Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Hurt/Comfort, The Hollander Family Group Chat, Developing Relationship, TV and book fusion, No Spoilers For The Long Game, Family Dynamics, Now with added Hollanov cuddles

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-10 Completed: 2026-02-10 Words: 13,478 Chapters: 5/5

It Takes a Village

Summary

An exploration of the first few months of Ilya and Shane’s “official” relationship, featuring Shane’s extremely supportive parents who do not do anything by half measures. Starts in September 2017.

Chapter 1: September, 2017

September, 2017

September 18, 2017
Unknown Number started a new group message with you, Jane, and one other person

Unknown Number
I know it won't matter by this time next year, but the Raiders really need to fire their amateur scouting staff. The team of nobodies they dressed tonight look terrible.
8:01pm

Jane
Hi mom, remember when I told you *not* to start the conversation like that? You know, the condition you agreed to when I reluctantly gave you Lily’s phone number five minutes ago?
8:01pm

Unknown Number
Bet it’s weird sitting in the press box, even if it’s preseason. This is David, btw.
8:03pm

Your phone numbers are one digit different. Is cute
8:25pm

I agree with your mom darling Jane. Idiot GM brought in own people three years ago 👎
8:27pm

Jane
I never said she was wrong, I just said that she promised not to start by eviscerating you in the family group chat.
8:27pm

Yuna
I never said anything about Lily. The rest of the org is fair game.
8:27pm

Org?
8:27pm

As in organization, I get it now
8:28pm

Will allow this time only. Pathetic showing by Hartford and Providence 🤮
8:28pm

David
I went with some coworkers to Ottawa's first preseason game last night. That was worse.
8:43pm

At least Providence is scoring.
8:43pm

Jane
Dad, you are not helping. Lily, change your number.
8:44pm

No. Is true. Next season we bet. Will I score more than the rest of team combined?
9:08pm

David
I've got a bottle of vodka on yes.
9:08pm

No hesitation, I love it
9:08pm

Yuna
Points and goals or it doesn't count. 😘
9:11pm

🫡
9:13pm

Jane
I'm going to regret this.
9:15pm

Today, 9:44pm
You named the conversation Secret Fan Club 💛🖤

Today, 9:48pm
Jane named the conversation we get notified when you change the group name you have an iPhone now

Today, 11:15pm
Yuna renamed the conversation Family 💖

—

Lovers ❤️‍🔥
Today, 11:26pm

Jane
You were supposed to call me five minutes ago.
Answer my FaceTime request, asshole.
11:26pm

Busy
11:26pm

Jane
Liar. Pick up this time, please. I'll wear my glasses if that makes a difference.
11:27pm

Yes but glasses only
11:27pm

Jane
📞 FaceTime
Started 00:00 ago
11:29pm

—

Family 💖
September 30, 2017

David your soup is here?
1:03pm

img2445
1:03pm

❓
1:04pm

David
Jane said you were under the weather. Wanted to make you soup, this will have to do.
1:06pm

Is just cold. Not bad
1:06pm

But I like soup. Will be good with tuna melt. I will make
1:06pm

Thank you
1:06pm

David
You should open the bag
1:08pm

There are extra pickles. I was told that was important
1:08pm

There is tuna melt! 🥺
So much food but I will eat
1:08pm

Jane
Dad you're going to make him cry, he's hopped up on DayQuil and it makes him sensitive
1:10pm

I am delicate flower 🌸
But never have I cried
1:10pm

Jane
Riiiiiiight.
1:11pm

Thank you David, sooooo good
img4226
1:32pm

David
Feel better, kiddo
1:33pm

What is kiddo?
1:40pm

—

Shane
Today, 4:50pm

Shane
img3671
4:50pm

Was there a tranquilizer in the soup? He didn't even hear me disarm the security system.
4:50pm

Hard to believe that's the arrogant prick we've been hating for years.
4:58pm

Shane
You're stuck with him now. He's still raving about your spaghetti.
4:59pm

You'll have to bring him to dinner once he's local. Mom will want biweekly so negotiate for once a month
5:01pm

Shane
He'd like that.
I would too.
5:01pm

—

Ilya wakes up in bed with a mostly warm washcloth stuck to the side of his face, a sore throat, and no recollection of how he got there from the couch. It’s dark out, which tells him exactly nothing—it could be seven at night or two in the morning—and he feels gross and achy in that low grade fever kind of way.

By the time he strips off his sweaty clothes and zones out under the shower spray, he's less miserable but exhausted in the kind of way that lends itself to staring at shitty television programs than it does to sleeping. He wanders through his bedroom in the dark, patting his bedside table to find his phone. It's plugged into the charger, surprisingly enough.

With it in hand, he turns around, only to realize his bedroom door is closed and there's a low light trickling under the door. He opens it slowly, squinting into the hallway like an angry cat. There are only two people with his door code and only one of them lives close enough to check on him.

“Sveta?” he calls, voice rougher than usual, brought low by illness and rougher than usual, “Ty zdes'?”

She doesn't answer, so he marches down the hall and freezes.

Standing in his kitchen, putting away what looks like a metric fuckton of groceries from Wegmans, is Shane. There is a neat stack of reusable bags on the counter next to the sink, which is clean and not stacked with half rinsed dishes, and a bouquet of fucking lilies in a vase on the counter. Propped against it is a tiny card with an ugly but cheerful teddy bear on it that says “Feel Better!” in bubbly letters.

“The flowers are from my mom,” Shane says bashfully as Ilya approaches. His freckles are more obvious in the low light of the kitchen. “She thinks she's funny.” He closes the refrigerator door and comes around the massive island to put a hand on the side of Ilya’s face. “How are you feeling?”

Ilya flips over the card.

Wishing a speedy recovery to our favorite Lily, it reads. Love, Y & D

“Sorry if it's a bit much, they just want you to know they're thinking about you.”

“Is okay.” Ilya sniffs and it's because he has a cold. No other reason. Despite this, he lets Shane pull him in, lets himself fold down, rest his head on his boyfriend's shoulder, nuzzle his definitely dry face into his neck and murmur thickly, “I don't mind.”

It is a lot, though. So was Shane in the beginning: So serious and awkward and precious and charming and so, so much more than Ilya was ready for. It makes sense that his family is too.

“I think they like me,” he confesses.

“I know they do. My dad's the one who sent me a plane ticket when I said I was free until Monday and my mom scheduled the grocery order for half a Wegmans worth of Ricola and Vicks, which I put it in your bathroom, and whatever this is,” He gestures to the counter which is covered in snacks, four different kinds of gatorade, and the tubs of chicken noodle soup they make in the deli that are way better than the canned kind.

“That’s why shower smelled like menthol,” Ilya offers stupidly, only just realizing it.

“They make these little pucks that are steam activated,” Shane explains, running a hand through Ilya's tangled, half dry hair, smoothing it down. “You were coughing a little, so I figured…” He's warm, and Ilya kind of wants to crawl inside his chest, that's how tightly he's holding on. “Why don't you lay on the couch? I'll finish putting the groceries away and join you in a few minutes.”

He presses a kiss to Shane's cheek. He should want to argue, but if Shane isn't going to hold him up, he doesn't want to be standing upright.

“Okay,” he relents.

“Wow, you really do feel like shit,” Shane confirms from his lack of clinginess. He pulls back to look at Ilya, his dark eyes scanning him intently. “You should let them know you aren't going to practice now so you can sleep in. Or I can do it, if you—”

Ilya doesn't think about it too hard, pulls the phone from the pocket of his sweatpants and presses it to Shane’s chest. “Code’s 24—oh,” he says, stupidly, as Shane maneuvers his hand so that he unlocks it with his fingerprint instead.

“I changed mine too,” Shane admits after a moment of distraction, the silence stretching between them as he scrolls through the long list of messages from Ilya's many, many contacts. He ends up having to scroll back up to the top, because Ilya's coach is the third pinned conversation. First is Lovers ❤️‍🔥, followed by Family 💖. Maybe Ilya should be embarrassed, but he isn't anymore. Not when it comes to Shane, at least.

Shane's face scrunches as he types out what will end up being a short, tersely worded message to match the way Ilya’s texts usually look, and really, Ilya can't help himself. “I love you,” he whispers, voice raspy.

“I love you, too.” His grin is bright, like sunlight.

Ilya thumbs at his lips and gets herded to the couch, swaddled in a blanket. “Sometimes I can't believe I can just say it, yes?”

“Me too.” He presses a kiss to Ilya's forehead. “Now please let me put away the groceries so we can cuddle on the couch.”

“Mm, okay. Don't take too long.”

Shane pats his stomach and sets his phone on his chest before padding back to the kitchen. The sounds of the cabinets opening and closing are muted, paper crinkling, bags going into the pantry. It's stupidly domestic. It makes him feel a little crazy.

He’s half asleep when his phone buzzes on his chest, nearly in sync with a quiet chime from the kitchen, a couple minutes later.

—

Family 💖
Today, 9:12pm

Yuna
How’s it going over there?
9:12pm

Thank you for flowers 🥰🌸
9:13pm

And groceries
9:13pm

Yuna
You're welcome, sweetheart.
Feeling any better?
9:14pm

Still sick, but better now ♥️
9:14pm

img4228
I'm a lucky girl
9:15pm

David
We'll check in tomorrow. You kids take care of each other.
9:15pm

Yuna
Love you! 😘
9:15pm

♥️
9:16pm

Jane
We'll call you tomorrow.
img2773
9:26pm

Hollander delete that I look disgusting
9:27pm

Yuna
You look cute together.
9:29pm

David loved an image.
9:32pm

Jane
Too late, it's probably backed up on Mom's external hard drive already.
9:40pm

Yuna
👍😜
9:41pm

Chapter 2: November, 2017

November, 2017

It’s late for a call, but when his phone rings, Ilya answers it. How could he not, when he sees the name on the screen? He can’t help but worry that something has gone wrong, even though he knows Shane is just fine: he’s currently in California, playing a game. Yuna’s voice is sharp and direct, but not without care, even though she doesn’t wait for him to say hello before speaking. “Ilya, sweetheart,” she starts sharply, though he can tell her sharpness is not directed at him, “What the hell is your agent doing?”

Ilya is grateful she’s not actually in the room, but on the phone. His shoulder hitches up to cradle the device to his ear as he snuffs out his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray next to his bed.

It does something terrible to his insides to hear Shane's mother refer to him like that. It has only been five months with Shane’s parents in his life but every time he speaks with Yuna or David, even if it's just some stupid text wishing him luck before a game or a stupid meme he can’t really make sense of, some animal part of him finds it harder and harder not to hold on to them for dear life while another part of him warns him not to, that this is likely temporary. He does his best to drown out both of those parts of him before he sounds like a clingy, sad idiot.

“Hello Yuna,” he greets her quietly.

He can hear the sound of the Metros game in the background on her end. He has it on too, but with the television muted. Shane has an assist so far, but San Jose has a third-string goaltender between the pipes. He’ll have at least a goal before the end of the second.

“Hi, honey,” She sounds slightly less wound up than she did when Ilya first picked up the phone, like hearing his voice calms her, but he thinks he's probably imagining that. Why would he be calming to her?

“What is the matter?”

There's a long pause. It's a commercial break, so Ilya pulls back to look at his phone, to make sure he hasn't accidentally hung up or something.

“Hello?”

“I'm here, Ilya.” She exhales loudly and it reminds Ilya of Shane so much. There’s this little edge to both of their voices as they get more and more worked up and can’t properly express themselves because they’re feeling too much. “I met with CCM today to go over the preliminary details for their 2018 product activations,” she tells him. “When I asked them about what other players will be involved and they didn’t mention you, I pressed them. They said your agent declined?”

On the screen, the color commentary is breaking down a bad defensive play by the home team. Ilya blinks, not really able to focus on it. “I did not know,” he says, feeling like an idiot child. “About activation,” he clarifies. In his defense, his agent hadn’t told him. The way their relationship works is that his agent tells him what he will do, where he will go, and how much he will make. He can say no, but not without a good reason. His agent is an old family friend, someone trusted by his father. Russian. Traditional. Very concerned with his image, not wanting him to appear too North American, always asking if and when he wants to return to the KHL.

It is just another problem in the long list of them he needs to solve now that he has chosen a future here in North America, with Shane.

“I figured as much,” she says. “I have some friends who represent Russian athletes, and none of them have very good things to say about him. She scoffs at a blatant hooking penalty that goes uncalled on the screen, muttering, “Move your feet, Pike, at least try to draw the damn penalty,” before returning her attention to their conversation. “Anyway, I did some digging. He's been your agent since you were drafted.”

“Yes.”

“He also makes a lot of money off his talent. Too much, if you know what I mean.”

What she means is that Ilya is being taken advantage of, because of course he fucking is. He can count the number of people who truly care about him on one hand. Everyone else is one of those sucker fish. Bottom feeders, or maybe leeches. English has many metaphors and Ilya usually ends up combining them by accident.

He looks longingly at the cigarette in his ashtray. Yuna knows that he smokes sometimes, her nose scrunches in a very familiar way when she smells it on him. Even if she never says anything, even though she can't see him, he wants to make a good impression. Shane's family is important.

Honesty is, too.

He tears his gaze away from the ashtray and looks at the television.

“Yes, probably,” he says finally, sighing. “I know.” There’s silence over the line that feels like she’s waiting for him to continue, but he doesn’t really know what to say.

“I’m worried this is happening with other opportunities. And that things might get tricky when you, you know.” Which yes, Ilya does. She sounds almost shy as she goes on. “I don't—I know this is invasive, but you've met me before, you know how I am.” She pauses long enough to confirm Shane did not score on the shot he took from the point before continuing. “If you want someone who knows their way around a contract to look at things for you, let me know, okay? I'd be happy to let you know if you're leaving money on the table and what your options are. Shane thinks I’m pretty good at it.”

Ilya considers. It's hard to say these things because he’s never had anyone to tell before. At least, not someone who understood what it was like to be on his level. He could bitch about it with the boys, kind of, but he makes more than any of his teammates and that wasn’t the kind of captain he was. He’s talked about it with Shane a little bit, but not about the specifics. Shane would listen, he has offered, but it is hard to tell someone he loves that his life outside of their relationship and off the ice is so terrible and ugly.

“My agent is not happy with me. I told him I want to go to Ottawa,” he says carefully, instead of acknowledging her very generous offer. Because it is. Technically, Ilya is still the competition even if he is in a relationship with her son. He knows she might want details to help Shane make more money, but that wouldn’t be her only motivation in helping him. She is a good person. “He told me no.”

His agent can't technically tell him no, Ilya pays him but—

“He doesn't get to make that decision for you, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart, again. He looks up at the ceiling and swears, holding his fingers over the phone speaker so she can't hear him about to fall to pieces over the slightest hint of parental affection, squeezes his mother’s crucifix so hard his fingers hurt.

Mama would like Yuna and David, too. Just thinking it makes his eyes sting. He shuts them until he gets himself under control.

When he opens them it’s a replay of the last several seconds: Shane scores and the Metros pile up on him to celebrate. His smile is perfect. Ilya finds himself smiling back at it, even though his heart hurts.

Yuna’s voice is hesitant. “Ilya?”

He almost fumbles the phone. “Yes, Yuna, I am here.”

“When is your next day off?”

“Should be Thursday, why?”

Four minutes later, his head spinning, he hangs up.

The game isn't over yet, there are still seven minutes left in the second period. He navigates to his text messages. Tries to find words in English that say what he's feeling and fails miserably:

I think your mom wants to be my agent— no, she hasn't said that, just implied it. I think your mom wants to fire my agent— closer, but still not right.

Why are you Hollanders all so nice, even to rivals? Is it because you are Canadian?— a little too on the cheek? Chin? Face? However that saying goes. Probably.

Your mom called me about your CCM deal and now she is coming to visit on Thursday. How did this happen?— closer, but sounds panicked. In his defense, he is panicking, but if Shane also panics, things will get even more out of hand.

He almost gets through typing another response—I think your mom is the scariest person I have ever met, but his phone buzzes.

Yuna
Today, 9:02pm

StandardNDA_кириллица_signedYH.pdf
A friend of mine represents a figure skater from St. Petersburg and gave me her boilerplate doc for Russian clients. Let me know if you have any questions, otherwise we’ll talk Thursday.💖
9:02pm

Ilya deletes I think from the message he'd been typing to Shane, adds I love you because it makes him feel better to say it when he feels heavy, and sends it.

—

On Thursday morning, he takes his black Porsche to the airport despite Yuna’s protests that she can Uber to his place. It’s the least flashy of his vehicles, though it’s far from unnoticeable to someone who appreciates them. It is custom, after all, though that’s mostly the interior: the seats are Raiders yellow with black trim.

Yuna shakes her head when he meets her at the far edge of the arrivals platform at Boston-Logan, but she’s smiling. His fingers twitch against the steering wheel because he should be getting out to take her bag.

“Are you popping the front?” She asks, and he blinks at her.

“N-no,” he answers on a delay, realizing she knows that the engine is in the back, not under the hood. He leans over to open the passenger door. “Is small, will fit in back seat.”

She hands it over sideways and he turns in his seat to set it on the seat behind her. She slides after, whistling low. “Nice wheels. Probably not the most practical in the snow, though.”

“You sound like Shane,” he fake-grumbles, mostly smiling. She doesn’t say it with the earnest deadpan he does.

She grins back and leans across the center console to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Her perfume is mildly floral and spicy. He doesn’t realize he’s hugged her back, maybe even a little tighter than he probably should until she whispers against his ear, “Did you know Shane would have bought a Jeep if I hadn’t talked him into the Land Rover?”

That startles a laugh out of him and he pulls back enough to look her in the eyes. “No, you—?”

“Yes,” she says, squeezing his shoulder as she withdraws to buckle in. “You’ll need something more practical for Ottawa, though. Maybe a Mercedes?” By the time he puts the car in drive she’s got a pensive look on her face and is muttering to herself. “Could be an endorsement opportunity…”

He hums, because he wouldn’t mind a Mercedes, but doesn’t really think he’s expected to answer her.

It takes about half an hour to get from the airport to his home which gives her enough time to check her e-mail, take control of the radio, and brag about being the first Hollander to ride in one of Ilya’s fancy sportscars in their group chat with an obligatory selfie taken at a red light, which makes both Hollander men jealous for different reasons.

She insists upon him showing her the other three vehicles in his garage before she goes in the house. She’s legitimately interested, though not particularly knowledgeable about European sports cars—it’s like she knows he likes them, and she’s trying to learn more about him through a neutral topic.

By the time he manages to get her in the house and show her around, it’s almost too late for breakfast, but he tries to feed her anyway. She declines his offer to cook, tells him not to act like she’s a guest, that he doesn’t need to try to impress her and can unclench, whatever that means—he’ll ask Shane later—and elegantly drapes herself next to his usual spot on the couch, macbook resting on her lap.

Ilya tries very hard to think about having sex with Shane on that couch. It’s pretty much impossible. Is this what having supportive family members is like? Trying not to be embarrassed about your sex life even though they probably know you’ve fucked on all the furniture? Hoping he’s remembered all the places he’s hidden condoms over the years for easy access so that she doesn’t find them?

Luckily for him, Yuna goes through his contracts for the next six hours, asking enough questions about his likes, dislikes, aspirations for the future, and retirement plans that he ends up forgetting about his nervousness for a while.

It is good that she sat him down and talked him through everything, and he is very, very grateful. He cannot say this enough, even though she gets flustered by his gratitude. He relents, only because they need to order takeout for dinner, and insists upon her staying the night in his guest bedroom, not a hotel. She agrees, goes off into said guest room to freshen up while they await dinner, while Ilya tries very hard not to do what Shane calls a spiral.

The decisions he has to make aren’t necessarily difficult ones: fire his agent, find a new agent, renegotiate the deals he wants to keep, decide when to let the Raiders know he won’t be resigning in free agency, overrule his current agent’s more foolish decisions (like turning down the CCM campaign) in the short term, that sort of thing. Start planning his transition from the United States to Canada. They’re all things he needs to do.

Yuna had spent nearly an hour explaining that the United States and Canada would work with the MLH if his relationship—and therefore his sexuality—was made public, that above all else it would be messy but both countries would be foolish not to allow him asylum, especially the States, given his tenure with the Raiders. She has no fewer than three immigration lawyers on retainer, all of whom can be brought up to speed and will fight for him in the event that anyone in Moscow comes calling for any reason.

She says it in such a way that he knows she knows his agent isn’t the only person in his life taking advantage of him, but not in a way that makes him feel bad. In a way that sounds protective. Like she thinks he deserves protecting.

He doesn’t know how to feel about that.

He’s looking at the list of things he’s written down in the notes app on his phone when the doorbell rings. Yuna beats him to the door, rescuing their dinner from the welcome mat and meeting him in the kitchen dressed in a Voyageurs hoodie and horrible plaid pajama pants. She makes herself at home in his space, moving through the kitchen and muttering to herself about his organizational decisions, so he decides he may as well join her in being comfortable, swapping his jeans and shirt for joggers and a raiders hoodie.

She shakes her head at his choice of clothing, but laughs when his eyebrows raise at her own, plunking a deep blue bowl with his curry and rice already dumped into it onto the counter in front of him. She sets her own next to his at the bar and grabs them each a coke from the fridge. Ilya leans over and retrieves their shrimp rolls and satay, stomach rumbling in anticipation.

It’s easy. Too easy. That’s what lets the doubt creep in. He should be taking care of her, not the other way around. She’s his guest. She’s doing him so many favors, and for nothing. Because she cares about Shane and Shane cares about him. It feels like he’s tangled in a web.

He needs distance. He can’t let himself get used to this.

“We can watch game while we eat,” he decides, eyeing the clock on the oven and swallowing back the Why don’t I pay you to be my agent that’s been trapped in the back of his throat since she’d said she’d help him find a replacement earlier this afternoon. He’s half way to the living room and her eyes are pinned to his back. She hasn’t moved a single inch, he can tell.

“You can ask, you know,” she says to his back. “You’re allowed to ask for what you want.”

He is, but what if she says no?

Or worse, what if she says yes? Wouldn't it make things even harder?

He looks back at her, taking care not to let any emotion show on his face. “What do you mean?”

“Okay, tough guy,” she relents, picking up both bowls of curry, their sodas already tucked into the crook of her arm for the short trip. “Let’s watch the game.”

He’s instantly, viscerally relieved. Yuna Hollander is a terrifying woman and probably a mind reader. He wishes for the day he’ll feel comfortable asking for these impossible things, because it will mean he's worth asking in the first place, but that day is not today. He's been given so much already.

Chapter 3: January, 2018

January, 2018

Of the three Hollanders, David has always struck Ilya as the most normal of the bunch. He works a boring, regular job, he’s very mindful of the people around him, and he always seems to know when Ilya needs extra time to figure out what he wants to say in English when he’s tired and his brain wants to spit out Russian, or when Yuna is starting to overload him with question after question now that she’s the closest thing he has to an agent. David, like his wife and son, is a good person.

So when Ilya had dropped his (official) agent last month, David had gently taken him aside to ask, without requesting details, who was managing his money.

His former agent was, as it was with most things his father and brother could control, a friend of the family. So naturally, he had always wanted Ilya to use his guy to manage his finances. And since Yuna is managing him (and insists on putting her already too-low commission towards the Irina Foundation, which exists as a stack of uncompleted paperwork at this point, despite his very frustrated arguments to please take the money because he’s filthy rich) until he signs with a new agent, it makes sense that someone with experience and investment in him (as a person, not a product—Yuna’s words) reviews his finances.

Ilya doesn't know the first thing about money management. He understands numbers, monitors transactions, but he’s not like Shane. His portfolio was, up until recently, managed by someone not necessarily bad at their job, but not necessarily trustworthy, either. Ilya knows he has plenty of money, probably enough to live comfortably and buy a couple nice cars, even if he never played again. That's good enough for him.

It is not good enough to satisfy Yuna’s (or Shane’s, who is Ilya kidding) concerns.

So now he’s here, at Shane’s parent’s house, on the eve of the All-Star Break, being audited by his boyfriend’s father as a safety precaution.

It leads to a truth he's not sure he was expecting, but probably should have: David Hollander is every bit as insane as the rest of his family. Possibly more horrifying. Definitely the most boring, but like, in the most impressive way possible.

David has been seated in the large, well worn, brown leather chair with plush looking armrests in his home office for hours, alternating between chewing on the end of his cheap plastic pen and leaning forward to look at his computer screen before he types some numbers into the scary looking accounting software he’d shown Ilya earlier, then looks down at the box of documents he’d collected from his agent’s office, picks up the next piece of paper, begins again.

He mutters under his breath in French sometimes, then looks up, remembers that Ilya doesn't understand French, then cracks a wry smile and says something like, ‘I don't know what this bastard was thinking.’ He doesn't get angry or frustrated at what Ilya is certain is terrible asset management. That's financial speak, right?

Anyway, it's like David has been handed a puzzle to solve and he genuinely enjoys it. Terrifying.

Ilya sits opposite him, alternating between offering to get David a refill of his diet coke or a snack and frantically texting Shane who is out with Yuna at some brand activation thing with Tim Hortons to pretend everything is fine while David summarizes his entire life in a bunch of tidy rows and columns and boxes. Spreadsheets.

“Done,” David says eventually, leaning back and stretching. His arms go up over his head and his back cracks in a way that makes Ilya's spine tingle in sympathy. “Not as bad as I was expecting,” he admits, as an afterthought.

Ilya isn't sure if that's a complement or an insult, but it isn't directed at him, so he doesn't really care.

David rises, back cracking again which kind of almost explains why Shane is so insane about doing at least three rounds of Sun Salutations every morning before breakfast. They've tried doing it together, but it mostly goes like this: Shane laughs at Ilya when he fails to make it to Chaturanga because he knows it's just an excuse for Ilya to be close enough to make an innuendo when Shane is in a particularly enticing sequence of positions.

“Vodka?”

“I thought you said was not bad,” Ilya half-yelps.

“It isn't,” David confirms, “Still a lot of information to go over, though. Besides, I don't think you need me to tell you what your financial advisor was doing.”

Right, Ilya thinks darkly. His voice echoes that tone. “I know. Is part of family dealings.”

“Yes,” David says, like that is more than enough of an explanation. “So. Vodka.”

It isn't a question. Ilya nods. David unplugs his laptop from its dock and gestures for Ilya to follow him. He sets the laptop on the dining table on his way to the refrigerator, which yields an unopened bottle of very very good vodka. David Hollander should not have access to this kind of Vodka, and the little grin on his face tells Ilya he knows this.

“My job may be boring,” he says the last word like he doesn't think it is at all, “But it has its perks. Grab us some glasses?”

Ilya locates a pair of matching rocks glasses. They're in the same cupboard as they are at Shane's house, between the sink and refrigerator. He wonders if he should rearrange things at his house in Boston, or if he should wait until he moves this summer and start fresh in a new kitchen.

By the time he trails David back to the table, the older man has a hand out to stop him from sitting across from him. Instead, David gestures to the seat to his left. “Won't be able to see much from over there,” he comments easily.

Nodding curtly, Ilya lowers himself into the chair indicated. It's worn and comfortable, with a little seat cushion. David pours a little bit for himself and more than that for Ilya. Too much to be polite.

Ilya is reminded that he very much likes David, scary spreadsheet and number crunching aside. Hopefully that will make this next part a little easier. They clink glasses, David mutters a soft “Cheers,” very Hollander-like of him, and they drink.

Only once Ilya's shoulders relax does David open his laptop and nudge it to sit between them. They instantly creep back up as Ilya is assaulted by rows after row of numbers.

“The good news is that you are very, very wealthy.”

Surprised, Ilya half laughs, half snorts. David's elbow nudges his forearm possibly on purpose. It's hard to tell.

“Let me guess, not diverse enough portfolio?”

It's David's turn to huff. “Shane tell you that?”

“I tried to read about it on plane here. Financial planning for dummies.”

“Everybody's a critic,” he advises Ilya. “There are things you can do to make more money, but you have enough to live comfortably for the rest of your life so long as you save enough of it. Your agent should have given you numbers.”

“He did, but numbers were for Russia.”

“Well, it's a simple enough calculation, and you already have twice what you need in savings. You don't have to be Mr Real Estate like Shane—”

Ilya cackles. “Is what I call him,” he offers brightly and David’s eyes light up at their shared joke. “So many properties—”

“—But, you can invest money in other things that are more hands off.”

His explanation is boring—not the good kind, more of the difficult to follow kind, but Ilya tries very hard not to lose his grip on the conversation. David seems to notice, because he says, “Shane's wealth manager would take you on. He's a good guy, young enough to keep up with trends, but not so young he's reckless.”

“You do not—?” It isn't that Ilya wants David to do anything for him—this is already too kind.

“No. Absolutely not.” David looks over at him, watery bluish gaze sharp over his glasses. “That doesn't interest me. I'm happy to give advice or sniff out missing funds,” he gestures to the screen, “But it's your money and your life. You need a professional.”

“Is opposite of Yuna.”

He hums. “You and Shane are pretty opposite, and that seems to work.”

“True,” Ilya concedes.

David proceeds to walk him through what he's gained and lost, what he's paying to whom—he very tactfully slides past a very large number he’s labelled support, no other details—and what his brand deals (CCM, Nike, Coca Cola) will net him over their respective terms. All in all, Ilya is in a good place, even without the slew of deals Yuna is arranging on his behalf. He's been taken advantage of, because of course, but he controls his finances now. It won't be happening without him knowing ever again.

If he's honest, actually a lot less frazzling than he expected. David summarizes everything in an email with his recommendation for a wealth manager in Canada so Ilya can just copy and paste it into a message later on.

It's actually pretty good. They're even done before Yuna and Shane get home. He finishes his glass of vodka, accepts David's invitation for more, and makes the mistake of letting his guard down.

So naturally, that's when Alexei calls.

Ilya doesn't even look at his phone when it buzzes. He's been expecting Shane to call for an hour now. David and Ilya are on dinner duty, and Shane was supposed to call once he and Yuna are finished at whatever Timbit-thing he was supporting. Nobody else calls him on a day off.

He barely gets through hello before Alexei is yelling at him for being a fucking idiot, adding all the usual slurs. He sounds horrible. Not sick, horrible, but horrible like he's high. Unsurprising.

David flinches at the sharpness of his brother’s voice over the phone. He goes to stand, to provide privacy even though it's not like he understands a word Alexei is saying, but Ilya waves him off, rising to his feet and trudging toward the back door.

He tolerates the insults, because it isn't worth fighting over, and listens to Alexei’s demands. They're always the same. Money, right now. A lot of it. Like Ilya is an ATM. He never threatens Ilya outright because what can he do from so far away? Nothing. But he can threaten Ilya with the consequences to his niece and wife and stepmother, people who get caught up in Alexei’s greed.

This is the part where a voice that sounds like Shane in his head argues that he's nice, even though he knows for a fact that this version of Shane is wrong and Ilya is a stupid idiot fool who always fucking bends, who Alexei knows will always send the fucking money.

Except, now—

Usually he would call his agent, tell him to call his advisor and they would handle it, no questions asked.

Now, Ilya doesn't have someone who can do that. He's not even in the US. He's sure he can complete a wire transfer here, it's Canada for fuck’s sake, not Antarctica, but it will be so much hassle. He will be so noticeable, which is the opposite of what he is going for, being in Ottawa for the All-Star Game this early. He’ll have to walk a bit before he calls an Uber to avoid suspicion and he'll definitely be recognized by someone while he's out.

Still, he was the idiot who answered without looking, and how he has to follow through, because if something happens he won't be able to live with himself. He tells his brother he will send the fucking money and hangs up, rests his forehead against the frigid glass door that leads out to the back patio and wishes he had bought a pack of cigarettes on the way here.

The sound of a slightly squeaky door opening from behind Ilya makes him jerk back, turn around. A cold draft makes its way through the kitchen, the sound of an engine, too. David comes back inside a moment later, the sound of the garage door muted by the kitchen door closing.

He drops Ilya's boots just inside the door, next to the neat line of coat hooks and Ilya tries to wrangle his thoughts enough to say something semi-intelligent.

“Do you speak Russian?”

It's a stupid question. He says it too sharply, even though he bites back the waspish or something he almost added and wants to shrink back or possibly apologize because it's clear that whatever is happening, David is being a Hollander about it and trying to help. God. He's such a fucking idiot. He never should have answered the phone.

David regards him owlishly. “No. Just figured it was as good a time as any to pick up a couple pizzas for dinner.”

“And this has nothing to do with—”

David levels him a patient look that says yes, there's a Western Union next to the pizzeria, I just looked at all your finances so I know what you do with your money, which means we don't need to talk about it, without uttering a word, which is almost as scary as the spreadsheet making.

Strangely enough, it's actually a little bit comforting.

“You know,” Ilya says, grabbing his coat from the hook by the back door and slipping it on along with his boots, “I thought Yuna was the mind-reader.”

“Yeah?” David laughs, quiet and fond, like he knows the humor is needed in this shitty moment. He holds open the door. “You catch on quick, kiddo,” he says, patting Ilya on the back.

It fucking hurts, but it's also kind of good. Not… bad? Like, they both know this whole thing is fucked up, that the only reason Ilya hears from his family is for money. It's just out there in the universe and not a heavy secret Ilya needs to conceal.

David drives them to a little plaza twenty minutes away. Ilya tugs his beanie a bit lower on his forehead, hopes it hides his curls well enough. They hop out of David's sensible, too slow SUV and part ways in the parking lot.

Ilya handles his business—there was a time, back when he was on his entry level contract, when he sent the money himself. Not much about the process has changed in the last decade, thank fuck—and heads back outside, considers going to the little convenience store that's two shops over and buying cigarettes again, decides not to (just barely), and trudges over to the pizzeria.

David has a newspaper in hand, which he drops to look up at Ilya when he enters. The lone guy back in the kitchen must see David wave to Ilya because he doesn't bother coming up to the counter. Ilya slides into the booth.

“Handled?”

“Yes. Handled.”

David nods, and that's that. Like Ilya transferring twenty five thousand dollars American to his piece of shit brother is part of his perfectly quaint Canadian lifestyle.

Fuck, Ilya is pathetic. Why do the Hollanders, any of them really, keep him around? Sometimes he really doesn't know.

They sit in silence that smells like oregano and mozzarella, but it doesn't last more than a couple minutes. “You've probably had that phone number since you signed in Boston, huh.”

His face must suggest he's confused. It feels like it's doing something complicated. Ilya has mostly accepted that he can't control his facial expressions around any of the Hollanders.

David continues, “You'll probably need to get a new one when you move,” He taps his iphone, illuminating a picture of Yuna and Shane at Shane's cottage, not making eye contact as he continues, “Be a real shame if you forgot to text someone to let them know you have a new number.” His lips purse, and he talks like someone would about the weather: overwhelmingly casual. “They wouldn’t have a way to get in touch unless you decide to make time for them.”

Ilya sighs. What David is saying, its—it’s not—

“I can't do that.”

David nods. Doesn't look disappointed. Just sad.

“You're a good kid,” he tells Ilya, reaching across the thin squeezing his hand once before pulling back.

Ilya laughs bitterly, only to look up and meet David's gaze dead on.

It's funny. He remembers suggesting Shane got his good looks from Yuna, and Shane had insisted it was only half. This look, the one David’s just turned on him, it's the one Shane always hits him with when he's being serious, that Ilya can try to deflect but he sees right through all the bullshit.

Fuck. Ilya is not going to get emotional in a shitty little pizzeria forty minutes outside Ottawa. In fucking public. What is it with Hollanders and making him cry? Before Shane, he hadn't cried in years.

“Your order’s ready.”

David shoves himself over and out of the booth, fishing his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans to hand over a pair of twenties and a ten to the young man behind the counter. “Thanks,” he says. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks. You guys have a good one.”

“You too,” David and Ilya chime, almost in sync. The guy behind the counter squints at Ilya.

David clears his throat, seeming to sense Ilya is no longer fooling the twenty-something moonlighting as a line cook. “Get the door for me, son,” he says pointedly. “Your mother’s going to be pissed if we aren't home before they get back.”

Ilya goes as ordered, trying desperately not to laugh or cry or whatever the fuck his emotions are doing.

“Wait,” the guy calls behind their backs, “Are you Ilya Rozanov?”

“Thank you for compliment, but no. He is much more attractive,” Ilya replies with his very obvious Russian accent, letting the door swing closed behind him before he’s finished talking. It’s the best deflection he could think of in the moment.

David seems to think it worked well enough. They laugh their way back to the car, swiping tears from their faces that are from wind and humor rather than sadness.

There are some things Ilya can't change. It's not okay, not really, but there are good things—better things—happening all the time. Maybe someday all the good will push the bad away until all that's left are boring things and hockey and sunshine.

Chapter 4: February, 2018

February, 2018

Lewis Carlton @ReporterLew ✅
G Andres Lindsen (BOS) placed on LTIR (knee). Surgery scheduled, expected to be season ending.
February 4, 2018 9:23AM EST
🗨️4 🔁 53 💚 338

—

Ilya is towel-drying his hair when Yuna’s FaceTime request comes in. It’s still wet from the shower, having left little speckled spots on his pale blue t-shirt, but at least it’s not dripping anymore. He throws his towel in the corner by the shower, thinks of how Shane’s eye would twitch if he were here because this is your house, Ilya, not a hotel, smiles to himself, and offers a little wave to his phone’s selfie camera while the video call connects.

“How was practice?”

A business call, Ilya decides. “Hello, Yuna.”

She smiles at him, seeming to realize she’s forgotten a greeting. Again. Ilya is so very fond of her. “Hi, Ilya,” she tries again, “Is this a good time?”

“Always a good time for you,” he offers with his most charismatic smile.

She laughs, just a little huff, rolling her eyes. “Charmer.”

It’s true, but like Shane he doubts she’d believe it if he insisted. He lets his smile settle into a helpless sort of half-grin and waits for her to hit him with whatever it is she wants to run by him.

Last week, it was a list of European car brands she thought he could work with, with breakdowns of which had Ottawa-based dealerships and Yuna’s very detailed thoughts on the 2018 G-Class (plus a link to their configurator). Four days ago it was a question about what cologne he liked and suits he wore, because Ralph Lauren has a summer campaign that he’d be perfect for and would he want to check out some samples?

“So the Raiders aren’t doing so hot,” she hedges, half irreverent, half careful.

Ilya’s reply is a little less controlled, a little more frustrated. Snappy, but not yelling or mean-spirited. Curt. “Yes, I know.”

They don’t really talk about hockey outside of gentle ribbing in the family group chat. Shane and Ilya are the captains of their respective teams, so while chirping is allowed, as is general concern for each of them as individual players, they don’t talk about… this. Whatever this is about to be.

“Do you think you’ll make the playoffs with Linden out? I know they called up Quakerton to play tandem with Smith, but do you think—”

He’s shaking his head, collecting his phone from the bathroom counter and trudging to his couch. She looks conflicted, but not particularly surprised. “No way Quakey is ready. He will be good in a few years, but—“ he hisses. “No. We are ten points back of wildcard. You know this.”

“I do, honey, I just wish it wasn’t the case.”

“Is okay,” he says, even though it’s not. It’s hard to make his peace with it. Knowing. His window is closing, has probably closed already. Ottawa won’t be in the playoffs for several years, at least, even if he puts up seventy five goals and a hundred-twenty points each season, which is possible but not fucking likely, even if he’s put on a line with actual talent and not their current rotation of nobodies.

Yuna sighs. “It’s okay if it isn’t,” she tells him. “You’re allowed to feel however you want.”

He nods. “It’s sad,” he says, because that much is true.

He’s talked about it so much already. Shane loves talking through problems, trying to work his way through things. He doesn’t want Ilya to beat him, but he still spent several hours trying to armchair GM a way for the Raiders to put together a trade that will get Ilya to the playoffs one more time. The team is just too old. They’d kept the group that had won together for too long, through management changes that should have come with new personnel on the roster, and now things were stagnant: The Raiders were left with very few draft picks and only a single cup in the last decade to show for it.

“There’s something I want to pick your brain about,” she tells him. The saying is strange, even if he knows she’s not literally trying to poke at his brain with a stick. It kind of makes sense though, the way she and Shane talk through things, always picking at them. “Have you talked to the Raiders about your contract?”

“Not really,” he answers. “They have made offers, but I told them I don’t want to talk during season. Firing my agent, you know,” he trails off. He still doesn’t have a new one.

“That’s fair,” Yuna supposes. She’s pacing. He can see blurry bits of the kitchen cabinets in the background, the screen going a little dark around the corners when she enters the living room. She’s been going back and forth for a while now. Shane does it too, but he walks diagonal across the tiles in his kitchen, or straight along the beams in the hardwood floors in the living room. It’s cute. “Do you think they’ll sell at the deadline?”

”I don’t know. Maybe? Probably.” He scoffs before offering his opinion. “They should. Management is not saying anything, of course, but,” another sigh. “Is very unlikely we make playoffs. Team is not healthy enough to go deep even if we did.” Ilya, in fact, has had a tender shoulder for a couple weeks now. It’s nothing serious and he’s played through far worse mid-season, but it’s still annoying.

“And they don’t have another first round pick until 2021.”

“Da. That too.”

“Okay. I’m going to suggest something and you absolutely do not have to agree to it,” she stresses the words, her face going pinched with concern—like she knows that Ilya would rather drop dead than disappoint her (which is true for all of the Hollanders in his life). “Honestly, I can’t believe I’m even suggesting this, but you don’t have an agent and I’m the next best thing.”

She’s more than that. Given the way her lips purse and eyes soften suggest his expression has given that much away. He’s very glad he turns off the view of himself on these calls, he doesn’t think he can bear to see whatever his face is doing.

Yuna takes a deep breath, so deep it’s like she’s trying to recenter them both, and blurts, “What if you got traded?”

“Traded?” He exclaims the word. “I have no trade clause.” He runs through things in his head, decides he doesn’t follow. “To Ottawa?”

At his question, she rolls her eyes. “Yes, to Ottawa, silly. Unless you want to go to Colorado or Dallas as a rental?” He flinches and she huffs. “You have a full no-move, but if you tell them you’re not going to re-sign and would be willing to waive for Ottawa, they’d probably be able to get at least a first and a couple seconds, if not more.” She stops pacing and drops onto the couch, flopping backward hard enough that the reclining part of the sectional gives. Ilya smiles at it, at knowing this little thing about her that’s so playful and wonderful.

”This is sounding like the plan Shane put together,” he begins, then freezes, squinting slightly. “He did not put you up to this.”

“No, Ilya. I think he’ll be upset that I’m even suggesting it. He feels bad that you’re going to leave them, even if you suggested it. He knows what Boston must mean to you.”

Boston means exactly nothing to him. Not because it is a bad place, but it is an empty one. He likes his teammates, but most of them have their own lives and families, and Ilya has—well. He has Svetlana, who had known he would not be re-signing the moment Ilya decided not to go to Russia last summer, but their relationship is different. They have drifted into and out of each other’s lives forever. They do not need to be on the same continent, much less the same city to care about each other. It’s not that she’s angry, but rather that she’s forgiven him already.

(She forgives him because it is Shane fucking Hollander that he is willing to leave for. She would have forgiven him if it was some random man with a fake name in his phone because Ilya does not know how to do anything by half measures, especially love.)

So no, Boston is nothing compared to the enormity of this, of a future with Shane. He doesn’t want to fight about loyalty with Yuna though, so he keeps it simple. “He is worth it.”

“I’m biased,” her lips quirk, pulling thin, “And I know I may have insinuated otherwise, but, I think—you deserve to know that as a mother, I’m really glad it’s you he fell for.” Her eyes go glassy and Ilya swallows hard. These fucking Hollanders and their expressive fucking eyes. Especially when Shane and Yuna tear up the same way and Ilya can barely handle that when it’s in the middle of mind-blowing sex, which he will absolutely cannot be thinking about right now. “Thank you for loving him,” she tells him, breath hitching, words serious.

“Is like breathing,” he replies unthinkingly, waving off her thanks with the hand not holding his phone. “Oxygen.” Necessary, he revises mentally, remembering the word a moment later. Shane may have gone crazy planning, but leaving was always Ilya’s idea. Shane never would have thought of it. It simply wasn’t how he worked.

Yuna swipes at her face, smiling.

Ilya changes the subject back before there are any other surprise confessions. “I don’t know that they will trade me in division before end of season,” he reasons. “Even to Ottawa.”

“Ottawa has first round picks this year and next. I’d take you in your prime over a gamble on the draft lottery, but they could get lucky. Either way, they have a lot of picks. They’d be much better off making you the face of their franchise, and the Raiders could get the next kid to build around, since you’re not intending to stay.”

He swallows, thinking—really thinking—about it. He’s certain in his decision to leave, but the idea that tomorrow or next week or next month, that before the season is over he could already be in Ottawa, starting the next part of his life, is almost impossible to picture. He’d envisioned distance, signing with Ottawa on some random day in July while sitting in an adirondack chair by the dock at Shane’s cottage, being in a place where the rest of the world couldn’t see him, where he felt safe and untouchable and had an as of yet determined agent to act as a buffer between him and the Raiders.

But he is a Raider. This time, this part of his life will always be a part of him. He’s been thinking lately about what his last game in Boston will look like, how it will feel. Being traded would be like ripping off the band-aid, but most importantly, once he tells management his terms, it’s not his decision. It’s theirs. It might not change anything and he could still finish out the season, but if they thought they could get something… “Ottawa would probably give them a buttload of draft capital, especially if it was a trade and sign. It’s probably the best thing you could do for the organization that drafted you.” She continues, tapping a finger to her cheek as she reasons her way through things aloud.

“Probably it would, yes,” he agrees.

She smiles at him, gentle and encouraging. “That isn’t the point though. You don’t owe them anything, Ilya,” she stresses. “You’re a superstar. You’ve paid your dues on the ice. Your numbers are, and I’m not saying this because you’re my son’s partner, frankly, incredible. There’s a reason why you went first overall.”

Ilya swallows hard. What the fuck is he even supposed to say to that? Sometimes, when he’s alone in the dark, in those moments after he gets off the phone with Shane, before the loneliness tries to swallow him whole, he can’t help but wonder how the hell this is his life: Having a boyfriend who loves him and challenges him and makes him want to be brave; Having the support of his boyfriend’s family just because he finally stopped pretending he’d ever be able to resist loving Shane.

“Thank you,” he murmurs finally, heaving out a breath and adding a playful, “I know that it must have hurt you to say that.”

“Fuck you, Rozanov,” she bites back, just as unserious.

He laughs. It bursts out of him, makes him fold forward over his knees. It takes a few moments for him to compose himself. He cannot wait to tell Shane about it.

“Ilya?”

“Sorry,” he says, still chuckling a little. “You sound like Shane.”

”I think you mean that Shane sounds like me,” she corrects.

They share a smile, and the conversation kind of resets.

“So,” Ilya hedges, “If I tell them I’m open to trade, they could move me any time between now and March. I will need agent to handle negotiations, like immediately, yes?”

Yuna gives him a look that he recognizes as a Hollander-specific brand of clever and devious. “Hmm, I don’t know about that… I’ve heard you have a reputation for doing whatever the hell you want.”

Only Yuna fucking Hollander would suggest that Ilya sign and trade (trade and sign? It could go either way, he supposes) himself. It’s utterly insane.

It’s also kind of perfect, the kind of ‘rockstar shit’ he’s known for.

Ilya throws his head back and laughs. It’s sharp,surprising him with its intensity. He loves these ridiculous fucking Canadians with every fiber of his being, even if it’s an emotional roller coaster every single time one of them wants to have a conversation. “I mean, where’s the lie?” she continues before he can get himself back under control, “You don’t have to decide now. Sleep on it for a couple games. See how you feel about it. Summer isn’t that far off either way. I support whatever decision you make. It’s your career, after all.”

“I can’t tell if you’re trying to convince me to do it or not.”

Yuna rolls her eyes. “I am trying to be supportive and neutral by providing you with options.”

It sounds like something Shane would say, has probably said verbatim. “I will think about it,” he decides,exhaling the last of his laughter. “But no promises.”

—

Lewis Carlton @ReporterLew ✅
@raidersMLH are 8 points back of the second wildcard spot, 2-6-2 in their last ten. With most of the east heating up, playoff hopes are waning in Boston.
February 21, 2018 2:26PM EST
🗨️3 🔁 25 💚 509

—

Lewis Carlton @ReporterLew ✅
Could #GoRaiders Captain Ilya Rozanov (pending UFA) be a surprise add to the trade board? Rumors flying after tonight’s 8-5 loss to Buffalo. When asked about his pending UFA status, Rozanov said “we’ll see what happens.”
February 27, 2018 9:59PM EST
🗨️47 🔁 184 💚 1.6K

Lewis Carlton @ReporterLew ✅
Sources confirm all extension talks were tabled in December when Rozanov parted ways with his agent. He has yet to name a replacement. Could make it difficult to recoup assets if Rozanov isn’t staying. Boston’s next first round pick is 2021.
February 27, 2018 9:59PM EST
🗨️22 🔁 173 💚 1.1K

Chapter 5: June, 2018

Chapter Notes

June, 2018

Shane leaves for the cottage a little over a week after locker cleanout. Montreal had made it to the conference final only to lose to Washington. He doesn’t think they’d be able to unseat Vegas, even if they had won. They need more center depth, some younger guys on defense, things that management plans to focus on in the upcoming draft and free agency, but none of that really matters to Shane—at least, it doesn’t matter to him now. Those are September problems… okay, late August problems. Things he can obsess about in training camp.

He’s got more pressing concerns this off-season. Things like real estate—selling his unnecessary apartment in Montreal and looking at potential properties for Ilya in Ottawa—and launching the Irina Foundation. Things that need to be solidified this summer that he can focus on to distract him from the time between now and July first when Ilya is officially a free agent and can sign with the Centaurs, when all of this moves from the planning phase to solid and real and finally fucking happening. The sun is just beginning to peek over the lake when he pulls up. He gets out, taking a moment to admire it before he unpacks the trunk of the Land Rover. Stretches, arms over his head. Winces, but follows through with a bit more caution than he had initially. His left side is a mess of angry looking bruises from hip to shoulder, which all look worse than they feel because they're healing. Typical playoff stuff. The hour and a half drive from his house in Montreal to cottage country hasn’t done him any favors, but he’s got weeks to recover before beginning his usual summer regimen and since he’d taken the extra time up front to get all his affairs in order, he doesn’t have any professional commitments outside the Foundation until training camp begins in September. It's taken a lot out of him, but it's worth it.

They’ve got time for once, time for what matters: building a future together.

Shane smiles to himself, shaking his head at his giddiness, turns back to the car and begins the long, slow process of coming home: Cooler and perishables first, then the rest of the groceries, then his single beat-up suitcase. As he works to put things away, he wonders which side of the closet Ilya wants, if he should reorganize his massive, mostly unused dresser so that Ilya has his own side of that, too, rather than Shane’s clothing taking up the top two rows and leaving Ilya with the unused, slightly deeper drawers at the bottom. He wonders if Ilya will leave some of his things here this summer, if he’ll bring more than his usual carry-on when he flies in from Boston tonight.

He's moving here anyway, so it would make sense. Dad has already made room in the garage back home so Ilya can begin moving before he buys a house in Ottawa. Supposedly, there isn't much he plans to bring with him beyond clothes and personal items. For all the shit he gives Shane, Ilya's house in Boston is as much a victim of professional design as Shane's in Montreal.

The cottage itself is designed, architected, but it's built for comfort and livability. It's massive but feels compact, has everything he thought he'd need, just add a wife and kids, a family—y’know, heteronormativity.

Sometimes he surprises himself with just how deeply seated those thoughts are, how there are things he's just expected himself to do or have because he's good enough at hockey to make a career out of it.

It’s funny. None of that had ever excited him, and in hindsight, it makes sense.

His reality—what he has now, is better.

Now when he thinks about family he thinks about chilly kisses in the lake and soft golden curls under his fingers by the fire, about the smile that steals over Ilya's face when he’s relaxed, the way his whole face lights up with warmth and emotion. Shane can't really put the way he feels into words. He knows that he wants to give Ilya everything: The best of himself on the ice and off of it. He huffs at himself. It’s both embarrassingly sappy and one hundred percent true.

He finishes unpacking quicker than he expects. Time moves differently when he's lost in his thoughts. It doesn’t take much longer to rearrange his dresser, though it itches at his brain to change his system. He’s kind of glad he’d dealt with it alone. Ilya respects his need for organization for the most part, but Shane wants this to feel like his home too. Change is necessary for what comes next. The least Shane can do is yield the right side of the dresser so his boyfriend doesn’t have to live out of a suitcase.

After a quick walk down to the dock to confirm everything in the outside entertaining spaces has been set up by the groundskeepers he employs for general maintenance, he retrieves his keys from the counter and locks up. Going off the sun, it’s probably not too early to head over. He's shown up at his parents’ cottage earlier than this some years and his dad will definitely be awake already—he might actually run into him on the road, out for his daily walk. The dull throb in his side, previously ignorable, flares up when he settles in the car for the short, slow ride over to theirs. He’s sure his mom has tiger balm somewhere, and his dad would happily lend him one of his threadbare undershirts so the grease doesn’t ruin the one he’s wearing—even though Shane probably has at least fifteen of this exact Metros t-shirt between properties, none of them paid for out of pocket. Ten minutes later, he pulls up at his parents’ place.

His dad is in the kitchen when he lets himself in, mid-way through retrieving creamer from the fridge for his coffee. He doesn’t startle, possibly because he heard Shane pull up out front or because nothing ever really seems to phase him. He smiles as Shane pads quietly through the living room to meet him, accepting their usual one-armed hug on autopilot. Their greeting is wordless, but that’s normal given how early it is—his mom is a light sleeper, and while it’s rare for her to sleep past sunrise, it does happen on occasion.

What isn’t normal is the hand that grips his shoulder, stopping him from opening the cupboard to grab another coffee cup. They always have coffee together on the porch while they wait for Mom to wake up.

“Dad?”

“You look tired,” his dad whispers back, the words heavy with some other meaning Shane can’t figure out.

Obviously he’s tired. He’s always tired at the end of the season, even when he isn't trying to speed through all his summer promo work in like a week. His dad knows this. He shakes his head a little, the motion feeling more like moving his brain in his skull than actual obvious movement and reaches for the only feasible explanation. “I was up early…?”

“I know. You should try and nap for a bit. Your mom made up the guest room.”

“Okay, but, uh, why the guest room?” Normally if he’s tired, he just curls up on the couch. He can sleep anywhere, one of the perks of a career that involves near-constant travel. There’s no sense in making his mom do an extra load of laundry when his favorite napping blanket is draped in its usual spot over the back of the sofa.

The stare he gets is almost as blank as one of his own, but his dad can’t remain stoic for too long. His lips curve up into a smile, eyes extra blue in the natural light of the kitchen. “Just trust me.”

“Alright,” he answers dubiously. His dad pats his arm as he withdraws, going back to doctoring his coffee, which he then takes out to the back porch. Shane watches him go from the middle of the kitchen, shaking his head at the weirdness of their interaction.

Thirty seconds later, standing in the doorway to the guest bedroom, it all makes a hell of a lot more sense.

—

Ilya’s dreams are like lakewater, murky and unintelligible. He drifts between them, remembering very little. Not remembering his dreams is a blessing, in a way. His dreams have a tendency to become nightmares and those nightmares make him feel like a husk, hollow, with his insides scooped out. It does not help that most of his nightmares are warped, distorted memories.

At some point, he rolls over, half awake, but then it's like he’s being weighed down, dragged back to sleep.

When he actually wakes up, it’s to the sound of the kitchen sink, David and Yuna speaking to one another too quietly to be heard over the staticky sound of dishes being washed under running water, and sunlight warming his face through the slats of the blinds. It’s much later than he’d planned to sleep, that’s for sure. He could have sworn he’d set an alarm, but he must have slept through it. Even now he doesn’t really want to open his eyes. He’s so warm and cozy, Shane pressed against his back, breath slow and even against Ilya’s neck and—

What? When did—

“Shane?”

“’m up,” Shane lies, lips pressed to Ilya’s spine. Their legs are tangled, and Shane’s arm is dead weight across his ribs.

Suddenly awake, he turns his head, trying to look back at Shane as he blurts, “When did you get here?”

“Mm, six-thirty ‘r seven?” Shane’s words are slurred. He sounds exhausted, like he's fighting to keep himself from falling asleep long enough to speak and failing miserably. “Time's it?”

Probably ten or eleven, Ilya thinks, but if he says that Shane will try to get up. The better, more obvious answer is, “Time to go back to sleep, I think.”

It's a testament to how tired Shane is that he doesn't fight it, only exhales a soft, sweet, “Okay.” The arm around Ilya’s middle tightens briefly. “Love you,” he mumbles, and he’s out again.

Ilya is struck by the strangest desire to laugh and ugly cry, all at once, like he's so full of all these fucking feelings, being struggle cuddled by Shane fucking Hollander, his boyfriend of almost a year(officially speaking), and his something of far, far longer.

Shane grumbles when Ilya repositions so he can lay on his back, but doesn't wake. He's a deep sleeper, something Ilya hadn't learned until recently. Clingy, too. They’ve spent a lot of nights together—more than in the last decade, but still not enough—and most of the time Shane needs to be touching him: fingers against his flank or toes to his calf if he's not sprawled most of the way on top of him, the way he is now.

Ilya gets it. He needs Shane to reach out to him, needs to know this isn't just him and his too-big emotions, that it goes both ways. He wonders if Shane could tell that Ilya relaxed when he came in. He hadn't realized it, not completely, he'd been unconscious, but he knows that deep dreamless sleep he'd gotten was because he knew he was safe and good, his body realizing his person was there, he could finally rest because he is finally fucking home.

He lays there a long time just watching Shane sleep, slack-mouthed and drooling a little puddle on his chest. It should be gross. With anyone else, Ilya is sure it would be, but with Shane it's cute. Nobody gets to see him like this, dead asleep, skin to skin, with his guard down. Nobody but Ilya.

Fuck he's so gone on him. Like outer space levels of gone. Never coming back from this levels of gone.

The only reason he gets up is because Shane has been lying on his bladder for a small eternity and he can no longer take it. He manages to extract himself and sneak across the hall to the bathroom without bothering David and Yuna, who he can hear moving around in the living room. They must know he's awake, but they give him space to make himself presentable even though he's pretty sure neither of them would blink at him in baggy sweatpants, overstretched t-shirt, messy hair, and stubble.

He wanders into the living room yawning like he hasn't just slept for hours and hours. He'd checked his phone in the bathroom. One in the afternoon, just about.

David pats him on the arm and gestures to the sofa. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Yuna looks up at him over her iPad and her glasses. “Shane will be up all night if you let him sleep.”

Swallowing back the comment that he's counting on it for very sexy, inappropriate reasons, Ilya shrugs. “He needs the rest,” he says instead, voice rough.

David hands him a mug and sets a bottle of water on the coffee table in front of him on a coaster. Ilya grins at it, charmed by the ridiculousness. David and Yuna's home is warm and lived in. The furniture is older and worn but so full of life. Vitality, he thinks. It's a new word he learned, one he isn't really sure he's using right.

“Thank you,” he murmurs in David's direction, taking a slurp of coffee and savoring it. It's milky and sweet, like a caffeinated hug.

“Let the man sleep, Yuna,” David concurs. “I don't think he slept last night. He came in here looking like a zombie.” He holds up his arms and makes an odd guffaw, like some silly old film played around Halloween.

“You two are not teaming up on me,” she says, eyebrows raised.

They both hold up their hands in surrender, and Yuna laughs, sharp and joyous. “Like two peas in a pod,” she shakes her head.

“Let me have this,” David says, chuckling as well. “You and Shane have had years to team up on me.” He turns his head toward Ilya and winks.

“Oh,” she realizes, looking between them. “I see how it is now. You two do one puzzle together and suddenly you're sharing a brain. Ridiculous.”

Bristling, Ilya gestures between them to indicate the scope of said puzzle. “It was five thousand pieces of art. Van Gogh!”

David is likewise agitated. “I'm getting it framed—”

Yuna interrupts, “Not in to hang in my house—”

“Obviously not for us,” he says over her, like they've had this argument before. “Ilya needs decor for his new place.”

“You are framing puzzle for me?” He hates how small his voice sounds, how the words just gush out, like water from a cracked glass.

David’s smile gentles. “You said you wanted boring art.”

“I did,” he confirms, swallowing a big gulp of coffee so he can't do something stupid like get emotional. He looks away, huffing quietly. Fucking Hollanders.

“Oh,” Yuna muses. “That's alright, I suppose.”

“I'm glad we have your approval,” David says primly, following a very pointed eye roll that allows Ilya a moment to collect himself.

Shane wanders out of the guest room about half an hour later, hair sticking up in all directions. He doesn't appear to care much about keeping up appearances, ambling from the guest room to the bathroom and finally to the couch, where he more or less burrows his way onto Ilya's lap after allowing Yuna to hug him, all without uttering a single word.

Ilya kisses his shoulder and gets a grumble in response. “Definitely a zombie,” he says over Shane’s head to David.

“Let me know if he tries to eat your brain,” David answers, reaching for his phone and pulling up what may or may not be Candy Crush.

Shane frowns into his collarbone and swipes Ilya's recently refilled coffee with a grumble. It's lukewarm, and Ilya is pretty sure the scrunched face he makes when he sips at it is because it has too much sugar.

“I could make you tea,” Yuna offers.

“’m good,” Shane mutters, tilting his head back to better look at Ilya with bright eyes and a little smile. “Brains.”

“My love,” he says in Russian, his breath heavy with the free and easy laughter Shane tends to inspire. He switches back to English, “There you are.”

“Lucky you.”

“Definitely lucky me,” he confirms, his arms tightening around Shane as he whispers, “All my Hollanders in one place.”

Across the coffee table, Yuna shakes her head at their antics, though Ilya is pretty sure neither of them heard him (thankfully). She's watching YouTube on her iPad, sparing them a glance every so often, tenderness warming her features.

“The Draft is tonight,” she mentions when Shane has nearly finished Ilya’s coffee, sounding more expectant than casual. “Want to watch it together? We could do grilled chicken and veggies for dinner. Dad made potato salad yesterday.”

“Sure, Mom,” Shane agrees easily.

“I've been hearing rumors… Apparently some hotshot UFA might get traded for a pick.”

“Some hotshot UFA, huh?” He turns a suspicious glance on Ilya who looks away, attempting to convey innocence and confusion.

“I guess we will see,” Ilya supposes.

“I guess we will,” Shane says dubiously.

In response, he presses a kiss into his boyfriend's extremely messy hair. Looking up, he catches David's gaze and the pair share a smile.

The contract was signed last night. He and Yuna were up until nearly two in the morning while they went through final details of the deal that would be announced prior to the nineteenth overall pick: Boston will receive that pick, which had been traded to the Centaurs from Tampa as part of a goalie swap at the deadline back in March, plus a prospect in exchange for Ilya going to Ottawa, where he’s committed to a five year extension worth just over sixty-one million dollars.

Tonight, most of the outlets will round up his twelve point two four million AAV to twelve and a quarter for maximum shock value, and Shane will give him a dirty look that says he knows exactly what Ilya did. They won’t finish watching after that, even though there’s only a dozen picks left to go. Instead, they’ll leave their phones inside and sit around the firepit out back, drinking vodka and ginger ale and making s’mores.

It’s a good way to begin the summer.

It’s the perfect way to begin the rest of his life.

Chapter End Notes

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