucking - fucking tell anyone anything I am saying I will actually kill you. I don’t care if it kills me right back, you would be a dead man.” 

“I am lips zipped,” Ilya said. “I - can you. Call Shane. And tell him that I called. And if he wants, if he wants, he can call me. Or text me and I will call him. He has my number. He does not have to call, but I want him to know that I want him to. So if he is - just so he knows. Okay, Pike? You will do this?” 

“What - I mean. Yes. No offense, or, like, a bit of offense, but why the fuck would he want to talk to you, man? I don’t even know why I’m talking to you, but he has more reason to hate you, so.” 

“Does not matter,” Ilya grunted. “Maybe he will tell you. Maybe he does not want to talk to me. Just. Do it. Yes?” 

“Fuck, yes, fine,” Pike said. 

“Okay. Good. Text me list of your team who are worst and I will fuck them up so bad. Yes?” 

“Goodbye, Rozanov.” 

Now there was dial tone. Ilya kept his eyes shut. 

“Jesus Christ, Rozy,” Marlow said. The couch creaked as he stood up, and Ilya listened to him approach, and then Marlow’s hand was on Ilya’s knee. Maybe he had a kink for knees. Good for him, or whatever. “That was a lot.” 

“Yes.” 

“You think he’ll call you?” 

“No. I do not know.” 

Marlow rocked Ilya’s knee back and forth like Ilya was a pram. “Okay,” he said. “Are you planning on doing some like, Avengers shit? Fucking catching a plane to go whisk him out of his hotel and away from his team? What are you going to do? Bring him back here and hide him with the Bears or something.” 

“That is an idea,” Ilya said, finally opened his eyes, if only to watch Marlow roll his eyes. “We just put Bears jersey on him and play him like he has always been on our team, and when people ask questions we act like they are the ones who do not know what is real. And we put out statement that is not bullshit. And as a team we hunt down those fucking pieces of shit and we kill them. Shane does not have to come if he does not want to, but I think maybe would be good team bonding.” 

“God,” Marlow said, “sometimes I think your brain must be a terrifying place. Like, do you need a hug or something?’ 

Probably or something. Or something would be less pathetic, maybe. He nodded. 

---

Comeau, Drapeau, Saunders, Peters, Carlson. Top five.  

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

As many of you predicted, and as I knew in my heart of hearts, 3 chapters was not enough. Fingers crossed for 4. Todays chapter is a whopper next to the other ones. In size, not content.

-----

YESTERDAY

---

FRIDAY

-----

It was easier not to talk, as the team poured off the plane, and then onto the bus waiting for them. No one was actively addressing him, except for when Theriault had told him they would speak when they got to the hotel and had management call in, and he could ignore the words that were directed at him but not to him. Hayden had tried, once or twice, to say something, but Shane had shaken his head. He couldn’t do it. Not surrounded by people. Not in his travel clothing. Not before he had had a chance to check his voice actually still worked without risking it breaking in front of anyone else. 

Hayden did stay right by him, though, which was at least something. Kept up their travel buddy status, even though Shane could hear Drapeau saying something about how they were travel boyfriends, and did Jacki know. 

Stayed right by him until Theriault peeled Shane away with a terse tap to his shoulder, and instructions to Hayden to take Shane’s bag to his room. 

---

Shane had been in the coaches’ rooms before, for meetings, and miscellaneous errands, but he’d never been sat down at the little one person writing desk in the corner and faced with both coaches, and the social media guy, and a laptop with three people from the management team calling in. He wished they hadn’t brought Daryl from social media in, it made him feel like they were going to have him film a statement here and now, with Daryl doing the thing where he kept trying to get Shane to smile a little bigger. 

It felt like the kind of thing he should maybe have a lawyer, or his agent, or something for, except then that would make him look guilty. Or non-compliant. Or something. Like if he balked, here, after everything they had seen, they would know he wasn’t worth the hassle this was going to bring them. Maybe if he could make this as quick and easy for them as possible, they would let him stay. 

The first thing they let him know was that he was benched for the next game. And in fact, shouldn’t even come to the arena. He would be a distraction, more than. The second thing they let him know was that they were sure he hadn’t been the one to leak the video, but it was still wildly irresponsible of him to let it happen. 

He knew that this was probably where he should tell them what it had actually been. It was just that he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t make his mouth form the words he would need to say to tell them. 

Then management took over from Theriault, and they didn’t sound as angry, but flattened instead, like they were simply better at sounding professional. They wanted everything laid out clear and clean for a statement. They wanted him to answer their questions so they could write something that would negate them from any wrongdoing. 

He didn’t want to make it harder for them. He wanted to give them their answers and then go to his hotel room and maybe smother himself. Except that he would need to not do that because even if most people would prefer he disappeared, he was still under contract, and he didn’t want to break that. He just wished they asked questions he could answer without having to explain anything, because he couldn’t explain anything, and it made him come off as… difficult. 

“And this is you, in the video?” 

“Yes.” 

“With your - partners?” 

“No.” 

“Who are the men?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“It’ll be easier if you just tell us now, so we can handle this smoothly. If they’re other hockey players, their team might want to make a statement.” 

“I don’t know who they are.” 

“You’re saying that you don’t know who the men in the video with you are? They’re strangers to you?” 

“Yes.” 

Theriault butted in here, angry enough to be spitting with it. He’d stood up when management had started to talk, and gotten himself one of the small liquor bottles from the mini fridge. Shane couldn’t tell what it was, but he’d smelled the sharpness of it even from his corner spot. 

“You brought strangers into the arena?” Shane was used to a certain level of vitriol from his coach, it was part of his coaching style, but he had never heard it quite so vicious.

“No,” he said. 

“Oh, right, so you just bumped into them and decided to have a little fag out?” 

“No.” 

“For fucks sake, Hollander -” 

Management spoke up again. Shane probably knew who the people on the screen were, but the computer was a little too far away from him, and he wasn’t wearing his glasses, and his brain wasn’t focusing anyway, so. Whatever. He wondered if Margaret was on the call, he’d always liked her. Hadn’t heard her voice yet, he didn’t think. 

“That’s enough, Theri,” one of them said, “now is not the time. Hollander, if you could just work with us, we can get this over and done with. You’ve already confirmed it’s you in the video, fine, we’ll leave the subject of the other men alone. Can you tell us when this was?” 

Shane told them when it happened. 

They asked if he had done this at the arena or any other Metros’ facility  before. He said no. They asked if he had had any forewarning that the video would be posted. He said no. They asked if he knew the video existed. He said no. 

He should have known it existed, it was just, he’d been preoccupied while it was being filmed, and then he had tried very hard not to think about it. He had seen the phone in the second man’s hand, and he should have known. Should have tried to knock it down, or something. 

The man in the middle of the laptop screen suddenly said that they needed to stop the meeting. Said something about Shane’s agent calling and threatening legal action if her client was being questioned without representation. Shane could hear in his voice that this was making him a nuisance. That they were all looking at him as a liability, a threat, a fuck up. 

Shane was shown the door. Realised at the door that he didn’t actually know where his hotel room was. That his phone was in his bag. That Hayden had taken his bag to his room. 

Hayden was outside the door, which saved Shane from having to ask his coaches for anymore help. He let Hayden take him by the elbow. 

---

“I called your mum,” Hayden said, the moment they were inside Shane’s room with the door closed behind them. Shane blinked. “She’s been calling me, because you weren’t answering. I know you don’t have your phone. I called your mum and told her you were in a meeting with the coaches, and she freaked out and called your agent.” 

“Oh,” Shane said. He’d wondered how Farah had called with such good timing. 

“Shane,” Hayden said. He’d let got of Shane’s elbow once they were in the room, and he stepped away now, lifting his hands up to his face. “Fuck, man. Are you okay?” 

“I need to shower,” Shane said. 

For a moment he thought Hayden would try and stop him. Try and make him talk right now while Shane was still in his travel clothes and dirty and his hands hadn’t been washed since he’d been in the airplane toilet. Then Hayden had nodded, and dropped himself heavily down on the bed. 

“Okay,” he said. “Yeah. I’ll be here, man.” 

It occurred to Shane, as he shut the bathroom door, that it would probably be best for Hayden’s reputation if he wasn’t here. If their team knew Hayden was in his room right now the gay rumours would get worse. That wasn’t fair to Hayd, or to Jacki. He couldn’t make himself send Hayden away right now, though. He knew he should. He knew it was selfish. He just didn’t want to. 

He showered perfunctorily. Hadn’t unpacked any of his stuff, so he used the little bottles of soaps and lotions the hotel provided. They were an okay texture, but they were too scented. Floral and sharp in a way that hurt his sinuses. 

He dried off, and realised he hadn’t brought new clothes in. Usually he would just go out, uncaring that Hayden would see him in his towel, because they saw each other in a lot less on a near daily basis in locker rooms and such. But it was different now. He knew how hockey players talked about this kind of thing. The threat of the gay man in the room. He had been reshaped as a predator. His naked body was now a weapon. Him taking it out, bare chested, in front of another man was a come on. A tease. It didn’t matter that it was the same body he had had last week, last month, last year, it was labeled differently. He wondered if he would be allowed to shower at the rink, or if they would ask him to do it at home. He wondered if he would ever be able to get the hockey stink out of his car if he couldn’t even wash before getting in it. 

Hayden knocked on the door. 

“Hey,” he said, through the wood. “Uh, if you open the door, I’ve got your bag here? I was going to grab you an outfit, but I didn’t want to grab the wrong thing.” 

That was good, because if Shane had to put on his game underwear right now he might actually cry, and he wasn’t going to cry because what good would that do anyone. He opened the door a crack, and took the bag. Struggled a little bringing it inside, because he didn’t want to open the door wide enough, but got it in eventually and pulled out his hotel outfit. Thank god for comfy pants. Thank god for hoodies that were big enough to be oversized on him. It wasn’t enough to ease the constant itch of his body, but it calmed it a little. 

He needed to ask Hayden. He needed to know what Hayden had seen. Needed to make sure that Hayden hadn’t thought - that it wasn’t obvious to the world - that ---

“Did you see it all?” He asked, opening the bathroom door again, fully dressed, bag hanging from his hand. “The whole video.” 

Hayden was sitting on the end of the bed again, his phone in hand. His shoes were off, and he was sitting crosslegged, like he was comfortable here. His face did not look comfortable. He put his phone down on his knee before replying. “No,” he said. “But I - it was difficult to avoid seeing - I know you don’t want to hear this, bud, but it’s kind of everywhere. I saw a lot more than I wanted to-” 

“Sorry,” Shane said. 

“Fuck, no,” Hayden groaned. He patted the bed next to him. Shane didn’t move. “Shane. Come sit down, and - and, I don’t know. Talk to me. I don’t know what’s - I don’t know what you need.” 

“Sorry,” Shane said again. He dropped his bag down outside the bathroom, and crossed over to the bed slowly. He sat on the edge of it, by the bedside table so he wouldn’t be too close to Hayden. “I don’t. I don’t need anything. I wasn’t keeping it secret on purpose.” 

“What?” Shane wasn’t looking at Hayden, but he felt the mattress wiggle a little like maybe Hayden was shaking his head. “No, I - I don’t care about that. I mean - you could have told me you were gay, but -” 

“I’m not,” Shane said. His face felt numb. Maybe he was allergic to whatever was in the hotel facewash. He hadn’t even looked at the ingredients. “I don’t - I - I don’t think I am. They cut the first part of my sentence. In the video.” 

Hayden didn’t say anything for a long moment, and Shane could feel his disbelief. That was Shane’s fault, again. Shane answering questions wrong. Shane being wrong about himself. Because now everyone had seen, now everyone had their own opinion that they thought was backed up with a fact. Hayden had seen at least part of something that definitely made Shane look gay. And he wan’t going to get into the logistics of - of things like, bisexual, or, he was pretty sure there were other words. Things that meant you were a bit gay but not all the way. Which Shane had never planned to reveal anyway, because once he got over the Rozanov of it all he was going to find a woman that his body wouldn’t shy away from, and he would be as straight as everyone else. 

“Okay,” Hayden said. His voice was gentle, like he was talking to one of the twins after a meltdown. “Okay, bud. I’m - I’m sorry. For assuming. Um. Is this - like, the leak - an ex situation?” 

It took a few moments more for Shane to parse this. To figure it out. And then he shook his head. “No. I didn’t. I don’t even know their names.” 

“Oh,” Hayden said. 

And Shane knew how it sounded. He did. He sounded like a slut. He sounded like what hockey players said fags all were; promiscuous, risk takers, whores. He’d heard it all. And that’s what he sounded like now. Like someone who had let two strangers in to a space that belonged to his team, and let them film and fuck him like he had no respect for anyone or anything there. And he didn’t want Hayden to think that. He just couldn’t say the other thing. That it wasn’t even just that he didn’t know their names. It was that he didn’t know their faces. That he didn’t know anything from them except for violence and violation. 

“I don’t -” Shane stuttered, balled his hands into tight fists on his lap to stop himself from doing something stupid like reaching out to Hayden for some form of comfort. Hayden would let him. Would let him grab on to him, to his hand, or his shoulder. Might even hug him and pat his back. But Shane couldn’t do that because he was pretty sure if he let himself have even a bit of it he would need all of it. He wouldn’t be able to let go. He would need Hayden to hold him so tightly, and stay, and that wouldn’t look good. 

The mattress shifted again, and then Hayden was repositioning himself next to Shane, pressing his knee to Shane’s like he didn’t care about who Shane was. 

“I didn’t want it,” Shane said, the words coming out rough and awful, and not right. 

“No,” Hayden agreed, and he put his arm around Shane’s shoulders. “Fuck man, I know. You would never want something like that released. Whoever it was who did is a piece of shit. Just, like, uh, show me their… profiles? Or whatever? And I’ll hunt them down for you. If you want. It’s gotta be a crime, right, releasing a sex tape without permission?” 

He was going to choke on all the things he wanted to say and didn’t want to say. They were equal, and fighting each other in his throat. To be let out. To be kept in. He shook his head. 

“This isn’t your fault,” Hayden said, shook Shane gently. “Like, maybe doing it in the gear room was, kinda, like, reckless, but I’m pretty sure Miitka hooked up with a girlfriend in one of the offices once, so you’re probably not the first to do it. And like - I know it’s different, ‘cos it’s a guy. Or. Um. Guys. And that’s going to -” 

He couldn’t keep listening to Hayden attempting to smooth things over. To make the same assumption as everyone else. He couldn’t try again to fix it. It felt like it would actually kill him. It felt like if he managed to say it everyone everywhere would know, and they’d see him differently again, and it would be worse. 

“You talked to my mum?” He asked. 

“Yeah. I - yeah I called her back. It was a quick talk, because she wanted to ring Farah, and because I didn’t have much to update her with, so -” 

“I should. I should call them,” Shane mumbled. “I need to tell them. Not to look.” 

“Buddy,” Hayden said, too gentle again, “I think, I mean, I’m sure they’re not going to try and watch, but like I said. It’s kind of, um, everywhere.” 

Maybe by now every single one of Shane’s childhood teachers and coaches had seen it. Maybe everyone who had ever called Shane gay, or a fag, or soft, or a pansy, a fairy, a girl, had seen it and felt proud of themselves for getting it right. Maybe the girls he’d dated had watched it and hated him or felt relieved maybe, that it wasn’t them that made the relationship fizzle out. 

“I still. I still want to tell them not to,” he said weakly. “And to say sorry.” 

Hayden made a disgruntled sounding noise, but didn’t protest further when Shane stood up from the bed and Hayden’s arm. His plane bag was on the chair by the door, and his phone was nice and quiet within it, sitting in airplane mode like he’d left it. He so badly did not want to turn airplane mode off again. Did not want to have to deal with the explosion he knew would fall out. He could already imagine the amount of notifications, the clutter of it on his homescreen, and dizzying number he would have to swipe away to navigate anything. 

He did it anyway. Stood there and stared at his phone as it hummed with all the missed calls, and messages, and notifications. Waited until the last few chimed in, like he’d tipped over a bucket of marbles and then had to nudge the last couple out. Waited a little longer, head hanging, hand numb from the buzzing. 

His mother had called thirty times. He ignored the other notifications for now. Swiped the entire group of them away from his lockscreen like that would deal with them properly. 

He couldn’t bear the thought of talking to his mother right now. She would be so. Let down by him. After everything she had done for him. Everything she had endured. He had done the hockey part of his career, but she had gotten him his sponsorships, his deals, his fame. She had taught him how to carry on when things were tough, and how to deal with the flashing lights at photo shoots, and how to hold his stick, right back in the very beginning of it all. 

He called his father. Because even if he was disappointed in Shane, at least he didn’t care so much about Shane’s image - not the way that Yuna did. David was the one who brought Shane and Yuna down from hockey land, from talk of galas and skate days. He would be upset, but he wouldn’t care about the hockey ruining part of it all. 

“Shane,” his father answered on the second ring. Shane was still standing by the chair, head dropped down nearly to his chest. Couldn’t make himself speak. “Shane, kid, your mum has been trying to call you all day. Are you okay?” 

“Dad,” Shane managed to grit out. Wanted to say everything, then. With his back to Hayden, and his eyes squeezed shut, and his father sounding worried and warm on the other end of the phone. His lungs were constricting so tightly it felt like they were suctioning in on themselves. “I’m. Don’t watch the video.” 

“Shane,” his dad said again, like he needed to say it. “I won’t. We won’t. We’ve seen - bits. I’m sorry, son, I am. I’m so sorry this is happening to you. Yes -” he sounded like he had pulled away from the phone a little now, Shane could hear his mother in the background. “Yeah, it’s him. I’m talking to him, he’s - Shane, bud, I’ll put you on speaker?” 

“No,” Shane bit out. His hand not holding the phone, plastered itself over his face, dug its fingers into his cheekbones. “I just. I can’t. Right now.” 

His father breathed. “Okay,” he said, gentle like Hayden had been gentle. Like Shane was his toddler self and had worked himself up again. Was standing frozen in a doorway because he couldn’t make his mind up about what he wanted and the indecision was killing him. “Okay, Shaney. What do you need? We can come get you. We could fly to you right now and come bring you home. Or stay there with you. Anything you want, okay?” 

Shane wanted to be in control. He wanted his body to work. He wanted his mind to work. He wanted to not be benched for tomorrow. He wanted to pretend none of this had ever happened and just skate like usual, just play hockey and have no one talk about him at all unless it was about his hockey. 

“I don’t. I don’t want you guys to worry,” he said, stiff. “Stay - stay home. I’m. I’ll stay with the team. I’m benched. For the game tomorrow, but I’m still - still with them.” 

“No one would blame you if you wanted to come home,” his dad said. “To Montreal, or to Ottawa. It would be okay.” 

“I know,” Shane lied. “But I don’t want this to - I can’t be the one to run. I can’t.” 

“It’s not running,” his dad said, “it’s not weak. And - and I know this isn’t how you would want this to go, but, Shaney. You know your mum and me, we’re so proud of you, okay? This doesn’t change that. Who you like doesn’t change that.” 

Shane swallowed hard. He wished he had a button he could press on himself that would spit out prerecorded niceties so he could just swallow back the bile in the back of his throat and try to survive. 

“Okay,” he croaked. “I. I have to go. Tell mum sorry. And. I’ll talk to you both soon.” 

“Shane -” 

“Bye, dad.” 

-----

SATURDAY

-----

Ilya had been avoiding the majority of social media, and of the notifications on his phone, but he had been keeping an eye out for the alert he’d programmed for Sarah F. Duke. He may have his disagreements with her, but she’d been the one most in line with his thoughts over the previous few weeks, and he thought that she at least would have something to say that wasn’t just scantily disguised glee at the scandal of it all. 

He was still at Marlow’s place, because he had suggested he might go home, and Marlow had suggested he could fuck right off with that dumb shit idea, maybe he should sit on him to make sure he stayed put somewhere he could be looked after, idiot. So he had stayed, and Marlow had even made them dinner that evening; packet risotto with chicken. It was a little dry and a little wet at the same time, but Ilya appreciated the effort. 

He appreciated less the fact that Marlow kept nudging through Ilya’s carefully constructed walls, and insisting that he roll over and show his soft fucking underbelly. That he couldn’t help himself but roll over, because Marly had - had taken him home and looked after him and tried to give him the support Shane probably needed right now. No matter how off the mark Marly had been, he had been insistent on helping, and Ilya knew he was going to need help. 

He’d spent so much of his time in Boston so far doing his best to exude an aura of untouchable fuck offness. And he had done a fucking great job. He was famous, infamous sometimes, and people mostly didn’t try to dig into his business because he had made himself intimidating to them. It was just that Marly had been there the whole time, and he’d been there somehow nearly every time something in Ilya had cracked open enough to show his insides, and he had never pushed that part of Ilya away. 

Marlow was part of a very small group of people that Ilya allowed to actually hold his secrets. No one had all of them, and some of the secrets were more explosive than others. Marly mostly had the secrets about Ilya’s days when he was all heavy and dark in his head, and secrets about various petty crimes and maybe some less petty ones that Ilya had committed. All funny crimes, and sometimes Marly had been right there with him for them. 

Svetlana held the most secrets. The ones about his life back home, how it really truly was. Marly had a little of that, but only the overview, while Svetlana had lived it with Ilya. She knew about the men he fucked, except for Shane, and she knew he was scared, and she knew he wasn’t telling her everything. 

Sometimes Ilya told Shane secrets in Russian. Which wasn’t fair of him, but he’d needed somewhere to put them down, and when he would hold Shane tight in his arms, the both of them breathing slow and deep as they came down from fucking, it always felt like a good place to leave them. Shane would hum at his words, like he wanted to acknowledge them even as he didn’t understand them, and would sometimes press a kiss into Ilya’s neck, soft and lingering in the afterglow. Of course Shane also knew the secret of Ilya fucking men, except he also didn’t know the full extent of the Shane of it. 

He knew Shane’s secrets too. Even as some of the secret had been smeared all over the internet, it hadn’t been the full secret. He knew the more of it. He knew the Shane behind it. 

And Sarah F. Duke appeared to recognise some of it as well. Ilya hadn’t been looking at other articles, but he thought Marlow would probably tell him if there were any other  headlines like this one;Sex Tape or Sex Crime?  And she wasn’t saying much, really, just pointing out the simple facts of the matter. That the video was full of weird cuts. That there was only that one slice of audio. The blood. The lack of participation. The wave of homophobia and vitriol directed at Shane online after the leak. His clipped, oddly emphasised statement of I’m gay. The way he had been the last two weeks. The injuries done to him on film that matched the ones he wore days later on ice. And then she left it open to opinion.

Ilya could imagine she had been told to, the journal editor or some PR person telling her she couldn’t make such an accusation, but he was mad at Sarah anyway. For not just saying it fully outright. For being brave enough to say something, but not the way it needed to be screamed out. 

---

He had read Sarah F. Duke’s article, and then he had showered with his phone on loud on the bathroom counter in case Shane called. And then he had dressed in Marly’s clothes that were stupidly too big on him, and sat on Marly’s couch, and fell with only slight annoyance into Marly’s trap. 

His trap involved a bowl of icecream put into Ilya’s hands, and Marly sitting next to him on the couch, and opening his big mouth. 

“Tell me, then,” Marly said. 

Ilya put a spoonful of cookies and cream into his mouth. His phone was silent on his lap. “I should have done something sooner,” he said through the icecream. 

“Make it make sense,” Marly clarified. He patted Ilya’s shoulder, and then his head like he was a stubborn dog. 

“I think maybe,” Ilya said, swallowed a little painfully. Hadn’t quite chewed that cookie chunk properly. “It happened the day before our game. In Montreal.” 

“Okay -”

“We text. Me and Shane. And we. Meet up. After games, when we can. And he had been fine. Was fine. I thought. And then on game day his texts were weird, and I - I said. Something I had said before which had been fine before, and he blocked me.” 

He could feel Marlow staring at him, but refused to look back. Kept his gaze focused on his bowl, shoveled more icecream in his mouth. 

“I - when you say meet up, are we talking like, hanging out, or, hooking up?” 

“Second one,” Ilya said, spat a chunk of cookie out accidentally. 

Marlow processed for a moment. He patted Ilya again, a little absently. Maybe it was the ungelled curls, like a faux puppy on Ilya’s head. 

“I called him slut,” Ilya said, harsh. “Not to be mean. To tease. I would not have - I did not know -” 

“Obviously,” Marlow cut in. His arm dropped around Ilya’s shoulders, and he squeezed him rough and tight, resetting Ilya’s nervous system in the process. “If he blocked you, what could you have done, huh? You didn’t know what was wrong. That was - oh - Rozy. Are we talking about Jane, here?” 

Ilya had already put all the icecream in his mouth so he had no more shoveling to distract him. He gripped his spoon and bowl hard, nodded, his mouth full of cold mush. 

Marlow swore, but didn’t let go. Squeezed Ilya again. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Okay. Sorry, hang on, I have to recalculate some things.” 

Ilya used this time to swallow the icecream in his mouth in small bits at a time, sniffling back the salt in sinuses while he did it, clinging to his bowl and spoon. 

“I ask again,” Marlow said, “what do you think you could have done? Just turn up at his house after the game after he’d blocked you? After he’d ended things? I doubt that would have gone well. And we haven’t been back in Montreal since, or in the same place as the Metros, so you didn’t have a chance to talk to him in person.” 

“I should have fucking gone anyway,” Ilya snapped, his voice all cold and mushy now as well. “I should have gone to his house after the game and made him talk to me because I knew something was wrong. I just thought he was sick. He would change his mind.” 

“We all did,” Marlow said, “think he was just sick.” 

“I don’t think he has told anyone,” Ilya said, then. He wished he hadn’t eaten the icecream so quickly, because he could feel it cold in his gut. “Or had told anyone.” 

“Pike -” Marlow began, and stopped when Ilya shook his head hard. 

“If Pike knows,” he said, had to stop to take a deep breath. “If he knows, he is - he should be with Shane. He should be saying fuck who cares if someone says I am gay, I am staying here with you. He should be saying fuck you to the Metros and taking Shane home. He should - fuck. I do not think he knows. I think if he knew what we think we know, he would have taken Shane home.” 

“Okay,” Marlow nodded. “So what do we do, then?” 

Ilya didn’t know. So it was lucky that his phone took this moment to light up with a text from Jane. 

---

Call me. 

Ilya stood up so fast, grabbing at his phone, that Marlow didn’t have time to make a grab for Ilya’s suddenly released spoon and bowl, and they fell with a clatter to the floor. 

“Sorry,” Ilya said automatically. “Fuck. I will go call in spare room. He will not want, um, audience.” 

“Go,” Marlow said, “I won’t eavesdrop. But I’ll be here if you need.” 

Ilya went. Shut the door behind himself. Paced the floor, his phone in his hand. He didn’t know what he was going to say to Shane. He didn’t know how he was going to help. If he could help. If Shane was going to be angry at him, if Shane thought he was trying to make this about him. 

He called Jane. 

Shane answered the phone, but didn’t say anything. Ilya gave it a moment, holding his breath to keep from gasping into the phone, and then when he was sure Shane wasn’t about to speak, he spoke, breathless. 

“Shane,” he said, creaky like he’d not spoken for hours. “You are there?” 

“Yeah,” Shane said. Ilya’s voice had been creaky, but Shane’s sounded derelict. Barely there. 

“You are alone?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Shane -” Ilya cut himself off. He was stupid for thinking he had anything he could say to help, here. He had never been good at this. He caused the problems, and then he left. That was what he was good at. “Shane, I know this was not sex tape. I watched it. I am sorry. I should not have, I worried maybe it was of us, but then I saw - Shane. I will hunt them down and rip out their throats if you ask it.”

Shane’s breathing grew louder, crackled over the phone, and it sounded very much like he was pushing down sobs. Ilya’s own chest throbbed and ached like they were his own breaths, and he closed his eyes against the sudden stinging wet heat of them. 

“Don’t,” Shane managed to say, his voice a mess. Another ragged breath, and then; “Ilya.” 

Fuck. “Shane,” Ilya replied. Felt horribly overcome with it. With the sounds Shane was making, the clamped down pain of it. He dropped down into a crouch, lifted his free arm to wrap around his head. “Please,” he said. “Shane. I am here.” 

So little to offer. It made him think of calls home to Russia. Of his brother spitting down the line that his voice on the phone and his money in the bank were not what family needed. And now with his father sick, and Ilya here, his voice useless against his father’s confusion. He sent the money, and he arranged the health care, but it was never enough. He had nothing to give anyone. 

“He said he was - was a cousin of a guy on my team,” Shane whispered. “He wanted to talk about being gay in the room.” 

Ilya felt like he had been filled with a colony of fire ants. He hummed into the phone. 

“He was trying to - to make me say it back. About being gay,” Shane clarified. He laughed wetly, the noise of it awful. “He kissed me and all I was thinking was that I didn’t know how to let him down gently and firmly without sounding - sounding homophobic. And how I wanted to go home and do my yoga.” 

“Of course you were worried about hurting his feelings,” Ilya murmured, “I have seen you apologise to barrier when you kick it.” 

Another watery noise that might have been a laugh, but probably wasn’t. 

“I didn’t know there was another man,” Shane said then. He wasn’t whispering anymore, but his voice was still quiet and ragged. I - I fought back. I did. I - they hit my head on the door and I didn’t - I didn’t want a concussion.” 

“No,” Ilya agreed. His knuckles hurt. His lungs hurt. 

“I didn’t know they were filming it,” Shane said. “I thought I could. Ignore it. Get over it.” 

“Shane,” Ilya didn’t have anything to say, just couldn’t hear Shane say that without interjecting. 

They were both silent then, breathing heavily down the line at each other. Ilya wished he could see Shane. Could reach into the phone and pull him out. Could lay him out on the floor here and smooth out his back with his hands until he was relaxed and fluid like he should be. Pull Shane against him and hold him skin to skin until their breathing matched and Shane’s jaw was soft, and his hand was holding Ilya’s hip, or his face. 

“Is your team,” Ilya asked, eventually, hating to break the silence, but needing to know. “Management. Are they beginning investigation? To find them. Working with police?” 

“No,” Shane sighed. “No. They don’t. I couldn’t. Ilya, I can’t.” 

Ilya needed to step through the phone into Shane’s hotel room and pull Shane into his arms and rock him until Shane didn’t sound so scared. 

He changed tack, a little. “Not even investigation for releasing video? That is crime. They should investigate that, yes?” 

“Rozanov,” Shane sighed, and Ilya did not like that. “I - I don’t know. I’m under investigation. I think.” Ilya hated that more.  “Management isn’t really talking to me. I’m not - I don’t think I’m - I thought I could handle it. But I don’t think I can.” 

“That is bullshit,” Ilya said. He was standing up suddenly, his blood rushing sickeningly. “You have lawyer? Agent? Anyone there to talk to them for you?” 

“No,” Shane said. His voice was a little stronger now, but in a pissed off sort of way. “I don’t - fuck you, Rozanov. I can’t -” 

“Shane,” Ilya cut in. “Shane, lyubimyy, I am sorry. I do not mean to - I am so angry, yes, not at you. I want you not to be alone. I want - please - I want to help.” 

Shane didn’t say anything for a long time. Long enough that Ilya checked twice that the call was still running. He was scared to speak again, like he was under a spell, and if he spoke he would break it and Shane would hang up and block him again. 

“I don’t have - I don’t have someone with me,” Shane said, his voice low and faint again like he was scared of being overheard, “because I can’t say it, Ilya. I can’t. It’s bad enough that they’ve all seen it, that they all think they know - that they all - I can’t say it.” 

“I will say it for you,” Ilya said. “I will come and say in person, or on phone, whatever.”

A stifled, hitching, hiccupy noise. “You can’t,” Shane said. “People would talk.” 

“People do that,” Ilya said, worked hard to say it and not snap it. Over the phone he couldn’t see how close to snapping Shane was. How much was too much. 

“Say it, then,” Shane whispered, quiet enough that maybe he didn’t even want Ilya to hear it. 

He knew what Shane meant. About not being able to say it. It wasn’t even his, and it still stuck in his throat. He had to close his eyes again. Had to knot his fingers into his hair and tug himself back into the moment. Kept tugging to keep himself there. 

“You were assaulted,” he said, his voice flat so it wouldn’t be shaking. “Two men attacked and raped you and filmed it and then put it online. You have done nothing wrong. This is thing that happened to you.” 

They let this sit between them. He could hear Shane crying, muffled like he had turned his face away from the phone. Pressed himself against a pillow. Ilya wanted to cry as well, but he was scared he would miss Shane saying something. He was scared that if he let himself cry now he wouldn’t stop. His scalp hurt where he was still clutching at his hair. He’d pulled a few strands loose, but he was there in the moment. 

“Come here,” Shane said, blurting it out into the silence without any warning, the words warped with his crying. “Please.” 

“Send me hotel and number,” Ilya said, felt like his heart was about to beat right out of his mouth. “I will get flight. It may be a few hours, but I will come.” 

“Okay,” Shane said. “You shouldn’t.” 

“I will, though,” Ilya said. “Send address. Have water. Ask Pike to come sit in room with you. He does not care if he looks gay.” 

“Ilya.” 

“Say you will do it, Shane,” Ilya said, tried to sound confident. “Text. Drink. Company.” 

“I’ll do it.” 

“I am booking flight now,” Ilya said, “before you change mind.” 

“You shouldn’t.” 

Ilya waited, in case Shane actually didn’t want him to come, and was going to say that. Shane didn’t say anything else. 

“I will see you soon,” Ilya said. He didn’t want to hang up, but he couldn’t do everything he needed to do with Shane on the phone, because all he could do while he could hear Shane breathing like he was dying was try not to die alongside him. 

“Okay.” 

---

“I was eavesdropping,” Marlow announced, the moment Ilya hung up, pushing Ilya’s door open. “You were loud and angry for a bit, so I wanted to make sure things were okay, and then I was just eavesdropping. We’re going on a trip?” 

“I am going on trip,” Ilya said. 

“We’re going on a trip,” Marlow corrected him, firm. “I got our flights while you guys were arguing about whether or not you were going. Figured you could pay me back if we didn’t end up using them, or whatever.” 

Ilya stared, closed his booking app on his phone. “What the hell, Marly.” 

“What kind of fucking A would I be if I let my C go fucking bi-crashout all by himself?” Marlow shrugged. He was grinning, but around his grin he looked deadly serious. “Besides, you keep talking about your hit list, and you’re good at starting fights, Rozy, but I’m your D man for a reason.” 

“Fuck off,” Ilya said. “Okay. Fine. I have to change into real clothes that are not hanging off me like elephant skins, and then we go?” 

“Best you’ve ever looked,” Marly chirped back. “I’ll pack a quick carry on. Figured we should wait until we’re there to tell coach. Ask for forgiveness rather than permission, etc.” 

“Et-eck,” Ilya said. 

-----

Usually Shane spent barely any time in his hotel room on roadies, except for when he was sleeping. They would check in, and he would unpack, and then he would check in with his team, and they would have practice, or a meeting, and then the game, and media, and meetings, and team dinner, and sleeping. He had been in his room since he’d entered it yesterday afternoon. Had been alone in it since he’d sent Hayden back to his room last night. 

He had spent most of the night reading articles about himself. Which he shouldn’t be doing. He read three articles that talked about the inherent violence of gay sex, and how it shouldn’t surprise people that a violent game like hockey would have men who enjoyed violent sex. And it was so wrong and so close to being right about part of it while still being entirely wrong, that his nausea had come back and he’d spent a good hour hanging over the toilet, spitting bile into the bowl. 

He had received a few emails from Metros management saying they would have formal meetings to address the incident once they were back in Montreal, and if Shane wanted to have some representation with him he was welcome to. Theriault had emailed him to tell him in writing that he was expected to not attend the game, and it would be best if he stayed at the hotel in his room so as not to cause any undue media attention. Also to not make any statements or posts without confirmation from the Metros social media team. 

He ignored everything else. All the unread messages, and numbers on his screen. The calls and notifications that were still coming in, mostly from unknown numbers. Journalists, maybe, having gotten hold of his number and trying to get an exclusive statement. Like the one on video hadn’t been enough for them. Other calls were probably angry fans, or hockey players. He had seen some of the text messages from unknown numbers coming through, and even just the short displayed beginning of the texts made it clear how upset they were with him. He didn’t pick up his mother’s phone calls, but he did text her to say he would be home tomorrow afternoon, and he would like it if they would meet him at his apartment. And could they not talk about it until then. She had said yes, but also sent him many, many texts after that, which Shane had not managed to make himself read. 

Hayden had wanted to come join him in his room, but Shane had told him to go to practice, and the game, and back to his room, and to not fucking ruin his goddamn reputation over this. 

He had watched the farce of a game on his phone, in his hotel bed. Had gotten up in the morning and dressed, and then climbed back into his bed and stayed there all day because he hated the texture of the couch and chair upholstery in this hotel, and he was tired.

The only call he’d answered before Ilya’s had been Hayden’s, and he’d only answered that because he was scared if he didn’t Hayden would come knocking on his door. 

And now he had to call Hayden again to beg for Hayden to do just that. Except he wouldn’t have to knock, because Shane would open the door as quickly as possible so as not to draw attention to them. 

He didn’t call Hayden immediately after the call with Ilya, because he needed to lie face down on his bed first. Had to wait until his body stopped shuddering and heaving and fucking up and panicking over hearing Ilya just saying it out loud. He shouldn’t have asked Ilya to come here. It had been stupid to say it, stupid to want it. He should text Ilya and say don’t come. He should refuse to send the hotel name or number. Except then Ilya would probably call Hayd again, because somehow that had happened, and get the address from him. And Shane would look even more stupid. Stupid, stupid. He wondered if it was homophobic of him to call himself a fag, even in his own mind. It probably was, because he wasn’t doing it to be nice to himself. God he hoped the gay community would forgive him for being such a ridiculous fucking event. For being a tragic stereotype. 

When he could make his body be still, he sat up and he texted Ilya the address. Then he got out of bed and went to the bathroom. Washed his face. Came out and drank a full bottle of water. One of the small ones. Cracked open a gatorade - blue only. Chugged half of it. Sat back down on the side of the bed and called Hayden. 

Hayden answered so quickly that Shane wondered if Ilya had texted him a heads up. 

“Doing okay?” Hayden asked immediately. 

Shane’s throat was doing a lot better. He was hungry now, he realised, like his stomach had heard about the salt from the gatorade and had woken up. 

“Can you come over?” He asked. Easier to ask this now he’d asked it in a stupider way to a much more ridiculous person. 

“Yeah, bro, I’m coming right now,” Hayden said, his voice suddenly sort of higher, “did something happen? Was it Rozanov? Or fucking Comeau?” 

“I’m okay,” Shane said. “Just. We’ll talk when you’re here.” 

“‘Aight,” Hayden panted, like he was fucking jogging or something, and hung up the phone. 

Shane sighed. Put his phone on his bedside table, and stood up. Crossed the room to the door, and stood in silence until he heard Hayden’s ridiculous jogging footsteps approaching, and opened the door. 

“Insane reflexes man,” Hayden said, stepping inside. His eyes were darting around the hotel room like he expected someone else to be there, to jump out at them. “Hey.” 

“Hey,” Shane replied, closing the door. He hadn’t seen anyone else in the hallway. Hoped Hayden had managed to get here unseen. “Um. I was thinking about room service.” 

“Oh?” Hayden stared at him, visibly collected himself, and nodded. “Yeah, for sure. You haven’t had dinner? It’s way past your dinner time, bud.” 

“I wasn’t hungry,” Shane said. Didn’t bother with saying he’d forgotten to eat since the plane yesterday, because that wouldn’t help anything. “Do you want anything if I order?” 

“Maybe some fries,” Hayden said, because he could never resist a bowl of fries, and also never attempted to resist them. “They’ve got a good looking salmon salad, I saw it earlier.” 

“Yeah,” Shane had looked the menu up online before they’d gotten on the plane. “That’s the plan.” 

While Shane ordered, Hayden made himself comfortable on Shane’s bed again. He avoided the couch, like he could tell Shane wasn’t sitting there and therefore it was a no go zone. Or maybe he was just trying to show Shane that nothing was different. Shane sat back down on the bed next to him once he’d placed his order. Drew his limbs up close to his body so he could wrap his arms around his knees and press his face on top and speak all muffled. 

“Ilya is coming here.” 

Hayden didn’t reply for long enough that Shane had begun to think he hadn’t heard, and then Hayden’s hand was on Shane’s shoulder. 

“Ilya Rozanov,” he said, like he was testing unknown waters. “Is coming here?” 

“Mhm,” Shane said to his knees. 

“Okay,” Hayden said. He sounded bemused. “That’s… very unexpected.” 

“He called you first,” Shane pointed out. His head felt so heavy. He never wanted to lift it from his knees. “That was more unexpected.” 

“It was very weird,” Hayden agreed, “but him coming here is weirder. To me. Is it not weirder to you?” 

“No.” 

“Okay,” Hayden sounded like he was nodding. “Um. He asked about you in Montreal, y’know. When you were sick.” 

Shane sniffed in response. Blinked hard in the safety of the dark cave of his body. 

“I thought he was just chirping. I mean, he was also chirping. But he was… he sounded really worried on the phone. You guys are… friends?” 

“Sometimes,” Shane said. 

Didn’t know how else to put it yet. Because yes, they hooked up, but they texted too, and - they texted more than they hooked up. Due to proximity. And Shane liked texting Ilya, when he wasn’t too in his own head about it. He liked the things Ilya said. He liked Ilya. And sometimes it felt like they were really friends, and that when they met up after games and kissed for the first time in months sometimes it felt like they were something else real. That Ilya missed him as much as Shane missed Ilya. Not just the kissing and the fucking but the being there. And he had thought that he had been fully alone in wanting, and missing, but Ilya had gone out of his way to get Shane to unblock him so they could talk. Was now, unless this was all somehow some horrible awful joke, on his way to Shane. Because he was worried about Shane. Because he wanted to help. 

“Okay,” Hayden said again. He moved his hand from Shane’s shoulder to his back, and rubbed it gently. Not even bro style. “Is he - why is he coming?” 

“I asked him to,” Shane mumbled. Shifted his head just slightly so he was facing Hayden rather than hiding. Blinked up at him, squinting against the dim light that felt blinding after the dark. “I - I need him to.” 

Hayden blinked down at him. He kept rubbing Shane’s back, even with his face entirely perplexed, but trying not to be. 

“If he’s here to beat up the guys I texted him about,” Hayden said, “I need some warning so I can call Jacki and apologise in advance for fighting.” 

“What?” Shane frowned up at Hayden. “You texted him about guys to beat up? Who?” 

“No, not really. Just. He said like. Let him know if anyone on the team was being shitty. To text him who was worst, and I like, sent him a top five, and - uh -”

A top five was too many people for there to be only a handful of the team being actually shitty. A top five meant that probably everyone on the team was being shitty, and some of the team was being awful, and at least five guys were being disgusting. 

“Is JJ mad?” Shane whispered. He hadn’t been on the plane with them coming in because he’d flown down the day previous so he could attend a restaurant opening he was investing in, and Shane hadn’t looked to see if he’d messaged. Didn’t think he would have been able to open the messages if he had, anyway. 

Hayden’s face was miserable. He looked like he did on long roadies when he had to hang up his facetime call with Jacki and the girls and the girls were crying about missing him. “I don’t think he’s mad. Exactly,” he hedged. “He’s maybe, like, miffed. That you didn’t tell us about. Well, not that you’re gay I guess, because you said - yeah. I don’t know, bud. He’s being weird, but he’s not like. He’s not acting like Drapeau, or Comeau, or some of the other guys.” 

“Right,” Shane shouldn’t have hoped for more. He wanted to ask about Miitka, and about their rookie, Lever, but he didn’t know if he had it in him to hear if they were being awful. “Okay. Um. Have you spoken to Jacki? The girls?” 

“Yeah,” Hayden looked happy to change the subject, smiled a little awkwardly at Shane. “Yeah. They’re doing good. Um. Jacki sends her love. She says she’s messaged you but doesn’t expect a reply, because she’s sure you’re kind of overwhelmed.” 

“Oh,” Shane said. “Thanks. Did she, um, did she say anything about the WAG chat?” 

Hayden blanched slightly, hid it badly. “Uh. I mean, not really? Just that it’s been really active.” 

“Right,” Shane nodded. “Tell her she doesn’t need to argue my case, she’s not my lawyer.” 

“She wants to,” Hayden said. “Bud. She’s your friend. She wants to.” 

“Tell me you’re not in the locker room yelling at everyone about this,” Shane said. “I don’t want you in trouble for me.” 

Hayden looked guilty, but in a very self-deprecating kind of way. “I haven’t,” he said. “I wish I had been. I wanted to be. I keep - I’m telling people off for like, saying slurs, or like, awful shit. But I should have said something real. To everyone.” 

“I don’t want you to,” Shane said, felt his lower lip wobble embarrassingly. “I don’t want you guys to get like. Secluded.” 

“Shane,” Hayden said. “Fuck, buddy -” 

A knock on the door announced their food had arrived, and Shane took the opportunity to slide off the bed, out from under Hayden’s arm, and away from his expression. 

---

When Ilya texted to say they were on their way from the airport to the hotel, and by the way Marlow insisted on coming, he knew what video was when he saw it as well, and he was worried I’d throw hands with people so he wouldn’t let me go without him, sorry- Shane realised he needed to say something to Hayden before they got here, before he had Ilya say all of it for him. 

After they had eaten, sitting on the awful couch, they had sat on the bed again, and Hayden had pulled up the game from earlier in the day, and asked Shane to tell him everyone’s mistakes, and to be mean about it. 

“That Rozanov?” Hayden asked, nodding at Shane’s phone. Shane was replying with a thumbs up, because it said anything he would have said much more succinctly. 

“Yeah. Um. He’s bringing Marlow too.” 

“What?” Hayden had paused the game, when Shane had picked his phone up, but now he put the tablet down entirely. “Why?” 

Shane had kind of wanted to ask Ilya that as well, except that it had become very clear to him why. Because Ilya didn’t want to be alone either. Because Marlow was worried about Ilya. Because Ilya was walking in to a volatile situation, and his friend didn’t want him to do it alone. 

When Shane had occasionally stalked Ilya’s instagram, he had been begrudgingly jealous whenever he had seen Cliff Marlow in Ilya’s photos. The way they were flung all over each other in clubs, at games, on the street. Hugging and grinning and openly affectionate in a way that he never saw anyone side eye. Hayden had given him a not-bro-enough hug after a loss once, and he’d seen people on twitter calling them boyfriends. That was a Shane problem, though. The jealousy and the body giving it away thing. 

“Because,” Shane paused to exhale, and then inhale again slowly. He kept filling himself up with panic instead of air and it was making him light headed every time it happened. “Because there’s something - there’s something else about the video. Hayden. I - there’s something that - that Ilya saw, and apparently Cliff saw as well. And I can’t - fuck!” He broke off angrily, huffing through the tears that crowded his eyes again like he’d flicked a switch. 

He just wanted to be able to say something. Just wanted to talk and he couldn’t even do that without malfunctioning. 

“I can’t talk about it. Because when I try I feel like I’m going to fucking vomit until I die, and it’s not because I don’t trust you, because I do, I just can’t. Fuck. Sorry. Hang on.” 

He sprang up from the bed and shut himself into the bathroom. He didn’t flick the lock because everytime he had gone to since the airplane he had been catapulted straight back into the sense memory of the cramped airless airplane toilet and the buzzing lack of self that came with it. 

He grabbed the towel from the rack - the one he hadn’t used yet - and buried his face in it. Let himself lean against the bathroom counter, waited until his shoulders stopped shaking. Pressed in harder against the towel whenever a noise slipped out too loudly. He didn’t want to be doing this. It kept happening to him. Things kept happening to him. His body kept doing things to him and he couldn’t stop it. 

“Shane,” Hayden hadn’t opened the door, but he sounded close, like he was leaning against it. “Bud. Can I come in?” 

What was more embarrassing; having to get your sometimes friend with benefits to tell your best friend what happened to you, or crying about it? Shane’s brain was pretty convinced they were equally awful. But he did want to tell Hayden. He did want to. 

“Yeah,” he choked out into his towel. Didn’t lower it. Heard the door open. 

“Hey,” Hayden said. “Um. Okay, so -” and then Hayden was just hugging him, and it was definitely the type of hug that would have their teammates making stupid jokes and asking who the bottom was, and Hayden put his hand on the back of Shane’s head and pressed down until Shane was pressed in against his neck, towel in between them because he didn’t let go. “I’ve got you,” Hayden said. He still sounded awkward, but not… not like it was because he didn’t want to be doing this. 

Then they just stood there, in the bathroom, Shane with all his weight against Hayden, still crying into his stupid towel, and Hayden holding him up until Shane could do it again. 

When he could, Hayden still held on for a bit longer, only letting go when Shane pulled back. 

“I can wait for him to tell me,” he said, when Shane finally pulled the towel away from his face. “It’s okay, Shane.” 

“Okay,” Shane nodded. “I need. Um. To wash my face. I’ll be out again soon.” 

Hayden nodded as well, jerked his thumb back at the door. “I’ll be just out there,” he said unnecessarily. “If you need me.” 

Shane nodded again. Turned to look at his face in the mirror. Was pleased it wasn’t as blotchy as had thought. He felt raw all over, but at least he didn’t look as bad as he felt. 

-----

Hayden opened the door when Ilya knocked. Ilya was glad he had opened it so quickly, was already ushering them inside, because even though they hadn’t seen anyone on their way up, it would be stupid to be caught right now, outside Shane’s door. 

He and Marlow weren’t exactly inconspicuous, even if they weren’t well known, in a hotel full of hockey players, they were also just big guys. Plus for some reason Marlow had left the house in his Bears hoodie like an idiot. 

“Pike,” Ilya said, his eyes glancing off Hayden immediately and searching for Shane, not seeing him, but seeing the door on the wall opposite half open. “Shane in there?” 

“Rozanov,” Hayden replied, closing the door after Marlow. “Yeah, he’s just. Washing his face, I think. Probably wait out here, or, I guess, fuck me and don’t listen, yeah. Hi Marlow.” 

Ilya heard Marlow snort behind him as Ilya beelined immediately for the ajar door. 

“Pike,” Marlow said, “uh. How’re you doing?” 

Ilya knocked briefly on the door, and then pushed it open and stepped through. He met Shane’s gaze immediately, in the mirror, Shane’s back to him, but his eyes on Ilya’s reflection.

They stood for a half moment in silence, both just looking, and then Shane’s shoulders jerked, and he shook his head, keeping his eyes on Ilya as he did. 

“Fuck,” he said, “you’re really here.” 

“I said I would be,” Ilya raised his eyebrows, and took a step towards Shane. “Is too much?” 

“Yeah,” Shane’s voice cracked, but he sounded almost relieved. Still didn’t turn. Kept eye contact as Ilya stepped closer again. Watched as Ilya lifted his arms, just slightly, wanting to offer without being too needy for it. “Please.”

Ilya exhaled heavily, took the last step between them and wrapped his arms around Shane’s waist from behind, pressed his forehead to the back of Shane’s neck. He was hot to the touch, shaking so hard it was like he’d been put on vibrate. In the mirror his eyes had been horribly shadowed. Worse than they had looked on game tape. With Ilya’s face in Shane’s hair, he couldn’t see Shane’s face anymore, but he felt when it must have crumpled with the rough breath Shane drew in before he was moving, twisting in Ilya’s arms so he could wrap his own arms around Ilya, so he could press his face into the spot on Ilya’s neck he always pressed into. 

“Fuck,” Shane breathed, humid against Ilya’s collarbone where his shirt had been pulled askew by the hug. “Fuck. Ilya.” 

“Yes,” Ilya agreed. Buried his face in Shane’s hair again, breathing in the smell of him. Different from usual, like he’d switched shampoo maybe, but still Shane. He had put all his emotions on pause to get here, and now it was all hitting him again. The way he had watched Shane deteriorate on television, and then pull himself together but wrong, and then the video. He hadn’t realised how badly he had needed to actually see Shane for real. To touch him. To have incontrovertible proof that he was alive and breathing. “Fuck, Shane. I was scared.” 

Shane made a noise that was probably agreement. His hands were knotting themselves into the fabric of Ilya’s shirt, where he had slid them under the jacket Ilya had on, like he also had needed to touch Ilya for real. 

“I’m so fucking stupid,” Shane bit out, his face wet on Ilya’s skin. “I thought I was - fuck I was trying to keep you from - from getting caught up in my shit. I shouldn’t have blocked you. I was panicking.” 

“Is okay, is okay,” Ilya said, took a breath. Lifted one hand from its desperate grip on Shane’s waist, and cupped the back of his head, scratched his fingers gently against his scalp. “It is okay,” he said again, as calm as he could make his voice. “I think I would also be panicking. I am here now, yes? And Pike is here. Marlow as well. And everything is okay here, in these rooms with us.”

Shane sucked in a few more shuddering breaths, nodding against him. “You shouldn’t have come,” he said, because he was maybe a little stupid sometimes. “You have a game tomorrow.” 

“Mm,” Ilya nodded, rubbed his thumb against the stiff knot that was Shane’s neck. “Yes, Marly says we ask for forgiveness, and I think we will be given.” 

Snuffling a little, Shane shook his head. “There’s no way that would fly with the Metros.” 

Ilya remembered he was achingly furious with the Metros. Gritted his teeth and forced it down. Pressed a kiss to Shane’s temple instead. “It will be okay,” he said firmly. “You are more important.” 

“No,” Shane shook his head again, pulled his face away from Ilya’s neck and craned back to frown up at him. “Not if it - if you get in trouble for this, or - I don’t know. I don’t want this to affect your job, or like, your standing or -” 

“Shane,” Ilya ducked his chin down and pressed a kiss to Shane’s forehead this time. “I am here. Is my decision. I stand perfectly. I am not worried about Bears.” 

Shane looked at him for a long moment more, his face odd, and then he nodded, looked away. “I saw they posted. The Bears.”

“Yes,” Ilya sniffed. “We had, ah, big all player meetings yesterday to go over how not to be shitty online, and also on personal video privacy. Which I know is stupid, in situation like this, where it was all crime, not leak.” 

Shane winced at his words, but nodded again. “I think,” he said, slowly, “every moment I’m not like. Numb. Or really sad. I think I’m really, uh, really fucking angry.” 

“We are on same page,” Ilya moved his hand from the back of Shane’s head to brush his thumb over Shane’s cheek where it looked too hollow, and then dropped his hand to Shane’s shoulder. “Who should we yell at first?” 

The corner of Shane’s lips quirked up just slightly, and Ilya was taking that as a win. 

“We should - I need - Hayden needs to know. I said - I couldn’t tell him and said you would. Sorry.” 

“No sorries,” Ilya said, could imagine Shane had probably already said it too many times about this. “I said I would do this, I will do this. You want now?” 

“Yeah,” Shane’s face twisted, and with what looked like real effort, he smoothed it out again. Sniffed hard. “Might as well get it over with.” 

“Rip off plaster,” Ilya agreed. “Okay. Come on.” 

He hated to step back, for Shane’s hands to fall away from around his waist. Except then Shane was tangling his hand around the hem of Ilya’s jacket instead, and it was enough to have that small bit of connection as they opened the door and stepped back into the main room. 

Hayden and Marlow were both sitting stiff backed on the couch, neither of them speaking. They didn’t look like they’d been fighting though, so that was good. 

“Marlow,” Shane said, cleared his throat. 

“Hollander,” Marlow replied, he smiled in a way that was entirely relief, and his shoulders slumped slightly. “Good to see you.” 

Shane’s mouth did that little almost smile twitch again, like he found that funny but not enough to override his general despair. 

“Everything okay?” Hayden asked, he’d half risen, his eyes on Shane. 

“Yeah,” Shane nodded. Led Ilya over to the side of the bed closest to the couch and sat, patting the bed beside him even as Ilya was already moving to sit down next to him. “I - it’s. Fuck. Marlow, I didn’t think anyone else would. Would be able to see it. Sorry.” 

“Fuck, Hollander,” Marly looked legitimately upset, “I’m the one who’s fucking sorry. I saw too much before I realised what I was looking at. Having a sex tape leak is bad enough, I can’t fucking comprehend how bad this must feel.” 

Ilya was watching Hayden look from Marlow to Shane and back again, his mouth a thin line. He looked like he probably almost understood. Like he had put it together right up to the actual line and just hadn’t crossed it. 

“Pike,” Ilya said, because Shane had wanted the plaster ripped off. Done. “It was assault. Rape. Not sex tape.” 

Marlow flinched, looked to Shane like he expected Shane to be horrified at how Ilya had done it. Ilya looked as well, just to be sure. 

Shane’s shoulders had slumped down from where they’d been hitched at his ears. He was chewing at his lip furiously, and his eyes were glassy like any more movement and the tears would fall, but he didn’t look angry, or surprised. Relief again instead. 

Hayden hadn’t said anything yet, and when Ilya looked back at him he looked like he was doing long division in his head and realising he’d had the right answer a few tries ago. 

“Hayd,” Shane said. 

“Fuck,” Hayden said. “I was all so fucking blasé about it. I’m sorry. I - jesus - and they - at the practice center? What the fuck -” 

“I don’t know,” Shane said. “I don’t have any answers about this, except that it happened, and I - I don’t know why. It just did.” 

“It’s not on you,” Marlow said gruffly. 

He was frowning determinedly in the way he did when he was upset and trying not to look it. He turned to look at Hayden then, who wasn’t trying to hide how upset he was now, letting the tears run down his face. Marly, because he was a sop, flung his arm around Hayden’s shoulder and gave him one of his crushing squeezes. 

Ilya looked from Hayden to Shane again. He wasn’t sure what Shane would want now that Hayden knew. It would be easiest to have Hayden be the one saying the words to other people, if that was what Shane needed still. Hayden who already belonged here, with Shane, without question.

He didn’t want to be sent away, even when his main reason for being here had already been fulfilled and possibly handed on. He wanted to stay here where he could feel Shane against his side, and he wanted to make things better, and he wanted to fuck a lot of people up. 

“Have you-” Hayden hesitated, glanced around the room at the odd ensemble of them. “Have you been to the police? Or told management? Or someone else?” 

Shane shook his head. “I haven’t told anyone,” he said. “I didn’t want to tell anyone ever.” 

Marlow squeezed Hayden again at Hayden’s expression, and Hayden looked like he actually kind of appreciated it. It was a good life affirming kind of squeeze, because your lungs were always so grateful to be released again afterwards. 

“But we make plan now,” Ilya said. He put his hand on Shane’s leg, closer to his knee than he usually would,  because he didn’t want to look like he was trying anything. “We tell people who need to know, so this can be dealt with, and then we also kick anyone who is stupid about it.” 

“Less kicking,” Shane mumbled. “Maybe.” 

“Maybe,” Ilya nodded. “Shane, is there anyone who you, ah, want to talk to first? Who is step one?” 

Shane pulled a face, and then leaned in against Ilya’s shoulder and hid his face there. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t want to tell anyone. But I know. Fuck. I know this is - I can’t live with the way it is now. With what people think they know. So I. I think the sensible option is maybe my agent. Farah.” 

“Okay,” Ilya resisted the urge to duck down and kiss the top of Shane’s head, then glanced at Hayden and Marlow, and did it anyway, because Shane had seemed to appreciate the head kisses in the bathroom. “We - we do this now? Is too late to call?” 

“She’ll be awake,” Shane mumbled, didn’t pull away from Ilya’s shoulder. “She’s been calling on and off all day. Texted to say she’d be available until late tonight if I wanted to call.” 

“You want to make call?” Ilya asked, “Or for one of us to make whole call. I can do, if you want. Probably you will only need to confirm that I am not kidnapping you or something.” 

Shane straightened up, his cheeks a little pink, which helped make his eyes look a little less red. “If I call,” he said, “on speaker. Then if I can’t. Can’t do it. You could. Fill in for me.” 

“Okay,” Ilya said. 

“Um,” Hayden said from the couch. “D’you, d’you need anything from us, buddy?” 

“Um,” Shane said, “I guess if Ilya doesn’t know something, and I’m, uh, malfunctioning, maybe you could join in too. Fuck, might as well introduce her to everyone first in case. I probably will. Malfunction, that is. I keep doing that. Just. So you all know. You don’t need to freak out if I like. Hyperventilate. Or something.” 

Ilya was a little worried Shane was going to - not malfunction, because this was not hockey robot Shane - have a little meltdown, just thinking about having a meltdown. He wasn’t leaning on Ilya anymore, but he could still feel how fucking tense Shane’s body was. He took his hand off Shane’s knee, wrapped his arm around his waist instead. Gave the Ilya version of the Marly squeeze. Not quite as rib crushing. Like a miracle, Shane relaxed slightly into him, his breath stuttering slightly before evening out. 

“You are okay here,” Ilya said, glanced at Hayden and Marlow on the couch, and then turned his attention fully back to Shane. “You are okay?” 

“Yeah,” Shane said. 

“Everyone is okay with first step of plan?” Ilya asked, waited for the nods from the couch, and then he wiggled his hand in front of Shane. “Phone?” 

Shane pulled his phone out of his sweats pocket, unlocked it, and then just put it into Ilya’s hand. Kept himself pressed into Ilya’s side. He still had his hand between them holding onto Ilya’s jacket. 

“Farah?” Ilya asked, navigating a little slowly one handed into Shane’s contacts. 

“She’s in the A’s,” Shane mumbled, “for agent.” 

“A for agent,” Ilya nodded, pressed her number. “We are ready?” 

“No,” Shane said. “I don’t know what I’m going to say.” 

“You are going to say she knows why you are calling, is about the video, but there is more to it and you need help with next steps.” Ilya hoped he wasn’t talking out of his ass, but he didn’t think there was a rule book way to handle this situation. 

Shane nodded. 

“Ready?” Ilya tried again. When no one said anything, Ilya nodded, and called Farah. Made sure to press the speakerphone button as soon as the phone started to ring. Held the phone between his and Shane’s laps. 

Farah answered on the second ring. Probably a lot of people today would answer as quick or quicker for Shane. 

“Shane?” She said, “Thank you for calling me back. I know this must be a rough day for you.” 

“Yeah,” Shane said. His voice was doing the kind of creaky thing it had done over the phone with Ilya again, and he cleared his throat. “I - um. I wasn’t in a good space. Mentally. To make the call before. Physically I’m in the same place, um, hotel room. But I have some people with me now, to help.” 

“Okay, good,” Farah said, “are they on the call with us?” 

“Yeah,” Shane cleared his throat again. “Um. Hayden is here, Hayden Pike, you know him. And then also Cliff Marlow, uh, he’s a - he’s a player for the Bears. And also Ilya is here. Rozanov, sorry. Also from the Bears. Um. Pretty sure you know of all of them, so. Just. Yeah.” 

A short pause. 

“Okay,” Farah said, very professional. “Good to have you all on with us.” 

“They might - might take over,” Shane said, “if I’m having. Trouble. Will that be okay.” 

Another short pause. Shorter this time. 

“Of course. Tell me what’s going on, Shane.” 

A longer pause. All of them looking at Shane to see if he was having trouble, or just working up to it. Shane put his hand over his face, but then spoke from behind it. 

“Obviously you know about the video,” he said. “And all the reactions online to it. And that the Metros tried to have a meeting with me about it, um, which they stopped after you called. So, thank you. It’s just. I know it’s probably - probably a hard enough job dealing with - with the fall out here already. A sex tape. And um. With a guy. Two guys. Kind of ruins the, uh, image you and mum were building. And me, I guess. It’s just that it isn’t. A sex tape. Fuck. Sorry.” 

“It’s okay, Shane,” Farah said, her voice smooth. “Take your time, take a breath.” 

Shane did take a breath. His hand over his face was shaking. Ilya kind of wanted to send Marlow and Hayden out of the room so Shane could have more privacy than just his hand, but that probably wasn’t his call right now. Marlow was at least looking at his knees, rather than at Shane. 

“Sorry,” Shane said again, “it’s been a long couple of days. I haven’t been - I should have - it’s not a - the video isn’t of. I don’t know why this is so fucking difficult. Sorry for swearing.”

Farah said something soothing sounding again, but Ilya wasn’t listening. He turned so he could wrap his other arm around Shane as well, the phone coming to rest near Shane’s shoulder, and then when Shane turned to press himself more in to the hug, against his back. Ilya readjusted them while Shane breathed hard, and held the phone close to where he propped his head up on Shane’s shoulder. 

“Um, Farah,” he said, “Ilya Rozanov. Shane is. He needs little breather, so I will talk a little, okay?” 

“Hi Ilya,” Farah said, “yes, go ahead. Shane, you can have as much time as you need.”

Ilya gave Shane a moment to respond to that if he wanted to, and when no noise appeared to be forthcoming, he spoke, kept his eyes fixed firmly on the phone so he wouldn’t glance over at the couch or its inhabitants. 

“The video circulating is a cropped video of the two other men in it, ah, raping Shane. He did not know there was video. He does not know who the men are, or why they did this. He has told no one else about this, and his team here is not - is not being… good about the gay part of this all.” 

No one spoke for a long heavy moment. Shane kept breathing against Ilya’s chest though, so that was good. Not too harsh or fast. 

“That does change things, somewhat,” Farah said. She still sounded professional, but managed to sound human at the same time. “I’m so sorry to hear all of that. Thank you for the rundown, Ilya. There are a few steps I am thinking about taking right away, Shane. One of which would be contacting the authorities to open an investigation to find your attackers. Or else to track down the source of the leak with more of a focus on it being video of an attack, rather than a hacker or jilted ex.” 

Ilya wasn’t sure what jilted meant, but he hoped it was a swear word. 

“I don’t know,” Shane said into Ilya’s chest. “I didn’t - I didn’t report it when it happened.” 

“That’s okay,” Farah said, “that will not be held against you.” The way she said it sounded very much as if anyone had the gall to say Shane should have said something sooner she would gut them. Ilya liked her. “I think the video is already a strong piece of evidence. Especially in correlation to your… to footage of your appearance in games. Sorry. I am assuming that this video is recent?” 

“Friday before last,” Ilya said flatly. 

“Okay, yes. If we can track down the source of the video, there is a chance we would find the unedited video as well. I don’t want to get ahead of ourselves here, Shane, I just want to let you know that if this is something you want to be put into action, we will do that.” 

“Okay,” Shane said. “I. Probably want that to happen. That would be the right thing to happen. I just don’t want. I don’t want people talking about it. Which is going to happen anyway. I know.” 

“Yes. I am sorry,” Farah said, sounding truly apologetic. “I do my best, but this is the sort of thing that has to be ridden out, in the end. Next steps, however, we can come back to talking about going to the authorities later. I will contact Metros management over this. If you give me permission, I will tell them what they need to know. You do not have to speak to them if you would prefer not to. I’m not saying you can’t speak to them, but with the way I have seen them responding to this so far, I think I would prefer to handle this officially.” 

“Okay,” Shane said. Glancing down Ilya saw his eyes were closed. “I don’t want to talk to them.” 

“Alright, good,” they could hear Farah typing for a moment. “I will also send out mass cease and desists to as many websites and journals I can to get videos taken down and flagged. If you were thinking about making a statement, whether on your social media or to a publication -” 

“I’m not,” Shane said. 

Farah made a noise that sounded like a half swallowed laugh. “I didn’t think you would, but I just wanted to say that you can, of course, but I would like to advise you to run whatever it is past me first so I can vet it for you.” 

“What do I do now?” Shane asked. Ilya was pretty impressed with how clear his voice sounded for how smushed he was against Ilya’s chest. “I - I’ve just been. Not doing anything. I don’t know what I do next.” 

“Go home,” Farah said. “Stay with your friends, or your parents, or both. Or have them stay with you. I would advise staying inside for a while, to avoid being ambushed by reporters or overenthusiastic hockey fans. Call me back when you’re home. Or I’ll call you tomorrow evening if I haven’t heard from you. Earlier if something comes up. If you think of something, call me, but otherwise your next step is to get somewhere safe and get some rest.” 

---

Probably Ilya shouldn’t be doing any of this, but he’d already decided before he caught his flight here that he didn’t fucking care about should be. 

They had finished the call with Farah, with Shane still tucked up against him, apparently needing the hug more than he needed to keep the overly tight hold on his composure that he usually preferred. In public at least. Ilya supposed this wasn’t public, but it was still the only time they had ever hugged in front of anyone else, so it felt a little public. 

Shane had said he didn’t want to make anymore calls tonight. He just wanted to sleep. Hayden offered his hotel room to Marlow and Ilya, and Shane, who had only just pulled out of Ilya’s arms and stood up, had looked at Ilya with something similar to panic, and Marlow had suggested he bunk with Hayden. Said something stupid about how it made the most sense, so that both Shane and Pike would get a teddy Bear. Hayden looked like he didn’t find it funny, but he had looked at Shane, and then agreed. And then he had hugged Shane, and mumbled something quietly to him that Ilya purposefully did not listen to. Punched Marlow’s shoulder and promised to talk first thing so they could call LeClaire and begin to ask for forgiveness. 

And then Hayden and Marlow left, and for a moment it felt very normal, because Ilya and Shane had been alone in a lot of hotel rooms together. And then it wasn’t normal anymore. 

“Is this okay?” Shane asked. He was standing by the chair in the corner of the room, where he’d been when Hayden had hugged him goodbye. “You staying here with me.” 

Ilya frowned at him. “Yes, of course.” 

“It’s just,” Shane’s eyes darted around the room, avoided Ilya in a way they hadn’t all night so far. “It’s not. I’m not. I don’t want to be. If you wanted I could maybe jerk you off, but I can’t - I can’t do -” 

“Shane,” Ilya interrupted, cold all over like Shane had thrown a bucket of ice water over him. “What the fuck.” 

Shane flinched, which was the opposite of what Ilya wanted. “Sorry,” he said. “I know we would normally do more-” 

Ilya interrupted again, because he couldn’t believe this. “I am not here for sex,” he hissed. “I am not asking for sex. I am not - this is not all I am. Not all you are. Shane. No part of me was thinking about having sex tonight. I just wanted to be close, yes? But I can sleep on couch if you prefer, so I can still be close, but you can feel safe, if that is what you need?” 

“No,” Shane shook his head. He was glassy eyed again. “No I want you in bed with me. The couch is awful anyway. It’s just. We’ve just never done that before. Slept together. Stayed the night. I wasn’t sure.” 

“We do it tonight,” Ilya said, “maybe we like it so much we do it many more nights, who knows. Bed now?” 

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

who knows what i was thinking trying to make this only 3 chapters to start with. lol i almost decided to write a 30k chapter so i wouldn't have to up the number of chapters again, but decided that was ridiculous and added two more chapters which will be it and no more. Thank you for all the lovely thoughtful comments you've left! I appreciate them all :)))) xxxx

-----

SUNDAY

-----

Shane had not woken up in the same bed as someone else since he was a child, and had still occasionally snuck into his parents’ bed when he couldn’t sleep. 

Had definitely never woken up with someone in his bed and in his arms and also hair all over his face. 

He didn’t think people many people would guess that Ilya would ever be the little spoon, but Shane had the truth right there, tickling his nose, making one of his arms feel like it didn’t exist, for how long it had been trapped underneath Ilya’s neck. 

When he had woken up yesterday, Shane hadn’t even had a moment of calm, of sleepy ignorance, of forgetting what was going on. He’d jolted awake at his alarm and gone straight from asleep to anxious. Today, he hadn’t forgotten, but he also wasn’t immediately scared. They had both stripped to their underwear yesterday, and Shane always forgot how much he loved to be skin to skin. Like something about it was magically calming. Ilya’s back was hot and solid and felt so good to be wrapped around. One of Shane’s legs was slotted between Ilya’s thighs, and was pinned firmly in a way that had Shane thinking about deep pressure therapy articles his mother sometimes sent him when he was looking too stressed out in interviews. 

The Metros flight was scheduled for ten, that morning, but Shane had already decided he wasn’t going to be flying home with them. He’d only decided it after he’d gotten in to bed with Ilya the night previous, so he hadn’t told anyone yet. 

He hadn’t been able to think about what to do, yesterday, or on Friday. He kept trying to make plans, to look forward, to find the best route out, but everything had felt too heavy, the future too foggy, his brain too busy buzzing in circles of anxiety. After speaking to Farah, hearing her lay out parts of a plan, and giving Shane a direct next step for himself, things felt much easier. Lighter. He still couldn’t see the end of the tunnel, but at least he could see the road. 

He still couldn’t believe Ilya was here, despite the heft of him in Shane’s bed. That Ilya had cared enough to make sure Shane knew he was there for him. And now here for him. About to skip a game. For Shane. Unless Shane woke him up right now and got him onto a flight back to Boston. Which maybe he should do. 

Except when he thought about it - about Ilya going - his body flooded with a rush of adrenaline so acute it stung through him, aching and biting at his bones. He found himself gripping tighter to Ilya, wrapping his arm further around Ilya’s waist so he could lay his hand against Ilya’s chest and imagine getting to keep this. 

“Shane,” Ilya mumbled, after Shane’s body had calmed down enough that he could relax his grip on Ilya without feeling like he was freefalling. “My tit is your stress ball, now, hm?”

Shane did not let go of Ilya’s pec, because, well, maybe yes it was his stress ball now, was there a problem with that? 

“Did I wake you?” 

“Mm,” Ilya shifted slightly against Shane’s chest until he could turn his head enough to look at him, blinking blearily over his shoulder. “Probably, yes. Is nice way to be woken.” 

“Yeah,” Shane said, tucked himself in just a bit closer so he could press his face into the side of Ilya’s. “Thank you.” 

“For tit? You are welcome,” Ilya said, yawned. “You sleep okay? There was snoring, so I think yes?” 

“I don’t snore,” Shane said, squeezed Ilya’s pec again in retort, and Ilya snorted. “And no. Thank you for being here. I don’t - I don’t think I said it yesterday? But I don’t remember.”

“Mm,” Ilya blinked slowly at him for a moment. 

He looked like he was still waking up, his brain functions slowly coming online. He shifted again, lifting his head first to release Shane’s dead arm, and then his leg to release Shane’s leg, and then rolled onto his back. Shane sat up a little, to shake out his arm, squeezing his hand into a fist as the pins and needles bloomed quick and sharp. Ilya watched him do this, quiet, until Shane stopped, and then he lifted one arm up like an offering, and Shane immediately tucked himself under it, put his head on Ilya’s shoulder. 

“No need for sorry or thank you,” Ilya said, when Shane was settled against him. His hand was in Shane’s hair, and he felt a bit like a cat. Wanted to stretch his neck and press back against his hand to ask for more. “Is very Canadian of you, I think, but I do not need them from you. I am here for me, too.” 

Shane wanted to point out, once more, that he shouldn’t be. Wanted to say that if he got up now, he and Marlow could still make it in time for the game without getting in any trouble. He wanted to say those much less than he wanted Ilya to keep scratching his fingers gently against Shane’s scalp, though. 

“Are you okay?” 

Ilya blinked down at him, his hand pausing in the scratching momentarily until Shane butted his head up into his hand a little and he started again. 

“I am okay,” Ilya said, slow. He looked like he was considering something. “You do not need to be worrying about me. I am worrying about you. That is status quo, here, right now. Your agent says your job is to rest and be cute looking, not worry about hot Russians.” 

“I wasn’t worrying about Lever,” Shane said, the chirp leaving his mouth with ease. “Just about you, who I guess is kind of good looking?” 

Ilya’s face slipped into shock and then straight into amused disbelief. “You are asshole, Shane Hollander. Do people know this? You tell poor Russian boy in your bed he is not as good looking as silly rookie? Maybe your eyes need checking?” 

“Please don’t check my eyes,” Shane giggled, “I’m not wearing eye protection. Pretty sure you’d get a big penalty for it, too.” 

Ilya laughed out loud, and he reached over with his other hand to tweak Shane’s cheek. “You are soooo funny, so clever, so focused on hockey. You have any more jokes to tell me? While I am still waking up? Having to translate silly word play in my head when I should just be knowing it is about hockey?” 

Shane liked this way too much. Liked the way Ilya’s face looked in the morning right after he’d woken up, smiling all loose. The way Ilya touched him. The way Ilya joked with him and teased him. He wondered how long he’d get to have it. 

“You should have known,” Shane agreed. He wanted to kiss Ilya. Very badly wanted to. He would need to brush his teeth first, though, and he didn’t want to leave the bed, or Ilya’s arms. 

They hadn’t kissed last night, not properly. Ilya had pressed kisses to Shane’s head, his cheeks, but none to his lips. There had been a part of Shane that had wanted to override the fucked up feelings in his gut and climb onto Ilya last night and kiss him until they were both hard and wanting. He had already told Ilya he didn’t want to have sex, though, and Ilya had been so hurt at the idea that Shane would think he would want that, and - 

Everything about sex in Shane’s head was a mess right now. And even when he had told Ilya it wouldn’t be happening, that small part of Shane had still been wanting something. Wanting to push past the mess and stand its ground. 

He knew if he had, it would have gone badly. 

Ilya kissed his forehead now, his lips dry on Shane’s skin. 

“We get up now?” He murmured into Shane’s hairline. “Have some breakfast, make battle plan with Pike and Marly?” 

Shane didn’t want to. If they got out of bed and got dressed, things would be real again. His body would feel wrong again. His mouth wouldn’t work again. 

“Will you come with me?” Shane asked. Didn’t move from his spot on Ilya’s shoulder. Screwed his eyes shut. “To Montreal. Not for - I know you can’t stay. Just. Today. You could catch a flight out tomorrow, and -” 

“Okay,” Ilya said, kissed Shane’s forehead again. “Shh. Yes. Okay.” 

Shane didn’t open his eyes. Ilya’s hand was still moving soft and lazy in Shane’s hair. They could do this again tomorrow morning. He would get to have this again. He could be a person. He could handle being a person. 

“Do you need to shower?” He asked, sitting up all at once so he couldn’t linger anymore. “I’m going to take a quick one, but if you want you can have one first.” 

“I showered before we flew,” Ilya said. He was heaving himself upright now as well, watching with narrowed eyes as Shane scrambled himself out of bed. “I think I am not smelly. Am I smelly?” 

“No,” Shane said, “you’ll need to shower before you get into my bed at home, though. I don’t care so much about travel germs in hotel beds, but it’s gross for my own.” 

Probably that was too much to say, made him sound a little crazy, a little needy. 

“I’ll see you soon,” he added, grabbing his bag, and heading to the bathroom. He hadn’t needed to say that, like he was going out for a walk. 

He showered quickly, trying to hold on to the feeling of warmth he’d woken up with, and not the weird, rabbity nerves he’d managed to pick up on his way from the bed to the shower. By the time he was getting dressed, he had passed by both feelings, and tripped instead headlong back into familiar fear. He was going home, which was good. Ilya was coming with him. Also good. His parents were waiting for him at home. Good. Yes. Except then he had to tell them the truth. And he wanted to. To say it to them. Some of it, maybe. He didn’t know if he would be able to even look at them. How would they look at him? 

Shane’s mum had always raised him to be respectful, and she and his dad had both sat him down to talk to him about how to be especially respectful to girls. Once he’d hit his growth spurt, his dad had talked to him again about it, reminding Shane that he now came off as intimidating, with his size, and his strength, and that even though they knew Shane was kind and gentle, a lot of people wouldn’t expect it of him, so he would have to be sure to make it clear. And he got it, he did. He wasn’t good at talking to women, except for a few cases where he knew there were absolutely no chances he might have to… flirt with them. Like Jacki, for example. (Some of the WAGS flirted with him despite the fact that they were WAGS of his teammates, and that was always the weirdest.) 

So. It was just -

It felt like they were going to see their mistake now. That they would see what everyone else in the league could see. What everyone in the world could see. That maybe they shouldn’t have bothered with the girls chat, but should have seen that he was an easy target himself. That they had thought they had raised a big, strong, man, and now he was going to have to tell them that he wasn’t. He had tried to look like one, but he wasn’t. 

He had seen an article, yesterday, before he’d called Ilya, that had very gently suggested the truth of the matter about the video. And he’d read the comments before he could remind himself that was a bad idea. The comment that stood out to him had been the one that said only women could get raped. That if it was true, that the video was of a sexual assault, then the story wasn’t about a fag, but a really ugly girl. 

And he wasn’t stupid. He knew, knew and understood that the person who wrote the comment was stupider than a bag that forget its bricks. Knew that it wasn’t true. Knew it. And still felt winded and pinched and hurt by it. Because he knew it wouldn’t be the only comment. When everything came out. Knew other people would say what they thought was a fact of life, that men couldn’t be raped. Because they were close minded or naive. 

“Shane,” Ilya said, when Shane stepped out of the bathroom, fully dressed, with his bag. “Pike and Marlow say they will be here in five.” 

Shane nodded. Ilya had gotten dressed in yesterday’s clothes, which made sense because he hadn’t appeared to come with more than a small shoulder bag. Ilya looked at him. 

“You are spiraling,” he said. “Yes?” 

Shane’s brain was going over and over the comment, rewriting it in a million different ways that would probably be spread all over the internet soon. In comments about articles and videos about him. About how was he really a man, after this. 

“Shane,” Ilya prompted. He had stepped closer, his hands hovering in the air on either side of Shane’s shoulders.

Shane nodded again. Ilya dragged him in to a hug, squeezed him tightly. “You should ask Marly for a hug,” he said, as Shane gripped to the back of Ilya’s shirt. “He hugs so tight you cannot breathe, let alone think, very good for breaking bad thought patterns.” 

“I think I’ll stick with your hugs,” Shane mumbled, breathed deep. “I don’t like hugging new people.” 

Ilya laughed a little, quiet, like he actually liked it when Shane said weird things like this. Pressed a kiss to the side of Shane’s head. 

“We order breakfast when our boys get here,” Ilya said into Shane’s temple. “Do you want to talk about what your brain was doing? Or do you want distractions?” 

“Neither,” Shane sighed. “I mean. I do want. Distractions. It’s just that I think I need to practice.” 

“Hm?” Ilya leaned back a little without letting go, so he could look Shane in the face. “What do you need to practice? I do not think we should go to a rink, today.” 

Shane would actually love to go to a rink today, and just skate and do nothing else, but Ilya was right that that wasn’t exactly an option. 

“Practice saying it,” he said. “So I can, when I see my mum and dad.” 

“Ah,” Ilya said, his eyebrows were flat over his eyes, and his nose twitched slightly, like he was perturbed. “We can do this,” he said. “But you do not have to. I know the words are hard. I do not like to say them either, but I will still say them if you prefer.” 

“I think I’d prefer if we could just like, telepathically beam the knowledge into their heads so no one has to say anything at all,” Shane said. He sighed, and ducked his head down so he could donk his forehead against Ilya’s chin in a very clumsy bid for a kiss there. “And maybe,” he mumbled, when Ilya obliged with the kiss, “you will have to say it for me. But I want to try.” 

“Okay,” Ilya said. He kissed Shane’s forehead again. Shane had the ridiculous wish that Ilya was wearing lipstick so he’d leave a mark. Except Shane hated the texture of most lipsticks he’d had pressed to his skin, and he didn’t like how they smeared. 

“I’m going to say it,” Shane said, keeping his head where it was, his hands still clutching tightly. “Can you just. Stay like this.” 

“Yes.” 

Shane took a moment to just breathe. To time his breath with Ilya’s. Opened his mouth. Closed his mouth. Ilya kissed his forehead again. 

“It wasn’t a sex tape,” he said, quiet, because he knew he could say that much, and it felt like a good starting point. “I was. Attacked.” Ilya hummed quietly. Shane screwed his eyes closed. “They filmed it. And edited it to make it look. Consensual. It. Wasn’t.” 

“That’s good,” Ilya said, after Shane lapsed back into silence. “You did good.” 

“I didn’t say it,” Shane said. 

“Is enough, what you said, I think. For point to be made.” 

“There’s a - in my head. Or in my - my mouth. It’s like a - a fucking wall. I’m trying to say it, and my body isn’t fucking working.”

“I have similar thing, sometimes,” Ilya said. “My brain and my mouth, they do not connect how I want. Maybe is Russian to English problem, but I think is me problem as well. I do not say what I want to be saying, sometimes. Like my brain is scared at last moment and switches out words.” 

“Yeah,” Shane sighed. “It’s like that.” 

“Mm,” Ilya nodded. “Is good to know you are not only one, da?” 

“I’m used to being the only one, I think,” Shane said. “Being weird. The one on the outside.”

“You are on my inside,” Ilya said, and then paused. “Hm,” he said. “Maybe not quite right. Usually is me on your inside.” 

They both paused then, as if they were checking an internal panic button about whether or not the sex joke was allowed to pass through without doing damage.

“Stupid,” Shane mumbled, and they both relaxed. 

---

After they’d eaten - Shane had agreed they could eat on the bed because there weren’t enough seats, and he wasn’t going to be sleeping in it again anyway - Ilya and Marlow shut themselves in the bathroom to call their coach. 

“You were okay, last night?” Hayden asked, the moment the door shut behind the Bears. “I know you - last night you said it was what you wanted. But I still felt weird about it. Leaving you alone with him.” 

Shane knew he was pulling a face, was too tired to try and fix it. “I’m not a kid, Hayden.”

Hayden grimaced. He’d brought all his stuff from his room, and had been trying to push things in his bag down a little more so it wasn’t as lumpy when he shut it, but he left it now and came to sit next to Shane on the bed. 

“I know,” he said. Bumped his shoulder against Shane’s lightly. “It’s not about me thinking --- it’s just that I didn’t notice. Before. Like I knew something was wrong, fuck, Shane, I thought I was waiting for you to tell me you’d been diagnosed with cancer or something. But then the video came out, and I still didn’t realise, and I was thinking all last night about how you fucking told me. You said you didn’t want it. And I didn’t get it, even then. Fucking Marlow and Rozanov did, without you even having to say shit to them, and I didn’t get it. So I just. I don’t want to let that happen again. Not - obviously never that, but like, me not. Following up.” 

Shane stared down at his lap. “You thought I had cancer?” 

Hayden let out an unhappy laugh. “Yes? No? I don’t know. Something was wrong, and I just. I knew it was something bad, and I knew it was something you didn’t want to talk about yet, so I guess. I don’t know. I shouldn’t have waited for you to tell me, ‘cause maybe if I’d tried pushing more you wouldn’t have had to go through this by yourself this whole time.” 

“I don’t,” Shane shook his head just once. “I don’t know if I would have told you, even if you pushed. I don’t think I would have known how, Hayd. I still can’t say it now, when you know, when there’s a video.I didn’t tell my parents, and they were pushing. So.” He shrugged. 

Hayden bumped their shoulders together again, and then stayed leaning against him. “Okay,” he said, “but like, can you tell me now, that you were okay last night? And this morning? Being here with Rozanov.” 

“Yeah,” Shane said. Let himself slump a little into Hayden as well so they were both holding each other up. “It was good.” 

“He wasn’t - I know you were really… fine with him holding you last night, and Marlow told me that he’s a really physical guy. And i know you aren’t, usually. It wasn’t too much?” 

Shane shook his head. If he strained, he could hear Ilya talking in the bathroom. There had been no raised voices so far, no strain in either his or Marlow’s tones. “It’s never too much. With him,” he mumbled. “He’s being really good. To me.” 

He knew he was blushing a little, which was stupid, because he was very much talking about him and Ilya basically hugging, but Hayden was also blushing a little bit when Shane risked a glance at him, which made Shane blush more. 

“Okay,” Hayden said. He lifted his hand to pat Shane on the back, not quite as bro as he might have done last week, but much more bro than the other day. “Good.” 

“You don’t have to, um, touch me so much if you don’t want,” Shane said then. Had been thinking about it on and off since Hayden and Marlow had come back this morning. About the way Hayden was always hesitant about it. “I know we aren’t, like, big hugging friends, and I know it probably feels a bit weirder now. That you know about me. Not being like, totally straight.” 

“Bro,” Hayden said, and then groaned in a way that sounded both self deprecating and Shane deprecating. “It’s not weird for me. You’re my best mate, okay? I’m not forcing myself to touch you, or whatever, it’s not like that. I just know you don’t usually like it.” 

Shane nodded, leaned in harder against Hayden’s side.

To be fully honest with himself, Shane wasn’t sure how he felt about it half the time. Because he’d meant it when he told Ilya he didn’t like hugging new people. Basically doing any kind of touching more extravagant than a handshake, off the rink. That had been his least favourite thing about events, his entire life, when he was expected to be passed around with back pats, and ladies giving him cheek kisses, and sometimes hugs. He didn’t care about it when he was on the rink, or even just around the arena, because it was expected there, a certain amount of jostling and physical contact from  his teammates, and then on ice he was padded up and it was part of the game. 

And he liked it when his friends hugged him. Not so much when it was a hug that caused jeering, but like, if it was at Hayden’s house, or Shane’s house, and no one saw and made a dumb comment, he liked it a lot. He even liked it when Jacki hugged him, because she always asked first. But he didn’t think about it when he wasn’t getting it. Hugged. And his parents hugged him a lot, too, which he liked except when he was already feeling prickly. And sometimes all he wanted when he was feeling shitty was his mum or his dad to give him a nice tight hug. And he liked the way it was right now, with Hayden leaning against his side. And he thought he had probably needed it, when Hayden had hugged him the other day, because it had helped Shane feel more in his body and real. But it hadn’t felt like it had when Ilya arrived and hugged him. Or how Ilya hugged him back into himself this morning.

He thought about Ilya touching him all the time. Not just touching him, how they usually were. Thought about how Ilya held him after they had fucked the first time. Holding him and carding his hand through Shane’s hair. And how they’d kissed soft and slow. And yeah, the next six months had been shitty as fuck, but - but Shane’s brain had kept replaying how good all of it had felt. From the fucking to the holding. And sometimes he would rub Shane’s back, and his hands were always so firm on him. And he thought about Ilya stroking his face, and kissing his shoulders, and resting his hands on Shane’s hips. And wanted so badly. So.

So he wasn’t sure if it was that he didn’t care about being touched much in general, and Ilya was just an outlier, or if maybe it was only with romantic or sexual partners that he actually wanted to be touched by, usually. Except he hadn’t, really, with his girlfriends. Like, he’d let them hold his hands, and give him long lingering hugs, because that was what you did, but he had never wanted to initiate any of the touch. And he’d never lain awake at night without them wanting them there. 

-----

Coming out of the bathroom with Marlow, after a reasonably successful phone call with LeClaire, the first thing Ilya noticed was the glazed look on Shane’s face. The second thing was that only Pike had looked up when the door opened.

“Ah,” Ilya said, being careful to keep the immediate annoyance he felt at Pike out of his voice. “Shane, you are caught in spiral again, hm?” 

Shane’s head jerked a little, and then he lifted it to look at Ilya, blinked hard like he had to think about it to pull him in to focus. 

“What is word for when water does it?” Ilya asked, stepping over to Shane as he spoke, “Does danger spirals?” 

“Whirlpool,” Shane said, tipped his head back to look up at him. He looked more like himself again. “Unless you’re talking about when it’s a tornado over water, and then I think it’s called a waterspout.” 

“Hm,” Ilya nodded, “thank you information channel.” 

Shane snorted, rolled his eyes. “You asked,” he said. “What did LeClaire say?” 

“We’re healthy scratches for the game today,” Marlow offered. He was stretching by the bathroom door, reaching his arms up until his back let out an audible click, and his shirt rode up over his stomach. “Official story is that Roz has a family emergency, and I’m providing moral support.” 

Ilya watched with interest as Shane’s cheeks flushed. He hoped it was not about Marly’s basic ass stomach. His stomach was much nicer to look at. 

“Family emergency?” Pike frowned up at him. “Won’t your family be confused?” 

“Ah,” Ilya waved his hand, “they do not pay attention, they will not know. So. Who is coming on road trip, Shane?” 

“Huh?” Shane looked from Ilya, to Pike,  to Marlow, and then for some reason, the door. “None of you have to,” he said, frowning. “It’s a much quicker flight, just because I’m not flying doesn’t mean you guys have to drive it with me.” 

“You’re an idiot if you think any of us give a crap about travel time right now, Hollander,” Marlow said with a snort. “Besides, Roz loves a roadtrip.” 

Shane looked at Pike. “Hayd?” He asked. “You already have a plane ticket.” 

“Yeah,” Pike shrugged. “I don’t exactly feel like traveling with those assholes right now, though. I can call Jacki and check she’ll be okay if I get home a bit later, but if you want me to, I’m coming. Someone has to control the aux.” 

“It won’t be you, Pike,” Ilya said, “you look like you play boring music.” 

“Ed Sheeran isn’t boring,” Pike said, cementing his position as boring in a terrible way. 

Marlow laughed while Ilya pretended to vomit. 

“Call Jacki,” Shane said. “Um. If you guys want to come, then yeah. You can all come. I don’t want to, like, take up your time too much, though. Or like, keep you from games.” 

“Don’t sweat it,” Marlow said, crossing the room to throw himself down across the couch. “The Bears can hold it down without us, even if they’d win bigger with us.” 

Pike grumbled something, but he was too busy getting up with his phone to call his wife to snark about hockey, apparently. And Shane didn’t seem to want to, the way he was looking at his hands in his lap. 

“We hire a car?” Ilya asked, plopping himself down where Pike had been sitting until a moment ago. “Something sexy? Fast? Ask for whatever is the brightest?” 

“No,” Shane said, stern except for the corners of his mouth. “Something sensible. With tinted windows. Because I don’t know how the internet would take seeing two Metros and two Bears on a roadtrip, right now.” 

“Probably be jealous,” Ilya said, slung his arm over Shane’s shoulders, “because they do not know we are all inside arguing about awful music tastes. Marlow will want to play those men. Mums and Sons.”

“Mumford and sons,” Marlow corrected, from his sprawl on the couch. “Hollzy,” he added, “thoughts on this one?” He underhand threw his phone in their direction. 

Shane caught the phone easily, which was good, because Ilya was considering not even trying, as payback for the stomach thing, and that would have been maybe a little petty and mean. Marlow’s phone was open to a car rental site, with a very boring black car that boasted a good speaker system, smooth handling, and heated seats. Ilya didn’t really care about what they were driving if it wasn’t going to be a cool car, but he was sure Shane had a lot of opinions.

“We can take turns driving,” Marlow said. “I’m assuming we all have our licences, but like, Roz and I also like driving a lot, so we can do the whole thing if needed.” 

“Marlow is always volunteering me for such things,” Ilya said, sighed, “he is lucky I am so nice and agreeable.” 

“Nice and agreeable my ass,” Marlow snorted. “You like doing this kind of thing, and then you also like to bitch and moan about it. It’s like a fucking double gift.” 

“Rude,” Ilya said, leaned his head against Shane’s. “You see what kind of thing I must put up with? My best friend is such a bully to me.” 

“Poor you,” Shane said, patted Ilya’s head. “Very sad.” 

Marlow laughed again, and Ilya stuck his tongue out at him from his enviable position on Shane’s shoulder. 

“The car looks good,” Shane said then, “um, I can grab my card and put my details in-” 

“Nah,” Marlow shook his head, “I’ve got this.” 

Shane looked like he was going to protest, so Ilya plucked the phone out of his hand, and threw it back at Marly. Hit him in the chest. 

“Asshole,” Marlow huffed, already picking the phone up, “he’s the bully, Hollzy.” 

“Oh, I am well aware,” Shane said, and then even smiled when Ilya squawked in offense. “I bet you’d have loved chirping me when I was a timbit,” he said, “mum has lots of photos of me making such a mad face because I didn’t like chirping back.” 

“You still don’t,” Ilya pointed out, “such weak chirps, like baby bird. I have to see photo of baby Shane angry face.” 

“Maybe,” Shane shrugged. 

Pike had gone into the bathroom to make his phonecall, and he came out now, pocketing his phone as he did. “Jacki thinks it’s a good idea,” he said. “The girls have playdates today anyway.” 

“Okay,” Shane nodded. “Good. Um. We should probably go, then? The team bus is leaving here at nine, and it’s almost nine, so. Wait ‘til they’re gone before we go?” 

“Yeah,” Hayden nodded. “I also texted coach. Said we wouldn’t be traveling back with them.” 

“Thanks, Hayd.” 

---

Pike and Marlow went together to pick up the car, and Ilya wasn’t being bigheaded about it, but he did think they’d get away with not being noticed. He and Shane were kind of a bigger deal, and especially Shane, right now, would probably be recognised way too quickly. When Marlow texted that they were on their way back, he and Shane dealt with checking out, and took the bags down to the underground car park, with hoodies pulled up, and caps pulled down low over their faces. 

Shane hadn’t said much since they’d agreed on the plan, but he didn’t look like he was getting caught in whirlpool thoughts, so that was something. 

They found a spot in the carpark they could wait in without being in easy view, and Ilya texted Marlow their location. 

“I have, um, a guest room, at my place,” Shane said, after a few minutes of standing together in silence. “And probably my parents are going to want to stay, at least overnight. But my couch is - well, if Marlow wants to stay, he can probably fit on it. I’m sorry I don’t have more room.”

“Your couch is nice,” Ilya shrugged, “he has slept in much worse spots. He will be fine. Will you be, ah, okay with me staying with you while your parents are in next room?” 

Shane flushed again, glanced up at Ilya and then away. “Yeah,” he said. “I mean. It won’t be like there’ll be anything for them to overhear. And I can just. There’s not room for both you and Marlow on the couch, so it makes sense for you to - to stay in my room. ‘Cos we’re friends.” 

“Yeah,” Ilya nodded, pressed his elbow to Shane’s. “We are.” 

“They’ll find it weird,” Shane added. “Mostly because you’re both Bears, and you’re, well, my rival. But. I mean. This whole situation is weird, so I think, I don’t think I care. Or, like, I can’t freak out about what they might think about you right now, because I’m, I’m already overloaded. With freaking about. So. Maybe I’ll freak out about it tomorrow, or when we get there. I don’t know.” 

“We deal with it then,” Ilya said. “Marly and I will be very polite Bears, charming.”

---

When the car pulled up, Pike was driving, and blasting Ed Sheeran. Marlow grinned at Ilya while Pike gave him a sort of smug look, so Ilya did not give either of them the pleasure of his displeasure. 

They piled the bags in, and then he and Shane got into the backseat, and Pike turned the music down automatically, like he knew Shane would ask for it. 

“I’ve been looking on maps,” Marlow said, once Pike was pulling out of the hotel underground, “for good places we can stop for lunch. Pike’s already told me you won’t go for most of the drive through places, but I found a couple of places that do, like, chicken salads?” 

“Okay,” Shane said, eyes wide like he was surprised about something. “Um. Thank you.” 

“All good, bro,” Marlow said, and then, “also Pike and I figured if we had a band we’d be Pike and Marlin, like, the fish. They’re kinda like swordfish. And Pikes have teeth. I think it’d be kinda punk rock.” 

“Jesus,” Ilya snorted, “we are listening to ginger sad man and you think a band with Pike would be punk rock?” 

“I can be rock,” Pike argued, “I dunno about punk, sorry, Marly, but I can rock.” 

“Hmm,” Ilya shook his head. “Maybe I will have to see to believe.” 

“We have four hours,” Pike shot back, raising his eyebrows at Ilya in the rear view mirror, “I have good taste in music. I’ll bring you ‘round to Sheeran.” 

“There will be no bringing around of me to him,” Ilya said flatly. “When I drive, I show you real music.” 

Pike was replying, but Ilya stopped listening, because Shane’s hand had just brushed against Ilya’s. Ilya immediately turned his hand over so Shane could slot them together, and then he squeezed, and listened to Shane exhale slowly. Looked at him. Shane had leaned his head against the headrest, facing Ilya, with his eyes shut, and his shoulders slumped. 

“Tired?” Ilya asked, voice low. 

“Yeah,” Shane spoke without opening his eyes. “Shouldn’t be. Didn’t even play yesterday.” 

“Big day anyway,” Ilya said. “Sleep if you want.” 

Shane opened his eyes, just a little, looked at Ilya through his lashes. “Don’t let go?” 

Something in Ilya’s chest panged painfully, and he shook his head. “I won’t,” he said, his throat tight. 

Shane closed his eyes again. Ilya blinked hard, willing the wetness along his lashline away. He wanted to tell Shane that he would never leave, if Shane asked him to stay. Wanted to tell Shane that he shouldn’t want Ilya to stay, actually, no matter how badly Ilya wanted to, because he knew he was bad for Shane. In the long run. That Ilya wasn’t actually allowed this, not for real. Not after Shane was actually being properly supported. 

He watched as Shane’s face shifted, slipping into sleep so quickly he must have been exhausted. Ilya knew how tiring being sad was. He was tired too, but not enough to sleep. Didn’t want to sleep right now, anyway, because he might let go of Shane’s hand in his sleep, accidentally, and he said he wouldn’t. 

Eventually he realized Marlow and Pike have stopped talking - he was pretty sure they had been making plans for their non-existent band - and he looked up to see Marly looking over his shoulder at him.  

“All good, Roz?” Marly asked when Ilya looked at him. Pike was also glancing at him, and probably Shane, in the rearview again. 

“Yeah,” Ilya shrugged. “He’s sleeping.” 

Marlow nodded, his eyes flicking from Shane’s face, to their joined hands in the middle seat, back to Ilya’s face. “And you?” He pressed. “You’re doing okay?” 

“Of course,” Ilya replied, raised his eyebrows. “I am always okay.” 

Marlow gave him a look, but it was Pike who replied. 

“You said it was a family emergency,” he said, “to your coach. Is that - Shane’s that important to you?” 

Every so often Ilya thought maybe he and Pike could get along, and then Pike would say something stupid like this. Try to peel up the flooring and get a look at the shit underneath. 

“Yes,” he said, knew he sounded pissed off, couldn’t say for sure what it was that pissed him off so bad about the question. Maybe it was just PIke’s voice with fucking Sheeran in the background. 

“Okay,” Pike’s shoulders moved like he was shrugging. “It’s just a surprise, is all, man.” 

---

Shane woke up when they got lunch, at noon. They went through a drive through of a far too healthy looking place, but it did at least have burgers and fries as well as salads and fruit smoothies. They ate on the road, and then pulled over for a piss stop, and for Marlow to take over driving. Shane texted his parents his ETA, and also a warning about who he was keeping company with. Pike lost Aux privileges when he stopped driving, thank god, but Marlow did play his boring Mumford sons before putting on something more interesting. Pike suggested they play a car game, like I spy, and Shane taught them the rules of some word game instead. He told Ilya he could play in Russian if he wanted, and Ilya had very happily cheated with fake words until Shane became too suspicious and called him out, and they had a car wide argument until Pike began loudly playing I spy. 

They stopped again about half an hour out to get coffees for everyone except Shane, who said he only wanted water, but happily accepted the gatorade Ilya got him. And then Ilya drove. Pike had said maybe he should drive again because he knew where they were going, and then Ilya had said he knew where he was going, and Pike looked like he was going to say something else except Shane looked at him with his face sort of scrunched up, and Pike dropped it. They had switched around so it was Shane and Ilya in the front now, with Marlow and Pike in the back so they could deal with not quite enough leg room. 

When they drove in to Montreal proper, Shane began fidgeting in his seat, and just to look at him it was easy to see he was on the verge of freaking out. Face pale and drawn, hands clenched. 

“I thought, maybe,” Ilya said, moving his hand from the gear stick to Shane’s thigh and squeezing it carefully. “When we get to your house, maybe Pike and Marly drive on to his house, to give you a little time just with your parents.”

Shane turned his head jerkily to look at Ilya, and then to glance into the back seat, and then back to Ilya. His hand moved from where it had been clenched around the string of his hoodie, and wrapped around Ilya’s hand tightly instead. 

“You’d stay?” He asked. 

“Yes,” Ilya focused on looking and sounding calm. He looked at Shane for long enough to make eye contact, to nod at him, and then turned back to the road. 

“It’s up to you, bud,” Hayden said. He had leaned forwards so his head was resting between the front seats and he could see Shane properly, though sadly it meant his head was touching Ilya’s arm. “I can take Marly back to mine for a bit, give you space. Could take Rozanov too, if you wanted. Or I can stay. Or, yeah. Whatever you want.” 

Shane looked pained, his grip on Ilya’s hand was crushing. “Uh,” he said, “maybe, yeah, what Ilya said? I think that’d be easier. And then you can, um. See Jacki. And fill her in. If you haven’t already. It’s fine if you have, by the way, I just mean. Yeah.” 

A short silence. Ilya had tried to put on his music when he took over driving, but it wasn’t as funny to terrorise the car with it when Shane was looking like one wrong noise and he’d vomit. He’d been having his anti-puke meds, which Ilya was pleased to note were the exact kind he thought Shane would want. But still, he didn’t want to play his favourite Russian rap and then have Shane throw up about it, because then he’d never be able to play it to Shane again. So he told Shane to choose the music, and Shane had chosen something that was probably closer to white noise than anything else. He said it was river sounds. Sometimes Ilya wanted to grab Shane and bite him, like, just fully chew on him. Not in a mean way. It just felt like the only way he could get across the feeling in his gut about him. 

So. They sat in river burbling silence for a moment, before Pike broke it. Haha, fish. 

“Yeah, sounds good, bud,” he said. “Jacki said she was looking forward to meeting Marly, so, it’ll be good. And, uh, I haven’t fully told her yet. I didn’t want to, like, drop it on her over the phone.” 

“Okay,” Shane said. 

“Okay,” Pike said. 

“I’m looking forward to meeting Jacki too,” Marlow chipped in, “I think I’ve seen her insta before, she’s a catch, man.” 

“Watch it, Marlin,” Pike said. 

Ilya hoped this fish punk band would not become a real thing. 

-----

Shane knew his parents were already at his apartment, waiting for them. They’d texted about an hour before to say that they’d arrived, and would he like them to order any food? He hadn’t replied, because he didn’t know how to say anything to them when he knew he was about to see them and say what he was going to say. 

Hayden hugged him when they got out of the car in Shane’s apartment, told him it’d be okay, and to text, or get Roz to text, and he’d be back whenever Shane wanted. 

Marlow had looked like he wanted to hug Shane as well, which was kind of insane, but had simply reached his hand out and offered a fist bump, which Shane returned gratefully. He was glad Ilya had a friend like Marlow, but he was very selfishly relieved that Ilya had been the one to send Marlow and Hayden away. 

Ilya tried to take Shane’s bags, as well as his own, which Shane glared at him for, and they took the lift up to Shane’s apartment for the first time together. 

“Strange not having to do leg day first,” Ilya said, as they both watched the floor numbers notch slowly up. “Is like if Rumplestiltskin found lift in her tower suddenly.” 

“What?” Shane snorted, couldn’t figure out what Ilya meant, “Rumplestiltskin?” 

“Yes?” Ilya frowned. “No. No. Wrong name. Silly. English way to say things is silly. Princess with long hair?” 

“Rapunzel?” 

“Ah, da, yes. Rapuntsel’. Rumpel'shtil'tskhen is little tricking man, yes?” 

“Um, I think so,” Shane frowned, tried to remember. He hadn’t been big on fairytales as a kid, but it’s not like he hadn’t heard them. “You’re saying that climbing the stairs to my apartment is like climbing my hair? I think hair climbing would be much harder.” 

“Mm, well, maybe if you grow your pretty hair out longer we can test,” Ilya shrugged, shot Shane a stupid grin. “You have liked before when I tug it.” 

“Shut up,” Shane said, felt himself blushing again, and rolled his eyes partly at himself but mostly at Ilya. “You’re unbelievable sometimes.” 

“Thank you,” Ilya said, still grinning, “I would climb anything to get to you,” he added, still sounding a little like he was teasing, but not really. “But I do like being in lift with you instead.” 

Shane was very glad that his apartment building was so private, and he barely ever saw his neighbours. He’d still never felt safe bringing Ilya up this way, but he couldn’t bear to take him around the back today. And now, as the lift reached his floor, and he knew the only other person on this floor was never out and about, he felt safe enough to reach for Ilya. 

He had to step right into Ilya’s space to get around their bags, and he put his hand to Ilya’s cheek, leaned up. Ilya bent to him like it was inevitable, his hands moving to rest one on Shane’s hip, the other under his jaw. Kissed him slow, closed mouth. 

The lift doors opened, thankfully to an empty hall, and Shane pressed another kiss to Ilya’s lips, and stepped out of the lift, Ilya right on his heels. 

He paused at his door, fumbling for his keys, but had only just lifted his hand to put the key in when the door swung open to reveal his mother. He paused, hand still raised. Looked at her. 

She looked tired, like she’d been sleeping as badly as he had. Her hair was a little frazzled, like she’d been running her hands through it.

“Shane,” she said, and he felt his mouth tremble and knew he was going to lose it. Dropped his bag to the floor, and thrust his keys in Ilya’s direction. “Baby.” 

He tipped forwards into her arms, and she wrapped herself around him immediately, tugging him close and pressing her face to his to kiss his cheek, despite the tears already running wetly down it. 

He heard his father saying something behind her, and Ilya replying, and then he and his mother were being sort of shuffled into the apartment, and towards the couch, and then he was sitting on the couch almost on his mother’s lap. She was holding him, rocking him, saying soft things into his hair, and then his father was sitting down on Shane’s other side, and hugging him from behind as well, wrapping his arms around the both of them. 

“Sorry,” Shane managed to get out, even as he couldn’t stop the crying. He was so sick of the crying. He always worked so hard not to let himself cry in front of people, and this weekend had been terrible for it. “I’m so sorry.” 

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” his dad said, low and calm. “Shaney, it’s okay.” 

“I fucked everything up,” Shane sobbed, “I’m going to lose all the sponsors mum worked for, and I’m going to lose my job, and my team.” 

“No,” his mum was crying too, but less violently than Shane was, her body wasn’t shaking the way Shane’s couldn’t stop doing. “Baby, no. You didn’t fuck anything up. Everything is going to be okay. We’re not angry, baby, we love you. We’re so proud of you.” 

Shane couldn’t help but think that this might be the last time they said this. He knew - the sensible parts of him at least - that it wouldn’t be. That what he was going to say wasn’t going to ruin him the way he kept thinking it would. He knew Ilya was right, that he was just spiraling about it, that it was just his brain being scared. But it was scary. 

“I’m sorry you had to see it,” he gasped out. “The video. I hate that you saw me like that. I’m sorry.” 

“Shaney, Shaney,” his dad soothed. “You’re an adult. Of course we didn’t want to see it, but it’s not - it’s okay that you did it, alright?” 

“I didn’t,” Shane blurted out. His face was buried in his mother’s shoulder, her hair hiding his face. “I - I need - can I just -” 

He pulled himself away from his mother’s shoulder, wiping at his face. She helped by tugging a strand of her hair away from his cheek where it had stuck to his tears. His dad helped him sit upright, his hands on Shane’s shoulders. 

He could see Ilya now, standing just out of reach of the huddle of Shane and his parents, standing awkwardly like he wasn’t sure he was welcome any more. 

“I think I need,” Shane stuttered, closing his eyes and forcing the sob in his throat down. “I need to not be… touching you guys. While I say this.” 

“Oh,” his mum sounded a little surprised, her hand dropping off Shane’s shoulder. “Okay, baby, we’ll -” 

“Stay, stay there,” Shane said to his parents, and then heaved himself upright, his eyes on Ilya. He put his hand out, and Ilya stepped back into reach and let Shane take his hand. “And I’ll -”

He moved a few steps away from the couch before turning around to face them again, Ilya just letting him move them. He was so nauseous again, despite taking another of the chewables as they parked the car. 

His parents were watching him carefully, and he hated how worried he had made them, hated that he couldn’t even give them just a few moments more of holding each other. He just didn’t think he would ever be able to say it if he didn’t do it right now. Couldn’t be in their presence any longer knowing he had to say it without saying it. 

He sat down on the edge of his coffee table, was grateful when Ilya didn’t drop down to sit on it with him, because he wasn’t sure it would hold both of them. Instead, Ilya crouched down beside him, feet flat on the floor, steady and solid to hold onto. 

“Did you -” he began, glancing from Ilya to his parents. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I never. Um. Ilya, my parents, David and Yuna. Um, mum and dad, this is Ilya, um, you know that. Rozanov. He - he’s my… my friend.” 

“Oh…kay,” his mum said. She leaned forwards, her hands clasped on her knee. “It’s okay, baby, whatever you’re going to say. We love you.” 

Shane nodded tightly. Wondered how Ilya would explain to his coach how he’d broken his fingers if Shane kept holding his hand so vice like, and focused on loosening his grip a little until he stopped imagining broken fingers. 

“The video,” Shane began, cleared his throat. “It’s not a sex tape. Its not my sex tape. It wasn’t -” He cleared his throat again, and Ilya ran his thumb over Shane’s knuckles. “Two weeks ago,” he said to the floor, “the men in the video approached me while I was - was alone - and attacked me. I didn’t know there was a video of it. Until it got posted. I don’t - I don’t know who they are. And I didn’t want it. Any of it.” He felt light headed, was gasping for air. Ilya’s hand was on his back, soothing, and then on his nape, squeezing gently. 

“Shane,” that was his mum, or maybe his dad, or maybe both of them. He could see one of them reaching for him, but his vision felt a bit blurry, and his skin was prickling. 

“Please don’t touch me,” he rasped, and the hand dropped away. So did Ilya’s, which wasn’t what Shane had wanted, and he ducked his head further, tucking down like he could roll up like an armadillo and hide properly. “Not you,” he whispered, “please keep - keep squeezing my neck.” 

Ilya did so, moving slowly like he was waiting for Shane to change his mind, or jerk away, but then his hand was back on Shane’s nape, squeezing carefully, and Shane’s body started to slowly calm down. 

“Is okay,” Ilya said, quiet beside him. “Breathe in like this, yes, good, you are doing so good, dorogoy, and breathe out, mm?” 

It was helpful in a way Shane usually didn’t find people talking him through his breathing. It often made him feel almost condescended too, of course he knew how to breathe. He didn’t feel like that now. He clung to Ilya’s words, breathed with them. Focused on Ilya’s hand on his neck. 

“You are okay,” Ilya said eventually, once Shane’s breathing had evened out and his skin didn’t feel like it was going to vibrate off him. “You are safe. And your parents love you. Hm?”

He wondered if Ilya had done this much before, talking down panicking people. Saying soft safe things. How he was so good at picking the right words to soothe Shane. Wished he knew how to do it, so he could return the favour if Ilya ever needed it. 

“I’m okay,” Shane repeated. When Ilya reached out to touch his chin, he turned his face into the touch, let Ilya lift his head. “I’m okay,” he said again, blinked at Ilya. Had to look at his parents. 

They were still staring at him, and Ilya, his mother was crying. His father’s eyes were red. They had their arms around each other in a similar way to how Ilya was holding Shane. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, when he could finally lift his gaze to their faces. “For not telling you. Earlier. I couldn’t handle it.” 

“You did nothing wrong, baby,” his mum said emphatically. She looked like she wanted to reach out, her hand spasming on David’s arm. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry they hurt you. God, my baby, I’m sorry.” 

Shane shook his head, could feel his face scrunching up as he tried to keep the tears from returning full force again. 

“What do you need, Shaney?” His dad asked, his hand rubbing Yuna’s back gently. “Anything.” 

Shane wanted it to never have happened. He knew it wasn’t worth it to say that, that it would hurt all of them. He wanted it to not be a big deal, but he’d tried that even before the video dropped, and he had felt like he was rotting, like he was a hunk of meat gone off that he had to pilot around. He didn’t know what else he wanted right now. 

“I called Farah, last night,” he said, because he didn’t know what to say about his wants. “And I - well, Ilya told her what happened. What the video was. So that she’s in the loop, and could talk to the Metros management. I don’t - I don’t want to have to be the… point of contact about this. I don’t want to have to do business talk about it. I know it’s a lot to ask, but can I - can you guys talk to her, for me? I’ll - I’ll still, obviously, talk when I have to, it’s just. I can’t.” 

“Of course,” his mum said, quick and fervent. “We’ll handle it. I’ll call Farah as soon as you want, okay?” 

He nodded. 

“You’ve been stuck in a hotel, and then a car for a couple days, huh?” his dad said then, “Would it help to have a bit of time in your gym room? Get some stretches in, and then a shower. We can get things sorted out here.” 

That would probably be good, actually. “Yeah,” he said. “I - I’d like that. I was going to, the other day, at the hotel. But Theriault didn’t want me leaving my room. So I - I just didn’t.” 

His mother hissed slightly at that.

“You want company?” Ilya asked, “Or time alone? I can stay here and help your parents?” 

Shane could imagine his parents wanting the second option very much, so they could ask Ilya a million questions because they could see Shane wasn’t up to answering shit right now. But he was selfish, and he wanted to keep Ilya in his eye sight at all possible moments to keep reminding himself that he was here, with him, and there were people who saw him and understood him without needing to use his words. 

“You could use a work out,” he said, instead of the million other ways he wanted to beg Ilya to come with him. “You missed your game today.” 

“Oh,” his mother sounded shocked, “I forgot Boston had a game, how are you here, Rozanov?” 

“Car,” Ilya said, shot Shane’s mum a smile. “I will come see your gym. Maybe we compete.” 

“I’ll cycle, you run on the treadmill?” 

---

After he and Ilya had toppled off their machines, red faced and gasping, they had sat against the wall and shared a bottle of water, and Ilya kissed him again, careful, and offered him a hand to stand up. They showered, one at a time because Shane didn’t want his parents to suspect anything might be going on, and Ilya told him to shower first because Shane hated the feeling of dried sweat with a fiery intensity. 

By the time he’d gotten dressed again, and laid out some clean clothes for Ilya, he felt better than he had in weeks. 

It was still there - the pit in his stomach, the dread and anxiety - but it wasn’t swallowing him whole anymore. His parents knew, and they were still here, wanting to help. Farah and his mum were talking right now, working out what to do next. His dad had apparently done an entire grocery shop online because he had plans for dinner, and when Shane came into the kitchen, he had pulled Shane into a tight hug and just held him. 

And Ilya was here. In front of his parents. Like it was normal. Well, currently in the shower, but still. He was here. 

“Your mum has been writing down a list of questions,” his dad said, they were still in the kitchen, Shane still leaning in against his father’s shoulders. “For you to answer, if you can, so that Farah can move a few more things forward. Just wanted to let you know, now, okay? You don’t have to look at them until you’re ready to, even if your mum says it needs to be done asap. She’s just - she wants to help you so badly.” 

“I know,” Shane mumbled. “I’ll look at the questions, but I don’t know - I don’t know how useful I’ll be.” 

“That’s okay, too,” his dad shrugged, pressed a smacking kiss to the top of Shane’s head like he was five. “Ilya was right, y’know? We love you so much.” 

Shane squirmed a little, nodded. “I know. I love you guys too.” 

“Good,” his dad nodded, patted his back gently. “He’s a good one, I think. Your Ilya. Seems different to the Rozanov we’ve seen.” 

Stepping back away from his dad, Shane leaned against the counter, rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “He’s - he’s both,” he said. “I like both sides of him.” 

“And you… you like him?” his dad asked, tone careful. “I don’t want to assume anything, but -” 

“I do, yeah,” Shane breathed. “We’re not - we’re friends. But yeah. I do. I tried not to. To like him like that, but it’s - I can’t stop.” 

“Hey,” Shane’s dad’s face was suddenly so sad looking, “you don’t need to try not to, bud. You’re allowed to like him. Men, in general. Okay?” 

Shane nodded, and then shook his head once, quickly. “It’s not realistic,” he said, quiet. “But now it’s - everyone thinks I’m gay, anyway, so I know I can’t avoid it. It’s just that I won’t get to have him. I don’t want to have him in this mess. I know he’s here now, but I’m hoping that - I’m hoping that no one will find out, and he can go home and live his life like normal and not have any of this hanging over him.” He waved his hands a little manically around himself to indicate this. 

He had been trying to sound realistic, and normal, and to make his dad look a little less sad, but it hadn’t worked. 

“Shane,” he said. 

Shane shook his head. “It’s too much to think about right now,” he said, “with everything else.” 

“Okay. We’ll come back to this.” 

---

Hayden and Marlow came back in the evening. Hayden staying for long enough to say hello to Shane’s parents, and to hug Shane, and deliver messages of love from Jacki and the twins. He went back home before dinner, because the apartment felt too full, and Shane had said he should go, and he’d text him tomorrow, and thank you. 

His dad made spaghetti meatballs, and Marlow and Ilya ate so much of it that Shane was worried spaghetti would come out their noses. His parents talked with the Bears cautiously at first, and then much less cautiously by the time dinner was over, because both Marlow and Ilya were charismatic, and nice, and Ilya had promised they would be on their best behaviour. 

After dinner his mum gave him the list of questions, and said to take his time. He didn’t need to look yet, or answer yet, she just wanted him to know what they were thinking. Marlow and Ilya did the dishes, still working on being charming, and Shane sat down with his parents to look at the emails from the Metros via Farah, which were shitty and made his stomach twist with guilt and humiliation. Finally his mum suggested everyone might need an early night, especially because Marlow had decided he would catch a flight out tomorrow morning, so he would need the time to drive the car to the rental drop off at the airport before catching his flight. 

His parents made up the couch for Marlow, and his mum suggested they could make another bed in the lounge, of cushions, except his dad shook his head once, and she dropped it, and then they all went to bed. 

“Do I need another shower?” Ilya asked, when he’d shut Shane’s bedroom door behind himself. “Before I am allowed in your clean bed?” 

“No,” Shane said, “but you have to wash your face, I don’t believe there’s not spaghetti sauce somewhere on it.” 

“I would have done this anyway,” Ilya said with a shrug, “after I brush my teeth. I am well mannered, Hollander.” 

“Could’ve fooled me, Rozanov,” Shane snarked back. “C’mon.” 

They both piled into the ensuite, cramming themselves together in front of the sink to brush their teeth, and then to wash their faces. Ilya stripped off everything but his underwear again - though they were now Shane’s underwear actually - and Shane changed into his pajama shorts. He usually wore a shirt as well, but not when he had a chance to feel so much of Ilya against him. 

He brought the list into bed with him, fetching it from his trouser pocket before he put the pants away. 

They settled into the middle of the bed, Shane leaning back into Ilya’s chest, and Ilya hooked his chin over Shane’s shoulder, his arms around Shane’s waist as Shane held the list up for the both of them to read. He had felt, at first, like it would be too embarrassing. Having Ilya see this part as well, the details of the story he was about to have to think about, to be pressed for. But it felt easier having him at Shane’s back, reading the questions with him. 

“You want to, mm, talk about this?” Ilya asked, once they had both scanned all of the questions, and Shane had dropped his head back against Ilya’s shoulder and closed his eyes. 

“Is that okay?” 

“Yes,” Ilya pressed a kiss to Shane’s eyebrow. “You want to tell me answers?” 

Shane nodded, “yeah,” he said. “It’s easier. With you. If I do it by myself I think I’d get lost, but I know you won’t let me spiral.” 

“No losing you,” Ilya agreed, flexed his arm around Shane. “I hold you tightly.” 

• Why were you in that space, at that time? IE. did someone ask you to stay late? Did you have a meeting? 

“I was supposed to have a - I don’t know. A talk with Comeau. He asked to meet me after his physio appointment after practice,” Shane shrugged, tried to think about the details of that evening before he’d started losing time. “I - I was waiting in the locker room for him, and I was antsy, because I wanted to go home and do my yoga, and my routine. So, I told our gear guy, Rodney, that I’d deal with the rest of putting the gear away. I wanted something to do. I was going to get Comeau to help with the rest when he turned up, for making me stay so late. I was doing the, like, wiping stuff down, in the gear room, and he texted saying he forgot, and we’d talk later. I don’t think - yeah, we didn’t talk later. He didn’t ask for another meeting. I guess he forgot? Or like, solved his problem by himself. Because I skipped the next few days, so, he didn’t get a chance to follow up.” 

“Hm,” Ilya said, his voice taut. “He was supposed to meet you in gear room?” 

“No,” Shane shook his head. “The locker room. But like, it’s just down the hall, so it would have been easy to find me.” 

“Yes,” Ilya nodded. “Ah,” he said, “am I supposed to be writing this down? Like, mm, person with feather pen?” 

“Scribe?” 

“Da.” 

“I don’t know, no? I mean. If I can just say this to you, then. I don’t know. Maybe I should write it down.” Shane sighed, closed his eyes. 

“I will scribe,” Ilya said, reaching to where he’d left his phone on the side table. “I will write as email to you. What is address?” He added, tapping quickly into his mail account. 

“Hollander.S.@gmail.com,” Shane said, slow, watching Ilya tapping it in. “You are a fast typer.” 

“Is from all my texting you,” Ilya said, “I always have to write quick so I keep your attention before you get stuck in hockey again.” 

“Sure,” Shane rolled his eyes, “definitely from texting me.” 

“Some from texting you,” Ilya said. He was already typing in the body of the email, writing out Shane’s words. “Is this right?” He asked, turning his phone a little so it was easier for Shane to read what he’d written. 

“Um, well, it’s C-O-M-E-A-U, not cunt, but so far yeah.” 

“Mmm, it was description of him not name,” Ilya said, but tapped back into the name and changed it, “but yes, perhaps not good idea to send to Farah with wrong name. If she looks for a cunt on the Metros she will have to talk to so many people.” 

Shane rolled his eyes, ignored the small sting of wanting to defend his team. “Why would she want to talk to him?” He asked. “He wasn’t even there. I have his text if she wants to verify my plans, but I think she’ll just believe me.” 

“She will believe you,” Ilya said. “How is this?” 

Shane checked his work. “Yep.” 

“Okay, good. You want next question?” 

Nope. 

• Did the men have any noticeable features; tattoos, birthmarks, hair colour, etc. Did they use each other’s names? Did they say why they were there before the attack occurred?

“I don’t know,” Shane admitted. “I didn’t - I looked at them, but I didn’t really see them. Especially after they started - yeah. They just looked like, like any other white guy on my team. He said - the first guy, because he came in alone. I didn’t know there were two guys until, yeah. But, he said he was cousins with one of my teammates, and he was going to come in with them but got held up. So he took a chance and came in anyway, hoping I’d still be there. Because he wanted to talk to me about - about being gay while playing hockey. And if I was gay. He said his cousin knew he was gay, and was chill about it. So I - do you think he is a cousin of one of them? Because no one said anything to me about bringing a cousin in, and like, I don’t know. It’s a weird thing to say. Unless it was just to bring my guard down, the family relation thing.” 

“Is weird,” Ilya said, frowning down at his phone as he typed. “You think maybe he could be Comeau’s cousin? Very basic white man face, yes?” 

“I mean, yeah,” Shane shrugged, “but that’s like, half the players.” 

Ilya laughed a little. “I love it when you are a little mean,” he said, pressed a kiss to Shane’s temple. “It fills my heart with joy.” 

“You’re so weird,” Shane complained, snuggling in to Ilya’s chest a little more. “I think that’s all I remember. About the interaction before the attack. LIke. They didn’t use each others names, but they knew each other. It felt planned.” 

“Okay,” Ilya said. He typed a little longer, and then held his phone out for Shane’s viewing. 

“Yeah,” Shane nodded at it. Yawned. “Maybe you should quit hockey and scribe full time.” 

“You just want to win more,” Ilya said, “greedy.” 

• Did you talk to anyone immediately or soon after the attack? Did you tell anyone about what happened in the days afterwards, or see someone about any injuries incurred during the attack?

“No, I didn’t -” Shane began, and then stopped, because he was an idiot. Or because he had tried to shove that night into the back crevices of his mind to never look at ever again. “I went to a - afterwards - I went to an emergency sexual health clinic. I, um, I didn’t even tell them very much. Just - I think it was obvious, looking at me? Because they - they seemed like they knew everything already. I just wanted them to, like, make sure I hadn’t caught anything? Or, been, like. Badly ripped. They took samples, and, um, gave me antibiotics, and creams, and things. But, I signed in under a fake name, and paid in cash.” 

Ilya’s hand was shaking slightly as he typed, and probably Shane should move so he could use both his hands. Ilya hadn’t said anything though, and he was still holding Shane tightly to him. 

“Do you remember fake name?” Ilya asked, “And did you give phone number?” 

“I did,” Shane said, “they texted me my results. And that I should get checked again in two weeks. I guess, around about now. Just to be sure. Um, I used the name - don’t laugh at me - Hunter Gretsky.” 

Ilya’s hand stilled. His chest wobbled a little. 

“Don’t laugh,” Shane groaned, “I was just - it was just the first names I thought of.” 

Somehow Ilya managed to swallow his laughter, but couldn’t keep the mirth out of his voice. “Should I feel jealous? Your favourite hockey players, hm?” 

“I don’t think I could pull off any of your names,” Shane complained. “I mean, they knew it was fake, but how ridiculous would I have looked trying to say I was an Ilya, or like, a Gregoriyevich, or a Rozanov?”

“You could pull off Rozanov,” Ilya said, then, “you know my middle name? You are secretly big fan, stalking my fanpages?” 

“I just saw it once,” Shane protested, “when I was, like, studying your play. Like I do with other players all the time. Normally.” 

“Mm,” Ilya nodded, “okay. Shane fanboy Hollander.” 

Shane rolled his eyes, “Not my middle name. Sad for me, you’re not even my fan.” 

“I am your biggest fan,” Ilya retorted, putting his phone down. “All other Hollander fans have nothing on me. I will fight them for first place.” 

Trying to be quiet, Shane hid his laugh behind his hand, turned his face away from Ilya. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, once he could keep the laughter out of his voice. 

“Mm, yes,” Ilya agreed, pressed another kiss to Shane’s head, then ducked down further and kissed him quickly on the lips. “Ah, do you remember clinic name?” He added, picking his phone back up. 

“Probably,” Shane said, reached for his own phone. “I’ll double check though.” 

He had to scroll for a while in his messages to find the text, trying hard not to read the message previews of all his unread texts from mostly unknown numbers. His eye caught on a few names, as he scrolled, though. JJ had messaged, on the Friday. Nothing since then. And - 

“Scott Hunter texted me,” Shane said, pausing, and then pressing in to the message. “Saying, um, he was sorry that I was outed without my permission, and if I need any support, he was happy to help any way he could.” 

Ilya made a rough noise, and Shane could feel him shaking his head. “He wants you,” he said, “this is obviously man with crush on you.” 

“I think he’s just being nice,” Shane said, tipping his head back to look up at Ilya. “I don’t think he’s gay.” 

“Yes, but you also don’t think you are gay,” Ilya said, eyebrows raised. He kissed Shane again when Shane frowned at him. “Maybe old man is being nice. He is also gay. I can tell, these things.” 

Shane frowned harder, shifted in Ilya’s arms so he could see his face better. “How?” he asked. “I can’t. I’ve never - I don’t know what it is about me that gives it away.” 

“No,” Ilya shook his head. He put his phone down again and lifted his hand to Shane’s cheek. “Is not a give away, exactly. I am just good at reading people. Useful for being a gay in Russia, or in hockey, looking for someone who is like you.”

“So,” Shane thought about it, “when did you know I was like you? Before or after you tried to jerk off next to me in the showers at the ad shoot?” 

“When you shook my hand,” Ilya said, smiled down at him like he was remembering it fondly. “In Saskatchewan, which I had to practice saying so much. I liked you, and I hoped, maybe. So I kept looking.” 

“You liked me then?”

“Yes, well. Pretty boy with big eyes and freckles is so polite to me, shakes my hand twice. Of course I did.”

“I thought you were such an asshole,” Shane said, smiled back up at him. “And I was right. But I also - I really wanted to see you again.” 

“Like me,” Ilya said. “Maybe we finish this answer up, and then we sleep, yes? You are all half shut eyes and soft.” 

Shane rolled his eyes, but he was tired, Ilya was right. “Okay,” he said. 

Pulled his phone closer to his face and finally found the message he was looking for. Read the name and address out to Ilya, and felt exhausted about having to get his labs done again. Wondered if they would remember him if he went back there. Probably. He knew at least one of them had realised who he was. Wondered if they had seen the video and knew what it really was. 

Ilya showed him the email, and Shane scanned the contents tiredly, then typed his mother’s email in as well as his own, and pressed send. Then he texted his mum to check her spam in case it went in there. There were more questions, but it was probably good to send something sooner than later rather than waiting for him to be able to answer everything. That might never happen. 

They plugged their phones in, Shane turned off the lamp. Lifted Ilya’s arm and tucked himself underneath it. 

“Did you want to fly back with Marlow tomorrow?” 

Ilya huffed in the darkness, tightened his arm around Shane, and then rolled them so he was lying on top of Shane, weighing him down. Kissed him on his forehead, firm. “No,” he said. “Or I would have bought ticket when he did.” 

“I know I can’t keep you here forever,” Shane said, relished in the way he was being pressed into the mattress. He wrapped his arms around Ilya’s back, pulled him down flush against him, tugging until Ilya put his head next to Shane’s on the pillow, face turned to him. 

“You could try,” Ilya replied, their noses touching. “But probably my team would come fetch me. I would be Rapunzel in your tower, and I would grow my hair out for them to climb.” 

“Does that make me the evil witch?” Shane pinched Ilya’s side, and Ilya yelped. 

“No,” he said, bit Shane’s earlobe. “No, solynyshko. You are trapped in here too, in this story. They will rescue as both, and take us back to Boston on white horses with long hair.”

“Hmm,” Shane closed his eyes. “I’m pretty sure that’s going to go against my contract.” 

Ilya was silent for a moment, pressing his mouth against Shane’s jaw, and then his neck when Shane tilted his head. Not kissing exactly, but not not kissing. 

“Maybe you will break your contract,” Ilya said, careful. “For how they have been acting.” 

“I don’t know.” 

“You would feel safe?” Ilya asked, “On ice with them defending you? In locker room? In practice, checking you?” 

Shane shook his head. He wanted to defend them. To say they had been caught by surprise by the video. And that they hadn’t known what it was. And that he had then shut himself in the bathroom and talked to none of them. 

“Shane,” Ilya prompted. “It would scare me. You being with them again.” 

“They weren’t -” Shane broke off sighing. Tried again. “I haven’t really… talked to them. I don’t know how they’re acting. Not for sure.” 

“Pike said it was not good,” Ilya said, “and I saw game they played after. It was bad. In very scary way.”

“You just want the Metros out of the playoffs,” Shane teased, weakly. 

“Of course I do,” Ilya snapped. He rolled off Shane now, didn’t let go of him entirely, just lay on his back next to him, his hand grabbing on to Shane’s. “I want them to lose you because they are stupid fuck ups, and then to lose every game they ever play because you were the best thing they ever had. And I want you to go to team who loves you properly and treats you as how good you are, and for you and your new team to win the fucking playoffs. That is what I want.” 

Shane was very thankful for Ilya’s hand in his, because his body was rejecting its status of not being flattened onto the bed, and it felt like he had a hole on his chest that was only not a cavern because of the strong grip Ilya still had on him. 

“Okay,” he said. “Sorry.” 

Ilya sighed, and then he was rolling onto his side, and wrapping his arm around Shane, drawing him close again. “No,” he said, “I am sorry. I am angry at them. Not at you.” 

“Okay,” Shane said again.

“We sleep,” Ilya said. “I will tell you rest of story, after we are in Boston on our beautiful horses.” 

Shane smiled against Ilya’s chest. “Okay,” he said. “G’night.” 

“Mmmm, okay, yes. We will ride our horses around the streets, because horses are almost as sexy as a good car, yes? And I think you would look good on a horse. There will be a parade, I think, people will throw flowers because they are so happy we have been rescued. We are very important, you see, and they have missed as very much -” 

----- 

MONDAY
-----

“Marly,” Ilya sighed, “you are being actually too much like being my mother.” 

Marlow groaned, didn’t release Ilya from the bear hug he’d pulled him in to. “Don’t tempt me with being the mama bear,” he said, “it’s always been my dream to get so fat on fish and honey and berries and then sleep all winter.” 

“Ugh,” Ilya said. 

“I will stop when you tell me you will call me,” Marlow said, very clear and firm, and spoken right into Ilya’s cheekbone. “I’m only going back so we’ll have two A’s for the next game. Else I would have stayed so long you and Hollzy would really kick me out.” 

“Ugh,” Ilya said again. 

“Is it a crime?” Marlow asked, overly dramatic, “to be worried about my best friend? No? Good. Say you’ll call me, bitch.” 

“I will call you, bitch,” Ilya replied, then quieter, “I am fine, Marly.” 

Marlow squeezed him once more for good luck, and then finally released him. Ilya drew in a full breath for the first time in what felt like hours. 

“Truly I am honoured,” Ilya said, “that I am still your best friend, when I thought maybe you would replace me with a fish.” 

“Shut up,” Marlow grinned, “you’re my ride or die, dude.” 

Ilya grinned back, “Go ride, then,” he said, “shoo. We are taking too long saying goodbye. They will send search party for me.” 

Marlow rolled his eyes, but got into the rental car, and with a final wave, drove off. It was good the Hollanders had said their goodbyes upstairs, so Ilya could have just a small moment to sniff hard and swipe at his eyes, before going back inside. 

He was fine. It was just that he knew it was going to hurt a lot when he had to leave, and thinking about that scared him. He didn’t want Shane to see him scared, more scared than he had already shown, because Shane was scared enough already. It wasn’t fair to add more. 

They had things to do today. Mostly going to get Shane’s follow up labs, and to talk to Farah, and then Shane had to go make a statement to the police. He was staying out of most of the conversations around the Metros right now, Farah and Yuna handling that, but the police insisted he had to come in in person to get the investigation properly underway. Currently Shane was in his home gym, where Ilya would join him when he got upstairs. He had said goodbye to Marlow, and then gone straight into running. 

Ilya wished Marlow had gotten a flight a little later, because then maybe Shane would have stayed in bed longer this morning. Would have let Ilya hold him and kiss him. He wanted to be kissing Shane so much all of the time. He kept thinking about the kiss in the video, and it pissed him off, because he knew Shane would hate that he was thinking about it, and because Shane deserved to be kissed properly. He should have known when he saw the kiss, should have known right then, because when  you kissed Shane Hollander properly, he melted into it. He could look fucked out just from sucking on his tongue. 

He was going to go join Shane in the gym, and do as much of his normal morning work out as possible so LeClaire wouldn’t get pissy with him, and he was not going to think about sucking on Shane’s tongue, or on anything else. 

-----

Shane had had to argue with his mum about going to the sexual health clinic without her. She had wanted to go so she could see for herself if she needed to hand out NDA’s, and so she could be sure they were doing a thorough job, and he understood that she wanted to come because she loved him and wanted the best for him. It was just embarrassing. It would be bad enough if she wanted to come with him for an STD check without everything else happening, and with the everything else it made him feel like he would probably disintegrate if she came with him. 

The compromise they came to was that Ilya would go with him, and really, he was taking Ilya with him anyway. Which was probably stupid, because having Ilya here with him was already a risk, and here he was taking Ilya to a clinic in town. Ilya had seemed completely fine with it though, so Shane was trying not to be worried about it. 

He had booked the appointment this time, had called in that morning and explained that he had come in a couple of weeks ago. Gave his fake name, admitted it was a fake name, and he would bring in his ID and give them his actual name when he came in. He was pretty sure it had been the receptionist from last time, because she had sounded like she knew exactly what he was talking about. Which had been good. But also awful. 

And now they were in the parking lot outside the building, and it was only barely afternoon so it was still sunny and bright outside, and he was in the passenger seat, and Ilya was here, and nothing about it except for the location was the same as the last time he was here, but he was still having a panic attack about it. 

Not a big one. He was just folded in on himself, his forehead on the dash, trying to take control of himself again. 

“Shane,” Ilya’s voice was warm and rough, like just being in the carpark was effecting him as well. His hand moved to grip his nape like it had the previous afternoon. “Is okay. You are okay.” 

Shane exhaled heavily. Focused on the pinch of the dash digging into his forehead, on the weight of Ilya’s hand on his skin. Breathed in. Out. Ilya was breathing loudly and slowly next to him, guiding him wordlessly. 

“When I was here,” Shane said, not moving yet, “they were encouraging me to go to the police. To do a - a rape kit. I should have done it. I should have said yes.” 

“You were scared,” Ilya said, his grip on Shane’s neck firm. “Is hard to think clear when you are scared, mm?”

“I just wanted it to go away,” Shane said, “but that was - was selfish of me. Maybe if I’d reported it when it happened, none of this would have happened. They would have found the video and gotten rid of it.” 

“Maybe,” Ilya agreed, “maybe not. We will not know. But we can go in and do our best now. I will be with you.” 

Shane nodded. It hurt a little, scraping his now dented forehead, and he finally sat up properly. Let Ilya rub his thumb against the dent in his skin. 

They had dressed Ilya up in Shane’s clothing, doing their best to make him look as unlike himself as possible. He was even wearing one of Shane’s toques. Shane thought it was a mostly useless effort, because there was nothing they could do to hide how beautiful Ilya was, short of putting a balaclava on him, and that would only cause more attention in this weather. 

“Okay,” Shane agreed. “I’m okay. We can go in.” 

“Okay,” Ilya echoed, ducked in to kiss Shane quickly. The windows were tinted, but Ilya had still glanced around before hand, which Shane appreciated. “Let us go.” 

---

It was the same receptionist, and she smiled when she saw him approaching, though her smile became awkwardly fixed when she saw who he was with. 

“Ah,” she said, “just in time for your appointment, Mr Gretsky. This is your… support person?” 

“Yes,” Shane said. They weren’t holding hands, but he wanted to. Had shoved his hands into his pockets to stop himself. 

“Okay,” she nodded. “If you’ll both come this way, then?” 

Shane was glad they didn’t have to wait for the appointment, though he guessed that was probably because they knew he was high profile, and if he was right, that they also knew before everyone else, about the assault. 

It was a different room to last time, which was good, because Shane was pretty sure he’d have felt a certain way about it. She left them there with some paperwork to fill out, and a promise the doctor would be in soon, and one last lingering, narrow eyed look at Ilya. 

“She does not trust me,” Ilya said, sounding more amused than anything, once the door was closed behind her. 

“You are my rival,” Shane said, absently, as he looked over the paperwork. He took the pen she’d left and began filling it out, correctly this time. “Or she just thinks you’re hot.” 

“No,” Ilya laughed, “I know when someone is checking me out. She is suspicious. Maybe she thinks I am your NHL handler.” 

“I know you mean that as like, a kind of body guard baby sitter kind of way, but it does sound like you’re suggesting the league assigned you to me just to touch me.” 

“They did do that,” Ilya said, “just accidentally. They put us together and say here are rivals, of course we must touch each other about it.” 

Shane shook his head, but shot a small smile at Ilya, “stupid,” he said. 

The doctor knocked on the door, and when Shane replied, she came in. It was again, the same doctor. He wondered if they had called her in specially. 

“Hi… Hunter,” she began, and then paused when Shane sighed and made a face. 

“Sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t - I wasn’t thinking straight last time. Um. Please call me Shane. Or Hollander. Whichever.” 

“Alright, Shane,” she said. “I’m Dr Mahmoud, I know we met before, but it was a tough time for you, so I wouldn’t expect you to remember me.” 

He nodded. 

“I was told you had a support person with you,” Dr Mahmoud continued, and she nodded at Ilya. “It’s good you’re here,” she told him, “having a support system is very important. May I ask if he is your partner? Will he also need to have his labs done?” 

Shane hesitated, and Ilya replied in his stead. “We are partners, yes,” he said, “but we have not, ah, been… lovers since. So. No labs needed for me.” 

“Thank you for the clarification,” Dr Mahmoud said easily, like Ilya hadn’t said anything fully insane or unusual. Shane took Ilya’s hand in his between the chairs. “Okay. So we’re re-running the same labs from a couple of weeks ago, as well as a few extra ones that are of no use immediately after possible infection. Hopefully you’ll get all negatives, I know you said they used condoms, but there is always a chance of breakage, especially during… rough penetration.” 

Shane winced, and Ilya squeezed his hand. 

“You have been taking the prescribed medication?” She asked, “And using the cream? Have the abrasions healed?” 

Shane nodded. Was so glad his mother was not here. “Yes,” he said, “they. Um. Yes, I think they’re healed. I probably - I probably took a little longer to heal because I went back to hockey only a few days later, but. They were okay.” 

“Okay,” she nodded. “I saw in your notes that you have requested your previous appointments notes to be sent to your… agent, Farah? Along with the notes from this appointment. Am I correct in assuming this is to begin a criminal investigation?"

Ducking his head, Shane nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I know I should have, last time. You gave me good advice, and I didn’t follow it.” 

“I am not telling you off,” Dr Mahmoud said, very gentle. “The fact that you are taking action now is brave.” 

“Not brave,” Shane shook his head, even as Ilya made a noise of discontent. “I’m only doing it because it got blasted all over the internet.” 

“It is brave,” she said again, firm. “Your partner looks like he agrees. I think most people who understand the situation will think you are brave.” 

“You are brave,” Ilya said, emphatic. “moy khrabryy chelovek. Is hard, what you are doing.” 

Shane flushed, swallowed. “Okay,” he said. “I just - we don’t need to debate it. Thanks. Um. Can we, can we get to it? Sorry to be rude.” 

“Not rude,” Dr Mahmoud said easily. “And yes, we can.” 

---

There was a second video, by the time Shane sat down for his meeting with Farah. Not on the internet, thank god. Farah had sent several requests to the Metros management teams, one of which had been for the security footage of the evening in question. She asked if they wanted to watch it, promised it wasn’t footage of the assault itself, but that it showed more of a timeline, and more of the men, as well as a glimpse of Shane’s state of mind afterwards. Shane wasn’t sure he understood how that worked, it wasn’t like he’d monologued in the hallway. He said yes to watching it, and agreed his mother and Ilya could be in the room if they wanted to be. They both said yes.

There wasn’t a camera in the gear room, but there was one at the end of the hallway. It hadn’t caught any of the action in the gear room, but it had only slightly grainy footage of the two men. One of them lingering the hall while the other went first into the locker room, and then further down the hall to the gear room. Pausing outside, and then waving for the second man to come closer, before walking out of sight into the gear room. The second man stood near the door, his phone out, waiting, and then he too disappeared into the room. Farah fast forwarded, and Shane watched the time on the video zip through thirty eight minutes of his life. Listened to Ilya breathing in through his teeth, almost a whistle. Then the men left the room, bumping their shoulders together and laughing. His mother reached out to take his hand, squeezed it, never mind that his palms were so clammy. Farah fast forwarded again. Only five minutes this time. And then Shane appeared in the doorway. 

This was when Shane, real right now Shane, had to get up and grab Farah’s rubbish bin to throw up into. Farah had paused when he’d jolted upright, so the image of the Shane of then was still frozen on the screen. 

He had blood and come on his face, his arms wrapped tightly around himself, and he looked like he was lost. 

“Sorry,” he rasped, and everyone made soft noises like it was totally fine that he was throwing up in a paper only bin. 

Farah took the bin away and returned with a bottle of cold water. His mother was holding his hand, Ilya was rubbing his back. Shane on the screen was still standing there with no idea what was going on or who he was. 

After he’d rinsed his mouth out and drank some water, Farah asked if he wanted to continue, and he nodded. Watched himself hesitate for over a minute in the hallway, hugging himself so tightly his fingers began to ache in sympathy with his past self. Watched as he walked so slowly, haltingly, out of sight down the hallway to the bathroom. Farah fast forwarded again. Fifteen whole minutes. He had been sure he had been quick. That he’d left the room and returned within about five minutes. He appeared on the screen again, looking a little more cogent, but not really by much. He disappeared into the gear room. Another twenty minutes. When he came out he still looked checked out. Walked slowly down the hall and disappeared. End of video. 

Farah waited a moment before speaking. “No one else comes through afterwards,” she said. “Not until the next morning. Other cameras caught the two men coming through the building, but nothing hugely clear. They don’t stop to talk to anyone in the building, but they act like they know where they’re going. All of this will be bundled into the police report. Can I ask what you were doing in the gear room, when you went back in?” 

Shane paused. He was still digesting how long he had been there for. How his sense of time had skewed so badly. Over an hour of his life had condensed and stretched and congealed in his brain. 

“I hadn’t finished cleaning the gear,” he said, “and I - I wanted to clean up the mess they made in there. It wouldn’t be fair to Rodney if I left it like it was.” 

Farah was typing as he spoke, nodding along. “Okay,” she said, “I understand. Thank you, also, for the answers to the first few of our questions, Yuna sent them through this morning. I’m hoping to have this as clear and clean cut as possible for you before you have to give your statement to the police.” 

He nodded. 

“Could we run through the rest of the questions, now?” she asked, tilting her head to look at him, and then at Ilya. She hadn’t said anything about him being part of this, which Shane appreciated. “If you need a break, we can do that instead.” 

“I’m okay,” he said, “let’s do it now.” 

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

(There is sex in this chapter)

-----

It had been a joint decision that it would be a better idea that Ilya did not come to the police station. The likelihood of being spotted was much higher, and none of them wanted another scandal to pop up surrounding the gossip any photo of Ilya in a Montreal police station was sure to create, let alone one with Shane Hollander as well. 

He still wasn’t pleased to be at Shane’s apartment by himself while Shane and his parents and Farah were at the station. It felt like a waste. Like Ilya was here specifically to be looking after Shane, and instead he was sitting at the apartment like a spare set of shoes. 

Whatever. He had been ignoring his phone for the majority of the weekend, only paying attention to messages or calls from his coach, Marly, and Shane. He knew Shane had been stressing out a lot about the back log of phonecalls and messages on his own phone, something that had never really bugged Ilya, but he figured he may as well deal with his own backlog. Luckily for him, his didn’t include a million hate messages from stupid assholes who deserved to be killed with rocks. 

He scrolled through his messages to his oldest unread one. A nice dancer called Claire, from his favourite club. They had exchanged numbers for casual hook ups, and it had been good. But Ilya had told Dr Mahmoud he was Shane’s partner. He deleted and blocked Claire. And then he went through the rest of his messages searching for other hook ups, and deleted and blocked all of them. Like a spring clean. 

This was probably very stupid of him, because, yes he had called himself Shane’s partner, and Shane hadn’t protested, but he also hadn’t said it back. So. There was still a good chance that when things were not so bad for Shane anymore, and he didn’t need Ilya here, maybe that would be the end. 

Because now that Shane had been outed to the world, as awful as that was, it meant he could date men openly. And there were so many better men out there. Ones without so many issues, or Russia shaped problems, or asshole attitudes. Ones that would probably cause him a lot less problems than being with his so called rival.

And Ilya wasn’t stupid. He knew Shane liked him a lot. Knew Shane liked the sex they had, and the friendship they now had. But that wasn’t the same thing as wanting a relationship, a real one. Shane liked sensible things, and he liked order, and he had only ever really been able to have the chaos that Ilya was.

So. Yes. Stupid move to delete all his hook ups off of his phone, but. On the off chance that maybe Shane wanted to keep him? Well.

Ilya didn’t want any of those people anymore now anyway. He might be actually officially ruined for anyone but Shane. He had seen the video, and before he had realised what it was, he had felt so viscerally upset. He had tried to chalk it up to pre-realisation awareness. Like some part of him knew before he knew. But it had been jealousy. He knew that. He had seen someone else kiss Shane and everything in him had screamed that Shane was his. Like he was some animal fueled by hormones and aggression. That he would do anything to be the one kissing Shane. And he’d never felt like that before. Not over a hook up, or any of his attempts at dating when he was still very young in Russia, and not even over Sveta, who was the closest thing he had to an ex, and also the closest thing he had to family who loved him. 

Spiraling was Shane’s move, so he made himself stop thinking about it. Went back to his unread messages, and took his time in reading, occasionally replying, occasionally deleting, because it was just system messages, or pizza vouchers, or spam. 

Svetlana had messaged multiple times, and had called eight times. He was going to be in trouble with her now, so he figured this would be the best time to call her and be in trouble, seeing as he was alone. He stood up from the couch so he could pace. He thought he would probably need to.

She picked up on almost the last ring, when he had thought maybe he was getting a pass from the universe. No such luck. 

“Hello, asshole,” she greeted him. “You finally remember me, hm?”

“Svetochka, my love,” Ilya attempted, “I remember you all the time, I am always thinking about you. Ah, Svetlana is so beautiful, oh, my Sveta is so clever, she is so patient, and kind -” 

“Shut up,” Svetlana laughed, and then said, “I’m still angry at you, don’t mistake my laughter.” 

“I would never,” Ilya said, “You are right to be angry, I have been ignoring my phone.” 

“You are not even in Boston,” Svetlana added sharply, “unless you are stashed up at some hook up’s house. I went to your place when you would not reply, expecting to find you drunk or dead, and it was dusty, instead.” 

Ilya was, he supposed, technically at a hook up’s house. But he also was not. 

“I am okay, Sveta,” he said, “it has been a difficult few days.” 

A short silence. “Shane Hollander’s sex tape leak,” she said. “Has been making a lot of hockey players very vocally homophobic and cruel. He is the best player in the NHL, and this is how they treat him. Are you worrying about what might happen if you had a sex tape leak your sexuality?” 

She had come so close to hitting the nail on the head, first go. Ilya shook his head in half amazement, and didn’t bother with trying to argue that Shane was only the second best player. 

“No,” he said. “I - yes, there is a part of me that is scared of that. I do not think I have any sex tapes. None that I know of. Ah, the thing is, Sveta. I am, mmm, I am at Shane Hollander’s house in Montreal right now.” 

“No you are not.” 

“I am. I went to meet him at the hotel his team was staying in. I took Marly with me, and then we and Shane, and his friend Pike, drove back to Montreal because it was not a good idea for him to fly back with his team. And now I am still here. Cliff returned to Boston, but Shane has asked me to stay.” 

A long moment of silence, in which he knew Svetlana was weighing up the likelihood of Ilya making a weird joke, or trying to pull a prank. 

“You are calling him Shane,” she pointed out. “He is Jane, yes?” 

She was insane. She should be a psychic. She should rule the world. He groaned, covered his face with one hand, and dropped to the floor in a crouch. “Yes,” he sighed. “Yes he is. He is my Jane.”

“Your Jane you are stupid over,” Svetlana clarified. “Who you text with little love hearts in your eyes, and who you will ignore me for. Your Jane? Who has a sex tape of a threesome, and neither of the other men are you?” 

“It is not a sex tape,” Ilya said, because it wasn’t his to tell, but he couldn’t bear to hear Sveta keep calling it that. “Fuck, Sveta. It is a video of him being raped. He is being very brave, but he is very upset and hurt right now.” 

“Fuck,” Svetlana offered. “Ilyushka. I am sorry.” 

“You did not know.” 

“No,” she agreed, “but I did think it was a very strangely edited video, and that those men must not be very good at sex because he did not look like he was having a good time.” 

“He was not having a good time,” Ilya agreed, eyes closed. “He is still not having a good time.” 

“What can I do?” Svetlana asked, her voice much softer now. “To help you both.” 

“I do not know,” Ilya said. “I do not know what I am doing to help, either. My best, but, it does not feel like enough. I want to - to become a serial killer. I have been making lists in my head of journalists, and twitter people, and hockey players that should be strangled and stomped on. But I know I cannot do that, because that would hurt Shane as well. Fuck.” 

“Fuck,” Svetlana agreed. “If he has asked you to stay, it is probably because you are helping him. Just by being there.” 

“I hope so,” Ilya said. Scrubbed his hand through his hair. “He is very special to me, Sveta.” 

---

By the time the Hollanders arrived back, Ilya had cleared out all his unread notifications, texted Marly with an update, sent several memes to the Bears players chat, put a load of washing on so he would have one outfit of his own clothing, and then sat on the couch sizzling with some kind of restless need that he couldn’t place or satisfy. 

He turned around on the couch, sitting on his knees to watch them come in, eyebrows raised. 

“Hi Ilya,” Yuna greeted him, “we picked some food up on our way home, if you’re hungry?” 

“I could be,” Ilya replied, his eyes on Shane, who was taking his shoes off silently. David was also silent, shrugging his coat off, his eyes on his son as well. “Shane?” 

Shane shook his head. His mouth was very thin, and his eyebrows were drawn down very flat. “I’m not hungry,” he said shortly, and then headed straight towards his bedroom. 

They watched him go, all of them with varying expressions of anxiety. 

“It went bad?” Ilya asked. 

“I don’t think so,” Yuna shook her head. “I think it was just hard. It was a lot.” Her mouth was also very thin. Her eyes red rimmed like she had been crying. 

David put his hand to her back, and just let it rest there for a beat, and she smiled up at him. “Did you want to eat, son?” David asked. 

It took Ilya a couple of beats to realise David was addressing this to him, and he stared at the tired smile on Shane’s father’s face. “Oh,” he said. “I - I think I will check on Shane, first. Maybe see if he will eat later, and then I will eat later with him.” 

“That’s a nice idea,” Yuna said. 

“I think he’ll like that,” David agreed, “he could probably do with some time with just you.” 

Ilya swallowed, nodded, and climbed off the couch. Followed after Shane to the bedroom, and was pleased to find that Shane hadn’t shut it all the way. He hoped it was Shane’s way of leaving it as an invitation. He knocked anyway, waited for Shane to hum, and opened the door. 

He closed it behind himself and took in Shane, lying face down on his bed, his feet hanging off the end. 

“Moy lyubimyy,” he said, “you want me to go beat some piggies up?” 

Shane made a muffled noise into his bedding. Ilya perched on the end of the bed and put his hand on the back of Shane’s calf. 

“Too much talking?” He asked. Reached out to Shane’s face with his other hand, and stroked one finger down the sliver of skin behind Shane’s ear. “You need to be quiet, now?” 

Shane nodded, a very small movement, and then turned his face just slightly so Ilya could see the corner of his eye, and Shane could see him. 

“Maybe we get further on bed,” Ilya suggested. “And I could hold you? I will be very comfortable for you.” 

Shane nodded again. He stayed prone for a moment more, just lying there, and then pulled his hands up beside his shoulders and pushed himself upright. Crawled up the bed. Ilya waited until he’d gotten to the head board, and then followed him. 

“You want clothes on or off?” Ilya asked. 

Shane glanced down at his clothes, and then made a face, like he’d just realised he had worn them all day and they were actually awful. He sat up on his knees and began to pull his shirt off. Ilya reached out to help, tugged the shirt off Shane’s arms, and then folded it loosely, and put it on the bedspread behind him. Shane watched him, not moving to take his trousers off, so Ilya reached over and undid the button and fly, and pulled them down his hips. Offered his shoulder to Shane to hold on to as he shifted from his knees onto his butt so Ilya could pull the trousers the rest of the way off. Ilya folded those loosely as well, and then took both items of clothing to the hamper in the corner of the room. He stripped his own outer layers off as well, and left them on the hamper, before coming back to the bed. 

Shane had slid himself under the covers, but not lain down. The moment Ilya got under the covers as well, Shane tilted towards him, and Ilya put his arms out and pulled him against his chest. They shuffled a little awkwardly further down the bed so their heads were on the pillow. Or Ilya’s head was, Shane’s was on Ilya’s chest, eyes shut. 

He wished he’d had the foresight to turn off the overhead light. It wasn’t very bright, but if Shane wanted a nap, it was probably too much to be comfortable for him. 

They lay together in silence, Shane’s breathing slow and even and matching inhale to exhale with Ilya’s. He could feel Shane’s heart, beating firmly where their chests pressed together, a little overlap with his own heart beat. 

Maybe ten minutes had passed, Ilya had closed his eyes as well, pressed his lips to Shane’s forehead, stayed still, wrapped around Shane. 

“I didn’t know I looked like that,” Shane said, breaking the warm silence between them. Ilya opened his eyes, Shane still had his shut. “Afterwards.” 

Ah. The surveillance video? Ilya had no idea what to say to this. He shifted his head a little against Shane’s. “Oh?” 

“In my memory,” Shane said, very quietly, “it’s - I knew it wasn’t a whole memory. I knew I was missing parts. But I thought I remembered the aftermath properly. I remember looking at myself in the mirror in the bathroom, and thinking I didn’t look like I’d been… raped. But I didn’t remember the come on my face, or how much blood it was. And I didn’t remember the way my eyes looked like I was drugged, or something.” 

Ilya held him tighter. 

“It took me a lot longer, than I remembered, as well,” Shane said. “I thought it was… I remembered it much quicker. No… waiting in the hallway. I don’t know what that was.” 

“You were in shock,” Ilya said. “Your body was processing.” 

“My brain is broken,” Shane retorted. “I don’t - it keeps fucking up. I forgot so much of what happened that night. I didn’t go to the police. I played like shit. I couldn’t say anything. I - I know my brain has always been weird, everyone always tells me, but at least it usually - usually I’m in charge. And I haven’t been. I hate it.” 

“Dorogoy,” Ilya murmured, his gut twisting. “Your brain is not broken. It is hurt. It was hurt with the attack. It is healing, still. It was not getting the care it needed for two weeks. You were not. It will be better, when it has had time enough.” 

Shane turned his face into Ilya’s chest more, so his nose got squished against him, and Ilya felt the small hot drops of tears dropping into the slight hollow of his clavicle. 

Ilya lifted the hand he had on Shane’s hip, and cupped the side of his face instead. Stroked his thumb along the edge of his cheek, wiping off trailing tears. 

“And is not… weird. I will crush everyone who has told you is weird. Your brain is just…mmm, forgot word. Has opinions on what is best, and wants it to stay that way? Mmm, specific?” 

Shane cleared his throat. “Finicky?” 

“Eh, no,” Ilya shook his head. “That is not quite right. Sounds like a fish that is gross. Like a Pike.” 

Shane huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh. Turned his face back so his cheek was pressed to Ilya’s chest instead, and Ilya could stroke his face properly. 

“Particular?” 

“Yes, yes. Particular. I like your brain.” 

“You and no one else,” Shane said. 

“Hush, no,” Ilya shook his head firmly. “So many people I know who think you are the knees of bees, Hollander. Is so boring, I am always having to hear about how clever and cool you are.” 

“Cool,” Shane snorted, “now I know you’re lying.” 

“Is no lie,” Ilya said, very solemn. “My friend Sveta? She is big fan of yours. She says she likes best when you are doing long interviews and you talk details. She says you are very hot when you do this.” 

“What? No.” 

“Is true,” Ilya shrugged his shoulders as much as he could from underneath Shane. “We can call and ask?” He lifted his hand off Shane’s face. “Say, Sveta, you think Shane Hollander is cool and hot, yes?” 

Shane reached out and took his hand, pulled it back to his face, kept holding on. “No,” he said. “I guess I’ll believe you, for now.” 

“Good,” Ilya smiled down at him. Bent his neck awkwardly so he could press a kiss to his mouth. “Are you hungry at all, my Shane?” 

Shane blinked up at him. “Um,” he said. 

Ilya rubbed his thumb over the bone of Shane’s cheek, loved how the freckles looked when Shane’s skin flushed. “Has been long day,” Ilya said. “You need food. Will help you feel better, and heal quicker.”

“Okay,” Shane nodded. “I could eat. I want to shower first.” 

“Good idea. Maybe I come watch? Check you are washing between toes?” 

Shane paused for a short moment, enough that Ilya was going to add a quick joking, but then he nodded. “Shower with me?” He suggested. “I don’t want - I want to keep having you hugging me.” 

“Maybe we should get special clothes made,” Ilya suggested. “To fit both of us, and then we can go everywhere hugging all the time. We have enough money, we could get someone to make us special car with big weird seat. Maybe if we make good enough argument we can persuade Bears to let us play as one person, and then we do not even have to argue over center position, we will just be one terrifying star center and mow everyone down.” 

He hoped Shane didn’t mind being a Bear in this scenario, but there was no way Ilya was going to make up a fantasy of being a Metro. Disgusting. 

-----

Ilya had been right that Shane needed to eat. He hadn’t had anything since their early lunch - had felt like anything he tried to eat he would just bring up again. He especially hadn’t want to throw up in the middle of giving his statement to the police, throwing up in Farah’s office had been embarrassing enough. 

His parents didn’t mention how obvious it was that he and Ilya had showered together, so either they hadn’t realised, or didn’t care. He supposed in light of everything else, it probably felt like small potatoes to them. He wondered if it would stay small potatoes, or if eventually Ilya would be a gigantic potato that they would have to address. Stupid thought. Ilya couldn’t be a potato. He wondered what Ilya’s favourite vegetable was. If it was weird that he knew Ilya’s favourite way to be sucked off, but not that. 

Either because they knew Shane needed it, or because they also needed it, his parents were relatively quiet during dinner. Speaking only to talk about the food, to pass things. He appreciated it very much. Appreciated also how Ilya had taken his words pre-shower about always wanting to be hugging him, and had kept his hand on Shane at all times since then. Only removing it briefly for things like dressing, and then putting it back like they were magnetized to each other. He wondered if this was how normal people felt about being touched. Like it was always this comforting thing to be craved, rather than a thing to be mostly put up with except for a few select people. He had hated it when his first girlfriend had always been touching him, even though she had touched him a lot less than Ilya was doing. It was as if her touch was a stinging nettle on his skin that he had to grin and bear and pretend he didn’t want to scratch himself bloody over it. Across the table he saw his father had his hand resting on his mother’s knee as well. 

After dinner, Shane insisted on cleaning up, and Ilya joined in without a word. Then they all went to the lounge and turned on the hockey. Shane was supposed to be at this away game tonight. Hayden had texted him about it, saying he would keep an ear on what everyone was saying, and that he missed him. Shane had texted back saying he missed him too, and to play hard. 

He kind of didn’t want to watch the game he was missing. Felt so disconnected from it. Like he’d accidentally slipped out of his life and was watching someone else’s. But he was still captain of the team. Technically. And it was his job. And he had already failed them so badly. So he would watch.

He knew Ilya had watched the highlights of the Boston game he and Marly had missed, on his phone, the previous night. Sound off and brightness turned down. Shane had wanted to watch too, but he was tired, and sad, and everything was easier with his eyes shut. Had asked about it in the car that morning, when they drove to the clinic.

Ilya had talked about his team with such open affection that it had stung Shane a little. He had pointed out where they’d made mistakes in the game, but then he also shrugged about it and said it would be a good drill, the next time he was at practice. He talked about his line like they were all his friends, in and out of work. Not just Marlow, but all of them. He said his team chat kept sending a meme of a woman staring out the window, with the text when will my captain return from the war, and that they were all silly losers, but it sounded like he was really saying that he loved it, and them. 

Shane knew Ilya could watch his team play a game without him and still feel happy, and Shane could not do that. 

He tucked himself in so close to Ilya on the couch that there was room for his mum to sit with them as well. His dad sat in the armchair with his travel crocheting. He usually preferred to do puzzles while watching games at home, but didn’t like to take them with him, so had gotten into crocheting. He said it was like a different type of puzzle, he was just putting the yarn in the right places. 

The game was. Not good. Theriault had tapped JJ to be in the captain role, which Shane hoped was only a luck of the draw thing rather than a Hayden being punished thing, like how he had been benched in the last game. He still hadn’t messaged JJ back. Didn’t know how.
JJ was doing his best to lead the team, but it didn’t look like anyone was gelling. The opposing team was taking advantage of this, and if Shane wasn’t so miserable about it he would be impressed with how cleverly they were sneaking through the gaps left open. They barely even needed to deke to trick their way through a goal. 

There was, at least, less fighting this time around. A few hard shoves, and bad checks, which got players sent off for only a few minutes at a time. There was a moment Shane was sure was going to be a gloves off fight, though. The lines waiting for the puck drop. The player opposite Comeau said something, loud enough for both front lines to look over, and then Comeau had spat, big and vicious, and the cameras had zoomed in on him in anticipation of drama.
 

There hadn’t been any. They didn’t catch what Comeau replied, but they caught a vicious grin, and the other player’s responding snort of laughter.

He had no idea what it was about, but on either side of him he felt his mum and Ilya stiffen. Ilya’s arm around Shane tightened, and his mum let out a hiss of a breath. When he looked at her, her face was all hard lines and tension, and he didn’t understand. 

“What?” He asked, looking from his mother’s face, to his father’s, and then to Ilya’s. His father just looked sad, but Ilya looked furious, and as if he was trying to hide it. 

No one said anything, and Shane’s stomach curdled. 

“What?” He repeated, louder. Felt like a child. Felt on the outside. Like he always was. “You all know something?” 

Ilya released a loud breath, and Shane saw him looking to his mum, not to Shane; it felt like a spike through his guts. 

He pushed himself off the couch, tugging out of Ilya’s grip, and moved away so he could see all three of them without turning. 

“Shane,” his mother started, but then didn’t say anything else. 

“It’s not fair,” he said, could hear he was whining. “It’s not - I don’t understand what the fuck you guys are - are responding to, and I know it’s about me. About the ra- about what happened. If you want to - to talk behind my back about it you could at least wait until I’m not in the room so I don’t have to feel like a - a - a freak in my own house.” 

“Shaney,” his father said, his crocheting put down, him standing up. “Okay. Come on kid, let’s you and me go get a breath of air.” 

Shane nodded, panting. He wrapped his arms tight around himself. He wanted to storm off. He wanted to stomp. He wanted to slam his fucking bedroom door. He wanted his dad to make it better. He let him grab Shane’s jacket and help him in to it. Put his shoes on himself while his dad did the same.

“We’ll just go up to the roof for a bit,” his dad told Ilya and his mum, who were still sitting on the couch looking stricken. “It’s okay.” 

Shane couldn’t bring himself to look at them. Was so embarrassed. With how he had just acted. With what he’d said. With what had happened. With how there was something no one was saying to him. Because he was weak, or fragile, or stupid. 

He let his dad lead him out the door, and up the stairs, and out through the roof access. Let him pull Shane to his side so he could wrap one arm around Shane’s shoulders. Leaned on his dad and sucked in lungfulls of cold night air. 

“No one is trying to keep anything from you,” his dad said, calm and quiet. “Not purposefully, I don’t think.” 

Shane cleared his throat. Ignored the tickle of the tears trickling down his cheeks. “But there is something.” 

“Yes,” his dad shrugged a little. “I think so. Do you want me to tell you what I think it is?” 

Shane nodded. Bit his lips. 

“I think it is a suspicion. Which is why no one is saying it out loud. Because it feels awful. It is a suspicion that I think your mum, and I, and Ilya all share. We have seen a pattern, which maybe you’re too close to see, with Comeau.” 

Shane swallowed. “What about him?” 

David kept his voice light and quiet, but there was an edge underneath it, like it was taking effort to speak so calmly. “He was the reason you stayed late, and then also the reason you were alone. You said he never followed up on missing the meeting. Like there was, maybe, never a reason he wanted to meet, after all. The way he has been acting recently - like how we just saw on screen - it makes us think that maybe he had a hand in setting you up.” 

It wasn’t cold, bundled in his jacket and under his dad’s arm, but Shane started to shake like it was. His teeth chattered in his mouth until he gritted his jaw, and his spine ached with the force of it. 

“Shaney,” his dad said, “it’s only a suspicion. But it may well be true. I’m sorry.” 

---

When they came back downstairs, the game had been turned off, and his mum was in the kitchen stirring something on the stove. Ilya wasn’t in the room, and his shoes weren’t by the door where they had been when Shane had left. 

His mum turned the stove off when she heard them come in, and she waited for them to take their shoes and jackets off, and make their way over to the kitchen, before she came over to Shane and held one hand out. 

“I told him about Comeau,” His dad said. 

Shane took her hand, let her drawn him into a tight hug. He knew he must still look so miserable, because when she pulled back, her hands on his shoulders, her face was the soft sad look she had always given him when he came home from bad games as a kid, or when he would hide under his bed after school and tell her everything was fine. 

“I am sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t trying to keep you out, baby, I just didn’t want to put something else on you. Not when it wasn’t something I could be sure was true.” 

“But you were all thinking in,” Shane said, his voice felt weak in his throat. “You all. Farah, too?”

“Yes,” his mum nodded, winced at him. 

“I feel like - like I’m just so. Stupid. And you all know it.” 

“No. None of us are thinking that, baby,” his mum said. Moved her hands from his shoulders to his cheeks and cupped his face. Held him looking at her. “You are so smart, and so good, and you have had this awful thing happen to you. Of course you wouldn’t want to even consider someone on your team could have had a hand in this. You tried so hard to keep all of it separate.” 

He nodded, let his head hand heavy in her hands. Let her bring him in again to hold him tighter, to kiss his head. 

“Where’s Ilya?” he mumbled into her hair. Terrified to hear her answer, to say he had left. 

“He said he needed a smoke,” his mum said, tutted. “He said he’d be back soon, and he wouldn’t bring the smokes in here, and that he - he wanted you to know that he’s sorry.” 

Shane nodded again. Bit his lip to stop it wobbling. 

---

His mum made him her fancy version of Shōgayu, saying that she really needed to get him a proper teapot because it felt silly making it in a pot. 

They sat around the table with their cups of the hot ginger tea, waiting for it to cool enough to drink. 

“I know I don’t always pick things up,” Shane said to his cup. “I don’t want to be. To not know what’s going on. Especially about this. I just want to be told, even if you think it’ll… hurt me. It hurts more not knowing.” 

“Okay,” his mum said, nodding. “Of course.” 

Shane nodded. His dad nodded. They sat with their tea. Shane felt like maybe he should say they could put the game back on. That they could just pretend like none of that had just happened. He didn’t want to. He always, always wanted to watch hockey, but not right now. He didn’t want to watch his team fucking fail. He didn’t want to watch his team and try to pick out the people in it he could maybe still trust. Didn’t want to see Comeau and think about how he might have had a hand in this. How he would have done it. Why he would have done it. He knew Comeau had never really liked him, but he didn’t think he disliked him. He thought he had Comeau’s respect, hard won, but still there. What had Shane done to make him hate him like this? 

They finished their tea. Ilya still had not come home. Shane knew he could text, or call, but he had already been so needy all this time. Didn’t want to be even needier after basically throwing a tantrum in front of him.  He was an adult and should act like an adult. 

His dad brought his crochet needle out again, and then a spare one, and put it into Shane’s hand. Sat down next to him and taught him how to cast on, how to add a stitch, and then another, and another. How to make a chain out of loops. It was sort of like a puzzle, and it was calming, once he got the hang of it. His fingers felt clumsy and too large, but if he moved slowly it was okay.

Then his dad taught him how to add a second chain to the first, moving back along his original stitches. 

They sat and crocheted together while his mum opened her laptop and wrote emails with a terse expression on her face, and Ilya was still not home. 

Shane got his phone out of his pocket, put it on the table so he could check the time, and check if Ilya had messaged. The game would be over by now, probably, the interviews too. He felt a lot calmer than he had earlier, but there was a growing ache in his chest. 

And then his phone rang, and they all looked at it. At the screen where it said; Coach Theriault - ALWAYS ANSWER. 

“Wait,” his mum said, as his hand moved automatically to answer. “He shouldn’t be calling you like this. I want to record -” she was doing something on her computer, pulling up a recording program probably. “-Answer on speakerphone. You don’t have to talk, I can talk if you want.” 

“I can talk,” Shane said, felt very dumb. Thought about how his team would laugh at him if his mum answered his phone calls from his coach because he was too scared to. He answered the call at her nod, pressed speakerphone. “Hi?” 

“Fucking hi?” Theriault ground out. He sounded furious. Shane wondered how badly they had lost. “Nothing else to say, Hollander? You’ve dropped a huge fucking bombshell on us, abandoned your team, and now there’s a goddamn police investigation? You’re seriously pretending like you don’t like it up the ass, you fucking faggot? You think this will make it any better? Will have anyone respect you ever again? We’ve put time and money into making you who you are and you have fucking wasted it, you cocksucker. You -” 

“Okay, that’s enough,” his dad snapped then, and ended the call. “Fucking hell, he’s a piece of shit.” 

Shane blinked. He wanted to put his phone in the oven and melt it. He wanted to never answer any call ever again. He had looked up to Theriault. Had met his family. Held his grandson. But he’d also had BBQs at Comeau’s house, and helped Comeau’s wife with the salads. And he’d given up afternoons to help them pack and move twice, now. 

“We shouldn’t have answered,” his mum said, she sounded apologetic. “I didn’t think it would be that bad. I’m sorry honey.” 

“Send it to Farah,” Shane said through numb lips. “It’ll probably be useful for getting out of my contract. I’m going to bed.” He stood up, left his phone on the table. Didn’t want to even look at it. 

“Shaney-” 

“Maybe we can do more crochet tomorrow, dad. Can you tell Ilya - uh - if he comes back. Nevermind. Don’t tell him anything from me. Goodnight.” 

-----

The thing about going out for smokes was that he would have to be actually really seen to do that. Usually Ilya wouldn’t care about being seen somewhere surprising. Actually found it very funny when he’d see photos of himself in New York when he’d fly there for a weekend with Sveta, and people would go crazy about it for no good reason. Like it was a game and a prize at once to spot him in the wild, out of his enclosure of Boston and the rinks. 

It would not be good here. Right now. With all the noise around Shane. He knew they had taken risks already, going out together to the clinic, and to the meeting with Farah, but those had felt necessary and, they had been careful. 

Getting ID’d for cigarettes was neither. 

He’d gone around the back of the apartment building, sat near the door he usually was let through. Could really use a fucking smoke. Fuck. 

He got why Shane was mad. He did. And he felt bad about it. Bad because he knew it frustrated Shane to no end how he missed things like this sometimes. Little cues. Because Shane tried so hard to be the best, to notice everything on ice. And the rules for life were different, and unspoken, and fucked up. 

But he was mad too. Still not at Shane. Just in general. Was it so wrong of him to not want to hurt Shane? Was it wrong of him to bite his tongue to avoid putting an idea in Shane’s head that may not even be true? 

He was maybe a bit angry at Shane. He felt bad about it, but he was still angry. Angry because he wanted Shane to be angry, properly really angry. At the people who deserved it. He had said he was angry, back at the hotel, but only when he wasn’t sad, and so the longer he wasn’t angry the longer he was fucking sad. 

He wanted to take Shane by the shoulders and shake him, just a little, and say look at these fucking motherfuckers who have abandoned you. Be angry at them. Do not be sad about the fucking rats. Curse them. Scream and yell. Please. Please don’t just stay sad. 

He called Marly. 

“Are you guys watching the Metros game?” Marlow answered. 

“Not anymore,” Ilya replied, felt sour all over. “Are they losing still?” 

“Uh,” Marlow sounded like he was wincing. “Yeah. Only by two. They have time to make it up.” 

“They won’t” Ilya scoffed, “I hope Toronto fucking crushes them.” 

“I’m taking it Shane isn’t in the room with you,” Marlow said dryly. 

“No he’s. Fuck. I’m hiding out the back of the building. He’s on top of the building right now.” 

“What?” Marlow sounded suddenly a little panicked. “Why? Is he alone?” 

“No, fuck, Marlow. He is with his papa. His dad. He is upset with us. Me and his mum.” 

Ilya kicked the side of the building. This would all be so much better if he could be smoking right now. He should have asked the Hollanders to pick some up for him along with dinner. He thought David might be happy to do it. Or not happy, but would not complain about it. 

“Wanna talk about it?” Marlow asked, and Ilya heard the background noise cut like Marlow had turned off the tv, or at least muted it. 

“We think Comeau had something to do with. With setting Shane up. For the assault,” Ilya said. Had to spit it out. “He was… he was reason Shane was there, and was alone, and is being. A cunt.” 

“He’s always a cunt,” Marlow replied, then, “seriously? How?” 

“He asked for meeting, did not come to meeting, did not follow up on meeting. His face makes me mad and I want to kick his teeth out.” 

“Shit,” Marlow sounded a little winded. “Okay, how does that end up with Hollzy being mad at you and his mum? I thought they were close.” 

“Because we did not tell him we thought this,” Ilya grunted. “Because how would we? Is not a fact. Would make him sad. But we were mad at seeing Comeau be shit fuck cunt on ice tonight, and he saw and knew we were, ugh, hiding. It hurt him.” 

They were both silent for a moment. Ilya could almost hear Marly grinding his teeth as he tried to think of what to say. A bad habit, yes, but Ilya found it useful for knowing when to jump in in answering questions in interviews. 

“Okay,” Marlow sighed. “And why are you mad at him?” 

“I never said I was mad at him,” Ilya snapped, which was possibly worse than admitting he was. 

Marlow waited. 

“When he is not seeming angry about what happened,” Ilya gritted out, “I think he is blaming himself. He is sitting there and his brain is fucking going in waterspouts about how he probably deserved it, and how is his fault, and what he did wrong. I keep saying to him he has done nothing wrong. Is not his fault.” He kicked the wall again, then tilted forwards to rest his head against it. 

“It’s tough, bro,” Marlow offered. “But like. He just has to work through it, right? It sucks ass, uh, but all you can do is be there, yeah? Supportive and stuff.” 

Ilya grunted. 

“If it’s too much,” Marlow added, “you can always come home. Even for a bit. He has his parents and Pikey, who just scored by the way. Metros still down by two, though.”

“Fuck off,” Ilya snapped. Reined himself in. “Good for him. Hockey will suffer so much when he leaves to do dumb rock band with you.” 

“You know it’s punk rock,” Marlow replied, unaffected by Ilya’s snapping. “And hockey will suffer when I leave it too, you forgot to say that bit.” 

“Did not forget,” Ilya shot back. “I am not leaving until he asks me to leave, Marly.” 

“Bro,” Marlow said. Ilya could imagine him doing that kind of squinty face he made when he was trying too hard to be casual. “You can’t stay in Montreal forever. We need you here.” 

“I need me here. Shane… wants me here. You and Bears are fine without me.” 

“You’re not gonna defect, right?” Marlow sounded like he was joking, but Ilya could hear the layer of real worry underneath the joke. 

“Fuck no,” Ilya said. “I am Bear. I am just. If I have to leave and come back to Boston before Shane is ready I will be sad Bear, and sad Bears do not play well.” 

“Oh man,” Marlow sighed, “now I’m thinking about all of us as like, real bears, and you being a sad bear. I think Carmy would be a sun bear. Long tongue.”

“You are gross,” Ilya told him. Rolled over against the wall so his back was leaning against it, and rubbed his forehead which now held the imprint of the wall. “Do you think. Maybe. Maybe LeClaire would try and get Shane for Bears? If Shane was available.”

A much longer pause here. “I don’t know,” Marlow said eventually, which was an annoying answer. “I mean, I think anyone would want Hollzy for his skills, he’s a wizard on ice. But I don’t know about cap space, y’know?” 

“You think he would say no if only reason was gossip and homophobes?” 

“I don’t know man. I hope not? He doesn’t like, act like that would have anything to do with his choices. But it’s also not only up to him. I think we’re pretty lucky with our management, especially compared to Hollzy, but also. This didn’t happen to our team, we don’t know how they would react if it did.” 

“We would not react as Metros did,” Ilya snapped. “Some idiots said some stupid things, but they are not anymore, are they?” 

“No,” Marlow agreed. He sighed heavily, and then swore. “Fuck, they are doing so badly without Hollzy. They were losing better when he was playing like shit.” 

“They can all fall in hole and suffocate on each others asses.”

“C’mon, man. I liked Pikey well enough,” Marlow said cajolingly. “He’s a good friend to Shane. Maybe not like, as quick on the uptake as you, but he really cares for him. And so do his wife and kids. You should have heard the twins ask if their uncle Shane was doing better.” 

Ilya closed his eyes. He liked the idea of Uncle Shane so much he thought he might be sick about it. He had truly become weird and twisted in his old age. 

“You should go inside,” Marlow said then. “Talk to Shane.” 

“I want a cigarette,” he said. 

“So have one,” Marlow said, because he had not been privy to Ilya’s revelations about how difficult it would be to get some. “And then go wash your mouth out and talk to Hollzy.” 

“Okay,” Ilya said. “I’ll talk to you later. Don’t do anything fun without me.” 

“I am going to do so many fun things without you,” Marlow replied immediately, “if you’re lucky I’ll even send you photos. Make up with your boy.” 

Ilya ended the call. Pressed the phone to his face. Groaned loudly. Then checked around himself to make sure he wasn’t going to draw attention. 

---

He ended up going for a walk. He wasn’t ready to go back upstairs yet and try to be less angry. He tugged his hood up and pulled it lower over his forehead. Let his thoughts circle around and chase each other like hawks. 

He had been walking semi-aimlessly for nearly an hour when Pike called him. He was on the outskirts of a park, and he threw himself down on a damp bench right on the edge of the grass, and answered the phone. 

“What.” 

“I didn’t know if Shane would have his phone on him,” Pike said, “but I just wanted to give him a heads up that I think Theriault is going to call him? He just stomped off muttering something about giving him a piece of his mind, so, yeah.” 

“I am not home,” Ilya said, felt cold and ugly and stupid. “Fuck. Why the fuck would that stupid terrycloth man do this?” 

“He’s mad,” Pike said. “About the loss.” 

“His fault,” Ilya spat, then groaned. “Fuck. I will go home. Maybe you call Shane to tell him to watch out, it will take me some time to get back.” 

“Why are you even out, anyway?” 

“For walk,” Ilya said stiffly. “Goodbye, Pike.” 

He hung up. Missed getting to really hang up a phone. Loved the way you could snap old phones shut, very satisfying. Nothing beat the feeling of slamming the phone down on the cradle though, a good heavy thunk. Fuck he wanted to hit something for real.

He got off the bench and headed back the direction he’d come. 

---

He didn’t have his own keys, so he had to knock when he got back to the apartment. Hoped someone was still up and they hadn’t all given up on the night and gone to bed. Given up on him. 

David opened the door for him, and let him in without a word. Stayed there in the entryway as Ilya took his shoes and jacket off. Ilya swiped the back of his hand under his nose, and looked around to see Yuna sitting at the table with her laptop, and no Shane in sight. 

“He went to bed,” David said. “Are you okay?” 

Ilya nodded, curt. Swallowed. “Did Pike call?” 

“There was a missed call from him on Shane’s phone,” Yuna said, when David looked at her. He was still standing right there with Ilya. “After the call from Theriault.” 

“Fuck,” Ilya hissed. “Pike called me first. I should have been here. Was the call with coach bad?” 

“Yes,” David said, and he sounded the angriest Ilya had heard him. This wasn’t saying much, because so far David had been very chill and collected, but it was still a bit startling, and Ilya couldn’t help his flinch. “But Yuna recorded it and sent it to Farah. He’s a piece of shit, and I hope he gets fired and dragged through the mud.” 

“Attached to back of horse cart?” Ilya asked, imagining it. 

“Preferably,” David nodded. He sighed, passed his hand over his eyes. “You got your smoke, then?” 

They were still standing in the entryway like dumb coat racks. “No,” Ilya folded his arms, feeling small and stupid. “It would be bad to be recognised here. Silly to be caught for something like cigarettes. I was not thinking of, ah, logics? I went for walk. Head down.” 

“Logistics,” Yuna said from the table, and then patted the table itself. “Come inside. Sit down. I can heat up some ginger tea for you, if you like? Shōgayu.” 

“Okay,” Ilya said. David’s hand was on his back now, and Ilya let him half propel him forwards over to Yuna. Patted his shoulder when Ilya sat down in the chair Yuna pulled out next to her. “Um. Thank you.” 

“I’ll heat it up,” David said, pausing to kiss the top of Yuna’s head as he circled around her to get to the stove. 

“Thank you,” she said, lifting her head to smile at him before turning to fix her gaze on Ilya. She didn’t drop her smile entirely, but it lessened until it was barely a quirk of her lips. “Thank you,” she said. “For thinking about the logistics.” 

Ilya waved his hand in awkward dismissal. 

“I think Shane was worried you had left fully,” Yuna said then. “What is your plan?” 

Ilya glanced from Yuna to David’s back, and then to Yuna again. He wasn’t sure if this was a polite way of telling him he had overstayed his welcome, or if it was a genuine question. 

“Hm, my plan is, ah, stay until Shane says to go.” 

Yuna looked at him through narrowed eyes, and pursed her lips slightly before shaking her head just once. “That isn’t a good plan for you,” she said. “That’s not thinking about the logistics of things. You are the captain of the Bears. You can’t plan to stay here indefinitely -” 

“Indefinitely?”

“With no end,” Yuna clarified. “It will hurt your career. You know Shane wouldn’t want that.” 

Ilya considered this. Then he considered Shane. “I think,” he said, “that maybe this is something I talk to about with Shane. First.” 

A pause, and then Yuna nodded. “Yes,” she said, “that’s likely wise. I just wanted to let you know that if you need to go back to Boston, you’re not abandoning him. He’s not alone. You’re not along in caring for him.” 

He nodded, had to look away from Yuna’s intensely serious expression, cleared his throat. He wished he knew how his mama would be reacting to this, if it were Ilya in this position. He wished he could call her and tell her everything and ask for her advice. Wished he had known her for longer, better, so he could properly imagine what she might say to her adult son, instead of her twelve year old child. 

“I don’t know if we’ve said,” David said from the stove, “but we are happy you’re here. This would be so much harder for our Shaney if you hadn’t been there for him.” 

“I still don’t fully understand how that happened,” Yuna added, “I’m very thankful it did, but I would have thought you would have been in Boston?” 

Ilya traced the grain of wood along the side of the table with his finger, kept his eyes fixed on that movement. “I was,” he said. “But I had been worrying about him. He had been playing badly, like he was sick. And I could not, ah, get in touch with him. Then I saw the video, and I - I knew it wasn’t what it said it was. I had to go through Pike to get him to message me, and when I called him, he asked me to come. So I did.” 

“Just like that?” David asked. The tea he was stirring on the stove smelled very yummy. 

Ilya shrugged. “Yes. Marly was one who bought actual tickets. I know Shane is… not good at asking for what he wants when it is for him, not for hockey. So when he does ask, I want to give.” 

He could still feel Yuna’s eyes on him, like they were lasers boring into the depths of him and decoding his insides. He hoped she didn’t find all the awful bits of him in there. He heard David turn the stove off, and then some clinking as he poured the tea into a cup. He put the hot tea down on the table in front of Ilya, and patted his shoulder again before sitting down in the chair on Ilya’s other side, flanking him with the Hollander parents. 

“Thank you,” he mumbled. 

“It was my grandmother’s recipe,” Yuna said, “My obaasan. She always made it for me when I was feeling sad, and I always made it for Shane when he was feeling sad.” 

Ilya nodded, swiped at his nose again like it would stop his eyes from prickling. “It smells nice. He says - Shane says he used to make, um, very grumpy face, as small child. Scowl, instead of chirp.” 

Yuna laughed softly, and Ilya could see her out of the corner of his eye, nodding, putting her head in her hand, her elbow propped on the table by her laptop. “Yes,” she said. “He wanted to be polite, and he found it difficult sometimes how the rules were different on the rink and off the rink. He never wanted to say something rude off the rink, so he would always scowl instead.” 

“I would like to see,” Ilya said, put his hand to the cup to test how hot it was, and then wrapped his hand around it. “His little chirp face. Some time.” 

“I’ll see what I can do about finding some photos, then,” Yuna told him. “Were you a master chirper since you were a child, then? Or did that come later.” 

“Mm,” Ilya allowed a small smile. “I think I was very silly chirper as small child, but when I became more, um, in training, there were very many mean boys at my hockey who would pick on smaller boys, so I had to become fast and meaner than them. I would often get in trouble for my mouth. More than I do now, if you believe.” 

Yuna let out a soft huff. 

“Hockey boys can be very mean,” David agreed. “Especially when you’re different.” 

They all paused to consider what different meant. Ilya took a sip of the tea. It was maybe more… healing tasting than what he would usually choose for himself, but it was still nice. He thought of small Shane with his frown and how hockey boys could be very mean, and how Shane was still here, and still the best anyway. 

“If Shane is being too nice to tell me to go,” Ilya said to the table, to the cup of tea, “you would tell me, yes?” 

“Yes,” Yuna said. She closed her laptop now. “He doesn’t want you to go.” 

---

When he approached Shane’s shut bedroom door, there was a part of Ilya that was convinced he would have to sleep on the couch tonight. His stomach twisted with the idea of how upsetting it would be to creep back down to the lounge, and avoid Shane’s parents’ eyes as he made up the couch. He almost didn’t even want to knock in case Shane wouldn’t even answer. 

He knocked on the door, and then waited with his forehead against it, for Shane to say something. Shane didn’t say something. But then the door opened, and Ilya stumbled slightly, caught himself on the door frame, and Shane was there holding the door open and looking at him. 

“Are you coming in?” Shane asked, grouchy sounding. 

Ilya nodded, and when Shane stepped back, sidled in through the door and stood to the side as Shane shut the door again. They stared at each other for a moment. 

“You don’t smell like cigarettes,” Shane said. 

“No,” Ilya shrugged. “I did not have. Would be too dangerous to buy without being maybe recognised. So I was on walk.” 

“A long walk,” Shane mumbled, looking away from Ilya at his bed. 

The room was lit only by his bedside lamps, and the blankets were mussed like he had just gotten out of them. Shane himself look soft and tired and grumpy. 

“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “Let me hold you.” 

Shane glanced back at him. “Come to bed and hold me,” he said. “Take your clothes off.” 

“Spicy,” Ilya said, and enjoyed the small glare Shane sent his way as he made his way back to the bed. 

He stripped his clothes off, pleased that Shane wasn’t so grumpy that he’d put on real pajamas tonight, opting to stay in just small shorts and nothing else so that Ilya could feel more of him. His mouth still tasted like ginger and citrus and he didn’t want to ruin it with toothpaste yet, so he would brush his teeth later. Once he’d soothed the screaming thing in his chest that needed to press against Shane. 

Shane had already gotten into the bed, turned on his side, so that when Ilya got in he was met with Shane’s back. It was such a nice back. Beautiful. Muscled and smooth, except for some scarring on his shoulder, and some small pockmarks. Ilya liked everything about it. He ran his hand down the length of it, pressed his thumb into the dimples at the base of Shane’s spine, one after the other. Leaned in and kissed between Shane’s shoulderblades, where a freckle was located just off center. Kissed his nape, felt Shane shiver under his touch, and ran his hand up Shane’s side, spread his fingers around ribs and felt them expand with slow breaths. 

“Moy lyubimyy,” Ilya said, quiet. “I am sorry for keeping from you.” 

Shane shivered again, and Ilya pressed closer, wrapping his arm fully around Shane, his chest to Shane’s back. Hooked his chin over Shane’s shoulder so he could press them cheek to cheek. 

“I should not have left without saying I would be back,” he added. “I am only leaving for real when you ask me to leave for real.” 

Shane shifted in his arms like he was restless, and then rolled fully over so they were nose to nose. Ilya rearranged his arms, sliding one hand beneath Shane’s face. His eyes were dark with the lamplight behind him, but he could still see the shimmer of them around the edges. 

“Tell me the rest,” Shane said. “The rest of what you’re not saying to me.” 

That was a lot. Too much, probably. He wouldn’t even know where to start. 

“About what, dorogoy?” 

“Like that,” Shane said, he slid his hand over Ilya’s waist and clung tightly to him. “What does that mean? And what you said before? My-leyub-me?” 

Ilya blinked at him. Knew he had not been smart to hide behind Russian. 

“Dorogoy,” he said, tipped his head back a little to kiss the tip of Shane’s nose, and watched him go a little cross eyed with looking at him. “Means, mm, darling. Moy lyubimyy is, ah, is my love. They are just, um, little affectionate names.” 

He watched as Shane blinked at him and a tear slipped slowly down his cheek, like the weight of his eyelids had been too much. 

“So you don’t mean them?” Shane asked, voice very small. “You’re just… saying them.” 

“No,” Ilya said, then hurried to add on; “my Shane, yes, of course I mean them. They slip out of my mouth because I mean them. I am just - is harder to keep them in when we are together longer than a few hours, no?” 

“Oh,” Shane said. He sniffed a little, his eyes darting back and forwards between Ilya’s eyes. “Why did you take so long to come back? If you weren’t even smoking?” 

“I was angry,” Ilya said. “I wanted you to be angry, and wanting this made me angrier.” 

“I was angry,” Shane pointed out. “Before. When I - when I left. I shouldn’t have been. I get it. Why you didn’t want to say anything.” 

“No, see,” Ilya sighed, drew back a little from Shane so he could scrub at his face, pressing hard on his eyes until it hurt a little. “See? Again you are saying you understand why, saying your anger was not - not worth it. Not allowed. Shane, I am so angry so much. Keeps me from being so sad so much instead. I think you are - I feel you are letting yourself be so sad because you do not think you are allowed to feel angry.” 

He watched as Shane’s face crumpled, and then hardened, and Shane frowned hard at him, pushed further away as well, his hand coming up to swipe at his cheeks irritably.

“Fuck you,” he said, “I’m not fucking choosing to be sad. I don’t want to be sad. I don’t want any of this. I’m fucking sorry I’m having a hard time g-getting to the point where I can be m-mad, not all of us can just shrug shit off.” 

It was bittersweet, hearing Shane stumble his way angrily through his tears here. Ilya just wished it wasn’t directed at him. He always had a hard time keeping his temper about things that mattered. He could handle all the stupid needling chirps from random players on the rink, but when it was someone like Shane? When it was real? 

 He wished he was still holding Shane to his chest, so he could knuckle down the anger and push through to the reason he was so angry instead. 

“You think I just shrug shit off?” He snapped back, “You think I just do not give fucks? I am like untrained dog, to you? I am not angry because is only thing I know, I am angry because otherwise I am fucking dead, yes? I am angry because otherwise I am still in Russia, because sad does not get you anywhere. I do not want you to be only sad in case it fucking keeps you.”

He had pushed himself to sitting, and now he flung his legs over the side of the bed and stalked to the ensuite. Needed to not be seen, just for a moment, at least. Closed the door behind himself, and then sank down onto the cold tile of the floor against the counter, and closed his eyes. Let his legs sit sprawled askew in front of him, his shoulders slumped, backs of his knuckles on the floor. He hadn’t turned on the bathroom light, and in the darkness he could acknowledge to himself that he had overreacted. That he was angry but the anger he had at Shane was actually anger at himself. That Shane didn’t deserve his anger. That actually, Shane was allowed to feel fucking sad still. It had been two weeks, and also only a few days, and it was still happening to him. How was he supposed to stop feeling sad when it was still fucking hurting him. Ilya was an asshole. 

Shane tapped on the bathroom door, and when Ilya grunted, pushed it open. He didn’t turn the bathroom light on, and the thin light from the bedside lamp only trickled weakly in past Shane. 

“What did you mean otherwise you’re dead,” Shane said, crouching down near Ilya’s feet, his hand moving to wrap carefully around Ilya’s ankle. 

Ilya groaned. Lifted one hand from the floor so he could fling his arm over his face and hide in the crook of his elbow. 

“Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes I think I am very much like my mama. She was so… beautiful, and so funny, and so sad.” He paused, and then let the rest of it tumble out of his mouth. “She was so sad she accidentally swallowed a whole bottle of pills.”

He couldn’t look at Shane, kept his arm in place. Felt Shane’s fingers tighten around his ankle. 

“And I think maybe, if she could have been - if she could have been angry instead of sad, maybe she would still be here. Is stupid.” 

“Ilya,” Shane said, slow and thready. “What - are you feeling like this now? Like you’re so sad you might… accidentally -” 

“No,” Ilya cut in, dragged his hand across his face, and then dropped his arm down so he could see Shane’s face looking so fucking scared. “No. Not - sometimes I feel like maybe, but not now. Not now. I am sad, yes, but not so much like that. I am okay, solnyshko. I was… upset, and speaking without thinking. Is nothing, yes?” 

“Not yes,” Shane said. He let go of Ilya’s ankle then, and shifted onto his knees. Crawled forwards, between Ilya’s legs, and then slowly moved to sit himself down on Ilya’s lap, like they weren’t sitting in the dark bathroom in the late hours. “It’s not nothing, Ilya. And what is sol-nish-core?”

“Sunshine,” Ilya mumbled, wrapped his arms around Shane’s waist, pulling him in snug against him even though it hurt a little, the weight of the both of them pressed down on tile. “Should not be about me, now,” he said. “I keep saying wrong things.” 

“Ilya,” Shane said, like if he said Ilya’s name enough Ilya would stop sounding so pathetic. He was resting his cheek against Ilya’s forehead. “I’m sorry about your mum. I’m sorry I said you shrugged shit off. I’m sorry you’ve been so sad. I want - I want to be here for you like you’ve been here for me. And I - I keep thinking that, that maybe you don’t know? How much I - I like you. And want you.” 

“I have been guessing, maybe you like me some,” Ilya mumbled, ducked his head down so he could press his face against Shane’s chest, his skin almost cool against Ilya’s heated cheeks. 

“I like you so much, Ilya,” Shane said, his hands moving to grasp Ilya by his cheeks, lifted his head up so they were looking at each other. “I think I like you too much. I don’t - everytime you leave I’m missing you. And I’ve been trying not to like you so much, because I know you have to leave.”

Ilya tried to turn his head away, tried to tip his tears out of sight, but Shane held him firm. Leaned in and kissed his cheek, and then his mouth, very carefully. Ilya kissed him back. Screwed his eyes shut. 

“Is same for me,” he said, “I am only wanting you. I am telling doctor I am your partner and then wanting to be true so bad my heart hurts like I am having medical event.” 

Shane swore under his breath, kissed him again, a little rougher, a lot wetter. “Okay,” he said, “okay so be my partner. I want that too. Be my partner. Make it true. Please.” 

Ilya had only just told Shane’s parents that he always wanted to give Shane what he wanted when he asked for it. 

“Okay,” he said, “yes. Moy lyubimyy. Maybe we get up off floor and back into bed?” He added, his butt bones actually getting sore now. 

“Right, yes,” Shane said, sniffing. He got up out Ilya’s lap very quickly, put his hand down for Ilya to grab, and hauled him up. “Please take me to bed.” 

Fuck. Shane was already kissing him again. Not the careful kisses they had been keeping to, slow and cautious, but hurried and hard. Mouth open and hands grabbing. Ilya steered them out of the bathroom, kissing back, biting at Shane’s lower lip until Shane opened his mouth wider and let Ilya lick into his mouth. 

They bumped into the side of the bed, and Shane was scrambling backwards his hands on Ilya’s hips, pulling him down on top of him until they were tangled on the bed, Ilya biting at Shane’s neck, Shane gripping Ilya’s hair. 

“Shane,” Ilya mumbled between kisses, “Shane, maybe we - is this - you want this? You want this now?” 

“Yes,” Shane bit out, tipped his head back, offering his throat up for Ilya’s ministrations, his hips shifting up against Ilya’s weight on top of him. “Yes I - some of it - something - I just want -” 

“What do you want?” Ilya asked, dragged himself up so he was on his hands and knees over Shane instead of pressing down on him, and Shane made a noise of discontent, his hands moving to Ilya’s hips as if to pull him back down to him. “Dorogoy, please, what do you want?” 

“For you not to treat me like I’m fragile,” Shane groaned, “Ilya, we - I just want to - I just want you.” 

“You have me,” Ilya pointed out, pressed a hard kiss to Shane’s mouth, moved one hand up to grip Shane by the jaw to stop him from following the kiss as Ilya pulled back. “I am not going anywhere. I said I would not go until you said go, and we have agreed we are partners. You have me, yes?” 

“Yes,” Shane agreed, mouth open like he was gasping for air. “But I haven’t had you. For months. We didn’t - I couldn’t do it last time, after our game, but I still missed it. Missed you. I was so - so mad about them ruining it - and I was so mad at myself for still wanting it, but I do -” 

It would be so easy to just say okay and keep kissing Shane. To throw himself into taking Shane apart like he hadn’t done for so long. To work him up and open and press into him and remind him how it was supposed to feel. 

“Please,” Shane breathed, had turned his head in Ilya’s grip so he could mouth at his palm. “I know I want this, with you. I hate that they were the last ones to touch me like that. I want it to be you, I always want it to be you.” 

“Blyat,” Ilya hissed, dropped his hips down against Shane’s, and bent back down to kiss him. Slid his thumb into Shane’s mouth, pressed down on his tongue, and pulled back to look at the way Shane let him do this, face lax and blissful. He pressed deeper, and watched as Shane’s eyes closed and opened again in a flutter, his breath panting out hot around Ilya’s hand. “Shit, Shane. Why are you so hot? I want you all the time.” 

Shane spoke around his thumb, clumsy but still distinguishable; “So have me.”

Groaning, Ilya pulled his thumb out and smashed their mouths together again, sloppy and a little desperate and Shane moaned into his mouth, his hips rutting up against Ilya’s. He was going to kill Ilya with how good it already felt.
He was momentarily so fucking angry again, thinking about how people everywhere thought they knew what Shane looked like having sex, thinking they knew anything about him. If it wouldn’t have been the worst idea in the fucking world he would want to film a real sex tape with Shane and show it to people like, look, see? This is how he should always be. What is the point if you don’t have him so happy and wanting beneath you? He pushed these stupid thoughts away to focus on the important things. 

Shane’s hard cock, pushing up his little shorts and grinding against Ilya’s lower stomach, already leaving a damp smear on his skin.

“You want?” Ilya asked, bit at Shane’s jaw as he dragged his hand down his side, over his hips, dipping his fingertips beneath the waistband of his shorts. 

“Yes,” Shane gasped, his eyes closed, cheeks so pink he looked like he’d been slapped. He was grabbing at Ilya’s ass, tugging at his briefs, trying ineffectively to pull them down one handed while his other hand was occupied with the important task of holding Ilya’s face, his thumb sliding over and over Ilya’s cheek. “Please touch me.” 

“So polite,” Ilya smiled, kissed below Shane’s ear, bit at his lobe, and then moved back to his mouth as he got his hand around Shane’s cock, gripping him firmly as he adjusted his wrist, swallowed up the noise Shane made at the touch. “Shh, lyubimyy, we have to be quiet. Would not be good for your parents to hear, hm?” 

“Fuck,” Shane breathed, “fuck don’t - I forgot - shit -”

Ilya paused, stopping the slow drag he’d started on Shane’s cock, pulling his mouth from Shane’s. Looked at him. Shane looked back up at him, breathing ragged, expression confused for half a second. 

“Not stop,” Shane whispered, “just - like, don’t mention them while your hand is on my cock!” 

“Oh, sorry,” Ilya drawled, his whole body warm suddenly, “I was only being good boyfriend, reminding you not to be as loud as you get. Maybe I should have waited until after you came to say, remember we have next door neighbours? And also they are your mama and papa?” 

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane grinned, “just - please keep going. I’ll be quiet, I can be quiet.” 

“Can you?” Ilya asked, tightened his grip on Shane, twisted his wrist, bit at Shane’s pulse in his neck, beating rabbit fast. Shane groaned, dropped his hand from Ilya’s face to his own mouth and covered it with his palm. “Lyubimyy,” Ilya whispered, moving his hand on him faster, “maybe we should wait, hm? Until is only us. So sad to have you stay quiet.” 

Shane shook his head, his eyes narrowing furiously at Ilya for a moment before squeezing shut and letting out a muffled moan as Ilya ducked his head down to kiss at one of Shane’s nipples. 

“Hmm, if you are sure,” he teased, bit gently at Shane’s nipple now standing erect, and moved his other hand to shove Shane’s shorts down his hips. Shane lifted his ass off the bed as much as he could with Ilya over him, and together they got the shorts down to his thighs. 

“Will be okay if I suck you?” He asked, looking up at Shane, who had lifted his head to watch him, his hand still firmly clamped over his mouth like it truly was the only way he could fathom being quiet. “Or will be too much?” 

Shane had nodded, and at the second question shook his head hard, his hips jerking until Ilya moved his hand to Shane’s hip and pressed down, and then his whole body shook for a moment before becoming relaxed and buttery

Ilya took a moment to just look. He felt like his brain was still recalibrating, trying to figure out all the steps they had just taken and jumped over, but his body was fully up to date with everything, and so was Shane’s. His whole body, spread out on the bed, was soft, apart from his cock, which was already looking achingly hard, and visibly twitched with Ilya ducked his head a little further down. Fuck. Gospodi. He sent a prayer to whoever might be listening that Shane’s parents really would not hear anything, because he was Shane’s partner now, and he very very much wanted their approval. 

He took the tip of Shane’s cock in his mouth, wanted to keep his eyes on Shane’s face, so only moved very shallowly, watching as Shane’s chest heaved. 

“Hang on,” Shane said, his hand off his mouth and reaching down to Ilya instead. Ilya paused, kept his mouth on Shane’s cock, because it was a hang on not a stop. “I need - your hand - put your fingers -” 

He didn’t finish his sentence, instead made himself clear by sucking two of Ilya’s fingers into his mouth and moaning around them. Dead. Ilya would be dead. 

He had to be careful with his movements now, so he wouldn’t tug his fingers out of Shane’s mouth. It would be hard to do, really, Shane had one hand holding his wrist tightly, and his mouth was clamped around his fingers like he needed them. 

It was good, really, this position, because it kept Shane’s face closer so Ilya could watch it as he swallowed him down further, as he worked his tongue over his glans, flicked into the slit at the tip. Could keep seeing the evidence of Shane wanting it and liking it right up until he was coming in Ilya’s mouth, and biting down on his fingers as he tried to muffle his moaning. Ilya helped by switching his mouth for his hand and his hand for his mouth, jerking Shane through the rest of his orgasm, and kissing him to keep him as muffled as possible, and then kissing him more because he was so hot and so beautiful and Ilya got to keep him, at least for now. 

Shane kissed back languidly for a while, still letting out small breathy moans between kisses as Ilya ground down against him, and then he was pushing at Ilya’s chest and squirming out from underneath him. 

“Shane?” Ilya was halfway to worried about the sudden escape, except then Shane was tugging at him. 

“Please, c’mon,” Shane panted, had dropped to his knees at the side of the bed, “I want to - please - come here -” 

If he could move quicker without accidentally throwing himself off the bed, Ilya would. He swiveled himself around, and shuffled to the edge of the bed, putting his legs down on either side of Shane’s shoulders, and grinning when Shane grabbed him by the hips and heaved him closer, leaning in already to press his mouth to the crease of his hip, and moaning in disapproval at Ilya’s briefs still being on, his hands already working to pull them off. Ilya helped, and Shane got them off one foot, and then gave up, leaving them hanging on Ilya’s ankle as he pressed in again, mouthing at his inner thigh where it was already sweaty, his hands pushing Ilya’s legs wider. 

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya breathed, staring down at him. “You are so - fuck you are so hot.”

He ran his fingers through Shane’s hair, gripped the back of his head, gritted his teeth as Shane fitted his mouth around the end of his cock and sucked his cheeks in, too much so much so good, for just a few seconds before loosening the suction and dragging his mouth wet and sloppy over the shaft. 

It was so fucking good that now Ilya was the one trying to keep quiet, and he was taken completely by surprise when Shane very suddenly pulled off, his hands gripping suddenly tighter on Ilya’s thighs. 

“I just -” Shane began in a rush, his lips wet, “Don’t come on my face. I’ll - I’ll swallow, or, or you can come in my hand, just -” 

Ilya panted down at him, and then ran his hand from the back of Shane’s head to cup his cheek. “Okay, yes, yes of course. I will say when I am close, and you can choose where you want me, yes? Is up to you.” 

Shane nodded, stared at him a moment more, and then went back to sucking Ilya’s cock like he was fucking starving for it. 

Shane hadn’t lasted long, and Ilya was finding himself far too close far too quickly. Was blaming high emotions and lack of orgasms lately. But also Shane’s mouth was just so good on him, and Shane between his legs was such a beautiful sight. 

“Shane,” he groaned, dropped his hand down to grip himself firmly at the base of his cock when Shane flicked his tongue over the head of it, “I am gonna come soon, dorogoy, is - is too good.” 

Shane didn’t move, but his eyes flicked up to Ilya like he wasn’t sure what to do. Like he hadn’t decided if he was actually okay with swallowing, so Ilya offered him an out. 

“Would love to kiss you,” he groaned, low, “I love your mouth, love to taste me on you -” 

Shane didn’t wait for anymore, he was already surging up, his hand tight and hot and quick on Ilya’s cock,  his mouth wet and bitter against Ilya’s tongue. It had the added bonus of muffling Ilya’s orgasm as well, which was good because it felt like it punched its way out of Ilya, hard and breathtaking. Shane moaned into his mouth like he was coming again as well, which made everything feel even better. He was dead, dead and in heaven. Heaven made entirely out of Shane Hollander’s mouth. 

They breathed against each others’ faces for a moment, catching their breaths, and then Shane let out a half shocked laugh, and Ilya found himself giggling back. 

“Fuck,” Shane said, still laughing a little, “now we need another shower. I am - I am covered in come, I think there’s some on my back.” 

“Yes, probably,” Ilya agreed, but dropped himself back against the bed to pant up at the ceiling for a moment more. “Fuck, Shane. I could lick you clean?” 

“Gross,” Shane said, wrinkling his nose, “come on. Come shower with me.” 

“Ugh,” Ilya groaned, as if he didn’t love the idea. “Fine. Pull me up.” 

---

When they got back into bed - without even needing to change any bedding, because Shane agreed the small amounts of come they’d got on the top cover could in fact be just wiped up with a damp flannel - Shane dragged Ilya to lie half on top of him, like Ilya was Shane’s personal weighted blanket. 

“You are feeling okay?” Ilya asked, once the light was off. “After sex?” 

Shane took a moment to answer, looked like he was mulling it over, checking in with himself. “Yes,” he said. “I - I got scared, a little, that I would freak out if you came on my face. But I’m not sure if I would have, or if I was freaking out about freaking out.” 

“Mm,” Ilya nodded, bonked their foreheads together lightly. “I think I was scared, also.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes. I do not want - I do not know how to be careful in the right way. I was not meaning to be treating you as fragile. I was waiting on you being ready and wanting, and then you were and I was… still afraid. Of touching you wrong.” 

“You never have before,” Shane said, very matter of factly, as if Ilya had never treated him badly, or not touched him enough. He knew his own faults. “I trust you with me, Ilya.” 

Ilya kissed him, a very soft thing in comparison to their kisses of fifteen minutes ago. 

“I’m serious,” Shane said, quiet. “Most people touching me - I don’t like it much. I always like you touching me. Even when it’s - when it’s stupid shove fights. Or when you’re checking me.”

“I have simply bewitched you with my sexy body,” Ilya said, kissed him again, and then, “I like to touch you. I like you touching me.” 

They lay in silence for a long moment, breathing slowly together. 

“Theriault called,” Shane said. “I’m sure mum told you.” 

“Yes,” Ilya said, felt a flicker of anger in his gut. “Pike told me also. He called me while I was out to tell you he might call. I told him to call you, and then I came home. Sounds like maybe when he called, your coach had already done damage?” 

“Ah, poor Hayd,” Shane snorted. “Yeah, uh, he called to - I mean. Basically to tell me that I’m a faggot whore and I shouldn’t lie about liking it up the ass, and that I was a waste of money.” 

Ilya tried to sit up, murder in his heart, but Shane tightened his grip on him and didn’t let go. 

“Disgusting man,” he hissed, once he gave up on his escape to kill attempt. 

“Mum recorded it,” Shane said. “And she’s going to send it to Farah. I’m going to ask Farah to get me out of the rest of my contract. You were right. I knew it before, I just didn’t want to see it. I can’t play for them anymore.” 

Ilya paused. “I’m sorry, lyubimyy,” he said, truly meant it. “I know that is hard.” 

“Yeah,” Shane sighed. “I don’t know what I’m going to do now. I just wanted to play hockey.” 

“We will figure it out,” Ilya said, “and until then, I will work out how best to sneakily murder him, and some other people on my lists.”

“Lists? Multiple?” 

“Different levels of suffering,” Ilya said. “Will you still lo-like me if I am serial killer?” 

Shane looked at him, squinting in the dark despite how close they were. “Sadly,” he said, “probably yes.” 

Ilya thought about it. “You can help me plan extra sneakily. I would prefer not to go to prison, I do not think they let me cuddle my boyfriend in prison.” 

“Probably not,” Shane agreed, “and I can’t go to prison, I wouldn’t be able to make myself eat the food and then I’d starve to death.” 

“We are agreed then,” Ilya said. “We will not go to prison.” 

-----

Chapter End Notes

Also to everyone who has been saying fuck comeau from the beginning, shout out to you, we get to say it out loud now :)

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

-----

TUESDAY

-----

Farah had warned them this may well happen, once the investigation started and the Metro’s management became aware that they too were under fire, but it still wasn’t pleasant. 

Shane had thought - apparently misguidedly - that nothing could be worse than having a previously unknown video of himself being raped dropped on the internet, and that he would be mostly unaffected by further breaking news, as he was now hardened to it. 

He was not hardened to it. He was, perhaps, softened to it. 

They would probably never know who leaked it to the press, but by the time Shane was waking up the next morning, he was all over the headlines again. 

He was thankful at least that he had pulled on a pair of soft pajama pants, and bullied Ilya into a clean pair of boxers before they’d gotten into bed again last night (they had gone to sleep closer to two in the morning, but Shane figured if he thought of it as last night, maybe he could pretend he’d gotten a good amount of sleep). His mum did knock on the door, but she only waited long enough to hear a grunt before coming in with her laptop. 

“Mum,” Shane grumbled, was still blinking awake and hadn’t been entirely sure there really had been a knock or that he had grunted in reply. “What -” 

“Sorry, baby. Ilya,” Yuna attempted a smile, but really grimaced. At least she didn’t look taken aback by the sight of Shane plastered around Ilya’s back. 

“Mgh?” Ilya asked, his face still mostly in the pillow. 

“I know you’ve been keeping off media, mostly,” Yuna said to Shane as he struggled to extricate himself enough from Ilya to sit up. “Which I think is a good idea, but I know you want to stay informed on what’s being…said, as well.” 

“Please tell me they’re talking about how I fumbled my last goal shot,” Shane groaned, rubbing at his eyes with one hand, and tugging the blanket up a little further over Ilya’s stomach with the other. 

“They have been,” Ilya told him, possibly seriously, undoing Shane’s attempt to preserve his modesty, by sitting up and stretching, the blanket pooling in his lap, and the boxers sitting near indecently low on his hips. “But they probably ran out of material for it, it was not so bad as all that.” 

“No,” Shane’s mum agreed, still attempting her grimace smile. She perched on the side of the bed closest to Shane, and put her laptop on the covers over his knees. “Farah wants you to know it would have come out eventually, so maybe it’s good it’s sooner rather than later?” 

Shane squinted at the laptop, and Ilya leaned over, pushing behind Shane and scrabbling at Shane’s bedside table for his glasses, which he handed to Shane without un-insinuating himself from between Shane and this pillows. He wrapped around Shane’s back, his head on Shane’s shoulder, hands on his waist. 

Probably if Yuna had still been operating under the idea that Shane and Ilya were strictly friends who were touchy with each other, she would not be thinking that anymore. Not with the way Ilya pressed a kiss to Shane’s shoulder, and then to his neck. 

SCUMMY SPORTING UNDERGROUND? SHANE HOLLANDER VICTIM OF SEXUAL ASSAULT INSIDE THE METRO’S ARENA.
AUTHORITIES INVESTIGATING MANAGEMENT AND OTHER METRO’S PLAYERS FOR INVOLVEMENT.

Shane wasn’t a fan of this headline. Partly because it felt mean spirited to hockey, and mostly because there his name was in full caps again. There was a photo as well, a still from the end of the video, where it had zoomed in on his dazed and dirtied face. 

They had a photo for contrast, choosing his latest Metro’s headshot, where he was smiling a little bit. It felt cruel to put them side by side. 

“I don’t want to read this,” he said, still staring at the screen, unable to tear his eyes away from the article. He wasn’t reading it on purpose, but words kept jumping out at him. Raped, premeditated, victim, hate crime.

His mum pulled the laptop around to face her instead, saving Shane from accidentally taking in anymore words that felt like rocks thrown at him. 

“You don’t have to,” she said. “I just - this is going to be everywhere, baby. We were already fielding so many requests for interviews, and comments, before, and I think we are going to be inundated.” 

Ilya made a soft noise in Shane’s ear, and Shane sniffed, tipped his head back a little. “Overwhelmed. Or like. Too much stuff.” 

“Mm.” Ilya pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

“Yes,” Yuna nodded at Shane, “We don’t know if the leak came from the Metros or from someone in the police, or just someone who managed to overhear something. At this point it’s not important. We thought we would have a bit more time before the news came out, but as it is - well. We were hoping to have a statement ready to post when it did. Just to try and quell more rumours from spreading and creating more of a mess.” 

“Oh,” Shane said. 

“Yes,” his mum said again. She frowned softly at him, reached out to take his hand in hers. “I don’t want to bombard you with this. I am sorry.” 

Shane blinked. Nodded. “You want me to - to write the statement today?” He asked. “Or have you already written one you want me to just, sign off on and post?” 

“I can write it for you,” she said, squeezed his hand. “Or you can. Or it can be a joint project. Either way, it would be, we think, prudent to have it out by about noon.” 

Shane glanced over for his phone, but Ilya was already holding his own and moving it to show him the time. Half past nine. They’d slept in. 

He considered. It was difficult to consider anything when all his brain wanted to do was panic. He felt like he was running around in his head putting out fires as they popped up, and every time he thought he had it under control there was a new ember flaring into flame, and he couldn’t think about anything but putting it out, and -

Ilya kissed his cheek again. He’d put his phone down on the bed by Shane’s butt and it was cold even through the fabric of his pants. He wrapped his arms tight around Shane’s waist. 

“Take big breath,” he said. Shane did. “Hold it,” Ilya instructed, and Shane held it, tipping his head back against Ilya’s shoulder. “Breathe out, big breath,” Ilya said, his hand pressing flat to Shane’s stomach, and Shane exhaled low and long. “Good, keep breathing now, dorogoy,” Ilya pressed another kiss to Shane’s skin, just beneath his temple. 

Shane hadn’t realised he’d closed his eyes, but he opened them now and brought his head back up, his chest not feeling so constricted as it had been moments before, without him even realising until it released. His mum was watching them, eyebrows raised. 

“How about we finish getting up properly, and then have breakfast?” She suggested. “And then we deal with it.” 

Shane nodded. “Okay. Sorry.” 

“No,” she shook her head, and then leaned in and kissed his forehead, and then ducked sideways and kissed Ilya’s forehead as well before pulling back. “See you soon, boys. It’s going to be okay.” 

She got up, taking her laptop with her, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. 

Shane let himself flop fully back into Ilya’s arms, and Ilya wriggled uncomfortably around until he had manhandled them both into a better position. Shane lying between Ilya’s legs, face pressed to Ilya’s neck, arms tight around each other. 

“Everyone will know now,” Shane whispered. “I’m - I’m never going to be able to play a game again without all the other players knowing that about me.” 

“A lot of hockey players are illiterate,” Ilya offered, a weak attempt at consolation, but enough to make Shane huff out a half laugh. “And we know goalies live under rocks and only ever talk to those curly wurly bugs.” 

“Pillbugs?” Shane asked. 

“Mm, yes, roly poly bugs. I like them. Like little, ah, what is word. You know this movie, it is pictures - animated - and two gay men go on adventure and find land of gold, and there is little cute animal who is like a roly poly bug. What are they named?” 

Shane lifted his head to stare at him. “Huh? I don’t think I’ve seen the movie.” 

“Well it was very funny movie, so that makes sense, yes. But animal is not just in movie. She has, like, armour? And rolls up in ball. Is part of movie plot.” 

“Um,” Shane blinked several times. “An armadillo?” 

“Ah! Yes!” Ilya let go of Shane with one arm to punch the air. “You are so clever and smart my Shane. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” Shane replied. Was so endlessly fond of the ways Ilya pulled him out of his own panicking head and set him a task so he could reset. “I think my mum knows we like each other, now.” 

Ilya raised his eyebrows at him, cupped Shane’s face with one hand, gripping his chin with his thumb.  “You think?” 

Shane grinned up at him. “Well, I mean. You were kissing me, and holding me in bed while we’re both shirtless, and -”

Ilya kissed him on the lips, pulled back. “Yes,” he said. “Yes I think she probably does. And I think David probably does as well. I think maybe they are waiting to say anything about us until we say something about us.” 

“Do you… want to say something about us?” Shane asked, felt nervous suddenly, in a much less full body horror way than he had been experiencing nervousness for the last few days. It was almost pleasant. “I know we can’t, like, be public, but -” 

“Yes,” Ilya cut him off. “Yes, malysh, I do want. If it would not be stupid big news and make NHL and Russia very, very mad, I would say we tell everyone right now. As soon as possible, because you see, there is problem, one maybe Farah even forgot to say.” 

Shane frowned, felt like he’d just gone on a rollercoaster of emotions, and had no idea if he was hanging upside down right now. “What?” 

“Now we have so many men who think maybe they have chance with beautiful, talented, sexy Shane Hollander, and they will all be thinking how to shoot their shoots, and I can not even go around hitting them with hammers and saying back off.” 

Shane laughed out loud, the ridiculousness of it pushing everything else out of him. “You are so stupid,” he said, grinning so wide his cheeks were nudging his glasses up. 

“No, Shane,” Ilya pouted big and dramatic, mimed a tear falling down his cheek with one finger. “I am so sad, you cannot laugh at me for this! I want to be big scary boyfriend and you hold my leash like I am guard dog, and when silly other men think they can flirt with you, you tell them I bite.” 

Shane kept laughing, dropped himself back down against Ilya so he could press his mouth to Ilya’s even while he laughed. 

“Idiot,” he said, between kisses. “You have nothing to worry about. I think you are wildly overestimating people wanting me.” 

“Oh, no,” Ilya pushed Shane back a little, separating their mouths sadly. “No, you are flirted with so often by so many people. Just because you do not know you are being flirted with does not mean you were not being flirted with.” 

Shane frowned, “I know when I’m being flirted with,” he said. “I’ve had two girlfriends. And I noticed you flirting with me.” 

“Hollander,” Ilya snorted, “I do not know how blatant these girls had to be to get you to date them, but I do remember touching my dick in shower at you because you were not noticing my, ah, smaller movements.” 

Shane blinked at him, and then decided maybe he didn’t want to argue this point because it sounded like he was going to lose, and it would be embarrassing. Especially because then Ilya would wheedle it out of him that actually his first girlfriend had had to ask him out with a letter in which she laid it all out. He had also accepted with another letter. It had felt appropriate.

“We should get dressed,” he said. 

---

David had made pancakes. He even used Shane’s special pancake mix even though he said it was an affront to pancakes everywhere. Shane actually preferred that they were denser than regular ones. 

His parents both looked a little pinched while they all ate breakfast together. Shane couldn’t tell if it was because of the new leak, because they were waiting for Shane and Ilya to finally confess that they were kissing each other, or because they actually had overheard them last night. Shane hoped it was not that one. Anything but that one. It was bad enough that they had seen him in the video, he didn’t want them to have… audio. He wondered if actually his life might be significantly better if he faked his death and moved away somewhere remote with a new name. Except Ilya probably wouldn’t want to come, and that would really put a damper on things. 

He floated the idea anyway. “Do you think it might be easier clean up if we just faked my death?” He placed sliced bananas on his second pancake. “Like, it’d be garish to keep gossiping so much about my sex life and the assault if I was dead, right?” 

His mum began to make an exasperated sort of noise, and Shane had seen the way his dad’s face twisted, but then Ilya dropped his coffee. Not far, he had only just picked it up from the table, so it landed with a stark thud and a small splash. 

“No dying jokes,” he said, voice splinter sharp and small. “Please.” 

It was on the tip of his tongue to protest that he had only been talking about pretending, and that he wasn’t - he wouldn’t - but it didn’t feel worth it to defend his joke, when Ilya looked and sounded like that. He reached across the table and took Ilya’s hand in his, uncaring that he was getting sugary coffee on his palm. 

“Sorry,” he said. “No joking about it.” 

Ilya nodded. “Okay.” He lifted their joined hands and kissed Shane’s knuckles. Glanced down at the table. “I go get cloth to wipe up coffee.” 

“Sorry,” Shane said again, to the table in general, as Ilya stood up and crossed over to the sink. “I was just. I just wish it didn’t have to be such a… public thing.” 

“We know,” his mum said, frowning sadly at him. She was having a lemon and honey pancake, and had only eaten half of her first one so far. He knew she always found them much too filling. “It isn’t fair, and it isn’t right. But we are going to deal with it as a team, and we’re not going to resort to packing up and leaving.” 

“What if I wanted to pack up and leave?” Shane asked, hurried to add; “Not in a faking my death way, just in a - a moving way.” 

It felt like everyone had frozen, like it was just Shane sitting amongst a statued tableau of breakfast. 

David was the first to break it. “That would be okay,” he said. “If that’s what you wanted, Shaney, that’s what we would do.” 

“Even though you’ve both spent so much time and effort getting me here?” Shane asked. He didn’t even know why he was asking this. It felt like it was breaking free from some rocky unknown terrain in his brain and slipping out. “Even though it would be embarrassing? Not just that I’m - I’m gay, but also that I got so publically… assaulted. And then ran?” 

“Yes,” David said, firm. 

“Baby,” Yuna’s voice shook a little, but her gaze was fierce. “Of course. And we would never be embarrassed by you. If it was what you wanted, yes, that is what we would do. It would be hard, but we would do it. And do it happily. Okay?” 

Shane cleared his throat, blinked down hard at his pancake. Ilya was still just standing by the sink, a damp cloth in his hand. When Shane looked up at him, he jerked a little like he was startled to be seen, and then began to walk back over to the table. 

“Do you want that?” Yuna asked, hesitant. “Have you been thinking about, maybe -” 

“No,” Shane shook his head, looked up at Ilya as he sat back down beside Shane, and then took his hand to wipe the sticky coffee off it. “No I don’t. I just - I think I get scared. That it’s all I am. And there’s a chance, with all of this… bad press, that no team is going to want me. So maybe I won’t get to play hockey anymore anyway. And I don’t want to disappoint you guys more than I already have.” 

“Moy malysh,” Ilya said, was cleaning between Shane’s fingers with the cloth. “There will be teams who want you. There will always be teams who want you. And if in big blue moon there is none who are good enough for you, we make our own.” 

“I don’t think we could do that, like, legally?” Shane said, his eyebrows scrunching down as he thought. “Like, maybe if there was a defunct team we could revive, but like -” he cut himself off with a sharp shake of his head. “Okay. I hear you.” 

“Good,” Ilya said. He ducked in and they kissed softly before Ilya let go of his hand and wiped at the small spill on the table. 

David cleared his throat. 

Ah, yes. 

“Okay,” Shane said, dragging his eyes from Ilya’s profile to glance between his parents. “Um. That wasn’t how I wanted to tell you. I mean. I know you guys have been… seeing things. And I - I already told dad how much I liked Ilya. So. Um. We’re together for real now.” 

“Boyfriends,” Ilya said, leaving the cloth on the table and picking up his coffee again to finally take a gulp from it. “Partners.” 

“Well,” David said, “congratulations. I’m happy for you both.” 

“What do you mean together for real now?” Yuna asked. “I have been very carefully not prying, but how long have you two been together not for real?” 

Shane glanced back at Ilya, who was already looking at him. “Since rookie year,” Shane mumbled. 

“Ah-ah,” Ilya shook his head. “Is not quite true, Shane. Summer before, remember?” 

“That’s not helpful,” Shane shot back. 

“Is good to be accurate,” Ilya shrugged. 

Shane’s parents were looking at each other now, his father mouthing wow at his mother, eyebrows raised. 

“So,” Yuna began, and Shane envisioned how uncomfortable and squirmy he would be if she asked more about what their relationship had been until now. 

“Um,” he said, loudly. “I was thinking about the statement. For today. About how I want to write it. I think? I want to try and write it, and then I’ll like, hand it over to you and Farah to edit or whatever. I just think. So far everything posted about me has been - has been from other people, and I want to actually. Have a voice in it.” 

“Okay,” his mum said, smiled at him, small but genuine. “That’s a good idea, baby. I take it we are now on an embargo on questions about the beginning of your relationship?” 

“Yeah,” Shane sighed. Nodded. Glanced at Ilya. 

“I know embargo,” Ilya said, grinned at Shane, his jaw jutted out. “Carmy uses it in stupid ways always.” 

Shane smiled back at him. Let himself forget again, for a moment, what was happening, and just relish having Ilya smiling at him and kissing him in front of his parents, and his parents reassuring and steady, and holding him upright. 

---

Ilya had to make phonecalls after breakfast. Needed to talk to LeClaire to talk about how long they could do without him, and about game strategy. Also wanted to call Marly because apparently he had been texting him asking for an update and insisting it be a spoken one. He went to their bedroom to make his phonecalls. 

Shane sat on his couch with his laptop on his knees and tried to write. His mum sat on the other end of the couch where her laptop as well, typing and frowning, and his dad was at the table writing emails on his tablet. 

Hi everyone, hope you enjoyed seeing my hole

I know many of you have been waiting for me to comment on the video in which i am obviously having a bad time, so maybe you can see why i wouldn’t actually want to comment

While it is true apparently that i am gay, which i came to realise only a few days after you all did

I know you fucking vultures people have been wanting me to confirm both my sexuality, and the validity of the video, and now with this new leak, that I was assaulted. 

Over the last few weeks I have had my privacy violated multiple times. I was recorded being attacked and sexually assaulted by currently unknown assailants. Possibly cousins of a teammate I was taken by surprise by the release of the video, and overwhelmed by the homophobia directed at me in response to it.

I want to clarify two things here. Yes, I am gay. Yes, I was raped raped.

With the help of close friends and my family I have taken steps to begin a criminal investigation, both about the assault and the release of the video. At this moment in time I have no comment to make about Metro’s franchise, or management. 

I just want to play hockey While I know I will have lost many fans due to these actions made against me, I will be back

Looking forward to seeing you from the ice, Shane. 

-----

Ilya had been planning on bringing it up a little more casually. Sliding the concept into the conversation. LeClaire beat him to it, and didn’t bother with being sneaky at all. 

“You don’t have to confirm this,” he said, once he and Ilya had gone through the initial helloes and how are yous. “But I might have put together from a few things some rather large birdies accidentally let slip that your family emergency might be Shane Hollander.” 

Ilya gulped, quite audibly. Had no idea what to say about this, so he didn’t. 

“Okay,” LeClaire said, his nonanswer apparently answer enough. “Okay. Again, I don’t need you to confirm, let’s pretend we’re talking about a hypothetical situation, yeah?” 

“Hypertheticals,” Ilya mumbled, “like. Fantasy? Make believe?” 

“Yeah, basically.” 

“Okay. Tell me your hyperthetical.” Ilya dropped himself down on the edge of Shane’s bed, fiddled with the edge of the blanket. Wondered if he ought to get Yuna in here. 

“Hypothetically,” LeClaire said. “If Shane Hollander were to leave the Metros, due to, shall we say, conflicting ideals, and he was looking for a new team, do you think he would fit with the Bears?” 

For a moment Ilya couldn’t process what he was hearing, except that he felt like it was maybe his birthday and New Years and he was winning a prize all at once. He had to tamp down the excitement coursing through him so he wouldn’t overflow with it. 

“In this, ah, imagination,” he said, slowly, once he’d managed to rein his voice down from utterly gleeful to simply curious. “He would be, mm, treated as star he is. Yes? Proper pay, proper position on ice. Not taken as a pity thing.” 

“Of course,” LeClaire sounded a little shocked. “We would have to do a little shuffling around, hypothetically, but we’ve already decided we have cap space. I’m not suggesting you lose the C, though, do you think he would accept an A?” 

Ilya thought about it. About the way Shane was a good captain, in the way that he planned plays, and saw moves no one else could. About how Shane had told him more than once that he felt awkward doing pre-game speeches, and hated post-game ones. Didn’t like being a hype man. 

“Imagination Shane would take A, yes,” Ilya said. Cleared his throat. “Imagination Ilya would also take A. If was needed to have hyperthetical become real.” 

LeClaire made a noise like perhaps he had choked on a drink, or maybe his own spit, and Ilya waited semi-patiently as he coughed over the phone for almost a minute before speaking again. 

“Fuck,” LeClaire said. “So. This means we would have your approval? If we were to try and turn a hypothetical into a reality? No… issues with the legendary rivalry?” 

“Is legendary,” Ilya agreed. “We love to compete against each other. We could keep competing next to each other as well. I have hyperthetical question for you, as well.” 

“Hit me,” LeClaire said, sounded enthused. 

“Maybe if,” Ilya started, glanced at the bedroom door, considered again bringing Yuna in here to guide him. He probably should loop his agent in. Except he shouldn’t, because his agent would drop him like a hot gay potato. He should get a new agent. Maybe Farah would take him? “Maybe if, we imagine, you have two hockey players who are very best at hockey in whole world, but also they are… together. Would you still want to have them both?” 

A short pause in which Ilya twisted the blanket around his finger so tight it started to hurt and he hurriedly unwrapped it. 

“If, hypothetically,” LeClaire said, very carefully, “we had two hockey players in our team who were romantically involved, I think we would simply ask them to fill in an HR form and to keep it reasonably professional while at work. And seeing as, as you say, these two hockey players are the best at hockey, I think having them working together would be the best thing we could ask for.” 

Ilya exhaled loudly, wiped at his face. “And if team did not approve?” 

“This one isn’t hypothetical,” LeClaire replied. “Management has been shaken up by everything that’s come out in the last few days. We’ve had our social media and PR teams working overtime, and they’ve pointed out that we don’t have anything set up to protect our players when this kind of thing happens. We’ve been working on writing out a new code of conduct. I know you keep a clean room, Rozanov, and we want to help keep it that way. Players already get fined on ice for slurs - when they’re overheard - but we’re moving that to the locker room as well. If the team has a problem with working with gay hockey players, than that isn’t the team we want. The Bears are rough, tough players, but they’re not meant to be cruel.” 

“No,” Ilya agreed. He wondered if he ought to be pinching himself, checking he was in fact awake and not having a very nice dream. If it was a dream, probably Shane would be in here sitting naked on his lap. 

“This isn’t conditional on hypothetically getting Hollander on our team,” LeClaire added. “We’re moving forwards with the changes as soon as we can get them ironed out. We’ll be reaching out to Hollander’s representation as soon as possible, too.” 

“He isn’t,” Ilya began, gathered himself. “I do not think he is out of contract yet. Hyperthetically.” 

“Probably not,” LeClaire agreed. “We want to put our foot in the door, first, though. Hypothetically.” 

---

When Ilya came out of the bedroom, Shane was still huddled on the couch. He didn’t have his laptop anymore, was instead staring with a tight frown down at black wool and a chunky hooked needle in his lap. He looked up when Ilya stepped into the lounge, and smiled at him. 

Yuna was at the table again now, both her’s and Shane’s laptops open in front of her, and on a phonecall with probably Farah. David was sitting opposite her with his tablet, but he looked up at Ilya and smiled. Ilya smiled back before directing his attention fully to Shane.

“You are making scarf for doll?” Ilya asked, sitting himself down as close to Shane as he could without bumping his hands or the wool. 

“I’m learning to crochet,” Shane said, “I’m pretty sure I’m making nothing at all, except for proof of practice.” 

“Mm,” Ilya leaned his head into the crook of Shane’s shoulder, breathed him in. “When you are master of craft you will make me crochet everything? Slippers? Vest?” 

Shane snorted, “sure,” he said. “I’ll start on that right after I learn how to start a new row or whatever without my dad literally showing me.” 

“Mm, good,” Ilya closed his eyes for a moment. “My Shane. I have hyperthetical for you. It is one told to me from my coach, and also one Marly really likes.” 

“A hypo-thetical?” Shane asked, he lowered his hands and the wool to his knees, and looked down at Ilya. 

“Yes, that. I think always it sounds better as hyper.” 

“Maybe something to do with your energy levels,” Shane replied. “Okay. Tell me.” 

“Hypoer-thetically,” Ilya said, paused to listen to Shane snort. “If Bears really wanted you on their team, would you want this too?” 

Shane froze underneath him, and Ilya worked hard not to let his own muscles lock up. Pressed a slightly shaky kiss to Shane’s shoulder. Waited. 

“I’m not even -” Shane began after a few long moments, voice low. “I’m still under Metro’s contract. I don’t think I’m allowed, really, to even properly talk about -” 

“Is why is in imagination,” Ilya said quickly. “Saying things how they maybe could be. If in maybes, hypertheticallys, would you maybe like this?” 

Another pause. “We would be playing together,” he said. 

“Yes.” 

“You would like that?” Shane’s neck quivered as he craned to look properly at Ilya on his shoulder. 

“Yes,” Ilya said again. Would like it so much he could burst with it. 

“I would like that, too,” Shane said. “I don’t think it could happen, though. Even if -” 

“Shane,” Ilya cut in, he sat up so he could twist his torso over Shane’s lap and face him properly. “Malysh. I have asked LeClaire so many of the hypertheticals already, and they were all answered in ways that could work. Could make happen.” 

Shane blinked at him, his eyes wet. “I’m going to post my statement soon,” he said, “Or, mum will actually post it for me, because I don’t want to -to go onto any of my accounts. Mum and Farah are fine tuning it now. And then everyone, the Bears’ management too, will know all of that about me, and I don’t think I can handle thinking about a hypothetical like that when I feel like I know for sure it won’t come true after this.” 

Ilya wanted to take Shane in his hands and squeeze him until all the fear and shame oozed out of him. Possibly a gross thing to think. Like a big pimple in one of the videos Svetlana liked to make him watch sometimes. He wanted to gather Shane up in his arms like a baby and rock him in his lap and make him understand how good he was. How this fucked up thing happening to him didn’t make him any fucking lesser, in any way. 

He settled on leaning in to kiss Shane on the lips, and then tilting his head so their foreheads pressed together and they were sharing the same breath. Ignored the fact that David and Yuna were right there. 

“So we wait and see,” he said, squinted at Shane’s face, too close so see anything really. “But moy lyubimyy, I think maybe, maybe we could hope as well. Yes?” 

Shane sniffed, tipped his head back to press another kiss to Ilya’s mouth, and then sighed. He shut his eyes, and Ilya’s overly close view had Shane’s lashes overlapping, and the single tear duplicating. 

“Yes,” Shane said. “Okay.” 

Yuna and David gave them another few moments of not interrupting, and then when it became clear that Ilya wasn’t planning on drawing back from Shane anytime soon, Yuna spoke up. 

“So,” she said, “LeClaire reached out with a hypothetical offer for Shane? To move to Boston and join the Bears?” 

Ilya begrudgingly drew back, then turned his whole body around so he was facing over the back of the couch, his legs tucked up half underneath him. He leaned into Shane and propped one of his arms over the back cushions. 

“Yes,” he said. Shane shuffled around next to him so he was sitting sideways in his seat, facing Ilya but able to see his parents as well. “He, ah, he wanted to see if I thought it would be good idea. Good fit. I said yes.” 

“Okay,” Yuna was frowning. She glanced from her phone, to David, to Shane, and then back to Ilya. “Ignoring for now the fact that Shane’s entire NHL career has put him in a rivalry with the Bears, I think that if you and Shane were on the same team, you would probably need to disclose your relationship, and I know this probably isn’t safe for you, Ilya.” 

“Is not safe,” Ilya agreed. “But would be private disclosure. Not for public knowledge. I asked and coach said would be fine.” 

“You told him we’re dating?” Shane asked, and Ilya glanced at him quickly to check he wasn’t too freaked out. Shane was wide eyed, but not frozen again. 

“I suggested as a hyperthetical,” Ilya said. “So, yes I think he knows we are together, but no, I did not say.” 

“Okay,” Shane said, was still not frozen or freaking out. 

“That’s a big step, Ilya,” David said. “What’s the next one? The one where we make it safer for you?” 

Oh yes. “Ah,” he said. “I was thinking maybe I get new agent? One who will not fire me when I suggest maybe one day I will come out to world as bisexual. One who can help with getting new visa. So I cannot be made to go back to Russia and face, ah, authorities. If anything is leaked before we are ready.” 

Everyone was quiet for a moment, like they were all thinking about authorities that Ilya would have to face. Ilya would prefer none of them thought about it. 

“I just said goodbye to Farah,” Yuna broke the silence, “but I can call her back and ask if she has any suggestions for a good agent. Or, if you like, see if she has any openings available to take you on, herself, seeing as you’ve met her already.” 

“Please,” Ilya nodded, “I would like that, yes. I like Farah.” 

Shane was staring at him, his mouth hanging open a little. Ilya put his hand to Shane’s chin and pushed it closed gently, rubbed his thumb under his lower lip. Wondered if it would be inappropriate to drag Shane off to the bedroom right now and make out with him. Maybe suck him off or eat him out until he understood how much Ilya fucking liked him. Loved him. Wanted him. 

Yuna cleared her throat, as if she had seen every single one of Ilya’s thoughts and wanted to remind him of Shane’s parents’ presence. “I will call her back,” she said. “And then, Shane, we’d like you to read over your post again. We’ve only changed a few things, mostly word changes, but we can fiddle with it more, or strip it back again if you want. When you’re okay with it, we’ll post it.” 

Shane twitched like he had been seized with the desire to run, and had only just stopped himself. He nodded, and Yuna stood up, picking Shane’s laptop as she did, and brought it over to the couch. 

“Just read over the document,” she said, “and if you have any edits go ahead and add them. It’s live, so Farah will see the edits too.” 

Shane took the laptop, nodding again, and shifted on the couch so his back was to the cushions. He tugged at Ilya so that Ilya slid himself around as well, pressed in close to Shane’s side, and read over his shoulder. 

Yuna was already on the phone again, speaking rapidly with Farah, but it faded into background noise as he read Shane’s statement. 

Hi everyone,

There has been a lot of talk circulating about me and my private life. I do not usually comment on speculation surrounding my life outside of hockey, but I do want to speak on this to avoid more rumours spiraling. 

Over the last few weeks I have had my privacy violated multiple times. I was recorded being attacked and sexually assaulted by two assailants. I was taken by surprise by the release of the video, and overwhelmed by the homophobic hate directed at me in response to it.

I want to clarify two things here. Yes, I am gay. Yes, I was raped.

With the help of close friends and my family I have taken steps to begin a criminal investigation, both about the assault and the release of the video.
At this moment in time I have no comment to make about the Metro’s franchise, or management. 

Thank you to all my fans who have reached out to my socials and my representation with well wishes and support. 

Looking forward to seeing you from the ice, Shane. 

If Ilya had any say in this statement, he would love to add in a quick fuck you to the Metros, and especially to Theriault. He would like to call out Comeau, because even if he hadn’t had a part in this to begin with, the way he had treated Shane since had been bad enough. 

Because he did not have a say in this, and because he knew posting angry would not be good for Shane, all he did was try to blink away the tears in his eyes as he leaned in to kiss Shane on the cheek. 

“Is good,” he said. “Do you have anything you will change?” 

Shane kept his eyes on the screen, even as he leaned further in to Ilya’s side. He shook his head. “No. I think. I don’t think so. I just want it posted and done with.” He closed the laptop then, decisive. “I don’t want to tell them anything else, I just want to stop people arguing about my sexuality, and like, whether or not that’s just what I look like when I’m getting fucked.” 

Ilya made a face, dropped his voice low in an attempt to not be overheard. “You look beautiful when you are getting fucked,” he said. “Anyone who saw video and thinks that that is how you look, is stupid and also dumb.” 

Shane’s lips tightened like he was holding back a smile. “Saying stupid and dumb is redundant,” he said. 

“They are stupid, dumb, and redundant,” Ilya said, “because they have no brains so we have no need for them. Even zombies would not bother, they would make zombies starve, Shane.” 

Shane laughed, smacked Ilya’s shoulder. “Okay,” he said. “I want - I want to work out. Will you join me?” 

---

While they worked through Shane’s normal routine, with a few Ilya variations, they ignored the fact that Yuna was posting Shane’s statement on his various social media accounts, and that Farah was reaching out to a very few and specific news outlets with the statement as well as her additional statements. Shane had messaged Hayden before they came to the gym, just letting him know the statement was about to be posted, and that he was turning his phone off. Then he had done just that, leaving the phone turned off in his bedroom. Ilya had messaged Marly and Svetlana the same thing, and also turned his phone off, putting it next to Shane’s before he followed Shane to the home gym. 

He spotted Shane on the weights bench, encouraging him to press more than he usually would because he had a spotter here, now. Kept his hands hovering close so Shane never had a moment to panic. 

Challenged him to a speed trial on the treadmill and took turns scoring each other. 

Pressed him down on his yoga mat when he rolled it out to start his warm down stretches, pushing his body against Shane’s until they were touching each other everywhere from their toes to their hips, stomach, chest, arms, mouths. 

Took Shane’s hands in his and pulled them up over his head and lay his wrists over each other before pinning them in place with one hand, kissing into Shane’s mouth. He used his other hand to press down on Shane’s hip as Shane arched up against him, stretching hot muscle and making Shane pant into his mouth. 

He could feel Shane hard and hot through his tight shorts, the material thin and stretched. 

“Your parents could come in,” Ilya reminded him, mostly to remind himself as well. To stop him from pressing his hand into Shane’s shorts and getting him off right here, hot and wet and sticky on the yoga mat. “Malysh, you would be very embarrassed.” 

“Yeah,” Shane agreed, bit off a groan as Ilya kissed at his throat. “Hard to care about it like this,” he admitted breathlessly, “fuck, Ilya. Will you stretch me out?” 

Ilya paused, lifted his head to look at Shane who was suddenly blushing, his skin had already been flushed with exertion, but it darkened further now. 

“Not like that,” he hissed, even as his eyes darkened, and Ilya could feel his cock pulse against his leg. “Shit. Just - warm down stretches. My hamstrings are tight, so if you could, like. Press them for me?” 

Ilya should not continue to be so turned on just by the idea of helping Shane with his warmdown stretches. Should also stop thinking about fingering Shane until he was loose and begging for more. Fuck. Okay. He kissed Shane again. 

“Of course, my Shane, you are soooo stiff, hm? You need me to, ah -” He had pulled away now, sat up on his knees in between Shane’s legs, and grabbed one of his legs by the ankle. “To stretch you out? Put your knees up to your ears?” 

Shane was staring down at him like he couldn’t tear his eyes from Ilya’s, and when Ilya did actually move Shane’s leg up into a stretch, he groaned lowly, bit out; “fuck, yes. LIke that.”

Ilya had pushed Shane’s leg up until he met resistance, then paused, and Shane shook his head. 

“Make me take it,” he said, “I can take it. I want it to hurt a little. So I know it’s working.” 

Ilya blinked down at him, a low persistent ache in his gut. “Fuck,” he said, “Shane, you have to stop making this sexy.” He pressed harder, and watched as Shane hissed, eyes fluttering half shut at the stretch. “Is okay?” 

“Yes,” Shane breathed. His eyes opened properly again, and he smiled up at Ilya, loose and relaxed even though his leg was shaking under Ilya’s hands. “It’s good. Do I have to stop making this sexy?” 

“No,” Ilya shook his head, breathed hard, pressing his forehead down against Shane’s thigh, their sweat sticking them together. “Unless you do not want me to come in my pants like a teenager.” 

“Maybe I want that,” Shane said, “maybe I like how much you want me.” 

“Fuck, I want you so much,” Ilya hissed, pressed himself closer to kiss Shane, pushing his tongue into his mouth, feeling Shane’s leg give a little more and sucking in the groan it pushed out of Shane’s mouth. 

When he pulled back from the kiss, he eased Shane’s leg down, rubbed at his muscles briskly, and moved swiftly to stretch his other leg, keeping his eyes darting to and from Shane’s face and Shane’s cock leaking a wet patch in the front of his shorts. 

“Good?” He asked, once he’d pushed Shane’s leg through that first resistance, and Shane was lifting his head from the mat, his mouth open. 

“Harder,” Shane said, “and kiss me.” 

Ilya complied speedily. Wondered what the fuck he had ever done to deserve this. Wondered if Shane would like to have sex in the middle of a real yoga routine or something at some point. Maybe when his parents were not staying with him. Fuck, his parents. 

At least right now they were technically doing warm down stretches. All their clothes were on. Shane’s hand was sliding down the front of Ilya’s tights, wrapping around his hard dick. Fuck. 

“Shane,” he gasped out, “fuck, Shane, I will come -” 

“Okay,” Shane said, kept stroking Ilya, twisting his wrist so he was jerking him off pressed against his own cock through both of their pants. “I want you to.” 

Ilya hadn’t come in his pants since - okay maybe he had come in his pants with Shane before, but Shane was the exception. He turned his head and bit Shane’s thigh as he came. Not hard enough to hurt, he hoped, but hard enough that Shane groaned, and Ilya could feel him shake as he came as well. 

Thank god there were towels down here. 

-----

TWO WEEKS LATER

---

TUESDAY

-----

Shane knew his mum was correct about it being best to have his own place - officially - in Boston. Partly so it wasn’t immediately obvious that he and Ilya were together, and partly because she was insistent that space was needed in new relationships. It was good, knowing that he had his own place here, something he could point to other than hockey and Ilya as his in this new city. But also. 

He just wanted to go home with Ilya every day. He wanted his place to be Ilya’s place, and vice versa. He didn’t want to ever wake up alone, because he had gotten used to waking with Ilya now, and it felt like a need. 

---

The Metro’s management hadn’t put up a big fight over his contract. Shane stayed out of the details of it, because he didn’t want to know. He trusted Farah to get him what he wanted if it was at all possible. She said the Metros didn’t want the embarrassment she could cause them if they really fought back. They were already facing public backlash for their perceived treatment of Shane, and they didn’t even know about Theriault calling him a faggot. Shane was sure they also were simply pleased to be rid of him. 

When he was freed from his contract with them, Farah had asked Shane if he would perhaps like to see the other offers he had been made, not just the one from Boston, and he had said no. He’d already decided what it was he wanted the most, and it wasn’t money, and it wasn’t being captain. She had him in Boston the day after the Metros released him, and he had spent a week since signing papers, and meeting Bears’ management, and coaches, and with Ilya, and letting his mum take over the entire moving process because she asked if she could, and he didn’t want to. 

---

Today was the first day he was officially meeting his new team. They had been on a roadie for most of the week he had been in Boston so far, and he felt a little bad that he had kept Ilya from them even for this, but - 

“They will not give any fucks about it,” Ilya told him, as they drove in to TD Garden. They had stayed the night at Shane’s new apartment because it was closer (just), and maybe they should have brought their own cars in, but Shane had wanted to come in with Ilya and Ilya had not complained. “You think they care I have been gone for a little while when I come back with Shane Hollander? Maybe they have lost a few more games than they would have with me there, but now we will win so many more games with you, will cancel everything else out.” 

“We don’t know that,” Shane pointed out. “We’ve never even played together before. We could be like, opposite ends of magnets.” 

“No,” Ilya shook his head. “When I am on ice I always know where you are.” 

Shane stared at him, at Ilya’s casual slope of his body while he drove, and the jut of his jaw. “I always know where you are on the ice, too,” he said. “I love to watch you, even when I’m on the bench and should be watching the play, I’m watching you more.” 

Ilya grinned, wide and toothy, threw a look in Shane’s direction before focusing back on the road. “I am very sexy,” he agreed. “You also are. On ice. Off ice. We will make everyone distracted with watching us.” 

Shane shook his head, still smiling. Hooked his pinky around Ilya’s, his hand loose on the gear stick. “It’s going to be hard,” he said, “remembering not to kiss you. I got used to it, being just us and people who know about us.” 

“Yes,” Ilya sighed heavily, “I will have to be so obnoxious to try and turn you off so you do not climb me like a tree. And if I accidentally kiss you I will have to pretend is because I am so European, and then kiss Marly, and Carmy too.” 

“Ew,” Shane said, and then frowned. “Sorry, not ew to Marly, I guess.” 

“Oh?” Ilya raised his eyebrows, turned to look at Shane properly as he pulled to a stop at a red light. “You think Marly is hot, hm? You think he is sexy? You think me kissing Marly is sexy?” 

“Shut up,” Shane laughed. “No. I mean. He’s good looking. I have eyes. But he’s not you. I don’t want you kissing him. Except as like, a distraction.” 

“I will announce this on gossip channels,” Ilya said, very solemn, “now he realises he is gay, Shane Hollander is admitting some men are good looking. Has eyes, he says. Wants his boyfriend to make out with other hot hockey players so he can watch.” 

Shane laughed louder. Would shove Ilya, but the light was already changing, and Ilya’s hand was moving on the gear stick. 

---

He was nervous entering the locker room for the first time with other players actually in there. Nervous as well because he had been at TD Gardens so many times, and he kept feeling the pull to go to the guest locker room and not the home one. 

He walked in with Ilya, and was immediately met with Marlow. 

“Fuck yes,” Marlow bellowed when he caught sight of them, several other players jumping at the sudden yell, “Hollander and Rozanov! We are winning the cup this year, boys!” There were several responding yells and cheers, and then Marlow had his arms around the both of them. 

Shane had been warned about the tightness of such hugs, and could only be grateful he was sharing this one with Ilya because even this left him gasping. 

“Hi, Marlow,” Shane said, once he had been released. “Looking forward to lifting it with you.” 

“Fuck yes,” Marlow repeated, at a more indoors appropriate level, thumped Shane on the shoulder. “Hollzy my man, you are looking good. Boston is treating you well, huh?” He winked, and Shane fought down a flush. 

Ilya shoved Marlow’s shoulder, and then Shane’s, pushing them further into the room. “Come on,” he instructed, “No time for private meet and greet, we have to do huge room introduction for our new player,” he turned around now, to face the room at large, and even though every eye was already on them, raised his voice. “All Bears!” He yelled, “We have new player, he is very new in hockey, probably you will not know who he is, but I promise you he is best player you will ever see.” 

Shane found himself rolling his eyes and groaning at Ilya’s antics, along with the rest of the team. Ilya had shoved him and Marlow into the room enough that they were standing in front of the cubbies. In front of Shane’s new cubby, with his name above it, and his gear in it, as if it had always been there. 

“Shane Hollander!” Ilya announced, threw his hand back at Shane, and then beckoned until Shane rolled his eyes again and stepped forward. Let Ilya take him by the shoulder and then tug him under his arm under the guise of brolike manhandling. “Oh! I see from some of your faces maybe you do know who he is? Yes, okay, fine. I have some things to say before I let Hollander talk, so listen.” 

He paused again, and the already low hubbub of the room slid to silence. Shane was impressed with his control of the room. In Montreal his team listened to him, but never like this. Full attention, eyes up, happy to be hearing from him. 

“We know you will have seen all horrible news recently,” Ilya said, and he was still speaking loudly but no longer with the amused tilt in his voice. “And if anyone has problems about it, you take them to HR and do not take them to Shane. You have been given new code of conduct. You already knew you would get ass kicking if I heard you with slur in your mouth, now you will get ass kicking and also have fine to pay. We are a team, and we protect each other. We are Bears! This means when one of ours is under attack we fight back hard. Shane is our team now, and I will be watching to be sure he is protected on our ice. We are going to win so many cups we will be able to open our own cup store. Yes?” 

A resounding answer of cheers and ‘Yes’es rang out, and Shane’s own ears rang with them. He felt hot and solid under Ilya’s arm. 

“Okay now Hollzy gives a speech!” Someone called. Shane was pretty sure it was St Simons. He still wasn’t used to recognising them off ice. 

Ilya turned to him with a grin on his face, squeezed his shoulders. 

Shane laughed, shook his head. “I don’t have a speech,” he said. “I’m looking forward to playing with you guys instead of beating you. Shoesy, I have some ideas about your five hole shots, by the way.” 

Everyone laughed again, and he could see a couple of them shaking who he was pretty sure was Shoesy by the shoulders, him laughing too. 

---

FRIDAY

---

He had to fly back to Montreal the first day without practice, because the police wanted him to make ID’s in person. He flew back without Ilya, because Ilya had a lot of catch up to do, and because Shane was a capable adult. He could do this. He managed to mostly ignore the stares he was given in the airport, and turned away a couple of opportunistic journalists. He knew he had severely rocked the hockey landscape with his series of headlines recently. From sex tape scandal to moving to the Bears, but he was out of patience with answering questions. 

Hayden picked him up from the airport. They would have dinner with the rest of the Pikes afterwards, and Shane was looking forward to seeing them. He had gifts for Ruby and Jade in his bag, and a blanket for when Jacki gave birth to their next one, probably within the next couple of weeks. He was pretty sure there was a due date, but Jacki always said she trusted due dates like she trusted her bladder after being pregnant. 

His mum and dad had offered to be here for this, and Shane had said no. Had told them to have some time living their lives. He had Hayden, and he had them and Ilya on speed dial. Farah would be there as well. He would be okay. 

At the station the police explained the various ways they had tracked the video down. IP addresses, emails, coding, whatever. How they had traced it back to one man, and then through that man to the other. And how they were reasonably certain that they were the men in the video. 

Shane got to have a sheet of mirrored glass between him and them, and they let Hayden come into the room with him. 

He knew their faces with such swift clarity it hurt his brain, and he winced away from the glass, Hayden’s hand pressing to his back. 

“Yeah,” Shane said, when he had swallowed down the rush of nausea. “Numbers 3, and 5. That’s them. Can I - can I leave?” 

“You’re sure?”

Shane didn’t look at the detective or whatever he was, just wanted out. “Yes.” 

They let him out. Took him back to their office. Explained the next steps to him and Farah and Hayden, and Shane trusted that at least Farah would be listening and understanding, because his brain had tuned out. 

Hayden took him back to his. Gave him a gingerbeer. Propelled him into his study and told him to call Ilya, or his parents. Hugged him before he left, shutting the door behind him to keep the twins from coming in yet. 

Shane called Ilya. 

“Malysh?” Ilya answered near immediately, like he had been waiting with his phone in hand. He might have been. Shane had been texting him updates before he went in to the station. “You are okay?” 

“Yeah,” Shane said. “I mean. Yes. I am. Just. It was a lot. It was them, and - and yeah. So now the police can move forwards and stuff.” 

“Good, good,” Ilya said, breathed heavy over the phone. “My Shane,” he said. 

Shane hummed. 

“Tell me what you are thinking.” 

Shane’s thoughts were all flighty, like birds on the beach scattering with the incoming waves. “I’m thinking,” he said, slow, grappling with himself. “I’m thinking how much I hate how much they affected me. And how I’m - I’m angry at them for what they did, but also for looking like… like normal people. And I’m angry that it doesn’t feel better yet, even now I know that they’ve been caught. I don’t feel better, just angrier.” 

“Mm. There is still time for you to accept my offer of making gang to go kill them,” Ilya said, lightly. “Or maybe, we go to rage room, and you smash everything, and then we go home and you can have good cry. And maybe you will feel a little better, or not yet.” 

“I’m sick of crying,” Shane said. “I mean. I will anyway, I can’t help it. I want you.” 

“You can have me,” Ilya said. “I will get on plane right now.” 

“No,” Shane shook his head, stretching his neck as he did. “I’ll be back tomorrow. You can’t get on a plane every time I’m sad.” 

“I can,” Ilya retorted. “It was best idea ever had last time I did.” 

“Yeah,” Shane agreed, wiped at his cheeks. “But I’m coming home soon. And I’m okay. I’m going to - to go play dragons and mermaids with the twins, and have dinner with them. And I’ll get on the plane tomorrow morning and see you at noon skate.” 

“See me in your car before noon skate,” Ilya replied. “I will come out to carpark and we can kiss.” 

“Maybe,” Shane allowed. Then; “They know there was someone else. Who made it happen. The police. Hayden told me Comeau isn’t coming to practice. I think, um, I think maybe we’ll find out more soon.” 

“Ah,” Ilya said. “This is good news, yes? And hard news.” 

“Mmhm.” 

“I have been thinking about getting Comeau pinata,” Ilya said, “for team practice. Is bad idea?” 

“Not your worst one,” Shane huffed, let himself laugh a little. “Maybe I’ll feel a bit better when it’s real. When it’s not a maybe anymore. I hate not knowing.” 

“Maybe it will,” Ilya said. “And if it doesn’t, we do more rage room. Maybe axe throwing? Maybe we make team do bag skates?” 

Shane laughed again. “We’re not taking it out on the Bears,” he said, “I want them to actually like me. I want - I like having a team that likes me.” 

“They like you so much,” Ilya said. Sighed heavily. “Is problem, really. I am captain and yet they are always coming to you like, Hollzy, Hollander, please teach me how to skate straight, how to do up my skates proper. Please show us your trick shot mr Hollander sir. They want you at all their birthday parties forever.” 

“Shut up, they’re not like that,” Shane said, smiling despite himself. Couldn’t believe how much he ended up smiling while talking to Ilya now. Now he was allowed to. 

“They are,” Ilya said, “they do not like you as much as I like you, though. I like you the most.” 

“Oh yeah?” Shane shut his eyes, let the sound of Ilya’s quiet laugh wash over him. 

“Yes,” Ilya said, hummed, pleased sounding. “When you come at home I show you how much. I will tell you how much.” 

“Okay,” Shane said. Resisted the urge to point out what he knew was not actually a grammatical mistake. “ Thank you.” 

---

SATURDAY

---

He had expected Ilya to follow through with his promise after practice. Once they were home and in private. Instead, he had flown home, driven to his apartment, picked up his hockey gear, texted Ilya he was on his way, driven to the arena, and hadn’t even taken his seat belt off by the time Ilya was opening his car door and getting in. 

“Hi,” Shane said, unbuckling now. “I missed you.” 

“Missed you, solnyshko,” Ilya replied, glanced around, then kissed Shane briefly but firmly. “Marly thinks I am like pathetic little dog, waiting for you to come home. He does not know it is torture to not kiss you for so long.” 

Shane smiled at him, helpless with it. If they weren’t at risk of being spotted and outing Ilya, he would absolutely agree to a quickie in the backseat. 

“I think Hayden was this close to rolling his eyes each time I brought you up,” Shane replied, shrugged. “Jacki thinks it’s sweet though.” 

“It is sweet,” Ilya agreed. He had reached out to take Shane’s hand, held it loosely in his between the seats. Low enough to be hard to spot from out of the car. “I love you,” he said, so casual like they said it all the time. “I have been thinking how to tell you, and then I thought, the best way is to just tell you. I love you.” 

Shane stared at him. He hated that they were in public enough that he couldn’t climb across the seats into Ilya’s lap. 

“Fuck,” he said. 

Ilya stared back at him, his eyes beginning to widen slightly, and Shane gripped his hand tightly. 

“I love you too,” he said, “fuck, I love you so much.” 

“Fuck,” Ilya echoed, brought Shane’s hand to his lips, and then to his forehead. “Thank god. Fuck.” 

“How are we meant to skate, now?” Shane asked, felt a little hysterical about it. “I need to kiss you so badly.” 

“There is good cupboard,” Ilya said, kissed his hands again. “Sometimes I eat doughnuts I do not want to share in it. Clean cupboard, not too small.” 

“Okay,” Shane nodded, “let’s go.” 

---

A WEEK LATER

---

FRIDAY

---

It took the police another week to gather enough evidence and testimony before they arrested Comeau, and Shane actually saw it on twitter before he got the call from them about it. A tweet from someone who had seen Comeau being taken from his house and put into a police car. 

Shane had already started feeling better. Not entirely. But it turned out that skating with a team who wasn’t constantly knowingly or unknowingly making fun of him as person made a huge difference. Not having to shake off the casual fags, or chirps about how he should be better at maths, or how they knew all he wanted for shared lunch was a rice bowl or his bird food. 

Waking up with Ilya helped too. An immediate reminder that he wasn’t alone. Not physically, and not in who he was. 

He had never thought he would be someone who craved touch, but now he found himself expecting it - when Ilya walked behind him in their house, trailing a hand across his back. When Ilya sat beside him on their couch, a kiss to the cheek. When he cooked, Ilya on his back like a koala, kissing at his neck. 

It would be better if it could be less of a secret, but Farah was already working on it. She’d made Ilya do so much paperwork, and he had done it with a focus Shane usually only saw on his boyfriend on the ice or in bed. 

It was still tough getting to know the new team, no matter how much he liked them. 

He still flinched sometimes when he saw something in the news or online about the attack, or even just saw his name, like it meant there would be more coming. 

There would be, especially now Comeau had been arrested as well, but it would stop eventually. And it would be less about Shane, now. He could handle it. The police called to tell him the news, and to let him know to expect to hear about trial dates, and court, and so on so forth. Farah let him know she would handle it, and keep him up to date. And he knew he would be able to get through that as well. It was easier to imagine himself surviving it, living through it and having a future, when he always had Ilya at his ear telling him he could, that he would, that it would be beautiful. 

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading! I have loved reading everyone's comments, and I appreciated each one! I'm sorry I'm so bad at replying to them.
I cannot believe I wrote this whole thing in 8 days, I feel like I was possesed lol.
Thank you to my lovely wife who let me follow her around our house while I read what I'd just written out to her and made her tell me what she thought even while she was just trying to have a nice bath. Thanks babyyyyyy xxx (She loves it though and is already hyping me up to write a whole new fic too lol)

Chapter 7: Cover art

Chapter Summary

Not a story update - adding cover art :)

Works inspired by this one

Cover for комната оборудования/Gear Room by gravollet