Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike, J. J. Boiziau & Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova, Cliff Marlow & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry, Shane Hollander & Svetlana Vetrova, Shane Hollander & Scott Hunter & Carter Vaughn, Scott Hunter & Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter & Carter Vaughn, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter, David Hollander & Shane Hollander & Yuna Hollander, David Hollander & Yuna Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Connors & Ilya Rozanov, Eric Bennett/Kyle Swift

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, J. J. Boiziau, Svetlana Vetrova, Cliff Marlow, Theriault (Game Changers), Sorren Miitka, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Rose Landry, Jackie Pike, Carter Vaughn, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Kip Grady, George Grady, Connors (Heated Rivalry), Hayden Pike's Children, Original Characters, Farah Jalali, Gloria Grey, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Brooklyn Scouts Team Ensemble (Game Changers), New York Admirals Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Kyle Swift, Eric Bennett, Ryan Price (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Autistic Shane Hollander, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Anxious Shane Hollander, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ilya Rozanov Takes Care of Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Takes Care of Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is a Little Shit, Ilya Rozanov is a Menace, Shane Hollander is a Mess, Scott Hunter Knows About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter Loves Kip Grady, Kip Grady loves Scott Hunter, Ilya Rozanov Chirps Scott Hunter, Shane Hollander Chirps Scott Hunter, Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Shane Hollander Revealed as Montreal Jane, Shane Hollander Leaves Montreal, Happy Ending, Multimedia, Canon-Typical Homophobia, POV Third Person, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers)

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of Heated Rivalry Fics

Collections:

Prongs_Antlerz favourite hockey yaoi, Hockey Boyfriends, Heated Rivalry ➻ Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov / Shane Hollander, Boston/New York AUs, Fics LunaK does not want to lose track of, Subscriptions:Tracking, heated rivalry for the soul, In this glass house we are free, RainyBugs_Hollanov_Yay!, Shane or Ilya Play for Non-canon Hockey Teams, Best Heated Rivalry WIPs🏒, THE COTTAGE

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-14 Updated: 2026-07-26 Words: 122,633 Chapters: 53/?

I'll move, just hold my hand

Summary

After Rose helps Shane realize his sexuality, he decides he needs to come out to the important people in his life. He's not ready to be out publicly, but he needs friends in his corner.

Notes

Be sure you have "Show Creator's Style" enabled for this one! Makes the text messages worlds easier to read.

Chapter 1: all I see is you and me

“You will wish you never met me!” Rose called back to him.

“Impossible!” Shane shouted back with a smile. She grinned and then jogged to her car, sliding into the backseat before her driver pulled away from the curb. He waved as he watched the car disappear around a corner, then began walking to his own car parked a few blocks away.

He felt… lighter, he decided. Someone knew. Someone knew, and they loved him anyway. And he could no longer fool himself either. Saying the words out loud had made them real.

Being with a man was different. It was better. He was gay. Someone knew, and he had survived. More than survived, if he was honest. The tears had been cathartic, even if they hadn’t fallen.

He unlocked his car and slid into the driver’s seat, turning on the car to let it warm up while the seat heaters kicked in. He tapped an anxious rhythm on the steering wheel before taking a deep breath and leaning his forehead against the backs of his hands.

Cathartic, yes, but also exhausting.

And yet… hadn’t it been exhausting this whole time? Pretending? Lying?

Shane sighed as memories flooded him again.

Ilya collapsing back onto the bed. You killed me, Hollander. I am dead.

Worth the wait?

The feel of calloused fingers and hands on his chin, his cheeks. The rough kiss in the bathroom at the MLH awards.

Stay.

Shane’s breath shuddered out of him and he forced himself to sit up. He refused to break down about it in public, even if he was in his car, alone, with tinted windows and locked doors. He plugged in his phone to throw on his latest hockey audiobook then merged into traffic and drove back to the condo. As he pulled into his assigned parking, he realized he’d probably have to restart the chapter he’d been listening to because he’d absorbed none of it. It was enough to stop him thinking, but not enough to ground him in his body.

What he needed, he decided, was to run or hop on the erg. Exercise grounded him, always had. On the ice was best, but he couldn’t exactly go to the practice facility at 9:38pm.

He changed into some of his workout clothes and opted for running on the treadmill he had in one of the spare bedrooms—he didn’t feel like going back out to his gym, not when he could hardly think straight.

It took him half an hour and several kilometers on an incline for his thoughts to finally coalesce around two ideas:

1. He felt better, free, now that someone knew his secret.

2. He needed to come clean to Hayden, maybe to J.J., too, if not the whole team.

Everything else could wait, would have to wait. But he needed more people in his corner than just Rose, especially as filming was wrapping up on the X-Squad movie, and she’d be back in L.A. after the All-Star Game.

After cooling down and drinking the rest of his water bottle, Shane sent off a text to their group chat.

Shane breathed out a quiet laugh, then went up to his room to shower.

Ilya couldn’t stop pacing the kitchen. Back and forth, back and forth, until he could swear he’d started making tracks. It was better than scrolling through Twitter, both hoping and not hoping to catch news about Hollander and Rose Landry.

“Fuck,” he muttered, then realized he was alone, could yell as loud as he wanted. “Fuck!”

His phone buzzed on the counter. He wanted to throw it, prevent himself from spiraling further, but instead he picked it up and saw a message from Svetlana. 

Ilya threw the phone down on the counter and scraped his hands through his hair. Sveta would know something was wrong, but at the same time, he needed her. He hated needing anyone, but he’d always needed her.

Ilya sighed and got himself a water. Maybe zoning out in front of a movie with his best friend would help. He went to the living room and tidied a bit, just enough so Sveta wouldn’t call him a pig, and got the TV set up. He pulled her favorite blanket out of the chest and threw it on the couch before going back to the kitchen to make popcorn and get her favorite drink ready. By the time she came through the front door, he was already feeling better.

Doing something—anything—had helped get his mind off of Shane and Rose Landry and fucking tuna melts.

Svetlana took one look at the living room and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m fine,” he said, rubbing at his nose.

She watched him for a second, then sighed. “What are we watching?”

“I don’t care, you get to pick. As long as things blow up.” Ilya handed her the remote and then fell into the corner of the couch with the chaise longue and stretched out, trying not to shake his foot with pent up thoughts. Svetlana sat down beside him and relaxed against him, then scrolled to the action section and picked an old Mission Impossible.

“Subtitles?”

“Da,” Ilya said, knowing he’d be more engrossed if he had to read. This was about forgetting. He needed to forget.

Sveta set up the subtitles then snuggled into his chest and pulled the blanket up. He wrapped his arm around her and tried to disappear into the movie.

All he could think was that her body felt too light on his chest, her hair felt wrong tucked under his chin, and her shoulders were not broad enough for his arm to wrap around.

“Dude, you seem different.”

Shane nearly bobbled the plates he was pulling out of the cabinet for their food and looked over his shoulder at Hayden. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, there’s a vibe change. Right J.J.?”

“Oui. I think I saw him laugh earlier. Bizarre.”

“Fuck off,” Shane said, laughing now.

“No, really. Is the sex with Rose that good?” Hayden asked.

Shane could feel the blush rising on his cheeks and leveled a glare at Hayden. “Hayd.”

“What? Just curious,” his best friend said with a wicked grin before taking a sip of his beer.

“He’s not denying it,” J.J. pointed out.

“I’m not—“ Shane took a deep breath and realized now was as good a time as any. “We’re not dating anymore.”

“Dude, what?” Hayden asked, freezing with his beer halfway to his lips. “Didn’t you just go to dinner last night?”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s uh… we broke up over dinner.”

“Why?”

“Long story,” Shane hedged. “We weren’t a good fit, really. As friends, yeah, but not… not like that.”

“She hit you with the ‘let’s be friends?’ Brutal, man.”

Shane laughed softly. “Yeah, but it’s okay. I want to be her friend, it’s just…”

J.J. was watching him closely, his brow furrowed. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

“She, uh… she kind of helped me realize something about myself. I’m uh…” Shane had to clear his throat and took a sip of ginger ale. “I’m actually gay.”

Hayden and J.J. just stared at him for a second that seemed to stretch for eternity in Shane’s mind. Finally Hayden blew out a breath.

“Well, that explains why you didn’t want to date Jackie’s hot yoga friend.”

“That’s what you thought of first?” Shane asked. “What’s wrong with you?”

J.J. laughed, and Shane’s heart rate finally started dropping. “Non, non, this is great. Now he can set you up with Jackie’s guy friends.”

“So, we’re… we’re okay?”

“Of course, Capitaine!” J.J. said. “You are our friend.”

“Thanks. Thanks, guys.”

“You don’t act gay,” Hayden mused aloud before cracking a shit-eating grin.

“Dude, that’s homophobic as shit,” Shane told him, laughing.

“What? I’m just saying,” Hayden said, laughing as Shane pelted him with the wrapped silverware that came with their order.

“Let’s eat, asshole,” Shane said, finally handing the plates across the counter.

“So, like, can we ask you questions about it?” Hayden asked as they dished out their food, Shane sticking to his salmon and brown rice with roasted kale, while Hayden and J.J. dug through the various pastas and burgers they’d ordered.

Shane sighed. “Yeah, I guess, but I only just realized I was gay last night so I can’t be your guide to everything gay.”

“Wait, you didn’t know you liked guys?” J.J. asked through a mouthful of french fries.

“More like I thought I was just really particular about the girls.”

“Yeah, I mean, realizing Rose Landry doesn’t do it for you would probably be your first heads up,” Hayden said with a grin.

“Hayd, oh my god,” Shane said, almost choking on a bite of rice.

“What? She’s like, objectively, one of the hottest women in the world—”

“And really great as a person,” Shane finished over him. “So yeah, if we couldn’t make it work…”

“So, you did know you like guys,” J.J. concluded.

“Y-yeah, for a while. Tried not to, you know. But… yeah.”

“Have you dated any guys?” Hayden asked, his brow furrowing as he asked. “Wait, what about Boston Lily?”

Shane’s heart stopped, literally stopped, for a second, and he ducked his head so he could swallow down the lump in his throat. “Uh, no, not dated anyone, not like you mean, at least.”

“So, Lily actually is just a friend?”

“Who is Lily?” J.J. asked, looking between them.

“Some girl Shane texts whenever we’re in Boston. Thought she was a hook-up but—oh my god.”

“Hayd.”

“Lily is a dude.”

“Hayden.”

“Lily is a hook-up but she’s a dude! Oh, it makes so much sense now!”

“Why do you call him Lily?” J.J. asked.

Shane just looked at him, raising his eyebrows.

“Oh—oh, oui, je comprends.”

“It doesn’t matter, anyway, we… I think I fucked it up, so I probably won’t see him anymore.”

“Wait, why?” Hayden asked. “You’ve been texting her—sorry, him—for years.”

“It, uh, I… it sorta got more serious the last time, and I freaked out on him. Told him I couldn’t anymore. We haven’t talked since.”

“Dude, that sucks.”

“Yeah,” Shane sighed. “I might try to fix it next time I see him, but… I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

“So are you going to like… come out?” Hayden asked. “Because I gotta tell you, dude, that—”

“No, no, not publicly. I don’t want to be the first gay guy in the MLH. I mean, you know what guys are like. But…”

“But?” J.J. prompted.

“I was thinking of coming out to the team? I don’t know. I just don’t want to lie about it to them.”

Hayden furrowed his brow again, frowning. “It’s up to you, obviously, and I’m here for you if that’s what you want to do, but… I don’t know, man, do you think they’ll be okay with it?”

“I don’t know. I hope so. Like… it shouldn’t matter, right?”

“It shouldn’t,” J.J. agreed, the words coming out strong but his face holding depths of doubt.

“I’ll think about it before I do, I promise. Should probably come out to my parents first anyway.”

“Are they going to be good with it?” Hayden asked.

“Yeah, they’ll be fine. Maybe surprised, but otherwise fine. I hope.”

They all fell silent for a long moment. Then Hayden’s eyes began to sparkle, and he asked, “So are you a top or a bottom? Or both?”

“Oh my fucking god, Hayd,” Shane laughed as J.J.’s beer came out his nose.

Chapter 2: it's because of you I believe in me

“You’ve got me for two more weeks, Shane Hollander, of course I want to help you,” Rose said through the phone. “No shade, but you need it.”

“Thanks,” Shane said laughing. “I was going to hire a stylist but—”

“Don’t you dare. No, I want to help. When’s your next day off?”

“Sunday—are you shooting that day?”

“No, luckily. We can make a day of it. I’ve been wanting to do some shopping anyway. I mean, it’s Montreal. It would be weird not to shop while I’m here.”

“I was wondering if…” Shane sighed heavily. “Would you come to lunch with my parents that day, too? I’m going to tell them and I’d… I’d really appreciate the backup.”

“Of course I will. You know they’re going to think it’s a meet-the-parents situation at first, though, right?”

“I do,” Shane laughed. “But I’d rather not bring Hayden or J.J. for back up this time.”

“Oh, you told them?”

“Yeah, after practice the other day.”

“They wouldn’t be good back up?”

“Well, considering one of their first questions was ‘are you a top or a bottom—’”

“No! ” Rose shouted, laughing. “They did not.”

“They absolutely did. I’m sure they wouldn’t ask that again in front of my parents but I’d rather not risk it.”

“Oh my god.” She was still laughing, but then sobered up slightly. “Okay, yes, of course I can be your back up. How about we take my driver? That way we don’t have to worry about parking or anything, and Chuck can guard our haul while we’re at the restaurant.”

“Sounds perfect. Text me the timing and everything.”

“I will, babe. I gotta go, though. Talk to you later?”

“Absolutely.”

“Love you!”

“Love you, Rose,” Shane said with a small smile, then hung up.

Later that day, Rose texted that she and Chuck would pick him up at 9 on Sunday. Despite abhorring shopping, Shane was actually excited. He’d been feeling like he needed help with his clothes for a while now, and Rose was the perfect person to step in. Yeah, maybe a stylist would have been fine, but this felt more personal, as if he could be himself and look better.

When Sunday rolled around, he was up at 6:00, like usual. He went through his typical routine—a run on the treadmill, a protein smoothie, a shower, then catching up on emails while he sipped coffee at the counter. He couldn’t stop his knee from jumping; he was too nervous about lunch to stop thinking about it, but he knew Rose would get him out of his head.

Shane grabbed his wallet and keys from the entryway, then slipped down to the lobby. Seconds later, Rose’s car pulled up, and he pushed through the front doors into the brutal wind, then hopped in the backseat.

“Hi babe,” Rose said, leaning over to give him a kiss on the cheek.

“Hey,” Shane said. “Hi Chuck.”

The driver nodded at him, then pulled back out and began navigating toward downtown. Rose immediately began listing all the places she wanted to take him, and Shane just smiled and nodded.

“You tell me if you get overwhelmed, but I’m thinking we’re going to start from scratch, basically, okay? You’ve got some good things, of course—that jacket you wore to dinner, for example—but you need more.”

“Whatever you think, Rose, I trust you.”

“Hopefully you don’t regret that,” she said with a smile.

What passed in the next three hours was indeed a whirlwind of clothes and discussions of fit, fabric, style that had Shane’s ears buzzing, but it had also been hours of laughing and talking about whatever came to mind. Other than with Hayden and J.J., Shane couldn’t think of another person he could relax with like that.

Ilya, his brain whispered, and Shane couldn’t shake off the thought. They had never really relaxed together, except for the last time in Boston, but then it had been so easy. And he’d ruined it.

“Hey, maybe after lunch, you can help me find a couple things for Florida? I don’t really have any summer clothes, and it’s going to be hot,” Shane was saying before he could stop himself.

“Ooo, yes, of course. I’m sure we can find something, can’t have you walking around Tampa in basketball shorts.”

“I wouldn’t—” Rose cut him off with a snorting laugh and Shane smiled. “You’re the worst.”

“But you love me,” she said as they pulled up in front of the restaurant where they were meeting his parents. “I’ll text you when we’re almost done, okay Chuck?”

“Of course. I’ll go find somewhere to sit for a bit,” her driver said as Shane stepped out, then offered Rose his hand to step down onto the salt-stained sidewalk. Rose waved to Chuck, but kept hold of Shane’s hand as they turned to walk into the restaurant.

“You’ve got this, babe.”

Shane took a deep breath. “I sure hope so.”

“It’s so nice that you’re dating someone so lovely,” Yuna said over their main course.

“Mom,” Shane admonished as Rose laughed, throwing her head back before she laid a hand on his thigh in support and squeezed. “We’re not dating.”

“I think the kids call it ‘talking’ now, hon,” David chimed in before taking a bite of his food.

“Where did you even learn that?” Shane asked, baffled, as Rose continued to giggle, trying to stifle the sound with her free hand.

“Oh, sorry. But you know what I mean!” Yuna continued. “You’re such a lovely person, Rose. I’m so glad we got to meet you.”

“I’m glad I got to meet you, too, Mrs. Hollander.”

“Mom—“

“Yuna, please.”

“Mom. Listen. We’re not dating, or, or, talking, or whatever. We’re just friends.”

Yuna hummed her doubt, her eyes flicking back and forth between the pair of them.

“We’re just friends,” Rose confirmed with a nod, though her big grin persisted. “We’re better as friends.”

Shane took a deep breath, looked at Rose for reassurance, and at another squeeze of her hand, turned back to his parents. “Actually, that leads me to something I wanted to tell you, um…”

“You know you can tell us anything, Shane,” his mom cut in, and Shane took a deep breath to settle his nerves. Rose gave him another squeeze then pulled her hand away to rest it between his shoulder blades instead, rubbing gentle circles into his back. Shane took one last look around to make sure their waiter wasn’t coming back around then leaned forward.

“I’m actually… I’m gay?”

Yuna and David stared at him for a second in silence, before Yuna reached out and squeezed Shane’s hand.

“Oh, honey, thank you for telling us.”

“You’re not…”

“Not what?” David asked.

“I don’t know, mad? Disappointed?”

“Oh, honey, of course not. And…” Yuna looked at David for a second. “I think we thought that—maybe—you were gay?”

“You did?”

“I think we thought it was certainly possible,” David said with a little nod.

“For how long?”

“Um, for a while, I guess.” Yuna looked at David for confirmation again.

“We both know you pretty well, Shane. We just didn’t want to assume, or push you, or anything.”

Shane just nodded, and an easy silence fell at the table.

“So, does anyone else know?” Yuna asked.

“Just Hayden and J.J.” And Ilya, sort of, his brain helpfully added. “And Rose, obviously.”

“Are you going to come out?” David asked, his brow furrowed in concern.

“No, no, not publicly. I was thinking of telling the team, but… no, I don’t want to come out fully. Not right now, at least. I don’t want to be the first or only anything again.” Shane could see the gears turning behind his mom’s eyes and knew she was plotting brand deals and statements, so he added, “I just wanted to tell you in person, before I told anyone else. I just… I just figured it out for myself, with Rose’s help. So can we just, I don’t know, eat lunch and talk about something else?”

“Of course,” David said, shooting Yuna a quelling look. “Rose, tell us about your family. Do you have siblings?”

The rest of lunch passed in a blur, as the stress of the conversation got to Shane. He could feel himself pulling away from his body, though he did his best to follow the conversation. Rose kept touching him, grounding him, to bring him back to himself, but by the time they were sliding back into her car, Shane was exhausted.

“I don’t think I can do any more shopping,” he confessed, laying his head back against the seat.

“Of course,” Rose said, before asking Chuck to drive back to Shane’s apartment. “You’ve done a lot this week. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you for making me brave enough to admit it,” he whispered.

“You already were brave,” she whispered back. “You just needed a little push.”

Svetlana had been coming over nearly every night that Ilya was in Boston. They watched movies, or hockey, or had dinner, or played video games. She stayed, at least until Ilya faded into the oblivion of sleep, like she knew he wouldn’t if he were alone. Sometimes he woke up next to her, her head on the pillow that Shane had used, and that killed him. Or he woke up on the couch, and found her tucked into bed by herself, her nose buried in his pillow instead, as if she knew. But she never said, never asked.

“Matheson on the power play while Petrov warms the bench. Jesus Christ,” she said, settling back further on the bed.

“Since when do you care what Colorado does?” Ilya asked, taking a drag of his cigarette.

“Since when did you start smoking again?” She shot back, and it took all of Ilya’s energy not to flinch as she stole the cigarette from his fingers to take a drag herself. He’d had three already that afternoon in an attempt to calm the small tremors that had coursed through him after he’d stumbled across pictures of Rose Landry on Twitter.

Well. Pictures of Rose Landry and Hollander holding hands while shopping in Montreal. And then another set of them eating in a restaurant with people Ilya recognized as Shane’s parents. It had made him sick to his stomach, and the only thing that had seemed to help was a cigarette.

“I haven’t started again,” Ilya lied. “Just every once in a while.”

“And I care about all hockey teams, as you well know.”

Ilya realized he’d picked up his phone and had been going to Twitter again. He set it down on the bedspread as Sveta ranted about mediocre Canadian players.

“Mediocre? Matheson?” he asked before tapping ash off his cigarette into the ashtray on the bedside table.

“Yes. You can quote me.”

He teased her about telling Matheson to his face at the All-Star Game.

“You’re playing on the same team as Hollander this year, right?”

Ilya’s gaze snapped to her face, but she was still watching the game. It took effort to keep his voice even. “Is he also mediocre?”

“No, he’s amazing. Those hands.” Ilya’s heart turned over in his chest as dozens of memories crashed over him. “And he’s gorgeous.”

Ilya rubbed at the corner of his eye and scratched his nose. “If you say so.”

He saw Sveta give him a look in his periphery and met her gaze. “What?”

“You know he’s gorgeous. And you know he’s good,” she admonished, her eyes searching his face.

Ilya looked away again and swallowed. “He’s very good.” And beautiful.

“I’d love to see you on a line with him,” Sveta said after a pause that seemed to hang in the air for a full minute.

“Not sure he can play wing,” Ilya said, though he knew it to be a lie. Sure, Shane was a center, but he seemed to know what everyone should be doing at all times; it was how he came to be known as the guy with the highest hockey IQ in the league. Ilya had no doubt he could fill any role if he needed to.

“But you can.”

Ilya looked at Sveta and managed to raise a teasing tone in his voice. “You’d have him center me? Me?”

She was giggling as she said, “The people would love it.”

Ilya tackled her, managing a real smile for the first time that night. “The people are wrong!”

Sveta screamed out a laugh and wrestled him back until Ilya calmed and laid his head down in her lap. Her hands went immediately to his hair, petting his scalp.

“I wonder how many outfits Rose Landry will bring,” she murmured. Ilya felt himself go stiff under her hands, but he couldn’t stop himself. Her fingers halted stroking his hair after a second.

“Ilyusha,” she whispered.

“What?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m fine,” he said, refusing to look at her.

“You’re not.” She combed her fingers through his hair again, and Ilya had to fight against a lump in his throat. She didn’t push him to answer, but after a silent minute, she added. “I could go with you.”

“What?”

“To the All-Star Game. I could go with you. I was going to work next weekend, but I can take a few days off.”

Ilya clenched his jaw to prevent a soft sob from escaping and blinked hard to keep the tears at bay. “Would you?”

“Of course. You’re paying, though,” she joked in a soft voice.

Ilya managed a bark of laughter. “I knew you were a gold digger.”

“When have I ever said I am not?”

He could hear the smile in her voice, and moved so he could press a kiss to one of her legs. “Thank you.”

She said nothing, just continued her soft strokes over his curls.

Chapter 3: cuz I don't wanna live that way

It was the last week of practice before the All-Star break, and Shane’s stomach was churning. He’d finally decided he did need to come out his team, if only because he wanted to stop debating it internally. As he watched the rookies do bag skates from the edge of the rink, he resolved to do it before everyone hit the showers. He could feel the sweat on the palms of his hands, and shucked his gloves so they’d cool off.

“You good?” Hayden whispered at his shoulder.

“Yeah. Well, no, but yeah.”

Hayden clapped him on the shoulder in silent support and Shane felt J.J. bump him on the other side.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” J.J. said in French, his brow furrowed in concern.

“I do, though,” Shane answered just before Theriault called a halt to practice and began yelling about behavior during the break.

“Anything to add, Hollander?” the coach called as everyone began congregating around the exit to the locker room.

“Uh, yeah, actually. Nothing about the break, just something I need to say before we all head out.” Shane had to clear his throat. “You guys are like my brothers, so I wanted to tell you…”

Hayden’s hand fell on his shoulder again, and J.J. leaned his elbow on the other, both of them holding him in place as if he were going to float away. He was lucky they were his best friends.

“I’m gay. I, uh, can’t keep that from you anymore, it just won’t work for me. So—” He cleared his throat again and did his best to look everyone in the face. “Yeah. Just wanted you to know.”

The rookies, still panting from the bag skate, were looking up at him with completely neutral expressions, as if he’d told them it was raining outside. Mitty was staring at him with a slightly amused face, and there were a couple more small smiles in the crowd, but as Shane panned his face over the rest of the team, the frowns and looks of disgust stabbed deep into his stomach.

“Fuck’s sake, Hollander,” Theriault growled. “You think the team needs this right now?”

Shane opened his mouth to say… well, he didn’t know what he was going to say before he heard Couillard mutter to Roy in French, “Explains a lot, actually, him being a f—”

Shane’s mouth snapped closed as J.J. shifted next to him and he swallowed down a scream, then met Theriault’s angry eyes. “It’s what I needed, Coach. I needed to be honest with this team. Can’t lead a team if I’m lying to them.”

“Hit the showers, all of you except Hollander.”

The team moved past him into the locker room, some of them clapping him on the back as they passed, but not enough, not nearly enough. Hayden was the last to leave, his eyes darting between Theriault and Shane.

“Move, Pike,” Theriault commanded, but Hayden didn’t let go of Shane until he turned and nodded at his best friend.

“I’m okay,” he lied. “Go.”

Hayden left, and silence fell over the rink. Theriault’s hands were white as he gripped the team iPad as if he could strangle it. “What the fuck, Hollander. This isn’t a therapy group, you shouldn’t bring that shit onto the ice.”

Shane gritted his jaw, thinking about the near constant chatter and chirping around wives, girlfriends, and hookups in each city, and couldn’t hold back the anger, “Can’t exactly leave part of myself off the ice, Coach.”

“Well, you should have!” Theriault huffed out an angry breath. “You better hope these guys keep quiet about it. And you should, too. The team doesn’t need this attention, not when we’re barely hanging on to a playoff spot. This is a men’s sport—keep that shit out it, for fuck’s sake.”

Theriault left then, shoving through the doors to the locker room and the coaches’ offices. Shane felt frozen in place, staring at the empty rink with angry tears rising in his eyes. He took a shuddering breath, another, and then removed his helmet so he could wipe his face on his sleeve before he stormed back to the locker room himself.

“You okay?” Hayden murmured when Shane reached his stall.

“No,” Shane muttered back before shoving his helmet into the locker, then removing his gear and throwing it in piece by piece. “He told me to keep ‘that shit’ out of here.”

Hayden just looked at him, seeming as lost for words as Shane himself.

Shane stripped out of his compression gear and ripped his towel out of the cubby before he stalked toward the showers. He tried not to see a couple of the guys turning around and refusing to go shower with him, but he couldn’t ignore Andropov and Berkes both turning off their water and leaving the showers altogether when Shane entered, though neither could have been under the spray for longer than a minute.

The rookies stayed. Shane did see that. And he noticed Mitty coming in after him, with J.J. and Hayden following close behind. A handful more filtered in and out, but the showers should’ve been full. It’s not like he hadn’t showered with them all nearly every day for ten years.

He scrubbed at his hair like he wanted to scour it from his body then slammed the water off and exited. He dried off as fast as he could, then pulled his street clothes on over his damp skin, unwilling to wait another second. He was affixing his watch when Hayden slid up next to him.

“Hey, come over to the house. Hang out with Jackie and me and the kids. It’ll help.”

“No,” Shane said shortly, then took a deep breath and started over. “No, I’m too angry, Hayd. I don’t want the kids to see me like that. But give them hugs for me, okay? I just need to go home.”

“Okay, buddy, no problem. But the offer stands whenever, if you don’t want to be at home.”

“Thanks,” Shane said, his voice dropping as he fought back tears again. “For everything.”

Hayden just nudged him with an elbow before Shane turned and left the near-silent locker room. The noise level picked up the second he cleared the doors, and then through the din, he heard J.J. shout in clipped French, “Shut the fuck up, Roy, you’re a fucking asshole.”

The rest of the week went much the same, with the added fun of Shane being checked bodily into the boards more often than he ever had been at practice, with more than half of the team grinning like wolves every time it happened. J.J. and Hayden couldn’t be everywhere on the ice during scrimmages, couldn’t watch his back to protect him from his own team, it just wasn’t possible.

“What are you going to do?” Rose asked one night on a call.

“I don’t know,” Shane admitted, his voice choked with anger. “I… I’m stuck here for two more years because of my contract. But I think I might actually get hurt if I stay. Some of them are good guys, but…”

“Not enough,” Rose finished for him. “Fuck. What about the coaches? They’re not doing anything?”

“No. They’re mostly mad I said anything, which means they’re not punishing any of the guys who’re targeting me.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Rose muttered, and Shane could almost hear her pulling at her hair. “What if—no, you probably don’t want to do that.”

“What? I’ll take anything at this point. It’s only been four days, and I’m falling apart, Rose. My ribs are bruised to hell, my shoulder is sore, one of them almost sprained my ankle the other day—”

“Who? I need to know who to kill.”

“It doesn’t matter. What was your idea?” 

“What if you waived your no-trade clause? I know you have one. If management are that pissed at you, they might go for it, and you could get out of there. Go to a team that doesn’t know. Or wouldn’t care, preferably.”

Shane swallowed and laid his head back against the couch, shifting the bag of peas he was holding against his ribs. “I always thought I’d retire with Montreal.”

“I know, babe.”

“I could picture my sweater in the rafters, right next to the Cup banners.”

“And now? Can you picture it now?”

Shane let out a laugh that was more akin to a sob. “No. No, I can’t. Even if I win them another Cup, I doubt they’d get their heads out of their asses and become allies.”

Rose was silent as he processed, her soft breaths helping him center himself.

“Fuck,” he finally muttered. “Yeah, that seems like what I need to do. I’ll call my agent and my mom. Trade deadline’s coming up too fast to wait.”

“It’s in about a month, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe the All-Star Game would be a good time to feel out other teams.”

“Yeah, maybe. Hopefully. I don’t want to go anymore, but maybe.”

“Why not? J.J.’s going with you, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he is.”

“And no one else knows.”

“No, not unless any of those assholes have been talking.”

“So…”

“I just don’t want to be alone. My parents can’t make it.”

“I wish I could go with you,” she said, sounding honestly regretful.

“I know. I know you’d go. God, if Jackie wasn’t six months pregnant, I’d rent the whole Pike family a house just so they could come with me.”

“You’ve got this, Shane. I know you’ll be alone, but you know J.J. will have your back. And you can call me every night if you need.”

“Thanks. Thanks, Rose, really.”

“Of course. Love you,” she said, and he could hear the smile.

“Love you, too.”

“Okay, go call Farah and your mom. It’ll be okay. Call me later, tell me how it goes.”

“I will. Bye.”

“Bye, babe.”

Shane dropped his phone and rubbed his face before he stood and put the thawed peas in the sink. Then he went back to the couch and set up his computer so he could start video meeting. He didn’t want to wait another minute.

Ilya’s phone buzzed on the treadmill, and he picked it up, seeing a notification from Marly.

The preview had a picture of Hollander on the ice, but the article title had been cut off before he could figure out what it was about. Ilya slowed the treadmill to a walk and opened the link.

“What the fuck?” Ilya whispered, slamming his hand down on the emergency stop, before texting Marly exactly that. He swiped back to the article and read, none of it making sense.

Montreal Star Center, Shane Hollander, Waives No-Trade Clause a Month Before Trade Deadline

In perhaps the most shocking addition to the trade rumors this season, Shane Hollander reportedly waived his no-trade clause early this week. There’s been no word from Montreal’s executive suite on whether a trade is something they’re looking into at this time.

Sources inside the team have been remarkably quiet on the reason for the change, indicating either the organization or Hollander’s team have required an NDA. Details are lacking, but all eyes will be on the trade boards before the trade deadline in early March.

The article ended there, and Ilya swiped back to his messages, sending another disbelieving text to Marly. Before he could stop himself, he was scrolling down in his messages, and found his thumb hovering over the thread with “Jane.”

I can’t do this, Shane whispered in his memories, and Ilya shook himself, then scrolled back up to his messages with Svetlana, sending her the article. She answered immediately, in all caps.

Chapter 4: and build it back from bones

“Where’s Matheson? I have to tell him you think he’s terrible,” Ilya said at full volume, in English, as he and Svetlana walked into the restaurant set aside for the team mixer at the hotel. He knew full well Matheson wouldn’t be there, being on the West Coast team, but what were friends if they weren’t pests to each other?

“You do, and I’ll tell everyone to start calling you ‘Ilyusha’ like the big baby you are,” Sveta said, laughing.

“You wouldn’t dare, Svetulia, you love me too much.” Ilya led her to the bar. “A beer—whatever you have—please.”

“And a vodka soda, thanks,” Sveta added as she slipped onto one of the stools. “Sit with me, Ilyusha, so I don’t go berating your teammates for misused power plays and weak defense.”

Ilya laughed as the bartender slid their drinks across the counter, then perched on the stool next to her and scanned the room for who was at the meet-and-greet so far. He spotted Scott Hunter and Carter Vaughn in a corner chatting with a few others and nodded when Carter lifted a hand in hello. It seemed about half of the team was there already, including himself, with more of the guys filtering in with their families every few minutes.

A few wandered over, and he introduced Svetlana around as his friend and the daughter of Sergei Vetrov. She charmed and delighted them while Ilya kept one eye on the door, only paying attention when Sveta bumped his knee so he could laugh and contribute to the conversation with light chirps—there were children present, after all. But no knee-bump could catch his attention when the door opened and let in Hollander and Boiziau.

They were having a low-voice conversation, and Shane’s nose was scrunched up in worry while Boiziau kept patting him on the back. It almost looked like he was trying to psych Shane up for the mixer, though Ilya knew this was likely one of the only sorts of gatherings at which Shane could actually relax.

“Cap!” Vaughn shouted from where he still stood, eliciting a resounding cheer from the rest of his group as well.

“Vaughny!” Shane shouted and moved toward him. His gaze snagged on Ilya for a bare second before it darted over his shoulder at Sveta, and then he turned his head quickly, but Ilya could see the heat rise into his face even from so far away. He seemed to shake himself before he exchanged hugs and fist-bumps with the group congregated around the two Admirals.

“Ilyusha, I’m going to go out to the pool,” Sveta said, her voice quiet. “I’ll let you get reacquainted with your teammates, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, nodding and attempting a smile as the group around him dispersed with her, then took a long pull of his beer, turning to face the bar top again and hunching his shoulders.

“Hey, can I get whatever my teammate is having, please? Do you need another, Rozanov?”

Ilya closed his eyes for a bare second, then looked to his right as Shane slid into the stool next to him. He aimed a slight nod and smile at the bartender, then turned his attention back to Shane. “What, no ginger ale?”

“I was thinking of having a bit of fun this weekend. Someone keeps telling me I’m boring.”

Ilya tried not to smile at that, and instead just nodded.

“I, uh, I was wondering if I could talk to you,” Shane said after a moment.

“What are we doing right now, Hollander?”

Shane’s lips quirked, then he shook his head. “Privately, I meant, maybe after this?”

Ilya studied him for a second. “Sure, of course.”

“Great, thanks, that’s… great. I’ll text you.”

Vaughn was suddenly between them, an arm around each of their shoulders. “O Captains, my captains! Strategizing already?”

“Well, we want to beat West Coast Best Coast, don’t we?” Shane said with a grin.

“Is that what they’re calling themselves?” Vaughn made a face. “Fine, we can be East Coast Beast Coast. Anyway, Beasts, I’m getting everyone down to the beach later, and you’re coming. No excuses, Hollzy. We haven’t been to the beach together since Sochi.”

“Sure, Vaughny, whatever you say. Put it in the group chat, yeah?”

“Is there a group chat?”

“Okay, make a group chat, then put it in there.”

Vaughn pulled back and unlocked his phone, then handed it to Ilya. “I don’t have your number, Roz, put it in. I’m making this happen.”

Ilya took the phone and typed in his number, then saved it to a contact under the nickname Vaughn had used. “Whatever picture you use, get my good side,” he suggested as he handed the phone back.

“You have a good side?” Vaughn chirped then slapped Shane on the shoulder. “And don’t think you’re getting away with not telling us about your no-trade clause. I’m cornering you later.”

Shane flashed a weak smile. “I knew you wouldn’t, Vaughny. We’ll talk, I promise. I better circulate though, can’t pick favorites as the captain, can I?”

“Aw, Roz, you’re his favorite!”

Ilya watched the blush bloom again  on Shane’s cheeks as he stood and moved across the room and Vaughn accosted another group of players. Then he let out a heavy breath and stood, moving to a different part of the room from them both, thinking maybe he could get Boiziau to drop hints about what was going on with Shane.

“Hey, Rook.”

Shane turned from the group of guys he was chatting up and found Scott Hunter just behind him. “Oh, hey, Scotty.”

“You got a second?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll talk to you guys later — make sure Vaughny adds you to the group chat,” Shane said to the trio in front of him and then walked a few paces away with Scott.

“I heard a rumor,” the other man started. Shane couldn’t help the instinctive reaction to look around for J.J. but Scott put a hand on his bicep and added, “I’m not going to say anything to anyone else. I just… I heard that some shit went down in Montreal, and I wanted to check on you.”

Shane took a shuddery breath and looked around again before nodding slightly. “Yeah, uh… yeah, I…”

“They didn’t take it well.”

“No. I mean, some did. But… no.”

“So, you waived your no-trade.”

Shane nodded. “I don’t know if they’re going to use it though.”

“Why?”

“Well, if they trade me for what they want to trade me for, they’re getting themselves in deep shit.”

Scott rubbed at his beard, staring at Shane like he was a puzzle. He finally asked, “How bad is it?”

Shane frowned and looked away, locking eyes with J.J. across the room, talking in a group with Ilya, of all people. His friend raised his chin in acknowledgement and started making his way over deliberately. “There are a couple of guys who are good with it. Not enough, but a handful. The rest are taking it out on me on the ice. Or if they’re not doing that, they’re making comments in the locker room. Refusing to be in the room when I’m there. Shit like that.”

“Fuck,” Scott muttered, dropping his hand.

“Yeah,” Shane said as J.J. slipped in beside him, standing between Shane and the rest of the room.

“I thought… It’s 2017, for fuck’s sake,” Scott muttered, his jaw set in harsh lines.

“Il le sait?” J.J. asked Shane.

“He knows. He heard a rumor,” Shane responded in English.

“So the fuckers are talking about it,” J.J. said, looking like he wanted to punch something. “Fuck.”

“That about sums it up, yeah,” Shane said, and Scott sighed.

“I wish there was something you could do,” he said at last.

“I know, man. But knowing not everyone is like that is helping,” Shane offered. “I can make it through the end of the season, I think. And then it’ll be a free-for-all over the summer.”

Scott nodded. “Alright, but if you need anything, Rook, you text me. Or Vaughny. You’d be safe texting Vaughny, too.”

“Thanks, Scotty,” Shane said and then looked around again, noticing the bar had started to empty. “Look, I’m going to go call my parents before Vaughny’s little beach party. I’ll see you out there okay?”

“You want me to come with you, Capitaine?” J.J. asked.

“Non, à plus tard.” Shane clapped J.J. on the shoulder then walked back into the lobby of the hotel, pulling out his phone as he went.

The door had barely shut on his room before there was a quiet knock on the door. Shane opened it and stepped back to let Ilya in. He had his hands stuffed in the pockets of his shorts, and a distinctly neutral expression, but Shane could also tell he was hunching his shoulders ever so slightly.

“You wanted to talk,” Ilya said after a long moment of silence.

“Yeah, I did. Can we sit?”

Ilya shrugged and took a seat at the foot of Shane’s bed while Shane pulled out the desk chair and perched on the edge. Shane was taking a couple deep breaths to settle his stomach when Ilya said, “Are you dying, Hollander? Spit it out.”

“Fuck you,” Shane said, but smiled because Ilya had cut the tension for him. “No, I’m not dying. I wanted to say sorry.”

“For what?”

“For last time.”

“What about last time? I don’t remember.”

Shane rolled his eyes and then glared at Ilya. “Come on, this is hard enough without you being an asshole. I’m sorry I ran out.”

“Ran out over nothing, you mean.”

“It wasn’t nothing, and you know it. It was different last time, and it freaked me out. And I’m sorry.”

Ilya rolled his shoulders and looked away for a second. “So, what, you’re doing apologies so you don’t feel bad when you move out to L.A.?”

“Wha—no, I’m not moving to L.A., what are you talking about?”

“I thought maybe you want to get traded to L.A. so you can go be with Rose Landry.” Ilya sniffed and then swallowed hard. Shane sighed.

“No. No, Ilya, I’m not dating Rose. We broke up two weeks ago. We weren’t… aren’t compatible.”

“Compatible.”

“We don’t fit; we weren’t what each other needed.”

“Oh.” Ilya’s shoulders lowered a fraction.

“Yeah. So I’m apologizing because I want to apologize to you. And to tell you that I… I’m gay.”

Ilya snorted. “Oh really? What made you think that?”

“Shut up, you know what I mean. You’re not gay.”

“No, not completely, no.”

“Well, I am. Completely. And until Rose, I was… I don’t know, scared? I didn’t want to admit it. And then last time, when it was different… it made me freak out. Even though it was nice, before.”

Ilya swallowed again. “It was nice.”

Shane took a shuddery breath and wiped his palms on his shorts. “And… I know you came here with someone. But I was wondering if… if maybe you wanted to be something. Again.”

“We can’t be something, Hollander.”

“Oh,” Shane said, feeling tears clawing their way up his throat. “The woman?”

“No—I mean. We can’t… it couldn’t be more than it was.”

“And if it could, would you want… that?”

“It can’t.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“What does it matter? I can’t have it, why wish for it?”

“Why can’t you have it?”

“You asked if Russia was safe. You remember? Is not safe. I can’t… I can’t be with you and go home. I can’t be with you if I have Russian passport.”

Shane nodded slowly. “I also asked you if you even wanted to go back.”

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why?’ My family is there. My father’s dying, my brother needs me; I have to go back.” Ilya looked away again, and Shane could see his jaw clenching and unclenching.

“Your father… hey, wait—” Shane stood and climbed into Ilya’s lap as the first tear rolled, wrapping his arms tight around him. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

“Sorry,” Ilya rasped.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Shane said into his hair, holding tighter as Ilya wrapped him in his own hug. “Is it… cancer?”

“Alzheimer’s,” Ilya whispered.

“I’m so sorry.” Shane felt Ilya shake his head against his shoulder and squeezed a bit tighter before beginning to run a hand up and down Ilya’s spine until he felt the withheld sobs begin to fade.

When Ilya finally pulled back, he rubbed at his nose for a second before saying, “So if you’re not moving to L.A., why waive your no-trade?”

Shane managed a weak smile. “I came out to the team. They didn’t take it well.”

Ilya’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean? All of them?”

Shane recounted the last two weeks, and Ilya pulled back even further, pushing Shane off his lap. “Show me your ribs.”

“Ilya, I’m okay.”

“Shane. Show me, or I’ll take your shirt off myself.” When Shane smirked, Ilya rolled his eyes with a huff. “Later. First, ribs.”

“Later, huh?” Shane asked as he unbuttoned the linen shirt Rose had sent to his house after that lunch with his parents. “Does that mean—”

“Oh my god, Hollander, yes.” Ilya said, and Shane smiled, knowing exactly what that exasperated tone truly meant. Ilya pushed his hands away and finished unbuttoning the shirt. He pulled back the sides and looked at Shane’s ribs, turning him toward the window so he could see the fading bruises. He gently probed at each, purple and yellowing alike, searching for breaks and Shane let him, reaching up to put his hands on Ilya’s hips. He ran his thumb along Ilya’s hip bones, under his shirt, savoring the smooth skin.

“I don’t think we have time for everything I want to do to you before Vaughn’s party,” Ilya murmured before pushing Shane’s shoulder so he would turn to show his back.

“No, I wasn’t… I just wanted to touch you. Sorry,” Shane said quietly as Ilya finished his inspection.

Then he felt Ilya’s breath on his neck and the soft brush of lips beneath his ear. “No sorries. I want to touch you, too.”

Shane turned his head, trying to catch Ilya’s eye. He searched their pale blue depths for a few moments before tilting his chin up a fraction, inviting. Ilya took it, brushing his lips over Shane’s lightly at first, then with more pressure. Shane turned fully in his arms and felt himself fall back into the familiarity of sliding his hands around Ilya’s waist as those calloused hands came up to cradle his face and grip his hair.

“I missed you,” Shane whispered when they separated, his eyes still closed and his breathing heavier.

“I missed you, too,” Ilya said, before pressing a soft kiss to his temple.

Chapter 5: stay next to me

Ilya found he couldn’t leave Shane’s side for long once they were down on the beach with the team, gathered around a fire pit the staff had set up in the sand. He tried, a couple times, to wander off, but found himself drifting back into Shane’s orbit before long. If he couldn’t touch him, not yet, then he wanted to be near him for as long as he could. They didn’t often get more than a few hours together, and now there were days. Days spent among people who couldn’t know about them, but still… days.

It seemed a miracle that Shane didn’t warn him off with a look every time he came close. Instead, Shane would smile, his eyes going soft, before he checked back into whatever conversation he was having. The third time Ilya approached, Shane even drew him into a conversation with Scott Hunter and Carter Vaughn.

“I’ve never met him personally, no, but Rozanov played with him for a season, right?”

“Who?”

“Ryan Price.”

“Ah, yes, just one season in Boston. He’s in Buffalo now, right?”

Scott nodded. “Not gonna lie, he scares the shit out of me. Man’s huge.”

“Didn’t you tell me he’s actually really nice?” Shane asked Ilya, looking at him for confirmation. 

“Mm. He’s quiet, doesn’t talk much, but he was nice, yes. We watched movies on planes.” Ilya didn’t mention the fear of flying; it didn’t seem like his secret to tell. He set one of his forearms on Shane’s shoulder, leaning into him a bit. He decided he couldn’t be near him and not touch him in some way; at least this way it looked friendly, or maybe like he was pestering Shane. 

“Hold up,” Vaughn said, looking between the two of them. “You guys talk about shit? Are you guys, like, actually friends?”

Shane laughed and Ilya made an exaggerated face of horror. “Me? Friends with someone as boring as Hollander? Me?”

“Fuck you, Rozanov,” Shane said with another laugh. “We’ve known each other since we were—what—17?”

“Mm, think so.”

“Hard not to get to know someone you’ve been around for nearly nine years,” Shane said with a shrug that jostled Ilya’s arm. “Even if he is an asshole.”

“You love me,” Ilya taunted, causing Hunter to cough, though he took a quick sip of beer to cover it. “Everyone loves me. How could you not?”

“Are you asking for a list, or…?” Hunter asked.

“Ah, what do you know, Hunter, you’re a thousand years old. All the kids think I’m cool.”

“See?” Shane said, “An asshole. But yeah, we’re rivals—competitive, I mean—so the league’s marketing team kind of pitted us against one another, but I don’t think we’ve ever really hated each other, right?”

“No, not really. Maybe when you won Rookie of the Year. I might have hated you then.” Shane rolled his eyes while Vaughn guffawed. 

“I remember that night,” Hunter said, his eyes drifting back and forth between their faces. “We tried to find you to do shots with us, Roz.”

“Ah, so you’re the one who got Hollander drunk.”

“I was not drunk!”

“Is okay, Hollander, you were… what’s it called? Light-weight?” When Shane gave a grudging nod, Ilya grinned. “Probably still light-weight, since all you drink is ginger ale.”

“I am literally drinking a beer right now, you asshole.”

Ilya gave him another shit eating grin and then sipped his vodka soda. 

“So all this time, Roz, you’ve just been a dick for fun,” Vaughny said, shaking his head in disbelief. “What will people say when they find out?”

“Tell no one,” Ilya warned. “I am big, scary Russian. I will know if you tell.”

The night went on, and every time they separated, eventually they would fall back together and have a similar conversation with whoever had Shane’s ear at the time. By the time Ilya was knocking on Shane’s door again, he thought maybe the entire East Coast team knew they were friends, contrary to how the league had always painted them.

When Shane let him in, he stopped thinking and became only hands and lips and teeth and body, and tried to give Shane the same, though things went faster than either of them wanted and they had to keep quiet. But, Ilya vowed, next time they would not have the same problem.

When they had cleaned themselves up and were laying in Shane’s bed, legs tangled together, Shane sighed. 

“What?” Ilya murmured. 

“I was just wondering why we never thought of that before.”

“Thought of what?”

“Telling people that we’re friends. Like we did tonight. We could have… all that time.”

“Ah. We were idiots, it’s true.” Ilya smoothed down Shane’s hair with gentle fingers. “The league didn’t give us much chance though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Is first time we’re playing together. Not like we got to, you know, hang out before. Maybe awards ceremonies. But was only once a year.”

Shane nodded against his shoulder. “Still.”

“Mm,” Ilya agreed. 

“Do you need to go back to your room?” Shane asked after a few minutes of quiet. 

“No. Sveta will be asleep, anyway, best not to wake her.”

“That was Svetlana at the bar today?” When Ilya confirmed, Shane looked up at him. “Are you two still…”

“Still?” Shane eyes darted away and Ilya caught on. “Ah, no. We don’t fuck anymore. She’s just here as friend.”

“Oh,” Shane murmured against him. 

“Mm. I’m surprised you didn’t bring anyone.”

“My parents are going to Mexico in two weeks, so my dad couldn’t take more time off work. And Rose is moving back to L.A. this weekend.”

“You would have brought Rose here?” Ilya asked, looking down at Shane.

“You brought Svetlana.”

“That’s different. I thought you were dating a movie star.”

Shane pushed up on an elbow. “That’s why Svetlana is here?”

Ilya opened his mouth but could find no words.

“Rozanov,” Shane began, his face breaking into a wide smile, “were you jealous?”

“Never in my life have I been jealous.”

“You were. You were so jealous.”

“Shut up, Hollander, I saw your face in that club.”

Shane’s face sobered slowly, and he ducked his head. “That was the worst night.” 

Ilya pushed his chin back up with his hand, searching his eyes before nodding. “It was.”

Shane’s alarm went off at 5:00am and he groaned into Ilya’s shoulder before he rolled over to turn it off. “Time to get up.”

“Hollander, only crazy person gets up this early.” Ilya grumbled, pulling Shane back against him.

“You need to get back to your room,” Shane mumbled. “Before other people start waking up.”

Ilya muttered something in Russian, then rolled so he was pinning Shane to the bed. “Fine, fine, fine. I will go. I will see you at practice, Captain.”

He leaned in for a deep kiss, then pulled away and climbed out of bed. Shane watched the muscles in his back ripple as he stretched, then bent to retrieve his clothes. Ilya caught him watching when he sat to put on his shoes, and grinned. “Like what you see, ah?”

“You know I do,” Shane mumbled, feeling the blush rising. 

“Good.” Ilya finished tying a shoe and moved around the bed. Shane closed his eyes as Ilya leaned down, preparing for another lingering kiss, but instead he felt Ilya’s lips brush over his freckles—first one side, then the other. “Bye, Shane.”

“Bye, Ilya.”

When the door was shut again, Shane stood and stretched as well before going through his morning routine, though he ended up in the hotel restaurant for his morning coffee and emails. He wasn’t in the least surprised when some of the solo teammates slid into the booth with him, some of them looking catatonic, others chipper. Vaughny, of course, was the latter.

“You plotting our lines, Cap?” he asked before taking a gulp of his coffee.

“No, I was just checking my email. Coach said he would figure out lines at practice this morning, so we could try a bunch out.”

“I’d like to see you and Roz on a line together for a power play. And you and Scott. Hell, all three of you. You got a roster on your phone?”

“Yeah, here.” Shane pulled it up and slid his phone across the table, looking up to thank the waitress who refilled his mug with a smile while Vaughny inspected the list of players. 

“Honestly, the Westies don’t stand a chance,” Carter said after a minute. 

“‘Westies’ like the dog?” Shane asked, laughing. 

“Yeah, can’t you see it? Short little guys running around looking more cute than fierce.”

“Are you talking about Hollander?” 

Shane looked up at Ilya as he leaned on the edge of the booth; he had a tired scowl on his face and his curls looked rumpled, as if he had crawled back into bed after leaving Shane. Alexis Levac, one of the defensemen from Boston, laughed and choked on his breakfast.

“You’re barely taller than me, Rozanov.”

“So you admit it, I am taller,” Ilya chirped as he beat Levac on the back to help him catch his breath. 

Shane sighed and shook his head, looking back at Vaughny. “See, this is why people think we hate each other.”

“Chirping is just Rozy’s love language,” Levac said, when he could breathe again. 

“Don’t tell them my secrets, Lexi, or I won’t bring donuts to practice anymore.”

“You’d never stick to that threat, and you know it.”

“Mmph. I’m going to another table where they love me like they should,” he grumped before wandering over to the buffet. 

“I forgot to ask, Hollzy,” Carter started, after the laughter faded. “What’s with the no-trade?”

Shane had luckily planned for this question, and sighed. “It’s nothing major really. There’s been some changes in the culture of the team and I just thought I might see what else is out there, challenge myself, you know.”

Vaughny nodded but his forehead wrinkled as he studied Shane. “Culture changes, huh?”

Shane just nodded and shrugged. “Anyway, I doubt they’ll do anything this season. Just thought I’d get ahead of the game.”

Vaughny looked like he was going to say something else when Ilya walked back over with a fully loaded plate and thumped down next to Shane in the booth. “Move over, Hollander.”

“I thought we didn’t love you properly,” Shane said as he scooted a bit further onto the bench, encroaching on Phillips’—one of the catatonic players—space a bit. 

“Mmph,” was all Ilya said through a mouthful of pancakes.

Scott watched from the boards as their temporary Coach tried out a power play line with Hollander, Rozanov, Vaughny, and Boodram up front, and Schaber on defense. Rozanov was being a pest again, he could tell from the way Vaughny couldn’t stop laughing and Hollander kept sighing. Who knew The Masshole was truly just a little shit? 

They completely savaged the penalty killer line, though, over and over. 

“God, that’s beautiful,” Lyle Robins, the center from Detroit, said at Scott’s shoulder. “I mean, I know we’re all the best our teams’ have got, but…”

“Yeah,” Scott said as Hollander deked Boiziau then left the puck in place for Rozanov to slam it into the net. “I mean, how did Hollzy even know Roz was there?”

Robins shook his head, at a loss for an explanation. “Glad they’re doing it for us though. Hey—do you think Boston will pick Hollander up?”

Scott was already shaking his head. “I don’t see how they could. They’re near their cap, and Hollzy’s got a pretty hefty contract already.”

“Good. I honestly wouldn’t want to play against that,” Robins said as the power play line scored again, this time Roz feeding the puck to Hollzy on the outside. “It’s bad enough playing against one of them.”

Scott watched as Rozanov crashed into Hollander, his laughter audible across the rink before he smacked a kiss to Hollzy’s helmet. Shane just rolled his eyes and shook his head, as if Roz was being annoying, but Scott saw the deepening of the color on his cheeks even from this far away. He thought of a conversation from six years ago, ending with Rozanov murmuring a room number as he flew by Hollander on the bench, not realizing anyone could hear him. 

“Shame though,” Scott said. “It’d probably be some of the best hockey the world has ever seen.”

The mood in the locker room after practice was chaotic, with chirps flying left and right, but Hollander was the quiet at the center of the storm, that small half-smile on his face, and soft commentary falling from his lips. Scott and Rozanov flanked him, being his alternate captains for the weekend, and while Roz was shouting and laughing, Scott took a second to just sit next to Shane.

“Hey, Rook,” he muttered, and Shane looked over at him. “It’s you and Roz, isn’t it? Still?”

Hollander’s eyes widened before darting around the room. Scott shook his head and put a hand on his forearm to hold him down; he looked like he was going to leap up and flee any second. “I haven’t said anything for six years and I never will. You’re good.”

Shane’s eyes roved over Scott’s face, scouring him for lies, before he gave a tiny nod.

Vaughny unwittingly split the tension from across the room, shouting, “The Beastie Boys are going to stomp all over those little Westies!"

“We are not killing a bunch of dogs, Vaughn,” Rozanov shouted back before grabbing his towel and heading into the showers, but Scott didn’t miss the wink he threw Hollander before he left. 

“I have literally thousands of questions, though,” Scott said after a second, and watched Shane’s blush reach the tips of his ears. 

Chapter 6: baby, this won’t go expected

“You came back late, Ilyusha,” Sveta said too casually from the vanity in their room, where she was adjusting one of her earrings. “Or, should I say, early?”

“Mm, I was with the team.”

“Oh, I thought you might be with Jane.” Ilya looked up quickly from his suitcase and saw her staring at him through the mirror. “I knew it.”

Ilya said nothing, just kept staring at her, trying to figure out what he could possibly say. He knew she’d tell no one—they loved each other too much for that sort of betrayal—but he still couldn’t believe she’d figured it out. 

“I want to meet him,” she said finally. “Need to see if he deserves you.” 

Ilya cleared his throat and went back to looking for the swim shorts he knew he’d tucked into his suitcase. “He does.”

“It’s Hollander, da?” 

Ilya clenched his jaw and nodded once, just before laying his hands on the swim suit. “We can’t come out, Sveta.”

“I know that, mudak. I just want to talk to him. Will he be down at the pool?”

That gave Ilya pause. He truly didn’t know and it felt weird that he couldn’t predict Shane’s behavior. He could see Shane deciding to rest in his room, but he could also vividly visualize him reading a book poolside. They’d never had the chance to relax together, to learn this side of each other, and Ilya felt that like a punch in the gut. He breathed out, then picked up his phone. “I don’t know. I’ll ask him.”

He shot off a quick text, then changed into his swim shorts and an incredibly cheesy vacation shirt—bright red with palm leaves and other foliage scattered across it—before hunting up his slides from under the bed. His phone buzzed on the bedspread, and he flipped it over.

Ilya felt that quiet rage from the night before clawing its way up his spine at the thought of Shane’s team—the men he’d thought were his brothers—hurting him for daring to trust them. He shoved his feet into his shoes and grabbed the room key and his wallet from the bedside table. “He’s there. Can you put these in your bag?”

Sveta snorted but held out her hand. “Men.”

“You love me.”

“Mm, barely. Ready?”

“Ready.” 

She lead the way out of the room, then looped her arm through his as they walked down the hall. She had thrown a gauzy white cover-up on over her vivid emerald bikini, put her hair up in a loose top-knot, and accessorized with understated gold jewelry. 

“You look beautiful. Who’s it for?”

She shot him a coy smile. “Can I not look beautiful for my own sake?”

“It’s Matheson, isn’t it?” She snorted again, then threw her head back in a joyous burst of laughter.

She did it again, later and repeatedly, when she was perched on the edge of the pool next to Shane, her long legs trailing in the water as she talked to him. He’d put down his book and dipped his own feet in the water at her insistence, and every time Ilya looked over, he had that small smile on his face that made Ilya want to kiss each individual freckle on his cheekbones. He had to tear his eyes away and focus back on the children in the pool who were begging him to race again. 

“This time I will not be losing,” he warned them, putting on a stern face. “But if I lose, I will buy you each a candy bar from the machine inside. Don’t tell your parents.”

“We can hear you, Rozanov!” Conner Morgan, the goalie from Detroit, called from across the pool. 

“You would not let them have candy, Morgan?”

“Didn’t say that, did I?” 

Ilya snorted, then looked at the kids again. 

“Now, no cheating. Hollander!” Shane looked over from the edge of the pool. “Make sure none of these cheaters cheat!”

Ilya could see the eye-roll even behind his sunglasses and grinned, but Shane called back, “Okay!”

Ilya counted them down, then dove under to begin racing the children across the pool. Halfway across, he pretended to be attacked by a shark, and watched as the kids all made it to the edge before him, laughing uproariously and telling him that he’d lost with manic glee. Ilya pretended to be upset as he swam over to where Sveta and Shane were sitting.

He draped his arms across both of them and shook his head, splattering them with water before making puppy dog eyes up at Svetlana. “Svetulia, will you get my wallet? I owe twenty children candy.”

“Of course you do, Ilyusha. Let me stand up, I’ll get you a towel too.” He let go of her leg and watched her walk over to their chairs, then moved so he was hanging onto the wall next to Shane. 

“Who knew Florida pools had a shark problem,” Shane said, grinning down at him.

“It is a big problem. We need, what do you call it—animal control?”

Shane nodded and said, “I don’t think they wrangle sharks, though.”

“Mm, too bad. We will have to be careful,” Ilya said before he snaked a hand out and pinched the back of Shane’s calf. Shane yelped and kicked instinctively, eliciting a cackle from Ilya. “Too easy, Hollander.”

Sveta came back with his wallet and a large hotel towel at that moment, so Ilya began to climb out of the pool. He could feel Shane’s eyes on him as he stood to his full height, and had to suppress a delighted shiver. He looked down as he rubbed the towel over his head and winked at Shane, who just smirked back. Then Ilya called out to the children to dry off so he could get them the candy and walked away.

Shane couldn’t help but be jealous of Svetlana as she walked out on Ilya’s arm. Even he knew she was gorgeous, and she got to touch Ilya like it was nothing. She’d been with Ilya, knew what Shane knew of him and more, since they’d grown up together. But he tried to swallow it as Ilya led her over, both of them chatting in rapid Russian as they approached.

“Hollander, I don’t think you got to meet Sveta, yesterday. Svetlana Vetrova, Shane Hollander. She’s a big fan of your hands,” Ilya said with a wicked grin and Shane felt his entire face flush rapidly as Svetlana gasped and smacked Ilya playfully on the arm, spouting off what sounded like Russian invectives.

“It’s nice to meet you, Svetlana,” Shane said, standing and holding out a hand.

She shook it and said, “I’ve enjoyed watching you play, Hollander. You make Ilyusha have to work for it.”

Ilyusha, Shane repeated internally. It sounded like a pet name, and Shane wondered what it signified that this woman could call Ilya—Rozanov, the Masshole, the big bad Russian—something so… soft. 

“Sveta, you are so mean to me,” Ilya pouted.

“You need people to be mean to you or your ego would swallow Boston,” she shot back with a grin, her English clear and complex in a way that seemed to imply she’d been speaking it for a long time.  Shane watched their interplay as they continued to bicker, realizing that even though he wasn’t contributing, he didn’t feel as though he was outside the conversation. It wasn’t a feeling he was used to, but it was nice, he realized.

“I’m going to swim,” Ilya said after a minute. “Are you going to, ah… sunbathe?”

Svetlana nodded, confirming the word choice. “For a while, I think. It’s been too dreary in Boston, I need the sunshine. I’ll put our stuff over there, Ilyusha, if you need it.”

Ilya nodded, then locked eyes with Shane for a second before stripping off his button-up and handing it to Svetlana. Shane was grateful he was wearing his sunglasses, because he could not tear his eyes away from Ilya’s body. From his small smirk, Ilya had noticed, but said nothing.

Svetlana put a hand on Shane’s arm, snapping his attention back to her. “Will you sit by the pool with me, Hollander? I want to interrogate you about Montreal’s lines.”

“Sure. Of course. Yes,” he stuttered out and watched the gentle smile flicker over her lips. 

“You are going to tell me everything he says, yes?” Ilya asked. “Tell me all his secrets?”

“You wish, Ilyusha,” Svetlana shot over her shoulder as she walked towards the chairs she had pointed out. 

Ilya blew a raspberry, smiled one more time at Shane, then deadpanned, “Cannonball.”

“What?”

Then he took three steps to the edge of the pool and cannonballed into the deep end, sending water splashing. Shane laughed again, then called to him after he surface, “Asshole!”

“You love me!”

Yes, Shane thought, his grin dropping slowly. I do.

Svetlana came back and looped an arm around his own, the touch light as she led him to the side of the pool, having shed her coverup and sandals. “Tell me about the rookies. I know all there is to know about your lines, but the rookies never get interviewed.”

Shane let her guide him to the poolside and slid his feet into the cool water, looking over at her. “How do you know all about our lines?”

“I watch all the games, don’t I? Easy.” She waved that away like it didn’t reveal a depth of knowledge about the sport that even some of the players didn’t have. “Start with Beaulier, he seems like maybe he could be great one day.”

Shane looked away then, thinking about the surprisingly-willowy forward from France. “I think he could be, too. Maybe not with this team. He needs confidence and he’s not getting it from Theriault, that’s for sure. I try, but…”

“You are just one person. Mm. And Paulson?”

The stocky blonde defenseman from somewhere out west. “Good kid, a bit cocky, but he’s got skills to back it up. Needs to be on an aggressive line, and he’s not. Theriault doesn’t really make aggressive lines.”

“And Boudreau? He seems like a solid center, if a bit slow on the face-offs.”

“Do you just have the roster for the entire league in your head?” Shane asked before he could stop himself. 

Svetlana threw her head back and laughed heartily. She was still smiling when she looked back down at him. “It sure seems like it, doesn’t it? What can I say? I live and breathe hockey, always have.”

“Me, too,” Shane said. 

“Oh, I can tell. But it makes sense for you, da? It’s your career.” Shane nodded at that. “It is not my career. I wish, sometimes, but there’s not much room for women in the MLH. Maybe the WHL, but then how do you get in the door if you didn’t play?”

“You’d think they’d let Sergei Vetrov’s daughter walk in any door she wanted, and keep her when they realized she knows what she’s talking about.”

“You’d think,” she agreed. “You’d also think that the executive sides of teams wouldn’t care a damn about player’s private lives if they’ve won multiple Cups.”

Shane searched her face, wondering what she knew, and how. He knew Ilya trusted her, but could he? She didn’t know him, he didn’t know her. What stopped her from selling the story, or spreading rumors besides her friendship with Ilya? Would that friendship extend to him as well?

At that moment, Ilya called him to watch the race he was setting up and Shane looked away from Svetlana’s face. As the children raced down the length of the pool, he finally spoke. 

“You’d hope it wouldn’t matter if they’d won a single game, either. But it doesn’t work like that, apparently.”

Chapter 7: we can write a different story

“Scotty, your tie is crooked,” Hollander said two minutes before they were due in the press room for the pre-game interview. This year, they’d asked for the full team leadership—Hollander, as captain, and Scott and Roz as his alternates—to take on the media scrum. 

“Shit,” Scott muttered, trying to adjust it and knowing he was just making it worse. 

“Hold still, old man,” Roz said, slapping his hands away and fussing with the knot at Scott’s throat for a second. “Better. Not as handsome as me, of course, but fine, I think.”

“Fuck you, Roz,” Scott said instead of laughing. 

Rozanov just smirked, then turned to Hollander and smoothed the fabric over his shoulders, then reached for one of his cuffs and adjusted it. Scott raised his eyebrow at Hollander and grinned when he flushed. 

“They’re ready for you,” a PA from the media team said after poking her head through the door. “If you’ll follow me.”

Hollander went first, followed closely by Roz. Scott took up the rear, and after they’d filed into the interview room, settled in the chair closest to the door. Rozanov settled furthest away, then adjusted its position so he could sprawl, laying one forearm across the back of Hollander’s chair. Not touching, but staying close. Hollander didn’t even seem fazed, but he also didn’t shift forward to avoid the contact. Scott leaned his elbows on the table, clasping his hands as they waited for the room to settle and the techs to finish affixing the mics to their jackets. 

“We’ll start with you, Marcus,” one of the PAs said, pointing to the reporter from the MLH network. 

“Hey, boys. I’m going to start with the obvious—this is the first time Hollander and Rozanov are playing together. What’s the feeling on the ice?”

Scott breathed a laugh out his nose and looked over at Hollander. “Can I take this one first, Rook?”

“Go for it, Scotty.”

Scott looked back at the reporter. “It’s been awesome. These two are excellent players, and they’ve been studying each other for nearly a decade. It’s like watching magic happen when they’re on the ice together.”

“Shane?” Marcus prompted. 

“Magic makes it sound like we’re not working hard, but Scotty isn’t wrong. Roz and I have spent our careers trying to get the best of each other, and now we get to put it to use helping each other score goals. It’s been fun—interesting—and it’s made the mood on the ice anticipatory. I think we’re all looking forward to seeing what we can do as a team.”

“Ilya, anything to add?” 

Ilya tilted his head back and forth like he was debating what to say, then shrugged. “It’s been fun. Hollander and I are competitive, is why we are rivals. So, we’re going to win. Nothing else matters, da?” 

Scott thought he heard a quiet thump beneath the table and glanced over to see Roz had tapped his shoe against Shane’s. Only Rozanov, he thought, would have the audacity to play footsie during a presser. 

There were a few more questions about team dynamic, and then a reporter from ESPN stood and asked the question Scott knew Hollander had been dreading. “Shane, any comment on why you waived your no-trade clause, and so close to the trade deadline?”

Scott heard him swallow sharply, then another quiet tap. When he looked over to try to read Shane’s face, he noticed that Rozanov was sweeping his thumb back and forth over one of Shane’s shoulder blades, offering silent support in a way that wouldn’t be obvious to the reporters on the other side of the table. 

Scott wished Shane could say ‘no comment,’ and avoid the issue entirely, but facing it head on would quell rumors better than dodging the question, and he’d bet Hollander knew it. So it didn’t surprise him in the least when Shane tilted his head like he was thinking about how to word something, then said, “We were talking about how competitive I am. That extends to myself as well. I’m always trying to be better, to learn and grow. I’ve loved my time with the Metros, but I feel as though I’ve done all I can with them. Two Cups in a row—that’s rare, but we did it, together, as a team. I decided I’m ready for a new challenge. That doesn’t mean I’m expecting a trade mid-season, but I thought now was as good a time as any, so management in Montreal has time to think about what they want.“

There were a few questions about the trade possibilities but Hollander diverted them all, saying he couldn’t know where he’d end up or when, and he didn’t care to speculate. Then a reporter, Scott didn’t catch who, stood and said, “Ilya, Shane, you seem to be very comfortable on the same team. Have you decided to let bygones be bygones? Is this the end of the rivalry?”

Rozanov looked at Shane, clearly confused by the English phrasing. Another quiet tap from under the table, and Scott realized they weren’t playing footsie, but communicating. He tried not to let his shock show on his face; he knew they’d hooked up, Hollander had confirmed it, but this implied an intimacy he hadn’t been expecting.

“We can be rivals and still be friendly,” Shane said. “It’s odd to me that anyone ever thought being rivals meant we hated each other. I mean, Rozanov pushes me to be better at the game, but I’ve never hated him for that. In fact, I’m incredibly grateful I’ve had someone who challenged me—that competitive streak again. And I think I do the same for him. As for being comfortable around each other—we’ve known each other for eight or nine years at this point. Hard not to get used to having someone around when they’re around that long.”

“Ilya, care to elaborate?” the reporter followed up. 

“Mm, no. Hollander got it right.”

Scott chuckled under his breath, but the mic caught it anyway. That caught the reporter’s attention. 

“Scott, do you have any thoughts, having seen them together this weekend?”

“I mean, sure. Did you know these two argue over who is faster on the ice and who has the better backhand? The Rook gives Roz shit for his taste in cars, Roz gives the Rook shit for reading only hockey books. It’s the kind of razzing only friends can do. But then they played a game of H.O.R.S.E. on the ice at the end of practice yesterday that went on for twenty minutes before we made them stop because they both only had one letter.” That got a chuckle from the crowd, but Scott wasn’t done. “That’s where the rivalry is, in being the best. Not in hating each other’s guts. Though Roz is still an asshole.”

“Ah, you’re only jealous because you’re geriatric,” Roz chirped, “and all your friends retired already.”

“Who taught you the word ‘geriatric?’” Hollzy shot back. “Honestly, it’s like they don’t know they’re arming you with insults.”

Scott looked from them out to the reporters, raised one eyebrow and said, “See?”

Warm-ups before the All-Star Game were chaotic, with everyone doing their own routine, but Scotty had drawn Vaughn, Shane, and Ilya into a game of keepie-uppie at the end, and Shane couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled so wide out on the ice. He had friends in Montreal, best friends, but they were all so serious before games that he couldn’t remember relaxing with them like this, maybe ever. Theriault wouldn’t have let them put their guards down anyway; he was a strict sort of coach. Everyone, however, knew the All-Star Game was as laid back as it got, and so as long as players remembered to stretch themselves first, the coaches never seemed to mind games breaking out on their teams.

As they filed back into the locker room, a few players were pulled aside to talk to cameras, but given he, Ilya, and Scotty had spent a half-hour with the press already, they were let through without being accosted. 

Ilya threw an arm around both of their shoulders, and Shane had to resist tilting his head to lean into him, instead looking over at him. Ilya was grinning, as he always seemed to be this weekend. “How should we celebrate when we win?”

Normally, a statement like that would have every player in the vicinity hissing and performing superstitious rituals to ward off a jinx, but Scotty just rolled his eyes almost affectionately, and shrugged. “Roz, I somehow doubt your idea of a celebration matches up with mine. I haven’t been clubbing, maybe ever?”

Ilya scoffed. “You are so old. But no, I don’t feel like a club today. Hollander?”

“You know I usually just go lay down after a game, right?” Shane asked, raising his eyebrow at Ilya.

Ilya threw his head back in a deep sigh. “And you are boring. I should have asked Vaughn, he knows how to have fun.”

“Hold still, you three!” someone called from behind them, and they froze in their tracks. A second later, Vaughny came crashing into their group from behind. “Christine, now get one of all of us!”

“Setting up pictures again, Vaughny?” Scott asked, grinning over at him.

“You know it.”

“Okay, boys, got it, now turn around and smile like you like each other,” Christine called, holding up her camera. Ilya looped his arm around Shane’s neck, his hand hanging down his front, and Shane tucked his arm behind Ilya’s waist, surreptitiously grabbing on to his sweater as if it would bring him closer. Vaughny and Scott were set up on Ilya’s other side, with Scott putting his arm around Ilya’s shoulders, just as Ilya and Vaughny did to him. They all smiled, and Christine took several pictures.

“Alright, all set, thanks guys,” she said as she lowered the camera. “I’ll let you go.”

They turned and made their way back into the locker room as Ilya talked to Vaughny about another fire on the beach at the hotel, this time with family in attendance. Shane settled on the bench in front of his stall, Scott thumping down beside him after a second. 

“Who knew he was charming?” Scotty muttered after a short silence.

Shane let out a soft laugh. “Don’t tell anyone or he’ll threaten you. He’s big, scary Russian, remember?”

Scott wrinkled his nose in amusement, then leveled a teasing gaze on Shane. “Can’t be that scary.”

Shane looked across the room to where Ilya was razzing Levac and a handful of others. “No, he’s not. It’s always been everything else that scared me.”

Shane could see Scott nod in the corner of his vision. “I get that. Though, honestly, mine scared me with how fast I wanted him.”

When Shane had fully processed that statement, he turned slowly to look at the older man, incapable of doing anything except blink at him. 

“Figured I knew your secret. Only right you keep mine,” Scott said as if he hadn’t just turned Shane’s brain upside down and rattled it like he was looking for loose change. 

“Uh… wow. That’s…”

“Scary?” Scott smiled. “Wish I could think of a way to get you on the Admirals. Would be nice for us both, I think. Plus it’s close to Boston.”

After only a moment’s thought, Shane nodded. “God, yeah, I would have loved that, I think.”

“Loved what?” Ilya asked as he sat on Shane’s other side.

“Going to the Admirals.”

“Near me, Vaughny, weather’s a bit better, nearer to most teams in the division, better team—” Scott listed, looking like he could go on, but Ilya cut him off.

“What about Brooklyn?”

Shane took a sharp breath, thinking about what he knew of the team, and searched Ilya’s face for a second before looking at Scott. 

“They’re not near their cap. Their centers…” Scott started.

“Not great right now,” Shane finished. 

“In the same city,” Ilya added and Shane’s gaze swung back to him, an impossible hope building in his stomach.

“Brooklyn,” Shane murmured.

“Maybe Brooklyn,” Ilya whispered back. 

Like magic, Hunter had said, and Ilya had to agree. Every second on the ice with Shane felt like magic. Ilya loved competing with Shane, trying to be the best, but this? Over the course of sixty minutes, he realized that he wanted more of this before they retired. 

Even when they weren’t on the power play together, watching Shane weave through the defense like a Ducati on the Passo del Stelvio was breathtaking. He’d never admit it aloud, of course; he loved teasing Shane about being slow. But, if Ilya kept running his mouth on the ice hoping someone would start a fight so they could get a power-play, well… who could blame him?

His favorite, though, was getting to celebrate together on the ice. Tackling hugs and exuberant kisses on helmets and getting to show the world how damn proud he was of his beautiful freckled boy, even if they didn’t know the depth of that pride.

Mine, he kept thinking. He’s mine. 

At first, Shane’s celebrations were subdued, though Ilya could see that same pride reflected back in his hazel eyes. But by the end of the game, he’d loosened up enough to jump on Ilya’s back as if they’d just won the Cup.

And, for now, it was enough. 

Chapter 8: so lost for you

Ilya found him sitting in the sand, a little ways away from the bonfire, watching the sunset. He looked so still and so alone that Ilya’s heart did a slow turn in his chest. 

“Found you,” he said as he settled in the sand next to Shane.

“So you were looking for me.”

Always, he thought. “Of course not.”

They sat in a silence that cradled them for a few minutes, the small waves of the bay soft as a lullaby. Ilya could have bottled the moment: amber sunlight, cooling sand, quiet surf, and Shane, always Shane. 

When he split the quiet, Shane said, his voice soft and broken, “I don’t want to go back.”

Ilya looked over his shoulder, then moved his hand closer to Shane’s in the sand and hooked their thumbs together. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“I thought… It’s stupid, but I thought they loved me the way I loved them.”

“That’s not stupid. And some of them do.”

“Not enough,” Shane murmured, and Ilya rubbed his knuckle.

“They should have loved you that way.”

Shane only nodded, not looking at him, and Ilya knew he was trying not to cry. Ilya’s own throat ached with the need to scream his rage for Shane, for them both. But it would help no one.

“Where do you go, tomorrow?” he asked, hoping the change in topic would help.

“Columbus, you?”

“Toronto. Boring Canadian city.”

“Can’t get much more boring than Columbus,” Shane said through a weak smile, finally meeting Ilya’s gaze. His eyes were still glassy with tears, his expression shattered beneath the mask he always wore, and it took all of Ilya’s discipline not to roll him into the sand and tease him until it made a smile spread beneath the constellations on his cheeks.

“Is not true. Canada is much more boring. You know this.”

Shane breathed out a laugh and shook his head, then looked beyond Ilya to ensure they were still alone.

“Scotty figured us out. He promised not to say anything to anyone, but… he knows.” 

“How did that old man figure it out?” Ilya asked, looking back toward the bonfire, a seed of panic taking root in his chest.

“I’m not sure. But he… okay, you can’t tell anyone this. He only told me because he figured us out. Promise?”

“That depends, how embarrassing is it?”

“Ilya.”

“Fine, fine, I promise. What?”

“He’s got a boyfriend. In New York.”

Ilya blinked, trying to find the joke on Shane’s face and seeing none. “Scott Hunter.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Why would he make that up?” Shane asked, laughing again, but this time his eyes crinkled and the smile stayed. Under those conditions, Ilya’s panic withered and died, though he knew it would come back, like a weed between cracks in the sidewalk.

“Who knows why Americans do anything? You’re serious?”

“I’m serious. I don’t know details, obviously.”

Ilya nodded, contemplating, then looked over at Shane again with a wicked grin. “I told you he was hot. We should have let him listen to us.”

Shane spluttered out another laugh, shaking his head, then swinging his gaze back to the horizon. The sun was half-hidden behind the edge of the earth, the sky was a riot of oranges and purples, and yet Ilya could not tear his eyes away from the man next to him, gilded by the fading light.

“I will let you think,” he murmured to Shane, tightening his grip on Shane’s thumb for one brief second. “See you later?”

“Of course,” Shane whispered back.

It was the hardest it had ever been to walk away, but Ilya did it, pushing up from the sand and making his way back toward the crowd at the bonfire. He found Sveta in the crowd and slung an arm over her shoulder, pretending to listen to whatever Viktor Loktev had to say. But his thoughts, as always, stayed with Shane as he sat contemplating the splintered pieces of his life in the shadow of the dying day. 

Chapter 9: help me stand, even if the sky is falling

Ilya didn’t even wait for the door to close before pulling Shane into a hungry kiss. It had only been two weeks, but it felt like decades since they had tangled together in Shane’s bed in Tampa, refusing to sleep until they both had to leave for the airport. The feel of his hands on his chest, then his waist, then his back as he pushed Shane into the wall was a balm on the pit in his stomach that had rooted there the minute they’d said goodbye. 

Then he felt Shane flinch and lurched back. 

“No?” he asked, unable to remove his hand from Shane’s jaw until he absolutely had to. 

“No, what?”

“You do not want?”

“Of course I want,” Shane breathed, his brow furrowing. 

“Then why did you flinch?”

“I didn’t,” Shane said, but his eyes left Ilya’s. 

Ilya narrowed his own gaze before leaning in for another kiss, forcibly gentling himself and nudging Shane toward the bedroom. He’d not bothered with a shirt himself, but Shane had come in from the cold, so he pushed his jacket off his shoulders, then grabbed for the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it up until Shane lifted his arms. 

Ilya heard the hiss that time, and pulled back again as he dropped the shirt to the floor. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing,” Shane said, leaning in to capture Ilya’s lips again. 

“Hollander.”

“I’m fine. Please.”

He could get away with murder with those eyes, that voice, Ilya thought, and relented. But when they got to the bed, he made sure Shane was on top. As much as he wanted to be rough, to quell the writhing in his stomach with fierce control, what he needed more was Shane to be okay. To be safe. 

When they were lying together, after, he made Shane roll to his side and manipulated his right arm until he saw the flinch, heard the hiss. “It’s your shoulder.”

“I know,” Shane whispered. 

“Is your team doctor useless?”

“No.”

“You did not tell them,” Ilya realized. “Shane, why?”

Shane only shrugged slightly, and Ilya pressed a gentle kiss to the skin behind his ear. “Stay.”

He went down to the kitchen and got one of the soft ice-pack wraps he kept in the freezer, a water, and the painkillers.

His phone was buzzing on the side-table when he got back to his room, but he let it go, sitting next to Shane’s legs. “Up.”

Shane quirked a sad smile and sat up, scooting back to the headboard. He let Ilya wrap his shoulder and dutifully took the painkillers. “Will you…”

“Will I what?” Ilya asked when he trailed off. 

“Kiss me?” 

Ilya had to resist the urge to shut his eyes as his heart clenched painfully in his chest. He’d never heard Shane sound so lost, not even in Vegas. That had been anger and frustration. This was heartbreak. “Of course.”

He did as asked, shifting closer to brush his lips over Shane’s, keeping them light and gentle, as if the man beneath him were fragile, precious. Perhaps only to him, he realized. To everyone else, this was Hollander, the Golden Boy, the hyper-competitive athlete in one of the most contact-heavy sports in the world. But right now, he was just Shane. 

The moment was interrupted by his phone buzzing on the side-table again, and he sighed, looking over to see it was Alexei calling. Again. He didn’t have time for his brother’s bullshit before their game and ignored it. 

“You can get that, if you want,” Shane said.

“I don’t want,” Ilya said, his voice firm. 

“Was it your father?”

“No, my brother,” Ilya said. “He probably wants more money. It can wait.”

“Does he do that a lot?”

“Do what? Call?”

“Ask for money.” Shane was watching him and Ilya shrugged. 

“Only sometimes.” 

“How’s your father?” Shane asked after a moment’s hesitation. 

Ilya shook his head as the churning of his stomach restarted. “Enough.”

“Enough what?”

“Questions. So many, Hollander.”

“I’m sorry,” Shane said, but Ilya tangled their hands together on the bedspread. 

“Is okay. I just…” Ilya shook his head, unable to say what he wanted to say, even now. He could feel Shane’s eyes on him, but couldn’t look up from watching Shane’s thumb rub patterns into the back of his hand. 

“I should have been more clear,” Shane said. “I’m sorry in advance for tonight’s game. I’m going to crush you, Rozanov.”

Ilya couldn’t help the smile then and looked up, hoping his gratitude for the subject change shone in his eyes. “Oh. So, you’re the asshole.”

“No, it’s still you,” Shane reassured him. 

“I’m going to tell everyone you’re the asshole,” Ilya teased him, watching the light blush turn his cheeks rosy. “Everyone! Shane Hollander is an asshole!”

Shane nudged him with his leg, his eyes crinkling with his smile, before it faded into something a bit rueful. “I think I should get going soon. I have a game to win.”

Ilya swallowed down his retort about him not being the only person playing tonight, knowing it would only reopen the wound he’d been trying to paper over, and instead looked down at their hands again. “Would you want to come back? After?”

“Early flight, remember?”

“Just for a little. Just so I can rub my win in your face,” Ilya teased. 

“See, you’re still the asshole,” Shane pointed out, then sighed. “Yeah, I’ll come back.”

“In case you get here first, the code for the door is, ah…”

“Don’t tell me it’s 6969, Rozanov.”

“No, but does give me idea for later,” he said with a wink that made Shane snort. “It’s 2008.”

Shane narrowed his eyes at him. “2008, huh?”

“Yes. First time I beat you, of course.”

Shane rolled his eyes and leaned forward to press a kiss to Ilya’s lips. “Okay. I need to get dressed and go. But I will see you after.”

“And on the ice.”

“And on the ice,” Shane confirmed.

Ilya did see him on the ice. He saw Shane carrying the entire team on his back through sheer determination. He saw him get slammed into the boards when his teammates should have been running interference. He saw Shane shy away from plays he would have made if he weren’t nursing his bruised ribs and a tweaked shoulder. He saw Shane score two goals, the only two goals the Metros got the entire night, playing a game basically on his own. Boiziau and Pike did what they could, he knew that, but it wasn’t enough.

By the time the game was over, Ilya felt sick to his stomach with fury, but he walked into the locker room, pretending to be happy about his hat-trick and the three other goals his teammates had scored. As he checked his phone, it rang in his hand; Alexei again. The fury couldn’t boil over on Shane’s behalf, but it could erupt in the face of his ungrateful brother.

“What the fuck do you want?” he spat in Russian, and then the world dropped out from under him. 

There were lights on when Shane got back to Ilya’s house, but he used the code for the front door anyway, figuring he might as well not interrupt whatever Ilya might be doing while he waited. The team doctor had him wearing a brace on his shoulder—he hadn’t hid the pain that well, it seemed—so it took him a minute to remove his coat when he was inside the door.

“Ilya?” he called as he toed off his shoes, nudging them to the side of the hall, next to a small suitcase and carry-on waiting there. He heard no answer, so he wandered further into the space. Ilya wasn’t in the kitchen, or the living room. Shane debated going up to the bedrooms next, but decided to be thorough and check the gym and the attached sauna before going up. When both proved empty, he began climbing the stairs and finally heard signs of life in the main suite of the house.

Ilya was speaking in rapid Russian, his voice thicker than usual. Shane caught the barest hint of another voice and wandered slowly over to the doorway. Ilya stood at the foot of his bed, staring into an open suitcase, his phone at his ear and his free hand frozen on the back of his head as if he’d been shoving back his hair. Svetlana stepped out of the bathroom with his shaving kit and froze in the doorway when she saw Shane.

It was instinct to back up as if he were seeing something illicit, but something about Svetlana’s face made Ilya turn, and when he saw Shane, he barked a short phrase and let the phone drop to the bed.

“I’m sorry,” Shane said, his voice choked. “You said…”

Ilya closed the distance between them in three steps and buried his nose in Shane’s hair, his arms coming round him like vises, and tension thrumming through his frame.

“Ilya?” Shane murmured, lifting his arms to grip at Ilya’s shoulders as he took a shuddering breath. Svetlana put the shave kit in the suitcase, then slipped past them both, putting a hand on Ilya in comfort before she floated down the stairs wordlessly. 

When Ilya didn’t answer after a minute, Shane prompted him again with, “Did something happen?”

He felt Ilya nod against the side of his head and decided he would just hold on until Ilya could speak. It took a long time, but Shane just rubbed his back, willing to be patient.

“My father is dead,” Ilya finally whispered, his voice hoarse, and Shane gripped him tighter. “I have to go to Moscow.”

“I’m so sorry, Ilya,” Shane murmured.

Ilya pulled back and rubbed the side of his nose, looking away as if it would prevent Shane from seeing the remains of tears on his cheeks.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, and there is so much to do—” 

“I’ll help,” Shane said over the end of the sentence. “Where is your computer? I’ll get your flights while you pack.”

“You didn’t come here for—”

“Ilya, I came here for you. This is what you need. I’ll help.”

Shane watched Ilya swallow hard, then sniff. “Computer is on desk in office.”

“I’ll be right back,” Shane promised, running his hands down Ilya’s arms and searching his face before he turned away. “And I’ll send Svetlana back.”

He did that first, finding her in the kitchen, going through the fridge for perishables. She went upstairs right away, and Shane followed, slipping into the immaculately tidy office he doubted Ilya ever used. The laptop was in the middle of the desk, off-kilter as if someone had set it down without a care. Shane opened it to see a login page and walked back to the bedroom.

“I need you to put in your password,” he said as he walked in. 

Ilya didn’t look up from where he was tucking three suits into a garment bag. “Raiders1410. Uppercase R.”

Shane nearly stumbled to a halt, then just stared at Ilya’s back for a second before he walked over to the chair in the corner and typed it in, swallowing down the lump in his throat before he started searching for flights. It was already too late for a red-eye, even if Ilya had been fully packed, so he searched for the next day and found only evening flights.

“Depart tomorrow, 8:00pm from Boston-Logan, arrive about 3:00pm in Moscow the next day, short layover in Istanbul,” Shane said, looking up at Ilya. He got a short nod. 

“Book two seats, first class, please,” Ilya said as Svetlana brought him a final load of clothes. “Sveta is coming with me as family friend.”

Shane lowered his head again and started filling in the information he knew. It surprised him how much he could answer for Ilya, even before Svetlana handed him Ilya’s passport. He finished inputting the information, then handed over the computer to Svetlana for her to fill in her own info. He moved to Ilya while she worked and reached out to still his hands as he piled clothes into the suitcase. “Go shower; I know you only rinsed at the arena. I will finish this, and I’m sure Svetlana and I can figure out how to charge your credit card.”

Ilya squeezed his eyes shut and nodded, then walked straight into the bathroom and shut the door. Shane knew he would let out some of the emotions in the privacy behind the door, where he could wash them down the drain. Shane finished the packing and zipped the case, then carried it down to the front hall. Svetlana followed a few minutes later with a sleek black backpack.

“Has he eaten?” he asked her once she joined him in the kitchen.

“No, he came straight here.”

Shane nodded, then opened the fridge, looking for something he could throw together for Ilya. After a second, inspiration struck, and he went to the pantry, pulling out a loaf bread and three cans of tuna. “Do you eat tuna melts, Svetlana?”

She breathed out a weak laugh. “Yes. One of Ilyusha’s comfort foods.”

“Good,” Shane said, and set to work gathering ingredients. Svetlana began pulling out bowls and cutting boards and knives. 

“He’s got fries in the freezer,” she said as she began preheating the convection oven set into the wall. Shane only nodded, concentrating on chopping celery and red onion for the tuna salad. Svetlana joined him after a minute, dicing pickles to toss in the bowl with the tuna, then slicing a tomato for topping the sandwiches. 

After about five minutes of silence and working in tandem to assemble the everything, Svetlana said, out of the blue, “You can call me Sveta. It is what friends call me.”

“Okay,” Shane murmured, inexplicably touched by the gesture. 

She took a taste of the tuna salad when he offered it, then added a bit more salt and pepper and helped him assemble three sandwiches. 

“I’ll cook them,” she said. “Will you go check on him? He takes long showers but not this long.”

Shane nodded and moved to the sink to wash his hands before going back upstairs. He found Ilya sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped only in a towel, his hair still dripping, looking down at his phone like it held the answers to the universe. Shane hesitated, then walked into the bathroom to get an extra towel. He set to work drying Ilya, being gentle with his hair, then set the towel aside and went to the closet to pull out some lounge clothes.

“You’re not supposed to put clothes on me, Hollander,” he managed when Shane began to help him into a long sleeve t-shirt. 

“As much as I love your body, you’ve got goosebumps. And I think you need a little tending.”

Ilya shut his eyes tight as if to ward off a pain and stood, finishing the job of dressing himself while Shane tidied away the towels. 

“Come on, Sveta and I made you food,” Shane whispered, holding out a hand to Ilya. He drew him down the stairs and into the kitchen, going to the fridge to pull out a Coke and one of the eleven ginger ales he’d spotted earlier. 

“Sveta, what do you drink?” he asked as her timer went off and she removed the food from the oven. 

“Coke for me, too, Shanushka,” she said as she began plating. 

“Is that my, ah… diminutive?” Shane asked with a smile. “Is that the word?”

“In English, yes, that is the word. And it is one version. There are many.”

“You’ll have to teach me how to make them,” he said as she set the plates at the counter.

They kept up the conversation, trying to surround Ilya with their presence and their voices, though Shane wasn’t sure how much of it he felt. About halfway through dinner, he saw shivers racing over Ilya’s body and took off his sweatshirt and passed it over without a word. Ilya pulled it on over his head and then seemed to bury his nose in the collar. 

Shane managed to coax him to lay down in his bed, wrapping him in a hug and holding him until he fell asleep, his brow furrowed even in rest. He smoothed it with his thumb and pressed a kiss there before sliding out of the bed and going downstairs. 

“I have to get back to the team hotel,” he said to Svetlana. “You’ll take care of him?”

“Always,” Sveta murmured. “Bye, Shanushka. If he didn’t say it, I will: thank you.”

“He never needs to thank me,” Shane admitted and sent her a sad smile before he retrieved his jacket and shoes and walked away when all he wanted was to stay and hold Ilya together. 

Chapter 10: come home, cuz I’ve been waiting for you

Ilya had called nearly every day while in Moscow. The first came the afternoon he arrived—morning in Montreal; it pwas short, and he sounded as though he hadn’t slept at all on the cross-Atlantic flight.

“Ilya?”

“We’re in Moscow, about to go through customs. I… I didn’t thank you.”

“You didn’t need to,” Shane had lifted his head up off the pillow and rubbed his eyes. “Call me whenever you need m—anything. Okay?”

“Okay. I have to go.”

“I know. Bye, Ilya.”

“Goodbye.”

The second was later that day—evening for Shane, the middle of the night for Ilya.

“You should be sleeping,” Shane had said the minute the video call connected. 

“I tried. I couldn’t. I needed… I don’t know.”

“A distraction, maybe?”

“Maybe,” Ilya had said. “Maybe a distraction like those sexy glasses.”

“They’re not sexy—”

“Wrong. They are. I did not know you wore glasses.”

“Only for reading,” Shane admitted, wondering if Ilya could see him blushing. Soon he didn’t care about the color of his cheeks; he was too busy being a distraction.

The second day, there was no call, but there were dozens of texts. Shane figured that was because Ilya spent the entire day doing all of the arrangements for his father’s funeral. He learned that from Sveta, who texted him to tell him that Ilya wasn’t eating enough, and had only slept a few hours the night before.

Ilya next called him as he was falling asleep after his game; it was morning in Moscow. Shane didn’t talk about the circles under his eyes or the sweatshirt he was wearing, and Ilya didn’t comment on the brace on Shane’s shoulder. Instead Shane asked him what sorts of breakfast pastries they made in Russia, and “are they better than TimBits?”

Ilya had switched to a voice-only call and walked to a bakery. He’d described everything, then had ordered some in rapid Russian that made Shane’s heart flutter, though he didn’t catch a single word besides “spasibo.”

Shane woke up to pictures from Svetlana of them biting into plushki and ponchiki. He sent one back with an exaggerated pout for missing out on the pastries, though they didn’t fit into his diet. 

There was a voicemail after practice. 

A quiet sniff, and then, “I wanted to hear your voice. I’ll call again later. After… just after.”

The Metros had an away game that afternoon, but Shane was in the hotel with Hayden when the promised call came through. He could hear the pain in Ilya’s voice, and when he could not find the words in English, Shane’s heart broke a little.

So, he told Ilya to say it all in Russian.

The cracks in his heart spread and widened as Ilya spoke, his voice flooded with anger and loneliness and tears. Shane had to close his eyes to prevent himself from crying too, though he didn’t know what was said. It didn’t matter; he didn’t need to.

“Do you feel better?” he whispered when Ilya was done.

“Yes,” Ilya sighed over the line. 

“Maybe you could teach me Russian someday.”

That made Ilya smile enough that Shane could hear it in his voice, and it tasted like victory. 

“I wish you were here right now,” he murmured a little later. “Or me there. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” Ilya said. “I should go. It is snowing, and I didn’t bring my gloves, and it’s also 4:00am, and…”

“Goodnight, Ilya.”

“Goodnight, Shane.”

The last call came the day before the return flight. They didn’t say much, though Ilya mentioned that he was packing up his apartment. Not the furniture, just the small things. 

“I gave it to Alexei and told him to never talk to me again.”

“That’s… huge.”

“I hate that I will not watch my niece grow up. She will not know me. I suppose she never did, but…”

“But she could have. It’s okay to mourn that, too.” 

Ilya sniffed, and said nothing for a long moment. Then, “I lied, I also hate that I will have to ship all of this back to Boston. Too many things.”

“I always knew you were a shopaholic,” Shane teased, knowing Ilya was trying to lighten the mood. 

“What’s that?”

“Someone addicted to shopping.”

“Ah, no, I am not this. Only thing I am addicted to is you. And maybe cigarettes.”

“At least we’re addicted to each other,” Shane said. 

When Ilya was back in Boston, the calls were less frequent as he dove back into the season headfirst. But the texting never stopped. So, when it was the day before Boston was coming to play in Montreal, Shane sent him the front door code for his condo. 

During warmups, Ilya stretched near the center line and Shane skated up to him, studying his face through his visor. The bags under his eyes were heavy, and he looked a bit gaunt, but his eyes still burned with heat as he met Shane’s gaze. 

“First to score gets to pick dinner?” Shane said in as low a voice as he could. 

“Mm. First to a hat-trick gets to decide everything else?”

“You’re on,” Shane said, then nodded and skated back to the boards for a sip of water. 

“What was that about?” Hayden asked. 

“Just offering my condolences.”

“Fuck, I should’ve done that. What’d he say?”

“Told me to fuck off,” Shane lied. “But that’s just how he is.”

“So he’s an asshole, but you’ve gotten friendly with him?” Hayden asked with one eyebrow raised, having caught the press conference and the All-Star Game. 

“Yeah, it’s all an act, really. Or he’s only an asshole because he finds it funny to be one.”

“What a weird dude,” Hayden muttered. 

“Yeah,” Shane agreed. “Anyway, let’s fucking win this one, okay?”

“Fucking right,” Hayden agreed before pushing off to take a quick lap. Shane took another swig of water and followed. 

The next half hour was a series of small victories. He made it through the tense hush in the locker room. He made it through his short speech about laying it all out on the ice even though more than half the team was sneering or stone-faced. He made it through the tunnel and the introductions as they hit the ice. He made it through the anthems.

Then he was at center ice, bending for the face-off, and looking up into Ilya’s eyes. There was no chirp, no taunt, not this time. Just Ilya’s face transforming into a vision from their past—his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, his grin blooming wicked and beautiful, his entire face seeming younger to Shane’s eyes. He couldn’t help the returning smirk, the closest he could get to the smile he wanted to send him in this moment. Ilya tapped their sticks together, teasing Shane and making his heart race.

The puck dropped.

Shane looped back toward Mitty with the puck in his cradle and then slung himself around and through the neutral zone, Ilya on his heels, and the feel of the ice under his skates drowning out all the rest. He lifted his gaze, looking for Hayden or Andrew Laine as he bore down on Boston’s goal line. Hayden was across the rink, with too many guys in between them, so Shane swiveled his head toward where he expected Laine. 

And then he hit the ice, his vision going black. 

“Fuck,” Scott breathed as he stood from the couch where seconds before he’d had his arm curled around Kip. “Get up, Rook. Get up.”

“Your friend?” Kip’s dad asked, and Scott managed a nod, unable to look away from the screen. Roz was hovering over Shane, the camera zooming in on them, and Scott had to swallow down a half-sob when he caught the expression on Roz’s face. Shattered. Just absolutely shattered. 

“We learned recently that Rozanov and Hollander are friendly off the ice—you can really see that right now. It’s never fun to watch one of these injuries happen, but when it’s a friend, it’s even harder,” one of the announcers was saying as the camera panned to where Boiziau was trying to pull Pike off of Marleau.

“Such discipline from the Montreal bench,” the other announcer said. “Normally, with a hit like that, the benches would have been cleared and we’d be seeing a full-on brawl right now.”

That half-sob Scott had swallowed burst out of him. 

“Discipline, my ass,” he muttered. He felt Kip’s arms slide around his waist. 

Shane, Scott read on Ilya’s lips when the camera zoomed in on his face again. Shane, say something.

“What do you mean?” George asked behind him, but Scott couldn’t answer. 

The medics were coming out to kneel on the ice and move Shane to the stabilizer board. 

Is he okay? Is he okay? Someone fucking tell me! 

Shane?

A ref pushed Roz out of the way as the weak excuse for a fight finally broke up across the ice. 

“I saw his arm move,” Kip murmured. “His arm moved, Scott, okay? He’s going to be okay.”

Scott nodded, unable to talk through the lump in his throat, his eyes fixed to where the medics were disappearing with Shane into the tunnel. 

Ilya didn’t know how he made it through the rest of the game. He wasn’t even aware of the score. He moved like a shadow through the locker room, shrugging off Marly’s hand on his shoulder as he pulled his coat on over his suit. He could remember cameras but not what he said. His knee bounced the entire ride to the hotel on the team bus, his phone gripped in his fist as if he could will it to ring with news. 

But who would know to call?

Sveta had, right after Shane had gone down. He hadn’t called her back. 

Hunter had texted, telling him it would be okay. He hadn’t answered. How would Hunter know anyway?

The minute he was in his hotel room, he stripped and put on street clothes—jeans, a long sleeve t-shirt, and the gray hoodie Shane had given him. He ordered a car, shoved a change of clothes and his shave kit into his backpack, and left without saying a word to Connors.

He was outside Shane’s condo before he knew it. He knew Shane wouldn’t be there. He knew that. But he typed in the code anyway. The apartment echoed without him in it, the lights were too harsh, the air felt cold.

He wandered through, hoping if he turned enough corners, he’d find what—who—he was looking for. When he’d searched every room, he sat at the foot of Shane’s bed and scrubbed his hands over his face. The backs of his eyelids were painted with the image of Shane laid flat on the ice, unmoving. 

He stood quickly, as if he could escape his own memories, and went to Shane’s closet. He’d want fresh clothes and his own shampoo. He’d want his hockey book, his glasses. Ilya found a small duffel tucked in the back corner of the closet, and went looking for lounge clothes. He found two pairs of sweats and went to shove them in the bag when he realized what he was holding. He held up the second pair and tried not to let tears form. They were his, from when Shane had run out wearing his clothes. Shane had kept them and put them in with his regular clothes; he wore them. Ilya had wondered. 

He refolded the joggers and placed them in the bottom of the duffel. Then he grabbed the other pair of sweats and a short stack of t-shirts. He couldn’t help himself; he tugged his black sweatshirt out of his backpack and folded it on top, then slipped the hockey book—something about the Canadian Olympic team—and the glasses case from the nightstand into the bag. 

He packed Shane’s shave kit next, finding it under the sink in the bathroom, already packed and stocked with whatever Shane might need on a trip. He let out a wet laugh. Of course Hollander had extra of everything so he didn’t have to think about it when packing for roadies. Of course he did. 

He didn’t know if the hospital would let him in—they probably wouldn’t—but he had to try, he knew. Or he would die. He felt like he was dying. 

Ilya didn’t bother answering, just ordered another car and laid down on the bed, burying his nose in Shane’s pillow. When the car arrived, he slipped into the backseat and tried to let his mind go numb, but now that he was nearly there, he couldn’t fade away like he had earlier. Instead, he was painfully aware of every street light, of every turn, of every person braving the cold, of every inch of the hospital hallways. 

When he hit the reception area and asked for Shane’s room number, he was reminded that visiting hours were long over. 

“I know, I can… I will wait.”

They let him up to the waiting room for the private floor, and Ilya sat in full view of the doors, hoping for… well, something. 

When Pike came out twenty minutes later, his phone to his ear, he stuttered to a stop and stared at Ilya open-mouthed. The person on the other end of the line said something, and Pike shook himself. “I’ll call you back, babe, there’s someone here for Shane.”

Ilya stood slowly, tucking his hands into his coat pockets as Pike stared at him. “Is… is he…”

“Why are you here?” Pike asked instead of answering his question.

“I needed, uh… I needed to see…” Ilya had to stop talking before his voice cracked. 

“He’s getting a CT scan right now,” Hayden said. “He’s conscious.”

Ilya nodded, looking aside before the relief gave him completely away, clenching his jaw a little tighter. 

“What’s that?” Pike asked after a long silence. Ilya looked down to where he was pointing: the duffel. 

“I brought him some things from his condo.”

“You can get into his apartment?”

“Da,” Ilya said, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. 

“Okay.” Hayden just stared. “I have to call his mom back, then. They were going to do that on their way in tomorrow morning.”

“Okay.”

“Sorry, how can you get into his apartment?”

“He gave me the code.”

“Why?”

Ilya swallowed and looked away again, rubbing his nose. “We are friends.”

Pike said nothing, just kept staring—Ilya could feel the weight of that stare on the side of his face—until his phone rang in his hand. 

“Shit, that’s J.J.” He lifted the phone to his ear. “Hey, man. Yeah, Shane’s getting his scan now. Yeah, Rozanov’s here. Yes, here at the hospital. J.J.—J.J.! I don’t speak French, man, slow down. No, he didn’t tell me why.”

Ilya’s skin crawled at being talked about like he wasn’t there, but he bore it, knowing Pike was his best chance to see Shane before the night was over. 

“Look, the important thing is that Shane is okay, and we can figure the rest of this shit out later, okay? Get some sleep, you’re going to be on Shane duty tomorrow night, alright? Alright, bye. Yeah, I’ll text you. Bye.”

Pike slid his phone into his pocket and studied Ilya again. “I feel like I’m going to sound insane, but…”

“But?” Ilya prompted when he didn’t finish the sentence.

“Are you Boston Lily?”

Ilya swallowed again, then managed one small nod. Pike blew out a breath and raked his hands through his hair. “Fuck. Okay. Uh… do his parents know?”

Ilya shook his head, and Pike nodded. “Does anyone?”

“Just you. My friend Sveta. And Hunter.”

“Scott Hunter? How the fuck—you know what, never mind, don’t tell me, it’s too much right now. Wait out here, I’m going to get you added to the after-hours visitor list.” He buzzed at the doors and went through when the latch opened, not looking back. Ilya sank back into his chair and watched the doors like Shane would come out any second. 

Chapter 11: I’ll take the leap if it is worth the fall

Pike came back through the doors about half an hour later, and Ilya stood automatically, searching for signs of distress even though he’d said Shane was conscious. 

“They brought him back from the CT scan; that’s why it took so long. But you’re cleared, come on.”

Ilya followed him through the doors and to the nurse’s station to get a visitor’s badge. As he affixed it to his sweatshirt—Shane’s sweatshirt—he felt Pike staring at him again. “Thank you.”

“Sure,” the other man said, still staring. “Come on, I told him you were here.”

They walked down the dim hall in silence, then Pike knocked quietly on a door and poked his head through. “Hey, bud, look who I brought.”

Ilya’s first glimpse of Shane made his heart restart, and he realized he’d been picturing him as unmoving and limp this entire time. There was bruising and a slight grimace on Shane’s face, but his eyes were open, and he brightened a bit when Ilya managed to walk through the door. 

“Ilya,” he said, his voice hoarse. 

“I… are you okay?”

“I’m okay.” Shane held out his left hand, his right tucked up against his chest in a sling. Ilya set the duffel down and walked forward to take Shane’s hand in his own, hoping Shane couldn’t feel the tremors shaking his foundation. “AC joint separation and a concussion.”

Ilya nodded. “How long are you out?”

“At least four weeks, maybe longer. Hayd, can you shut the door? The light—”

“Shit, yeah buddy, sorry.” Ilya heard the door shut and Hayden’s shoes shuffle across the floor. “Have they given you any painkillers yet?”

“No, they want to wait until after the CT scan comes back in case of a bleed.” On hearing that, Ilya looked down at their clasped hands and swallowed hard. Shane squeezed his fingers, but looked at Hayden. “My parents?”

“Your mom said they’d be here about 8:00 tomorrow. I’ve already got them on the list so they won’t have to wait for visiting hours.”

Shane nodded, then squeezed his eyes shut as if it pained him. He mumbled, “Thanks, Hayd.”

“Of course, buddy. Look, I’m gonna let you guys talk. I’ll be back in a little bit, to hear the CT results, okay?”

“Okay, thanks,” Shane said as Ilya mapped his knuckles. 

“Any time, man. You know that.”

Shane said nothing more until the door closed behind Pike, and then he rolled his head toward Ilya and stared up at him, waiting. 

“You scared me,” Ilya admitted in a whisper. 

“I’m sorry,” Shane murmured, but Ilya shook his head hard. 

“No, no, it’s okay. You’re really okay?”

“I’m really okay,” Shane said, then let go of Ilya’s fingers and shifted to the right side of the hospital bed, only cringing a little. “Come here.”

Ilya took off his backpack and coat and threw them in the visitor’s chair, then sat on the edge of the bed, picking up Shane’s hand again. 

“No,” Shane said, tugging his hand away and holding his arm out to the side. “Come here.”

Ilya managed a weak smirk and toed off his shoes. “Eager even when injured, Hollander?”

“For you, yes,” Shane said, easily, like he wasn’t admitting something monumental. Ilya laid next to him, turning on his side and tucking his face next to Shane’s on the pillow. Shane sighed and curled his uninjured arm around Ilya’s shoulders. “Better.”

They were silent for a few minutes—Ilya was counting Shane’s breaths, if he was honest—then Shane said, “So, you told Hayden.”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, um… I just. Didn’t expect that?”

“I… I needed to see you.” See you breathing.

“Did he, uh… take it well?”

“He guessed it himself. He knew about Lily. I think he’s in…I can’t think of the word.”

“Shock?”

“Da, shock.”

“I didn’t think he’d be able to guess…” Shane murmured. 

“He saw I brought you something. That might have helped.”

“You brought me something?” Shane turned his head so his nose was nuzzled against Ilya’s forehead. 

“Da. Stuff from your apartment. Clothes, your glasses, your book—but someone else reads to you, yes? No hurting your brain.”

“Ilya…”

“Should I not have? I—”

“Ilya, thank you.”

“I wanted you to be comfortable. Did they let you shower?”

“Not yet, since I passed out. Not allowed to stand on my own for a little while. They, uh…cleaned me up a bit, though.”

“Ah, sponge bath? Sexy.”

“Fuck you,” Shane breathed out on a laugh. 

“You want another? I can be very careful.”

“Shut up, oh my god,” Shane said, but he squeezed Ilya tighter and Ilya felt a smile pulling at his own lips for the first time since the face-off. 

There was a quiet knock at the door just then, so Ilya untangled himself and sat up, then stood and moved the visitor’s chair over to Shane’s bedside, settling in it before Shane called, “Come in.”

“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Hollander,” the petite nurse whispered as she slipped into the room. “Your CT scan was all clear, so we can administer pain medication now. Can you sit up, just a little? Great. Here are the pills… and here’s the water. Have you eaten?”

“Um, no.”

“The hospital kitchen is closed right now, but we have snack foods—”

“He’s on special diet,” Ilya said, standing. “I will go get something, Hollander.”

“Wait, no, stay. I’m not… I’m not that hungry.”

The nurse looked between them for a moment. “It’s better to take those with food in your stomach.”

“Did someone say food?” Hayden asked from the doorway, holding up a takeout bag. “I picked up Joe’s Panini. Don’t worry, Shane, I stuck as close as possible to the rules.”

The nurse smiled. “I’ll get you another chair, Mr. Pike.”

“Thanks,” he said with a smile before walking over to the table that could roll over to Shane’s bed. “Sit the bed up, buddy, no point complaining about eating in it. We can shake out the sheets or something later.”

“Ugh,” Shane grumbled, but he found the remote for his bed and sat himself up slowly as Pike rolled the table into place.

“I didn’t know what you ate, Rozanov, but I got you a cheese-steak panini. Hope that’s okay.”

Ilya looked up at him. “You got me something?”

“Yeah, I figured you hadn’t eaten, given how fast you got here.”

Ilya found himself in the frustrating position of being grateful to Hayden Pike. He swallowed sharply and nodded. “I haven’t. Uh, thank you.”

Pike only nodded, then set a takeout container in front of Shane. “Vegetarian burger panini, hold the everything-that-isn’t-vegetables. And a ginger ale.”

The latter he pulled out of his jacket pocket. “That’s from the vending machine—they didn’t have ginger ale at Joe’s.”

“Thanks, Hayd,” Shane said, blushing at being fussed over. 

“This one’s yours, Rozanov. I didn’t know what you drink, so I got you a water.” He handed over another takeout container and a bottle, and then went to the door to help the nurse with the extra chair, thanking her before he set it on the other side of the bed from Ilya and settled in with his own sandwich. “Shane, eat.”

“Ah… I don’t know how I’m going to pick it up, it’s too big for one hand,” Shane admitted, the blush on his cheeks deepening. 

“Shit, right. Hang on, I have a takeout knife in here somewhere.”

“You eat, Pike,” Ilya said, holding out his hand for the knife. “I can cut it.”

Pike passed over the utensil and sat again, biting into his sandwich as Ilya went to the sink in the corner and washed his hands. He dried them thoroughly and then turned Shane’s sandwich so he could slice it in half, then each half into thirds. “Small enough?”

Shane nodded, that quiet little smile on his face. “Thank you.”

Ilya waved him off, his chest aching with everything he wanted to say. “Eat. Please.”

Shane wondered who would break the quiet first. The late-night meal had been a silent affair, and as Hayden stood to clear the remains, Ilya moved around Shane’s bed to move the table out of the way again. They nearly bumped shoulders but neither said a word to each other. 

Finally, Ilya approached the bedside. “Come on, Hollander, time to stand. Need to shake out the sheets.”

“I can—” Hayden started before lurching forward as Shane swung his legs over the edge. 

“Fine, fine, you hold him up,” Ilya said, waving Hayden on.

Shane tried not to grin at their reluctant truce as Hayden bent down to get under his good arm and pulled him to his feet. 

“Dizzy?” Hayden asked as Ilya stripped the bed in quick, efficient movements. Shane wondered if he’d done this for his father over the summers, and then had to shake off the thought.

“Only a little,” he said to Hayden as Ilya tightened up the tucks on the corners of the base sheet and then laid the top sheet out.

“That’s good.” 

They both watched as Ilya laid out the thin blanket and then threw back a corner before turning to face them.

“Shower first, or sleep?” he asked Shane, deliberately avoiding looking at Hayden.

“God, a shower, please,” Shane said.

“You can’t stand up alone, the doctor said—”

“I will help him, Pike,” Ilya cut him off. “Let me just grab his shave kit.”

“You brought my travel kit?” Shane murmured as Hayden looked back and forth between them.

Ilya shrugged. “Of course.”

Shane nodded like he wasn’t trying to fight back a declaration of love. “Then a quick shower.”

Ilya slung the duffel and his backpack over his shoulder then came forward and Hayden shuffled out of the way, not letting go of Shane until Ilya’s hands were on him. He looked like he’d seen a ghost and Shane felt a bit guilty for that, but he also felt a little bit disgusting, so he figured Hayden could wait while Ilya helped him feel normal again. 

“Sit, Hollander,” he said, nodding to the chair in the corner of the bathroom once he’d shut the door behind them. Shane lowered himself into it and when he nodded that he was good, Ilya went to the open shower and started fiddling with the knobs. Soon there was steam rising from the spray, and Ilya walked back over. He stripped himself down to his briefs first, and when Shane raised an eyebrow he shrugged. “I don’t want the clothes to get wet.”

Then he helped Shane stand and get out of the sling and the stiff hospital gown, kicking the latter to the side of the room and guiding Shane into the spray. Shane had never felt so tended in his life as Ilya made him step into and out of the spray, worked shampoo and conditioner into his hair, and even squatted to scrub soap over Shane’s lower half. 

“You don’t have to—”

“I’ve already seen all of you, Hollander,” he said with a smirk as Shane leaned on his shoulder. 

“But…”

“Let me take care of you,” Ilya murmured, pressing a kiss to the crease of his hip. 

His smile when Ilya straightened must’ve wobbled, because he leaned in and brushed his lips over Shane’s. 

“Better?”

“Better.”

“Good. Step back, rinse. Then time to get dry.” 

He did most of the drying, then wrapped a towel around Shane’s waist and made him lean against the sink to brush his teeth while he pulled out a change of clothes. It took a minute to maneuver the shirt on with his shoulder in agony, but when they managed it, Shane looked down at himself. “These pants are yours. From the day…”

“Yes,” Ilya said, pulling the gray sweatshirt Shane had given him over his own head, then helping Shane into a black one he didn’t recognize. “I found them in your closet. They look good on you.”

Shane ducked his head. “I didn’t want to get rid of them.”

Ilya’s smile was soft. “I know. This sweatshirt, you keep, too. Since I’m keeping this one.”

“Okay,” Shane whispered. 

“Okay. Now bed. Your brain needs sleep.”

“Will you stay?” Shane asked as Ilya opened the door to the bathroom. 

“Of course.”

Hayden looked up and over his shoulder from his chair and then stood to help, though Ilya waved him off. Shane settled back against the still-elevated bed and then pawed for the remote to lay it down almost entirely flat while Ilya moved around to the other side of the bed and organized everything he’d shifted for the shower. 

Hayden cleared his throat. “Look, I have hundreds of questions but I know Shane needs to sleep, so… buddy, you good if I go home? I’ll be back in the morning, first thing. I don’t want to be in the way of… whatever this is.”

“Sure, Hayd. I’ll be alright, and if I’m not, Ilya will be here. He can text you if anything comes up.” Ilya nodded after a second in confirmation, though Hayden didn’t look convinced. 

“Dude, go home,” Shane insisted. “Jackie’s, what? Eight months pregnant now? She needs you there and I’ve got Ilya here now.”

“Okay. Okay, but I’m coming back the minute the nanny is there to help Jackie in the morning.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less. Thanks for being here, man.”

“Where else would I have been? Love you.”

“Love you, too, Hayd. Get home safe, okay?”

“I will. Ah, I’ll text your phone when I do. Rozanov, you can get my number from Shane, I guess, right?”

“Sure,” Ilya said, nodding curtly. “Thank you for, uh, getting me in here.”

“Sure,” Hayden said, his eyes wide at being thanked by someone he was used to hating. Then he nodded and left, waving before he shut the door behind him.

Shane rolled his head to look at Ilya, then patted the bed. “Come back here. You need sleep, too.”

“The bed’s so small, Hollander, you’ll get no rest.”

“As if I’d rest knowing you were sitting there not sleeping. Come here. Please.”

Ilya caved and climbed into the hospital bed with him again, resuming his earlier position. Shane leaned his forehead against Ilya’s and closed his eyes, falling fast into nothingness. 

Chapter 12: try my best not to open up my heart, it's been torn apart

The same nurse from earlier came in twice more to administer pain medication, but Ilya refused to untangle himself from Shane either time. The second time, Shane blinked awake with a disgruntled look on his face. “What time is it?”

“Just past 6:00,” the nurse whispered as he drank the cup of water she handed him. “My shift is up in about half an hour, your day nurse is going to be Colette, she’ll come in and update your care board when she does her rounds.”

Shane nodded, burying his head against Ilya’s neck again and falling into a light doze instantly. Ilya looked at the nurse. “Thank you.”

“Of course, Mr. Rozanov.”

Ilya’s gaze had drifted toward Shane for a second, but he snapped back toward the nurse—Jacqueline—and saw the soft smile on her lips. “We—”

“I am bound by patient confidentiality, Mr. Rozanov,” she reminded him. 

Ilya nodded slowly, then repeated, “Thank you.”

She only smiled wider and slipped out the door. Ilya untangled himself from Shane enough to retrieve their phones from the small counter next to the bed. Shane had dozens of texts from his parents, Rose Landry, and players from other teams, but none that needed to be answered without Shane’s input. On his own phone, he had messages from Connors, Marly, and Pike. 

Ilya sighed and set the phones back down. Shane stirred against him. “Everything okay?”

“Of course,” he murmured back. “You should sleep more.”

“Can’t. Brain keeps waking me up,” Shane muttered, rubbing his nose against Ilya’s pulse point. Ilya kissed his forehead.

“Do you want to tell me what to text, then? So many people worried about you, Hollander. Who knew you were so popular.”

“Fuck off; I’m nice.”

“Mm, of course.”

“Nice people are popular,” Shane argued.

“Sure they are,” Ilya teased before retrieving Shane’s phone again and typing in his passcode; it was ‘2481,’ which made Ilya’s heart twinge every single time. He started from the top of the list and started reading texts to Shane, then typing out the answers, trying to remember to use proper capitalization and punctuation, like Shane would. By the time they’d gone through the list, it was nearly 7:15, and the sun was beginning to peek through the crack in the curtains. 

“Your parents will be here soon,” he murmured. “Do you want me to go?”

Shane looked up at him, searching his face. “What if…”

“If?”

“What if we told them? I hate lying to them, and they wouldn’t tell anyone, and—”

“Hollander.”

“I don’t want you to get in trouble, but it would be so much easier if someone knew—”

“Shane.” That made him close his mouth. “Breathe. Slow.”

Shane took a deep breath and released it, then again, following Ilya’s example. When he was steadier, Ilya lifted a thumb to brush over his freckles. “If you want to tell them, we can tell them.”

“Really?” 

“Yes, of course. I cannot be out, but… they’re your parents.”

After a long moment, Shane nodded. “Then please stay.”

“I’ll stay,” Ilya said before pressing another gentle kiss to his forehead. “When they are here, I will go out and get you breakfast.”

“The hospital food—”

“I have a feeling hospital food is not in your silly diet,” Ilya said, sitting up. 

“It’s not silly, it’s healthy.”

Ilya nodded and cut Shane a look. “Mm, sure. Healthy to not eat enough complex carbs and protein when you are professional athlete.”

“Better than eating six donuts before practice,” Shane said, eyes crinkling. 

“Gives me energy for all the chirping,” Ilya teased, knowing he’d pushed enough about the diet for the moment. “Stay here, I will change, then I can help you in case you’re dizzy still.”

Shane nodded and closed his eyes again. “Can you close the curtain a bit more? Or move it so it’s not shining on me? Too bright.”

Ilya did that first, adjusting the curtains so the early-spring morning sunshine came out the side of the window rather than the middle, then retrieved his clothes and shave kit. When he came back out of the bathroom, Shane looked over at him and chuckled. “What?”

“A bit obvious, no?”

Ilya looked down at the Raiders themed long-sleeve t-shirt. “What, your parents don’t know I play for Boston?”

Shane rolled his eyes, then shuddered. “Fuck, forgot that hurts right now.”

“Ah, so I will just have to be serious for the next few hours then.”

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Shane laughed, and Ilya grinned, moving over to the duffel he’d packed for Shane.

“I only brought you comfortable clothes. Do you want to change again, or keep what you have on?”

“Change, please,” Shane said as he slowly levered himself up. Ilya nodded and pulled out new clothes. “Wish I didn’t need help for this.”

“Reminds me, Marly wanted me to tell you he’s sorry. He knows we’re friends.”

“Not his fault, really,” Shane murmured as Ilya helped him work his arm out of the sweatshirt and t-shirt. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to hit me that hard.”

“No, probably not,” Ilya agreed, swallowing down the rest of what he wanted to say, most of it invectives against Shane’s teammates. When Shane was fully dressed—and bundled back into Ilya’s sweatshirt and wearing the sling, too—Ilya helped him to the bathroom. “Are you still dizzy?”

“I don’t think so, but…”

“I’ll stay here, in case,” Ilya promised. 

“You’re not staying in here while I use the bathroom, though. I draw the line there, Rozanov.” Shane said just before putting his toothbrush to work. 

“What, is not sexy to watch you piss?”

Shane nearly choked on his toothpaste and glared at Ilya, who couldn’t help the grin he shot back. 

“You’re the worst,” Shane muttered when he’d finished brushing his teeth.

“You love me,” Ilya crooned, and watched Shane’s face fall into more serious lines. Ilya cleared his throat and stood from where he had leaned on the doorframe. “Okay, shout if you need help. I’ll be right by the door.”

He fled. There was no other word for it, even though he stayed only steps beyond the closed door. He hadn’t thought about the words before they left his mouth, and he didn’t want to know what Shane had thought in the seconds after they’d been spoken. Not if it made him look like that.

“Fuck,” he whispered, rubbing his eyes.

“Are we like, together?” Shane spat out the minute he opened the bathroom door, unable to hold it in a second longer. 

Ilya blinked then held out an arm for Shane to grip as they made their way to the bed in tense silence. “Like… dating?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “I know we can’t go on, like, actual dates. But… are we, I don’t know…”

“Only seeing each other?” Ilya finished for him. 

“Yeah.”

“Is that what you want?” Ilya asked as he adjusted the bed so Shane could sit up.

Shane swallowed hard and then squared his shoulders. “Yes. I don’t want to be with anyone else. But if you do…”

Ilya folded the blankets back over Shane’s legs, still not looking at him. “I’m not with anyone else. Not for a while.”

“So… yes? We’re together?”

“We’re together,” Ilya confirmed, smoothing the bedding unnecessarily.

“Hey,” Shane said, realizing Ilya was trying to hide his emotions as he had in Tampa. “Look at me?”

Ilya finally met his gaze, his eyes a bit glassy. Shane held out his good arm again and Ilya climbed onto the bed. 

“Why are you sad?”

“No, not sad. Um, like weight off?”

“Relieved?”

“That. I didn’t want to assume.”

“Did you not realize I care about you?”

“No, not that. Maybe a little that. But mostly…” Ilya stopped and swallowed, sniffing and rubbing his face. “Mostly because in Tampa, I said we couldn’t be something.”

Shane nodded and looked toward the door, thinking. “But things have changed since Tampa. Right? You feel it, too?”

“Yes. I know it has to be secret still, at least until I don’t have Russian passport. But I don’t want to… not have you.”

“Well, you have me. I know I can be out, but I don’t know if I want to be, after what happened with my team.”

Ilya nodded, his right hand coming to rest on Shane’s thigh through the blanket. “So we have each other. Even if the world doesn’t know.”

“Even if the world doesn’t know,” Shane agreed, lifting his good hand from Ilya’s shoulder to brush it through the curls behind his ear. 

Colette, the new nurse, came in after a while to update Shane’s care board and introduce herself, reminding him that his next dose of painkillers would be at 10:00, and giving him a menu to select his hospital meals, before slipping back out like a phantom. Ilya looked over the menu for him since it was hard to concentrate on reading with the concussion.

“I was right, none of it fits your diet. What do you usually have for breakfast?”

“A protein smoothie.”

“Shane.”

“What?”

“Is not enough food,” Ilya said. 

“Well, what do you eat for breakfast?”

“Depends on how much time I have. Sometimes an omelette or shakshuka or things like that. Or overnight oat thing the team nutritionist told me about. Cottage cheese with fruit and nuts if I forget to make oats.” Ilya shrugged as if he hadn’t just admitted to doing more cooking than Shane had ever done on his own. 

“God, all of that sounds amazing right now,” he admitted. 

“I will get you something when your parents are here,” Ilya promised again. 

“What time do you have to be back at the hotel?”

“Team bus leaves at 12:00, so probably a bit earlier than that.”

Shane nodded, wishing Ilya didn’t have to leave at all. And then decided he didn’t need to hold that thought in anymore, and repeated it aloud. 

“Me, too,” Ilya admitted in a whisper before checking his phone when it buzzed. “Your parents will be here in few minutes. You think I should sit in the chair instead?”

“Probably less shocking,” Shane admitted with a rueful smile. Ilya pressed a kiss to his temple and slid out of the bed, drawing the chair closer before settling in it and putting his feet up on the bed near Shane’s hip. He let his hand rest on Ilya’s ankle, just wanting to be able to touch him. 

“Want me to try to read your boring hockey book to you?” Ilya asked.

“It’s not boring!”

“Seems boring.”

Shane shook his head, trying not to smile. “No, you don’t have to. I’m too nervous to focus on it anyway.”

“How about I read you tweets about your shitty team instead?” 

“They’re not—”

“They are,” Ilya said, his voice harder than it had been the entire time they were in the hospital. “You did not see… after the hit.”

Shane swallowed. “What did they do?”

“Fucking nothing, Hollander. Nothing. Well, except Pike and Boiziau; they dropped their gloves. Everyone else should have hit the ice and they didn’t.”

Shane felt tears at the back of his eyes and looked down at his hand clenching on Ilya’s leg. “There are some good guys on the team. The rookies were good with me… but they wouldn’t have left the bench unless the vets did. And Mitty wouldn’t have left the goal…”

“They should have all been out there,” Ilya insisted. “Even if they’re homophobic assholes. They couldn’t even pretend?”

Shane nodded slightly and felt a tear escape. “I shouldn’t have told them.”

“No,” Ilya said. “Is not your fault. You thought you could trust them. Is not a bad thing, to trust.”

There was a quiet knock at the door, then, and Shane swiped a sleeve across his cheek and looked up, seeing his mom’s face peering through the small window in the door. He called out, “Come in!”

Ilya dropped his feet to the floor, stood, and turned toward the door as his mom swung it open. She didn’t even seem to see him as she swept into the room, already talking. 

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry we couldn’t be here sooner, but we didn’t want to risk being too tired to drive. Hayden said someone brought you stuff from your apartment—do you need anything else?”

“No, Mom, I’m fine.” His dad hovered just past the door, his watchful eyes swinging back and forth between Shane and Ilya, but he said nothing while Yuna continued to babble on about traffic and recovery plans. 

She smoothed back his hair with one hand and then said, “Hayden, thank you so much for staying with him, I know Jackie’s pregn—”

She finally realized that it wasn’t Hayden standing across the bed from her and Shane watched her try to process what she was seeing in real time. 

“Mom, Dad, this is Ilya Rozanov.”

“Nice to meet you,” Ilya said, nodding at them both, his face set in serious lines and his entire body stiff.

“Wh-what are you doing here, Mr. Rozanov?” Yuna asked, not breaking eye contact with him. 

Shane held out his good arm to Ilya, who took a step closer and intertwined their fingers. “He stayed with me overnight. We’re, uh… together.”

“But you hate him,” Yuna said. 

“No,” Shane said slowly. “No, I don’t. Never have really.”

Ilya squeezed his fingers slightly but didn’t move away. “Do you want me to go get breakfast so you can talk?”

“Not yet, please. Stay,” Shane said, looking up at him. Ilya nodded and rubbed his thumb over the back of his hand. 

“Well,” his mom said, then again. “Well.”

Chapter 13: they don’t know what you’ve done to my heart

Ilya perched on the edge of the bed again, not curled into Shane as he wanted to be, just sitting so that Shane’s parents could take the chairs. 

“So, uh, when did this… happen?” Mr. Hollander asked to break the silence. Shane looked at Ilya, Ilya looked back, wondering how much to say. After a second, it didn’t matter, because his father continued. “Wait. The All-Star Game—you two had so much chemistry.”

“No,” Shane said slowly. “It was before then…”

Ilya looked down at where he was still holding Shane’s hand, realizing he was going to give his parents the full timeline. 

“So, when?” his mother prompted. 

“Since our rookie season.”

“Since your rookie season?”

“No,” Ilya said, looking at Shane again, assessing his eyes to ensure the lapse wasn't due to the concussion. “Is not true. Before that.”

Shane looked at him as Mrs. Hollander asked, “Before?”

“The summer before,” Ilya confirmed. “You remember?”

“I remember,” Shane confirmed in a whisper, a light blush on his cheeks. 

“So you’ve been dating for—”

“No,” Shane said quickly over Ilya’s own protestations. “No. It wasn’t… it wasn’t serious until…”

“Until the All-Star Game,” Ilya supplied, knowing Shane was thinking of tuna melts and running away.

“So you weren’t cheating on Rose.”

“Oh my god, Mom, no.” 

“More like opposite,” Ilya teased.

“Not helping,” Shane muttered, but squeezed Ilya’s fingers anyway. 

“Wow,” Mr. Hollander murmured. “Wow. And there were no nice men in Montreal?”

Ilya’s heart stuttered; he dropped his chin to study their linked fingers and Shane squeezed his hand even tighter.

“Dad.”

“What? I’m just asking.” Shane’s father cracked a grin. 

“Not funny,” Shane muttered. 

“Sorry,” his father said, still smiling. “Sorry, Rozanov.”

Ilya cleared his throat. “Ilya.”

“Ilya. Sorry, Ilya.” Mr. Hollander shifted in his chair. “You have to admit this is probably the most difficult you could have made it on yourselves.”

“Painfully aware, Dad, thanks.” 

Ilya said nothing, thinking that they really hadn’t done it to themselves. It felt as though it had been done for them. Like it was always going to end with the two of them at the top, holding each other’s hands, trying to survive a world that didn’t want them to succeed, didn’t want them to have someone to hold onto, didn’t want them to be who they were meant to be.

Mrs. Hollander spoke up, having overcome the last shock. “So is there a plan?”

Ilya looked at Shane again, who was already watching him. He shrugged slightly and Shane looked back at his mother. “No… we haven’t talked about it yet. Because we don’t know what team I’ll be with next season. But Ilya can’t be out. It wouldn’t be safe for him. So… no.”

“We just want to be together,” Ilya said, doing his best to meet Yuna Hollander’s piercing stare. 

“Is he the reason you want to leave Montreal?” she asked Shane, tearing her eyes away from Ilya.

“What? No,” Shane said. “I told you, the team… they didn’t like that I’m gay.“

“Then is he the reason you want to go to Brooklyn?” 

Ilya truly loathed being talked about like he wasn’t there—it was too reminiscent of evenings spent at dinners and galas with his father’s colleagues, being paraded about as an asset rather than a person—but he bore it. Instead of letting his discomfort show, he looked back down at Shane’s hand in his, the way their fingers fit so perfectly together, as if they’d been formed to do this.

“One of them, yeah. Among others. We could make any team in the conference work, if we needed, but I have friends in New York, and it’s a progressive city, and Brooklyn needs better centers, and there are players in New York who aren’t bigoted assholes who won’t drop gloves when their Captain goes down on the ice.” Shane’s voice was rising in temper as he spoke, so Ilya lifted his free hand to Shane’s jaw and forced their eyes to meet. 

“Shane, breathe.”

Shane shuddered out a raw sob, and then drew in a deep breath in time with Ilya, who modeled the rhythm for a minute before dropping his hand from Shane’s face. 

“I’m sorry,” Shane murmured. 

“No sorries. They are just, ah… trying to understand. They have not had as long to adjust as you and I.”

“You and me,” Shane corrected without thinking. 

Ilya scoffed and threw back his head dramatically. “Stupid English grammar.” 

That made Shane chuckle and turn back to his parents. 

“Well,” Mr. Hollander said, clapping his hands together and grinning at Mrs. Hollander. “This is fun!”

“Dad, oh my god.” 

Ilya tried to hide his smile and squeezed Shane’s hand. “I will get breakfast now, solynshko moye. Mr. Hollander, Mrs. Hollander, did you eat?”

“Yuna and David, please,” Shane’s father said. “We did not, but you don’t need to get us food.”

“I am already going out to get Shane something that fits his diet. Is no problem,” Ilya said, standing. “I will text Shane’s phone with the menu, so you can choose.”

Ilya hesitated a second, and then leaned in to give Shane a quick kiss. “Bye.”

“Bye,” Shane whispered.

Ilya nodded to Shane’s parents, grabbed his jacket, and ducked out the door. As soon as he was outside, he pulled out his phone, sent the menu, and then called Sveta to give her an update while he walked toward the diner he’d chosen. 

“I thought you hated him,” Shane’s mom said the second the door closed behind Ilya.

Shane sighed. “I told you, no.”

“But you said he was an asshole.”

“He is an asshole. Doesn’t mean I hate him.” Shane wanted to roll the tension out of his shoulders, but the moment he tried, his injury reminded him of its presence and he winced.

“You never let him win, right?” 

“Jesus, Mom. No. Do you ever let Dad win at Yahtzee?”

“I’d rather die.”

“Same here.”

“Okay. Okay. I had to ask,” Yuna said.

Shane sighed and his phone buzzed on the counter. “Dad, that’ll be the menu from Ilya, can you get it?”

“It’s someone named Lily, not Ilya,” his dad said. 

Shane sighed. “That is Ilya.”

“Why is he—oh. Never mind. What’s your passcode?”

“2481,” Shane said and heard his mom suck in a gasp. He wondered why that nailed it home for her more than seeing Ilya kiss him goodbye but shrugged it off. 

“Do you already know what you want?” his dad asked, pulling his reading glasses out of his breast pocket.

“No, Ilya’s just going to get me something. He knows what I eat.”

“Mm,” his dad said, looking at him for a second before perusing the menu. “Yuna, you had news for Shane, remember?”

“News?”

His mom nodded, transforming into his manager. “Farah is still working out the details, but Brooklyn jumped on the idea of a trade. They’re assembling a proposal right now, since it’s likely you’re out until the playoffs, and Montreal isn’t likely to make it anymore.”

“They’re not?”

“Of course not, honey, you’re injured. They were already fourth in the division and without you, they’re not going to get enough points to get a wildcard spot. I mean… they lost 4-1 last night, and that was with Rozanov playing horribly.”

“Ilya played horribly?”

“Yes. He didn’t tell you?”

“We’ve not talked about it yet. I’ve been sleeping most of the time he’s been here.”

Yuna nodded, then continued. “Anyway, if Montreal decides to accept the trade, Brooklyn wants you to finish out the season down in New York so you can get to know the team before summer. They aren’t looking like they’ll make the playoffs right now either; they’re sixth in their division.”

“Okay,” Shane said, leaning his head back against the bed and thinking about that for a second. “Do you think Montreal will take the trade?”

“I don’t know, honey. You’re their franchise player; they’ve built their team around you for the last six years.”

“And more than half of that team is okay calling me slurs or decking me in practice, and the coach takes every opportunity to remind them hockey’s a men’s sport. Ilya told me not one of them twitched when I went down except for Hayden and J.J. Did you know not one of them has asked how I’m doing? Not even from management. Marleau did. The man who got me here checked on me before my team did.” Shane could feel the way his breaths were coming faster and wished Ilya was there to help him center himself again. Instead he laid back and closed his eyes, trying to match his breaths to the memory of Ilya’s. “I may be their franchise player, but I can’t play the game alone.”

“It’s that bad?” his mom whispered, her voice cracking.

Shane nodded without looking at her.

“Oh, honey. I’m sorry.”

He nodded, then lifted his good arm up to his eyes to hide the tears he couldn’t stop. “Maybe they did me a favor. Hayden said it looked like I flinched when Marly hit me. Maybe if I’d been healthy, I would’ve hit the ice harder, broken my collarbone or something.”

His parents were silent as they processed that, then he heard his mom clear her throat. “Well. Then we’ll make the trade happen. I’ll call Farah in a little bit.”

“Pick something for breakfast, Yuna,” his dad said, and Shane took a deep shuddering breath, immensely grateful to his dad for changing the subject. 

There was a knock at the door, then, and Shane looked up, confused—it wasn’t time for more painkillers, yet—until he saw Hayden’s face in the window. He waved him in, and Hayden slipped in through the door. “Hey, man.”

“Hey, Holly. Yuna, David, glad you made it safe.” He went over to hug Shane’s parents quickly. “How’s your head today, bud?”

“I’m less dizzy, and the painkillers are helping,” Shane said as Hayden sat at the foot of the hospital bed. “Did they tell you when I’m getting out of here? I can’t remember if they said anything.”

“They wanted to keep you for observation, just in case, but said as long as symptoms were improving, you could be released this afternoon, but someone had to drive you. We can ask your nurse when she comes back to bring you breakfast.”

“Ah, Ilya went out to get breakfast. The hospital was doing pancakes today.”

“Who—oh Roz. Um.” Hayden shot a quick glance at Shane’s parents. “They, uh, know?”

Shane nodded. “They know.”

“You knew about this Hayden?” Yuna asked, handing Shane’s phone back to David. 

“Uh… no, not really. Not all of it. Until last night when he showed up in the waiting room with Shane’s stuff. Still don’t really know all of it.”

“I’ll tell you later,” Shane promised. “Too tired now. Just explained it all to them.”

“Do you want to sleep, honey? We can go to the waiting room.”

“I should eat, though.”

“We can wake you when Ilya gets back,” David said, standing. “Come on, Yuna, we can talk more later.”

Hayden patted his ankle and followed them out into the hall. Shane knew his mom would be interrogating Hayden about what he knew, and telling him everything she knew, but he was too exhausted to care. The waves of drowsiness were probably the worst part of having a concussion, he decided. Or the sensitivity to literally any input. It all sucked, to be honest. He adjusted the bed so he was laying down a little more and closed his eyes. 

The next thing he knew, someone was rubbing a thumb over his cheekbone. “Solynshko moye, wake up.”

Shane groaned but opened his eyes to find Ilya smiling down at him. “You’re back.”

“I’m back. Sorry to wake you, but I didn’t want your food to get cold.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m actually starving.”

“Your body is healing, of course you’re hungry,” Ilya said, moving the rolling table into place, a takeout container and cup already on top.

“What’s that?” Shane asked, gesturing at the cup, filled with what looked like one of his green protein smoothies.

“Horrible, is what it is. Kale, spinach, cucumber, and apple, I think? With protein in it. How do you drink that?”

“It’s good for you,” Shane said, taking a sip. “How did you get a diner to make one?”

“Ah, no, found one of those hipster smoothie places.”

“Who taught you the word ‘hipster?’” Shane asked, smiling, though he was touched that Ilya had gone to two restaurants for him.

“Sveta. She is always complaining about them. This is a vegetable omelette.” Ilya opened the takeout container and set down a fork next to it before settling in one of the chairs and pulling out his own takeout container.

“Where are my parents?” Shane asked before taking a bite.

“Ah, your nurse—Colette—showed them the family room, where they could eat at a table,” Ilya said before tucking into his own breakfast.

They ate in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, and Shane could feel himself getting more tired as his stomach filled up. When he couldn’t eat another bite, he set the fork inside the takeout container and closed it before picking up the smoothie to sip it slowly.

When Ilya was done as well, he stood to put the room back in order. As he did it, Shane fought off yawns and told him what his mom had said about Brooklyn making up a proposal. 

“So, we would only play each other three times, but I’d be in New York more often,” Ilya said as he moved a chair back to the right side of the bed so he could prop his feet up again.

“Mm, we’d have to figure out if I’d be in New York with you some of those times. Might be on a roadie.”

“But, then we’re only a short flight away from each other. Like an hour, yes? How long is the drive?”

“Like five or six hours,” Shane admitted. “Not much better than Montreal to Boston.”

“You know how long it takes to drive to Boston?” Ilya asked, looking surprised. Shane realized they’d never done that, so he had no reason to know how long it took. 

“I was curious once,” he said, knowing he was blushing and not caring because Ilya’s face had split into a soft smile. 

A yawn took Shane over, then. 

“Sleep, solynshko moye, I will wake you before I have to leave if you don’t wake first,” Ilya said. 

“What does that mean? Solynshko moye,” Shane clarified as he closed his eyes. 

“My sunshine. But used more like, ah… ‘sweetheart,’ maybe?”

“It’s beautiful,” Shane murmured.

“Mm, fitting then, no? Sleep, Shane. I’ll be here.”

Shane yawned again and nodded, then his mind drifted off into sleep. 

Chapter 14: I should have told you that I would die just to hold you

Brooklyn Scouts Acquire Shane Hollander Just Before MLH Trade Deadline

Just before the close of the trade boards, the Brooklyn Scouts managed one more blockbuster move. The Scouts have acquired Shane Hollander from the Montreal Metros, the third in a trio of shocking trades made in the last week.

In exchange for a 2017 first-round pick, a 2018 second-round pick, forward David Ashley, and center Robert Cyr, former star-center and captain for the Metros Shane Hollander will be moving to Brooklyn. Hollander has only two years left on his contract before his free-agency and the hockey world is buzzing with curiosity over the decision to waive his no-trade agreement with the Metros with so little time left. 

Hollander, 26, is currently on the shelf with a concussion and AC joint injury, but is expected around HBZ Arena and Southwell Ice Center before the end of the regular season so that he can begin building a rapport with his new team and their staff.

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“Alright, what the fuck, man? I gave you two weeks, but now it’s time. Boston Lily is Ilya fucking Rozanov?”

Shane blinked and shut the door behind Hayden and Jackie, the kids already having run straight into his living room.

“Swear jar,” Jackie said, her sing-song tone making Shane chuckle as she went up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Hi, cutie.”

“Hi, Jackie,” Shane said. 

“Ilya Rozanov?!” Hayden repeated as he kicked off his shoes, but then opened his arm to give Shane a side hug to avoid waking Arthur, who was strapped to his chest.

“Saying his name over and over won’t make it make sense, Hayd.”

“Oh, so you agree? It doesn’t make sense?”

“I mean, not to you.”

Jackie threw her head back and laughed, then grabbed Hayden’s arm. “Come on, come sit down before you interrogate him; my back hurts and I want to hear everything. Plus I can hear Ruby and Jade making chaos.”

“I put away all the breakables,” Shane assured her as he lead the way into the living area. 

“They’d find a way, trust me,” Jackie promised, but as they rounded the corner, all Shane could see was Ruby and Jade building a city out of the MagnaTiles he’d kept around for them since they were in preschool. The random assortment of dolls, figurines, and animals would join the fun eventually, he knew, but for now they sat in the basket he’d filled over the years.

Jackie sat down in one corner of the sectional with an audible ‘oof’ then patted the spot next to her. “Okay, spill.”

“What do you want to know?”

“First of all, why?” Hayden said, sitting on the other side of Jackie so he could see them both.

“What did you mean, ‘why?’” Shane leaned back on the couch. 

“Like… why him? Why not, I don’t know… anyone else?”

Shane shook his head with a laugh. “I genuinely don’t know how to answer that.”

“That’s because it doesn’t make sense as a question,” Jackie put in, patting Shane’s arm. “Start with when.”

“Becoming exclusive? The All-Star Game.”

“That means you were with him before,” she said. “How much before?”

Shane blushed, looking down at his hands. “First time was the summer before our rookie season, so… 2010?”

“2010?!” Hayden repeated. “The whole time I’ve known you?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Shane said. “I mean, it wasn’t like… all the time. Just a couple times here and there, then more often starting in the 2014 season.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hayden muttered, but Jackie was smiling. 

“You’re acting like you didn’t know he was seeing Boston Lily every time you guys were in Boston,” Jackie teased.

“I am trying not to think about that,” Hayden said. “Because Shane always came back from those hook-ups happier and he played better hockey after, and I can’t believe who was making it happen.”

Shane and Jackie grinned at each other. “I think I broke him.”

“He’ll get over it eventually,” she promised, then shifted on the couch, trying to get comfortable. “Okay, so we have a timeline. We know you’re exclusive now. What’s he really like? Because he can’t be such a meany-head if you like him.”

“He is a meany-head,” Shane said, grinning at her use of the kid-friendly word, “but it’s like… affectionate? Hard to explain. He’s smarter than the press give him credit for, and he’s like… he takes care of people.”

“Is that a euphemism?” Hayden deadpanned, and Jackie hit him in the center of his chest with a light hand.

“No,” Shane says, tilting his head to try to find a way to explain it. “I mean, you saw him at the hospital. Like that. If someone he lov—cares about needs something, he just does it. And doesn’t expect anyone to give him the same back.”

“That’s so lovely,” Jackie sighed, squirming again, her nose wrinkling in discomfort. 

“So… who knows about you two?” Hayden asked. “Because I gotta be honest, man, I don’t think most people are going to be happy about you dating a player from another team.”

“That’s why it’s a secret, Hayd. But, besides you two, there’s Ilya’s friend Svetlana, my parents, and, um…”

“Scott Hunter,” Hayden finished. “Yeah, Rozanov mentioned that. How the f—heck did he find out?”

“Um,” Shane mumbled, looking down. “He sorta heard us making plans at the 2011 All-Star Game, and had suspicions, and then got them confirmed at this most recent All-Star Game.”

“Wait. Is that why you fought him?” Jackie asked. “Because he said something about you being gay?”

“No. I mean, yes, I fought him because of something he said about me and Ilya, but not because he was, like, homophobic or anything.”

“What’d he say?” Hayden asked. “You never said.”

“He said I was starting to sound like Ilya.”

“That doesn’t seem so bad,” Jackie said slowly, studying Shane.

“I thought if he said anything else, he might out me—us. And we’d only hooked up twice at that point, so I didn’t know…”

“Oh, baby,” Jackie crooned, rubbing a hand down his arm. “That would be scary. But he obviously is like… okay with it, if he knows and you’re not freaking out.”

“Yeah, he’s okay with it. He won’t tell anyone, either. Anyway—it’ll be nice to know someone in New York who I know is going to be… cool with me being gay.”

“When do you move?” Jackie asked.

“I’ve got a furnished rental down there that I can get into this weekend, but I still can’t really lift anything heavy, even though I’m out of the sling. So, my dad got work off next week so he can help my mom and I; we’ll probably drive down Monday or Tuesday.”

“God, that’s so soon,” Jackie said. “We’re going to miss you.”

“I’m going to miss you, too. But I decided not to sell this place, so I can visit easier. Have to see my favorite kids, right?”

“Right,” Hayden said. “And maybe your best friends, too, right?”

“Obviously,” Shane drawled. 

Jackie hissed next to him on the couch and Shane looked over. “Are you okay?”

“I think the baby decided it’s time to come out,” she said casually. “That’s my second contraction since we got here.”

Shane balked and looked over at Hayden, who seemed just as calm as his wife. “Shouldn’t you be getting to the hospital? I can watch the kids. Take my car.”

“Not yet, babe, not yet,” Jackie assured him. “They need to be, like, six minutes apart before we start hurrying out the door. Hayd, can you time the next one?”

Hayden held up his phone. “Already started the stopwatch.”

“God, you’re both so calm,” Shane said, running his hands through his hair.

“We’ve done it twice already. Got the nerves out of the way. But we will take you up on the babysitting until my parents can get to the house.” Jackie smiled at him, rubbing a hand over the side of her bump to soothe the ache.

Shane laughed, a little bit breathless, and nodded. “Can do.”

Ilya was more than ready for the playoffs to start. He was done with this season; he felt exhausted, physically and emotionally, and he didn’t feel like his head was really in the game. He wanted to sleep, to lay in bed and watch stupid action movies and be near Shane. He wanted to never see anyone again and also desperately needed a hug. He managed to keep up his energy enough to fool most of his teammates, but both Connie and Marly knew something was off. He just didn’t know what to tell them. 

The best part of his day, every day, was when he called Shane. Texting had been out until his head had recovered from the concussion enough to focus on screens, and that had taken nearly two weeks. But there was no medical prohibition against phone calls, as long as the sensory input didn’t hurt. So they talked. 

“I’m nervous about moving to Brooklyn,” Shane had admitted one night. “New York is so much bigger than Montreal. Louder. I know I’ll have the condo I rented all to myself but, I don’t know, I’ve never really liked the city?”

“HBZ and Southwell are further out on the island, yes?”

“Yeah, Southwell is like 30 minutes from the condo I rented. HBZ is a little closer I think.”

“What if you found a place further out on the island? Maybe there’s a smaller town or something. More space, less people. Maybe not as private as your cottage but not a city.”

“It’d be harder to get between places when you’re playing New York or New Jersey.”

“But if you’re comfortable, would be worth it, yes?”

“Maybe. Maybe,” Shane had said, and Ilya could almost hear him turning the thought over in his mind. 

“And you have time. That’s why you got the condo. So you didn’t rush into buying another house, Mr. Real Estate.”

“Shut up,” Shane had laughed. 

“You think you’ll stay in New York?” Ilya asked. 

“I don’t know. I never thought I’d leave Montreal, so I’m having trouble picturing where I’ll be next month, let alone next season. Why? You think you want to stay in Boston?”

“I don’t know either. I’m a free-agent season after next. I want to apply for citizenship somewhere. Just don’t know if I want it to be here. What with all the…” Ilya couldn’t think of a word to describe the political environment in the states. 

“Nonsense?” Shane finished. 

“Mm, yes.”

There had been a lot unspoken in that conversation, at least for Ilya. Though they talked every day, and they’d decided to try to be something, he still felt untethered, as if he didn’t have a safe place to land. It made him anxious for his last New York game before the playoffs. Shane would be moved in to his temporary condo, and Ilya would be able to hold him close and try to remember that they had each other, even if the world didn’t know, just as they’d promised in the hospital. And yet… there was something unsettled about it all. 

They did morning practice in Boston and flew into New York only a few hours before the game, which meant no chance to see Shane before, but being in the same city was already an improvement. The text he received on landing was even better. 

At the first face-off, as Ilya leaned over in preparation for the puck drop, he grinned up into Hunter’s face and heard the man groan before he even said something. 

“What, Rozanov?”

“I have message for you from a friend.”

“What?”

“I think I’ll make you wait.”

Ilya took off with the puck.

The second time they were across from each other, Ilya grinned again and watched Hunter’s shoulders drop in resignation. 

“Hollander said hi. Well, not hi, exactly…”

“What?”

“Maybe you should guess.”

“Oh, fuck off, Roz.”

That made Ilya laugh, and Hunter took off with the puck. 

The third time, Hunter didn’t wait. 

“What’d Hollander say?”

“Told me to give you hell. But it’s funny…”

“Jesus Christ.”

“…he called you ‘the old man.’”

Hunter’s face went blank with exasperation. Ilya got an assist within twenty seconds. 

“Didn’t even have to tell me which old man,” Ilya said at the fourth drop. “Isn’t that funny? I think so.”

“I am literally only three years older than both of you.”

“Ah, but old soul, yes? So boring and tired and slow.”

“Fu—”

Ilya won the face-off. 

Chapter 15: got me hoping for a miracle, give me one more day

Ilya stepped out of the car and onto Shane’s new street, looking up at the brownstone he’d rented in the middle of Brooklyn Heights. The street was relatively quiet, the streetlights were bathing the sidewalks in an orange glow, and the chill wind off the river ruffled his hair as he walked up the stairs to the front door. It felt like the perfect compromise for someone who loved his own space living in a city.

The doorbell was still ringing when the door swung open, and Ilya was being tugged inside. Shane pulled him directly into his arms and crushed their lips together. Ilya responded in kind, backing him into a wall in the entryway and devouring his mouth. When he pulled back for air, Shane murmured, “Fuck, I missed you.”

Ilya shucked his own coat and toed off his shoes, uncaring of where they landed, as he’d already captured Shane’s mouth again. The ache he’d felt for weeks was fading under the feel of Shane’s hands on his skin, the weight of his body beneath him. He murmured against Shane’s skin, “Need you.”

And Shane, as always, gave him everything.

“Can you stay?” he whispered into the shadowy bedroom, his back to Ilya’s chest and their legs tangled beneath the blankets. Ilya kissed behind his ear, then nodded with his nose in Shane’s hair.

“I can stay.”

The next morning, Ilya woke when Shane pulled out of his arms.

“Going for my run,” he explained in a murmur. “Sleep.”

“Outside or treadmill?” Ilya grumbled.

“Treadmill in the basement.”

Ilya groaned, but then sat up. “Do you have a bike down there, too?”

Shane grinned. “Yeah. I’ll get you a water bottle.”

The morning was everything Ilya had wanted from the day he’d asked Shane to stay. They worked out, showered—together, of course, he wasn’t boring—and then Ilya made them both kimchi eggs and rice while Shane blended up protein smoothies for them both.

“When do you meet the team?” he asked Shane as they ate at the kitchen island, knees brushing under the counter and bodies tilted toward each other.

“Tomorrow morning, then I start physical therapy with the team’s trainers.”

“How is your shoulder?”

“Aches. The entire arm just aches. And my head is almost completely better. I still need a nap in the afternoons if I do a hard workout, though.”

Ilya nodded. “And the rest of you? The bruises?”

“You saw me; they’re gone.” Shane’s smile was soft and sad.

“Not enough of you,” Ilya teased. “Better strip just so I can check again.”

“Insatiable,” Shane snorted and shook his head. He sobered quickly, setting down his fork and wiping his hands on one of the cloth napkins he’d set out while Ilya had plated their food. “Actually, um… you reminded me. I had planned to ask you something the night I went the hospital.”

Ilya’s heart clutched for reasons he couldn’t articulate. Perhaps it was the expression on Shane’s face, or the tension in the air, but he had to resist the urge to crack a joke to relieve it. “Okay. What?”

“Will you come to my cottage this summer? For a week, maybe two, longer if you wanted. It’s so private, and we could have time together, just us, no rushing to the airport to get to our next game. We could be completely alone, together.”

Ilya set his own fork down and swallowed, leaning back against the stool. “You think that’s a good idea? What if someone saw me in the airport?”

“Friends visit friends’ vacation homes, right?” Shane tried for a smile, but it wavered at the edges. “You don’t have to answer right now, but think about it, okay? I mean… haven’t you ever wanted more time?”

“Of course,” Ilya murmured, reaching out to still Shane’s hands twisting the napkin. “Of course I have. I just… I’ll think about it.”

The truth was Ilya was scared that if Shane were around him for longer, he’d finally realize Ilya was not worth all this trouble—the secrecy, the lying, the long stretches of loneliness—and he’d lose him. Not in the way he’d feared to lose him after Marly’s hit, but in the slow expanding of distance. In the loss of their status quo. In unanswered texts and skipped opportunities. Because no one had ever wanted Ilya for himself—except maybe his mother. His father wanted esteem, his brother wanted money, the league wanted skill… everyone wanted something, but they didn’t want the whole package, just the portion they’d claimed. And Shane had claimed Ilya for the burning between them, nothing more. What would happen, he wondered, when the burning dulled to a warm glow, when they had enough time to not feel the urgency that dogged their every meeting?

It didn’t feel urgent when they fell into each other on the couch in front of an action movie, nor when he kissed Shane goodbye at the door before slipping into the backseat of the town car that’d take him back to the team hotel. It felt like being ripped in half to pull away, to force himself to don the mask he wore around his team, to settle into the playboy persona he used to embody and that now felt like it was a slow suffocation.

It felt like it wasn’t enough anymore.

The condo felt empty the minute Ilya left, and Shane spent the next few hours wondering how he could make it feel full again, as fast as possible. It wouldn’t be the same, of course, but he couldn’t handle the silence, the isolation. If he tried, he knew he’d have a small breakdown. He was still processing the shattered remains of his life and the mosaic he was creating from the pieces; he’d already had two days of disassociating on the couch and lying in bed fighting off a slow trickle of tears. No more, he decided. At least for a little bit.

There were good things, too, he knew.

Rose was out in L.A. again, but had promised to come visit at the end of the month before her next project started filming. Ilya was headed to the airport. Hayden and Jackie were hundreds of miles away and dealing with a newborn. J.J. was just as far and in the throes of a hockey season. He had no one he could think to text for company. And then the universe took pity on him.

Bridge traffic was not terrible, thankfully, and within half an hour, the house no longer felt like it had been abandoned.

“Hollander!” Vaughny shouted as the door opened, throwing his arms around Shane. Shane grunted as his arm twinged but patted Vaughny on the back with a smile.

“Hey, man, hey Scotty.”

“Hey, Rook,” Scott said, laughing before patting him on his uninjured shoulder. “Where’s the kitchen? I’ve got the beer, and the pizza is on the way. Kip recommended a place. You’re not actually too far from his dad’s house.”

Shane gestured past the stairs. “Kip would be…?”

“Scotty’s boy-toy,” Carter said, hanging up his jacket on a hook.

“I need way more information than that,” Shane said, and watched Vaughny freeze and then turn slowly like he was bracing for impact.

“I… thought Scotty told you,” he whispered in horror.

“He’s fucking with you, Vaughny!” Scott called from the kitchen. “Told him at the All-Star Game.”

“Hollander, you mother-fucker,” Carter said with narrowed eyes but a huge grin.

“I mean, I knew of the existence of a guy, but that’s it,” Shane said, laughing as he led Carter back into the kitchen. “So, I really do need more information.”

“Ugh, they’re so cute, man,” Vaughny whined. “Scott met him while Kip was working at a smoothie shop. Like, that’s rom-com level stuff.”

“You watch rom-coms, Vaughny?” Shane asked, pulling a ginger ale out of the fridge for himself while the guys opened their own beers.

“Yeah, Gloria loves them, of course we watch them.”

Shane looked at Scott, then back at Carter, then at Scott again. “Who is Gloria? Seriously, guys, it’s like you forget I know nothing about your lives outside of hockey.”

“Gloria Grey,” Scott said. “And we’re changing that, Rook. You’re stuck with us.”

“Gloria Grey, the actress?” Shane confirms. “Vaughny, what the hell, how don’t I know about this?”

“We keep it pretty low-key, just see each other when we’re in the same city. And that’s so rare that we’re usually just at each other’s houses instead of like… out,” Carter explained, a bit of a blush on his cheeks. “It’s nothing serious though.”

“Dude, you watch rom-coms with her,” Scott reminded him. “Stop lying to yourself.”

“Shut up,” Carter muttered even though he was still smiling. “We were talking about you and Kip, remember?”

“Oh, I remember, since you were comparing me having to hide my relationship in the closet for three years to a romantic comedy.”

“Oh, shit,” Shane whispered. “Yeah, that’s less fun. It’s because of the league, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Scott nodded. “He’s out, I’m not. We… well, we’re working through it, but it sucks.”

“Okay, but meeting him in a smoothie shop is objectively cute,” Carter adds.

“That was objectively romantic, fine.”

“How’d you meet Gloria, Vaughny?” Shane asked, before the topic could shift to him. He thought maybe he could come out to Carter, based on this conversation, but he wasn’t brave enough for that yet. Maybe when they were better friends instead of just people who worked together and got along.

Carter launched into the story of running into Gloria while downtown in L.A., with Scott adding commentary and chirps every few seconds. When the doorbell rang, Carter leapt up to get it, bringing two pizzas back to the kitchen, then resumed his chatter.

Shane ate three slices of the veggie pizza and was bullied into admitting it was the best pizza he’d ever eaten. Together, Carter and Shane pestered Scott until he promised to introduce Kip and Shane as soon as Kip had a spare moment from his grad program. Then the two Admirals went through the players they knew on the Scouts, even telling him what they remembered about the ones who they didn’t hang out with regularly. Having three MLH teams in the same area meant that the players all tended to hang out together in a way that wasn’t possible for most other teams, so they had a lot of insight. It made Shane less nervous for the next day, and he knew they knew that, and he couldn’t help but appreciate what they were doing for him.

When they left a little after 10, having spent most of the day with him, Shane leaned back against the front door and thought maybe there were more good things in this new life than he’d originally thought.

Chapter 16: and you’re the reason that I’m trying to let go

October 2013

“I heard what you said in your speech tonight. And I know that they’re your family, and you feel responsible for them, and I get that Scott. I really, really get that, but… I have a family, too. And I keep lying to them, and I don’t want to. And I miss them. I—I miss my dad.” Kip hesitated. “Sorry, that’s not what I meant.”

“It’s okay. I know what you meant.” Scott managed, trying not to let his emotions into his voice.

“I’m gonna go home tonight. I need to.” Kip stood and walked out the door without looking back.

Scott walked all the way from The Kingfisher back to his apartment. His quiet, empty, desolate apartment.

He wondered when it had shifted from calming quiet to lonely quiet. Was it the first night? The very first night Kip had stayed? He knew it had to be.

He wished he could have stepped into the bar. He wished that he could’ve been there, cheering on Kip’s achievement, watching him blow out the candles on his birthday cake from over his shoulder, rather than from outside the window. He knew he should have been. He knew that.

After Kip had gone home the other night, Scott had sat, staring into the fireplace and wondering—for the first time in his life—if hockey was worth this. He was still wondering. It didn’t matter that Kip had called the next day, that they’d still done his birthday dinner, that he’d stayed over that night. Because now that Scott knew, now that Scott saw the misery that Elena had warned him about, he couldn’t unsee it.

He was destroying Kip.

And didn’t know how to stop it without destroying himself.

November 2013

“I want to meet your dad,” Scott said just before Kip started the blender. Kip turned around so fast he knocked the jar off the base and it fell with a clatter onto the countertop, the top popping off and the frozen fruit spilling out onto the floor.

“What?” Kip asked, breathless. Scott grinned and moved around the kitchen island to right the blender. He put his hands on Kip’s biceps and rubbed his thumbs over the hems of his sleeves.

“I want to meet your dad. I don’t want you to have to lie to him. I love you, and I want to meet your family. I figured I should start with your actual family.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Kip said, his eyes roaming over Scott’s face, as if searching for the gotcha.

“I do. I do have to do this. Please. I want to meet him.”

Kip nodded and took a deep breath, his hands rising to rest on Scott’s chest. “Okay. How about we have dinner at his house soon? Maybe after you get back from this trip?”

“Perfect,” Scott murmured before leaning down and capturing Kip’s lips with his own.

“I should warn you,” Kip murmured. “He’s a Scouts fan.”

Scott breathed out a laugh and rubbed his nose against Kip’s. “Of course he is. Think he’ll still like me?”

“He’s going to love you,” Kip promised.

George Grady looked Scott up and down once after welcoming him in. “Taller than I’d thought you’d be.”

“What does that even mean?” Kip asked before hugging his dad.

“I just figured the skates made him look taller, but, no, he’s just that tall.”

“That’s what you’re thinking about and not ‘holy shit, you’re dating Scott Hunter?’”

“Well, when you told me he came into the smoothie shop, and then you got real interested in hockey, and then stopped coming home… I took a guess. But I’m glad you decided to tell me.”

“He didn’t want to keep it from you,” Scott offered as George extended a hand to shake and Scott took it. “Um, that was my fault. It’s… complicated for me.”

George smiled, but it was tinged with sadness. “I watch hockey, Hunter. You don’t need to explain anything else. Come in, come in, I made pork chops.”

December 2013

“Okay, now, you can’t tell anyone I got you this. I’ll be excommunicated from the Admirals,” Scott said, pulling George’s Christmas gift out from under the Grady family Christmas tree. Kip had helped him come up with gifts for his sister Megan and her boyfriend, Andrew, but Scott had insisted on finding something for his dad without help.

George laughed and said, “What’s one more secret?”

He took the ribbon off carefully, as he had with every present, which amused Scott to no end. He wasn’t a save-the-wrapping-paper person, though, so he tore into it and lifted the cover off the garment box, then sat speechless when he saw the Brooklyn Scouts’ alternate jersey for his favorite goalie of all time—Matthieu D’Arche, retired for a few years now—with a signature in Matty’s big, loopy scrawl.

“Oh, Scott, it’s perfect,” Kip whispered, leaning into him on the couch. Scott pressed a kiss to his temple and looped an arm around Kip’s shoulder to hold him closer.

“Matty said you’re supposed to hang that one, he’s getting me one you can wear. I’ve got a frame hidden in Kip’s room for you.”

“I love it, Scott, thank you,” George said, lifting the jersey out of the box fully so he could take it in.

“Of course,” Scott said, his heart aching slightly in his chest.

He tried not to count the years since he’d had a family with whom to share Christmas, but the memories were all there. Alone in his apartment—or sometimes on a trip somewhere warm so he wouldn’t have to be—eating whatever takeout he could get while sitting in front of the tv, watching anything but Christmas movies. Now, after the traditional Grady Christmas dinner of lasagna and Caesar salad, he and Kip would get back to their apartment together. The tree in the living room would be glowing; the presents they had yet to exchange would be waiting on the velvet skirt; the leftover Chinese takeout in the fridge was prepared for their movie marathon; the painting Kip had loved was hidden in the spare bedroom until he opened the placeholder present.

He had a family again.

February 2014

June 2014

Scott ran his fingers through Kip’s hair, reveling in the fact that he was able to be openly affectionate while other people were in the room. George, Elena, and Maria were scattered on their huge couch, watching the Stanley Cup finals with him and Kip, in their home. Kyle and Shawn had been invited as well, but they’d both had to work. They’d all been sworn to secrecy earlier in the year, when Kip had been too tired from working and grad school and keeping a secret relationship going to see them. Scott had intervened.

“Invite them over,” he’d whispered, one night, as he tucked a blanket around Kip on the couch. “You need your family right now. And they can keep you company while you’re studying.”

Now they were quickly becoming Scott’s friends, too.

As the game wound to a close, with Boston on the verge of winning the cup for the first time in years, Scott huffed. “Can’t believe Rozanov’s winning it before I get there.”

“He really gets under your skin,” Kip laughed.

“He’s such an asshole! It’s impossible not to be mad at him. What anyone sees in him…”

“Isn’t he the league’s biggest playboy?” Elena asked. “I’m sure a good chunk of the girls are wondering if they can be the one to tame him.”

Later, as he and Kip slid beneath their covers, he was thinking about Rozanov again. “Did I ever tell you that I think Rozanov might be bi?”

“What? Really?”

“Really. I heard him talking to another player—Hollander, actually—at an All-Star Game a couple years ago. Like, obviously I can’t be sure, but he gave Hollander his room number. And Hollander has always been touchy about Roz.”

“Scott, you’re touchy about Roz.”

“Different kind of touchy. Like at one of the MLH Awards he got mad I called Roz ‘his boy.’ And this year, before the Olympics, I chirped him about starting to sound like Roz, and that’s when he tried to hit me. And at the Olympics he was super sensitive about Carter thinking they were friends.”

“Rozanov and Hollander,” Kip mused aloud. “Interesting.”

August 2014

Kip’s thumb kept stroking across his jaw. Scott wondered if he could convince him to go back to the hotel early. They’d only been in the club in Ibiza for twenty minutes, but he wanted to ravish and be ravished by his boyfriend. His boyfriend who could touch him in public. They’d been in Spain for three weeks now, and he still couldn’t get over it.

“If you keep doing that, we won’t be partying long,” Scott murmured against his ear before stealing a scorching kiss.

“Sorry, I just…”

“What? Are you okay?”

“I’m okay. I just… miss the beard?”

Scott threw his head back and laughed. “It’ll grow back.”

October 2014

‘Kingfisher Closed for Private Party,’ the sandwich board out front read as the town car stopped in front of the building in The Village.

“This is where we’re going?” Kip asked, looking out the window. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Scott promised before ushering him out onto the curb. “Come on.”

He opened the door and nudged Kip inside ahead of himself, his heart pounding hard.

“SURPRISE!” The shout reverberated about the room as Kip saw his friends and family waiting for him under the chaotic decorations that Maria had taken charge of. Kip raised a hand to his mouth and Scott could tell he was trying not to cry happy tears.

“Happy Birthday, Kip,” he murmured in Kip’s ear before planting a kiss at his temple.

February 2015

September 2015

“Remember Italy?” Kip groaned into the pages of his textbook.

“You mean like last month?” Scott asked with a smile, lifting his practice bag from the kitchen chair and checking his pockets for his phone and keys.

“I miss it. I miss not thinking.”

Scott laughed and leaned down to lift Kip’s chin so he could kiss him goodbye. “All this thinking will be worth it, you know.”

“I know,” Kip said, his smile weak. He’d applied for more museum positions and been rejected; Scott knew it stung his pride, but he was determined. Taking grad school slow so he could keep working was something he would not budge on, even though he could have lived on Scott’s salary ten times over.

“I love you,” Scott murmured before kissing him again.

“I love you, too. Have fun with the new rookies. Try to learn their names today!”

“I will,” Scott promised over his shoulder before walking out of the apartment.

December 2015

“Merry Christmas, Scotty!” Carter crowed when Scott opened the apartment door to let him in.

“Merry Christmas, Vaughny,” Scott said, pulling him into what Kip called a ‘bro-hug.’ “Food’s in the kitchen, go make some friends.”

“Aye, aye, Cap,” Carter said with a shit-eating grin, moving further into the apartment and throwing himself into a circle with Elena, Maria, and Shawn.

Eric Bennett and his wife were in a corner talking to George Grady, Greg Huff and his wife were standing in the kitchen, watching Kyle mix up a special Christmas cocktail he’d invented and wanted to test out—even though the owner of The Kingfisher wouldn’t let him run special drinks—and Cale Wagner and his girlfriend were sitting on the couch, holding their drinks and talking to Kip about the artwork he’d talked Scott into buying in Italy.

He’d come out to some of his friends on the team over the last few months, realizing he didn’t want the two halves of his life to feel like halves anymore. He wanted one full life. This was a step in the right direction.

“Scott,” Kip called over the back of the couch. “Where did we get this one? I can’t remember.”

“Positano,” Scott answered, walking to the back of the couch so he could lean down and give Kip a kiss. “That little gallery near the church, just off the water.”

“Right, right!” Kip turned back to Cale and started describing the arduous hike up the Positano streets, and Scott couldn’t help watching his face through the entire story.

June 2016

“Two Cups in a row is pure insanity,” Scott muttered at the tv in their living room.

“You’re just mad because Hollander knocked you out of the playoffs, babe,” Kip teased.

“Yes, I am,” Scott huffed.

“Better him than Rozanov, Scotty,” Carter said, and Kip glanced at Scott with a little grin. Scott grinned back, thinking about that All-Star Game again.

“Anyone is better than Rozanov,” Scott agreed.

August 2016

“This water is unreal,” Kip murmured, looking out at the Aegean Sea from their rental in Santorini. “I can’t get over it.”

Scott wrapped his arms around him from behind, resting his chin on the top of his head. They’d spent the morning at the archaeological site Akrotiri, and they had dinner reservations that night, but for now, they were relaxing in the sunshine.

“Do you prefer this to Mykonos?” Scott asked.

“I like them both differently,” Kip decided. “Clubbing with you is fun, but so is just… being with you. I feel like I can just be with you here.”

“Me too,” Scott said as Kip turned in his arms.

“I know it’s early to start thinking about it,” Kip said between kisses against Scott’s jaw, “but what if we did New Zealand next year? It’ll be winter there, but it doesn’t ever get that cold.”

“You sick of the summer sun already?” Scott teased. “Sounds fun. Do you want to plan it?”

“I would love to plan it,” Kip murmured against his lips.

November 2016

As George pulled the turkey out of the oven, Scott started melting butter for the gravy on the stove. He didn’t know what he was doing, but George had promised to help, so he was game to try. Megan and Andrew were setting the table in the dining area, Kip was mashing potatoes, and Carter was pouring wine. He hadn’t had time to go home to North Dakota for Thanksgiving with their schedule, so Kip had insisted on inviting him.

“He’s your family, Scott. Of course I want him here,” he’d said a few weeks ago when they’d been planning the day. “It’s a day for our whole family, right?”

“Right,” Scott had said, clearing his throat to get rid of the lump that simple question had elicited. “I’ll ask him tomorrow.”

“Tell him Gloria is invited, too, if she’s in town.”

“You just want to meet her,” Scott teased.

“Can you blame me?!” Kip had nearly screeched. “I love her.”

“I love you,” Scott had said. Gloria hadn’t been able to make it that year, but he knew if Carter kept seeing her, Kip would get his wish soon. Because this was their family.

February 2017

April 2017

Chapter 17: and that's why I need you here

Shane stepped out of the town car he’d hired to bring him to Southwell Center for his first practice and retrieved his duffel. “Thank you, Sam.”

“Of course, Mr. Hollander. You just call the office when you need to get back home, they’ll radio me.”

“Sounds good,” he said before he shut the door and started walking toward the entrance, looking down at his phone to read the directions to the team locker room one more time. 

“Shane!” A woman’s voice called, and he looked up. “Smile!”

Shane put on his media smile and then watched as the woman in question lowered her camera and frowned at the preview. 

“Shoot, I should’ve left you alone, you look stiff in this shot,” she said, pressing a few buttons.

“Sorry, um…”

“Oh, right. I’m Ava, the Scouts’ social media manager. I was hoping to get a good pic of you arriving but…”

“Sorry. I get weird about press, and I thought you were one. Redo?”

“Nah, it’s too cold out here,” Ava said, faking a full-body shiver. “I’ll catch you looking calm and casual later.”

“No promises,” Shane said, a little smile tugging at his lips as she led the way toward the front doors. “I’m a bit nervous.”

“I know this won’t help, because it never does, but… don’t be. The team is great. Really.”

“Good to hear even if it doesn’t help.”

Ava smiled over her shoulder as she went through the door he held for her. “I think I like you, Shane Hollander.”

“I think I like you too, Ava…”

“Hall,” she finished. “You’re meeting with Jaime and Joe, right?”

“Uh, if you mean Mr. Callahan and Coach DiSalvo, yes.”

“They’re gonna tell you to call them Jaime and Joe, or maybe Coach,” she said, her grin broader by the second. “I can show you to them, if you like.”

“That would be great, thanks.”

She led him further into the facility, talking about every room they passed, who worked in each, fun facts about them, and vaguely related stories.

“I’m never going to remember all of that,” Shane said apologetically as she knocked on the doorframe of an office midway into the third or fourth hall she’d led him down. 

“That’s okay, you’ll get it eventually, I’m sure,” she said, then leaned her head into the office. “Joe, look who I found.”

“It’s not another cat, is it?” a man with a deep New York accent asked from inside the room. 

“No, but wouldn’t that be fun? It’s Shane Hollander.”

“Oh, well, send him in. Jaime is running behind but he’ll be here in a minute.”

Ava shooed Shane through the door ahead of her and Shane took a few hesitant steps into the room to greet a man he’d only ever seen when playing against the Scouts. Joe DiSalvo was still built like a hockey player, even 15 years from his last game on the ice, but his age was beginning to show in the gray hair at his temples and the wrinkles on his olive-toned face. 

“Hello, Coach DiSalvo,” Shane said, extending a hand to shake. 

“Joe, please. Or Coach,” the man said as he gripped Shane’s hand, then released immediately. “I won’t actually shake because I know this is your injured arm.”

“Told you he’d make you call him Joe,” Ava sing-songed, then said “I’ll leave you to it. Welcome to Brooklyn, Shane!”

“Oh, uh, thanks Ava.” Shane said, turning to throw her an awkward wave and realizing she was already gone. 

“She’s something,” Joe said with a grin when Shane had turned back around. “Why don’t you sit, Jaime will be here soon.”

Shane took the offered chair across from Joe’s desk and set his duffel at his feet, focusing on not fidgeting. With Theriault, Shane would’ve known how to act—more like his media personality than himself—but right now, he felt like he had no idea what to do, who to be. 

“All moved in?” Joe asked as he settled in his chair. “You’re in Brooklyn Heights, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Shane said. “A furnished rental for now, since I moved so fast.”

“Drop the ‘sir,’ Hollander, it makes me feel ancient,” Joe said with a grin that reminded Shane, inexplicably, of his father. 

“Yes, s—Coach,” Shane said, annoyed that he could feel a blush spreading on his face.

Joe chuckled. “Well, who knows how long Jaime is going to be, so I want to cut to the point. What happened in Montreal, Hollander?”

Shane flinched, and looked down at his hands, hoping Joe hadn’t seen the reaction. 

“I’ve heard things. Culture problem, you want to grow as a player, need a challenge,” Joe said, his tone softening. “Not saying I don’t believe you, but I’ve also seen some things in your last few games. And heard some rumblings from some of the… nastier sides of this sport.”

Shane swallowed and clenched his hands together, then looked back up. “Sir—Joe—Coach… I just want to play hockey. All I’ve ever wanted is to play hockey. I can do that for Brooklyn.”

Joe studied him for a second, a small frown on his face. “I know you can, Hollander. Anyone with eyes knows you’re a talent, and Brooklyn is lucky to have you. If you don’t want to talk about the reasons for leaving, you can tell me to fuck off. Might even turn you into a New Yorker if you do.”

Shane breathed out a forced laugh and shook his head, trying to think of what to say, but before he could arrange his thoughts, Joe spun his chair slightly and leaned back, his eyes still locked on Shane’s face. “This organization doesn’t care one way or another if you’re gay, Hollander. Doesn’t change a thing about you as a player.”

Shane swallowed and managed a small nod. “And the guys?”

“I’ve not interrogated all of them, of course,” Joe admitted, “but we’re in New York. There are assholes everywhere, but we’re also in the most diverse city in the United States, and a sizable portion of our support staff is queer. And we’ve had no complaints lately.”

“Might be different if they have to shower with me,” Shane said, trying very hard to meet Joe’s eyes.

“Might,” Joe agreed. “But if it is, you come talk to someone you trust—hope it can be me—and we’ll deal with it. You don’t have to tell the guys, of course. And you don’t have to officially tell me—though I’m not stupid—but I’d also be stupid if I didn’t try to make the Scouts a good home for you. And yes, I’m calling Theriault fucking stupid.”

Shane nodded. “I’ll think about it, Coach. I’m… things are complicated.”

“Always are,” Joe said. “Anyway—“

“Knock, knock,” a voice said from the doorway. 

“Jaime, come on in, we were just chatting,” Joe said, and Shane stood so he could turn and offer a hand to the tall, white-haired man who’d swept into the room like a summer storm.

“Shane Hollander!” Mr. Callahan boomed. “Good to meet you, son. Jaime Callahan, call me Jaime.”

“Sir—”

“Jaime,” he corrected with a grin. 

“We’ll break him of the habit,” Joe said. “He keeps doing it to me, too.”

Shane didn’t know what possessed him. Perhaps it was just one more piece of the mosaic of his new life slotting into place; perhaps it was the overwhelm of the last few weeks; perhaps his concussion was still causing issues with his emotional regulation. Whatever the cause, he heard himself, as if from a great distance, say, “Brooklyn is weird.”

And both other men laughed.

“How was it, solynshko moye?” Ilya asked, his phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear as he pulled ingredients for stroganoff out of the fridge. It wasn’t quite in his nutrition plan, but he needed the comfort, and sometimes that was just as necessary as watching his macros. He’d make up for it with some veggie-ridden meals the next day.

“It was good,” Shane said on the other end of the line, sounding tired though it wasn’t even 5:00 yet. “A bit overwhelming, and I know I’m going to forget people’s names, but they all seemed nice.”

“Tell me,” Ilya said as he set the phone down on the counter and put the call on speakerphone. 

Shane told him about meeting his new coach and general manager, and felt his heart ache at the idea of Shane sitting through that frank discussion alone, unsure if he’d be safe when it was over. Then he talked about meeting the team in the locker room, of discovering they’d given him one of the alternate captain positions even though he didn’t know the team yet, and about the concussion evaluation the medical team had put him through before his physical therapy.

“I get to go on the ice tomorrow—just skating, but it’s better than nothing.”

“I know you’ve hated not being able to,” Ilya said with a nod as he stirred the mushrooms in the skillet. The smell of mushrooms sautéing always brought him back to a night when he was nine years old and helping his mother in the kitchen. She had taught him how to make stroganoff that night, had danced and laughed around the room as she did. Of course, he didn’t quite remember her recipe, but he had found one that came close a few years ago. 

“Hated it,” Shane confirmed as Ilya’s phone buzzed on the counter. When he looked over at it, he saw that it was a notification that Shane had posted on Instagram. 

“What have you just posted?” he asked without thinking, tapping on the notification.

“What? Oh, on Instagram? I just shared what the social media manager for the Scouts told me to post. It’s like a ‘welcome to the team’ thing. Wait, how did you know? I literally just did it.”

Ilya hummed in response, transfixed by the post and unable to form a coherent sentence for a few seconds. Then he typed out a comment and put his phone back down. 

“Ilya?”

“Sorry, sorry, your face is distracting,” he teased. “What did you ask, solynshko moye?” 

“I asked if you have post notifications on for me,” Shane said, chuckling. “But I think I know the answer.”

“Me? Have post notifications for the most boring Instagram of all time? Never.”

“Hey! It’s not boring.”

“Mm okay. Photo shoot, photo shoot, promo for the Metros, photo shoot, Metros. Very boring. Not at all sexy to see you in a suit for Rolex.”

Shane was laughing on the other end of the line, and Ilya smiled down at the phone, wishing that he were here in the kitchen and Shane could shove him playfully as he sometimes did when Ilya teased him. He would trap Shane against the counter, maybe, and steal a kiss in return, or tease him until his nose wrinkled and Shane kissed him just to shut him up. 

“Kak by mne khotelos', chtoby ty byl zdes',” he said, his voice dropping a register as he tried to hold back everything he was feeling. 

“What does that mean?” Shane murmured, his voice soft, like he knew that Ilya had switched languages to hide just a bit and needed coaxing. 

“I wish you were here,” Ilya admitted, his voice cracking just slightly on the last word. 

“I wish I was, too,” Shane said, immediately and without hesitation. Ilya closed his eyes and wondered if maybe he could be brave for the both of them and say what else he was feeling. 

The words felt lodged in his throat. 

“I have an idea,” Shane said before Ilya could work up the nerve, his voice hesitant. 

“What?” Ilya asked, turning back to the stove and moving the mushrooms to a small bowl so he could sauté the beef next. 

“So, Brooklyn isn’t going to make the playoffs this year, which means I don’t have to be in the city… Rose is coming to visit at the end of April, but what if I came to visit after—while you’re playing? I could stay at a hotel, or something, but I’d be in Boston for when you’re doing home games, and—”

“Yes,” Ilya said, cutting him off. “But you’ll stay here. No hotel.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be in the way.”

“No, I want you here. Okay?”

“Okay.” Ilya could hear the smile in Shane’s voice.

“Okay,” Ilya repeated, smiling right back.

[Photo 1: A group shot of the Scouts at practice, Shane sitting on the boards with his back to the rink, and the entire team arrayed behind him, hands and sticks raised in the air as they cheer. Shane is wearing his new home sweater, with the large A on his chest visible. He seems to be laughing.]

[Photo 2: A candid shot of Shane shaking Joe DiSalvo’s hand in his office, a small smile on Shane’s face. Joe is mid-sentence.]

[Photo 3: Shane is looking down at a tabby cat held in his arms with a surprised look on his face. The cat has put a paw on his jaw.]

[Photo 4: A candid of Shane talking to a group of trainers and doctors in the team gym.]

shane_hollander24 First day with the Scouts! Can’t wait to get out on the ice with the team tomorrow.

77larsholmquist Welcome to the team, Hollzy! Excited to play with you again, the All-Star Game was fun.

scott_hunter_admirals Welcome to New York, Rook!

kacper_the_friendly_goalie Witamy w zespole! Welcome to the team!

vaughnyyyy Looking good, Hollzy! Way to get that A!

joel_schmoel_foster can’t wait to skate with you tomorrow Hollander!

charlie_simon_scouts really annoying Scout the Cat loved you immediately, actually, since she won’t even look at me 😂 welcome to Brooklyn, Shane!

henritetreault38 ravi de vous avoir

ilya_rozanov you got to meet a cat today and didn’t tell me? come on, hollander, that’s important information

↳shane_hollander24 @ilya_rozanovHey, Rozanov, I got to meet a cat today. She’s the unofficial team mascot and her name is Scout. They found her in the practice facility as a kitten.

↳ilya_rozanov @shane_hollander24 I would die for her. @cliff_marly @bostonraidersmlh can we get a team dog?

↳cliff_marly @ilya_rozanov Why are you asking me, I have no control over this.

↳ilya_rozanov @cliff_marly you seem like a man who could “find” a dog for me

↳shane_hollander24 @ilya_rozanov What does that even mean?

Chapter 18: this promise doesn't have to be so loud

Shane was in the press box for the three remaining home games at the end of Brooklyn’s season, sitting with Ava and watching his new team. What surprised him most was the potential he could see from the birds-eye view. Joe had asked him to note down anything he saw.

“We all know you’re a playmaker, Hollander. So make some plays. Tell me what you see,” he’d said at practice the morning before the first game Shane attended.

What he saw was mostly a matter of timing. The team was just slightly out of sync—passing too late, shots taken too early, the defense falling back when they should have pressed. He wrote it all down while Ava tweeted out game updates. Every once in a while she’d laugh at something he muttered and tweet that instead, tagging him every time.

@brooklyn_scouts

“Move, move, move. Or... just stand there like a tree, sure.” — @shane_hollander24

@brooklyn_scouts

“Did @kacper_the_friendly_goalie grow another set of arms? Someone get him in a lab. For science.” — @shane_hollander24

@brooklyn_scouts

“I feel like I look down to write something, and then I look up and I’m watching a different game. What is even happening right now?” — @shane_hollander24

When the regular season ended and the team had—predictably—not made the playoffs, the Scouts started doing the typical retrospectives and strategizing that came at the end of the year. It started out with Joe meeting with every single player on the team, calling them into his office one by one, and getting their thoughts on the season, the team, and any changes they thought the team should make. He did the same with the training, medical, and back-office staff, even though the latter didn’t interact with the players on a daily basis.

Two days later, he called a whole team and support-staff meeting, and went through the things that had stuck out to him. Shane was surprised to see a lot of his suggestions up on the whiteboard at the front of the room, even unattributed. Theriault had never taken feedback, not really. He gave it, usually in a growl or a shout. And this sort of feedback was so different from what he was used to, that he didn’t know how he was meant to react as the team went through the list, which contained everything from ‘we need to work on trusting our linemates are going to be where they should’ (Shane’s feedback) to ‘recommend that every player meet with the team psychologist once a month’ to ‘some of the gym equipment needs to be upgraded.’

Shane kept thinking, in a litany, Brooklyn is weird.

But, he had to admit, Brooklyn also seemed to be significantly less homophobic than Montreal. Shane hadn’t come out to the team, but he hadn’t heard one joke about being a cock-sucker in the three weeks he’d been in the locker room, something that had come up more frequently than he liked to admit while with the Metros, even from his own friends—though most of them had made an effort to stop after Shane came out.

“I think I might soft-launch it,” he told Rose the night she arrived in New York. They were having dinner at his condo, a teriyaki salmon recipe Ilya had sent Shane two weeks previously. The text accompanying it had said, “if you insist on keeping your boring diet, at least add some flavor. good for your brain.” Shane had to admit it was delicious and made eating less of a chore, and Rose seemed to be enjoying it, too.

“Soft-launch what? Your gayness?” she asked before spooning some of the brown rice into her mouth, eyes sparkling with mirth.

“Yeah,” Shane said with a laugh. “Like, not officially come out, but not hide it anymore? You know?”

Rose nodded thoughtfully. “How would one even do that?”

“I don’t know, to be honest, but I have all summer to think about it. And talk about it with Il—” He cleared his throat to stop his own mouth from betraying him.

Rose nearly leapt across the table to grab his arm. “You were going to say a man’s name. You’re dating someone?! And you didn’t tell me?! SHANE! We’re best friends! I have to know!”

“I didn’t ask him if I could!” Shane protested. “We’re not public or anything, and it’s… dangerous for people to know he’s not straight.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Text him right now and ask. If he says no, fine, but come on, I’m already keeping your big gay secret. Plus, with our shopping spree tomorrow, people are going to think we’re dating again. I’m basically your beard.”

Rose stared at him in dumbfounded silence for a full minute she shook herself out of it and pulled out her phone to look up pictures of Ilya, as if she wasn’t one of the biggest hockey fans he knew. “Damn, Hollander, how did you pull him?”

Shane had laughed and shook his head, not even sure what to say to that. He had no idea what Ilya saw in him—they’d never really talked about it with each other. Of course, Shane knew why he wanted Ilya, why he loved Ilya, but he’d never told him either. He’d never told him how his blunt honesty made Shane comfortable, even if Ilya was throwing insults. He’d never told him about getting lost in his eyes, or the rumble of his voice. He’d never told him about how his constant check-ins on Shane’s emotions and boundaries grounded Shane in a way he’d never felt. Or how warm he felt in his arms, how his entire body lit up when Ilya was near. Or how much fun Shane had with him, when hockey and life had stopped being fun a long time ago. He’d never told Ilya that he felt most like himself whenever they were together, as if by some magic, they transformed into their truest selves in each other’s presence.

How did someone even bring that up in conversation?

During a normal year, the playoffs were when Ilya locked in. In years previous, he and Shane had even stopped talking while games were ongoing, at least until one of their teams was knocked out. They needed to focus, and their teams needed them. But it was not a normal year.

Ilya felt himself wanting to win games not to win, but to bring the end of the first round closer so that Shane would be in Boston sooner.

Okay, and to antagonize the little shit center that was on Toronto’s first line. Ilya took great joy in wiping the smirk off Dallas Kent’s whiny weasel face.

“I keep forgetting your name,” he said to Kent when they bent for a face-off during game three. “Some city in the south, yes? Phoenix, maybe?”

“Shut the fuck up, Rozanov.”

“No, no, I know my name. You know yours?”

A little later, at another face-off, Ilya gasped, startling Kent into looking up.

“I remembered. It’s Houston.”

“What the—”

“Your name! We were just talking about it. Is your memory okay?”

Again and again, Ilya pestered the younger player until the smirk of confidence turned into a sneer of disgust. It made Kent a sloppy player, and Boston was up 3-1 in the middle of the third period. Which is why, when Ilya was across from Kent once more, he didn’t feel bad at all for throwing a punch straight at his jaw. It had started like all the rest of the chirping.

“Houston, we have a problem,” Ilya said, smirking.

“Is this you flirting, Rozanov?” Kent spat.

“If I were flirting, you’d know.” Ilya had grinned, ready for the other man to meltdown.

“Is that what you do with Hollander? Heard he’s a fucking fag. Just because he likes your dick—”

Ilya’s vision had gone red with rage, and the next thing he knew, the linesmen were pulling him off Kent and sending him to the penalty box. As he cooled off for five minutes, watching their penalty killer line fend off goals, he realized that Kent likely knew nothing for sure. He had probably just heard the rumors Shane had told him were spreading from the Montreal locker room, and because he and Shane had revealed they were friends at the All-Star Game, Kent was just making connections only a homophobe would make. And he knew it came from actual homophobia, and not the casual cultural milieu of the rest of the league. Ilya couldn’t see Dallas Kent being friends with a gay person, let alone tolerating one in his locker room. It just so happened he’d gotten too close to the truth for Ilya to let it slide.

Ilya was just glad Kent had said it in a face-off; Ilya hadn’t taken the blame for the fight when the referee had heard what was said so clearly.

“What was that, Rozy?” Marly asked after the game, and Ilya had to admit it was a fair question. It wasn’t often he threw the first punch. His chirps were usually harmless, usually unsettling, and didn’t often result in fights. Just frustration.

“He said some shit about my family,” Ilya said, not even needing to lie, really. Girlfriends counted as family for most of the guys—once a girl was a WAG, she was off-limits for chirping. It didn’t matter that nobody knew—could know—about his boyfriend except for Hayden fucking Pike.

“What a little shit-head,” Connors muttered. “And during a playoff series? When we can get him back in two days?”

“No,” Ilya said, making sure his voice carried throughout the room. “No one needs to bother with him. He’ll have that bruise on his face for weeks. It’ll hurt more when he loses to us.”

That elicited some jeering cheers and the team returned to their post-game rituals, Ilya included, starting with picking up his phone.

Boston won the series in six games, for which Ilya was immensely grateful. Going into round two with little to no break was never ideal, and it was still a toss-up whether they’d be playing the Admirals or Detroit next, given that match-up was going to a full seven games.

The morning after game six—when he was back home in Boston—he contacted management to make sure his seats for the next series were still reserved, something he didn’t do often, and usually only for Sveta. Then he ordered in groceries, making sure he had things Shane could eat when he arrived. He’d opted to fly rather than drive, reasoning that he wasn’t likely to go out much even when Ilya was on the road.

Now it was just a matter of waiting; it had never felt more like agony.

Soon though, Rose had boarded her flight back to L.A. and Shane was on his way. Ilya took his most unobtrusive car to the airport, and though the delay between Shane saying he’d landed and his passenger door opening had felt interminable, suddenly he was there and Ilya was breathing him in, and a weight he hadn’t even known he carried lifted off his shoulders.

“Hi,” he murmured, unable to stop his smile from softening.

“Hi,” Shane said back, in the same tone.

“Did I tell you that you have the best ideas?”

“No,” Shane said, “but you did now.”

Ilya pulled away from the passenger pickup area and began navigating home. The minute he didn’t have to deal with the idiots that seemed to congregate around all airports, he slid his hand into Shane’s and pulled it across the center console to hold it in his lap. Shane rolled his head against the headrest and just smiled indulgently, and Ilya wondered if this is what forever felt like.

Chapter 19: and let me hold you, baby, just breathe

Chapter Notes

CW: a depiction of an autistic meltdown in an adult

It was as they were watching game seven of the Admirals’ series that it started. Shane didn’t know how else to describe it, but his skin felt like it was itchy, maybe a bit too small. He tried stretching his fingers out, flexing them into fists and then spreading them, over and over, just to try to make his skin feel settled. It helped for a little bit, but then his brain started buzzing. 

He knew he got like this, he knew what was coming, but it had never happened in front of Ilya, and the thought of him knowing terrified Shane. Realizing that just made it happen faster.

He was tapping his fingers on his thigh and wiggling a foot to try to get the energy out, to stave it off long enough that he could slip away during a commercial break or something, but then Ilya’s phone buzzed on the coffee table, rattling the forks on their abandoned plates from dinner, and the discordant clattering was too much input, just too much.

Shane squeezed his eyes shut, then shot to his feet. Without looking at Ilya directly, he muttered, “I’ll be right back.”

He fled to the main suite, taking the stairs two at a time and nearly jogging the last few steps into the room. He didn’t shut the door—Ilya would hear. Instead he paced the length of the bedroom, back and forth, back and forth, wishing he knew how to work the electric shades so he could escape the fading light filtering through the scattered spring rains a little faster.

His breath shuddered in and out and he started to feel light-headed, so he sat on the foot of the bed, scraping his hands through his hair. It wasn’t enough, so he sunk instead to the floor and pulled his knees into his chest, locking his arms around them and leaning his head back against the mattress and shutting his eyes tight. He tried lightly tapping the back of his head against the edge of the mattress, just to feel something he could control.

It felt like his nerves were on fire. 

This didn’t happen that often anymore—it had been much more common when he was younger—but every once in a while, it was like the world got too loud, or his rhythm was thrown off too much to adapt, or he’d been around too many new people and didn’t know how to act. It just so happened that he’d had all three happening in the last month. When he thought like that, he realized this moment was probably inevitable. 

He only wished he’d gotten it out of the way before he’d come to Boston. 

“Shane?” he heard Ilya say from the doorway.

“I’m okay,” he murmured. “I’m fine.”

He felt it when Ilya squatted in front of him—his body heat, or just the way he changed the air that Shane was breathing.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m fine. Just needed a minute, I’m okay.”

“You don’t look okay,” Ilya said quietly. 

“Just… just freaking out a little bit, I’ll be okay in a minute.” He wouldn’t, it usually took hours to feel centered again, but sometimes he could take five minutes to calm down and then the full-scale breakdown didn’t happen for a while. But it always happened.

“Did I do something?”

Shane shook his head and swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut tighter. “No, um… no, it just… it all hit me. Everything that’s happened. All at once.”

Ilya shifted enough that the sound of his clothes settling made Shane flinch.

“What do you need? What can I do?”

“Nothing, I’m fine. I’m fine, I promise I’m fine. I’m—”

“I know, it’s okay, I know. Just tell me what you need.”

“Can…” Shane swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Can you make it darker in here?”

“Of course,” Ilya murmured and Shane heard him stand and walk around a bit, then the hum of electric blinds shutting. The pressure of light against his lids decreased considerably, and Shane hesitantly opened his eyes. It was nearly pitch black, everything cast in shadow, Ilya a slightly darker shape against the unlit room. “What else?”

Shane trembled and closed his eyes again. “I… I don’t know, I feel like I’ll fall apart if I let go of my legs.”

Ilya was silent for a few beats, then Shane heard him moving again, the sound of a drawer opening, closing. Then the quiet murmur of footsteps over carpet. “Let go, just for a second, solynshko moye. I have got you a thick sweatshirt. It will feel like it’s holding you down, yes?”

Shane swallowed convulsively and slowly loosened his grip on his knees. Ilya handed him the sweatshirt and he pulled it on in jerky movements. He was surrounded by Ilya’s scent in a heartbeat, and the thick fabric settled over him, making him feel as if his skin had finally loosened over his bones. It was sweet relief. “Can you…”

“Anything.”

“Can you help me lay down? I think I need to lay down.”

“Of course. Give me your arm. Yes, there you are. I’m going to pull you up.”

“Okay,” Shane whispered, his voice cracking. This was the part he hated most, the tears he could never hold back, like his body was trying to vent his swirling thoughts in the form of salt water.

Ilya said nothing, just led him to his side of the bed and pulled back the covers so that Shane could slide under them. He laid the duvet back over Shane’s shoulders and, when Shane shifted slightly, tucked it in tighter, as if on instinct. It had been exactly what Shane needed and he felt the first tear slip out at the solace Ilya was giving him.

“Thank you,” he murmured, turning his nose further into the pillow to try to hide the silent trickle of emotions across his cheek. 

“Anything for you,” Ilya whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to the hood covering Shane’s head. “I will be here when you need me. Breathe.”

When he walked out, slowly closing the door until only a sliver of light from the hallway peeked through, Shane quivered against the mattress and let the overwhelm take him under.

Ilya tiptoed away from the bedroom and felt his heart breaking, just a little bit. Part of him had been waiting for something like this. He hadn’t known what it would look like, but given how rigidly Shane controlled his entire life, watching it crumble and having to build it back up was always going to leave some damage. But this—the quiet collapse that he might have missed if Shane hadn’t been right next to him—this was devastating. 

How many times had Shane felt like this and had no one to help him because he hid it so well? 

That thought made Ilya’s breath quaver, because he could remember every time he himself had hidden this sort of vulnerability, though on a smaller scale, many of them from Shane. How many had Shane managed to hide from him?

He muted the tv when he got back to the living room and scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair. He didn’t want to leave Shane alone like this, but he didn’t know if being next to him would even help. When he was upset, he usually wanted to be alone at first, then find comfort. So, he concluded, he would do just that for Shane and they could talk about what he actually needed when he was feeling more like himself. 

Ilya sighed and began tidying the downstairs, starting with their plates from dinner and the mess he’d made of the kitchen, having refused to let Shane clean up behind him. He glanced at the game every once in a while as he set the rooms to rights and shook his head in wonder that the Admirals were holding their own. They’d been the first wildcard team in the conference and were forcing one of the best teams in the Atlantic division into a seven game series. He hated to hand anything to Scott Hunter, but he had turned their season around after a choppy start to the year. Not that he’d ever tell Hunter that to his face, of course.

When the living area was as tidy as he cared to get it, Ilya turned off the tv, unconcerned with who would pull ahead—he could watch highlights in the morning—and snuck back upstairs to check on Shane. He heard only the soft breathing of a man asleep, and decided that meant he could be nearby again. He stole into the room on soft feet and retrieved a pair of clean briefs, slipping into the bathroom in pitch darkness and shutting the door before turning on the light and going through his nighttime routine. 

When he slid beneath the sheets, Shane let out a sleepy murmur and rolled over.

“Shhh, solynshko moye, it’s only me. Sleep. I’m here,” Ilya whispered back. Shane sighed but shifted closer, tucking his head beneath Ilya’s chin and nuzzling at his chest before falling deeper into sleep again. Ilya let out a shaky breath and wrapped his arm around Shane’s waist, tugging him even closer to his side. He pressed his lips against Shane’s hair and breathed out, “Ya lyublyu tebya. I hope you feel it.”

Ilya woke when Shane pulled away. The blinds were still down, so he had no idea as to the time, though there was enough light to see in shades of gray. It felt as though he’d been asleep awhile, so he looked across the pillow at Shane, who had tucked his arms tight around himself again, looking as if he was trying to become as small as possible, his eyes wide and vulnerable in his slightly puffy face.

“I’m sorry,” Shane whispered, his voice hoarse.

“No. Nothing to be sorry for. Are you okay?”

Shane closed his eyes as if pained, but nodded against the pillow. “I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

“I see all of you, solynshko moye,” Ilya whispered. “You do not need to hide.”

Shane said nothing, but even in the weak light, Ilya caught the tears slipping out from beneath Shane’s eyelashes. He reached out and wiped them away with a thumb. Shane’s breath quivered at the light touch, and Ilya felt those cracks in his heart ache again.

“Can I hold you?” he asked. “Please. Do not be alone when I am here.”

Shane’s nod was jerky, but he didn’t move, so Ilya went to him, tugging him into position so that his head was tucked again, his arms sliding around Ilya’s waist, their legs tangling beneath the sheets. Ilya rubbed circles into Shane’s spine, wishing he could feel his skin beneath his hands but not knowing if that would help. 

“It all changed so fast,” Shane whispered after a while. “Everything is different. Some of it’s good, but it’s still…”

“Not what you’re used to,” Ilya offered, and Shane nodded again. “A lot happened. So much. Do you want to go home? Go somewhere you feel safe?”

Shane was shaking his head before Ilya was even done, then lifted his head to look up. “I’m already somewhere I feel safe.”

If Ilya hadn’t been trying to be Shane’s rock, he would have broken down over those simple words himself. As it was, he took a deep breath and murmured, “Good. Do you want to talk about it?”

Shane quirked a sad smile and shook his head. “No, you’ve seen it all anyway. You know. I just want…”

“Anything, Shane.”

“I just want this. Will you just hold me?” 

“Always,” Ilya promised, then again, just to make sure Shane heard him. “Always.”

Chapter End Notes

Ya lyublyu tebya = I LOVE you, versus Ya tebya lyublyu = I love YOU. Emphasis is important <3

Chapter 20: your lips are just like oxygen, I have to breathe you in

“Shanushka! Are you ready to go?” Svetlana called from the front door she’d just opened. Shane smiled into the last sip of his coffee—it might have been after dinner, but his body still wanted more sleep than he’d been giving it in order to recover—and opened the dishwasher. 

“One second!” he called back as he put the mug away, then grabbed his phone and wallet off the counter. He rounded the corner to find Sveta adjusting her hair in the mirror Ilya kept in his entry hall. She had kept her curls loose and had her Rozanov jersey partly tucked into skinny jeans. “You look great.”

“So sweet of you,” she said, kissing him lightly on one cheek. “You look fantastic, too. It’s too bad you can’t wear Ilyusha’s sweater or something.”

“That’s okay,” Shane promised her as he threw a light jacket on and pulled on some shoes Rose had made him buy the week before. “Goes against WAG superstition anyway.”

“Oh, so you’re a WAG now?” she teased as they walked out to her car, something more akin to Ilya’s taste than his own, though he couldn’t have named it. 

“Or something like it, right?” he laughed. She smiled and started the car, filling the cab with quiet pop music that seemed to be a mix of Russian and English-speaking artists. 

“Did you grow up in the States?” he asked when they were on the highway, headed toward the arena. 

“Half of the time, yes. My mother is American, you know. My father met her here, and until he got his ministry position, we spent half the year in both countries. Then I came back for university.”

Shane nodded, trying to picture what that looked like. He was bilingual—trilingual if you counted the Japanese he knew how to speak but not write because of his baachan and jiichan—but only because Ottawa schools required him to learn French. He used it for press conferences with the Metros, so he was grateful to have it as a skill, but he’d never had to live his life entirely in another language. 

“Was it hard?” he asked. 

“Mm, no… no, I don’t think so. I had Ilyusha when I was in Russia, and I had my friends here for school. Maybe just different?”

Shane nodded. He asked her more about Moscow and she asked him about Ottawa, and they spent the entire drive just like that. It felt wonderful to have another friend, Shane thought, even if they were still in the early stages of getting to know one another. 

“I’ll pay for valet,” he insisted as Svetlana got close to the stadium.

“I’ll let you, since I like a gentleman.” She took the bills he handed over and flirted lightly with the 20-something who came to the door to get the keys as they got out. Svetlana wove her arm through Shane’s and led him toward Will Call. There weren’t many fans around yet, since they were there early for warm-ups, but Shane still got a few double takes and whispers and pointing fingers. 

“Two for Vetrova,” Svetlana said at the window, handing over her ID as Shane looked around. 

He’d never been in this part of the Boston arena, and it amused him to no end that there were gigantic banners of Ilya scattered around. He knew it had been the same for him in Montreal, but he’d never had to face them directly. They were just something he’d posed for once. Now he took a photo of one of the banners so he could tease Ilya about it later. 

Sveta looked over his shoulder, holding their tickets in one hand. “Ooo, we should take a selfie for your Instagram stories.”

“Oh, I… I don’t really do anything with my Instagram.”

“Shanuska, you are so boring,” Svetlana said in a scarily-accurate imitation of Ilya’s cadence. “Here, give me the phone.”

He handed it over with a shake of his head and let her maneuver him so that their backs were to the banner, and Ilya’s face was looming over their heads. She held the phone slightly above them, then stood on tip-toe to press a kiss to Shane’s cheek just before she captured the photo. 

“Don’t forget to tag me in it,” she said in a sing-song tone, and Shane snorted out a laugh. 

He looked down and went to his Instagram app. He opted for a simple caption—‘Going to watch some friends play my favorite game with @svetlana_vetrova tonight!’—then he tucked the phone in his pocket again. He put an arm around Sveta’s shoulder and let her lead the way.

Boston and New York spilled out onto the ice for warm-ups a few minutes after they’d found their seats, and Sveta immediately stood. “Come on, Shanuska, I always meet him at the glass for luck.”

Shane followed, glad he had an excuse to get closer. Ilya nodded at them from across the rink and then skated over, already grinning. Sveta kissed her hand and pressed it to the glass by his head when he slid to a stop, icing the boards. He did the same with his glove, then looked at Shane, eyes dancing. He had to shout to be heard through the glass. “What, Hollander, no kiss for me?”

“You wish, Rozanov,” Shane shouted back, but lifted the side of his fist to the glass so Ilya could do the same and got one of his favorite smirks before Ilya skated back to the center of the rink to get into his warm-up routine. 

As they were climbing back up to their seats, he heard someone shout, “HOLLZY!” and turned to see Carter at the center line, grinning like a madman and raising his stick in greeting. Shane lifted his own hand, smiling, and watched as Carter called Scott over to point him out to his captain. Shane waved a second time when Scott spotted him. When Scott waved him down to the glass again, this time on their side of the rink, Shane excused himself from Svetlana and went over, glad the arena was still relatively empty so he wouldn’t get swamped. It wasn’t like that many Boston fans would want to bother him anyway, other than with chirps, but he was still grateful for it.

He repeated the side-fist bump through the glass with both of them, then shouted to them, “Want a picture?”

“Duh,” Vaughny shouted, then pulled Scotty into a companionable headlock as Shane took a picture of the two of them, then turned and captured a selfie with them both. 

“What are you doing in Boston?” Scott yelled.

“Later! Go warm up, you’re gonna need it.”

Carter pressed a hand to his chest like Shane had wounded him, but laughed and Scott rolled his eyes as they skated backwards to join their team. Shane chuckled as he made his way back to Svetlana, adding the second picture to his stories, too, because he might as well lean into using it. He sent the pair of pictures to the group chat with Vaughny and Scotty just as he settled in his seat with Sveta, smiling down at her as she leaned her head on his shoulder briefly.

Then she launched into an analysis of all the players based on how they were moving through their warm-ups, because of course she had that information in her head, and Shane felt like maybe he’d been claimed by someone who cared about hockey as much as he did.

Feeling Shane’s attention on him was intoxicating, Ilya decided, as the third period wound down with the score having just been tied by a goal from Vaughn. He found himself having to force his focus to stay on the game when he was on the bench, or he’d catch himself staring over toward his seats, seeking Shane’s notice. 

When he bent for the next face-off across from Hunter, he could feel Shane’s eyes like a comforting weight on his shoulders and couldn’t help the cheeky smile he shot across the circle. “Who you think he’s cheering for?”

Scott rolled his eyes, but grinned. “We both know the answer to that, Rozanov.”

“At least you’re not losing your mind in your old age,” Ilya said just before the puck dropped. 

It was a rough end of the period, but Hammersmith hit the top shelf off an assist from Ilya thirty seconds before the final buzzer and the home crowd went wild. The second line managed to keep the Admirals from scoring, and game one of the series was over. 

“Saw Hollander came to watch with Svetlana,” Connors said in the locker room as the team was getting dressed in their suits again. “They dating now?”

“No, just friends, since the All-Star Game,” Ilya said, doing up the cuffs on his shirt. 

“So, he came all the way to Boston just to hang out with her and he’s not even dating her?” Marly asked. “Sure, Roz. He’s coming to steal your girl.”

“Sveta’s not my girlfriend either, Marly,” Ilya said. “You have no friends who are girls? Sad.”

“Isn’t he dating Landry again anyway?” Connie added after he’d finished laughing. “I don’t see Hollander having a side-piece, let alone taking her out in public.”

Ilya grinned, because though Connie was right about Shane’s personality, he was so off the mark in other ways it was absurd. “No, no, he was just bored in New York since he didn’t make playoffs this year. Wanted to come watch some good hockey.”

“Sure, dude,” Marly said, making a face as if he didn’t believe a word Ilya said. Ilya just shrugged and put his suit jacket on. 

“Great game, I love you! We will do it again in two days!” he shouted to the entire locker room before heading out to his car. No point in lingering when everything he’d ever wanted was at the other end of a short drive. 

Sveta’s car was already gone by the time he got home and Ilya practically ran to the front door. When he’d keyed in the code and shoved the door open, he dropped his bag, looked up, and saw Shane leaning against the end of the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his simple gray sweater and that small teasing smile flirting over his lips. Ilya didn’t hesitate, he just closed the distance in three strides and lifted Shane up onto the counter, taking his lips like they were his oxygen. 

“Hi,” Shane murmured against him as he worked Ilya’s tie off and shoved at his jacket. 

“Mm,” was all Ilya managed in reply before his hands were halfway under Shane’s sweater and words were lost to both of them. 

“You remember the first thing you said to me?” Ilya asked when they were curled up in bed an hour later, drifting toward sleep. 

“Sort of, why?” Shane murmured, his face half-buried in the pillow and his fingers tangled in Ilya’s curls. 

“Am I still an awesome player to watch?” Ilya kept his voice light, wanting to tease as much as he wanted the answer. 

“Shut up, you know you are. Sexy as fuck to watch you win,” Shane mumbled, his breathing deeper as if he were falling to sleep without realizing the effect he’d had on Ilya, who felt as though his body was glowing with the compliment. 

“Shane Hollander, you think I’m sexy?” 

“Obviously. How do you think we got in this mess?”

Ilya breathed out a laugh and leaned forward to kiss Shane’s forehead. “You’ve never called me sexy before.”

“I haven’t?” Shane seemed genuinely confused, his eyes fluttering open to search Ilya’s face. “Well, you are. A sexy, gorgeous asshole.”

Ilya laughed again. “I will take it, solynshko moye. As long as I am your sexy, gorgeous asshole.”

“Mm, definitely mine,” Shane whispered, nodding against the pillow. His eyelids seemed to weigh too much for him to keep open and his hand flexed in Ilya’s curls. 

“And you are my boring, beautiful man,” Ilya breathed. 

“Yours,” Shane agreed. “Always yours.”

Chapter 21: love me to my bones

Game two of the series—and everything surrounding it—went pretty much exactly the same as game one had, though the Admirals managed to win at the last second instead. Playing Hunter was like playing a man possessed, and it was infecting the entire New York lineup. If Ilya had to bet, he’d say this series would be going until game seven and he honestly didn’t know who would come out the winner.

“You could leave stuff here,” Ilya said as Shane packed to return to New York. If Detroit had made it to round two, Shane had been planning to stay in Boston while Ilya was on the road, but since it was the Admirals, he’d decided to follow Ilya for the entire series. Why not, when his condo was right there?

“You’d be okay with that?” Shane asked, looking up from his suitcase. 

“Of course,” Ilya said, shrugging as if his heart wasn’t pounding, hoping for a return offer. 

“Then you should pack stuff like you’re staying, too,” Shane said. “Whatever you want to leave in New York.”

He should have known not to doubt Shane, but it was still hard to believe they were… this. Whatever it was. Ilya looked down at what he’d already packed, and hefted his shave kit, thinking. “Would it be okay to order things to your condo? I don’t have duplicates like some people.”

Shane laughed as he set his travel toiletry kit aside to put it back in the bathroom. “Duplicates are just good sense, you know. Order whatever you need.”

Ilya leaned over to press a kiss to his shoulder. “Thank you, Shanya.”

Shane looked up. “Is that another diminutive?”

Ilya nodded. “Your name is not Russian, you know, so I have been trying to make one up.”

“You can just make them up?”

“Mm, sometimes? Is hard to explain. Most names just have them. Like Ilyusha, Ilyushenka, Ilyukha for me. Sveta, Svetochka, Svetulia for Svetlana. But if someone has a name that isn’t common, you have to make your own. There are rules to it, but hard to explain that, too.”

“Huh,” Shane said, thinking about that as he unpacked almost everything he’d just packed, staring down at it all like he couldn’t figure out what to take and what to leave.

“You also don’t have to leave anything here,” Ilya murmured, stilling his hands.

“I want to,” Shane said immediately. “I just don’t know what…”

“Then let it happen naturally, solynshko moye. Maybe you forget a pair of jeans one time or a book another. Do not worry, okay?”

“Okay,” Shane whispered, and began folding clothes again. Ilya kissed the ball of his shoulder again and walked to his closet to finish packing for the road.

When game three in New York ended with a Boston loss and Ilya’s ribs fractured from a check into the boards by Matti Jalo, he had never been more grateful for somewhere other than the team hotel to rest. Especially because it meant Shane fussing over him. Ilya was dutifully replacing one ice-pack with another as he lay on the couch while Shane made a post-game meal in the kitchen, promising it wouldn’t be boring. He’d put on a movie—something where things blew up, of course—tucked Ilya under a blanket, and then disappeared. Whatever he was cooking smelled amazing, so Ilya was content to wait. 

Sveta came down from one of the guest rooms and settled onto the couch, lifting Ilya’s legs into her lap so she could massage his calves. Shane had asked her to come along with him to the New York games, too, an obligation with which Ilya had never wanted to burden her, but Shane had told him to stop being stupid. 

“She’s your family, you idiot. Of course she should go to all of your games if she can. And she can,” he’d said, looking so much like an angry kitten that Ilya couldn’t help but fold. He had to admit, it was nice to know his family was in the stands even when he wasn’t at home.

“Dinner’s ready,” Shane called from the kitchen before appearing with two large bowls in hand. He passed one to Svetlana first, and waited for Ilya to sit up to hand him his own.

“Shanushka, did you make zharkoye?” Sveta asked in wonder, speaking for both of them.

“Well, I tried. We’ll see how you like it before we call it that, okay?” Shane said, blushing before he turned back to retrieve his bowl from the kitchen. He settled in next to Ilya on the couch with it, and looked over at them. “Well? Tell me how I did.”

Ilya took his first bite and let out a low moan as his head fell back against the couch. Shane had stewed beef, potatoes, parsnips, and other vegetables into what was the equivalent of a warm hug from a loving babushka and offered it over like it was nothing special. “Is perfect, Shanya.”

“Really?” he asked, looking over at Sveta, who nodded around a mouthful. “Oh, good. I was worried. It seemed too easy.”

Sveta laughed. “You were in the kitchen for an hour and it seemed too easy?”

Shane shrugged, blushing again. “Well, tonkatsu ramen would take me days to get everything prepped, so I figured…”

“Days?” Ilya asked, staring at him open-mouthed.

“Yeah, I mean… the broth takes a day on it’s own. I guess you could cook the pork belly at the same time, but we usually don’t. We tend to make large batches of everything and freeze it so we can have ramen more often.”

“You do this with your mom?” Sveta asked. 

“And my dad. He’s the cook in the family, but he learned how from my baachan after he married my mom. Now it’s a whole family thing.”

“That’s wonderful, Shanushka,” Sveta whispered, awed. “But no, this is simpler. Peasant food, really. Makes it more comforting, I think.”

Ilya just nodded, taking another bite, as they continued to talk about food. It was warming him from the inside out, and not just because of the temperature of the food. 

Farah Jalali

Need a Statement about Playoff Appearance

To: shanehollander@gmail.com

CC: yuna.hollander@gmail.com

Hey Shane,

Hope your shoulder and your head are back to normal! We need to draft a statement about what, exactly, you’re doing at the Boston v New York games. You’ve broken the hockey-internet again, and I’m fielding calls from journalists about it. Are you planning to attend all of them? I can write something up if you want to go the “no comment” route, but it might be better to actually address rumors. 

A sampling of the questions I’ve been getting:

- Is Shane publicly cheating on Rose Landry?

- Is Shane dating Svetlana Vetrova, daughter of a Boston legend?

- Is Shane planning a second trade to Boston? To New York?

- How does Brooklyn feel about Shane showing support for another team?

Plus whatever you’ve done to the women of hockey Twitter—they’re wondering if you’re cheating on Hayden.

Let me know,

Farah

Shane Hollander

Re: Need a Statement about Playoff Appearance

To: farah.jalali@mpsmarketing.com

CC: yuna.hollander@gmail.com

Farah,

Of course I’m not cheating on Hayden. Jackie would never forgive me.

Let’s just go with the truth? I’m attending the games because some of my best friends are playing each other this round. Of course I’m going to go if I can, especially since some of them don’t have family nearby to cheer them on. It’s just easier this year because of the move to New York. Svetlana and Rose are both just friends.

Something like that.

Thank you,

Shane

Farah Jalali

Re: Need a Statement about Playoff Appearance

To: shanehollander@gmail.com

CC: yuna.hollander@gmail.com

Hey Shane,

How’s this? We’ll ignore the questions about your love life—they don’t need that information anyway. 

Shane is attending the New York v. Boston games because some of his best friends are playing in this series. He wants to show support for them, especially as he’s in the area this year due to the trade to Brooklyn. He wants the focus turned back to Boston and New York, who are having great seasons and putting on excellent games for the fans.

Short and to the point.

Farah

Shane supposed he should have guessed going to all the Boston-New York games would elicit questions. He just hadn’t expected to break the hockey-internet, as Farah had said. He supposed he had been getting more attention on his Instagram and Twitter since Svetlana had started pestering him to use the former, and Ava had started tagging him on the latter for Brooklyn games.

“I will just tell the world that you are being a very good boyfriend and coming to cheer me on,” Ilya teased after Shane showed him the statement Farah had drafted. “Much more simple.”

“Don’t you dare,” Shane started before he realized Ilya was smirking like the menace he was. “Shut up.”

Ilya laughed and then gripped his side, grumbling about stupid ribs. Even with a rib strap and a flak jacket during game four, he was struggling with the pain. Shane would have ripped into him about playing hurt, but he knew he would’ve done the same if he were in the playoffs. 

They were both headed to Boston that evening; Ilya was going with his team on their plane while Shane was opting to drive up with Svetlana. No one had accosted him in the airport—yet—but he didn’t feel like dealing with the public if he really had broken the internet. 

And so it went for games five and six, with the both of them leaving more and more things at each other’s houses each time they departed. Shane had caved and bought duplicates of some of his favorite clothes so he could leave them in Boston, much to Ilya’s amusement, but at least he knew he’d always be comfortable. 

When game seven ended in the Raiders losing, Shane was there to hold Ilya through his disappointment. 

“I wanted to win,” Ilya grumbled as Shane put an ice-pack on his ribs again.

“I know,” Shane said. “You did great—I mean you were playing injured, and it’s been a rough year, so there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Still wanted to win, Hollander.”

“I know, Rozanov, let me comfort you.”

“You know how to comfort me,” Ilya teased. 

“And you know you can’t move without hurting yourself.”

“So don’t make me move.” Ilya shrugged and then hissed. Shane rolled his eyes, but then kissed Ilya. 

A little later, lying in bed with the night cloaked around them, Shane took a deep breath, trying to gather courage. 

“What’s wrong?” Ilya mumbled, his hand coming up automatically to comb through the hair at the nape of Shane’s neck. 

“What now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, your season is done, right? Just a week or two until Boston lets you go for the summer. And my season is done, but I’m staying down in New York for a bit to find a house, hopefully before the MLH Awards, though I don’t know if I’m going, I was thinking of going up to my cottage early instead since I’m not up for any awards, and… well, what now?”

Ilya continued petting his hair, his breathing steady, his voice clearer, as if he were waking up despite his exhaustion from the game. “What do you want to do?”

Shane took another deep breath. “I want you there. For all of it. I always want you with me.”

Ilya’s breath shuddered out. “You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Shane whispered. “You’re like the only thing I’m sure about now.”

Ilya was silent for a long moment, and then Shane felt a tremor course through his body and a ragged breath get sucked in. 

“Hey,” he said, sitting up and flicking his lamp on before rolling over to cup Ilya’s face. “Hey, what did I say?”

Ilya shook his head, and Shane saw the sheen of tears in his eyes before he was being rolled onto his back and Ilya was pinning him to the bed, pressing kisses to his face, neck, shoulders, wherever he could reach. He was murmuring something. “Ya tebya lyublyu, ya lyublyu tebya, ya tebya lyublyu.”

“What’s that? Ya tebya…” Shane whispered, his hands digging into Ilya’s shoulder blades to hold him close. Ilya froze, his eyes shut tight and his forehead pressed against Shane’s. 

“I love you,” he admitted, his voice soft and hoarse and filled with so many emotions that Shane would have felt incapable of parsing if he weren’t frozen in shock, his eyes raking over Ilya’s face. His eyes fluttered opened; Shane read fear in them and realized he’d been dumbstruck for too long. 

“I love you, too,” he said. “So much. So much it scares me.”

“Fuck,” Ilya whispered before collapsing onto Shane’s chest. “Fuck, Shanya.”

“Does it feel like agony for you, too?” Shane asked into Ilya’s hair. 

“It did,” Ilya murmured. “Not anymore.”

Shane nodded and held him tighter. “How did we let this happen?”

Ilya let out a watery laugh. “We both like being bad.”

Shane smiled and pressed a kiss to Ilya’s forehead, then another. “Can you say it again in Russian, please?”

Ilya lifted a hand and pointed at himself. “Ya,” then at Shane, “tebya,” and then let his hand drop to Shane’s heart, “lyublyu.”

Chapter 22: home is everywhere we go

Chapter Notes

“All right, honey, are you ready to go?” Yuna called from the front of the condo in Brooklyn. Shane was back in New York while Ilya was finishing his season up in Boston, doing retrospectives and whatever else his team dictated before they let the players go for the summer. After the emotional turmoil of the night following Boston being knocked out, they’d decided that Shane should go home—or, rather, to the rental—and start looking at houses with his mom, so he could feel settled in New York before he went to the cottage over the summer.

Ilya had promised to join him the minute he was released.

“Yeah!” he called back, grabbing the to-go cups of coffee he’d prepared for them both. They’d lined up five showings in one day with a real estate agent his mom had found and vetted, and Shane was bracing for an exhausting marathon.

He’d been right to.

“Every house we looked at was either so big I’d get lost in it, or too close to the neighbors for actual privacy, or there was the one where the garage was in the kitchen.”

“What?” Ilya asked that night on the phone. “What does that even mean?”

“I mean the garage was just big enough for a single car, and the walls were actually windows, and you could see into the garage from the kitchen,” Shane said, pouring his mom some wine in the kitchen so she could have it during the second period of the Admirals game.

“What the fuck is wrong with people?” Ilya muttered. “Send me the link to that one, I want to see.”

Shane laughed and told him to wait, then pulled his phone down so he could send the right link. “You have to do the 3D tour thing to see it. The photos all conveniently crop that angle out.”

“Of course they do,” Ilya said. “Who would buy a house with the garage in the kitchen?”

“So anyway, the real estate agent is gathering more options for me to look at soon. How’s end of season stuff?”

“Same as usual. Meetings and nutrition plans and exercises, you know.”

“I know. I miss you. I can’t wait until you’re here again.”

“Soon, solynshko moye. Now, go spend time with your mom.”

“I love you,” Shane murmured, still in awe that he could do that.

“I love you, too,” Ilya returned immediately. “Talk tomorrow?”

“Of course. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Shanya.”

Shane went back into the living room, carrying his mom’s wine and a ginger ale.

“How is Ilya?” she asked as he handed over the wine glass.

“He’s good. Doing season wrap stuff. The trainers are giving him exercises he can do with his rib fracture.”

“I knew it was a rib fracture. I told your dad it was.”

“How did you know?”

“He wasn’t moving the same, I don’t know. If he hadn’t gotten hurt, I think we’d be watching him play right now.”

“Me too,” Shane agreed, settling further into the couch. 

“But now… I think the Admirals are going to win the Cup,” Yuna said, tilting her head a bit as she watched Eric Bennett block a shot by Philadelphia on screen. 

“Why?”

“I don’t know, but I think it’s Scott Hunter’s year.”

“I’ll tell him you said so,” Shane laughed.

“Don’t you dare, you know he’d kill you for jinxing it. Have you hung out much since the move?”

“Just once, with Carter Vaughn, too. Then they were heads down trying to keep that wildcard spot. I’m sure we’ll hang out more after.”

Three days later, Shane had seen four more houses—none of them the one—and bought Scott’s extra friends-and-family seats for game three so he could cheer from the crowd with his mom. He figured it’d be weird to show up to the Boston matches and not continue the tradition through the rest of the games. Plus he got to meet Kip.

“You must be Shane,” Kip said with a warm smile as Shane and Yuna slid into the row with them.”This is my friend Elena.”

“Nice to meet you,” Shane said to both. “This is my mom, Yuna. She’s down here helping me find a house.”

“Or trying!” Yuna put in as she shook hands with both Kip and Elena. 

Normally, Shane would have had trouble relaxing around someone new, but with the game and the fact that he and Kip shared similar secrets, it was a lot easier, and Shane felt like he might gain another set of friends if they kept hanging out.

Game three put the Admirals with a win on the board, bringing the record to 2-1 for Philadelphia, and you’d think by the noise level at the final buzzer, New York already won the Cup. The entire city seemed to be holding its breath; this was the furthest the Admirals had gotten in the playoffs in nearly a decade.

When they got back to the condo, there were lights on that hadn’t been when they left, and Shane had to stop himself from running up the stairs to the front door. As it was, he stumbled into the kitchen nearly breathless to find Ilya preparing a small snack. “You’re home.”

Ilya’s smile bloomed slowly. “Da, lyubimyy. I’m home.”

“Ilya!” Yuna said as she followed Shane into the kitchen. “How was the flight?”

“It was good. Short. How was the game?”

“Excellent. We met some of Scott Hunter’s friends. They were nice, weren’t they, Shane?” Yuna said, moving to the fridge to get a glass of water.

“Yeah, really nice. Kip and Elena. You’ll meet them when we go to game four.”

“We’re going to game four?” 

“If you want,” Shane hedged. “I was planning on it, but we don’t have to.”

“No, no, it sounds fun,” Ilya said quickly. 

“I’m off to bed. Night, boys,” Yuna said before pulling Shane into a hug, then turning to Ilya and giving him the same treatment. Shane watched the bafflement turn to heartache on Ilya’s face and smiled softly. 

“Night, mom, see you in the morning,” Shane said as Ilya watched her go, struck silent by the hug. 

Shane moved in then, trapping Ilya against the counter and slipping his arms around Ilya’s waist. He pressed a kiss to the back of his shoulder.

“She just… hugged me,” Ilya murmured, staring off after her still.

“Of course,” Shane said. “I love you, so she loves you.”

“Just like that?” 

“Just like that,” Shane said, nodding and peppering kisses to whatever skin he could reach. 

“Vaughny,” Scott said, reaching out to tap him with his glove. When he didn’t turn right away, he did it harder. “Vaughny!”

“What, what, what happened?” Carter turned around quickly and looked where Scott was pointing. 

“Oh, Kip’s here! Hi, Kip!” Carter called, waving. “Such a cute name, hits me every time.”

“No, next to him,” Scott corrected. 

“Is that… Rozanov?”

“That is Rozanov. And Hollzy. Here. Together.” Scott watched as Roz leaned in to murmur something in Shane’s ear, that little shit-eating grin already on his face. Shane’s eyes found them on the ice, and then he smiled and waved, nudging Kip to wave, too.

“I am so confused right now,” Carter mumbled, awestruck. 

Scott watched as Ilya said something that made Elena throw her head back in a laugh he swore he could feel, and Kip and Shane both tried to control their own laughter. “Ugh, he’s making fun of me. I just know it.”

“Someone told me chirping is Roz’s love language,” Carter offered.

“That might make it worse.”

They watched game five of the series from the couch. The Admirals had tied the series up to two wins each in game four and were back in Philadelphia for game five. Shane could have gone, Ilya could have probably gone with him, but they’d opted to stay home, to stay with each other instead. Yuna had gone back up to Ottawa—saying she wanted to give them time alone—and so it was just the two of them, relaxed back against the corner of the sectional, with Shane leaning into Ilya as they scrolled through house listings for the entire New York City area on Shane’s laptop looking for comparison homes for the real estate agent.

“I have a crazy idea,” Ilya said in the middle of the second period.

“What? Crazier than a garage in the kitchen?”

“Mm, no. Not that crazy,” Ilya admitted. “I know I suggested out on the island more, but… what if you stayed in Brooklyn?”

Shane looked up at him. “Why?”

Ilya pressed a kiss to his forehead, unable to stop himself, then leaned back. “You like privacy, yes? You could get lost in the crowd in the city, just another person. And you’re closer to Old Man Hunter and Vaughn and Kip and his friends, but not so close they just pop by whenever they want. You have more restaurant options, for when you don’t want to cook but still need to fit your diet. Close to the airport, close to the other teams.”

Shane nodded against Ilya’s shoulder, weighing all of those thoughts. “And I don’t hate it like I thought I would. Manhattan would be the death of me, but it’s not as loud in this part of the city… I’m not saying yes, but maybe we look at what’s out there for Brooklyn and see if we like any of them?”

“We? Hollander, it’s your house.”

“It’ll be yours, too, I want you to like it.”

“Lyubimyy,” Ilya managed before he had to kiss Shane again, unable to express what that simple sentence had done to him.

“I told you I want you here,” Shane whispered. “Did you not believe me?”

“I did. I am just not used to it yet,” Ilya murmured back, before turning back to the laptop and messing with filters until the results were all in Brooklyn. They scrolled through, pointing out things they liked, and things they didn’t about the options, but a few of them ended up in tabs to send to the real estate agent to get viewings scheduled. 

“You’ll come with?” Shane asked as he put the laptop on the coffee table and snuggled back in to watch the third period.

“If you want me there, I’ll come with,” Ilya promised. 

Ilya wondered if Shane regretted that when they were wandering through brownstones together and Ilya kept up a running commentary on the owners’ decorating choices and—when the real estate agent was out of ear shot—ideal sex spots. 

“Seriously, who in Brooklyn hangs a moose head on the wall of the dining room, Hollander?” Ilya asked as they left the second-to-last showing. 

“These people, apparently,” Shane laughed. “I liked that one, but there were so many living rooms. Who needs that many living rooms?”

“People who hunt moose apparently,” Ilya muttered as they began walking to the next showing only a few blocks away, the real estate agent leading the way. She’d stopped trying to interrupt their commentary two houses ago. 

“I like this street,” Shane mused as they got closer to the last house. Ilya nodded his agreement; there were established trees that almost entirely shaded the road, and there was an air of quiet that some of the other streets had lacked.

When the agent let them in, telling them she’d let them explore for a bit before she joined them to answer questions, Ilya took one look at Shane’s face and knew they’d found it. He said nothing, just wandered through every room, his fingertips trailing on the moulding or the counters, his shoulders relaxed, and his eyes taking in every detail. Ilya had to admit he felt it too—the peace emanating from the walls. 

When Shane was leaning on the railing of the rooftop terrace, Ilya slid in next to him, careful not to touch him in case anyone was looking too closely. “You fit here, solynshko moye.”

“Really?” Shane asked. “Because I was picturing you in every room.”

“I’m so handsome, I fit in any room,” Ilya teased, and Shane knocked his shoulder against him.

“Shut up,” he muttered. “You know what I meant.”

“I know what you meant. Now, go ask three hundred questions, Mr. Real Estate. I know you have them.”

Shane got the call before they walked into Madison Square Garden the next day for game six; the offer on the brownstone had been accepted. He’d get the keys in 30 days. And then they stood alongside Kip and Elena and watched Scott and Carter secure their spot in the finals.

Chapter End Notes

Y'all have officially caught up to how much I had written, so I might need a few days to get a backlog built up again. We'll see how it goes, but if you want to keep up to date, I'm over on threads being chaotic as hell.

Chapter 23: let's just live in the afterglow

Scott woke up to an empty bed and the sound of movement muffled by the bedroom door. He sat up slowly, every muscle in his body aching and his head feeling like he’d filled it with cotton. He’d felt the post-season hangover before—so dehydrated and worn down that everything hurt—but this was next level. Twenty games under his belt and he wasn’t even done. 

Heaving a deep breath into his lungs, he decided he needed a hot shower to wake up, and then he’d go find out what Kip was doing in the kitchen when he should be in class. He managed to stumble into the bathroom and warm the water, then let the spray pound into his shoulders like it would do anything to loosen his muscles.

When he finally emerged from their room in joggers and a sweatshirt, he found it wasn’t Kip in the kitchen, but rather his dad.

“George?” 

“Scott! Glad you’re up. Sit, sit, I made you breakfast. Kip had to go to school but he’ll be back before his shift.”

“What…” Scott started, staring in awe as he sat down on one of the barstools. George slid a bowl of whipped cottage cheese—to bypass Scott’s texture aversion—topped with berries and granola, then a plate of scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast, and chicken sausage across the counter.

“Recovery food.”

“But… why are you here? Doing this?”

“Where else would I be? You need someone to take care of you, Kip has school and work… here I am.”

Scott blinked at him open-mouthed, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. 

“Eat, son,” George insisted. “Kip told me how to make your smoothie, that’s coming up next.”

“Thank you, George, this is… this is amazing.” Scott said, pulling the plate closer first.

“Anything for my boys,” George said before turning around to figure out how to work the blender. Scott was never more grateful for a smidgen of privacy than in that moment. 

He sniffed once to hold back his emotions, then tucked in. When the first bite hit his tongue, his body remembered it was absolutely ravenous, and suddenly he was inhaling the food as fast as he could. George slid his smoothie and a large tumbler of water over the counter with a smile, then turned back to the fridge, pulling out chicken breast Scott wasn’t even aware he’d had. 

“What’s that for?” Scott asked when he’d cleared the plate and tugged the cottage cheese closer. 

“Going to grill it for wraps for lunch for the next few days. And for dinner, you’re doing salmon, brown rice, and broccoli with lemon and herbs.”

“George, I can’t ask you to do all this.”

“You’re not asking. Recovery food, remember?”

Scott nodded and smiled. “Thank you, I… you don’t know what this means.”

“I think I do, Scott,” George said, patting the chicken breast with paper towels to dry it. “Oh, you should invite Carter over for lunch and dinner. Kip said he’s got no family in the city either?”

“No, he doesn’t. You want to cook for Carter, too?”

“We already worked it into the meal plan, son.”

Carter came over for lunch, looking as run down as Scott felt, and stared in awe at the food George kept putting in front of them. The wraps were stuffed with vegetables and came with a side of potato wedges. He made them drink small cups of milk and then water, then piled a tray full of fruit and vegetables to snack on throughout the afternoon.

“You’re both going for a walk while you digest, and then down for naps,” he ordered, and Carter looked over at Scott in wonder.

“George, how do you know all of this?” Scott finally asked. It was like having one of the team’s trainers in his house, making sure he recovered enough to handle the finals without wanting to collapse by game seven. Scott knew George had studied history at school and was currently working as a high school teacher, so it didn’t quite add up.

“Just did some research. I love a good research project. Kip, too, you know,” George shrugged. “Then I decided I’d take today off of work to get you some food whipped up to tide you over until the weekend, because Kip couldn’t get more time off what with all the games he’s been going to.”

“This is too much,” Scott said. 

“No, it’s not. This is family,” George said firmly. “Now go take that walk, boys. Bring your waters. I don’t want to see you back here for at least half an hour.”

“I think I’m in love with Kip’s dad,” Carter said when they left the apartment.

Scott nodded. “Reasonable, I think.”

Shane managed to find a contractor and a designer before the finals started and it felt like a miracle. The contractor even had an architect friend he called in to meet with them. He wanted the new house to be ready by the time the regular season started in the fall, and he knew these things took time. They were set up in the dining room of the condo, with the current plans for the brownstone laid out, and some vellum laid out over top so the architect—Ben—could sketch out their ideas as they spoke.

Ilya had made himself scarce, which made Shane a bit melancholy. He wanted the brownstone to feel like their home. They had talked about the changes they’d envisioned together, but it still didn’t feel right. 

“Let’s dive in, shall we?” Shonna, the designer, said, kicking off the meeting. “Shane, you like modern, clean lines, natural lighting. The house has a lot of that already, but any changes we make will stick to that, right?”

Shane nodded. “And there’s not much we—I want to change really, just a few things to better suit our—my life. I’ve got a list, should we just…”

“Absolutely,” Shonna nodded. “Start us off.” 

Shane leaned over the table, running his eyes over the architectural plans until he oriented himself. “Going from the basement up, first things first… I need a bigger gym. I don’t see the need for a separate family room down there, so I was thinking we might knock out this wall between the existing gym and the bigger area—if that’s possible of course.”

Ben leaned in and examined the plans. “I don’t see that being a problem, it doesn’t appear to be a load-bearing wall, but we’ll check before we start.”

Ben drew surprisingly straight lines and neat block letters on the vellum overlaying the drawings and then gestured for Shane to continue. “Hit me with the wishlist, I’ll see what we can do about all of it.”

“Oh, um, yeah. Okay.” Shane continued, going down his list, and watching Ben nod along as he continued drawing. Marcus, the general contractor, just watched, arms crossed over his chest and a furrowed brow as Ben marked up the plans. 

“That it?” Marcus asked when Shane trailed off. 

“Uh, yeah, that’s everything.” 

“Not bad. Biggest change will be the basement level, but you know that. Coupla months, maybe, if everything goes right, and it never goes right. You get the keys in…?”

“About three weeks. I can stick around for a bit, but then we’re—I’m back up in Canada for the summer.”

“You trust Shonna and I to be your eyes and ears while you’re outta the country?”

“Sure. There’s always video calls, right?”

Marcus laughed from the bottom of his belly, a deep sound that made Shane smile. “Right. Alright, Mr. Hollander, I think we can do this. Best case timeline is we’re done by September. Worst case is December. I know you want the house finished before your season starts—go Scouts, by the way—so we’ll try, but there’s always delays.”

“As long as the place is livable by September, I can adjust,” Shane promised. “There’s always the gym at Southwell.”

“And I will make sure the place is livable,” Shonna promised. “Ben, how long to draw it up and get it approved by the city?”

“About two weeks in the best circumstances. Say a month for safety.”

“Perfect,” Shonna said, flipping to a free page in her notebook and writing down the dates they’d been tossing out. “Shane, you and I will walk through the house when it’s empty, talk about each space, but we can also start on that after these boys get out of here. We’ll work on the main suite and the living areas first, then fill in the guest areas, then finish out the gym last. It’ll take a little longer if I’m sending samples to Canada, but, by my estimate, we can have most of house furnished by September and totally finished right along the December timeline.”

“That sounds great, thanks.”

“Okay, boys, anything else?” Shonna asked Marcus and Ben, who both shook their heads. “Then you can head out, I’ll work with Shane on the details.”

They took their leave, shaking hands over the table and promising him they’d be in touch. Then it was just Shane and Shonna in the room together. 

“Okay, Shane, details. Let’s start with the feel of the house; colors and the like,” Shonna said, pulling out her tablet and setting it up in front of him. “I’ve got a few inspiration boards, take a look…”

Shane turned his gaze to the screen and stared at the amalgamation of colors and textures for a second before shaking his head. “Hang on I… I can’t make this decision alone.”

“What do you mean?” Shonna asked, her natural curls bouncing slightly as she tilted her head to study him.

“This, uh, can’t leave this room. I need your word you won’t tell anyone.”

“As long as you’re not going to murder me, sure,” Shonna said with a smile.

“I need my boyfriend to weigh in on the details. It’s his home, too,” Shane said, his gaze dropping to the table so he didn’t see her reaction. When she was silent, he risked a look up and saw her looking at him with a sad smile. 

“Alright. I can come back when he’s here,” she offered.

“He’s… he’s upstairs.” She seemed surprised by that, but Shane barreled on. “It’d be dangerous for him, if anyone knew, okay?”

Shonna nodded, her smile dropping into something serious. “I understand. You have my word.”

Shane nodded, then slid his chair back. “I’ll just go get him.”

Ilya looked up from his book when Shane walked into their bedroom, stretched out on the bed with one arm propped up behind his head, massaging his neck.

“The meeting is over?”

“No. But you need to come down anyway. I can’t… I can’t choose everything without you, it wouldn’t be right. I want you to be comfortable there, too, and I just don’t want you to feel like you’re living in my house when you come to visit, because it’s really your house, too, and I know that you can’t be out but I can’t hide you and—“

Ilya had stood sometime in the middle of Shane’s rapid explanation and approached, and he slid one hand onto Shane’s jaw, his eyes darting back and forth between Shane’s own before he finally silenced him with a thumb on his lips. “Solynshko moye, breathe.”

Shane took a shuddering breath. 

“I will come down. Did you tell them?”

“No, just… just Shonna. So she knew why we were picking out bedroom styles together.” Shane managed a small chuckle.

Ilya’s smile was crooked. “Maybe you just have very helpful friends.”

Shane rolled his eyes but breathed out another laugh. “Come on, come help me.”

Ilya linked their hands and followed him down the steps, hesitating only a beat before stepping over the threshold into the dining room. “Hello. I am Ilya.”

“It’s nice to meet you. Shonna,” she said, offering a hand. “Please, come sit. We’re just looking at mood boards.”

“What have you got me into, Hollander?” he teased and Shane flushed, shaking his head. 

“Just sit, Rozanov.”

After a dizzying number of color palettes and finishes and ‘aesthetic inspiration’ photos—whatever that meant—Shonna laid out a copy of the floor plan of the brownstone.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s start with the main suite. There’s the main area, with space for a bed and a sitting area, if that’s something you’d want. Or we can reuse it for another purpose, since I know you said you don’t see the need for multiple living rooms.”

“What do you think?” Shane asked in a quiet voice of Ilya. “I don’t know what we’d use that space for, if not sitting.”

Ilya tilted his head and ran his eyes over the floor plan again. “What about a small library? You have those shelves in Montreal full of books. Maybe a TV, for when we are being lazy and laying in bed all day.”

“When have we ever done that?” Shane said.

“You never know,” Ilya teased. 

“The books are a good idea, though,” Shane said, turning to Shonna. She just smiled and wrote it down.

“Okay, then there’s the office down the hall,” she said, indicating it on the plans. “It could be a bedroom, of course, but the only bathroom on the floor is the en-suite.”

“Office is good,” Shane said. “We don’t do much on the computer, but it could be nice for when we do have to.”

“Could make room for your trophies, too,” Ilya offered, then turned to Shonna, already smirking. “He has too many. Total show-off for second best player in the league.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Shane laughed. 

“We could do built-ins for your trophies,” Shonna said, grinning herself. “Now the next floor up is the lounge, but since you are getting rid of the family room in the basement, how about we use this as the place for the family? TV, comfortable couches, that sort of thing.”

Ilya nodded when Shane looked to him, then Shane nodded for Shonna. 

“Great. Let’s talk the other bedrooms. No children, right?”

“No, not y—no,” Shane said, and Ilya’s hand tightened on his thigh as he watched Shane flush. “My best friend does though, and if he visits…”

“We can work with that,” Shonna said. “How many kids?”

Shane began to wax poetic about the Pikes, but all Ilya could do was stare at him and think about the end of the sentence he hadn’t finished. Not yet. God, he could imagine a little girl running around with Shane’s freckles, or a little boy with dark eyes and darker hair. And all he could feel was intense longing.

“Don’t you think?” Shane asked, looking at Ilya, who couldn’t help but stare until Shane’s blush returned.

“Sorry, what? I was lost for a minute,” Ilya murmured. 

“I was thinking one of the guest rooms could have kids beds, for Arthur and Amber? Ruby and Jade could share a big girl bed—they’d love that—and then if we had multiple friends visiting, we’d have two bedrooms fit for adults?”

“Da. Perfect, I love it,” Ilya said, nodding and trying to stop thinking about a gaggle of little Hollanders. He was unsuccessful, but he managed to stay focused through the rest of the meeting with Shonna.

“Well, that’s a lot, I know, but we have a good start!” she said, folding the cover over her tablet and capping her pen before sliding both into her massive purse. “I’ll work on some renderings and we can go through them in person or over the phone—whichever works.”

“Sounds great,” Shane said, rising to shake her hand one more time. “Thank you.”

“Of course. It was great to meet you—both of you. We’ll talk soon.”

She took her leave, then, and Ilya watched Shane’s shoulders drop in relief at being alone. 

“Lot of decisions,” Ilya said and watched Shane nod, clearly exhausted by all of the talking he’d done in the last week. He stretched out a hand and tugged on Shane’s fingers. “Come.”

“Where are we going?” he asked even though he followed, a small smile on his face.

“To relax. And maybe I see if I can work on some of those kids we don’t have yet.”

“Ilya—“

“I think if we try hard enough, it might happen,” Ilya said, trying to keep his face serious. “You never know.”

Shane laughed. “You’re such an asshole.”

“You love it,” Ilya whispered, pulling Shane closer for a kiss.

“I do,” Shane admitted in the same tone. His eyes flicked up to Ilya’s, nervousness hidden in their depths. “Do you…”

“Do I what?” he asked as he began climbing the stairs backwards, pulling Shane along with him.

“Do you want that?” 

Ilya tilted his head. “What? Kids?”

Shane nodded. 

Ilya smiled. “Mm. Yes. Maybe a dozen little feral children running around.”

“Who taught you the word ‘feral?’” Shane asked, but his smile was back, and the blush on his cheeks read more like happiness.

“You want kids?” Ilya asked instead of answering him. Shane nodded again, the blush deepening.

“I didn’t think I would, but… yeah. With you, yeah.”

And what was Ilya supposed to do except fall further in love with his shy, beautiful boy with the freckles like constellations?

Chapter 24: my heart's just living break to break

“I’m so irritated,” Ilya muttered to Shane in the stands at game six of the MLH Cup finals. They were surrounded on all sides by Admirals family and friends, so Ilya was keeping his voice down, but Shane still shook his head at him. 

“You’re just mad because he knocked you out,” he whispered back.

“At least he’s hot.”

Shane glared at Ilya before he saw that twinkle in his eye that meant he was being a menace and elbowed him gently in his ribs, still cognizant of the injury there. Ilya just nudged him back, clapping and cheering along with the crowd as the final buzzer went off and the New York Admirals swarmed Eric Bennett in celebration. 

Shane heard Elena say to Kip, “Hey…”

“I’m not sad,” Kip said, his voice soft. 

“It’s okay to be,” she assured him.

“I just wish…”

“I know, babe,” she said back, leaning into him. 

After they’d awarded Scott the Playoff MVP Award—well-deserved, considering the sheer number of points he’d put up—and brought out the Cup, there was nearly a half-hour of the players each taking their turn to hoist it over their heads. Finally, the entire team was shuffled toward center ice to take their championship picture and the arena staff came to the team’s seats and started directing everyone down to the tunnel so they could join the celebrations on ice. Scott and Carter had made sure to tell them they were invited down, all of them, and Shane knew Kip was feeling conflicted about it. He’d said as much when they’d been at Scott’s apartment during game five. Kip had hosted all his friends—and Gloria Grey, who hadn’t been officially added to the WAG ranks—who knew about him and Scott.

“The WAGs are having their own thing. The official ones, I mean. Some of them know about me, but…” Kip had trailed off, and Ilya had clapped him on the shoulder in solidarity.

“They don’t even know you as Scott’s friend?” Shane had asked.

“No. Scott was… worried they’d realize what we are. I get it, I do, it’s just… I want to be there for him, you know? For real.”

Shane had nodded and locked eyes with Ilya. They were perhaps two of the only people in the league who knew exactly what Kip was feeling. Maybe Carter, since his relationship with Gloria was still not public knowledge because of the paparazzi pressure they both felt. Shane had experienced a version of it with Rose and understood why they were under the radar.

“Be there how you can,” Ilya advised Kip quietly. “You’d regret not being there at all.”

Now, as they made their way down to the ice to celebrate Scott and Carter and the rest of the Admirals, Ilya threw an arm around Gloria’s shoulders and teased her about revealing her relationship with Carter, and Shane bumped shoulders with Kip as Elena and George followed behind them. “Be there how you can.”

“Be there how I can,” Kip murmured, nodding. “Thanks, Shane.”

“Of course,” Shane said back, smiling even though he was fighting off gloom alongside him. 

Then they were in the tunnel and the team was milling about on the rink, still celebrating. Ilya offered his arm to Gloria to help her get her balance, but she got her legs under her pretty fast. Soon, she was laughing with Carter’s parents and Ilya was back by Shane’s side as they followed Kip and George out onto the ice. Shane saw a few cameras swing their way as they stepped out in their street clothes, but he didn’t shy away from Ilya. They were here to support their friends, nothing more. There was nothing wrong with it. He repeated it until he believed it. 

“Hollzy! Roz!” Carter shouted over Gloria’s head and skated over to pull them into the same sort of hug he’d hit them with at the All-Star Game. 

“Vaughny! Congrats, man, you guys played amazing. If it had to be someone, glad it’s you,” Shane teased.

“I’m still mad about it,” Ilya said, but his smile was wide and his eyes were crinkled and Carter just laughed as Gloria came up beside him and laced her arm around his hip. Scott came over and gave them both quick hugs with pats on the back before swooping down on George Grady to pull him into a hug that lingered, then giving a similar one to Elena. 

Shane watched as Scott turned to Kip, and he felt Ilya suck in a quiet breath beside him. Carter turned to watch, too, his smile softening into something sad as Scott stood a step too far from the man he loved. They couldn’t hear what was said over the roar of the rest of the Admirals, but then Scott was reaching out, skating closer, and Shane was trying not to feel grief for Kip getting only the hug of a friend.

But then one of Scott’s arms was wrapping around Kip’s waist, his other hand was coming up to hold his jaw, and his lips were crashing down, and Scott was kissing the love of his life in front of thousands of fans, his team, coaches, the world.

“YES, SCOTTY!” Carter crowed at the top of his lungs, lifting his free hand to make a piercing whistle and Gloria was screaming in joy, and Ilya was looking at Shane in shock, and Shane was falling falling falling, watching the crowd for the reaction he expected, but all he heard was the resurgence of the roars of the crowd and several other Admirals whooping in joy and Scott was pulling back and resting his forehead on Kip’s as a camera got way too close to them and Shane saw Scott’s lips form the words, ‘I love you so fucking much,’ broadcasting it for the entire universe to hear.

Shane managed to pull a grin onto his face and clap his hands and cheer with the rest of the Admirals, and Ilya joined him, because of course he did. Scott Hunter had just changed the world—their world.

“George!” Scott yelled over the noise of the families on the ice and wrapped Kip’s dad in a huge hug.

“Congratulations! What a game, Scott!” George said, his head only reaching Scott’s chin in his skates but his eyes dancing with pride and joy. “You did it!”

“We did it! Thank you. For last week, for everything. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Yes, you could have,” George said. “But you didn’t have to.”

Scott nodded and pulled away before he could cry at having a parent—even if it wasn’t his own—being on the ice for him and him alone. He turned next to Elena.

“Congrats, handsome!” She hugged him on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek before patting his shoulder and lowering back down to the ice.

“Thanks, Elena, thanks.”

“You deserve it,” she said, meeting his eyes, telling him exactly what she was thinking. He deserves sunshine. And so do you.

Scott finally laid his eyes on Kip, whose smile radiated joy even if his eyes looked a little glassy. “You did it!”

“I did it,” Scott agreed, searching his face for a moment. He needed more than this, he realized. He needed Kip’s arms around him and Kip’s lips under his own and the world to know that Scott wouldn’t be here without this man, this amazing, gorgeous, loving man standing in front of him.

“What?” Kip asked, his voice barely loud enough to hear over the noise in the Garden.

 Scott moved in a little closer, his stomach fluttering up near his throat as he reached out slowly, warning Kip what was going to happen before one arm slid around Kip’s waist.

“You don’t have to do this,” Kip said, his eyes locked on Scott’s.

“Yeah,” Scott said, lifting his palm up to the hinge of Kip’s jaw and stroking his thumb over the tear track he’d noticed trailing over his cheekbone. “Yeah, I do.”

He thought it would be a quick kiss, just a peck, with everyone around them but as soon as their lips connected, Scott couldn’t hold back any longer. He kissed Kip like he hadn’t seen him in months, like they were alone in their home, like he never wanted to let go. He heard Carter shouting in some distant corner of his mind, and the crowd in the arena growing louder, but it didn’t register, not while he was drowning in Kip, in the man he loved.

When he pulled back for air, he didn’t go far, only rested his forehead against Kip’s, and he said exactly what he was thinking. “I love you so fucking much.”

“I love you, too,” Kip murmured. “There’s a camera right next to us.”

Scott saw it out of the corner of his eye and smiled. “I don’t care.”

Then he kissed Kip again, harder, like he couldn’t breathe without him, and Kip returned it, his hands clawing into Scott’s sweater. When he finally pulled away, Scott lifted his gaze and saw half a dozen cameras trained on them, a few reporters with mics held out and stunned expressions on their faces. He just grinned, dropped his arms from around Kip and picked up his hand instead, and asked, “So. Any questions?”

Ilya and Shane made their way home when the celebrations moved to the Admirals locker room. That felt like a bridge too far for them to join in. It had even felt like a step too far to be on the ice while Scott kissed his boyfriend, because some of the reporters and cameras had honed in on him and Shane in the crowd and asked for their reactions to the moment, like they were hoping for someone to be horrified. Ilya wondered what it said about the world that he knew they’d been looking for that. He hadn’t given it to them.

“I’m glad for him,” Ilya had said honestly. “They are a great couple, very happy together. I’m glad they can be public about their relationship now. Wish they hadn’t had to hide it at all.”

“You’ve known they were together?” The woman from SportsNet asked, incredulous.

“Of course,” Ilya had nodded, not elaborating before he turned away and went to stand with Elena, who was crying happy tears and hugging George as they watched Kip step into the light. Shane had been pulled away by another reporter, but Ilya could hear what he was saying and felt his heart breaking again, because he knew that Shane was thinking about their own situation as he spoke.

“When Scott told me, I was shocked, of course. Not because of who he loves, but that he’d been holding this secret for so long with no one suspecting and that he’d trusted me enough to tell me. It has to be hard to only be partly yourself, especially when you’re leading a team built on trust. I’m honored to have known beforehand, and to have been able to get to know Kip. He’s an amazing man, and he makes Scott incredibly happy. I’m so glad for them both.”

It was later, when they were safely back in the condo in Brooklyn, that Shane broke. He collapsed into a trembling mess as disassociation took him over, and Ilya held him in their bedroom, his own emotions a riot he couldn’t calm. But he could hold Shane together, he could do that. And then Shane would hold him as he fell apart later. 

“I don’t—I don’t know why I’m—” Shane gasped.

“Because we cannot have it, lyubimyy,” Ilya murmured into his hair as he held him. “Because even though Scott can have it, we cannot. It is okay to grieve that. It’s okay.”

Shane shook his head against Ilya’s shoulder, emotions still shuddering through him. “It’s not. It’s not okay.”

Ilya knew he didn’t mean the grief.

Chapter 25: underneath the hi-lo lights

Hunter was standing on stage at the MLH Awards, smiling down at the second MVP trophy he’d won that year. Ilya wasn’t even mad he’d gotten beat out for it;  Scott deserved it, deserved every bit of it. He’d never admit that out loud, of course, but he could think it.

“First of all, thank you of this,” Hunter began. “All of my fellow nominees are just as deserving—even Rozanov.”

Ilya couldn’t help the laugh that burst out of him as the screens at the front of the room zoomed in on his face. “I’ll get it next year when you retire!” 

Hunter chuckled and shook his head, then looked down, seeming to gather his thoughts. “A few weeks ago, I achieved my lifelong dream. I really can’t describe it, but those of you who’ve done it know how it feels. But, something else happened that night. Something that has gotten a lot more notice than the Admirals winning the Cup.”

Ilya could feel the tension in the crowd. He knew that most of the Admirals were happy for Scott, he knew that he and his friends on the Bears were more than fine with it, but that had not been the reaction of every player, coach, and fan. 

“It’s been an interesting month,” Scott murmured, almost as if he forgot he was making a speech. He cleared his throat and continued. “In case you missed it, I came out as gay in one of the most public ways possible. I don’t regret it and never will. I wanted to celebrate my achievement with the people I loved, and that included my partner. I know it was a shock, I know it’s been a disappointment to some, but I also know that it’s been a relief for others.

“I’ve always been a private person,” Hunter added. “I have never really shared my life in a public way, but from what I’ve seen in the past few weeks, I’ve realized that it’s maybe important that I do share some of it. Fans—especially young fans—have been sending me messages, telling me what it meant for me to come out, what it meant to see someone like them achieving this big dream.

“Look,” he said, clearing his throat. “I love hockey, I really do. It saved me when I lost my parents. I love being able to do this thing that I love for a living. But I also know what it feels like not to fit in.

“When I was a teenager, I began to realize that I might be that thing that every hockey player liked to throw around as an insult. The kind of language I heard on the ice and in the locker room every day was a constant reminder that I was different. Sometimes, it gave me another reason to prove myself; I could be gay and also be an amazing hockey player. But, others… Other times, it made me terrified that someone would find out my secret.”

The room was silent, and Ilya saw some of Hunter’s friends—Bennett, Vaughn, even Huff—sniffling and wiping at their eyes at the table next to his. He had to force himself to swallow past a lump in his own throat, thinking that maybe he had more in common with Scott than he’d ever believed.

“When you have a secret,” Hunter continued, “that you work so hard to protect, it’s exhausting. It’s a nonstop effort to keep it hidden, and the fear of being found out consumes you. It also makes you incredibly lonely. 

“I’ve been extremely fortunate; I have a lot, and I’m grateful for all of it, but I’ve always been missing something very important in my life.” Ilya looked over to watch Carter wrap Kip’s shoulders in a hug at the Admirals’ table, then turned his eyes back to the stage as Scott continued. “I’ve been to a lot of teammates’ weddings over the years, and listened to a lot of speeches about love, or about finding the person that changes everything. I didn’t understand it, not until I met Kip, until I met that person who changed everything for me. 

“But it also made me scared. How could I have him, and still keep him a secret? How could I have love and keep it hidden? I am lucky because he stood by me as I gained the confidence, the strength, and the need to be honest about who I am. It took me a long time. Longer than it should have. But here I am.

“So, I share this honor with my teammates and my coaches,” Scott said, clearing his throat one more time, “but I also share it with you, Kip. You have made me better in every way, and I couldn’t have done the last three years without you. I love you.”

Scott raised the trophy one more time and leaned down to the mic. “Thank you!”

Ilya stood and cheered with the entire Admirals table and half of the audience as Scott left the stage. He knew some people were not applauding, and that made him want to rage, but instead he just lent his voice as loudly as he could and hoped that he would get at least comparable support one day.

Later, after the rest of the boring award show and the boring official after party, he and a few of the Bears joined the Admirals attending Scott Hunter Night at a gay club down the street. No one except Hunter and Kip knew about his sexuality, but most of the people attending were straight, as far as he knew, so he felt safe amongst the group. 

There was a cordoned off VIP area on the mezzanine reserved for Hunter and his friends, and Ilya sipped at his vodka while leaning on the railing, looking down at the dancers below, Connie and Marly flanking him. Scott and Kip were at the center of the dance floor, plastered against one another, Kip’s hands tangled in Scott’s hair and the swirling lights casting them in an array of colors. 

“Who woulda thought,” Marly said over the pounding bass.

“Hmm?” Ilya asked.

“Scott Hunter. Gay,” Marly said. “Who woulda thought.”

“Probably his boyfriend,” Connie laughed. “And Roz, apparently. Didn’t you say you knew in that interview?”

Ilya nodded. “It came up at the All-Star Game.”

“How does that even come up?” Marly asked. “‘Hey, Roz, just so you know, I’m dating a man?’”

Ilya grinned. “Pretty much exactly like that, yes.”

Kip looked up then and gestured, shouting, “Come dance!”

Ilya couldn’t hear him over the music, but he read the words off his lips and nodded. “Kip wants us to dance, boys. Let’s go.”

“Roz, I’m not...”

“Shut your stupid face, Marly. You don’t have to be gay to dance in a gay club, just make sure the guys dancing with you know it won’t happen,” Ilya said, downing the rest of his vodka and gathering the rest of the troops in the VIP area.

When they got down to the center of the dance floor, Gloria, Laura Huff, and Sophie—Cale Wagner’s girlfriend—gamely danced with any of the MLH players, laughing at the guys’ blushing faces whenever a stranger engaged them. Ilya danced with each of the women once, but then decided to let loose a little and found himself pressed up against Eric Bennett for a song. The other man had blushed at first but didn’t seem as ruffled as some of the other players and Ilya found himself wondering if Bennett might be a little bit like him. 

At one point, Kip pulled Ilya into him and turned so he was sandwiched between Ilya and Hunter, singing along to the song, and Ilya was cracking a joke about Kip wanting a younger man, much to Hunter’s exasperation, though the eye-rolls seemed almost as fond as Shane’s now. It was as if knowing Ilya’s secret had endeared him to Hunter, at least enough to share his boyfriend for a few songs. 

Deeper into the night, Ilya found himself dancing with a stranger, wishing it were Shane. The man didn’t look anything like Shane but suddenly it was all Ilya could think about: dancing in the dark, pressed up against Shane, not a care in the world. He knew Shane hated clubs, hated dancing, but he resolved that he’d make Shane try it with him, just once. Maybe he’d like it with Ilya wrapped around him, shielding him from the crowd. 

When he warned the stranger that he was taken in a low voice, the guy just smiled and said it was fine, and finished out the song before moving on to dance with Matti Jalo, of all people. It was perhaps the weirdest night of Ilya’s life and the only person who would have made it the best was waiting for him in Montreal. 

[Photo 1: A photo of Scott on stage giving his speech.]

[Photo 2: A picture of Scott and Kip with their arms around each other at the MLH Awards after-party.]

[Photo 3: A group shot of the Admirals at the MLH Awards. Scott is in the center with his award.]

[Photo 4: A photo of Scott and Kip dancing, pressed fully together, their foreheads touching and their eyes closed in the midst of all the hockey players on the dance floor.]

[Photo 5: Carter and Gloria on either side of Scott and Kip on the dance floor of the club, pressing kisses to each of their cheeks.]

scott_hunter_admirals An amazing night in Vegas.

vaughnyyyy Not gonna lie, we all look fine as hell in that club.

ilya_rozanov still mad about you winning the cup, don’t let these pictures fool you

shane_hollander24 Congratulations Scotty! Wish I could’ve been there.

cliff_marly Such a fun night! Do it again next year?

↳ilya_rozanov @cliff_marly says mr. I can’t dance in a gay club, I’m not gay 

↳cliff_marly @ilya_rozanov I am literally dancing in that pic.

↳ilya_rozanov @cliff_marly fake news

↳ connie_connors @ilya_rozanov 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

hollanov4life I’m sorry, is Ilya dancing on Eric Bennett in that photo

↳bears_beets_bostonraiders @hollanov4life either we’re having a mass hallucination or you are correct

↳ hollanov4life @bears_beets_bostonraiders [Gif of Jake Peralta saying “Cool cool cool cool cool cool cool”]

↳bears_beets_bostonraiders @hollanov4life okay but how good was that season finale?????

@hollanov4life

Svetlana Vetrova and Rose Landry are beards for Hollanov, and I can prove it using photos from the MLH playoffs and Scott Hunter Night in Las Vegas. In this essay I will—

↳@shane__sitonmyface 

Girl, you’re delusional. Shane’s clearly with that hottie between him and Kip at game six, the body language doesn’t lie

↳↳@hollanov4life

You mean the body language where they literally didn’t touch once? Sure. 

↳↳↳@shane__sitonmyface 

When have Shane and Rozanov ever touched. Seriously.

↳↳↳↳@hollanov4life

Would you like a part two, or…?

[10 photo attachments]

↳@shilya_rozander 

Sitting here waiting patiently for the essay like

[gif of Mr. Bean waiting]

@shayden_me_crazy

I still can’t believe the Metros traded Shane and he just left Hayden. They’re a bonded pair, do not separate! 

@pop_news

Shane Hollander’s women of the month??? pop.news/alf372sdjci

[Image Description: Shane and Rose holding hands while stepping onto a crosswalk on Fifth Avenue]

[Image Description: Svetlana laying her head on Shane’s shoulder at the Raiders game]

[Image Description: A cropped photo of Shane and Elena cheering at the Admirals game. Both Kip and Ilya’s shoulders are partly visible at the edge of the frame]

Chapter 26: they would have never let us start

Ilya walked out of Montréal-Trudeau’s arrivals terminal looking like a Russian Terminator—black baseball cap on backwards, dark sunglasses in place, huge headphones around his neck, a black sleeveless tee stretched across his chest, and black joggers hugging his thighs. Shane sighed. He thought Ilya could kill someone looking like that, and they’d probably thank him for the experience.

Ilya opened the backseat and put his suitcase and backpack in, then slid into the passenger seat of Shane’s car. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Shane said, wishing he could lean over and give him a kiss, but feeling too exposed. “How was the flight?”

“Long,” Ilya said, letting out a deep breath. “But, I’m here now.”

“You’re here now,” Shane agreed with a smile, and then pulled out of the loading zone to head toward his Montréal apartment.

“How was the drive?” Ilya asked.

“Not bad.” He’d driven from New York to Boston, stopping for the night to retrieve Ilya’s training gear and have dinner with Sveta, then from Boston to Montréal the day after, arriving the night of the MLH Awards. 

“We do dinner with the Pikes tomorrow?” Ilya asked and Shane nodded. 

“And J.J. If that’s alright, I mean.” Shane bit his bottom lip to stop more words from tumbling out. Ilya said nothing at first, just laid his hand over top of Shane’s on the gear shifter and wrapped their fingers together. Shane chanced a look over at him.

“Of course, if you want him to know, it’s alright,” Ilya murmured. 

“You should tell some of your friends,” Shane said. “I feel like I have so many people who know, and you just have Sveta, and whoever I’ve told.”

“Maybe.” Ilya nods. “Maybe. It feels like if I tell people, it will be easier for it to get out, though.”

“Do you… do you not want me to tell J.J.? That’s one more person knowing.”

“I want to tell the world, Shanya,” Ilya murmured. “We can tell J.J. because he is your friend and you trust him. I am only worried over Russia.”

Shane nodded and snatched a glance over at Ilya again. “I don’t want you to be alone with this, Lyunya.”

Ilya rolled his head slowly to look at Shane, the softest smile he possessed on his face. “Did you just give me a diminutive?”

“Maybe.” Shane’s lips quirked. “If you like it.”

“Of course I like it,” Ilya said. “Why that one?”

“Don’t laugh,” Shane warned, looking over at him again. “It reminded me of lyublyu. At least the transliteration.”

“Big word,” Ilya said, his smile wider. 

“I meant when they’re both in Latin letters, rather than Cyrillic.”

Ilya nodded. “Is a good reason. Say it again.”

Shane lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss to Ilya’s knuckles. “Ya tebya lyublyu, Lyunya.”

“Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu, Shanya,” Ilya murmured.

“Uncle Shane, Uncle Shane!” Ruby and Jade shouted in tandem, running out the front door of the Pike’s house while he and Ilya were getting out of the car the next day. Shane crouched for the simultaneous flying hugs they gave him, just barely avoiding being tackled—much to Ruby’s dismay, he was sure.

“Girls! I missed you,” he said, squeezing them an extra time before letting go.

“Missed you too,” Jade said as Ruby tugged on his hand to pull him toward the house.

“You were gone forever and ever,” Ruby agreed. Shane looked over his shoulder at Ilya, gesturing him to follow. Ilya was grinning in delight, and mouthed ‘Uncle Shane.’ Shane just shrugged back.

“It was only a few months.”

“That’s forever,” Ruby told him, pulling him up the steps of the porch as Jackie appeared in the door they’d left wide open.

“Yeah, Uncle Shane,” Jackie said, smiling. “That’s forever.”

“Hi, Jackie,” Shane said with a small laugh as Ruby let go of him so her mom could lean in for the hug. The girls ran further into the house. 

“Hi, babe. And this must be Ilya. Hi, Ilya, I’m Jackie.”

“Jackie, is nice to meet you,” Ilya said, his voice low as he held out a hand to shake. 

“Jacks, did I hear Shan—oh.” Hayden rounded the corner, holding Arthur in one arm as he came down the stairs. “Uh.”

“Hey, Hayd,” Shane said as Hayden stared at Ilya for a long moment.

“Hey, buddy.” Hayden snapped out of it long enough to give Shane a side hug then immediately handed Arthur over and held up his hands. “Can you take him for a sec, I just did his diaper and…”

“Yeah, go,” Shane said, lifting Arthur so the toddler could lay his head on Shane’s shoulder. 

“Domestic,” Ilya said as Hayden walked off, and Shane saw Hayden’s shoulders tense, so Shane nudged him with a shoe before slipping them off.

“Be nice,” he reminded Ilya. “Please.”

“Best behavior, I swear,” Ilya said, but his smile was a little bit menacing. Jackie laughed and shut the door behind them. 

“Come on, the girls were building a huge tower to show you,” Jackie said. “J.J. should be here soon, and then we can eat.”

“Is Amber sleeping?”  Shane asked.

“Yeah, her nap should be over in a little bit though. Don’t worry, you’ll get the baby cuddles.”

Hayden came out of the kitchen as they entered the main room to see the truly impressive LEGO tower Ruby and Jade were still working on. “If you put him down, put him in baby jail, bud. He keeps trying to eat the LEGOs.”

“Will do,” Shane promised, perfectly content to snuggle a sleepy Arthur rather than releasing him into the cordoned off play area at the side of the living room.

“Uncle Shane, did you see our tower?” Jade asked at full volume.

“I did! So tall. Almost as tall as you. What are you going to do when you can’t reach anymore?” Shane sat on the couch and patted the spot next to him for Ilya. 

Ruby and Jade looked at each other for a second, then nodded. They had the twin telepathy down already; it could be spooky sometimes. “I’ll let Ruby climb on me.”

Jackie laughed and shook her head, sitting down catty-corner on the couch. “Do either of you want wine?”

“I’ll wait,” Shane said, but looked over at Ilya. 

“I will also wait, thank you,” Ilya said as Hayden took a seat next to Jackie. 

“So, uh… how about the Admirals?” Hayden attempted, and Jackie sighed. 

“Is hockey all you guys can talk about?” she asked her husband, teasing.

“I don’t exactly know what Rozanov likes aside from hockey.”

“I like Shane,” Ilya said with a small shrug, his eyes locked on Hayden, leaning back to loop his arm around Shane’s shoulders.

“Men,” Jackie muttered, looking into Shane’s eyes and smirking in exasperation. “Okay, I’ll start. Shane, how’s the new house?”

Shane breathed out a laugh as Arthur squirmed against him, leaning across his lap to look at Ilya. “It’s good. The architectural plans got approved right before I left, and the contractor said they can start in two weeks.”

“That’s great! What are you having done? I may have stalked the Zillow listing,” Jackie admitted as Arthur clambered out of Shane’s lap to put his hands on Ilya’s leg and stare up at him.

“Hello, malyshka,” Ilya murmured to Arthur, holding out his free hand for Arthur to inspect and grab onto. Shane smiled over at them, knowing Ilya was in good hands, and began telling Jackie all about the renovations as Hayden just watched, a little furrow of concern on his brow. 

“I can’t wait to see it,” Jackie said when Shane was done. Every once in awhile one of the girls had run over to show Shane one of the LEGO pieces, usually a fun color or with a sticker on it, or ask him if the tower was tall enough yet. Arthur had fully climbed into Ilya’s orbit, alternating between standing on his legs to tug at his curls and clambering back and forth over his lap, his little shrieks of delight as Ilya grabbed him and tickled him punctuating the conversation.

“Alright, tigryonok,” he said, standing with Arthur in his hands to walk over to the play pen. “Show me your toys, yes?”

He settled on the floor with Arthur and immediately picked up one of Arthur’s toys to fiddle with it. Jackie threw a look at Shane with the epitome of heart eyes on her face, and Shane just smiled and nodded. “Ilya’s niece is… seven?”

“Eight in December,” Ilya said. “A bit older than the girls?”

“We’re six and a half!” Jade announced.

“Wow, wow, wow! So grown up! You will be in first grade next year, then? Are you excited?”

Hayden was looking at Shane like he’d seen a ghost again. “What is happening?”

“Kids love me, Pike,” Ilya piped up from where he was being swarmed by the children. 

“It’s because he’s a big kid,” Shane teased to Jackie’s delighted laugh. 

“I need a beer,” Hayden muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Go get Amber first,” Jackie said as the doorbell rang and she rose to go answer it. Hayden sighed and stood, going straight for the stairs. While they were up, Shane moved over to the play pen himself and watched as Ilya stacked towers of blocks for Arthur to knock over, much to Arthur’s amusement. Shane leaned down and pressed a kiss to Ilya’s cheek.

“Tabarnak,” J.J. said from behind them. 

“Swear jar,” Jackie answered. 

“It’s French!” J.J. protested.

“And we live in a bilingual province. Swear jar, no arguments.”

“So… this is why you asked me which hospital?” J.J. asked when they had sat down to dinner with the entire family. Arthur sat in a high chair between Hayden and Ilya, Jackie was holding Amber in a baby wrap next to Shane with the twins on her other side, which meant J.J. was staring Ilya down across the table.

Ilya nodded, trying to swallow the bite of the chicken and rice dish Jackie had created for the adults—not quite macrobiotic, but Shane seemed to be enjoying it—before he answered, but J.J. didn’t wait.

“And you knew,” he said to Hayden, “and didn’t tell me?”

“I literally figured it out when he showed up at the hospital, man,” Hayden muttered, taking a bite of food and then turning to help Arthur with the kid-friendly version of the dish. The toddler was having a wonderful time dropping rice into his own lap every time he tried to use his spoon. “And it wasn’t my secret to tell, was it?”

“J.J., I wanted to tell you,” Shane said, “but with the move and everything… I didn’t want to tell you over a phone call, okay?”

J.J. harrumphed and muttered something in French under his breath that no one seemed to catch, and Ilya was preparing to drop his metaphorical gloves and ask him what his problem was when the other man sighed. “Okay, okay. You’re right. So, you’re dating Rozanov. Is it new?”

“Opposite of new, babe,” Jackie chimed in before taking a sip of the mocktail Shane had made for them both while she had Ilya and J.J. set the table.

“What does that mean?”

“He’s Boston Lily,” Hayden said, jerking his head over at Ilya without making eye-contact. “They’ve been… since rookie season.”

Ilya opened his mouth to correct them and felt Shane’s toes press into his in warning, so he switched tactics. “You knew we were friends, yes? We talked about this at the All-Star Game.”

J.J. opened his mouth and then shut it again, looking at Ilya for a second. “Shane said he messed things up with Boston Lily.”

“And then I fixed them,” Shane said. “At the All-Star Game. When I next saw him.”

J.J. chewed on that for a minute as Ilya took a sip of wine and reached up to rub a hand down Shane’s stiffening spine. He murmured, “We knew this would be hard, lyubimyy.”

“Yeah,” Shane sighed and then took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders back. 

“What’s that word?” Jade piped up from across the table, tilting her head in wonder.

“Lyubimyy?” Ilya repeated to make sure he understood. The little girl nodded. “Is Russian word. Like… ‘darling’ in English.”

“Can you say it again?” Ruby asked.

Ilya smiled, ignoring the looks being tossed between J.J., Hayden, and Shane. “Is a hard one, so I will say it slow. You ready?”

When the girls nodded, Ilya drew out the pronunciation and simplified some of the sounds. “Loo—bee—moy.”

They dutifully parroted it back over and over until they got rather close for just learning it and having no idea how to pronounce any other Russian words. Jackie smiled over at Ilya. “Are you going to make them multilingual now?”

“Maybe,” Ilya said. He tried to smile as he added, “Depends on how often I see them, I think.”

Shane set down his fork and laced his fingers through Ilya’s free hand, looking over at him as he squeezed. Hayden cleared his throat as it trying not to cough, and J.J. looked at Ilya in silence as Ruby interjected, “We see Uncle Shane all the time. You can come with him again, right?”

“Right,” Shane said, locking eyes with Hayden, then J.J. as he smoothed his thumb over Ilya’s knuckle. Ilya nodded a second later. 

It was after the kids had all been put to bed and they were having drinks in the living room that J.J. asked, “So, what, you are just hooking up?”

Shane leaned further into Ilya’s arm, almost mirroring Jackie’s position against Hayden at the other end of the couch, and Ilya could feel the anxiety fizzing through his veins. He decided he could stop being too polite if the questions were going to be this stupid. “Yes, Shane Hollander decided to introduce you to his long-term fuck-buddy with no emotions attached.”

Ilya heard Jackie snort as Shane elbowed him and admonished him with his name. Ilya looked down at him. “Hollander, it is like they don’t know you. When have you ever had convenient hook-ups? Besides me, of course.”

“Man’s gotta point,” Jackie murmured into her singular glass of wine, grinning at him.

“Wouldn’t call you convenient, anyway,” Shane added.

“How are you so okay with this?” Hayden asked his wife. “It’s like living in the Twilight Zone.”

“What is Twilight Zone?” Ilya asked Shane. 

“Comes from an old show about aliens and stuff, I’ll show you later,” Shane promised.

“Babe,” Jackie was saying, “just look at them. They’re perfect for each other.”

Ilya smirked down at Shane. “You hear that? I’m perfect.”

“Shut up,” Shane said, his eyes rolling. “That’s not what she said.”

“Is what I heard.”

“You’re such a dick.” Shane pressed a kiss to his jaw anyway and settled back down. 

“This is so weird,” J.J. muttered, then sighed. “But I can see he makes you happy, Capitaine. If you hurt him, Rozanov…”

“I won’t,” Ilya promised, then looked down at Shane. “I won’t.”

“I know, Lyunya, I know.”

Chapter 27: just tell me it's real

The drive from Montréal to Shane’s cottage was quiet. They’d woken up at 6am—much to Ilya’s chagrin—and set off, the car already packed, because his boyfriend was efficient. Shane had even handed Ilya a coffee in an insulated tumbler before they left the apartment. That didn’t mean Ilya was awake, though. He leaned his head against the window and felt like Shane’s hockey audiobook might as well be in French, he was absorbing so little of it. 

Shane had offered him the auxiliary cord before they set out, but Ilya had just groaned, and Shane had smiled. “Then I’m going to listen to my book, okay?”

“Okay,” Ilya had said, and then proceeded to drift off before they had hit the suburbs. 

Now, though, they were further into the more rural parts of Canada and Ilya was watching the sunlit forests and fields pass by in a blur, still feeling groggy, but enjoying the views. Ilya kept shaking his head to himself as if to try to wake himself up from a dream. Eight months ago, he thought he had lost Shane. Four months ago, he got him back, but only in snatches. Two months ago, he had felt as though he’d be too much for Shane if they had longer. Or he wouldn’t be enough. Then he had basically been living with Shane through the whole of the playoffs, but that had almost felt like an accident into which they’d stumbled. And now… well, now he was spending the rest of the summer with Shane. Over two months of being alone together.

It didn’t feel quite real.

At least, he thought, Hunter had given him the courage to say yes to going to Canada over the summer, for the whole summer. He’d never tell Hunter that, but his coming out had made Ilya want to be brave. 

“We’re almost there,” Shane said, his voice hushed. “About twenty minutes. Do you want to stop and get breakfast? My mom stocked the cottage with groceries for us, so we have food there, too.”

“Mm, no, I just want to get there,” Ilya said, his voice a bit hoarse from not using it that morning.

“Okay,” Shane said, smiling over at him before he put his hand on the back of Ilya’s neck and absentmindedly massaged it. Ilya melted back into his grip and put his own hand on Shane’s knee. “My parents want to do dinner at their cottage tomorrow, is that alright?”

“Mm.” Ilya nodded. 

“They said they’d let us get settled in alone today and tomorrow.” 

Ilya snorted out a laugh and smirked at him. “You know why they said this?”

Shane sighed. “Yes, I do. It’s weird to think about them… thinking about us.”

Ilya laughed. “They know what sex is, Hollander. How do you think you came to be here?”

“Don’t make me think about it,” Shane scolded but then laughed. 

Ilya’s first impression of the cottage was that it was rather large to be called a cottage, and had a rather large number of windows to be considered private. Then Shane explained it was a thing to call your summer a cottage no matter the size in certain parts of Canada. Weird, but okay; it was sort of like a dacha. And the windows…

“The house is set back from the lake, so we can see out, but you’d have to have a telescope to see in, basically. You’ll see, when we take out the jet skis.”

“Hollander, there are jet skis? Why was this not in your speech about coming here? Private, time together, blah, blah, blah, you said. All you had to say was ‘Ilya, jet skis.’” Shane shoved Ilya’s shoulder, laughing. “Would have skipped the MLH awards for jet skis.”

“Shut up, oh my god,” Shane said as he checked the fridge. “Breakfast sandwiches on the patio?”

He’d cooked while Ilya had fetched their bags, exploring the house as he brought everything in. Their clothes, he put in the master, their bag of books in the living room, their training gear in the gym—with an indoor practice rink, because Shane really did think of everything—and by the time the car was empty, Shane was plating their food. 

That night, Shane built a fire. 

“So, we just sit here and look at it?”

“Yes,” Shane said, already sighing. “We just sit here and look at it.”

“Canada is fun,” Ilya deadpanned and earned a scuff on the arm for his joke. 

“What, you didn’t do bonfires in Russia?”

“Mm, no. I lived in the city, Hollander. And besides, Russians don’t need fire to keep warm. Not like boring Canadians.”

“You’re an asshole,” Shane said, laughing as Ilya laid his head down in his lap. 

“You love me,” Ilya teased.

“I do,” Shane admitted. “God knows why.”

But his hands were threading through Ilya’s hair, his fingertips playing over his scalp, and Ilya didn’t feel much like teasing anymore. He could feel muscles relaxing that he hadn’t known were tensed.

Then a noise split the night and Ilya shot straight up. “What the fuck was that?”

“A loon?” Shane said, already laughing. 

“A what?”

“A loon. It’s a bird.”

“Sounds like a fucking wolf.”

“It’s a bird, trust me,” Shane said, holding back laughter now. “You’re so scared!”

“What kind of a bird makes a noise like that?!”

“A loon! A fucking wolf?!”

“Stupid Canadian wolf bird,” Ilya said, turning sharply when he heard the call again. 

Shane sat forward a bit and lifted his hands to his mouth, then made an impossibly similar noise.

“Oh, so now you speak bird, too.”

“Fluent,” Shane said. “No accent.”

“I hate you,” Ilya said, but he laid back down in Shane’s lap. 

“No, you don’t,” Shane whispered, resuming his stroking of Ilya’s hair. 

“No, I don’t,” Ilya agreed, and lifted a hand to bring Shane down for a quick kiss before turning fully to face the fire.

“Have you heard from your brother lately?” Shane asked after a few minutes of just the crackling logs and the wolf birds.

“Mm, no,” Ilya said. “Which makes sense, since I told him he’d never get another dollar. He will not let my niece speak to me though; that is what I hate most.”

Ilya had talked to Svetlana about the problem before he had gone down to New York after the season. She’d helped him pack and they’d decided to go out for dinner to take advantage of the clear night.

“When do you go home?” Ilya had asked over their appetizer.

“To Moscow?” Sveta had clarified. At Ilya’s nod, she’d added, “The end of June, and back mid-August. And you’re not going back at all this summer?”

Ilya had shaken his head. “Probably not ever, Sveta.”

“Ilyusha…”

“You are the only person I want to see there—aside from Sofiya, but Alexei won’t let her talk to me.” It pained him he could not see his niece grow up without sacrificing half of his soul. “And you are here, so… no. Probably not ever.”

Sveta had nodded, but her brow was furrowed. “What about your mother?”

Ilya had quirked a sad smile, then lifted his hand to his chest, to her crucifix. “She’s here, not there. I don’t think she’s been there for a long time.”

Sveta had nodded again. “Then, before you go to New York, you give me a letter or presents for Sonechka. I’ll get them to her.”

Ilya had written a letter and wrapped a few presents for Sofiya. Small things he knew she liked. He’d penned a note to her mother as well, to let her know that he would always be there for her daughter’s sake. He hadn’t wanted to say it outright, but if his sister-in-law needed to leave Alexei, he’d be there for that, too. He didn’t think it likely, but he’d implied it. 

All of it was in Sveta’s hands now, and he knew she’d be arriving in Moscow in a few days time. It made his stomach churn to think about her going anywhere near Alexei, but she could take care of herself, he knew. 

“I’m sorry,” Shane murmured, bringing Ilya back to the fire and the quiet and the feel of his hands. “Even if your family sucks, you must miss them.”

Ilya nodded minutely, then rolled to his back so he could look at Shane. “My mother didn’t suck. I miss her most.”

Shane’s face set in sad lines. “How did she die?”

“My father told everyone it was an accident.” Ilya sniffed. “It wasn’t. She… she swallowed a whole bottle of pills. I found her one morning in her bed.”

“How old were you?”

“Twelve,” Ilya said, and swallowed hard. “I don’t want you to think she was weak.”

“Of course I don’t,” Shane promised, smoothing a thumb between Ilya’s eyebrows to make him relax his forehead. Ilya closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

“She was so funny, and beautiful, and sad. And my father was… he was not good to her. She was not weak, but…”

“I’m so sorry, Lyunya,” Shane murmured, and Ilya opened his eyes so he could lift a hand to cup Shane’s jaw. 

“She would have loved you, I think. Like I love you.”

“I love you, too. I wish I could have met her,” Shane said before leaning down to steal a kiss again. Ilya only nodded, then settled further into Shane’s lap to enjoy the night.

Waking up in Ilya’s arms in the cottage felt like a dream. The golden light, the soft sound of Ilya’s breath, the warmth that had built beneath the blankets… all of it felt touched with the fantastic. So when Ilya stirred, Shane looked up at him.

“Good morning,” he whispered.

“Good morning,” Ilya murmured back. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Shane chewed on his lip for a second, then shifted. “This is real, right? I’m not… I’m not dreaming? I keep thinking I’m going to wake up. Please, tell me this is real.”

Ilya nodded, his eyes sharpening on his face. After a second, he rolled so he was on top of Shane and pressed a kiss to his forehead, his freckles, then his lips. “This is real. We are here. You are mine.”

Shane nodded. He knew the answer to that; he’d always known the answer to that. “Yours.”

“And I am yours, and we are going to wake up slow, maybe fuck, and spend the day in the sun, and it will all be real,” Ilya said, lowering so his body weight was anchoring Shane into the bed.

“Only maybe?” Shane breathed out, believing in the press of their bodies and the glimmer in Ilya’s eyes.

“Mm, I don’t know. I was really excited about those jet skis,” Ilya said with a straight face and a slight shrug.

Shane laughed, throwing his head back further into the pillow, before he switched their positions again and leaned down to kiss Ilya himself. “We have all summer for jet skis.”

Later—much later—they were flying across the water of the lake, and Ilya was whooping as he spun donuts and then crashed through the waves he’d made with his own wake, and cackling when he splashed Shane by pulling off a sharp turn. Shane brought him to one of the coves on the lake where they could jump into the cool deep without the jet skis drifting too far, and they chased and dunked each other until they were too tired to do anything but lay on the seats of the jet skis and bathe in the sunlight. When Shane got too hot, he dove down to the bottom of the cove—this one was about twenty-five feet deep at the center—and brought up a handful of pebbles, a game he’d played with his dad when he was younger.

After he climbed back onto his jet ski and shook out his hair, he tossed a few of the basic ones back into the lake. Ilya was watching him with a small smile. Shane picked out a fun one—it had wavy stripes of pink and white amongst the standard light grey of the rocks around the lake.

“Here,” he said, “catch.”

Ilya snagged the pebble out of the air and sat up to inspect it. “Is a very cool rock, Hollander.”

Shane laughed. “It’s a game I used to play with my dad: see who could find the coolest pebble at the bottom of the lake. He could dive deeper, but I became really good at spotting the cool ones from the surface before I went down.”

Ilya nodded with a teasing smile. “So, is my turn now?”

“If you want. Otherwise I think I win by default.”

“Can’t have that.” Ilya set the pebble he held on the seat of his jet ski, then dove straight down, kicking down to the bottom of the lake. The water was so clear, Shane could see him picking up and discarding rocks for a few seconds before he kicked off the bottom and swam up to the little deck at the stern of Shane’s jet ski. He’d found a granite pebble almost entirely made up of the same pink and clear minerals as the one Shane had given him. 

“Think it’s a tie,” Ilya said. “But I will win the whole summer.”

“I have no doubt,” Shane said dryly, but he smoothed his thumb over the pebble as Ilya pulled himself back up onto the other jet ski. “Want to go back for lunch?”

“Mm,” Ilya said, then settled himself at the front of the jet ski, pulling on his life jacket. “Race you back.”

He started the engine and took off before Shane had even scrambled to sit at his own controls. Shane couldn’t help but laugh, though he made sure to call Ilya an asshole the minute they were back on dry land. 

Chapter 28: I found a picture

They pulled up in front of his parents’ cottage that evening, and Ilya looked around curiously. “You came here as a kid, you said?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, getting out of the car and rounding the hood to take Ilya’s hand. “I offered to build them a new one on the same lake as mine, but they wanted to keep this one.”

Ilya nodded, and let Shane lead him up the front walk. Shane was bouncing inside with excitement. He and his parents had a tradition, one he hadn’t told Ilya about, that had started when Shane was first getting serious about hockey, and his training season filled the entire school year. Since he couldn’t celebrate his May birthday with cake and fancy dinners while on a restricted diet and with a full workout schedule, they always celebrated it on the first weekend of the summer, at his parent’s cottage.

And Ilya’s birthday had passed in early June as well.

“Hi!” Shane called as he opened the door. “It’s us!”

“Happy birthday!” Yuna shouted as they stepped far enough in to see into the living room. His mom had, as usual, decorated with the streamers and banners and balloons you could find at most grocery stores, so the room looked like it had been decorated for children, but that was half the fun.

“It’s not your birthday,” Ilya murmured in confusion and Shane laughed.

“No, but this is when we celebrate it. And now we’re celebrating yours, too.”

“Mine?” Ilya asked, his face going slack in shock. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, welcome to your Hollander-style birthday party, Lyunya,” Shane said, gesturing to the room.

“Boys!” David called as he walked into the room, carrying four beers by their necks. “Happy birthdays!”

Ilya just blinked, his breathing a little ragged, and Shane knew he was fighting back big emotions, so he stepped forward and gave his parents each a hug. Ilya drifted further into the room behind him and seemed to run on auto-pilot as his mom and then his dad hugged him, too.

“Ilya,” David said after he handed out the beers and they’d all settled down. “I didn’t know what you might like for your birthday dinner, but Shane says you like everything, so I went with chicken parmesan. Is that alright?”

Ilya cleared his throat and nodded. “Yes, thank you. That sounds… that sounds good.”

“Have you had it before?” Yuna asked.

“I don’t think so,” Ilya said. “But Shane is right, I like everything. Well, not his boring rice and vegetables—”

Ilya cut himself off, looking stricken at telling a joke at Shane’s expense in front of his parents but Shane just smiled and shook his head. “It’s a healthy diet!”

“Is boring, Hollander,” Ilya muttered, then took a sip of beer.

“Well, it’ll be ready soon, and then we can see if you like it,” David said with a small smile. He asked how the drive up was, and then lead them through small-talk until the timer went off in the kitchen and he went to drain the pasta.

“Come set the table, boys,” Yuna said, standing from the couch, and Shane immediately stood, holding out a hand to help Ilya up, too.

“I’ll show you where everything is,” Shane promised as he guided him to the dining room and through to the kitchen. When the table was set, and the pasta served, and Ilya had tried his first bite of chicken parmesan—and immediately groaned in delight—talk moved onto bigger subjects. 

“So, Scott Hunter, huh?” Yuna started. 

“Yeah,” Shane murmured, looking down at his plate and trying not to think about his true reaction.

“That was… very brave,” she said.

“Have either of you talked to him?” David asked, handing Ilya the bowl of extra parmesan.

“I mean, yeah, we’re friends, so we knew Kip before…”

“No, I meant about you two, and… coming out.”

“Oh. No, I haven’t,” Shane said, looking over at Ilya.

“I did not have much time to talk to him at the MLH Awards, not about us, but I did tell him how it gave me hope,” Ilya said after swallowing a mouthful of food.

“You did?” Shane asked, when he really wanted to ask how he’d garnered hope in that moment; Shane was still processing his grief.

“Mm. Briefly. He came out, so maybe others can come out, right? Maybe… maybe one day, I don’t know,” Ilya said, and Shane reached out to put a hand on Ilya’s knee under the table. That, he decided, did count as hopeful. Maybe one day.

“Do you have a plan yet?” Yuna asked. “I was thinking we could reach out to the premium brands and float the idea of—“

“Mom, we can’t. Ilya… Ilya wouldn’t be safe if he was out. Or even if I was out, and he was even rumored to be with me. Russia… they have laws about supporting people like us, let alone being gay or whatever.”

Yuna looked at Ilya for confirmation, and he nodded. “They could have me, uh… what is the word? They could make me go back, and then punish me there.”

“Repatriation,” David supplied. 

“Yes, that,” Ilya confirmed. “I need citizenship elsewhere before I can be out.”

“So, no,” Shane said. “We don’t have a plan yet. I was thinking we could talk about it over the summer, though. The two of us, I mean. To figure out what we want, first.”

When Shane looked over at Ilya to see what he thought, the other man nodded and quirked a half-smile. “It will already be better. Shane made a fancy color-coded calendar to show when we could see each other, and I think we will have a chance ten or eleven times in the regular season? Instead of just the four we had.”

Shane breathed out a laugh. “I wanted to know! The colors helped make it obvious.”

“No, is smart. I love it,” Ilya assured him. Shane looked back at his parents, and saw they had fond smiles on their faces. 

“So, yeah, no plan. Yet,” Shane concluded, feeling a bit like he was giving a book report. 

His mom nodded. “Well, let me know if I can help. And I want a copy of that calendar, so we can take you each out to dinner when you’re in Ottawa.”

“I’ll add you to it,” he promised his mom.

When dinner wrapped up, David asked, “So, cake first, or presents?”

Shane looked at Ilya, who looked back, wide-eyed, clearly not having expected a gift at all. “Presents, I think.”

“Then get on dish duty!” his dad said, rising and taking his beer into the living room. Yuna stood and grabbed the leftovers, and Shane stood to grab plates.

“Come on, Lyunya, we’ve got dish duty since my dad cooked,” Shane said, smiling at his flustered boyfriend. 

“Yes, whoever doesn’t cook in this family either does the dishes or puts away the leftovers and wipes down the table,” Yuna explained as she came back for the platter of chicken. 

That just flustered Ilya further, since he’d been lumped into the family category, and Shane could watch him processing in real time. He opted to tease him to break him out of his thoughts. “I’ll let you dry since it’s your first time.”

Ilya grinned and finally stood, stacking plates as Shane gathered glasses and silverware. He knew when Ilya settled further into the rhythms of his family they’d likely have splash fights at the sink, or throw suds at each other, but for tonight, it went rather smoothly.

It had taken all of Ilya’s self control not to splash Shane while they were doing the dishes. He was trying to be on his best behavior with the Hollanders, unsure of what they thought of him still. They’d seemed thrown-off when he’d left Shane’s hospital room for the last time, but then Yuna had been kind in New York, even hugging him. Shane had said that they would love him because Shane loved him, but it didn’t feel real. The dinner conversation had helped a little, made him feel as though he could be himself, but he was so unused to that feeling in a family setting that he kept catching himself tensing, waiting for a sharp word.

When they sat in the living room, Ilya tried to sit a respectful distance from Shane, but after a moment, Shane scooted closer so their legs were pressed together from hip to ankle, so Ilya tried to relax and laid his arm across the back of the couch, letting his fingers play along Shane’s healed collarbone.

“Okay,” Yuna said, bringing presents into the living room from the back of the house. “We got you a joint present, and two smaller presents. Which do you want first?”

“Joint present?” Shane asked Ilya and he shrugged. He felt so out of his depth in this moment, it was hard to know how to act.

“You choose, lyubimyy,” Ilya murmured, and Shane nodded. 

“Joint present it is, because I am intrigued,” Shane announced. Yuna pushed forward a medium-sized box. “You open it, Lyunya.”

Ilya hesitated only a second before nodding and tore into the wrapping paper a bit hesitantly. It was just a plain box, no markings on it, but the lid was only loosely taped down, so he pried it off in seconds, and leaned forward in tandem with Shane.

Their faces stared back at them, the group shot with Carter and Scott from the All-Star Game set in a sleek, modern frame.

“There’s more,” Yuna said, smiling. “Pull them out.”

Shane lifted out the first frame to reveal another, this one from their first CCM photo shoot, one of the ones where they couldn’t stop laughing. The third was a collage frame with small pictures: one from their first All Star press conference, another clearly a screen-grab of their first MLH face-off, a third a picture of their handshake line from one of the Prospect Cups, a fourth from draft day, with one of the only smiles Shane had given that day—forced though it was—and the rest were action shots of both of them in various games.

Ilya felt his throat closing with tears as Shane lifted out the fourth and fifth frames, which were empty.

“I thought you could put a picture from this summer in one,” Yuna said, her voice a bit thick. “Your first summer together at the cottage. And maybe you had more pictures? Something to put in the other.”

“Mom,” Shane croaked before he stood and moved to wrap his arms around her where she sat in one of the armchairs. 

“Thank you,” Ilya managed, clearing his throat. “I… I would not have even known to look for some of these.”

“Of course,” Yuna said, and Ilya moved to hug her as well. It felt like the moment warranted a hug. He wanted to shout to the world what Shane meant to him, and though this was only a whisper, she’d given them a voice. “I thought… I know you can’t be public, so I thought maybe you could hang them in the cottage for now.”

“I’ll bring tools over when we come for dinner,” Shane’s dad promised, smiling softly. Shane nodded, and cleared his throat, wiping at his eyes as he settled back onto the couch. Ilya pressed a kiss to his temple, thinking that even though Shane had been angry the day of their first MLH Awards, he still had the pictures from when they presented together, in that locked folder on his phone, titled ‘Boring.’

“Okay! Small presents next. It’s a happy day!” Yuna declared, breaking through Ilya’s reverie and standing up slightly to hand both of them similar sized boxes.

Shane nodded at Ilya. “You first, I want to know what they got you.”

“You don’t know?” Ilya asked, looking down at the box.

“Nope,” Shane said. “They didn’t even ask me what you like.”

“I’m hoping we got it right,” David said. “I’m excited about this one.”

Ilya tore into the wrapping paper and looked down, shocked silent for a second before he chuckled, tearing the wrapping paper fully away. “You got it right.”

“What is it?” Shane asked, leaning over as Ilya tilted it toward him. “What’s Top Gear?”

“‘What’s Top Gear?!’ Hollander, no. Do not say this,” Ilya said, settling his face into horrified lines. “Tell me you are not this boring.”

David was laughing on the other side of the coffee table. “It’s a car show from the UK, Shane. Ilya likes fast cars.”

“I do. And it’s funny, especially the specials,” Ilya said, holding up the unwrapped boxset so Shane could see that’s what his parents had picked out for him. Two people who barely knew him, and mostly only from what the press said about him, had found him a gift he would actually enjoy, something he could do with their son.

“You can watch it the next rainy day!” Yuna put in, practically reading his mind. “Shane, your turn.”

Ilya watched over Shane’s shoulder as he unwrapped his own present, a set of three games for his gaming console at the cabin: the newest MLH game, Grand Theft Auto, and Call of Duty. 

“You play video games?” he asked Shane. 

“Of course. I mean not during the season much—” 

Ilya laughed. 

“Shut up,” Shane said back, already grinning. “But during the summer, yeah.”

“Is too bad.”

“What’s too bad?”

“That you are not on the cover of this one,” Ilya teased, grabbing the MLH game and holding it up to make the serious face he’d had to don for the photoshoot he’d done earlier in the season. 

“Oh my god, you are the worst,” Shane moaned as his parents laughed, and Ilya felt a little more at home. 

Chapter 29: then look at a place far away

“This is so weird,” Scott muttered as he pulled up the driveway to Shane’s cottage at the end of August, Kip in the passenger seat next to him.

“Hey, it’s less weird for you,” Carter chimed in from the backseat. “You already knew they were dating. I had to find out via a text.”

“You’re still mad about that, aren’t you?” Gloria teased. 

“Yes, I am,” Carter said, but he was grinning. 

They’d all flown into Ottawa together from New York. Shane had offered to come pick them up, but they’d rented a car and drove in together. Scott knew they weren’t the only people invited for the Labor Day visit, but it was still weird knowing he’d be walking into a house that Rozanov called home. At least he thought Rozanov probably considered it home. 

There was only one other already car in the driveway—a Range Rover SUV—so Scott assumed they were the first to arrive. The cottage—mansion, really—was gorgeous, Scott could admit it, and he wondered how Shane kept managing to snag amazing properties. He’d seen the brownstone in Brooklyn and had been a little bit jealous. 

As they all got out and stretched, the front door opened, and there was Rozanov, leaning against the frame, a smirk already on his lips. “Your back hurt from the long drive, old man?”

Kip, the traitor, laughed as Scott sighed. “Fuck off, Roz.”

“Ilya,” Kip greeted him, meeting him at the bottom of the steps for a quick hug. 

“Kip! Is good to see you. How was… New Zealand, right?”

“It was great,” Kip said. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Are they friends?” Carter asked, aghast, sparking more laughter from both Kip and Gloria.

“I have lots of friends, Vaughn. I am very nice, everyone loves me.” Rozanov stepped forward and gave Scott a back-slapping hug, then gave Carter the same treatment, before leaning down to kiss Gloria on the cheek and sweep her up into a spinning hug.

“Hey, special treatment!” Kip complained, laughing, but then cackled when Rozanov did the same to him, kiss included. Scott rolled his eyes.

“Shane know you’re kissing other people?” Scott said, only half kidding.

“My Shane is not jealous, he knows me,” Rozanov said, and though Scott looked, he didn’t see any teasing glint in Roz’s eyes. “Come on, let me help with the bags, the mosquitos and stupid Canadian horse flies will invade the house if we don’t close the front door.”

Rozanov shuffled them all inside and then led them up the stairs to the second floor. “These two rooms are yours, Shane said. Take your pick, and then come downstairs. He’ll want to give you a tour like a good Canadian boy.”

Scott snorted, because that was a very accurate description of Shane, then tried to cover it up by clearing his throat; he couldn’t let Roz know he was actually funny; he’d never know peace again. When the four of them had dropped their bags and freshened up slightly, they wandered downstairs, taking in the family room in front of the massive fireplace. There were frames hung on the wall at the bottom of the stairs, and Scott moved closer to look at them.

“Wow,” Carter murmured at his shoulder.

“What?”

“That campaign was the year before I was drafted,” Carter said, pointing at one of Rozanov and Shane laughing in the face-off position in full generic CCM gear. “I remember the ads for it.”

Scott rapidly did the math—Carter had been drafted to the Admirals in 2011. “2010?”

“Sounds right,” Carter said, nodding, but his eyes were already roaming the rest of the photos. “That… looks like when they presented the sportsmanship award at the awards for that same season.”

Scott nodded slowly. “I thought that whole selfie thing was a bit.”

“Me too. When’s this?” Carter asked, pointing at one of them at a press conference. “They look so young?”

Scott looked closer. “I have no idea.”

“2011,” Rozanov said from across the room, his hands in his pockets and his entire body relaxed in a way Scott had never seen. “Our first season.”

Carter nodded and kept looking at the pictures while Scott stepped away. He studied the inexplicable jar of pebbles on the fireplace mantle next to what he recognized as fine art, though he didn’t know the artist, the stack of movies and video games on the tv console, then went to the windows to admire the view of the lake. Kip joined him after a minute and rested his head on his shoulder. “Wow.”

Scott nodded in agreement, a little bit speechless.

“Do you need anything to drink?” Roz asked the room. When everyone shook their heads, he smiled. “I will find Shane, then.”

Roz went back down the steps to the kitchen and after a moment, Scott followed him, Kip trailing behind and stopping to look at the various framed prints and canvases on most walls of the house. When Scott wandered down into a second seating area in a room made almost entirely of windows that opened up onto a natural stone patio, he noted the scattering of books across every flat surface. There were hockey books and novels and even a couple with Cyrillic on the cover. He picked up one of the novels to look at it, then heard Rozanov’s voice. Turning, he realized there were stairs down into a basement level in the back corner of the room.

“…setting up a tent inside? You know those are for camping, yes?”

Scott heard Shane laugh as he moved to the stairs. “It’s for the girls. We set it up for them last year and they loved it. They’re still too young to do a camp out on their own—they’d just come back in scared halfway through the night—so this was our compromise. They get to camp out, but they don’t get scared.”

“Ah, okay. But why not get them an inside tent? They make those, you know. Sofiya has one in her room. Very fancy, she keeps it up all the time like a playhouse.”

“But where’s the fun in that? It’s not camping!” Shane said as Scott hit the bottom step and saw Shane struggling with a kids tent in the middle of a cozy den with two more bedrooms branching off of it and another wall of windows looking out onto the lake.

“Need help, Rook?” Scott asked and Shane looked up.

“Hey, Scotty! No, I’ve got it, I was just distracted by a pest,” Shane said before he wrestled the last of the tent poles into place and stepped back, grinning at Ilya. “Okay, now I need to get the sleeping bags—”

“No, Hollander, no, you go give a tour to your friends, I will get the girls’ tent set up. And Arthur and Amber’s little, uh…”

“Pack ’n’ Plays, yeah. Those are in the closet in the guest room.”

“Okay, I will get those, too. Go, go. Say hello to everyone, give them your tour so you don’t miss the little ones arriving. Jackie said they were only thirty minutes away ten minutes ago.” Ilya shooed Shane away from the tent while Scott watched in awe at Roz’s behavior.

“Fine, fine. We might as well start down here, where’s everyone else?” Shane asked Scott. 

“They were following me a second ago. Kip! Bring Carter and Gloria, Shane wants to start the tour down here.” They all came down the stairs, hugging Shane and saying hello in a cacophony of voices as Rozanov disappeared into one of the bedrooms and came out with two tightly rolled sleeping bags in bright pink. As he was climbing into the tent to roll them out, Shane led them further into the den, opening a door that had been previously closed. 

“This is the gym. We’re going to lock it so the kids can’t get in, but if you want to use it while you’re here, feel free,” Shane started, but was swiftly interrupted by Carter.

“Holy shit, Hollzy, you have a practice rink at your vacation house?” He was pointing off to the side where, built into the hill the house rested on—Scott assumed—was a half-size rink with synthetic ice.

“Well, yeah,” Shane said, looking confused. “I’m here all summer, where else would I practice? It’s a long drive back to Montreal or Ottawa.”

Scott laughed and shook his head as Kip approached and looked down at the rink. 

“Wait, can you actually skate on this?” Shane nodded and explained it to Kip while Scott looked around the rest of the room, kitted out with weights, cardio equipment, and a few other machines, all with that same view of the lake as the den. 

“Hot damn,” Carter murmured next to him. “How much is Rolex paying him? I want one.”

“A rink?” Scott asked.

“No, a vacation mansion,” Carter said. “We’re only in the basement, Scotty.”

Scott nodded, thinking the same thing. 

Shane led them through the entire house and then back down and out onto the patio. “Anyone want anything to drink? Rose should be landing right about now, and Svetlana should be here later, but the Pikes and J.J. should be here soon—”

“Uncle Shane!” Scott heard from inside the house.

“—or right now,” Shane chuckled. Scott realized this was probably the most he’d heard Shane laugh, maybe ever; it felt weird to realize that about someone he’d known at least professionally for seven years. “Out here, girls! Careful on the stairs!”

Two little girls launched themselves out the back door and swarmed him, followed shortly after by Hayden Pike toting a toddler, J.J. Boiziau lugging a carseat, and—Scott assumed—Hayden’s wife. Introductions and greetings were made, but the real shock came when Ilya stepped out onto the patio and one of the little girls shrieked and screamed, “Uncle Ilya!”

“Uncle Ilya!”

“Jade! Ruby!” Ilya shouted back at the twins with the same enthusiasm before coming down the stone steps to accept hugs. They’d visited a couple of times over the summer, enough that he had become Uncle Ilya, though he knew that grated on Hayden’s nerves every single time. One of these days, he’d teach them to call him Dyadya Ilyusha, but he thought maybe that would be a step too far when Pike was still getting used to having him around. 

“Arthur,” he said to the little boy reaching out to him from Pike’s arms. He asked Pike with his eyes if he could hold the boy, and Hayden only grumbled a little before handing him over, then went to greet everyone else.

“Unka,” Arthur said, trying to grab Ilya’s nose, a toothy little grin on his face.

“Yes, umnitsa. How many words do you know now?”

“Only a few more since last time,” Jackie said, giving him a quick hug. “Jade and Ruby talk for him, so he doesn’t have to.”

“Ah, yes, this makes sense. Hello Jackie, how was the drive?” Ilya asked before giving her a quick bussing kiss.

“Not bad, even though my fifth child over there was crammed in the back of the van,” she said, nodding her head toward where J.J. was talking to Carter and Shane with a smile. “Amber slept the whole way, thank God.”

“Ah, so she will be ready to crawl all over dangerous surfaces now.”

“Still not crawling, but she might try to roll,” Jackie said, looking down into the carrier settled by the steps where Amber was playing with her toes and gurgling. “Okay, introduce me to everyone before I go make the boys unload the car.”

Ilya did, starting with the New York contingent. By the time he had helped Hayden and J.J. unload the mini-van, Sveta arrived, leading to them doing it all over again. They did it a third time when Rose arrived, though Shane took the lead on that one, settling her in the last of the guest rooms on the main floor. 

“I never thought I’d say this, but Hollander, you may need a bigger cottage,” Ilya quipped when they were all gathered outside on the patio, watching the girls run around the backyard playing some sort of game involving pool noodles. Arthur was toddling around the patio, going from adult to adult, asking for ‘uh, uh, uh’ until one of them caved and picked him up so he could climb all over them.

“Could always expand the boathouse, I guess,” Shane said after he had finished laughing, getting that too serious look on his face. 

“Ah, no, don’t even think about it, Mr. Real Estate. You are already doing a house renovation.”

“Then I guess we just need fewer friends,” Shane decided. “Who are we kicking out?”

“I vote Hunter, there’s only room for one boring person inn a group, and we can’t really kick you out,” Ilya said, already bracing for the elbow to his side from Shane. When it came, he just leaned in and kissed Shane on the cheek, as obnoxiously loud as he could make it, drowning out Hunter’s protests. 

He didn’t know if it was the cottage, or the long summer of what they’d started calling alone-together, but Ilya was catching himself being far more open with his affection for Shane than he had expected. And rather than shying away, Shane leaned into it, not hesitating to take his hand or return a kiss, even if he did flush to the tips of his ears sometimes. It felt right, he decided. 

He wondered how they would ever go back to being a secret. He didn’t know if he could.

“I vote boathouse expansion,” Rose declared, sipping at her glass of wine and smiling at Shane over the rim. “In the spring though, when you’re not here, and the work in Brooklyn is done.”

“But how much of an expansion?” Gloria asked. “Going to need at least a bachelor’s suite. I think Carter is going to move in here next summer whether Shane wants him here or not.”

“Don’t give away the plan, babe,” Carter hissed, looping an arm around her neck and pretending to wrestle her into his chest. 

Shane laughed as Ilya piped up. “You would not be allowed, Vaughny. Didn’t you know this is Shane Hollander’s Fortress of Solitude?”

“Would you stop quoting that terrible ESPN documentary?” Shane asked. “How many times did you watch it, anyway?”

“Every night for a month,” Ilya said. Shane caught the glint in his eyes before he added, “It was very good for when I needed sleep during playoffs.”

“You’re an asshole,” Shane sputtered. 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Jackie said, “but swear jar, Shane.”

“Shanuska,” Sveta gasped. “In front of the mladentsy.”

“I blame Rozanov.”

“I am a good influence,” Ilya said with a straight face while everyone else sputtered out laughter and kept up the banter.

In the back of his head, Shane was thinking about a boathouse expansion. He’d never understood why he’d wanted so many bedrooms in his cottage when he’d had it built; it wasn’t like he had Labor Day parties every summer. At most, it had been the Pikes or J.J. visiting before. But now… he had a growing network of people he wanted to have around all the time. He wondered if there were people—other than Sveta—who Ilya would add to the mix. He wondered how much this little family would grow.

“Ilyusha, Shane!” Shane heard his mom call from inside the house, closer to dinner time.

“Mom and Dad are here,” he said to Ilya before standing and going to greet them, leaving Ilya to entertain the others. “Hey, do you need help?”

“Yes, please,” his mom said, carrying in two large catering bags from one of the local restaurants. “Your dad is grabbing more, but there’s a lot. Who knew how much food you needed to feed seventeen people?”

“You did,” Shane said, sneaking by her and calling over his shoulder. “Don’t you remember youth hockey?”

She laughed, and Shane went down the front steps to help his dad unload four more gigantic paper bags filled with trays of food. When they went back inside, his mom was already setting everything up on the counter, opening trays, and adding serving utensils. Shane joined her as his dad broke down the paper bags and put them in the pantry for reuse. By the time they were done, the kitchen island was covered in food.

“Lyunya, dinner’s ready!” Shane called through the screen door to the backyard and watched Ilya look up and nod, then gesture everyone inside. 

The house was a riot of conversations and greetings and the sound of plates being filled and the fridge being opened for drinks and Rose cooing over Amber in Sveta’s arms as Jackie dished up a plate for herself. For someone who enjoyed his solitude, Shane felt as though his heart would beat out of his chest at seeing the cottage so full of people who knew the full him, the real him. 

He was standing back and smiling, waiting to fill his own plate last, when Ilya’s arms slid around his waist and he was pressing a now-familiar kiss to Shane’s shoulder, then behind his ear. “You okay, solynshko moye?”

“I’m okay,” Shane murmured. “Happy.”

“Good,” Ilya murmured. “Me, too.”

Chapter 30: how to be brave

They took out the pontoons the next day—both Shane’s and his parents’—and parked off one of the uninhabited islands in the middle of the lake, the boats tied up to each other to create one big floating raft as a base from which to enjoy the day. Ilya was taking the girls for a joyride on one of the jet skis while Hayden followed with Arthur tucked between his knees at a more sedate pace. Scott and Kip had swum to the island and were exploring it. Jackie was sunbathing while Shane’s dad cuddled Amber and his mom asked questions about the girls upcoming school year. Sveta, Gloria, and Rose were sitting on the back deck of Shane’s boat, their legs dangling in the water and their voices teasing J.J. and Carter who were floating on tubes just off the stern. 

And Shane was soaking it all up, reading under the canopy on his boat, though he hadn’t gotten more than a few sentences in; he just didn’t want to miss a moment of the weekend, even though he normally loved reading on the water. 

Thinking that, he shut the book and tucked it back under the pilot’s seat, then moved to sit on the back of the boat, settling next to Rose and dipping his feet in the cool water. 

“Hey, babe,” she said, nudging his shoulder with her own. 

“Hey,” he said, smiling over at her. 

“Are you getting excited for the season?” Shane felt J.J. and Carter’s eyes on him immediately and shrugged. 

“More nervous, I think. Last time I was new to a team was my rookie season. Feels weird.”

“You’re not new to the league, though,” Gloria pointed out. “That has to help a little.”

“Maybe,” Shane said, though it didn’t feel like it, not really. 

“Have any of the Scouts reached out to you over the summer?” Carter asked. 

“Not really. I got added to a couple group chats, but those have been mostly silent while everyone’s on break, I guess. Couple of funny videos passed around about inside jokes I don’t understand yet, though.”

J.J. grinned. “Did you even understand the Metros inside jokes, Capitaine?”

Shane laughed, looking down at his feet in the water. “No, not really, since most of them were about the weird shit you guys got up to at clubs I didn’t go to.”

“Oh, so clubbing is a thing you don’t do for anyone?” Rose teased, then looked over at Svetlana and Gloria. “I asked him to go out dancing with me one time… poor Shane hated it the whole time, even if he pretended not to.”

Shane blushed as everyone laughed, then said, “It’s just so loud and there are so many people…”

“Not your vibe,” Rose admitted, bumping his shoulder again. 

“Kacpar—the Scouts goalie—is a film nerd, so he’d probably not be into the club vibe either,” Carter mused aloud. “And Dev is into boxing. I think Adrien is into art? Anyway, my point is, there’s a couple guys who aren’t down for clubbing most of the time. You’ll be good.”

“Oooo, a film nerd!” Gloria said. “I want to meet him.”

“Goalies are famously weird, babe, just a heads up,” Carter laughed. 

“You don’t have to limit your friends to the Scouts, either,” Svetlana mused as Ilya and Hayden pulled the jet skis back up to the boats. “I mean, you’ve got two Admirals right here, yes? Are there other people on the team Shanushka would like?”

Carter nodded and titled his head to try to remember people. “Bennett’s cool, but he decided to retire. He’ll stick around the city, though. Wagner and Huff. Most of last year’s rookies are partiers. There’s a couple of guys who love video games.”

“I feel like I’m being set up on a date,” Shane said, laughing. 

“What? No. No dates for you,” Ilya said from the other boat, looking up from where he was tying off Hayden’s jet ski.

“Friend dates, Ilyusha, relax!” Sveta called back to him, shaking her head. 

“Ah, that’s fine then.” Ilya said with a nod, hopping between the boats and immediately settling down so his legs were on either side of Shane and his cold torso was pressed up against Shane’s back, his arms hooking around Shane’s waist. 

“I think the weirdest part might be going back to training camp not being the captain,” Shane mused aloud. “I haven’t done that in years.”

“I think they’ll at least make you an alternate,” Sveta said, leaning back on her arms and tilting her face up to the sky to catch the sun. “Would be stupid not to.”

“Why?”

“You were already Captain in Montreal, so you know what it’s like. You talk to the press, and you do it well. You’re versed in the rules, can argue with the referee. And, by virtue of being Shane Hollander, you’ll already have the respect of the team,” she said, as if it were completely self-explanatory. 

“But I don’t know any of the guys,” Shane said, shrugging. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I just hope they’re nice.”

Ilya squeezed him a little tighter, as if he could read Shane’s thoughts from that one sentence. Namely, that he was scared he wouldn’t get the bare minimum from the team, even if he got it from the coaching office: acceptance. 

The topic shifted from there, but Shane felt the thoughts buzzing at the back of his head. Anxiety over being liked, about being accepted, about fitting in with the team, about how much time he’d get on the ice, about having to meet all new people, to fully settle in to a new city, a new environment, a new routine. He could feel it building in his stomach now that he’d broached the topic out loud, as if he’d spoken it into existence. Nothing he did for the rest of the day calmed him, and he knew Ilya could tell, as could his mom, and maybe even Hayden, but none of them pressed him. He was mostly grateful for that, but he also just wanted one of them to let him freak out, just for a little bit.

When the children were all in bed, and their friends—plus Hayden and J.J.—had congregated around the fire pit, Ilya watched Shane sneak away into the cottage, mumbling something about the bathroom. He decided to give him five minutes, then follow him inside. 

He found Shane in their room, sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes closed and breathing deep.

“Solynshko moye?” Ilya murmured, and watched Shane’s shoulders lower deliberately before he opened his eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” Shane whispered. “I’m just… I’m nervous about the season. I know everyone says it’s going to work out, but… I’m just nervous. And it keeps hitting me, since we go back this week.”

Ilya nodded and sat next to him, bracing his arm behind Shane’s back and looking over. “Makes sense.”

“You’re not going to try to talk me out of it?” Shane asked, the surprise evident in his voice.

“Could I?” Ilya asked with a small smile. Shane studied him for a moment, then shook his head. “Then why try? Is okay to be nervous. Everything will be okay, but it could be hard getting there.”

Shane nodded, looking away and letting out a sigh. “I’m… I’m scared, honestly.”

Ilya nodded, too, lifting his hand to run it down Shane’s back in a soothing motion. “That’s because it’s scary. But you are brave.”

“Shut up, I’m not,” Shane said, breathing out a laugh.

“You are, you’re brave.” Ilya moved so he was crouched between Shane’s knees and pulled him into a hug. “Look at what you have done this year so far. You came out to your team. You told me about your feelings. You moved teams, countries, homes. You’ve told the people who matter to you about us. All of those things are scary. All of them. And here you are, still standing, still doing them. That is brave.”

Shane squeezed his shoulders and buried his face in Ilya’s neck. “I wish I didn’t have to be.”

Ilya only nodded and held him for a long minute. “Do you want more time alone?”

“Please,” Shane said. “I… I’ll calm down and come back out in a little bit.”

“Take your time, I will just entertain everyone by telling embarrassing stories about you,” Ilya teased, and was rewarded with a breathy laugh. 

“You’re an asshole,” Shane muttered.

“Ah, but you love me anyway,” Ilya said and pressed a kiss to his temple. “Take your time, I will be here.”

Ilya left him sitting in the dim bedroom and made his way back outside, stopping to grab some snacks out of the pantry to set out on the patio table. 

“Roz, you excited to get back to training camp?” Carter asked when he settled back around the fire pit.

“Mm, yes. Should be fun. We didn’t lose too many people over the summer, but some of the prospects seem interesting. You two?”

“I’m excited.” Carter took a sip of his beer and sat forward. “We lost Bennett to retirement, earlier than I thought we would, honestly, but it means we’re going to have a few new goalies hoping to be Tommy’s backup.”

“I tried talking Bennett out of retiring,” Scott said with a sigh. “He could’ve played at least two more years, but…”

“Ooo, gossip,” Jackie said, leaning forward herself. “Tell, tell, tell.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Scott said. “He just wanted to try to spend more time with Holly.”

“His wife?” Ilya asked, thinking about dancing with him at Scott Hunter night.

“Yeah,” Scott said. “They met in college, I think?”

Ilya nodded and looked over at Hayden and Jackie curled into each other on the opposite couch. “Must be a little bit hard to be with a hockey player?”

“Hardest part is the smell,” Gloria piped up. “Your gear smells disgusting. Don’t know how you don’t pass out while wearing it.”

Jackie cackled. “I was going to say the long road trips were the hardest, but that’s too real. Seriously though, you have to go into it knowing what you’re signing up for, I think.”

“And you knew you were marrying the 15th best Metro?” Ilya teased, eliciting another cackle from Jackie and a protest from Hayden. 

“I did!” she said. “Did you know Shane was there that night?”

She launched into the tale for people who hadn’t heard it before, and Ilya sat, keeping his carefully controlled smiling mask in place. He and Shane were going in with their eyes open—if anyone understood the life of a professional hockey player, it was another hockey player—but they don’t really know what they were signing up for, otherwise. Free agency, injuries, Russia, the tolerance of the league and all the players—none of it was a known quantity. They knew they wanted each other, but was that enough to keep them together? Or as together as they could be, for now?

Ilya felt a chill shiver down his spine, and he didn’t think it was because of the breeze off the lake.

[Photo 1: A photo of Rose and Shane on a jet ski just off the dock. Rose is standing slightly and kissing Shane on the cheek. His nose is wrinkled and he’s laughing.]

[Photo 2: A group selfie. Ilya and Sveta are on either side of Rose. All three making silly faces at the camera. The lake can be seen in the background.]

[Photo 3: A photo of Kip and Rose being chased by Ruby and Jade wielding super soakers—their faces are not facing the camera—around the lawn at the back of the cottage.]

[Photo 4: Rose, Jackie, and Gloria sitting next to each other at the fire pit, laughing over their wine glasses, unaware they’re being photographed.]

[Photo 5: All the hockey players gathered by the lakeside, holding beers. Shane is laughing in tandem with Hayden, Scott is mid-sentence with a teasing smile on his face. Carter is leaning an elbow on J.J.’s shoulder. Ilya is grinning in delight at Scott.]

roselandry Best Labor Day yet. See you same time same place next year, all the loves of my life. 

shane_hollander24 Come back any time 💙

svetlana_vetrova So fun, can’t wait to see you again. Call me when you’re in Boston!

vaughnyyyy Next year, we need more water guns.

↳ilya_rozanov guaranteed Hollander already has that on a list somewhere

↳shane_hollander24 @ilya_rozanov just because you’re right doesn’t meant mean this isn’t insulting

↳ilya_rozanov @shane_hollander24 @vaughnyyyy told you

jackiepike35 Oh, that pic of you and the girls is amazing!

@hollanov4life

Svetlana Vetrova and Rose Landry are beards for Hollanov, and I can prove it using photos from the photos they all dropped on socials after Labor Day. In this essay I will—

↳@shane__sitonmyface 

Oh my god, get a different schtick. Clearly Shane and Rose are in love, you saw them kissing on that jet ski right?

↳@shilya_rozander 

Girl, I’m still waiting for your last essay, PLEASE FEED ME.

@landry_rose_news

Rose going to Shane Hollander’s lake house for Labor Day and then him responding to her with a heart emoji is everything I ever needed. 

Chapter 31: these arms were made for holding you

Chapter Notes

Shane waved to Rose one last time as she backed out and started heading down the driveway on her way to the airport. She had been the last to depart, so the cottage was blessedly empty for the first time in four days, though he and Ilya would only be staying another hour or two themselves, however long it took to pack the car. 

Ilya slid in behind him, his arms wrapping around Shane’s was it and his lips pressing against Shane’s shoulder, a hold that had quickly become a part of their shared language. “Did you have fun, solynshko moye?”

“I did,” Shane said, putting his hands on Ilya’s and leaning back into him. “I’m sort of ready to get back to real life, too, if that makes sense? Even though I’m anxious about it.”

Ilya nodded and pressed another kiss behind Shane’s ear. “I understand. Is like missing the routine of the season, yes?”

“Exactly,” Shane said, sighing. “Do you get like that?”

“Not so much this year, but when I would go home to Russia, yes.” 

Shane turned in Ilya’s arms and looked into his eyes, reading the quiet grief there. “I’m glad you came with me, you know.”

“Oh, really? I would not have guessed.”

“Shut up,” Shane said, grinning. “I meant…”

“I know what you meant,” Ilya assured him. “Come on, I know you will be anxious to pack.”

Just under two hours later, they had climbed into Shane’s car for the drive back to Montreal. He’d hired a cleaning service to get the cottage back into shape for the season; his mom would let them in later that week, then take the rest of the food back to their house in Ottawa. He and Ilya were making their way back to their respective city in stages. A short trip to Montréal, then the next day on to Boston. Shane would stay with Ilya for a day, then drive down to New York alone. 

He was dreading it.

But, they had a plan, or the beginnings of one, that they’d formed over the summer through small conversations scattered throughout the months. They would ride out this season with their color-coded schedule. Ilya was coming up for free agency first, at the end of the season. If Shane was still liking Brooklyn, they’d continue what they were doing, and in the meantime, work on citizenship for Ilya. If Shane didn’t like Brooklyn, well… that was where the plan fell apart. And they also hadn’t decided on how to get Ilya citizenship, or where. 

If Shane was honest, he wanted to suggest they get married; then he would be sure he could keep Ilya safe, though it would surely involve an absurd number of immigration lawyers. On the other hand, they’d only been exclusively together for a few months and marriage after so little time seemed insane. But Shane had been serious when he said he wanted Ilya there for everything—everything, forever.

“You are thinking so loud, solynshko moye,” Ilya teased from the passenger seat as they crossed into Montréal proper. “What is on your mind?”

“You,” Shane said, sneaking a glance over at him. “I was thinking about you, and how to get you a non-Russian passport.”

He saw Ilya nod out of the corner of his eye. “And what were you thinking?”

Shane shook his head. “It’s crazy.”

“If I promise not to make fun of you, will you tell me?” Ilya asked, reaching a hand across the center console to rub the back of Shane’s neck. Shane took a deep breath and nodded. 

“So, I was thinking that the easiest path to citizenship in Canada is usually… marrying a Canadian citizen?” He tensed up as he said it, as if expecting laughter, but none came, and he snuck another glance across the car to find Ilya watching him with a look of fierce concentration on his face. When Ilya said nothing, he continued. “And for people who might be harmed by their home nation for whatever reason, there are all sorts of exemptions and shortcuts to citizenship, when normally it would take multiple years wait. And then you would be safe from Russia. And you cold come out?”

Ilya’s thumb had stopped moving on the back of Shane’s head and he was still staring at him, searching his face as if he were waiting for even more. When Shane said nothing, he finally asked “You are serious?”

“I told you it was crazy,” Shane mumbled, feeling the heat in his cheeks spreading to cover his entire face. 

“No, not… you would want to marry me?”

Shane whipped his head toward Ilya in surprise. “That’s the part you’re doubting?”

“What part did you think I would doubt?”

“How fast it would be. We’ve… we’ve only been dating for a few months.”

“But we have known each other for years,” Ilya said, his voice matter-of-fact. “And those few months have included a lot of time living together, so we know we can do it.”

“So it’s not too fast?” Shane asked, confirming with a rapid glance as he turned onto his street.

“Not for me, no,” Ilya said slowly, nearly fully turned toward Shane in his seat, his stare heavy. “But I do not want you to… to do this if it is not what you want.”

Shane shook his head like he could clear the fog from his brain. “I want to be together. I want you beside me for everything. For forever. I thought… I thought you knew that?”

Shane could hear Ilya swallow sharply but had to focus on turning into the parking garage for his building before he could look over. Ilya was staring into the middle distance, his eyes glassy, and his body rigid.

“Lyunya. Tell me you knew I want you forever.”

“I did, it’s just…”

“Just what?”

“Is one thing to say it, and another to make it real, yes?”

Shane pulled the car into his dedicated parking spot and shut the car off before he turned in his seat and put his hands on Ilya’s face. “Maybe for other people. But not for me. Not for us. I want you forever, even if the world doesn’t know. Do you?”

“Of course. Of course,” Ilya murmured before he turned his head slightly to press a kiss to Shane’s wrist. His smile turned a little cheeky. “So was this your proposal?”

“Of course not. I didn’t even get you a ring,” Shane said, quirking a small smile. “But it is good to know we could take that option, right?”

Ilya nodded, his smile a bit crooked. “Right.”

“Now, let’s go inside,” Shane whispered, “so I can show you how much I want you forever.”

As soon as Shane had put it on the table, all Ilya could think about was claiming him entirely. He spent the entire drive to Boston—and he’d insisted on driving, since Shane would be doing even more in a couple days—thinking about it whenever easy silence fell between them. It wasn’t a simple fix, he knew, but it did seem to eliminate at least the deadly problem of his home country. There was still the league and the public to think about; sure, they had been pushing the friend angle since the All-Star Game, but that didn’t mean anyone would be happy about two star players on opposing teams being together. That wasn’t even taking into the account the backlash for them being two men. Scott had mentioned that not everyone had been supportive of his decision to come out. The Admirals had been fine, and even the league hadn’t said anything, but there were think pieces and podcasts and fans who were all screaming about hockey becoming too “woke,” as if that weren’t inherently laughable. 

So, they were probably not going to get married anytime soon, but that didn’t mean Ilya could stop thinking about it.

When they arrived at Ilya’s house in Boston, unloaded all of Ilya’s luggage and Shane’s overnight bag, and then they collapsed on the couch.

“Why am I so tired?” Shane muttered. “We just had a two month vacation.”

Ilya cracked a yawn, then gestured. “What’s it called? Routine change? I can’t think. Is hard on brain.”

“Transition, maybe?” Shane mumbled, yawning himself. “Would it be crazy to just sit and watch a movie and nap?”

“Mm, opposite. Great idea,” Ilya said, and pulled his phone out of his pocket, pulling up one of the delivery apps. “What do you want for lunch?”

Shane was yawning again and laying down on the couch with the remote. “You choose. Too tired.”

Ilya smiled and did as Shane asked, then laid out next to him, resting his cheek on Shane’s chest as Shane found a random movie and put it on. They dozed until the food arrived, and then Ilya plated up the sandwiches and salads he’d ordered from a local deli and brought them back to the living room. They spent the entire day in that sort of listless fog, though Shane had insisted Ilya order at least some groceries so they could make dinner and he wouldn’t have to worry about it before the weekend. 

When they fell into bed that evening, Ilya pulled Shane back against him, knowing he would only get one more night like this before Shane had to get back to New York. The next day, appropriately, was touched with melancholy. Ilya couldn’t tear himself away from Shane for more than a few moments at a time, and—thank God—Shane seemed fully willing to let Ilya do his best to crawl inside him and never leave. 

“I don’t want to leave,” Shane murmured into the dark of their last night. “I don’t want to go back.”

“I know, lyubimyy. I do not want you to leave either. But we will see each other soon, yes? When is the first time, I know you have it memorized by now.” 

Shane breathed out a laugh and buried his head further into Ilya’s neck. “You have a little break in late October where you might be able to come down to visit, depending on your practice schedule.”

“I will add practices to the calendar tomorrow,” Ilya promised. “Then we will know for sure. Is not ideal to have to wait nearly two months, but we have done longer, yes?”

“I know. But we weren’t… you know.”

“I know,” Ilya agreed. 

“It’ll be harder, since I won’t be lying to myself about missing you,” Shane said, a brush of humor in his voice that made Ilya smile.

“Or it could be easier, because you can just tell me and I will call, or I will tell you and you will call, and I can tease you about your sexy glasses and make you blush from hundreds of miles away.” Shane’s smile grew against Ilya’s skin, and Ilya kept going. “And we are friends now, so we can even talk on social media in public, and I can tease you about being slow, and you can say I am the best hockey player in the league—”

“Hey!”

“—because it's true,” Ilya finished, rolling so he was pressing Shane down into the bed again. Shane was smiling up at him, even if the expression was a little sad, and Ilya couldn’t help but press featherlight kisses to his freckles, worshipping the constellations he loved so much. 

He did it again when he said goodbye to Shane at his car, then lingered over holding him tight against his chest, as if he could fuse them together and never have to be parted from him again. But he had to let him go, because his Shanya needed hockey like he needed air, and Ilya would never hurt him like that. He just wished they could have everything they wanted. 

And so Shane slipped out of his arms and into the front seat of his boring, practical car, wiped a wrist over his eyes, and then waved before he pulled away, driving away with a piece of Ilya’s soul. 

Chapter End Notes

A few things:
1) Canonically, Eric Bennett doesn't retire until 2020, but his marriage had been rocky before that. My fanon is that in this timeline, where he saw Kip & Scott together starting in 2015, he's realizing that something isn't quite right with him & Holly. Scott Hunter Night solidifies that a little bit for him, for reasons 😉 so he is retiring early to try to be a better husband for Holly.
2) It's going to get angsty, friends. We've had 30-ish chapters of fluff with a little internal angst and conflict, but a little external conflict is coming. If this is not for you, I understand, I just wanted to warn you before I update the tags.
3) I know I'm missing tags -- hit me in the comments or DMs with ones you think fit.
4) Love you. Trying to catch up on comments slowly but I've had a busy week! That said, might have to take a short break soon to build up a buffer again, but for now we're okay.

Chapter 32: can't be myself when I'm with anyone

Chapter Notes

CW: homophobic language at the end of this chapter, babes. Take care of yourselves.

Before he’d left that morning, Shane had reminded Ilya that he should try to find people who would accept him for himself, too. “It can’t just be people who knew about me first, Lyunya. You need your friends, too.”

So, Ilya was standing outside the restaurant only a few blocks away from the main Harvard campus waiting on Connie and Marly to show up. It was likely they’d be recognized in the restaurant, but they had the best burgers and the staff tended to leave them alone given they came in every once in a while—it was just across the river from their practice facility and sometimes they deserved a break from their meal plans.

Connie appeared first, walking over from one of the nearby parking garages, and they embraced, slapping each other’s backs. “Hey, man, how was your summer?”

“Not bad,” Ilya said, unable to hide his grin. “Yours?”

“Not bad. Stuck around here mostly—oh, here’s Marly.”

Marly jogged up to them from a slightly different direction, and repeated the same hugs they’d just given each other. “Let’s go in, I’m starving.”

They filed into the restaurant; its red, white, and black interior gave off vintage-diner vibes that Ilya recognized from TV shows, with the line of booths, the metal counter and attached stools, and the tiled walls. The hostess welcomed them in, and Ilya requested a seat out back in the beer garden, so she grabbed menus and led the way. When they were settled at the table, she just smiled and said, “Your server will be right with you.”

“Okay, so, you going to tell us how you ended up invited to Hollander’s Labor Day weekend thing?” Marly started immediately.

“Wait, what?” Connie said. “What was this?”

“Rose Landry posted about it on Instagram. This guy got to meet her,” Marly said, indicated Ilya with his thumb.

“You said your summer wasn’t bad!” Connie nearly yelled.

“It wasn’t,” Ilya said, grinning again.

“That is so far beyond ‘not bad’ that I don’t even know how to talk to you right now.” Connie muttered.

“So?” Marly prompted.

“Hollander asked me, I went,” Ilya said, shrugging. “No big deal.”

“‘No big deal,’” Connie repeated. “Come on, asshole, tell us about her.”

“She’s nice,” Ilya said, looking down at the menu.

“Nice?!” Connie whisper-shouted as Marly smacked a light hand over Ilya’s bicep.

“We need more that that, Roz, come on.”

Ilya’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he took it out, smiling when he saw it was from Shane. He rapidly typed out a reply and set it face-down on the table.

“No, really. She’s nice. Funny, knows a lot about hockey.” Ilya shrugged once more. Truly, that was all he thought about Rose, except maybe a distant appreciation for her looks. When he had Shane, who else mattered? Certainly not Rose Landry, even if he did feel a spark of jealousy whenever the media lumped them together, as they had after her Instagram post. But the jealousy was always of her, not for her.

His phone buzzed again; he glanced at it, smiled, sent back an emoji, then put it down.

“You met the world’s biggest movie star over the summer and you’re texting instead of telling us about it?! Who are you even texting?” Connie was flushed with frustration.

“My boyfriend,” Ilya said, keeping an entirely straight face and waiting for their reaction.

“Fuck off, Rozy,” Marly muttered. “Rose fucking Landry. Can’t believe it.”

Well, thinking he was joking was certainly better than homophobia, he mused as Connie laughed, too. Their server approached the table, and they ordered beers and their burgers, then settled in to wait.

“So, how do I snag an invite to the next Labor Day party?” Marly asked. “I mean, Scott Hunter was there, I feel like maybe I’ve been left out.”

“You want to go? Easy; you’re invited. You too, Connie.”

“Roz, I don’t know how it works in Russia, but you can’t just invite people over to other people’s houses,” Connie said, leaning his chair back on two legs and taking a sip of beer.

“Oh really? I did not know this,” Ilya said with a smirk on his lips. “But, seriously. Boyfriend said I could invite whoever. Shane wanted me to have my friends at his house, too.”

Marly was staring at him now, his beer lifted about halfway to his lips and hanging there. “Hey Roz…”

“Yeah?”

“Why do you keep referring to Shane Hollander as your boyfriend?”

Ilya made a concerned face and tilted his head. “Because he is my boyfriend. Is this too confusing for you?”

Connie choked on his beer, rocking forward in his chair and slamming into the table. Ilya reached out and patted him forcefully on the back as Marly just continued to stare, his mouth gaping open. When Connie recovered, he rasped out, “What?”

“Is simple. Shane Hollander—”

“No,” Connie said, shaking his head as if he were trying to wake himself up.

“—is my boyfriend. He said I could invite my friends to the cottage next summer. He said I could do it this summer, too, but I hadn’t told you yet, so...”

Marly just blinked, closed his mouth, and then set his beer down. “You’re serious. Oh my god.”

“Yes, very serious. He suggested we might get married someday soon, so I can get Canadian citizenship and Russia can’t hurt me.”

“Stop,” Connie said, his voice still hoarse and his head in his hands. “I can’t take this much new information at once. Start simple—you’re gay?”

“Mm, little bit?” Ilya said, his voice trailing up. “Is there a word for liking both?”

“Bisexual,” Connie said, glancing up but keeping his head in his hands.

“That. I am that,” Ilya confirmed before taking a sip of his beer.

“And you’re dating Shane Hollander,” Marly said next, his voice quiet even though there was no one nearby.

“Da.”

“Is he gay?” Connie asked.

“Yes, very gay,” Ilya said, grinning. “Is why he and Rose Landry broke up.”

Connie groaned and set his head back in his hands. “One sexuality crisis at a time, please.”

Ilya couldn’t help the laughter, not really, but he patted Connie on the shoulder in an attempt at comfort anyway.

“How long have you two been dating?” Marly asked.

“Since the All-Star Game,” Ilya admitted, and watched Marly nod.

“But… you were with your Montreal girl the night Hollander got hurt,” Connie said. “The night you disappeared. That was after the All-Star Game. Is it like an open relationship sort of thing?”

Before Ilya could answer, Marly groaned, throwing his head back. “Oh, we’re so fucking stupid.”

“What? What?” Connie asked.

“His Montreal girl’s name is Jane.”

“Yeah, and?”

“Jane. Shane.”

“Oh, fuck,” Connie groaned.

“You put that together fast,” Ilya mused aloud, and Marly rubbed a hand over his face.

“You’ve been texting ‘Jane’ since at least 2012,” Marly muttered, leaning his head back to stare at the sky. “And the whole time, it was Shane fucking Hollander.”

Ilya nodded. “Longer than that, but yes. Is… uh, is it a problem?”

“Longer?” Connies asked, but Marly ignored him.

“A problem?” Marly said over him, staring at Ilya hard.

“That we are dating? Are we good here?”

“Of course, Roz. Of course we’re good, brother,” Marly said, his brow furrowed in concern. “Connie?”

“So good. But I need details, like… yesterday.”

“We’re good, Roz,” Marly said again. “We’re always good.”

“Now back to the important shit,” Connie said, sitting up straight. “LONGER?!”

Ilya just laughed and took a sip of his beer.

Shane was in the weird position of having only his summer clothes unpacked at the new brownstone in Brooklyn. Shonna had done as promised and sent samples to him for furniture in each of the living areas and his bedroom, so there was furniture, but other than that, his house was bare. No pictures or trinkets, no kitchen utensils, and just whatever he’d had at the cottage in the closet and the bathroom. The boxes from the rental condo were stacked in one of the spare rooms, but he didn’t have the energy to go through them, even though he knew he’d have even less energy once the preseason started. He didn’t have to report for his physical until Tuesday, so he had the entire weekend and Monday to try to get through them, but he still felt absurdly lazy just sitting on the couch in the living room, watching people and cars pass by out the front window.

Shane laid his head back on the couch and groaned. He knew he needed to go to that potluck, he knew he needed to meet the team again, and get to know their partners. Again, he just did not have the energy. He would go, of course, he just needed to be exhausted about it first.

Thinking that, he closed out of the group chat and opened his messages with Kip.

That made Shane smile and decide he could probably make it through a box or two after all, and he’d decide what he was bringing to the potluck while he did it. 

Sunday night at 6:05 sharp, Shane rang the doorbell at Lars and Annika’s house in Queens and plastered on a smile before the door opened.

“Shane Hollander! Hello!” A tall woman with sharp features and golden hair said as she answered the door. “Come in, come in, no, no need to take off your shoes. I’m Annika, Lars’ wife.”

“It’s great to meet you,” Shane said, adjusting his grip on the huge container of salad he’d thrown together so he could shake her hand. “I’m a little late—”

“Nonsense,” Annika interrupted as she led him further into the house. “You are one of the first people here. Many young kids on the team, always late. You can put your food here on the island, and the others are out back. Do you want a drink?”

“Not yet, thank you. Just out through here?” Shane asked, indicating the door to the patio, and Annika smiled and nodded. He took a deep breath—hoping he wasn’t obvious about it—and went out.

“Hollzy!” Someone shouted, and Shane immediately felt guilty because he couldn’t remember the kid’s name. Everyone else shouted in greeting, too, and Shane waved awkwardly as he descended the patio steps down into the yard.

“Hey, guys,” he said as he neared. It was only about a third of the team, and he recognized a couple.

“Hollander,” Lars, the team’s captain, said as he joined their circle. “Welcome! How was your summer?”

“It was good, thanks. Yours?”

“Excellent. We went back to Sweden to see our family.”

“That sounds fun,” Shane said, attempting a smile and hoping it was steady. “What’d everyone else do?”

The rest of the group chipped in their summers: Dev had stayed in the city, but visited his family in Georgia, Charlie had gone up to his parents’ summer house in Vancouver, Kimmo had gone back to Finland. Zack, the younger player who had called out to him when he arrived, had gone to his parents’ cottage only about an hour away from Shane’s, which made Shane relax a bit, knowing he had some kinship with his new teammates.

“And how was leaving Montréal, ah?” Henri asked him. “You lived there a long time, oui?”

“Oui, environ huit ans,” Shane said, slipping into French easily.

“Enfin! Quelqu'un qui peut parler français avec nous, Pierre!” Henri crowed, nudging the other man.

“Apologies for my accent, then,” Shane said, slipping back into English with a laugh that had the small group chuckling.

As more players trickled in, and the kitchen counter filled with food, and Shane started remembering everyone’s names and matching them up with their girlfriends or wives, he felt himself relaxing enough to sip a beer and listen to them banter, contributing when he could.

Later in the evening, though, Shane was standing with Zack and looking at some of Zack’s digital artwork. “It relaxes me. I like drawing nature stuff, especially the lake up in Lanaudière, you know? It’s peaceful.”

“That’s so fucking fruity, dude,” Dawson Shields, one of the young defenders, scoffed from a few feet away and Shane’s entire body went rigid.

Zack just shrugged and swiped to the next drawing. “Hey, for some people it’s video games, for me it’s drawing. Whatever.”

Shane barely saw the drawing of the loons on the water, though he found himself saying, “Would it be weird if I wanted to have a copy of that one?”

“This one? The loons? I’m not like… a real artist, man,” Zack said, and Shane tried to get back into his own head.

“I mean, you clearly are, I’m looking at your art,” Shane said. “And yeah, the loons. They’re, um, important to me. You know, hearing them at the cottage…”

“Yeah definitely,” Zack said, nodding and a blush spreading over his cheeks. “I can send you the file if you want, so you can have it printed.”

“I appreciate it, thanks.”

“No, um, thank you,” Zack said. “My family are like the only ones who’ve ever wanted to have my art. So, um, this is…”

“Oh my god, Zack, quit being gay for Hollander, he’s not gonna make you his little boy toy,” Casey Carlson, also a defender, said, laughing.

Zack’s blush spread further. “I’m not… that’s not…”

“Hey, it’s okay, Zack,” Shane managed, his smile straining at the edges. He needed to get out, get away. “Send me that file, though, I, uh, need a second.”

Shane patted Zack on the shoulder and walked as casually as he could manage back into the house, slipping into the bathroom and locking the door. His legs gave out from under him as he slid down the back of the door and rested his head on his knees, digging his hands into his hair.

“Fuck,” he muttered to the cold tiles.

Chapter End Notes

You've caught up to me again, because it has been a busy week. I'll take a few days and build up a buffer again. I love you, keep telling me about tags I'm missing because I know I am.

A lot of people asked, so just for total clarity, this is ANGST WITH A HAPPY ENDING. Our boys are fated, I would never tear them apart.

Chapter 33: a taste of the bitter in me

Chapter Notes

On Monday, Ilya decided he needed a new agent. It was past time. He probably also needed a manager, like Shane had in his mom, but the agent thing seemed more urgent considering he was still using a friend of his father’s, based in Russia, and someone who was unlikely to be of any help with the whole ‘I’m in love with a man and that needs to factor into my career decisions’ thing. Plus, then maybe he wouldn’t be dealing with lectures about how his father would be so disappointed in him—for what, it didn’t matter—or updates on Alexei calling to ask his agent for more of Ilya’s money.

He hung up at the end of his call with Dmitriy Yurievich and rubbed his eyes before getting out of his car and jogging into Boston’s practice facility and toward the meeting room. It was the last time the entire team—prospects included—would be gathered in one place until the end of the month, and he had some things to say to the team as a whole. At the end of the meeting, when Desjourneys nodded that Ilya had the floor, he stood and clapped for their attention, though he didn’t really need to.

“Okay, listen up! We’ve heard from the coaches, blah blah blah,” Ilya started, flashing a grin at Desjourneys as the room broke into laughter. “But now you are hearing from me. Is not a game speech, I know, I know, but listen close anyway. We all saw the Stanley Cup, yes? Don’t lie, Sebb, you would not miss my sexy face even though they only showed it at the end.”

More laughter, and Ilya took a second to send a quiet prayer to his mother that the rest would go over well, too. “So, we all saw Scott Hunter kiss his boyfriend at center ice on live television. I need to make it clear right now. This team, this city, we will support Scott Hunter’s right to date a much younger man. How that dinosaur got a college man to date him, I do not know, we need to find out.”

Marly was nearly crying with the effort it took to hold in his guffaws, and Connie was staring at the ceiling, his entire body shivering with withheld laughter. There were looks of confusion on some of the players, but most were still with him, some even grinning like madmen at his antics.

“That means no more chirps about anyone being gay. No more using those words—you know the ones. If I catch you doing it, I will make you run stadium stairs until you cry. I do not care who you date. We do not care who anyone on this team fucks or marries or takes to get coffee, or whatever it is you children do now for dates,” Ilya finished, the rookies looking affronted while the vets razzed them. “Okay?”

He got a rumble of assent but shook his head. “I could not hear. OKAY?!”

“YES, CAPTAIN!” The vets led the shout, and Ilya felt the room shake, just a little bit.

“Good. Now, listen to Coach again. More boring shit.”

He and Connie were waiting for their turn on the ice to run a few skating drills with the new kids when Connie nudged him and asked, “Hey, how’s Hollander?”

“Good,” Ilya said, reveling in the fact that he could talk about Shane like this now that everyone knew they were friends. “Well. Good, except for a couple of assholes. Said some shit at a party last night. Not to him, but…”

“Shit like…”

“Like that, yes.”

“Fuck. In Brooklyn?”

“You know it’s common.”

“Yeah, shit still sucks though.”

“He will work through it, I think. Is not the whole team, at least. Coaches, management, they’re good.”

“Wait,” Connie said as they skated up to the start of the drill. “Does that mean Montreal wasn’t?”

Ilya shook his head and Connie just gaped at him before the whistle blew and they had to focus on the drill. When they were up against the boards getting sips of water, waiting for their turn again, Connie was still aghast.

“They let Shane Hollander go. For that.”

“Mm. Said it was a distraction for the team, or something. And the team were… well you saw how they ended last year. It was a distraction because they’re all assholes.”

“That is… deeply fucked,” Connie decided, then squirted more water into his mouth.

“Which is why it’s not going to happen here.”

“Fucking right,” Connie muttered. “So what’s he going to do?”

“Mm, he didn’t know. I didn’t know what to tell him, either.”

Connie nodded, his mouth twisted up and his eyebrows drawn. “Wait. Isn’t our first preseason game against Montreal?”

“Mm,” Ilya said, and felt his mouth spread into a wicked grin. “Could be fun, no?”

The next day, Shane stood in the hall outside the team meeting room at Southwell Center, leaning back against the wall and pretending to look at his phone when really all of his attention was on the people trickling in after their morning doing physical evaluations and concussion protocol baselines. When Zack finally came around the corner, Shane straightened and waited for him to come closer, hoping this conversation would settle his stomach; it had been rioting since the party over the weekend.

“Hey, Lakey, can I talk to you for a minute?” he asked when Zack was closer.

Zack stopped in his tracks and looked around, then pointed at himself. “Me?”

“You see any other Zack Lakes around here?” Shane teased before tilting his head to indicate an empty office down the hall. “Just a quick thing.”

“Sure—I mean, of course.” He jogged to catch up with Shane, his gear bag smacking against his thigh with each stride. When Shane let him into the office and then shut the door most of the way, he looked around nervously. “What’s up?”

“I needed to apologize to you.” Shane began, taking a deep breath to help settle his skin where it was crawling over the back of his neck.

“What? Why?”

“The other night, at the party, when Dawson and Casey were being… well when they used that language, I should have said something.”

“Hollzy, you’re not respon—”

Shane shook his head. “I am one of your captains, and we need to stop that sort of thing before it takes root. I should have said something, and I didn’t. So. I’m sorry.”

Zack swallowed audibly and looked away, his lips pursed. “I’m used to it. I mean, not from this team. But there were guys on the Storm and when I was in school and…”

“Well you won’t have to be used to it on this team. It may take some time, but… no one needs to put up with that shit, okay? So you tell me, or someone you trust, when it happens again. Because unfortunately, I think it will happen again, especially if some of the guys on the farm team are like that.”

“It was fine last year when Dawson wasn’t… he got traded to the team over the summer.”

“That explains why I didn’t recognize him on Sunday,” Shane drawled. “What about Casey? He was here last year.”

“CC was fine last year. He’s just caught up in Dawson’s aura or whatever.” Zack waved a hand in the air to try to explain.

Shane nodded and looked away, blowing out a long breath. “Okay. Good to know. And I’m sorry. I wasn’t ready for it on Sunday, but I’ll be ready next time, okay?”

Zack nodded, then looked down at his shoes for a second. “You’re, uh, friends with Scott Hunter, right?”

“Yeah, good friends,” Shane said, and watched the gears turning in Zack’s head as he opened and closed his mouth like he was trying to decide what to say. Shane gave Zack a sad smile. “You don’t have to tell me anything, Lakey. I don’t care; no one should have to deal with it, whether they’re hitting the mark or not.”

Zack nodded. “Thanks, uh… yeah, thanks.”

“No problem. Okay, we better get to the team meeting. You gonna put your stuff in your stall?”

“Yeah, I’ll run it over there and be back before it’s time,” Zack said as he led the way out of the office.

“See you in there, then.” Shane walked back to the meeting room and through the door this time, moving up to the front row to sit with Lars and Joel Foster, the other alternate captain. The entire team and the whole gamut of prospects were going to be packed into the room, somewhere around fifty people, not including the coaches and other staff who lined the walls of the room. It felt claustrophobic and hot, and Shane had to take a deep breath before he settled back into his chair.

“Hey Hollzy,” Foster said, offering a fist for a bump. “You get any more unpacking done after the party?”

“A little bit. I think I’ve got two boxes left? Then my parents are going to drive some stuff down from Montréal in a few weeks, when they come down for the home opener.”

“So you won’t even be done when you’re done with this batch? Brutal,” Joel laughed.

“Dude, you don’t know the half of it. I’ve got construction ongoing in the basement still, then three more bedrooms to get all set up. It’s a mess.”

They kept chatting lightly as the room finally settled and Joe walked in with a handful of papers and what Shane thought of as Resting New Yorker Face. It wasn’t quite a scowl, but they sure weren’t smiling, either.

The team meeting was a mix of introductions to new coaching staff, going over any rule changes or updates to the Player’s Agreement that affected operations, walking through the schedule for the rest of training camp, and finally splitting the roster in half so they wouldn’t all be practicing at once for the next week.

“Alright, newbies follow Sully, here, he’s going to give you a tour of the practice facility and then hand you over to our marketing and comms team to get your headshots done. They’ll shepherd you from there. Captains meeting in my office. Vets, go set up your stalls and then we’re doing a quick morning skate—yes, I know it’s afternoon, Simon, you know what I meant,” Joe said, in what seemed like all one breath as the guys around Charlie Simon shoved him playfully before everyone started moving.

The prospects and guys called up from their feeder team filed out first with Harry Sullivan, head of the Operations department, and the rest of the team followed, razzing each other. Shane, Lars, and Foster went last, following Joe and the rest of the coaching staff further down the hall.

“Hollzy, you got your headshot end of last season, right?” Joe said as soon as they were in his office.

“Yes, sir—Joe. Sorry, I swear I’ll stop doing that,” Shane said as the coaches all chuckled.

“You better,” Joe said with a grin. “Alright, down to business.”

It was a short meeting— just a quick catch-up—but at the end, Joe asked, “Anyone have anything?”

Shane’s stomach did a slow turn. He wanted to bring up the comments from Dawson and Casey, but it felt like he’d be flaying himself wide open in front of the whole group. Ducking his head and shaking it no along with everyone else felt like dying a slow, coward’s death, and he felt a wave of nausea take him over—not enough to need to run to the bathroom, but enough that he knew he’d made the wrong choice.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for sticking with me through that long break. We're back up to 3 buffer chapters, so the daily schedule can resume. Still catching up on comments, but know that I love every single one and you.

Chapter 34: lemme hold this 'til I feel okay

Chapter Notes

CW: homophobic language in the first part of this chapter, take care of yourself <3

Walking into HBZ Arena with the intent to play felt different. Firstly, Shane had never done that without making his way to the visitor’s locker room, and now he was sitting under his own stall, taping his stick with his headphones on, and preparing for the first preseason game alongside some of his guaranteed teammates and a handful of prospects. Secondly, the last time he’d been here, he’d gone straight to the press box with Ava, who was currently buzzing around in the hallway doing quick little videos of the various players.

When Joe had made the roster for this game, he’d grinned at Shane in a way that was reminiscent of Ilya at his most wicked and said, “I think we’ll show you off a little bit, what do you say?”

Given that Shane was itching for time on the ice, where everything made sense, he’d grinned back and said, “Hell yeah. Philly’s rookies won’t know what hit them.”

“Shane!” Ava called when he’d finished wrapping his stick and pulled his headphones off so he could get dressed.

“Yeah?”

“We’re going to do a video with the first line, can I snag you for a second?”

“Sure, one sec.” Shane put his headphones on the top shelf of his stall and grabbed his Scouts sweatshirt to throw over his compression gear before he went out in the hallway to find Fin and Zack waiting for him.

“Is it just me, or are there a lot of vets on this lineup?” he asked Fin.

“Not just you. A lot of us aren’t actually vets. We had so many injuries last season that half of our rookies didn’t get to fifty games, and the other half were called up from the Storm midseason, like Lake here, and Tyoma on the second line.” Fin explained as Ava fiddled with her phone.

“Okay! I’m ready!” she said suddenly.

“What are we doing?” Zack asked.

“I’ll just ask you all a couple questions, you each answer in your own way, and I’ll stitch it together for a video! Cool?”

Shane nodded with the other guys and leaned back against the wall with them.

“Okay, what’s your favorite part of the preseason?”

Fin looked across Shane and Zack and shrugged, “Meeting all the new people, I think.”

Zack jumped in, “That’s a good one. I actually like doing the conditioning drills? Reminds me why I worked so hard over the summer.”

Shane laughed and shoved his shoulder. “You’re a weirdo, Lakey. My favorite is getting back into the routine. I love knowing I’ll get to see these guys nearly every day.”

“Ooo, good one, Shane,” Ava said. “Okay, next question: which jersey is your favorite?”

“Definitely the alternate,” Zack said. “I wish we got to wear it more.”

Fin nodded. “Same. Hollzy?”

“I don’t even think I’ve seen the alternate yet,” Shane said. “So I guess I’m partial to the home jersey. Feels good to wear the Scouts colors now.”

Zack nudged him softly. “Good to see you in them. I mean, we’re going to crush it this year.”

“Hell yeah,” said Fin, and offered Zack a fist to bump.

“Okay, last one. What’s your favorite city to play in—besides New York, I mean.”

Boston, Shane’s mind whispered but he stopped himself from blurting it out. “Mm, my answer’s going to be boring.”

“Oh, just say it Hollz,” Zack teased. 

“I like Ottawa—my hometown. I usually get to see my parents and have lunch or dinner with them. That’s going to be a lot less common now that they’re more than two hours away.”

“That’s not a boring answer,” Fin decides. “Makes sense actually. I really like playing in Vancouver. The mountains, the water? It’s awesome.”

Zack nodded. “Vancouver’s cool. But I like playing in L.A. I’d never been before last year’s road trip.”

“Great, guys, thanks!” Ava said, lowering her phone. “It’ll be up soon. Can I get a pic of you all together though, for the other socials?”

Shane slung an arm around each of the other guys shoulders and grinned at the camera while Ava snapped a few shots, then gave them the all clear.

“Alright boys, back in the locker room, we gotta finish getting ready.”

“Aye, aye, Captain!” Zack crowed and ducked back through the door.

“What a dork,” Fin said, affectionately, making Shane snort and nod.

“Hollzy!” Joel called as Shane made his way back to his stall.

“Yeah!”

“You want to do the pre-game speech?”

“Absolutely not, you take it,” Shane said immediately. As much as he loved being a captain, he’d never known what to say to a room full of men looking to get fired up, and he’d known them for years. In a room full of strangers, he’d probably melt on the spot.

“You got it. Ten minute warning for warm-ups boys!” Joel said, raising his voice for the last bit.

Shane sat down in his stall and began his pre-game ritual, pulling on his gear in the exact same order he’d been doing it since he was in youth hockey. The only difference now was the color of the jersey he’d be pulling on. The Scouts colors were a vibrant teal and orange combo that should have been garish, but instead felt fresh and new. Maybe when he was used to wearing it, the shine would come off, but for now Shane just felt made anew when he slipped it on over his pads.

It felt like breathing to be back on the ice, to make his way through warm-ups, to wave at the crowd a little as they cheered when he was on the Jumbotron. It felt like nothing would ever be bad again. The team was raucous in the locker room before heading back out for the anthem and the first period. Coach and Joel pumped them all up, and Shane couldn’t help but grin at the Philly’s—usually—third-line center when they bent for the opening face-off. Just like he couldn’t help but weave in and out with Fin and Zack, and have the puck hit the back of the net in under two minutes.

A dozen shift-changes deep into the period, though, his line was on the ice with the third defense pair: Dawson teamed up with a prospect. Philadelphia had possession; one of their prospects was moving down the ice with the puck on his stick. Fin was moving in for the backcheck when Dawson came out of nowhere and knocked the kid into the boards hard enough the kid fell to the ice as Dawson cleared the puck. Then he spat, “Stay down, whiny faggot bitch.”

Shane’s ears buzzed and his vision tunneled for a brief moment before he snapped back into the play and turned to support Fin and Zack. They didn’t get a goal before the next shift change, nor any in the rest of the period, but Shane considered it a miracle he was able to keep his head on the ice at all. When they made their way to the locker room for the break, Shane whipped off his helmet and scrubbed his face.

He had heard the shit Dawson was spewing for as long as he could remember—why couldn’t he play through it now? He knew he needed to say something, but he didn’t know what. Or to whom, even. Sure, the coaching staff and the management group “knew” Shane was gay, so he could probably go to them, but then it’d be confirmed, wouldn’t it? And if he said something to Dawson, well, then Dawson would know. Or even if he said something to Lars or Joel. He couldn’t stomach losing another team, even one he didn’t know well yet.

Simon—Charlie Simon, one of the veteran forwards playing that night—clapped Shane on the shoulder. “You alright, Hollzy?”

“Mm,” Shane said, then caught himself, suddenly aware he sounded like Ilya. “I mean, yeah. All good.”

“Good,” the taller man replied with a lazy grin. “See you in there.”

He disappeared into the locker room and Shane took a shaky breath before following him.

“I feel like I’m failing,” Shane said on the other end of the phone. “Or letting Zack down, or… myself. I don’t know.”

“Shane,” Ilya murmured as he pulled storage containers out of a cabinet.

“I just. I should say something. But I freeze every time, and I don’t know how to fix it and I thought—it’s stupid but I thought they would be good and now there’s this and—”

“Shanya, solynshko moye, breathe,” Ilya said, and he could swear he felt the shudder in Shane’s deep breath. “You are not failing.”

“But I—”

“No, listen. Listen.” Shane took another deep breath and Ilya started again. “You are not failing. The last time you told people about yourself, what happened? The worst. Now it is feeling like it might be happening again, and you think you are not handling it well because what? You don’t know what to do? Is normal.”

“But Zack…”

“Zack is grown man, too. You apologized to him, yes? And told him you will find a way to make it stop. Is all you can do for now.”

Ilya heard a rustling as Shane shifted in his bed. Ilya knew he should let Shane sleep—he’d played a game, even if it was just an exhibition match—but he also knew Shane wouldn’t until he was calm. And he was the opposite of calm right now.

“I thought it would be better here,” Shane whispered.

“I know, lyubimyy. Is it the whole team, you think?”

“I don’t know. I mean… they’re not standing around calling people cocksuckers or faggots in the locker room. I mean, Dawson might be, but we’re in different groups for training.”

“And you know DiSalvo and Callahan are not. Is better than Montreal already.” Ilya resumed scooping the remains of his dinner into the matching glass containers he’d bought after coming home from the cottage. Shane was right—it was easier than the reused takeout containers he’d had before—but Ilya would still tease him about it.

“Yeah,” Shane sighed. “Yeah, I guess. Maybe it’s just… I don’t have Hayden or J.J. here, you know? So it feels like I’m alone with it.”

“But you are not. I am here. You have that baby Zack, maybe. Did he tell you he’s gay?”

“No. I told him he didn’t have to tell me anything, but I think he might be? Based on our conversation, anyway.”

Ilya nodded even though Shane couldn’t see him. “I have an idea.”

“Normally I have the ideas,” Shane teased.

“Shut up,” Ilya shot back, grinning. “Is a good one. Why not talk to Hunter about it? He said it’s not all good for him, since the kiss. Maybe he knows what to do.”

“I… didn’t think of that.”

“Is because you’re used to doing it all alone. We both are,” Ilya added as he finished putting his leftovers away in the fridge. “But we are not alone anymore, remember?”

“I remember. It’s a good idea. I’ll… well I don’t know if Scott is playing tomorrow, but I’ll talk to him.”

“And you won’t tell him I suggested it. Cannot have him thinking I like him.”

Ilya could practically hear the eye roll in Shane’s voice as he said, “Of course not.”

“I should let you sleep,” Ilya said when Shane audibly yawned.

“I guess. Miss you,” Shane said, his voice already heavier.

“I miss you too. Sleep, we will talk tomorrow,” Ilya promised.

“Goodnight, Lyunya,” Shane mumbled.

“Goodnight, Shanya.” Ilya hung up the phone and finished cleaning the kitchen, a habit Shane had forced into him over the summer, before he shut down the house and went to bed himself.

“Why the fuck are you playing today, Rozanov?” Hayden muttered across the center line the next evening. They were both stretching near center-ice, and Ilya pretended to sneer—it wasn’t hard—at the other man.

“Ask Desjourneys,” he said. “He made the lines.”

“I don’t believe that for a second, cut the shit.”

“Fine,” Ilya rolled his eyes and shifted to a different stretch. “I want to destroy Montreal every chance I get this season. You and Boiziau are fine, I guess.”

Hayden changed up his stretch as well. “Most of the guys here aren’t the ones you want to murder.”

“Point out the ones I do, then,” Ilya taunted. “Why are you here? Is preseason. I would think Theriault would let you stay home with kids.”

“Theriault doesn’t give two shits about anyone,” Hayden muttered. “We’re testing out new centers.”

Ilya leaned away from Hayden and spat, just to keep up the shit-talk appearance. “No one’s gonna replace—”

“I know. You know. He’s fucking stupid.”

“I can’t believe I’m agreeing with you.”

“Fuck off,” Hayden said, holding back laughter and managing to look constipated more than anything. “Anyway. All the kids are alright. I mean. I’m sure some of the prospects are little shits, but they weren’t to blame for Shane.”

“Mm,” Ilya said and then watched Hayden closely as he nodded his head toward more than half of the other veterans on the line.

“Fuck, Pike. How are you still in that room?”

“Contract shit. The girls’ school. All that.”

Ilya nodded. “Now go away. We look too friendly.”

“You go away. I still need to stretch.”

“Is only preseason,” Ilya teased, but he stood and skated off to do a passing drill with a handful of his own rookies and prospects. He had asked Desjourneys to let him play in the first game. His excuse—which he knew his coach had seen straight through—had been that he felt a bit rusty and wanted a chance to get back into the game early. As if he could get rusty after spending two months with Shane, who obsessed over his training in the summer even more than he did during the season. He’d thrown a bit about getting to know the prospects and team morale in there as well, but Desjourneys just waved him off and made him promise not to get hurt or suspended.

Ilya would try.

Chapter 35: we will get through eventually

Scott settled back into the patio furniture on the roof terrace at Shane’s new Brooklyn brownstone and let out a groan. Even though it was nearly the end of the preseason, his body was still complaining about the change in routine. He’d get back into it, but for now, he was a bit sore in places his summer routine couldn’t reach in quite the same way skating and checking could. 

From up on the roof of Shane’s house, he couldn’t even hear the ongoing construction in the basement. Shane had said something about them finally putting up drywall after the inspection of the reworked plumbing and electrical had gotten delayed, but it had flown over Scott’s head completely. He could, however, enjoy the view of the city.

“Alright, Rook,” Scott said when Shane came back out with drinks for them both. “What’s up? You look… serious, I don’t know.”

Shane settled on couch as well and set his ginger ale down on the coffee table unopened, immediately wringing his hands. “I need some advice, actually.”

“Okay, sure. About hockey stuff, or…”

“No. Well, yeah, kind of,” Shane stuttered out. “There’s a guy on the team…”

“If you’re going to tell me you’re dumping Roz for a younger, hotter man, I have to say I don’t want to be complicit. He’d murder me,” Scott teased when Shane trailed off.

Shane breathed out a little chuckle. “No. No, me and Ilya are great. This guy—Dawson Shields, he’s only in his second season, you probably don’t know him—he got traded to the team over the summer, and he’s…”

Ah, Scott thought and leaned forward to set his drink down, too. “What’d he say?”

“The usual shit, you know? Calling a guy fruity for liking art. In our first preseason game, he checked someone and called them…” Shane coughed. “A whiny faggot bitch.”

“Wow,” Scott muttered, and scrubbed a hand over his beard. 

“Yeah. And other little comments like that. And… well. I don’t know what to do. I’m not out to the team. DiSalvo suspects some things and I basically confirmed it but not outright. Anyway, he said the organization as a whole doesn’t care whether I’m gay, and suggested I tell someone I trust if things like this happen, but… well I don’t trust any of them yet. Because no one has said anything to Dawson.” It all spilled out of Shane like he’d knocked down a dam inside himself, and Scott sat there and processed for a second.

“Well. Shit,” he managed after a long silent moment. That made Shane laugh slightly again, and Scott smiled. “I’m not going to pretend it’s been all sunshine and rainbows on the Admirals. There are a few guys who still use the language, but everyone shouts them down. Either they’ll learn or they won’t, so I try to let it roll off of me. They’re not saying it about me, at least, which is obviously the bare-fucking minimum. Less than that, actually, but you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Scott scratched his neck and leaned back against the couch again. “Unfortunately… I think you’re either going to have to trust someone—multiple someones, probably—or confront it yourself, set the example that you won’t tolerate the language.”

“Fuck,” Shane sighed, scrubbing at his face. “I am not built for this.”

“Rook.”

“Scotty, it took all of my bravery to come out to my last team, and look how it ended up,” Shane said into his hands.

“You don’t need to come out, necessarily, I don’t think. I mean… sure, the little shit might suspect, but it’s not like you’re out picking up guys. Your boyfriend is also closeted and you’re rarely in public together anyway. He won’t have proof, and if he did… Shane, you can’t live like this forever.”

“I know,” Shane sighed, finally lifting his head. “I mean, I have to, somewhat, until we figure out how to get Ilya a Canadian passport, because otherwise Russia might try to punish him, but, yeah. I know I can’t be closeted forever. I don’t even want to be, anymore. I’m just…”

“Scared. I know the feeling,” Scott promised. “And yeah, I’m dealing with homophobes—mostly online, mostly on other teams—but I wouldn’t give up standing next to Kip for the world.”

“I know that feeling,” Shane murmured before he rolled his shoulders. “I’m not great with confrontation, but going to the coaching staff feels like tattling. I hate tattling.”

Scott snorted. “Okay, yeah, it’d probably be exactly like tattling.”

“But I have to say something. I mean. I can’t flinch every time it happens, so either I have to live with it, or I have to make it stop. And I don’t think I can live with it.”

“Right,” Scott said, nodding.

Shane nodded, too, looking off over the city. “Okay. I can figure something out.”

“And, hey, maybe you wait until the team is settled after the preseason. Maybe he’ll get sent back down to the AHL and you won’t have to deal with it for a bit,” Scott said, though he knew Shane would just have to deal with a different little shit eventually. “Only a few more days until that happens, right?”

“Rozy, want to go out and get dinner?” Marly asked from behind him on the stairs down onto the tarmac from the team plane. They were nearly back to their regular season numbers, so Desjourneys had asked everyone to come to this preseason game, even if some of them would be sitting in the press box. They were headed to Chicago the day after for the final preseason game anyway, so it made sense from more than a team bonding perspective, too.

Ilya looked up from his phone and the text that Shane had sent an hour ago saying he’d left Brooklyn. “Mm, no. I’m going to order in, I think.”

As they grabbed their luggage from where the ramp agents were setting it and crossed to the bus, Connie and Marly flanked him. Connie said, “That means you’re meeting someone in your room, doesn’t it.”

Ilya just looked at him and raised an eyebrow before loading his luggage into the bus compartment.

“That’s a yes,” Connie said. 

“So…” Marly drawled.

“So what?” Ilya stepped up onto the bus, nodding at the driver before making his way toward the back. 

“So, can we meet someone? Like. Officially? Off the ice?”

Ilya sighed as he dropped into an aisle seat and shoved his backpack into the window seat. “We haven’t seen each other in a month and you want to steal that time from us?”

Connie and Marly exchanged a look, then Connie looked back at Ilya. “Yes. Just for dinner. We can eat in with you and then leave.”

Ilya groaned, throwing his head back against the seat. “Fine. But we will be in a different room at the hotel.”

“What? Why?” Marly asked, and Ilya just looked at him again, waiting for it to hit. 

“So they’re not seen, dumbass,” Connie finally hissed and Marly rubbed a hand over his face nodding.

“Right, shit, my bad. Fuck, this is like some spy shit. How did you do this for years?”

“Had to,” Ilya said, shrugging. “Still have to. Is whatever.”

Connie was watching him with sympathy written into every line of his body, as if he knew Ilya was papering over a wound. He said nothing, though, and let Ilya get away with the lie.

A little over an hour later, Shane texted that he was in the elevator, and Ilya stood at the door to the room he’d booked—so no one would wonder why Shane Hollander was in Philadelphia—waiting for the knock. When it came, he opened the door. Shane stepped through, his shoulders hunched and his hands tucked in his pockets in that awkward little way he did when he was uncomfortable.

“Uh, hey, guys,” he said to Marly and Connie, who were sitting on the couch in the little sitting area of the suite.

“Hey, Hollander.” Marly stood and offered a hand. “Sorry about last season, again. I… you’re all good now, right?”

“Yeah, uh, thanks,” Shane said, shaking Marly’s hand and looking like he might throw up, just a little bit. 

“Hey, man,” Connie said, opting to just wave from the couch. “Sorry to crash your party, but we wanted to meet Roz’s… uh…”

“You can say ‘boyfriend,’ Connie,” Ilya said, rolling his eyes before he turned to Shane and slid a hand onto his jaw and whispered, “Breathe, lyubimyy.” 

“I am,” he protested, right before Ilya kissed him like it had been a month—because it had. When he pulled back, Shane was blushing but his hands were at Ilya’s waist rather than stuffed in his pockets.

“I mean,” Marly said from behind Ilya, “I believed you, Rozy, but I’m having a little crisis seeing it happen in real life.”

Ilya sighed and shook his head as Shane laughed. Ilya growled, “You’re both idiots.”

“But we’re your idiots!” Connie supplied.

“Unfortunately. What do you want to eat, Shanya? We haven’t ordered yet,” Ilya explained as he pulled Shane over to the couch, keeping him as close as possible.

“I don’t care. Anything,” Shane said, holding himself stiff against Ilya, as if not sure how affectionate he could be in front of the other two.

“That counts as a vote for Mexican,” Marly declared. “Roz is buying.”

“This was your stupid idea,” Ilya muttered at him but pulled out his phone and brought up one of the delivery apps. While it loaded, he adjusted so his arm was around Shane’s shoulders, waiting for the moment he relaxed. Ilya wanted to pull him down to lay against his own heartbeat, but decided that might be a step too far for Shane’s comfort. “Do you want me to choose?”

“Please,” Shane sighed, and Ilya nodded. He didn’t know why sometimes inconsequential decisions exhausted Shane, but he didn’t mind carrying that load for him. Ilya played with the hair on the back of his neck while he scrolled through the options, reveling in the ability to just do that, to just touch Shane.

“Grilled chicken fajitas?” he asked after a minute and got a nod. Ilya put in his own order of street tacos, then tossed the phone to Connie. “Ah, I forgot the drinks. Ginger ale for Shanya, Coke for me.”

Connie nodded and added them, then scrolled through the menu for himself before handing it off to Marly. By the time the order was in, Shane had melted back into the cushions and was leaning into Ilya’s shoulder. The satisfaction that curled in Ilya’s gut was reminiscent of how he’d felt over Labor Day weekend; he got to show Shane off to people. But there was an added flavor of it being his friends, his people. 

Shane didn’t talk much, but Ilya knew that was normal for him with new people, and just kept touching him, even indulging in playing with Shane’s hair for a bit. When dinner was finished, and Marly and Connie left to go out with some of the guys, Ilya returned to the couch and stole a lingering kiss. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Shane asked, his hands creeping up under Ilya’s shirt. 

“For meeting them when it took some of our time away from each other,” Ilya said, leaning back and removing his shirt entirely. Shane smiled at him while rolling his eyes at the blatant invitation, but his hands returned to Ilya’s skin automatically.

“They’re your friends,” Shane said, like that was explanation enough. Ilya supposed it was, but he still dove into Shane like they only had an hour rather than all night. 

Leaving got harder every time, Shane realized. The next morning, he rested his head against his steering wheel to fight back a swell of tears that tasted like grief. When the wave subsided, he lifted his head, sniffed, then took a deep breath before he pulled out of the parking garage. He let the playlist Rose had made him at the end of the summer, full of songs he ‘had to listen to,’ wash over him and drove, just drove. 

When he arrived at the airport back in New York and parked in the private lot for their team plane, Shane had to psych himself up to talk to people who weren’t Ilya. He just felt fragile, like a weak breeze could shatter him. He pulled on something that felt like his media mask before getting out of his Range Rover and retrieving his luggage from the back, then walked into the hangar lounge. After setting his suitcase on one of the racks the ramp agents would load onto the plane, he walked over to the coffee machine in the lounge and surveyed the room. Even coming from Philly, he was still one of the first people there. 

Dev was by the windows, head back, eyes closed, and headphones on, the picture of a tired dad taking rest where he could. Kimmo was in the corner, nose so far in a book that he hadn’t even looked up when Shane had come in through the door. When Shane’s coffee was ready, he took it over to one of the seats in the middle of the lounge and settled down, pulling out his phone to tell Ilya he’d arrived safe. He wasn’t sure when they’d started doing that—texting to assure the other they had made it in one piece—but it felt natural at this point. 

The next time the door opened, Ava walked through. She smiled and waved at Shane before setting a bright blue duffel bag on the luggage rack and coming over to plop down in the seat next to him.

“Good morning!” she said, surprisingly chipper for it being 9:00am.

“Hey. Are you coming with us on all the road trips?”

“Yup!” She popped the ‘p’ on the word, setting her purse between her feet. “Last year, I convinced Sharon—the comms director, have you met her yet?—that social media felt more personable if I was actually in the room and could read the vibes. I had a whole presentation and spreadsheet and everything, so now I get to travel with you guys all year.”

Shane smiled and nodded. “Should’ve guessed you’d be a spreadsheet person.”

She laughed. “Do I give off the vibe?”

“Sure, the vibe.”

“Tell me you’re not a spreadsheet person, Hollzy. You give off the vibe, too,” Ava teased.

“I am also a spreadsheet person,” Shane admitted, thinking about Ilya teasing him about the color-coded calendar he’d made at the end of last season. 

“Knew it,” Ava declared, then bent down to pull an e-reader out of her purse. 

“What are you reading?” Shane asked, nodding at it. 

Ava’s face got a little red. “A romance novel. Don’t judge me.”

Shane recoiled slightly. “Why would I judge you for that?”

She shrugged. “Lots of guys do.”

“Well… that sucks,” Shane decided.

“It does.”

“What’s it about?” Shane asked, and watched her smile bloom.

“This one is about a family ranch slash resort out in Montana. The main character’s aunt disappeared when she was a teenager, and now young women keep turning up dead on the ranch’s land. The other main character is a suspect for a little bit, but obviously he’s not the killer. It’s really intense actually.”

“Wow,” Shane said. “I thought you said it was a romance.”

“It is. There’s just also murder. It’s perfect.”

Shane shook his head, inexplicably fond of her. “If that’s perfect, I want someone to study your brain.”

She threw her head back and laughed, and that’s when Zack walked through the door. His eyes landed on Ava immediately, and Shane watched his entire body react to her laughter. Huh, Shane thought before he called out, “Hey, Lakey!”

Zack startled, then nodded his head up in greeting. “Hey, Hollzy, Ava.”

“Hi, Zack,” Ava said, her smile changing slightly.

Huh, Shane thought again, looking between them.

“You have to hear about this book she’s reading,” Shane said, nodding his head toward Ava. Zack glanced between them, then set his own suitcase with the others and made his way over. 

“Okay, sure, what’s it about?” Zack asked when he was sitting across from them.

“Well, first of all, there’s a psycho murderer…” Ava began, and Shane sat back to watch them bend their heads together across the aisle between the seats while they waited for the rest of the team.

Huh, he thought a third time and grinned before looking down at his messages with ‘Lily’ again. 

Chapter 36: I can see a light, but I can't get near it

Chapter Notes

They were on the team bus, driving back to New York from their last preseason game in Philadelphia, and Shane had come to terms with the fact that Dawson was now officially on the roster, which meant Shane would have to deal with his language somehow. If not for himself, then for the next kid like him. The quiver of fear in his chest cavity was something he’d just have to live with, he decided. There was no more avoiding talking about it.

He was sitting in a row by himself, but Zack and Ava were across the aisle. Zack’s head was back against the aisle seat’s headrest and his eyes were closed, while Ava was literally curled up in the window seat, biting at her thumb and reading the ending of her book as if she’d explode if she looked away. They’d stuck near him during the entire trip—it had only been Buffalo and then Philadelphia, but it was still five days of travel—and he felt a bit like they’d imprinted on him. Not in a bad way, of course, but he wondered why they seemed to like him so very much. It wasn’t like he was talkative or had gone out with them. 

He looked toward the back of the bus, where the coaches were set up around a table, reviewing game tape and making plans for practice. Taking a deep breath, he stood.

“You alright, Shane?” Ava whispered, looking up at him with her gentle brown eyes.

“Yeah, just need to talk to Coach for a sec.” She nodded, smiled, and looked back down at her eReader. Shane straightened his shoulders then slid down the aisle until he reached the table area. “Hey, uh, Joe, can I…?”

“Sure, Hollzy, sit, sit. You got something?”

“Uh, yeah.” Shane sat across the table from Joe, sliding in next to Taylor Young—the goalie coach—who watched him curiously. He cleared his throat and clasped his hands on top of the table to hold them still. “Something I noticed the past few weeks.”

“Okay, go ahead,” Joe said, gesturing at him with his takeaway cup of coffee and leaning back in his own seat.

“Some of the younger guys have been throwing around slurs—uh, homophobic ones,” Shane started, stopping to rub at his jaw and think about how to say what he wanted.

“When was this?” Taylor asked, looking affronted. 

“A couple of times. It doesn’t really matter when,” Shane said quickly, thinking about what it would mean if they found out Zack was often a target of them. He refused to out anyone, even if he still wasn’t sure about Zack. 

“Do you want to get the front office involved?” Joe asked, studying him with a critical eye.

“No. Not yet, at least. I was thinking maybe I could take care of it on the ice, first? Escalate from there?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean if I hear it—or it can be everyone, I guess—on the ice or in the gym or whatever, they have to do bag skates or pushups, or something. I think the pressure of…”

“Embarrassment?” Paul Johnson, the skills coach sitting next to Joe, offered in an amused drawl.

“Yeah,” Shane said breathing out a laugh. “Yeah, the embarrassment might get them to stop faster than a firm talking-to would.”

Joe hummed to himself and ran a hand through his hair, clearly thinking about it. “I like it. We should get Lars and Foster involved too, so it’s a united front. Do you want me to tell them?”

Shane blinked at Joe, realizing he was offering to keep Shane’s identity quiet still. “Um, no. I think I can… uh… they’re good, right?”

“Pretty sure,” Joe said with a singular nod. “Alright, we’ll back this move, Hollzy. Sorry we didn’t clock it before you had to bring it up.”

Shane just nodded. “Okay. Uh, thanks. This is… well, thanks.”

“Sure,” Joe said easily, his eyes still sharp, though they held compassion, too. “Before you go, who’d you like playing on your line?”

Shane swallowed. “I can play with any—”

“I know that, Hollander. Who’d you like?” Joe insisted. 

“Honestly?” At Joe’s nod, Shane smiled. “Fin and Lakey work well with my style of play.”

“They did work well together in the first game,” Paul said, crossing his arms and looking at Joe, who nodded. Shane had managed a hat-trick that game, and both Fin and Zack had gotten more shots on goal than they had in their average games the season before; Shane had checked. 

“You don’t want more experience on the wings?” Joe asked Shane.

“They’re not set in their ways,” he said with a shrug. “So I think it’ll only get better. I’d rather have people who move fast and can see the lanes the way I see them, which they’re already starting to do.”

“What about on the power play?” 

“Dev,” Shane said without hesitating. Joe pursed his lips in a thinking frown and nodded slowly. 

“Alright,” he said slowly. “We‘ll drill it at practice, see how it looks.”

“Okay, um. Cool. Thanks,” Shane said again and stood, walking back up to his seat, trying to process the last few minutes. 

“All good?” Ava whispered across Zack when he thumped back down into his row. Shane just looked at her, his brain taking a second to catch up, before he quirked a small smile and nodded.

“All good, yeah,” he said, and leaned back into his seat. 

Ilya woke up on the day after the preseason ended, and rolled over, reaching across the comforter without thinking. When he met no resistance, his eyes fluttered open and he stared at the perfectly plumped pillow and the unwrinkled sheets for a long moment before remembering. He sniffed, then rolled onto his back and blindly reached for his phone.

Ilya knew that he’d seen Shane less than a week ago, but he already felt him like a missing limb—again. Maybe an organ, he decided. He felt heavy, like the bed was holding him down, like his lungs didn’t have enough oxygen to give his muscles the strength to lift himself up. He wanted to close his eyes and drift off again, to bring him one day closer to the end of October, when he had a short break and could run to New York, run home. 

But he couldn’t. 

He had to eat breakfast, get to practice in an hour, and somehow lead a team. That meant he had to sit up—so he did, albeit slowly—get dressed—he threw on whatever came to hand, and if it included one of Shane’s sweatshirts, no one would notice—and go down to the kitchen. He was glad he’d made those overnight oats the day before during one of the intermissions of Shane’s last preseason game because he did not have the energy for anything else. 

He felt better after morning skate, though he’d had to make one of the third year vets run stadium stairs; that had made him rage, but at least he didn’t feel weirdly foggy anymore. He and Marly went to Connie’s apartment for lunch and video games before they had to get back for their afternoon workout, and by the time dinner rolled around, Ilya felt almost normal, except for the ache in his chest where his longing lived. 

This is so much harder, Ilya wanted to tell Shane on the phone that evening. What he actually said made Shane blush like he’d walked through fire. No part of him wanted to go back to pretending he wasn’t hopelessly in love with his beautiful freckled man, but when he had been pretending, he hadn’t felt like… this. 

That wasn’t strictly true, he admitted to himself in the black of the night, when his brain would not shut up and let him sleep, despite the bone deep exhaustion. He hadn’t missed Shane like a heartbeat, but he had felt numb, like nothing mattered unless he was on the ice, pounding shots, or fucking some random girl he’d pulled in a club. He’d felt the most alive when he was in Shane’s orbit. Now, the numb slipped in through the feeling of missing him like sand through a crack in pavement. Ilya wondered when he’d fill up, when he’d only be numb.

He was tired for morning skate, and begged off lunch with Hammersmith and Carmichael so he could go home and take a nap before their afternoon workout. It was harder to drag himself out of bed the second time that day, but he made it back to the facility. He felt a little lighter after the workout, and texted Sveta to invite her over for dinner and dessert. He didn’t want to be alone.

When Shane called that evening, he answered and set the phone down so Shane could see the both of them curled up on the couch.

“Shanushka!” Sveta cried, “you wear glasses!”

“He is trying to kill me,” Ilya declared. “Is not fair.”

“I was reading,” Shane said, grinning through the blush on his cheeks. “What are you two doing?”

“Svetulia picked out a sad romance movie.”

“It is not sad, Ilyusha, you are just sad.”

Ilya frowned and nodded. “Okay fine. Is only sad because my boyfriend is not here watching it with me.”

“We will make him watch it with us next time,” Svetlana declared. “And then you will see it is not sad.”

“I thought Lyunya didn’t watch anything without explosions,” Shane said, his voice teasing but his eyebrows drawn together like he was thinking hard about something.

“He will watch other things if I ask. I bet you could get him to watch a boring documentary, Shanushka.”

“Hey, I don’t watch boring—you two are the worst,” Shane grumbled when they both laughed at his affronted expression. 

After a little while longer, Ilya took his phone upstairs so he could talk to Shane privately. Sveta had promised—threatened—to pause the movie so Ilya wouldn’t miss a thing. “How was practice?”

“It was okay,” Shane said slowly. “I still need to talk to Lars and Joel about the bag skate idea. I mean, nothing happened today, but I think that’s just because everyone was split up into small drills. No scrimmage.”

Ilya nodded. “And how is the team otherwise?”

“Good. I think. I’m not sure how we’ll do during the season, but I see some good stuff. How’s Boston doing?”

“Good. Maybe we win the Cup this year and you and I will be tied.” Ilya said with a shrug and a little grin.

“You wish, Rozanov, since it’ll never be two in a row,” Shane said back, his smile wide and his eyes sparkling. But then it faded, and his eyebrows drew back together. “Why are you sad, Lyunya?”

“I am not.” Ilya said quickly.

“You are, I can see it.”

“I just…” Ilya shook his head. “I don’t know. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” Shane whispered. “Is it just that?”

He lifted one shoulder. “I don’t know. I feel… tired. I don’t know.”

Shane nodded slowly. “Okay. Can I help?”

“I would tell you to take off your clothes, because that always helps, but Sveta will come looking if I am not back downstairs soon,” Ilya teased and got another little smile.

“I’ll wear my glasses for you again tomorrow. As motivation for your game on Thursday.”

“Should I not get that after I win?”

“I’ll be in Columbus when you win, remember?”

“Ah, yes, the color coded calendar. I will look again,” Ilya promised, as if he didn’t have the next month memorized. It was silent for a second while Ilya studied the man on the other side of the screen, wondering how he’d gotten someone so beautiful in his life. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu,” Shane said back. “Go enjoy your sad romance with Sveta.”

“Ah, is not sad, remember? I just miss you while I am watching.”

“I’ll be right here,” Shane promised. 

“I know, lyubimyy, I know.”

Chapter End Notes

Sorry for the delay, y'all. By the time Ao3 was back up yesterday, I was already winding down for the day. Hope it was worth the wait.

Chapter 37: take the long way home

Shane got to Southwell nearly two hours early; the night guard had to let him in, which had only been a small hassle. He put his skates on and went out on the ice—he always thought best when he was in skates, like being out on the ice cleared everything else away. He spent some time taking laps with a puck in his cradle, then did some shot practice. After a while, he started working on some trick shots he’d seen on YouTube, just for the hell of it. One of them involved tossing the puck into the air with the heel of the stick, then doing it again with the handle, before hitting it out of the air into the goal, and he wanted to see if he could do it.

He managed it a couple of times before Foster and Lars found him there, still in their street clothes. Foster whistled when the puck slammed into the back of the net, and Shane grinned before he skated over to the boards. Foster was smiling ear to ear. “That was impressive, Hollzy.”

“Thanks, figured it out today.” Shane leaned over the boards to grab his water bottle from the ledge and took a drink.

“You learned that today?” Lars confirmed, then gave an appreciative nod. “Wow.”

“You didn’t see all the failed attempts,” Shane assured him with a shrug.

Foster laughed. “Don’t ruin your own mystique, man. But what’s up? What did you need to talk to us about?”

Shane straightened, then rolled his shoulders back before cracking his neck. He’d thought about how best to do this, and had decided to opt for total honesty. “I’m gay. I came out to my team in Montréal, and they did not take it well. It’s why I left.”

“Well,” Foster said after a second, “shit.”

“Yeah,” Shane said, nodding. Lars was frowning, but not in a menacing way, so Shane pushed on. “I’m telling you this because, well… I didn’t want to lie again. But also because some of the guys on this team are being… homophobic. And it needs to stop.”

“Dawson,” Lars said immediately. 

“Yes. And CC.”

Lars nodded. “Okay. So what’s the plan? Feels like you have a plan.”

“I talked to Joe and the other coaches already. I want to make them do bag skates or something if we catch them at it. Whatever works in the moment. They said they’d back it.”

Foster was looking up at the ceiling. “You don’t think that’ll make them dig in their heels?”

“I honestly don’t know, man. I’m flying blind here; I have no idea how else to deal with it. I didn’t want to just run to the front office and say ‘Dawson’s bullying me.’”

“Wait, he’s saying it to you?” Foster asked, looking perplexed. 

“No. But he is saying it to Zack.”

“Is Zack—”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. It’s his decision whether to say anything,” Shane said with a shrug.

“What if…” Lars started, scratching at his short blonde beard. “What if we announce we’re going to be doing these bag skates first? Like we say that it’s something we noticed during the preseason, and we want to make sure the team culture is positive. Make it clear that chirps are fine, insults and slurs are not.”

Shane nodded slowly. “I… I’m not ready to come out to the team though. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to, to be honest.”

Foster winced. “That bad in Montréal, then?”

Shane nodded. “I’m not trying to actively hide it, anymore, but yeah. Making a big announcement again? Probably not happening.”

“We can keep you out of it,” Lars decided. “I will say something before practice, and we will say it is because of what happened with Scott Hunter and what he said about the young fans who are looking up to us.”

“Thank you,” Shane said on an exhale. 

“I will warn you,” Lars said, “I do not think it’s only Dawson and CC.”

“I figured,” Shane said with a shrug. “But it seems to be a lot fewer than last time.”

“Hopefully,” Lars said. “Okay, I am going to go get dressed so you can teach me that trick.”

“Ooo, me, too!” Foster added. “You coming Hollzy?”

“Yeah, I need to get the rest of my gear on,” Shane said, then stepped onto the rubber from the ice.

The team found the three of them out in front of one of the nets trying that same trick shot. Soon, half of the guys were taking turns trying it. Fin managed it on his third try, and Zack jumped on him like he’d scored his first hat trick. That was the first thing the coaches saw before they skated out onto the ice with the team. 

“Hell, someone needs to teach me that trick at the end of practice. I’m thinking Fin,” Joe said, his grin catching. Then he looked down at the iPad and called out the agenda for practice. 

“Coach,” Lars said, his deep voice echoing across the rink.

“Lars, you have something?”

“Yes. Before we start, if it’s okay.”

“Go for it, man,” Joe said, his eyes flickering to Shane for a second before he gestured for Lars to take the floor.

“Perhaps I should have said this yesterday, but officially—welcome to the Scouts, boys. We’re happy to have you. A few things. One, if you are not in the team group chat, come to one of us,” he said, gesturing to himself, Shane, and Foster, “to get added. We plan team dinners and such. Two, the captains and coaching staff noticed something throughout preseason that needs to be addressed now. We work to have a positive culture here in Brooklyn. There have been some words and insults thrown around, and it needs to stop. Chirps are fine, harm is not. So, we are going to do something different. If we hear insults or slurs from anyone, we will be doing bag skates. Off the ice, we haven’t decided yet what it’ll be. But it will not be just the one saying it. All of us. The league is changing, catching up to the rest of the world. Kids are watching, and especially those kids that Hunter said look up to him. Let’s not be any later to the party, okay?”

There were murmurs of assent from the group, and a few curious glances between some of the players, trying to figure out what Lars was referring to. 

“Okay, let’s get to work,” Lars said, and the guys split up, skating over to where they needed to be to get in on their drills. 

“God, I hope that works,” Foster murmured to Shane as they skated over to Joe to get ready for a drill he had set up for the forwards. 

“Me, too,” Shane said, his eyes skating over Dawson and CC in the corner with the defensive coach. 

Ilya only had morning skate because the coaches wanted them to rest the afternoon before their home opener. As was tradition, however, Ilya would instead be hosting the entire team at his house with an excessive amount of catered food, a reasonable amount of alcohol, and team bonding. He thought that, normally, the captain’s wife or girlfriend might plan this sort of event, but it just so happened that the three of them were all still—publicly, at least—single. So, when he got home from the practice facility, he quickly cleaned up and started setting up in the kitchen.

Connie arrived early to help, walking through the front door like he owned it. “Rozy?”

“Kitchen!” Ilya called back, setting out the cutlery. 

“Wow, you’re getting fancy with it,” Connie said when he came around the corner and found Ilya arranging the various utensils in red disposable cups on one end of the counter. Not exactly fancy, but when he’d previously just thrown a box of plastic utensils on the counter, he supposed it was, comparatively.

“Spend a summer with Yuna Hollander, you pick things up,” Ilya said with a shrug, then looked over. “What’s that?”

Connie held up the box about the size of a textbook. “A package. It was on your doorstep.”

Ilya frowned; he hadn’t ordered anything. He held out a hand for it, and Connie handed it over before asking, “Where do you want jackets and shit?”

“Put a chair or two in the front hall for people to throw things on,” Ilya suggested, pulling a knife out of the block to attack the tape holding the package closed. It was postmarked overnight from Brooklyn, but Shane hadn’t mentioned sending anything the day before. 

He realized why, when he finally got the package open. Inside was one of Shane’s crew neck sweaters, a plain gray one that anyone could own, but Ilya immediately recognized as Shane’s style. Ilya lifted it to his nose and took a deep breath before he set it to the side and found a little gift box at the bottom. Frowning again, he opened it. 

Inside was a key ring with four keys on it, and a little note in Shane’s sharp handwriting. 

M=Montréal
N=New York
O=Ottawa (parents)
C=Cottage

So you can always come home. 

Ilya looked closer at the keys and saw they all had the letters etched into them, big enough he could read them, but not immediately obvious from a distance. 

Connie wandered back in to the kitchen, relieved of his jacket, and leaned against the counter again. “What’d you get?”

Ilya handed him the note as he walked to the front hall and grabbed his keyring from the bowl on the hall table, carefully adding each of the new keys to it. He knew he didn’t really need them for the Montréal apartment or the brownstone, but it was the symbolism, and he knew that Shane had understood that. When he was done, he sniffed sharply and let out a deep breath before he put the keys back down in the bowl and walked back to the kitchen. 

“This is… really fucking cute, man,” Connie said, still looking down at the note. “Are you sending him keys, too?”

“I was just going to bring them to New York but now I have to, don’t I?” Ilya said before stripping off the henley he’d planned to wear for dinner and shrugging Shane’s sweater on over his tank top instead. It felt like Shane had walked in the front door and wrapped him in a hug, and Ilya knew that had been the point. He swallowed hard to prevent any emotion from showing on his face. 

“I think you might, yeah,” Connie agreed, handing the note back. Ilya slipped it into his pocket—he was going to put it in his bedside table later. “He really has four houses?”

“Three,” Ilya said. “One is his parents’ house in Ottawa. Key is for emergencies, I think. I have never been.”

“God, how rich is he?” Connie muttered while getting a beer out of the fridge and settling at the counter. 

“His mother is his manager. She had him doing brand deals all summer. Is… a lot,” Ilya explained, without adding that Yuna had asked if he wanted help with his brand portfolio as well. He was still thinking about it. He wanted to ask Shane if it would be weird, since Yuna would then be splitting her attention. And it felt like a conflict of interest, somehow. He couldn’t quite articulate it, but he knew Shane would understand.

Marly called them a few minutes later to say he was almost there with a trunk full of catered barbecue, so Ilya ran to put his henley away upstairs, then came back to help Connie and Marly unload the food and get it set up on the counter, then moved straight into the party. 

Chapter 38: it's been difficult for me to trust

Chapter Notes

CW: homophobic slurs at the beginning of the chapter, ableist slur at the end of the chapter. Seriously, take care of yourself. Our baby Shane is going through it.

It didn’t take long for someone to slip up, Shane noticed. That first day, everyone had been on their best behavior, probably hyper aware of what Lars had said at the beginning of practice. But the next day, at their morning skate, while they waited for the coaches to switch over the drills, CC was standing in a group of some of the younger guys talking about the flight to Columbus later that afternoon and their plans when they were on the ground. 

Griffin Buck, one of the kids Brooklyn had drafted, was talking about his after-dinner plans. “I’m honestly going to do a hot shower to just relax my muscles. My sister swears by these lavender shower steamers for sleep, and other shit. I tried one for energy once, can confirm, does work,” he said with a cocky little grin as the others laughed.

“Buck, that’s so fucking gay, bro,” CC said, his tone light and aiming for funny. Shane sighed, and turned. 

“Sticks on the bench, we’re doing bag skates, boys!” he shouted over the chatter. Taylor, the goalie coach, looked over at Shane and nodded, moving to grab one of the nets and move it out of the way while another coach did the same for the other. Joe and Paul swept the cones they’d been setting out right back up and skated to the bench.

“What the fuck?” someone muttered; Shane didn’t see who.

“Calling someone gay as an insult is homophobic, obviously. Get your head out of your ass,” Fin said to the group as a whole, then skated over to the bench and set his stick inside the boards.

“Same with fruity, cocksucker, fag, fairy, and a dozen others!” Lars shouted so he could be heard around the rink, looking annoyed that he even had to clarify. 

“First line, second line, third line, defense pairs one and two—at the goal line!” Foster yelled, already there. Shane joined him and cracked his neck as Zack fell in next to him, Fin on his other side.

“See if you can keep up,” Shane said to both of them with a grin, then looked over toward the bench where Paul was putting his whistle in his mouth. Shane bent slightly, his head down, and when Paul blew the whistle, lunged forward, hit the blue line, and rocketed back to the goal line, then the center and back, the further blue line and back, the opposite goal line and back. Fin and Lakey managed to come to a stop at the baseline only seconds behind him, breathing heavily as they leaned up against the boards while they waited for everyone else to get back.

“Four more times, boys!” Paul called out, and everyone—even Shane—groaned, but they lined up again, and again, and again, and again. The last time, Paul waved them in to the bench and sent the remainder of the team out, including the goalies, stripped of their extra pads so they could move freely. 

“Fuck, you’re fast,” Lakey gasped as he slumped onto the bench and reached for one of the water bottles, spraying it into his mouth and gulping it down. Fin nodded before he stole the water bottle from Zack and did the same. Shane took it from him and snagged a sip, then another, looking out over the rest of the team’s efforts. 

“Lots of trail running over the summer,” Shane explained when his breathing was slightly steadier. “Doesn’t mean bag skates don’t suck ass.”

Fin just heaved another deep breath and nodded while Lakey took another drink. 

“Oh,” Shane heard from the tunnel to the locker room, and looked over that way to find Ava, camera in hand, coming to take pictures.

“Hey, Ava,” he waved and watched Zack stiffen slightly before he turned. 

“Hey. I was coming to get video of some of the drills so I could post it tomorrow but…”

“Bag skates,” Fin explained. “Someone used ‘gay’ as an insult, so we all gotta skate until we can’t breathe.”

Ava made a face. “It’s 2017, who still does that?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Shane said, before anyone could name CC. “Anyone says it, we all have to skate. Culture thing.”

“Huh,” she said, stepping closer. “Well, I guess I could get b-roll of bag skates, too. Can I stand on the bench, Zack?”

“Sure,” Lakey said, sliding closer to Fin, and offering a hand to help her up. She braced her leg against his side when she was up there and smiled down at him.

“Don’t let me fall.”

“Wouldn’t dare,” Zack promised, and Shane glanced over at Fin to see him smirking. When they made eye contact, Shane had to pretend to cough so he wouldn’t laugh.

“What are you doing after team dinner tonight, Hollzy?” Fin asked to distract them both from the flirting.

“Not much,” Shane said, shrugging through the lie. He would be calling Ilya when his game was over. “Might do some yoga or stretching, read or something. You?”

“Long-distance movie night with Josie, since we’re traveling. We watch the same movie while on a call. It’s not the same, but…”

Shane nodded. “Is she coming with on our trip to California next week?”

“Nah,” Fin said, shaking his head. “She’s in school to become a veterinarian; she can’t really take time off from that.”

“Shit, that’s cool,” Lakey said.

“How many years does she have left?” Ava asked, still filming the ice.

“Two left for vet school, then she might need to do an internship or residency. She can’t decide if she wants to specialize.”

“That’s awesome,” Shane said as the last bag skate ended and everyone congregated around the bench to get water, too. 

“Well, we ran out of time for the drill we had planned, boys!” Joe said from the ice, but he didn’t look too fussed about the change of schedule. “Let that stay in the back of your mind for next time. Everyone line up for Hi-Lo instead. Game speed or nothing.”

There were groans all around, given they’d just skated sprints, but Shane just retrieved his stick and hopped the boards, skating to one of the corners as Kacper and Luke, their first- and second-string goalies put their pads back on. For the first time since the party at the start of the preseason, Shane’s stomach felt a little settled. 

Maybe everything would be okay. 

Ilya did manage a hat-trick in the home game against Nashville; one goal for each Hollander, he thought to himself with a proud little smirk as he high-fived his team on the bench as the ice was cleared of hats. Despite that, it ended up being a closer game than he liked, with the final score being 3-4 for Boston. It was to be expected at the start of the season, he supposed, when they were still getting back into the swing of being a team. 

“Rozy, where are we celebrating?” Alexis Levac called across the locker room. Ilya looked up, struck silent with the realization that normally he would have been the first to announce their post-game plans. 

“You choose, Lexi,” he decided on the spot. Levac whooped, then announced they were all going out to a club for drinks. Ilya liked partying with his teammates, he really did. He liked clubs, and bars, and dancing, and being a general menace to society; the latter was one of his main joys in life, in fact. It was just… well, he wanted only to be near Shane or to be in bed doing nothing. That was the level of his emotional exhaustion. 

Luckily, Connie noticed his mood while they were out. Maybe it was the fact that Ilya nursed one vodka, declined shots, and generally stayed off the dance floor. He didn’t know. But Connie noticed something, and when no one else was looking at them, nudged him with an elbow. Ilya looked down at him. 

“Go,” Connie said. When Ilya raised an eyebrow at him, Connie repeated himself. “Go. I’ll cover for you. Slip out and get home. You don’t want to be here, Roz.”

Ilya quirked his lips and then downed the rest of his vodka. “I owe you.”

“You do. Go now, while they’re all dancing. Tell him I say hi,” Connie said, slapping him on the back. Ilya nodded and moved away into the crowd, losing himself amongst the people surrounding them before he made his way to the door. 

By the time he got home at about 1:00am, it was three hours since Shane had texted him congratulations and Ilya had told him of the team’s plans. Rather than calling him directly, Ilya opted for texting Shane to see if he was awake. His phone rang in his hand before he’d even had a chance to get up to the main suite.

“Shanya, it is so late for you,” Ilya said when he answered the video call.

“I’ll sleep in,” Shane said, his smile soft against the pillow upon which he rested his head. He was bathed in the orange glow of the bedside lamp, and his eyes were slightly foggy with sleep.

“’Til seven instead of six?” Ilya teased and got a quiet puff of annoyed laughter in reply. “Did I wake you?”

“I fell asleep reading,” Shane admitted. “So it’s probably good that you did. I lost my glasses somewhere in the bed.”

“Your sexy glasses? Shane, rescue them right now,” Ilya demanded, making Shane grin as he put his phone down and began changing for bed.

“I’ll find them, don’t worry,” Shane promised. “You know, this is a very fast strip tease.”

“I—” Ilya looked down at himself, grimacing. “I was not planning on…”

“Only joking, Lyunya. Tell me about the party.”

Ilya did, slipping in to a pair of joggers, and sliding into bed himself. It was one of the first times they’d ever called without it turning into something sexual, but Ilya was bone tired, and he knew Shane would prefer not to throw off his morning routine, as much as he joked about it. It felt nice, in an odd way, for them to find solace in each other in a way that was not sexual, even though sex with Shane was one of Ilya’s favorite hobbies.

 “Sladkikh snov, Shanya,” Ilya whispered, when Shane could barely keep his eyes open. “I want to hear about your day tomorrow.”

“Mm,” Shane murmured. “‘Night, ma moitié.”

It was the first time Shane had used a French endearment, and it made Ilya’s heart glow in his chest. They were building their own private language, one gesture, one endearment, one look at a time; their own little universe made up of all of them. And when he looked the words up before he fell asleep, his entire body ached with the need to hold Shane. My other half, Shane had said, and Ilya thought perhaps that was the best description of them yet: two halves of one whole, kept separate for far too long. 

After an absolute mess of a game against Columbus—they’d lost 5-0, for god’s sake—and a red-eye flight to get back to Brooklyn before morning so they could get ready for the second game in their double-header start to the season, Shane was at the end of his rope when it came to patience. So, when they were at morning skate with only about five hours of sleep under their belt and Shane heard someone throw an ableist slur across the ice, his teeth ground into each other and he spat.

“You alright, Hollzy?” Foster asked.

“Nope. Heard another slur,” Shane growled. 

“Fuck’s sake,” Foster muttered, then lifted his voice. “BAG SKATES, BOYS!”

“What the fuck? No one said anything about anyone being gay!” Sterling Hennessy—Hen, one of the rookies—said, even though he was already skating toward the bench to drop his stick.

“We never said anything about what fucking type of slur, did we, Lars?” Shane asked. 

“Nope. What was it this time?”

Shane screwed up his mouth in a grimace. “Retard.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dev muttered, then raised his voice. “That shit hasn’t been PC since 2006, what the fuck are we doing, guys?”

Shane had the same question, especially since that one in particular had been thrown at him as a kid. Not in the way most boys experienced it, the way most people had used gay, too: as an umbrella insult, rather than targeted hate. No, for Shane, it had been targeted. He had been just a little too good at hockey and a little too odd off the ice for a certain type of bully that wanted to tear him down because he could skate faster, handle the puck better, and score more often. So, they had taken aim straight at Shane’s eccentricities.

“Who fucking said it?” Joe asked, standing near the center line, hands on his hips. No one spoke as his eyes tore across the team, a scowl on his lips. “No one wants to own up to it? No one wants to speak up?”

A few of the guys shuffled on their skates, looking around uncomfortably. 

Joe shook his head in disgust. “First line, second line, third line, defensive pairs one and two!” 

They skated out to the goal line while the rest of the team sat on the bench. Shane ended up next to Lars this time. The taller man sniffed. “Joe’s youngest daughter has Down's Syndrome.”

Shane looked up at him. “So that one hit close to home.”

“Yeah,” Lars agreed. “Though if you look at our team, nearly any slur is going to do that.“

Shane swept his gaze over their lineup. Dev Powell and Jordan Dean were Black, he was Asian and gay, Joe’s daughter had a disability… they weren’t exactly diverse as whole, but Lars was right. Shane straightened his shoulders and bent to get ready to sprint as Joe put the whistle to his lips. 

“All the more reason to keep this project up,” he said to Lars. Joe blew the whistle.

Chapter 39: my head's a mess, it's like that every day

Chapter Notes

A little (mostly) fluff to give us all a little break.

Shane didn’t know whether it was the banked fury from morning skate that possessed him, but they won their game against Buffalo that night 6-3. He’d gotten a hat-trick and had already mercilessly teased Ilya about them being tied in the scoring race. Lakey and Fin had gotten a goal each, and Dev—on the second line—had slammed one into the top shelf in the last few minutes of the second period off an assist from Foster. It felt like things were truly coming together, barring the fact that his parents had cancelled their trip down for the home opener due to his dad’s work and the tight schedule. 

Of course, they lost their next home game, but they’d only had to do bag skates once more before they were boarding the team plane to head out for their California roadie to play Anaheim, San Francisco, and LA all within a week. Luckily, Ilya was also headed out to do a Western Conference road trip, so they didn’t have to figure out how to manage the time zone difference this time. 

“Nap on the flight, gentlemen!” Foster yelled from the middle of the plane. “We’ll be landing at 1:00pm local time, which means we have an afternoon practice and have to stay up late to fight the jet lag!”

“You are such a dork,” Dev told him when he sat back down in their row.

“Ah but I am your dork, dear friend,” Foster replied, pulling his tablet out to set it up for a movie. 

Shane was sitting in the row across the aisle, still alone as everyone filed onto the plane. Fin looked to be about to sit down in Shane’s row when Lakey pushed him one row further and made them seat buddies instead. Shane saw why when Ava appeared through the cabin door, looking around for where to sit. 

Zack had been cagey about Ava for the last few days. 

Shane raised a hand and waved when she scanned for seats and her smile bloomed. She shoved her straight black hair over her shoulder and lifted her backpack in front of her as she moved down the aisle then settled in Shane’s row. “Hey, Hollzy.”

“Hey, Aves,” he said back in the same tone. “More murder romances today?”

“Nah, went for some sci-fi since we’re going to be stuck on a plane for so long. Easier to get into it when I can’t get distracted, you know?”

“I do know,” Shane said, nodding. “Which sci-fi?”

“Do you read sci-fi?” she asked as she took out her eReader and tilted the cover so he could catch the title. 

“No, but my bo—“ Shane coughed. “My friend does. He’s always looking for new books and he likes when things blow up.”

“This one has plenty of that,” she assured him, though her eyes were scanning his face. After a second she smiled. “My brother recommended it to me. He’s in art school in Singapore and said he got a lot of inspiration from this series.”

“Wow, that’s awesome. I’ll write it down for my friend.” 

She only smiled and nodded, then pointed at his book. “What is it this week?”

“Biography,” Shane said, and when she raised an eyebrow, he sighed. “Of Sergei Vetrov, a former goalie for the Raiders.”

It had been a fun exercise, reading about Svetlana’s dad and then asking her if it was true. Most of it had been so far, but there were small parts that didn’t quite match her recollection or happened at a different time or not at all. Shane put it down to the whims of the biographer, who was a little too motivated to write a moving piece over capturing the truth. 

When they landed in Anaheim, Shane nudged Ava awake. She’d fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder about an hour before and was blinking blearily as everyone shuffled a bit in their seats, preparing to deplane.

“Are you coming to practice?” Shane asked her.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. You’re headed straight there right?” 

“Yup,” Shane said as the plane rolled to a stop and the seatbelt sign turned off. “Then, I think it’s back to the hotel and a team dinner.”

She nodded, the motion slow and delayed, as if her brain was still catching up. 

At that moment, Fin stood up behind them and leaned over the seat. “You know…”

“What?” Shane asked when he paused, tilting his head in thought.

“We have the day after the game off,” Fin said, still thinking. “And we’re in Anaheim.”

Across the aisle, Dev groaned. “Don’t say it, Fin, don’t—”

“What if we went to Disneyland?”

“DID SOMEONE SAY DISNEY?!” 

Shane looked toward the back of the plane, where Luke, their secondary goalie and Jordan Dean were both leaning over the seats, staring up at the front of the plane. Dev made a pretty convincing fake whimper. “They’re both obsessed with Disney. I get so much Disney at home, why did you have to say it, Fin?”

“Sorry, Dev,” Fin said, but he was smiling. 

“My daughters are going to kill me,” Dev muttered as Foster stood and looked at Lars and Shane. 

“We doing a Disney day?” he asked them both. Shane shrugged, and Lars grinned. 

“Yes, Disney day,” Lars said, standing so he could project his voice across the plane.

“DISNEY DAY! DISNEY DAY!” Jordan and Luke started chanting, dancing in the aisle.

@brooklyn_scouts 

The entire team is headed to Disneyland today! Prepare for chaos, Anaheim.

@brooklyn_scouts retweeted @ava_marie_hall7

It can shock absolutely no one to know that @shane_hollander24 is essentially a mother duck with half of the rookies and barely-vets following along behind him, right? 

↳@ava_marie_hall7

He’s making sure they’re all drinking enough water, I’m dying.

@brooklyn_scouts 

.@jordan.dean.scouts and @luke.not.will.turner_ are decked out in full Disney gear, including little backpacks.

@brooklyn_scouts

Managed to get the entire team onto the Buzz Lightyear ride. Place bets on who got the highest score, I’ll post the results in a few hours.

[Photo 1: A group shot of the Scouts at the entrance, various expressions of glee on their faces.]

[Photo 2: A candid shot of Shane walking down Main Street USA, flanked by Fin and Zack, and followed closely by six other young players.]

[Photo 3: Dev and Foster walking through Tarzan’s Treehouse. Dev is pointing at something and Foster is mid-laugh]

[Photo 4: Leo Adelsköld, one of the rookies, is riding piggy-back on Lars outside the Matterhorn, looking exhausted. It appears to be late afternoon.]

[Photo 5: The team is backlit by the Fantasmic! fireworks over the Rivers of America.]

brooklyn_scouts Team Disney Day! 

vaughnyyyy What the hell, I want to go to Disney. @scott_hunter_admirals DAD WHY HAVEN’T WE GONE TO DISNEY?!

↳scott_hunter_admirals @vaughnyyyy Oh, I’m Dad, now?

↳ilya_rozanov @scott_hunter_admirals @vaughnyyyy more like grand-dad

joel_schmoel_foster @therealdevpowell What are we even laughing at here?

↳therealdevpowell @joel_schmoel_foster I have no idea. Is it possible to black out from exhaustion?

ilya_rozanov I always knew @shane_hollander had mom energy

↳shane_hollander24 @ilya_rozanov rude

↳ilya_rozanov @shane_hollander24 but true. there is evidence now

[Photo 1: A group selfie. Ava is at the front, with Lakey, Shane, Fin, Tyoma Zhurov, Nate Porter, and Karl Aliyev crowded around her.]

[Photo 2: A picture of the same group standing in line for Space Mountain.]

[Photo 3: A photo of Lakey piggy-backing on Shane, and Nate on Fin, and Karl on Tyoma through Tomorrowland.]

[Photo 4: Another group photo: Ava is wearing Mickey ears with Jordan Dean and Luke Turner on either side of her in their full-Disney outfits.]

[Photo 5: A photo of about half the team sitting on benches, looking exhausted, but laughing.]

ava_marie_hall7 Just a bunch of goofs having a good day 🤪

shane_hollander24 @zacklakehockey79 and I definitely won the piggy-back race

↳zhurov_tyoma lies and slander, right @kaliyev93 ?

ilya_rozanov very jealous right now

↳metros_hayden_pike @ilya_rozanov that makes two of us

↳ilya_rozanov @metros_hayden_pike why is metros 15^th best hockey player talking to me right now 

At the end of the western conference roadie, there was no more doubting it—Ilya was battling a melancholy he hadn’t felt in years. Some days, he could push through and end up feeling great by the time he was going to bed—like the night the Raiders destroyed Phoenix 6-2. Others, it was a constant negotiation between himself and his body to stay upright. The day they played Seattle, he had barely gotten a shot on goal, and scored none. They’d lost 1-3, and Ilya felt it keenly.

He had felt Connie and Marly watching him all week. They could tell something was wrong. Hell, he could tell something was wrong, he just didn’t know what. It felt almost as if a dark cloud were slowly moving over his soul, covering all the light in his life trying to reach him. Certain things could still break through, but it was getting darker and darker as the storm came on. 

“Cap!” Marly yelled through the hotel room door, the morning after their loss. “Get up!”

“I’m up,” he called back. Technically, he was. In reality, he was laying in bed, fully dressed but staring at the ceiling. Shane was visiting Rose today in L.A. and Ilya was debating the merits of just napping until he called. He knew that wasn’t a healthy thought, but he had it all the same.

“Then let me in!” Marly said, and Ilya groaned, but levered himself up and opened his door. Marly strode in and sat down on the foot of Ilya’s bed.

“What?” Ilya asked.

“How would you feel about a team outing?” Marly asked with a gigantic grin on his face.

That was how Ilya found himself out on the Salish Sea with the entire Raiders team on a large boat with the general public, watching for whales.

“Woah!” Victor St-Simon shouted, then pointed out over the railing. “Just there. Tu vois?” 

Ilya followed the line of his finger out to where a black fin breached the surface of the water again, followed by another, and another, little puffs of air and mist rising above the group.

“Marly!” Ilya called, and the man turned and came over, the rest of the team following. They exclaimed over the group of orcas, and a few pulled out their phones to take photos, Ilya included. Something about the combination mist off the water, the weak sunlight, and the sight of something so magical was working on his soul, lightening it a little bit, holding back the darkness. 

They saw humpbacks and seals as well by the time the boat pulled back into the Seattle harbor and parked at the pier. The entire team was bouncing like children, their chattering and laughter doing a little more to help. Their social media manager wasn’t on the trip with them, so they sent one of the rookies—a baby-faced kid name Kane—to ask someone if they could take a group picture on the pier. He was successful and came back towing a pair of young women holding hands as they approached. The Raiders all got into a huge group against the railing, the boat in the background, and smiled as the young women took photos on two different team phones, directing certain people to move so everyone could be seen. 

“A silly one now!” the woman with the blue pixie cut shouted and then cackled as a group of nearly 30 grown men jumped on each other, threw up bunny ears, and made ridiculous faces at the camera. Ilya and Marly ended up picking up Connors and holding him like they were going to throw him over the rail while Connie struggled not to flail so they wouldn’t drop him. 

“It was a good day,” Ilya admitted on the phone to Shane after they’d gotten dinner and gone back to the hotel. He knew some of the guys were going out, but he’d begged off with a headache and warnings about not being too hungover for the flight. 

“I’m so glad,” Shane said, his tone still a little touched with worry. He’d sounded like that more and more when they talked over the last week. Ilya wanted to ask what he’d noticed, whether Shane could tell him what was wrong. He felt untethered from himself; that was the worst part, the not knowing himself. 

“How were Rose and Gloria?” Ilya asked instead of bringing up the quiet despair haunting him, and Shane studied him for a long moment before he accepted the topic change and told him all about their day out in L.A.

@pop_news

Rose Landry spotted with ex Shane Hollander, actress Gloria Grey pop.news/sd3629dkp0

[Image Description: Shane, Gloria, and Rose standing outside a modern restaurant, talking and laughing]

[Image Description: Shane is holding his hand out to Rose as she gets out of a car, Chuck partially visible in the driver’s seat.]

[Image Description: A picture of Rose and Gloria flanking Shane, both of them with their arms linked with him. Gloria is pointing at something off to the side, and all three are looking in that direction.]

[Photo 1: One of the serious team pictures at the pier, everyone smiling.]

[Photo 2: The silly group picture. Marly is laughing so hard he looks like he might actually drop Connie. Alexis Levac is laying in front of the entire group, posing seductively. Carmichael and Hammersmith are giving each other bunny ears. St-Simon has his arms spread and is yelling at the sky. The rookies are all in a group making increasingly weird faces.]

[Photo 3: A photo from Sebbin’s phone; a humpback breaching, about to slam into the water.]

[Photo 4: A photo from Zadonsky’s phone; a picture of the pod of orcas, about half of them above the water in some way.]

[Photo 5: A photo of the team in a dimly-lit private room at a restaurant, taken from a high vantage point, as if the waiter had stood on a chair to capture them all.]

mlh_bostonbears We were wondering where the team disappeared to 👀

ilya_rozanov we were very sneaky leaving the hotel

↳shane_hollander24 @ilya_rozanov you have never been sneaky in your life

↳ilya_rozanov @shane_hollander I can be less sneaky 👀

connie_connors Best roadie day off ever, I think. Great idea @geoff_auden15 

↳geoff_auden15 @connie_connors does this mean I get to plan more team outings?

↳ilya_rozanov @geoff_auden15 we will see

st-simon77 Quelle belle journée!

Chapter 40: whole world is watching, but nobody cares

Chapter Notes

Scott led the team out onto the ice for warm-ups, doing a quick lap to check out the early crowd and wave to Kip and Elena before settling into his routine. A few minutes later, Brooklyn spilled out onto the ice to do the same, and Shane nodded to him as he passed by. When Scott felt warm enough, he skated up to the center line. A few seconds later, Shane joined him there, carefully keeping to his side of the rink.

“Hey Scotty,” Shane said with a small smile, holding out a fist to bump. 

“Rook, how’s it going? Better?”

“Better,” Shane said with a nod. “You?”

“Little bit. Probably never going to be perfect, but it’s mostly other teams now.”

Shane nodded. “With that in mind… we’ve got a couple. They’re doing better about not saying it where we can hear, but…”

“But they might say it to me,” Scott finished with a wry smile. “No worries, Rook. I can handle it.”

“Hollzy!” Carter called and skated over.

“Hey, Vaughny,” Shane said with a little laugh and repeated his fist-bump greeting again. “Gloria said I needed to give you a kiss for her; come here.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Carter said with a laugh. “Save it for later—you coming to the Kingfisher with us?”

“The Kingfisher?” Shane asked, looking back and forth between them.

“The bar where Kip and Kyle work,” Scott explained. “Handful of us tend to go out there to celebrate after games when we’re at home.”

“Oh, cool, sure. I’ll be there, but I’m warning you that I’m going to be the one celebrating. Few of the guys’ll probably follow me, too.”

“No chance, Hollzy!” Carter said with a laugh. “Give ‘em a heads up—it’s a gay bar. I mean you shouldn’t have to, but…”

Shane nodded. “I’ll tell them. Alright, I’ve got to get back to it. Prepare to be destroyed, you two.”

“You wish, Rook,” Scott said, skating backwards a bit himself before he and Vaughny went to do some shot practice to help Tommy warm up in the crease.

“What’d I tell you?” Shane said when he’d walked into the Kingfisher with a few of the Scouts and found Scott. “I’m the one celebrating.”

Scott rolled his eyes but laughed and clapped him on the back. “It was a good game, I’m not even mad.”

“Hey, Shane,” Kip said, leaning around Scott to give Shane a side-hug. “Kyle’s working bar tonight—he’ll be over to get drink orders in a second. Who are your friends?”

Shane gestured the other Scouts forward. “Mostly rookies—a lot of the guys had to get home, since we just got back from that roadie. This is Leo, Nate, Buck, and Lakey.”

Scott then pointed at his entourage for the rookies’ sakes and by the time they were all done introducing, Kyle had swung around the bar and was approaching.

“Hello, boys,” he said, with his trademark flirty attitude. “What can I get you, handsome?”

Shane blushed a bit. “Can I just get a ginger ale? I don’t drink during the season.”

“I can make you a mocktail, if you want?” Kyle offered. “Something more fun?”

“You know what? Sure, thanks,” Shane said with a smile, then gestured to the rookies. “Can I open a tab for these fools?”

“Of course,” Kyle said with a wink and Shane handed over his card before Kyle slipped around the group to get the rookies’ drink orders. 

“So,” Scott said as Shane finally settled on a stool.

“So,” Shane said back in much the same tone.

“Shields said some shit.”

Scott watched Shane close his eyes in exhausted resignation. “Just him?”

“To me, at least.”

Shane nodded, then rubbed his face. “I’m sorry, man.”

“Not on you, Rook,” Scott said, slapping him on the back. 

“Scott said it was getting better for you,” Kip murmured, looking concerned.

“I mean… it is. They’re not saying shit to me or anyone else on the team, that we can tell. But…”

“They can get away with it in a game,” Carter put in, his voice quiet.

“No, they can’t,” Leo, the blindingly blond kid who’d followed Shane in, said, not even looking up from his phone. “Do you know how many camera angles they have of the ice now? And they have that morality and conduct clause in the Players Agreement.”

Scott stared at him with his mouth a little bit agape and then turned his eyes back to Shane and Carter. Shane’s eyes were narrowed in thought as he stared into the middle distance, while Carter was rubbing his jaw. 

“There might be something there,” Shane said, his words coming slow and measured as he continued to think it through. 

“Price!” Ilya called across the ice two days later. The hulking redhead enforcer on Buffalo’s side looked over, then around him as if there might be another Ryan Price on the team who Ilya would want to talk to. He even went as far as lifting a hand to his chest as if to say ‘Me?’

“Yes, you,” Ilya shouted, and Price took one more look around before skating over slowly, his face wary. “Hello.”

“Hey…?” Price said, the greeting rising into the air like a question, as if what Ryan really wanted to ask was, ‘Why the hell are you talking to me?’

“How have you been?”

Price’s eyebrows were going to become fused in the middle if they scrunched up any more than they already had.

“Fine, I guess. You?”

Polite, little Canadian boy, Ilya thought, before correcting himself. Huge, polite, Canadian man. 

“Good, good,” Ilya said. “Buffalo is treating you well?”

“Uh… Sure?”

Ilya couldn’t help the grin at his hesitation. “You were a Raider once. I want to make sure you are good.”

“Oh. Uh. Yeah, I’m good. I mean. I don’t really know any of them well, still, but… It’s fine.” 

Ilya nodded, though he hated the sound of that. “Good to hear. You want to go out for drinks with your old team after?”

“Oh. Um, no, I’ll probably just go back to the hotel.”

“Let me know if you change your mind,” Ilya said, shrugging as if it were no big deal. “I will text you the name of the place, just in case you change your mind.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks.” Ryan’s face was still puzzled, but Ilya just nodded and skated back to Marly and Connie.

“What was that about?”

“Nothing, just invited him to join us,” Ilya said, and when they both looked at him, clearly confused, he sighed. “He was our teammate. I thought he might want to go out in his old city. He said no, anyway.”

Really, it was just that he’d been thinking about Price a lot lately; things like whether he still got anxious on planes, or if he had made friends in Buffalo after he’d left Boston with little fanfare, whether he had someone to talk to. Ilya had related hard to Ryan not fitting people’s expectations of him—no one expected a giant of a man to be scared of flying or to read Anne of Green Gables for comfort. No one expected Ilya to be madly in love with his polite, little Canadian boy, or to be as smart as he was. Thinking about it over the summer had made him remember Ryan, his foot tapping a rapid beat on the floor of the plane until Ilya had handed over his headphones so they could watch Fast Five together.

Boston lost to Buffalo by one goal, but the team still went out. They were headed into their short three-day break, so no one had had to be up for morning skate. Desjourneys had made them promise not to get arrested, but other than that had asked them to shake off the losses of the early season—they had a 3-4 record—and to come back with clear heads. Ilya had felt like he’d been pinned in the crosshairs of Desjourneys’ gaze for that speech.

He knew he wasn’t playing his best, just like he knew it wasn’t normal for him to be so tired or run down this early into the season. He just didn’t know how to shake it. No one had said anything, at least not yet, but they would, if he couldn’t get back into it. He was pinning all of his hopes on his time with Shane helping him reset. He always felt better around Shane, always played better too. 

He only wished Shane would have let him drive down directly after the game. 

“No,” he’d said. “It’s a long drive, you’ll have played a game, so you’ll be tired, and I’ll worry the entire time that you’ve fallen asleep and crashed. Please, Lyunya, just wait until morning.”

“Fine, fine,” he’d replied. “But I am getting up early so that we do not waste the whole day.”

“Deal.”

So he went out with the entire team to one of their usual bars near the stadium, laughed with his friends over appetizers that were definitely not on the meal plan, and a couple of weak beers before he slipped out early and drove home. He called Shane as soon as he walked in the door. 

“Hello?”

“Privet, solynshko moye,” Ilya said as he dropped his wallet and keys on the entry table. 

“Bonne nuit, ma moitié,” Shane answered, and Ilya could hear the smile in his voice. “How were drinks?”

“Drinks were good. We had fun. What are you doing?”

“Watching game tape.” Ilya laughed and Shane scoffed. “No, not—not for me.”

“Then for what?” Ilya asked. “And why at midnight?”

“Needed to stay up to talk to you,” Shane said, his tone entirely matter-of-fact, causing Ilya’s heart to ache just a little bit more than was his normal lately. “And one of the rookies gave me an idea.”

“What idea?” Ilya filled a cup with water in the kitchen and started making his way to his bedroom.

“You know that kid, Dawson?”

“Ah yes, the bigot.”

“Where’d you learn that word?” Shane asked. 

“A book, I think.”

“Huh. Well, yeah. Him. He said something to Scott during the Admirals game. We talked about it after the game, and Carter said something about it being too bad people like that got away with shit like that during games, where we couldn’t just make everyone stop and do bag skates.”

“Mm, yes, makes sense. What did he say to Hunter?”

“Scott didn’t say. But one of the rookies—Leo, the kid from Sweden—he said something about all the camera angles we have on the ice now and how everything is recorded…”

“Ah, so you are seeing if you can catch him saying the slur on game tape,” Ilya said as pulled out clothes to wear to bed. “Smart. I like it. But what will you do with it?”

“I don’t know,” Shane said, his frustration peeking through. “That’s the thing. Will he think I’m targeting him if I bring it up at practice? It’s not like I can just go to the league and say ‘my own teammate is being a bigoted asshole, can you fine him for violating the morality clause of the Player’s Agreement, please?’”

Shane’s sigh rattled in Ilya’s ear. “No, you can’t do that. And probably can’t do it at practice either, not if you don’t want him hating you for it.”

“Exactly. So… I don’t know what to do. But I’m still going to find the clip.”

“I know you will, lyubimyy,” Ilya said before he put Shane on speaker phone so he could change. “Maybe ask Yuna. She might have an idea?”

“Maybe.”

“You sound tired, Shanya. It is midnight, you should sleep,” Ilya murmured. 

“You should, too. What time are you leaving?”

“I set my alarm for 4:00am.”

“4:00am?! Ilya, that’s not enough sleep!”

“I will nap with you tomorrow,” Ilya said, a smile twitching on his lips at Shane’s immediate worry. 

“Promise me you won’t drive tired, Lyunya,” Shane whispered. “I can’t lose you like that.”

“I won’t, solynshko moye. I promise. If I am too tired when my alarm goes off, I will sleep in. And I will text you when I leave, and if I stop. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Ilya repeated. “I will sleep now, though, so I can see you early tomorrow. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Shanya.” Ilya turned out the lights and rolled into bed. He would be with his other half in the morning; as if his body knew he couldn’t wait, he fell into sleep nearly immediately. 

Shane set his phone down on the kitchen island and turned back to his laptop. He was nearly halfway through the game tape with Dawson in it, scouring it for what, exactly, he’d said to Scott on the ice. Their game tape was made up of every broadcast angle, plus the specialized cameras designed for analytics; there had to be footage of what was said. He’d been looking through it for two hours; he had to find it soon or the headache building behind his eyes would take him out.

“C’mon,” he muttered as he pulled up yet another clip from the game. Then he saw it. Dawson checked Scott into the boards, and though the broadcast didn’t pick it up, he saw the vitriolic set of his face and the movement of his mouth as he spat something at Scott. Scott’s face screwed up for a moment in distaste, but then he was moving again, letting it roll off his shoulders, as he had been for decades of playing this sport. 

Shane saved the clip. Now he just had to figure out what to do with it. 

Chapter End Notes

You have once again caught up to me. Let me know if y'all would prefer a more regular schedule, or if I should keep doing the "build up a buffer, and post once a day until you catch me" thing.

Chapter 41: my thoughts versus my feelings

Chapter Notes

Even though he didn’t need it—he had the code for the front door, after all—Ilya used his key to let himself into the brownstone. He had miraculously missed all of the traffic he’d expected to hit, and had arrived in just under four and a half hours, which meant he was walking into the entry vestibule at about 9:00am.

“Shanya?” he called as he stepped into the living room, looking toward the kitchen and the dining room at the back of the house. He knew Shane wouldn’t be in the basement—his gym was nearly complete but not outfitted yet—and he’d definitely finished his morning routine by this time.

He decided to take the stairs up to the main suite, so he could deposit his suitcase there, and search the entire house at the same time, given it was on nearly the top floor. When he got up there, however, Shane was nowhere to be seen. Ilya frowned and pulled out his phone to text him, to ask where he was. While he waited for an answer, he wandered through the bedroom, admiring the little library Shonna had designed in the extra space in the bedroom, complete with a rather ingenious projection system in place of a typical television, so they could still watch movies in bed, should they ever want to.

“Ilya?” he heard from the stairwell, and went over to lean into the open air stairwell shaft and looked up to see Shane smiling down at him from two floors up. “Hi.”

“Hello, lyubimyy. Were you on the roof?” Ilya asked.

“I was. I’ll be down in a second.” Shane put words into action and started down the stairs. Ilya leaned against the bannister and watched him come, unable to stop the growing smile on his lips.

“Hi,” he said as Shane stepped into his arms on the bottom step.

“Hi.” Shane stole a kiss. “Talk now or later?”

“Later. Definitely later,” Ilya murmured against his mouth, already sliding his hands under Shane’s shirt, his thumbs dragging over his hip bones as he pulled him in.

“I have the whole day off,” Shane said when they had finished testing out their new bed, his toes caressing Ilya’s shin and his forehead pressed to the ball of Ilya’s shoulder. “What do you want to do?”

“Just this,” Ilya murmured, turning slightly so he could bury his nose in Shane’s hair. “All I want is this.”

Shane snuggled into his side impossibly closer and sighed out, “We can do that.”

They slept tangled in each other until nearly noon, then Shane pulled Ilya down to the kitchen and made him sit at the island.

“I got the stuff to make tuna melts,” he admitted. “You are getting pampered today.”

“Pampered?”

“Spoiled. Treated so well it’s criminal,” Shane said, his smirk teasing as he pulled everything out.

“Ah, this should be my daily experience, no?” Ilya teased back. “Can I help?”

“No—that wouldn’t be pampering, ma moitié. You sit and talk to me.”

“About what? We talk every day.”

“How about you tell me why you won’t let my mom manage you?”

“Ah.”

“Yeah, ‘ah,’” Shane said, spreading the tuna salad he’d premade on slices of whole-wheat sourdough.

“She told you?”

“Asked me if we’d talked about it,” he said with a raised eyebrow.

“I was planning on talking about it in person.” Ilya shrugged. “So here we are. Feels like… conflict of interest?”

“Why?”

“She’s your mom.”

“And she loves you and wants to help your career.”

“What if…” Ilya trailed off, running his fingertips over the quartz countertop, frowning down at it. He didn’t want to talk about his darkest thoughts, but he knew that Shane would pry them out of him if he didn’t offer them up willingly.

“If?”

“What if we break up?”

Shane said nothing for a long time, and Ilya forced himself to look up into his stricken face. “Lyunya… do you want to break up?”

“No! No. I just… I don’t know. I worry. Is hard to explain.” Ilya cleared his throat and looked away, lifting one hand from the counter to rub his face.

“You worry about me breaking up with you?” Shane asked, his voice as soft as a whisper.

Ilya shrugged, still unable to look at Shane. “I am not… I’m not worth it.”

Shane was moving around the counter, turning Ilya on the stool, and sliding into the space between Ilya’s knees in a flash, his hands coming to rest on Ilya’s face so that he could not look away. “You are worth everything. Everything, Ilya.”

It was all he could do to shake his head, tears he’d been fighting off for weeks rising to the surface and his throat already aching with them. “If you had someone else, someone like Kip, you would not have to hide—”

“I don’t want someone like Kip. Hey,” Shane murmured, leaning further in and rubbing his thumbs over Ilya’s cheekbones, smearing the tear tracks away. “Hey. I want you. I have always wanted you. Only you. Do you hear me?”

Ilya searched his eyes but couldn’t say anything, only lifted his hands to Shane’s waist to hold on to him.

“Lyunya, I love you, and only you. You are worth everything, all of the hiding, all of the years before now, however many years until we can be together in public, all of it. You are everything. Tell me you know that; I need you to know that.”

Ilya shrugged his shoulders helplessly. He knew Shane meant that, at least for now, but who was to say he would feel the same in a year, even in a month?

“I knew something was wrong,” Shane whispered, his thumbs continuing their stroking, his eyes raking over Ilya’s face, “when Sveta said you were sad. Have you been feeling like this the whole time?”

“Not always,” Ilya managed to croak. “I… I know you love me, and I know that makes me happy. But the happy does not stay, and I can’t stop thinking about losing you and…”

“And what?” Shane murmured.

“I wonder if I deserve it. You? All of it? Life?”

Shane’s face was scrunched in a dangerous combo of worry and grief as he pressed kisses to Ilya’s lips, his cheeks, then his forehead, before pulling back again. “Do you ever… like your mother? Do you ever want to do that?”

“No,” Ilya said immediately. “No. But I think… I think I might be able to think like that? Does that make sense?”

“It does,” Shane whispered. “Ilya, Lyunya. You deserve everything, okay? And it sounds like… it sounds like you might be depressed.”

“Like being sad?”

“No. Well, yes, but I mean like… having depression. The medical condition, I mean.”

“Oh,” Ilya murmured, his eyebrows furrowing. “I don’t know much about that.”

“Me neither,” Shane said, his hands moving down to his shoulders and gently massaging. “We can look it up, do research if you want. But I do know that you probably need to talk to someone about it—like a professional, I mean.”

Ilya nodded slowly, pulling in a deep breath and then dropping his head so his forehead rested on Shane’s chest. Shane’s hands came up automatically to comb through his curls and rub his scalp, his quiet breathing soothing Ilya’s soul enough to let him whisper, “I don’t want to be weak.”

“You’re not,” Shane murmured back. “It’s not weak to need help. It’s not weak to ask for it.”

When Ilya said nothing, Shane continued, “If you needed help with a hockey thing, would you be weak for asking the trainers for help?”

“No,” he admitted to Shane’s stomach, his hands stroking up and down Shane’s sides as if the feel of his body beneath his palms would calm him. Strangely, it seemed to be doing so.

“So, this is not weak, either.” Shane’s voice was so firm, Ilya nodded.

“Will you help me?” he asked as he lifted his head. Shane stole a gentle kiss, then pulled back only far enough that he could meet Ilya’s gaze.

“Of course I will. Always.”

“Hey, Mom,” Shane grumbled when he picked up the phone from his bedside table. After they’d had lunch and sat out in the back garden for a while, they’d retreated upstairs. The time apart was making the both of them as insatiable as they’d ever been; Shane wasn’t complaining, it just meant his body was tired. They’d curled up and put on an action movie—something with Daniel Craig crashing a plane through a log barn—and had drifted off, despite the earlier nap.

“Oh, honey, did I wake you?” Yuna asked, sounding genuinely stricken.

“Yeah, it’s okay, we were just napping,” Shane said, as he tried to pull out of Ilya’s arms. Instead, Ilya tightened his grip and pressed a kiss to Shane’s shoulder.

“Speakerphone, Hollander,” he rasped.

“You’re both there? Good. I wanted to ask—” Shane pulled the phone away from his ear and hit the speakerphone button, then closed his eyes. “—chance to talk about me taking Ilya on as a management client, too, because I think I found a great brand deal for him.”

“We started to talk about it…” Shane said slowly, tilting his head so he could look at Ilya.

“Send me contract,” Ilya said. “You get paid same as you do with Shane. And the answer is yes. Whatever brand, does not matter.”

“You should really take an interest—”

“Yuna, I trust you.” Ilya said before burying his nose into Shane’s pillow again.

“Well,” Yuna said, clearly processing.

“He’s 100% serious, I promise you,” Shane said, lifting his free hand to scrub at his own hair.

“Well, then, I’ll let you get back to your evening, sweetheart.”

“Wait, Mom, I actually needed to talk to you, too.”

“Okay, sure. Is this about hockey?”

“Sort of,” Shane said. Then he laid out the Dawson problem, ending with, “So, now I have proof, but I don’t know how to go forward. I can’t just… target him. Or send it directly to anyone. That would leak immediately. But it needs to stop, and not just for me.”

Yuna hummed under her breath for a few seconds, then took a breath. “Okay. Yes, I see the problem. Let me… I think I know what to do, but let me think it through before we do anything. First question, can the footage be linked back to you?”

“No, it was game tape. Every team has access to the same feeds, I just knew to look for it.”

“Okay, good. Leave it with me, honey. I think I have some ideas. I’ll call you later when I have it all sorted.”

“Thanks, Mom. Love you.”

“Love you, too. You too, Ilyusha!”

“Love you, Momma Yuna.” Ilya’s voice was muffled in the pillow, but Shane still heard his mom’s breathless laugh before she hung up.

“We need to eat dinner,” Shane whispered as he turned into Ilya again, threading his fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck.

“Don’t want to move,” Ilya whined, nuzzling in further to Shane’s neck.

“So don’t. I will go make something, and you come down when it’s ready, okay?”

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” he mumbled.

“I love you, too.” Shane slipped out of his arms and the room entirely, closing the door so Ilya could fall back asleep.

Shane pulled the prepared ingredients out for dinner—grilled chicken breast fillets with wild rice and roasted vegetables—and set about finishing it off. Before the final timer went off, Ilya came down the stairs, still looking drowsy but happy. “Thank you for cooking, solnyshko moye.”

“Of course.” Shane flipped the chicken on the grill pan, then turned the temperature down. “Almost done, too.”

Ilya moved around the center island and pressed a kiss to his cheek, then began rooting around in the cupboards for dishes and utensils. “What is your schedule tomorrow? You have practice, yes?”

“Yeah. Morning skate and an afternoon workout, but I should be home for dinner. What will you do while I’m out?” Ilya slipped behind him and filled two glasses with water, setting them on the counter before he got out their sodas as well.

“Just relax, I think. Read, explore the house, things like that.” He finished setting places at the counter, then set two plates down by Shane’s elbow for the finished food. “Admirals game tomorrow night, right?”

“Yeah; I figured we could just watch it here.” Shane fluffed the rice, then spooned it onto each of their plates, then laid a chicken breast on top. The timer for the oven went off a second later, and Ilya moved to pull the tray out before Shane could, then found a pair of tongs and dished up the vegetables. “Or we could go out to The Kingfisher—the bar Kip works at?—and watch it there.”

“Mm, I think here, this time. Maybe Kingfisher next time I’m in New York?”

Shane nodded as he rounded the counter and set their dishes down. “Only two weeks away.”

“Slava Bogu,” Ilya murmured as they settled down to eat. “I… I think it is much harder to be away from you this year.”

Shane looked over and saw a light flush on Ilya’s cheeks. He put his hand on Ilya’s thigh and squeezed. “Yeah. It really is.”

Chapter End Notes

Friends, I am going to try to get another chapter out on Friday, but then I'm going on a planned week-long hiatus. I'm not abandoning you, I just won't have my computer for a bit. Love and kisses. If you want real-time updates, follow me on threads.

Chapter 42: every time you walk out the door

Chapter Notes

CW: homophobic language again.

When Shane slipped out of bed at 6:00am, he pressed a soft kiss to Ilya’s temple and ducked into the—aptly named—dressing room to change and get ready for his run. Ilya rolled over onto his abandoned side of the bed and buried his face in the pillow, dozing a little bit longer. The morning light—weak already at this time of year—spilled through the sheer curtains and roused him slowly. When his eyelids stopped feeling heavy, he levered himself out of bed and went to change as well, having tucked his clothes into his side of the closet the night before. He figured he’d go back to Boston with an empty suitcase—he could always buy more clothes.

By the time he got downstairs, Shane was coming back into the house through the basement entrance—the real estate agent had called it the mail room entrance—and Ilya was blending his morning smoothie in the kitchen.

“You didn’t have to get up so early,” Shane said, moving around the island to give Ilya another kiss before refilling his water bottle at the fridge.

“Wanted to see you before you left. Are the workers coming today?” He poured the majority of the smoothie mix into a glass for Shane, then the rest into a smaller cup for himself.

“They are. Is that okay? I can call—”

“Is fine, solnyshko moye, I was just curious. They’re almost done, yes?”

“Thankfully, yeah. Marcus said another two weeks at max, so maybe done by the next time you’re here.”

Ilya nodded, then chugged the smoothie, trying his best not to grimace at the taste—or the brain freeze. Shane chuckled through his own sips, so Ilya didn’t think he’d managed it. “And Shonna has designs for the guest rooms?”

“Mm.” Shane swallowed the rest of his smoothie. “Yeah, she’s got orders in for the furniture, too, so she thinks by Thanksgiving—American Thanksgiving—everything will be done.”

Ilya nodded again, impressed. “Next is shower, yes?”

“Yeah, why?” Shane asked as he put both of their glasses in the dishwasher.

Ilya didn’t answer, just put his hands on Shane’s hips and backed him toward the elevator, stealing deep kisses as they went. He pressed the call button, and when the door opened, pushed Shane into the tiny car, trapping him against the wall. He hit the ‘3’ button—American’s numbering their floors incorrectly would never not annoy him—and then began to devour.

He made breakfast, after—vegetable omelets and chicken sausage with more of the whole wheat sourdough from the day before—while Shane made them both coffee and then went through his emails. Ilya’s entire soul ached for every morning looking just like this: their lives intertwined for longer than a day, longer than a moment. He just wished he knew how to get there.

He kissed Shane goodbye in the entry vestibule and watched as Shane walked down the steps to his hired car. He wished he could just slip into the backseat with him, slide into his life like he fit. He wanted to fit.

Instead, he turned back to the house and murmured to himself, “Okay.”

He wandered through the house, admiring what Shonna had done with the design, and noting that she had left room for them to fill it with themselves. Shane had already started.

He found the loon drawing that Shane had showed him tucked next to the fireplace in the living room, Zack Lake’s signature scrawled along the bottom edge in gold pen. There was a photo of the sunrise at the cottage hung above it, one of the photos Shane had taken over the summer. Ilya had been sitting on a boulder at the water’s edge, and though no one could tell who it was, Shane knew. Ilya knew.

In the office, he found one of the pebbles from the summer on the still-empty trophy shelves; David and Yuna would be bringing those in November when they finally got the chance to drive down. The desk was practically empty, only Shane’s laptop set in the center, plugged in to charge.

When he wandered into the library again, he found that Shane had stocked a handful of Russian-language novels. Ilya didn’t know how he’d chosen them, but when he took one off the shelf and read the blurb, he found himself intrigued. He kept it with him as he wandered up one more floor to the lounge and settled in on the large sectional they’d chosen with Shonna. When it was a little warmer out, Ilya thought he might wander up to the roof terrace and lay in the sun to read, but for now, he sprawled and opened the book Shane had picked out while thinking of him.

“I don’t want to go,” Ilya murmured against Shane’s lips as they stood in the hall saying their goodbyes the next day.

“I don’t want you to go,” Shane whispered back, resting his forehead against Ilya’s. It was noon, Shane had gotten home from morning practice, they’d eaten lunch, and now Ilya had to drive back to Boston. It felt like tearing out an organ to let him go, but Shane had a game to prepare for, and Ilya needed to rest before he got back into the routine of practices and games himself.

“Drive safe,” he ordered when they reluctantly parted.

“Score some goals for me, Hollander.”

Shane’s heart walked out the front door, sunglasses and hat already on, hood up, and suitcase in hand as he walked down the block to where he’d found a parking spot two days before. Shane took a shaky breath the second Ilya was out of view and then reluctantly climbed the stairs to go attempt his pre-game nap, though he knew he wouldn’t sleep well for a couple days without Ilya’s body heat and weight under the covers with him.

“Hi, Mom,” Shane said when Yuna picked up. He was sipping an iced coffee in the kitchen, looking at game tape on his laptop. He had about an hour before his car would pick him up to get to the arena for meetings and team dinner, and he wanted another look at Phoenix’s new starting center, a younger guy they’d moved up from their third line at the beginning of the season.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she answered. “Okay, I have a plan for that video you told me about. Can you go to this website?”

She read off the name, and Shane dutifully pulled it up. It was a website advertising secure file-storage and encrypted email, reminiscent of a Google account but with more privacy features. Shane lifted an eyebrow, but followed her instructions to set up an account for himself with no identifying information.

“Okay, upload that video, and then send a link to it to this email address.”

“Who is that?” Shane asked as he wrote it down on a notepad.

“Me. I made myself one as well.”

“Okay, what’s this going to do, then?” Shane said as he waited for the video of Dawson to upload.

“I’m going to send it to a few media outlets who might report on it—I’ll send it anonymously, of course—and then hopefully one of them will pick it up and run with it.”

Shane’s brain stuttered over her words. “Wait, what? Why?”

“We can’t send it directly to the MLH; based on their behavior, they wouldn’t do anything with it. The best way to get action taken is to let the media run with it and generate outrage, which will pressure the MLH to do something so they don’t look like they’re condoning the behavior, even if they truly don’t care.”

“So…” Shane said, processing out loud. “If it happens again, the media will be watching for it. Players will get fined, or suspended, or something, more often, and it might slowly change the culture.”

“Exactly. Let me know when you send the email, sweetie. CCM is calling me, I have to take it.”

“Sure. Thanks, Mom.”

“Of course. Love you!”

“Love you,” Shane said back, setting down his phone as the website indicated the upload was complete. He opened the new email app and fired off a quick message to his mom’s private address.

Brooklyn Scouts’ Dawson Shields Uses Gay Slurs Against Scott Hunter, Captain of New York Admirals

Scott Hunter is the only out LGBTQ+ athlete in the MLH.

John Tyler Rhodes

October 26, 2017

Dawson Shields of the Brooklyn Scouts was caught on camera using homophobic slurs while battling Scott Hunter for the puck in last week’s game against the New York Admirals. The incident was in the middle of the second period and caught on the broadcast, though the audio didn’t pick up the exchange.

[Video embedded: Dawson Shields checks Scott Hunter into the boards. They can be seen battling for control of the puck. Shields appears to come out on top, then his face screws up in disgust and it appears he says, “Get on your knees for me, you fucking cocksucker.” Hunter’s face flashes distaste, but he rolls his shoulders and pushes away from the boards without saying anything.]

From the video, it’s obvious that Shields says “fucking” and “cocksucker,” and though this author has been unable to confirm the beginning of the sentence, it appears he says something approximating “get on your knees.”

Scott Hunter made history this past June for coming out as gay by pulling his long-term boyfriend onto the ice during the Cup celebrations. He spoke at length about being queer while playing as a hockey player during his MVP acceptance speech at the MLH Awards a week later.

This journalist has reached out to the Scouts, Shields, and Hunter for a statement but have received no reply. The Brooklyn Scouts are currently in Minnesota, preparing for their game against the Minnesota Nomads this evening at 8pm Eastern.

Fans on twitter are calling for action from the MLH, citing their conduct and morality clauses. No player has been fined for the usage of homophobic slurs in the history of the MLH, despite evidence of rampant homophobia in hockey culture. The MLH needs to consider a fine for misconduct and maybe even a suspension for this sort of behavior or risk losing fans.

@AdmiralsAsylum097

Imagine telling one of the most decorated hockey players in the sport to get on his knees because you got the puck off him one time.

@hunter_me_scott

Poor baby Scott shrugging it off like it’s nothing. I wonder how much of this he has to put up with this season?

@haleyloveshockey

I’ve loved hockey since I was a kid but the rampant homophobia makes it really hard to support any team, especially as a bi woman. Like… it’s 2017, grow the fuck up. So ridiculous at this point.

@hockeymom1775

This Dawson Shields business is so overblown. It’s just chirping. If you don’t have tough skin, you’re not going to make it in hockey.

↳@hunter_me_scott

Yeah, because SCOTT HUNTER isn’t going to make it in hockey. I feel sorry for your children.

@GregHockeyDad

I remember when hockey was about skill and not political correctness on the ice. This isn’t news, it’s gossip.

↳@haleyloveshockey

Oh look, another cis het white man complaining about something that women historically lead, as if gossip-as-news wasn’t the basis for our entire civilization for most of human history. Next you’re going to tell me hockey is a men’s sport.

↳@GregHockeyDad

It is a men’s sport.

↳@haleyloveshockey

ok Glen lmao

Chapter End Notes

Reminder: I'm going on a week-long planned hiatus. I will be back, but there won't be any posted chapters until next Sunday. I'm not abandoning you or the fic. Best, I love you.

P.S. You'll get more updates if you follow me on threads.

Chapter 43: make or break, we’ll take this together

Chapter Notes

By the time Shane got off the ice after the Nomads game, a game that had been a battle from start to finish, he was exhausted. He wanted only to get back to the hotel and call Ilya, though he knew he should spend time with his teammates. Maybe he could convince a handful of them to hang out at the hotel bar instead of going out—then he’d be only steps from his room rather than having to call a car.

“Shane, great game. Any thoughts on how the team is coming together this year?” a reporter asked him in the tunnel before he could get to the locker room.

“Yeah, we’re starting to click on and off the ice, for sure. It’s been great getting to know all the guys and to get to play with some new faces. We’ve still got some things to iron out, of course, but I see a lot of great things from the team,” Shane responded, his brain on media auto-pilot.

“Lars, any comment on the accusation of slurs being thrown by one of your players?” Shane heard from just down the tunnel.

“The what?” Lars asked, and Shane looked over to see his confused face before another reporter lobbed him a very similar question and he had to refocus.

“I’m sorry, can you repeat the question?”

“I was asking your thoughts on the article published by Outsports earlier today with footage of your teammate, Dawson Shields, using a homophobic slur in the game against the Admirals,” the reporter asked and Shane blinked for a second before taking a deep breath.

“I haven’t seen the article yet since my phone is pretty locked down on game days, but I can say that in my time with the Scouts, we’ve been working hard on creating a positive environment. Other than that, no comment.”

Shane stepped away from the scrum of reporters, Lars jogging to catch up with him.

“What article?” Lars muttered, and Shane shook his head.

“I don’t know, I guess we’ll see.”

Shane pulled it up on his phone immediately, and Lars leaned over his shoulder to skim it with him. Shane played the video—it was a cut version of what he’d sent his mom—and Lars cursed. “What the hell do we do?”

Foster snuck up next to them, then whispered, “League’s going to have to fine him right? Maybe a suspension?”

“But what do we do?” Lars asked again. “We’ve got proof right there.”

“We wait and see what happens, I think,” Shane said finally. “And we run bag skates tomorrow at practice.”

He had to give his mom credit—the article and the video were everywhere when he opened social media after getting out of the shower. Dawson’s behavior certainly wasn’t being ignored now. He saw calls for a fine, for a suspension, for more oversight, for comments from the team and Dawson, and even from Hunter. He also saw a lot of pushback from people claiming it was just chirps, just hockey, stop complaining, and had to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

Later, when he’d dressed, Shane went back out into the hall and nearly ran right into Ava. “Oh, sorry.”

“You’re okay, Shane. I, uh… I wanted to check on you.”

Shane tilted his head at her and smiled slightly as he gestured her to walk with him. “Check on me?”

“Yeah, I mean. The stuff Dawson said… it’s horrible. And then you got asked about it after the game, and I know the team is putting out a statement, but…” She screwed up her lips. “I have a feeling that it might have hit home harder for you?”

Shane looked away and blew out a breath, then turned back and nodded. “Yeah, it did. I mean, he didn’t say it to me, but…”

“You don’t have to tell me anything—”

“It’s not really a secret. I mean,” Shane said, looking over his shoulder to make sure they were alone in the hallway. “I came out to Montreal and that’s how I ended up here, so I’m probably not doing that again any time soon, but it’s not a secret.”

Ava nodded. “But you’re okay?”

“I’m okay,” Shane promised as they walked out of the arena into the parking lot. “You said the team is putting out a statement?”

“Yeah, we have to,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear though the frigid wind just tugged it back out. “The comments and replies to every single social media post are all about it right now, so the lawyers are helping draw up a statement.”

“I’m sorry it made your job harder.”

Ava shrugged then went up the steps onto the team bus after Shane gestured her ahead of him. “It’s just part of the work.“

“What a mess,” Scott muttered, staring into the fireplace.

“The article?” Kip asked from the couch, his glasses perched on his nose as he paged through a textbook.

“No, the article was fine, and I bet Shields is going to get fined or something because of the outrage, I just meant… I don’t know what I meant.”

“The mess of it involving you?” Kip suggested.

“Yes,” Scott agreed, running a hand through his hair. “Shit, that reporter’s going to call in a minute and I still don’t know what I’m going to say.”

“Just tell the truth, Scott. Maybe not the whole truth—you can’t talk shit about your team or the MLH directly—but parts of it. You get that same treatment at every game, and it has to stop.”

“I know. I know, I just… We’re always told ‘what’s said in the room stays in the room.’”

“This isn’t ‘the room,’” Kip pointed out. “This is on the ice. Don’t talk about specifics in your locker room, and you’ll be fine.”

Scott’s phone buzzed with the incoming call, and he pulled it out of his pocket. “Okay. I can do that.”

“Hello, this is Scott Hunter,” he said as he walked into the main bedroom.

“Hockey has ‘an inclusivity problem’”: Scott Hunter Responds to Homophobic Slur from Scouts Game

Scouts’ Dawson Shields directed a homophobic slur at Scott Hunter during their game last week.

John Tyler Rhodes

October 27, 2017

After footage of Dawson Shields, a Brooklyn Scouts defensemen, using homophobic language on the ice at last Thursday’s game against the New York Admirals was leaked, the public started calling for fines and suspensions of the player. Lip readers across social media claim that Shields told Hunter, “Get on your knees for me, you fucking cocksucker.”

In the video, Hunter barely reacted. His shoulders tensed, he frowned, but then he got back to the game. When we talked to Hunter yesterday evening, he commented that it’s, unfortunately, so common, it barely fazes him anymore. “When I was younger, and still learning who I am, yeah, that sort of language hurt. But it was meant to. Chirps between players are meant to throw you off your game, and some people take the cruel route. You know, [Boston’s Ilya] Rozanov’s chirps are light-hearted jabs at people who can take it, trying to make them laugh or get annoyed so they mess up. But others are trying to tear you down so you miss a pass, or stumble.”

At the end of last year’s Cup series, Scott Hunter publicly came out as gay when he kissed his long-term boyfriend on the ice during the celebrations. Since then, he’s been dealing with more targeted homophobia. “They say it where the refs and my teammates can’t hear. No consequences.”

But directed slurs and insults aren’t the only issue. “In the [locker] room, players have always been throwing around words like ‘cocksucker’ and ‘fairy’ or accusing people of being gay like it’s a bad thing. We hear it young, from coaches and older players. It’s ingrained in the culture, unfortunately, and it perpetuates in the same way.”

In his MVP acceptance speech at the MLH Awards in June, Hunter talked about how such language made him terrified to come out, because the locker room culture was adamant that being gay was bad. “That’s the sort of bias that’s hardest to combat, I think. Because half of the guys don’t even realize it is bias. It’s the sort of thing they don’t have to think about, because they’re not around gay people every day, that they know of, you know? It’s an inclusivity problem.”

Hockey remains one of the sports with the lowest diversity statistics in North America, and not just in LGBTQ+ aspects. The average MLH player is a white, upper-middle class, straight, cisgender man. With only about 30 Black players and even fewer players of Asian heritage, it wouldn’t surprise anyone to know that racism is also a factor in locker rooms. Young athletes who want to play hockey will need to invest thousands of dollars into acquiring gear and joining teams, something that is just no possible for lower income brackets without financial assistance.

If the culture is going to change, it’s going to take more than just a few inclusivity workshops mandated by the MLHPA at the beginning of the season.

The league has yet to issue a statement regarding Dawson Shields’ behavior, though they claimed they were “looking into it” via Twitter early this morning.

@brooklyn_scouts

The Brooklyn Scouts will be investigating the behavior of one of our players during the New York Admirals game last week. Any misconduct will be handled to the fullest extent the Players’ Agreement and internal team regulations allow.

@MLHUpdates

Dawson Shields has been fined $5,000 and suspended for one game, effective immediately for misconduct in breach of the morality clause of the Players’ Agreement.

@scott_hunter_admirals

Hockey should be for everyone. I will be matching all donations made to You Can Play made before midnight tonight in order to promote more diversity in hockey. I hope you will join me.

↳@AdmiralsAsylum097 What a great idea! I can donate $50 today.

↳@hunter_me_scott Best $100 I’ve spent all week.

↳ See 189 more replies

@shane_hollander24 retweeted @scott_hunter_admirals

Just donated $100,000, hope you’ll do what you can!

↳@metros_hayden_pike Jackie and I just donated $50,000.

↳@jjboiziau_metros $50,000 over here too, Capitaine.

↳ See 348 more replies

@hollanov4life retweeted @shane_hollander24

If you donate more than $50, I’ll draw a commission of Hollanov from a prompt you give me.

↳@shilya_rozander Oh hell yeah. Do I give you the prompt now? [Attached image description: A donation receipt from You Can Play for $50.]

↳@hollanov4life DM it to me, I think it’d be weird since I retweeted one of the boys lmao.

↳ See 16 more replies

@ilya_rozanov retweeted @scott_hunter_admirals

We will make you go bankrupt, old man. Boston fans, I will match your donations if you send me screenshots, so Hunter will be in for double.

↳@cliff_marly Do I count as a fan? 😏 [Attached image description: A donation receipt from You Can Play for $25,000.]

↳@connie_connors Oh hell yeah. [Attached image description: A donation receipt from You Can Play for $25,000.]

↳@bears_beets_bostonraiders [Attached image description: A donation receipt from You Can Play for $100.]

↳@shilya_rozander [Attached image description: A donation receipt from You Can Play for $50.]

↳ See 276 more replies

“How was practice, solnyshko moye?”

“It was fine. Dawson muttered about it being bullshit that he had to sit, but at least he’s benched. Joe is still talking to the front offices about what he can do internally, but I doubt it’s much more.”

“He deserves to be hit,” Ilya muttered into the phone, looking in his fridge for something to eat. He didn’t have much, since he’d only been home a few days, and he was headed to Columbus with the team in the morning. He found a cottage cheese cup and sighed. It would have to do.

“It’s not like I can hit him,” Shane said as he shifted in his hotel bed, the rustling a quiet murmur.

“I know. Maybe I could,” Ilya mused as he tossed some oats and blueberries into a bowl to accompany the snack.

“Maybe he’ll be traded by th—oh, shit.”

“What? Shanya? What?”

“Did you watch highlights of the Admirals game yet?”

“No, was going to in a minute. Why?”

“They played in Montreal,” Shane said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Ilya scrambled into the living room and opened his laptop, navigating to the game tape as fast as he could. When he found the reel assembled by the Raiders team, he clicked on it, sped it up double speed, and watched it run. “I have it on now, what—”

He didn’t need to finish the question. Scott was checked in every clip featuring him, some illegally, most more violently than the situation warranted. Some of the clips had players yelling at him—vile shit, Ilya was sure, though the video was muted—others were from too far away to tell. But then Scott was checked head-first into the boards, laying motionless as Vaughny and Matti Jalo threw the first punches into an all-out brawl. In the background, Scott struggled to his knees, then collapsed back onto his hands. A linesman stood over him, trying to keep the fighters away.

Hayden grabbed Carter by the shoulders and dragged him back away from the fight, and J.J. wrapped an arm around Brisebois’s shoulders to pull him out, but Jalo was too big, too angry for anyone to calm him.

Ilya said nothing as the brawl ended with Jalo on top of the Metro who’d felled Hunter, the other linesman trying to pull him off, the medics sliding out to check on Hunter, and half of the Admirals and Metros being shoved into the penalty boxes, still yelling at each other.

“Ilya?” Shane asked, his voice a whisper over the phone.

“I see it, lyubimyy,” Ilya managed. “One second.”

Chapter End Notes

After taking feedback on best posting schedules, I'm going to go back to batching chapters and taking mini breaks to build up a backlog. It works best for me if I can edit the chapters all at once. Love and kisses, we've got three chapters in this batch, maybe four if I wax poetic.

Chapter 44: I'll break us on purpose

Chapter Notes

The Scouts’ front office had decided they could only bench Dawson from practice during the league’s suspension period—essentially just for the Nashville game—so when the team gathered at Southwell the afternoon they got back from the roadie, training started with bag skates.

“Look,” Lars said, standing on the ice and glaring hard at the bench. “I cannot control what you believe. I do not want to control what you believe. But if you are going to play for this team, you will keep that offensive shit off of our ice, off of our bench, out of our locker room. I cannot believe I have to say this. Again. Line up.”

Joe called out the first half of the team—starting with the lower lines and pairs rather than the top. As the others skated to the goal line, Lars thumped down on the bench, his breath hissing out of him in frustration. Shane said nothing, only nudged him with a shoulder and got a bump in return.

“This is so fucking stupid,” Lewis Bates muttered.

“What is?” Foster asked, his voice deadly soft. Bates didn’t seem to recognize the danger. 

“If you don’t care about what we believe, why the fuck are we being punished for what we believe?” Bates asked, then spat on the floor.

Shane’s entire body went rigid and he tilted his head to crack his neck.

“Because it’s shit like this that made it so Scott Hunter didn’t come out until he won a fucking Cup, Bates,” Shane said, not even bothering to look over his shoulder at the hulking defenseman. 

“Well maybe fags like him shouldn’t be playing,” Bates said, his voice rising now.

Shane’s breath whooshed out and he stood, then turned slowly to stare a couple inches up into the man’s face. “Fags like him? The captain of the Gold Medal US Olympic team? The captain of the championship-winning Admirals? Last year’s playoff MVP and season MVP? A man who has leagues more points than you, or anyone on this fucking team except me? A man whose team has beaten ours in twelve of our last seventeen meetings on the ice? That man shouldn’t be playing?”

Bates muttered something unintelligible, and Shane felt his jaw click as he clenched it. 

“What was that? You got something to say Bates?”

“I said, ‘yeah, maybe that fucking fairy shouldn’t be playing,’” Lewis said, straightening his shoulders and glaring back at Shane.

Shane inhaled deep through his nose, and felt the rage take over regardless of his efforts to quell it. “Fuck, you’re dense. Or maybe stupid. You don’t want any gay people playing? That’s it?”

“No, it’s fucking disgusti—”

“So you think I shouldn’t be playing? Me? You think I need to quit hockey because of who I like to fuck?”

“Wh—I—” 

“That’s what you’re saying, Bates,” Shane said, shouting now. He didn’t notice the quiet from the ice, or feel the eyes of the entire coaching staff on the back of his neck. “Come on, man, you must’ve heard the rumors. The fucking homophobes in Montreal must have talked about it. They tell you I’m a faggot? I’m assuming that sort of shit travels far with bigots and assholes: Who’s gay? Who’s a fairy? Who likes to suck cock? Who do you stay away from in the showers, in the locker room? Who deserves to get checked hard into the boards for liking the way a man fills out a pair of jeans?”

“I—”

“You want me off the ice, Bates? You want Shane fucking Hollander to crawl back in his hole so you don’t have to be around a gay person?”

Lewis ground his teeth, then spat again before shaking his head.

“Fucking thought so,” Shane said, shooting him one last look before he turned and sat down next to Lars again. He flinched when he saw the dozens of eyes on him but rolled his shoulders, then his neck, and looked over at Joe. “That’s five more rounds of bag skates, Coach. Got a little carried away.”

“I think we can let the three you used slide, Hollzy,” Joe said instead, then flicked his eyes over Shane’s shoulder. 

“Nah, make us do them. Internalized homophobia is a problem, too,” Shane said, leaning forward to pick up his water to hide the shaking in his limbs. “We need conditioning anyway if we want to win. Anyone with a problem can deal with me.”

“They’ll deal with all of us, Hollzy,” Lars said, his voice sharp. Shane looked over the bench and saw Foster, Fin, Dev, Lakey, and most of the rest nodding. Shane lifted his chin in acknowledgement, then stood. 

“Think it’s our turn on the ice, boys,” he said, and stepped out, skating to the goal line. 

“I just exploded,” Shane said.

“Understandable, lyubimyy,” Ilya said as he dug through his suitcase for something to wear to team dinner. They were in Columbus for their game the next afternoon, and Ilya knew they needed a bit of bonding, so he’d decided on a team dinner at one of the local restaurants. “How did the team take it?”

“90% of them were good with it. Just Dawson and Bates have said anything explicitly. CC looked like he might throw up, and you know Provost—one of the wings?”

“Mm,” Ilya said. “From Quebec, yes?”

“Yeah. He made a face but said nothing. I didn’t think to keep track of who avoided the showers this time.” 

“Still. Three, maybe four, not bad. Not ideal, of course, but could have been worse.”

“Could have been worse,” Shane agreed. “God, I wish you were here though.”

“One more week,” Ilya promised before putting Shane on speaker phone so he could get dressed while they talked. 

“With all the insanity, I forgot to ask—how was your first therapy session?”

Ilya had gone into the nondescript office two days previous, squeezing in a session between morning skate and afternoon workout. It had been in an office park, nothing special to show the building was a psychologist’s office except the discreet sign posted at the entrance for Affirm Counseling.

The waiting room on the third floor had been empty; pale yellow walls, lush—but fake—plants in every corner, a coffee machine and a water cooler, and quiet pastels framed on the wall. There was no receptionist, just a few closed doors with doctor’s names listed in small print to the right, and a huge window to the left looking out onto a park in the center of the office complex.

“Mr. Rozanov,” a soft voice said when Ilya had been standing looking out over the man-made pond for a few minutes. Ilya had whirled, and found a tall woman with thin features watching him from one of the doorways. “I’m sorry to startle you.”

“No, you didn’t,” Ilya said. “It is just quiet.”

“Ah,” she said with a small smile, then switched into flawless Russian. “You prefer our mother tongue, yes?”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “You are Russian, Dr. Sherkova?”

She nodded. “I was born in St. Petersburg, yes, but I am American now. Come, sit. It is more private in my office.”

Ilya had followed her into the darkened space, filled with the whisper of a white-noise machine imitating a rainstorm and lit only by one tall lamp in the corner, and taken a seat on the plush loveseat against one wall while Dr. Sherkova slid into an armchair that looked like it belonged among the stacks of a library. 

“Now, it is common for people to be nervous for a first session,” she said as she settled into her chair. “I will tell you there is no need to be, but I know that does not help.”

Ilya breathed out a chuckle, then took a steadying breath. “It does not.”

She just smiled. “Why don’t we start with what made you decide to seek out therapy.”

“I…” Ilya had hesitated, his entire body stiff as he clasped and unclasped his hands. “My… friend… encouraged me to think about it. He suggested I might be depressed.”

“Why is that?”

Ilya’s breath came out shaky. “I am sad, sometimes, for no reason. Tired and worn out. I have to convince myself to get up in the morning, some days. And even though I know I have things to be happy about… it does not feel like I am happy.”

Dr. Sherkova just watched him for a moment, and Ilya added, almost as an afterthought, “My mother was depressed, I think.”

“Was?”

Ilya had looked down at the floor then, unable to meet her eyes. “She killed herself when I was twelve. Pills.”

“I’m sorry, Ilya, that is a difficult thing to go through for anyone.”

“I found her. I thought she was only resting, like she did sometimes, but…” Ilya’s throat had closed up and he had shaken his head, as if he could shake off the memory. Dr. Sherkova said nothing, had let him sit in the moment, only waited until he had been able to look up at her again. He found no judgement in her dark gaze, only sympathy, only compassion.

“That is terrible,” she acknowledged with a quiet voice. “I think you may be right about her depression, Ilya. And it is possible for these things to be genetic. So we can explore that for you, together. Tell me, do you ever think about suicide?”

“No,” Ilya said as if the word were ripped from his lips, then took a breath and said slower, “No. I do not. But sometimes it feels as though I could think like that. If that makes sense.”

“It does. It is common. You are not alone.”

The session had moved on from there. It had been almost formal in it’s structure. Dr. Sherkova had talked about evaluations and treatment plans and mitigation steps, but with that same softness she seemed to carry in her entire being. She had walked him through the depression evaluation utilized by doctors throughout the world, determining what they both knew to be true. When Ilya had explained he was not comfortable with using pills, she had only nodded, no judgement in her, and told him they could start with talking every week.

“Just talking?” Ilya had asked.

“Yes, just talking. Together we will begin to recognize patterns that your brain falls into, and work on new ways of thinking to break those patterns. It is a slower method, and does not always work, but we will try it. And, if at any point you want to try something new, we can. I will suggest things from time to time as well. For now, all I ask is that you write down when you are feeling low, and what you were thinking of when you noticed you were feeling down. We will talk about it next week.”

When he had thanked her as he left, she had gently chided him for using her formal name. “Call me Emiliya. I will know your secrets, you may as well use my first name.”

“It was good,” Ilya told Shane. “I think it will help.”

“Hey Rook,” Scott mumbled as he lifted the phone to his ear. “What’s up?”

“Just checking on you, Scotty. You okay?”

“M’okay. Just dealing with the tiredness, you know?” Scott tried to suppress a yawn; the motion made his head ache a little bit more if he let them free.

“I do know,” Shane said through the phone. “Hey. Listen. I’m sorry about—”

“Rook, you are not to blame for what Montreal did,” Scott said. “They’re not your team anymore, man.”

“No, I know. But it was my fault, in a way.”

“Shane—”

“No, let me explain.” 

Scott grunted his assent as lifted a hand to cover his eyes even though their bedroom was as dark as he and Kip could make it; the scant light coming in from the cracked door to the living room was still enough to stab him in the brain. When he tuned in fully to what Shane was saying on the other end—explaining how he’d found the footage of Dawson and his mother had dropped a line to a few sports outlets, leading to the outrage—Scott felt his mind swirling.

“It’s still not your fault,” he decided when Shane trailed off. “You got the truth out there, I talked about the problems, Montreal decided to do what they did. That’s it, that’s the story, okay?”

“Okay,” Shane said. “But if I do it again…”

“It won’t come back to bite me, Rook. I’m on concussion protocol. Can’t look at screens, my agent is taking all of the questions for comment, and saying no to interviews. Wait. What do you mean do it again?”

“I mean, I’m going to leak the videos again. I already found them. Every hit, every slur they threw at you. I found them all.”

“Shane.”

“Scotty.”

“They can’t suspend the whole team.”

“I mean, they could. But they won’t. They’ll make scapegoats out of some of the guys, and it’ll enrage people. But this has to end, man. I can’t live like this anymore, can you?”

“I mean, clearly not,” Scott admitted. “First season after coming out, not even a month in, and I’m out. I’ll have CTE or break something important before it changes at this rate.”

“Exactly. So, let’s go fucking nuclear.”

“What does nuclear mean?”

“I’m thinking we drop the videos of Montreal. They get written about again, because the subject’s still hot. I can’t disparage them because of my contract, but everyone knows I left because of ‘culture fit’ problems. Someone will reach out for comment, maybe multiple someones. I’m already coming up with a statement. That keeps the conversation going. Then… well I’ll need help with the next part.”

“What’s the next part?”

“We keep dropping videos for every game. So people realize it’s not just a problem around you. Because it’s not about you. Until something breaks at least. Because something’s going to break.”

“How will you know who dropped slurs? You can’t mic up everyone. Although, there’s an idea.”

Shane laughed a bit. “C’mon man, you know the people most likely to do it. You also know the people they’re most likely to do it to. I’m not talking just the homophobes. You know how many times I’ve been called a gook?”

“A fucking what?” Scott asked, nearly dropping the phone in shock.

“$1000 says Carter gets similar.”

“He never said…” Scott trailed off, realizing Shane was probably right. 

“Because what would change, Scotty?”

“Fuck,” Scott breathed out. “Okay. You obviously have a plan.”

“I need people with access to game tape, and I need them to go looking. If they get it to me, I’ll do the rest.” 

 Scott nodded even though Shane couldn’t see him. “Lucky for you, I know someone who has a lot of time on his hands and is bored out of his mind.”

“Not you, no screens,” Shane admonished. 

“No, dad, not me. Benny.”

“Benny? Eric Bennett?”

“That’s the one. I’ll call him and send him your way, okay? But after a nap. Fuck my head hurts.”

“After a nap is fine. Thanks, Scotty.”

“Anytime, Rook. Let’s go fucking nuclear.”

Chapter End Notes

Is next chapter going to have a Bennett POV? Maybe. Who can say?

Chapter 45: getting better or getting better at pretending

Chapter Notes

@MLHUpdates

Antoine Roy has been fined $7,500 and suspended for three games, effective immediately for targeting during the New York Admirals v Montreal Metros game in breach of Player Safety regulations.

@john.tyler.rhodes

One of my sources sent me curated footage from the Montreal v. Admirals game where Scott Hunter was injured, and can I just say—holy shit.

↳@john.tyler.rhodes

Like, genuinely, there are no words for my own emotions regarding this. I had the hardest time putting on my impartial-journalist hat for this one.

↳@john.tyler.rhodes

There were SEVERAL clips of the Metros players shouting slurs across the ice. Not just homophobic ones. Someone called Carter Vaughn an APE.

↳@john.tyler.rhodes

We talk all the time about hockey being an exclusive culture, but this… this is beyond casual/ignorant bias. This is hate on so many levels.

↳@john.tyler.rhodes

We need to put pressure on the MLH. This is absolutely absurd levels of hate speech IN ONE SINGLE GAME. What’s happening in the others?

Montreal Metros Spout Hateful Rhetoric and Targeted Scott Hunter #

Slurs, both homophobic and racist, were thrown across the ice, and one player hit Hunter with intent to injure due to his sexuality.

John Tyler Rhodes

October 31, 2017

Content Warning for Readers: The contents of this article include homophobic slurs—as is common for articles on this site—but they also include racial epithets and videos of violence perpetrated against an openly gay man. Read and watch with care.

Last week, Scott Hunter was the target of a homophobic slur during the Brooklyn Scouts v. New York Admirals game. This week, he’s laid up at home with a concussion. Why? During the Montreal Metros game, Antoine Roy, a defenseman for the Metros, went out of his way to injure Hunter for being a “tapette”—a French equivalent to faggot.

[Video embedded: One camera angle shows Antoine Roy talking to Nicholas Couillard on the bench, his face screwing up in distaste as Scott Hunter skates by with the puck. He says, “Quelqu'un doit remettre ce tapette à sa place.” The angle changes, and Roy is shown skating backwards as Hunter skates toward the goal with the puck. When he turns his head for a moment to make sure a pass connects, Roy moves in and checks him hard into the boards. Hunter goes down, and Carter Vaughn and Matti Jalo descend on Roy. The clip ends there.]

It appears that Roy tells Nicholas Couillard—in French—that someone needs to put Hunter back in his place. Though the clips are edited together, Roy is not on the ice with Hunter for another two minutes. As soon as they are, Roy makes the hit that sent Hunter out of the game. If this sort of thing happened in a public space, it would be a hate crime. What makes it any different on the ice? Fans and players would tell you it’s “just hockey.”

Before Hunter goes down, there are seven incidents of slurs being thrown at Hunter, and one of a slur being tossed at Carter Vaughn, one of only 27 Black men in the league, out of more than 750 players actively playing.

[Video embedded: A series of eight quick cuts, each only long enough to show a Metros player shouting at Scott Hunter or Carter Vaughn: Zachary Taylor calls Hunter a “fucking fag” when Hunter steals the puck from him, Mikhail Andropov shouts a Russian phrase including the word “pidor,” Mateo Pinchon smirks as he checks Hunter into the board and appears to say “get off the ice, faggot,” Andrew Schneider elbows Hunter and says “get off me, you filthy cocksucker.” Schneider is then shown asking Vaughn, “does Hunter get off on you being an ape when you let him fuck you?” One more clip is shown of Taylor and two of Andropov.]

Outsports has reached out to the MLH and the Montreal Metros for comment, especially considering the Department of Player Safety has already fined and suspended Antoine Roy for the targeted hit without knowing the homophobic nature of the action. As for the others, no fines have been issued as of yet.

Attempts to reach Scott Hunter for comment have gone to his agent, as Hunter is currently limiting the use of screens during his recovery. They had the following to say: “Scott is focusing on his recovery and the future. We will be in discussions with the Admirals and the MLH regarding the incidents during the Metros game but have no further comment at this time.”

@MontrealMetrosMLH

Les Metros s'engagent à créer un environnement sécuritaire pour tous. Nous travaillerons avec la MLH pour examiner le comportement de nos joueurs lors du match de samedi dernier.

↳@MontrealMetrosMLH

The Metros are committed to creating a safe environment for everyone. We will work with the MLH to examine behavior of our players during last Saturday's game.

@MLHUpdates

Mateo Pinchon has been fined $5,000 and suspended for one game, effective immediately, for misconduct in breach of the morality clause of the Players’ Agreement.

@MLHUpdates

Zachary Taylor has been fined $5,000 and suspended for one game, effective immediately, for misconduct in breach of the morality clause of the Players’ Agreement.

@MLHUpdates

Mikhail Andropov has been fined $5,000 and suspended for one game, effective immediately, for misconduct in breach of the morality clause of the Players’ Agreement.

@MLHUpdates

Andrew Schneider has been fined $7,500 and suspended for two games, effective immediately, for misconduct in breach of the morality clause of the Players’ Agreement.

@haleyloveshockey

Ummm, holy shit, did anyone see this before he deleted it?
[Image description: Screenshot of a tweet from Andrew Schneider reading “If what I said was wrong, everyone should be fined, because everyone is saying that shit on the ice.” The tweet has 7 retweets, 28 replies, and 723 likes.]

@shilya_rozander

Just thinking about how when Shane waved his no-trade clause with the Metros, there were rumors it was because of a culture fit problem.

↳@hollanov4life

No, but really. If that’s the culture… Shane, baby, no one could blame you. Makes you wonder if he came out to them or something.

@Emily_Chambers_ESPN

When reached for comment on the videos of the Metros, Shane Hollander had the following to say: “I can’t speak to the culture in the locker room this season at all. I tried to lead by example while there…” 1/2

↳@Emily_Chambers_ESPN

“…and now that I’m with Brooklyn, we’ve got different strategies for dealing with inappropriate language. Trying to be better is always a work in progress.” 2/2

@hollanov4life retweeted @Emily_Chambers_ESPN

THIS SEASON. He can’t speak to the culture THIS SEASON. SHANE WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?!

@MLHUpdates

Antoine Roy’s fine and suspension have been extended following review by the Department of Player Safety. The fine is now $10,000, and the suspension is five games without pay.

@humanrightscampaign

“If this sort of thing happened in a public space, it would be a hate crime.” — @john.tyler.rhodes regarding the targeting allegations against @MontrealMetrosMLH player Antoine Roy.

@eden.tanner.esq retweeted @humanrightscampaign

Not my usual zone, but has anyone been following this slur controversy in the MLH? They’re being tossed around like they’re nothing. It’s a wonder suits haven’t been filed.

↳@haleyloveshockey

Less of a wonder when you consider that Scott Hunter is the first out gay player in the MLH, and there are only about 30 POC playing out of around 800.

↳ See 2,782 more replies

@avery.blake.loves.women retweeted @humanrightscampaign

Wonder how much the MLH would suffer if LGBTQ+ people, POC, and women generally stopped buying their shit until this was taken care of? You know, since we control somewhere around $23 TRILLION of annual consumer spending. Hmmm.

↳@jess.edwards.writes

Was about to buy tickets for my son’s birthday. Guess I won’t be doing that anymore.

↳@hockeymom1775

It’s not going to do anything. These boycotts never work, and even if they did, it’s such a stupid thing to get riled up about. It’s just hockey.

↳ See 1,294 more replies

“Fuck, this is too many games, Scotty,” Eric Bennett muttered as he stared hard at Scott’s laptop. Scott only grunted next to him, laying down on the other leg of the sectional, an arm thrown over his eyes while the Admirals played in Tampa on the TV.

“Too many?” Kip asked him, setting down a soda with lime on the coffee table and settling by Scott’s head. Eric’s best friend lifted his head slowly and set it back down in Kip’s lap, still not looking at the TV.

“Including today, there have been 28 games since I talked to Hollander. I can’t catch them all even if I tried.”

“Need more people,” Scott mumbled right before Carter scored on Tampa.

“Yeah, but who?”

The conversation was interrupted by the buzz of the intercom. Kip looked over his shoulder then back at Eric. “Benny, do you mind? I think that’ll be Maria and Kyle.”

Eric nodded, then set down the laptop. When he was out of sight of Kip and Scott, he took a second to let out a shaky breath and roll his shoulders. He hadn’t known Kyle would be coming to watch the game, too.

Ever since Vegas and Scott Hunter Night, Eric had been noticing things. Men, particularly.

“Hey, Julian,” Eric said, pressing the button to answer the intercom. “It’s Benny.”

“Hello, Mr. Bennett. Kyle Swift and Maria Villanueva are here for Mr. Hunter and Mr. Grady.”

“Send them on up. Thank you.”

“Of course, Mr. Bennet.”

He waited near the door until he heard the elevator ding, then opened it and held it open for Maria and Kyle as they spilled out of the elevator, laughing about something. Eric couldn’t help but smile as they came across the foyer lugging takeout bags. It was better to focus on their obvious joy than to let his eyes wander to slim hips, long fingers, and a playful smile.

“Benny!” Maria said when she was closer, then stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Is Holly here, too?”

That was why it was better not to look at Kyle, at anyone: Holly, his wife.

“No, she had a dinner with some friends of her own,” he said with that same smile on his lips, though he doubted it reached his eyes anymore.

He and Holly had loved each other once, he was sure of it. The spark had just faded along with their youth. He’d retired earlier than he really wanted to in an attempt to save the remaining embers, but he thought maybe it was a lost cause now. He’d thought maybe they’d fall back in love when his life didn’t consist of a schedule built around his career, but it hadn’t happened. It felt as though the life they had shared had split down the middle, cleaved in two by… something. Maybe time.

Maybe the truth that had lived under Eric’s skin his entire life.

Kyle slid past Eric with only a smirk and a wink behind a pair of glasses as he beelined for the kitchen with a backpack on his shoulders. “I brought stuff for a new cocktail!”

“Two out of five of us aren’t drinking,” Kip reminded him from the couch, one arm slung over the back and his head turned to watch Maria unload the takeout. “And you and I have to study tonight.”

“I also brought stuff for mocktails,” Kyle added with a teasing roll of his eyes as he shrugged out of his bag and jacket. Eric caught a flash of pale skin at Kyle’s hip and looked away.

“Do you need help, Maria?”

“If you want, gorgeous,” she said. “We did Indian food. All vegetarian.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” Eric moved around the island to get bowls and serving utensils as Maria pulled out all the options.

“We know,” Maria promised. “Did it anyway.”

Kyle was pulling things for the cocktails out of his backpack one at a time before moving to the dining table to set his study materials over there. He and Kip were both in graduate school for art history, and though they didn’t attend the same schools, Eric knew they still arranged study sessions.

He hated how aware he was of Kyle, even when Eric wasn’t looking at him. He had been from the start, when Scott had revealed his relationship with Kip and their friend groups had started getting enmeshed. He’d always noticed people—an innate talent of a goalie, he suspected—but he wasn’t often attracted to them.

He was attracted to Kyle.

For most of his life, he’d ignored the part of him that was attracted to men. It had terrified him to realize it, if he was honest with himself. Then, after he and Holly got together, he was able to not think about it. He was dating, engaged, married to a woman, after all. It didn’t matter anymore.

He’d told himself that, anyway.

Then had come Scott Hunter Night. Holly hadn’t wanted to attend the awards in Vegas, so he’d gone alone to support Scott. Then, under the technicolor lights in a gay club on the Strip, he’d had a reckoning in the form of a Russian hockey player who would remain nameless. He hadn’t wanted to fuck him, hadn’t wanted to do anything with him—Eric was not a cheater—but he’d been undeniably attracted to something about the man.

It was like his brain hadn’t been able to ignore his bisexuality any longer, like Scott opening the door on queer men playing hockey had given some part of his brain permission to run free.

When he’d gotten back to New York, the awareness of Kyle had only grown. By now, it felt as though Eric would be able to find him in a room with his eyes closed. It made him feel like a predator. Kyle was only 22 to Eric’s 38. What kind of man lusted after someone sixteen years his junior?

Eric shook it all off as he helped Maria plate up dishes for everyone.

It didn’t matter anyway. Holly waited for him at home. For now, at least.

Chapter End Notes

You've caught up to me--I didn't write much on the hiatus. So, I will take a break from posting, build up more chapters, and be back. I've got a loose outline type thing for the rest of the story, but have added at least two chapters since I made it, so I'm leaving the ? for now. If you want updates, you know where to find me.

(It's threads, you can find me on threads 😂)

Chapter 46: maybe I'm a dreamer or maybe I'm just fallin' apart

Chapter Notes

Ilya stepped into the brownstone after team dinner and felt all of the tension drip out of his shoulders. Home. 

“Ilya?” 

“Momma Yuna?” Ilya called back, toeing off his shoes in the entry hall and hanging his jacket on the coat rack on the wall.

“We’re in the kitchen, sweetie,” she said. “Just finishing up dinner before we head out to watch Shane’s game. Do you want me to take anything back out?”

“No,” he said as he rounded the corner, setting his duffel next to the elevator. “Just came from dinner myself. Won’t you be late?”

David was sitting at the island, nursing the last few sips of wine while Yuna loaded the dishwasher. He checked his watch. “No, puck drop isn’t for an hour, and Shane doesn’t let us watch warm-ups anymore.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Ilya murmured before pressing a quick kiss to Yuna’s offered cheek and then moving to slide into the stool next to David. “What did you make for dinner?”

David grinned. “Your favorite.”

Ilya nodded appreciatively. “I might have some while I watch from the couch.”

“Of course you will.”

“Is anyone coming over to watch with you?” Yuna asked as she slid a glass of Coke across the counter

“Mm, no,” Ilya said, shaking his head. “Connie and Marly are out with the team. They’re the only two who know about me and Shane, so if they cannot come… But after the game tomorrow, we’re dragging the team to that bar Scott Hunter loves. The one named after a bird.”

“The Kingfisher,” David supplied. “Shane’s been there a couple times?”

“Once or twice, I think.”

David drained his wine and Yuna held out her hand for the glass, washing it in the sink with quick efficiency as David gathered their rental car keys and his phone.

“We’ll see you tomorrow, son,” he promised. “We sprung for a hotel in Manhattan tonight, so we can explore the city in the morning and give you two your privacy.”

“Well, that, and the beds aren’t in the guest rooms yet,” Yuna said with a smile before she dried her hands and planted a kiss on Ilya’s cheek herself. 

“Shane said two weeks?” Ilya asked and Yuna nodded. 

“Something like that. Okay, have fun, love you!”

“Love you, too,” he called back as they bustled toward the front door. “Drive safe!”

Then the house was empty again, but not lonely. The ghost of their presence hovered over Ilya as he took his duffel up the stairs to shower and change into some of his lounge clothes. By the time he was finished, the puck drop was in twenty minutes. He decided to watch from bed, slipping in between the sheets that smelled like Shane, so he could wallow in them.

He didn’t know when, exactly, he fell asleep, only that he did, because when he opened his eyes, Shane was sitting at the edge of the bed. He was smiling down at Ilya, one of his hands stroking the curls back from his face. Ilya managed to croak out, “Shanya.”

“Lyunya,” he murmured back. “Did you want to eat second dinner with me?”

Ilya nodded against the pillow. “Your dad made chicken parmesan.”

“Then I think we can skip the meal plan today, don’t you?”

“Mm,” Ilya mumbled, sitting up and pulling Shane in by the back of his neck for a long kiss. “Missed you.”

“Missed you more,” Shane murmured against his lips.

It was after dinner, when they were tangled beneath the sheets, their breathing slowing and their heart rates coming down, that Shane asked the question Ilya had been dreading.

“How is therapy going?” His voice was gentle, soft, and Ilya almost wished it wasn’t.

He sighed and turned his head toward the ceiling so he didn’t have to look Shane in the eye as he admitted, “I am more broken than I thought.”

“You’re not broken,” Shane interjected.

“More messed up, then,” he said, avoiding eye contact still.

“Why do you say that?”

Ilya just shook his head. Shane rolled on top of him, sitting up to straddle his waist and putting his hands on Ilya’s jaw to make him meet his eyes. “Hey. You remember what you said to me last season? You told me I didn’t have to hide. That you see all of me. Well I see all of you. Don’t you hide either, okay?”

Ilya nodded, trying to blink back the tears in his eyes. “Is just… Emiliya—my therapist—she says that there are medications that could help.”

“Like anti-depressants?” Shane murmured, his thumb absent-mindedly stroking over Ilya’s cheekbone as he studied him.

“Mm. And I know that they would help. But…” Ilya closed his eyes. “I am scared to take them. Because of my mother.”

Shane said nothing, just continued running his fingertips over Ilya’s cheeks, sitting still on his hips until Ilya could force himself to open his eyes again and see his face. He was braced for pity, for confusion, but it was only Shane, only his Shanya watching him and waiting.

“I don’t think that’s broken, or messed up,” he whispered. Ilya opened his mouth to object and Shane shook his head. “It’s not. That sounds like a real fear to me, and I bet Emiliya? Emiliya would understand it.”

Ilya swallowed. “She did not try to convince me to take them. I don’t know. I don’t know why it feels weak to take them but also not to take them.”

“I bet she could tell you why,” Shane said with a small smile. “You should talk to her more about it. But only when you’re ready. Is she helping you even without the pills?”

“I don’t know. I mostly just feel… tired. After, I mean. Is stupid.”

Shane nodded. “I always feel tired after having big conversations. It makes sense.”

“Are you ever going to let me be mean to myself, Hollander?”

“Never,” Shane smiled and leaned down to steal a featherlight kiss. “Only I get to be mean to you.”

Ilya nodded slowly. “See, this is why you are the asshole. Why everyone thinks you are golden boy, I will never know.”

Shane laughed and stole a deeper kiss. “Nope. You’re still the asshole.”

“Shanya?” Ilya called from the bedroom. Shane had heard his alarm go off a second ago, and though he would have preferred laying in bed until Ilya had to move, his body hadn’t let him, waking up as usual at 6am on the dot and urging him to get up and move.

“In the office!” he answered, continuing to read the article about forming international charity organizations even though it made his eyes want to cross and roll back in his head simultaneously.

“What are you doing, solynshko moye?” Ilya’s sleep-heavy voice rumbled from the doorway and Shane spun in the office chair to face him. His curls were in complete disarray, he had lines pressed into his cheek from the way he buried his face in the pillow and hugged it, and his eyes were the color of fog over a field. 

Shane had never wanted to kiss him more.

He stood and indulged in the impulse, despite the morning breath, then took Ilya by the hand and led him over to the desk. “Sit. I’ll show you.”

“Why are you reading about international law at this ungodly hour, Hollander?” Ilya muttered, rubbing his eyes. Shane let out a breathy chuckle and shook his head.

“I was researching what it would take to start a charity in the US and Canada.”

“A charity?”

“Mm,” Shane murmured before leaning down to press a kiss to Ilya’s shoulder where it met his neck. “I’ve been thinking I wanted to start one, something cool, and well… you gave me an idea.”

“This is so many words before coffee,” Ilya whined, but he leaned into the chair so Shane could curl around him a little further to move the coffee sitting next to the mouse closer. “I gave you an idea?”

“Yeah. I was thinking, since we’re friends now—”

“Now?”

Shane laughed again. “Since everyone knows we’re friends now, I was thinking we could start a charity together. I was thinking our charity could help mental health organizations… and I was thinking we could name it after your mother.”

Ilya leaned his head all the way back so he could look up at Shane, his eyes darting back and forth over Shane’s expression like he could decipher exactly what Shane was thinking. “You would want to do that?”

“Of course. What was your mother’s name?”

“Irina,” Ilya murmured. 

“So we call it like… The Irina Project, or something—I’m not good with naming—and we run hockey camps in different cities or things like that, and all the profits go to things like mental health services and suicide prevention.” Shane stroked a thumb down the side of Ilya’s throat. “What do you think?”

Ilya swallowed hard and lowered his gaze back to the computer, saying nothing for a long moment. When his voice came, it was nearly a croak. “She would have really loved you.”

“I would have loved her, too,” Shane murmured, keeping his hands on Ilya to ground him. When Ilya was silent for a few more minutes, Shane asked, his voice soft, “What do you think?”

“I think it is a good idea. Terrible name, makes it sound like we are trying to build a woman, but a good idea. What do we need to do?” Ilya’s own voice was still husky with sleep, but Shane could hear the interest buried underneath it. 

“That’s what I was trying to figure out, but it’s too much, so I was thinking we just ask my mom to get the process started. If you want.”

Ilya nodded and leaned his head back on the chair so he could look up at Shane. “I want.“

Eric found himself just outside the Kingfisher, staring at the door, his brain buzzing with static. He didn’t know what had brought him here other than a need to get out, just out. He supposed, as he stared at the closed door and debated opening it, that it was one of the only places he knew to go when the entirety of his friend group was currently on the ice at Madison Square Garden or in the stands watching the game. 

Maybe that was the problem. 

His entire life still revolved around hockey, despite the retirement, despite spending every single day at home, trying to figure out how to fix things with Holly. His friends, his hobby of tracking down homophobes, even the trips he wanted to go on, they all revolved around the New York Admirals’ playing schedule. It really was pathetic.

Eric sighed. In fairness to Holly, she hadn’t called him pathetic, even if that’s how he’d interpreted it. She’d said something about ruts and being sad and dead love, and all Eric had heard was “boring, pathetic, unlovable.” That is, that’s all he heard before she told him in a very even voice that she had hired a divorce attorney and needed him to find one as well.

Eric had only nodded, said he would make some calls in the morning, and then stood from the dinner table and told her he would find somewhere else to sleep that evening so she could have the house. 

Instead he had found the Kingfisher.

One more sigh, and Eric stepped forward and pulled the door open, relishing the blast of warm air as he slipped inside. He didn’t make it far, just over the threshold before he shoved his hands in the pockets of his peacoat and looked around like he might find a friend, even though he knew better. 

That thought made him close his eyes and swallow against a sharp pain rising in his throat. He pulled in a deep breath, trying to center himself, much like he would during an intense yoga session.

“Eric?” 

He flinched and opened his eyes, his gaze swinging to the bar. “Kyle. Hi.”

“What are you doing here?” Kyle asked, his brow wrinkled and both hands on the bar, gripping hard at the edge.

“I, um… I needed to get out of the house,” he said, stepping closer. “Everyone’s at the game, so I figured… uh…”

Kyle studied him over the dingy—but clean—counter. “Okay. Do you want something to drink? I’m working on a gin replacement for my mocktails.”

Eric cleared his throat. “Sure, um. Yeah, that would be great.”

“Great,” Kyle repeated, though his voice was still low and slow, as if he were trying to solve some puzzle that had walked into the room with Eric’s arrival. He hesitated before he turned away. 

Eric decided to slide into a seat at the end of the bar-top, where the TV was already playing the Admirals game. He shrugged out of his jacket and slung it on the back of the stool and tried not to watch as Kyle moved like a dancer behind the bar, retrieving ingredients and two tumblers. It was impossible not to notice him, but it felt like a betrayal, even with Holly’s words still ringing in his head.

“Okay,” Kyle said as he pulled a jar of whole nutmeg from the spice rack beneath the counter. “This one is one I’ve been working on for the holidays. I mean, not that it matters, since we’re not allowed to change the menu, but it’s been fun, so…”

Kyle’s flirty little smirk struck Eric in the heart and he cleared his throat, adjusting slightly in his seat. “You’re still not able to do specialty cocktails? Not even after the 'Scott Hunter'?”

“Nope,” Kyle said, popping the P and rolling his eyes. “Makes me so frustrated, but the owner… anyway.”

Eric nodded. “Okay, so what’s this one then?”

“Right. You start with brown sugar at the bottom of the tumbler,” he said, demonstrating by placing a spoonful in each of the two tumblers. “Then the gin—or gin-alternative. Juice from half a lemon. Splash of pomegranate juice, stir. And then top with ice and sparkling mineral water. Garnish with nutmeg, and… voila!”

He slid one of the drinks over to Eric just as the puck dropped for the Admirals game. “Give it a try.”

Eric lifted the glass slowly and took a sip, feeling Kyle’s watching him the entire time. It felt intimate, Kyle’s eyes watching his mouth do something so mundane as take a drink. When it hit, though, Eric felt his eyes widen. He pulled the tumbler away from his mouth and savored the flavors for a moment before swallowing. “Wow.”

“Good wow?” Kyle asked with a cheeky smile.

“Great wow,” Eric confirmed, nodding before taking another sip. “It tastes like… winter.”

“Excellent! Just what I was going for. I think I may want to adjust the garnish—maybe some fruit or something—but for now, this is what I got. I’m thinking of calling it a ‘Naughty & Nice.’”

“Maybe some pomegranate seeds? Or a lemon slice,” Eric suggested.

“Ooo, I like the way you think,” Kyle said with a smile, sipping from his own tumbler. “This one’s on you, by the way.”

“Of course it is,” Eric laughed, trying not to blush as he looked down at the bar-top. “Least I could do.”

“Exactly,” Kyle murmured, and Eric could almost hear the wink in his voice before the man walked away to go serve another customer. Eric lifted his eyes long enough to watch him go, his hips swaying casually as he strolled to the other patron with a smile on his face. He wouldn’t have bet he’d be laughing when he left the house, but Kyle had given him that. It made something in his stomach do a slow turn as he turned his gaze to the tv to watch Carter and Rozanov on the ice.

Chapter End Notes

Sorry that took so long, friends. About four weeks of colds, children who won't sleep, visits from family, a family crisis, and trying to manage my absolutely OUT OF CONTROL ADHD. But I'm here, sending you love and kisses. As always, if you want more regular updates on how writing is going, find me on threads. For those who asked me over there, here is the recipe for Kyle's cocktail/mocktail. Adapted it from a Perrier recipe, also included.

Naughty & Nice
1 tablespoon brown sugar
1.5oz gin or gin-alternative
Juice of half a lemon
0.5oz pomegranate juice
Stir to mix.
Top with ice and 2oz of sparkling mineral water
Garnish with slice of lemon and a sprinkle of pomegranate seeds.
Grate fresh nutmeg over top.

Naughty & Spice (Perrier's version)
1 tablespoon brown sugar
1.5oz gin
Juice of half a lemon
0.5oz grenadine
Stir to mix.
Top with ice and 2oz of Perrier
Garnish with slice of lemon and a few pomegranate seeds.
Grate fresh nutmeg over top.

Chapter 47: my words don't say the quiet part out loud

Even without him on the ice, Scott’s Admirals won 4-2 against the Raiders. He stood and clapped with Kip, Shane, and the Hollanders in the private box they were sharing that night. With the roaring of the home crowd, Scott was very glad for the fancy ear-plugs Kip had found for him so he could attend without hurting his head. They, and the dark sunglasses, were his saving grace tonight. 

“What’s up with your boy?” Scott leaned in to ask Shane just before they were featured on the Jumbotron. Shane lifted his hand automatically to wave at the camera and then looked at Scott, shaking his head slightly.

Not here, Scott realized. Made sense. He was going to blame his rattled head for that lapse in judgement. When the camera moved off of them, Scott bent down and retrieved his jacket. “I have a car waiting for us near the players’ entrance. You want a lift to the bar?”

“Sure,” Shane said, shrugging into his own jacket before leaning over to tell his parents he was heading out. Both of his parents wrapped him up in a hug. 

“We’ll see you soon, right?” his mom asked.

“Yeah, I’ll be in Ottawa on the 25^th.”

“Right, that’s right. Okay, we will see you then. Love you!”

“Love you, too. Have a safe trip home, okay?”

“We will,” his dad promised, and then Scott and Kip were being wrapped up in hugs and goodbyes as well.<

By the time they got down to the town car Scott had hired, the traffic from the fans was thick, but that was the beauty of not having to drive themselves. Kip settled into his seat with a relieved sigh and stretched. Scott smiled down at him. “Are you turning into an old man now?”

“Unfortunately, I think so. Don’t you dare tell Ilya.”

“I don’t know, maybe he’ll take to teasing you and leave me alone,” Scott said.

“Not a chance, Scotty,” Shane laughed. “He enjoys tormenting you too much.”

“Worth a shot. Did he say how many Raiders he’s bringing?”

“Nah, but knowing him, it’ll be at least Marleau and Connors, with maybe a few more. They’re generally more of a clubbing team, I think.”

Scott nodded. “What, a dingy little gay bar in the Village isn’t their style?”

“Hey,” Kip interjected, “be nice to my favorite bar.”

“Babe. Even you can’t object to ‘dingy.’”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t be nice to it,” Kip said with a prim little smile.

By the time they pulled up to the Kingfisher, it was nearly 11:00, and Scott was feeling the long hours since he’d napped in the afternoon. He was, however, desperately missing the company of his teammates and friends, and he knew a large number of them would be arriving just as soon as they got through their post-game rituals. He led the way in, fully intending to bee-line for the high top he knew Kyle had reserved for them, but stopped short when he saw Benny hunched over a drink at the end of the bar, his shoulders slumped and his brow furrowed. 

“Hi, Kyle!” Kip called from behind Scott’s shoulder, almost stumbling into him.

“Kip! Hi,” Kyle called back, and Scott wasn’t an idiot; he saw the way the bartender’s eyes softened and his lips wobbled slightly at the edges as he took in their group. He just knew nothing good would come of bringing it up to either Kip or Kyle himself. “And Scott! And Shane! Good to see you again.”

“Good to see you, Kyle,” Shane said, his even voice helping shake Scott out of his short-term shock over seeing Benny there, alone. 

“Eric’s been helping me test some mocktails,” Kyle offered to Shane, his voice a bit slow with masked worry. “Do you want the same? You don’t drink during the season, you said?”

“Right,” Shane said, stepping forward. “I’ll try one. Surprise me. Hey, Bennett.”

“Hollzy,” Benny murmured, avoiding Scott’s gaze. 

“A mocktail for me, too, Kyle, if you don’t mind,” Scott said, coming up on the other side of Eric from Shane, trapping him in. “Concussion protocol still.”

“You got it. And you?” Kyle asked Kip, and Scott wondered how his boyfriend didn’t hear the yearning hidden in those words. 

“Moscow Mule?” Kip asked. 

“Coming up,” Kyle said with a small smile before flicking his eyes over to Scott quickly. He pretended not to notice, and instead nudged Eric. 

“You okay?” he whispered.

Eric’s mouth twisted up in the approximation of a smile, missing by a long shot. “As okay as can be. Can I talk to you a second?”

“Sure. Always,” Scott said, and let Benny lead him toward their usual table. “What is it?”

Eric looked down at the table, one hand clutching a beautiful red mocktail, the other on the table-top, his thumb tracing the grain. “I’m just going to say it.”

“Okay.”

“Holly asked for a divorce tonight. I, uh… I told her I’d find somewhere else to sleep. Didn’t think it through, didn’t pack anything… can I—”

“Of course,” Scott said without letting him finish. “The room’s all yours, Benny. Of course it is. But… fuck, man, I’m so sorry.”

“I think I knew it was coming,” Eric said, his voice a bit hoarse. “Tried to stop it. Fix it. But… too late, I guess.”

“Still.”

“Still,” Eric echoed as Shane and Kip came over with their drinks.

The Kingfisher was crowded by the time Ilya and his teammates got there. Admirals, Scouts, Raiders—sounded like they were building an army—and hangers-on of various sorts filled the entire room, enough that Kip must have hopped behind the bar to help Kyle fill orders at some earlier point. When Ilya approached the bar, Kip was the first to spot him. 

“Ilya!” the man shouted, then leaned across the dark wood to give him a hug.

“Kip!” Ilya replied, then introduced the seven Raiders he’d convinced to come with him. “This is Lexi, Ham, Carmy, Vic, Seb, Marly, and Connie.”

“It’s going to take me a while to remember that,” Kip said with a grin, “but give me your drink orders. Scott and Shane are over in the corner there. Kyle and I will bring them out.”

“No, no, you just call out for Lexi and Seb, they will get trays because they are polite boys.”

“We’re not rookies anymore, Cap,” Seb objected.

Ilya waved the comment away. “Close enough. Youngest here. I’ll have—”

“Top-shelf vodka soda, I know. But let us bring them over, gives us a second to say hi.”

“I knew I liked you,” Ilya said, sliding his card over. “Put it all on me.”

“Cap’s buying? Hell yeah,” Lexi murmured and Ilya rolled his eyes affectionately at Kip before weaving away to find Shane.

They were in the corner, just as Kip had said, Shane leaning against the table, one eye on some of the barely-vets from his team as he listened to something Carter was saying to Scott and Bennett. When Shane spotted him making his way through the crowd, the grin that lit his face might as well have been a dagger to Ilya’s heart with how open and bright it was. He smirked back and pulled Shane in for a back-clapping hug—playing friends only, given the crowd—and murmured, “Missed you.”

Shane’s blush when he pulled back was answer enough, and then Ilya was sliding into the barstool next to him. “Your team moves so much faster without their dinosaur on the ice, Hunter. Is only explanation for the win.”

“Fuck off, Roz,” Hunter replied with an eye-roll. “You were looking slower than me out there, what gives?”

“Pfft, I got two points, Hunter. Can’t be that slow,” Ilya said, turning his gaze on Bennett instead. “It’s our spy leader! Hello spy leader!”

“I think it’s called a spy master,” Shane offered.

“Eh, same thing.”

“Hello, Rozanov,” Bennett said. “Speaking of, we’ve got six more guys sending me times and stuff. Smart idea keeping them in the dark on who they’re texting.”

“Is smart spy shit. That way they can’t betray the rest of us.”

“What about the guys in the first group chat?” Vaughn asked, a teasing smile on his face. “I mean… I know where Hollander lives.”

“Yeah, but I know where you live, too, Vaughny,” Shane quipped. “I just also trust you.”

“Anyway, I sent six or seven clips from yesterday’s games this morning,” Bennett interjected. 

“At this rate, half the league is going to be suspended,” Carter muttered.

“Good,” Ilya declared. “They should be.”

Kyle sidled up next to Ilya with a tray of drinks, setting it down carefully on the table. “Who should be what?”

“Nothing,” Bennett said, his voice coming out fast and sharp. “No one.”

Ilya watched a faint blush creep up Bennett’s cheeks a second after his eyes raked over Kyle hungrily. When Ilya’s eyes flicked down to Bennett’s hand, he saw the ring still sitting on his left ring finger. Turning to Kyle, he saw the man’s brown wrinkled in frustration as he started handing out the drinks.

“Is super secret spy shit,” Ilya declared. “Can you be trusted?”

“Ilya,” Shane warned in a quiet voice, but Ilya just squeezed his knee under the table in reassurance.

“Ooo, depends. How good is the gossip?”

“Eh,” Ilya offered. “Less good gossip and more that too many hockey players think gay people should not exist.”

 “Oh. Yeah, that’s not fun gossip. Is that even gossip?” Kyle asked as he passed over Ilya’s vodka soda, their fingers brushing. Ilya caught Bennett staring at the contact and smirked.

“That part, no. The fact that all of us at this table are helping Bennett catch them on tape so we can leak it to the press so they get fines and suspensions? Might be gossip.”

Kyle’s eyes flicked from Ilya to Bennett and back. “I think it counts.”

“Don’t tell anyone, okay?” Bennett said, his voice nearly a growl. “I’m not supposed to have access to the tape, and if anyone found out who was feeding me the info—”

“Contrary to what you might think,” Kyle cut in, his voice sharp, “I’m not an idiot. I might be young, but I know what homophobes do to queer people. Or to people who defend queer people.”

He stalked away, the empty tray hanging from his white-knuckled grip. Ilya watched him disappear into the crowd, then raised an eyebrow at Bennett. The man just glared back, and Scott jumped in with a topic change before the charged silence got awkward. Ilya took a sip of his vodka soda and turned his body toward Shane, wondering if Bennett knew how often he stared at the hot young bartender.

@john.tyler.rhodes

Seven more videos of various hockey players using slurs during gameplay on live television. They do know they’re being recorded, right?

↳@john.tyler.rhodes

At what point does the MLH stop fining and suspending individuals and start looking at their culture, because this is ridiculous. 

↳@john.tyler.rhodes

Everyone say thank you to the anonymous source sending me these, because, holy shit, they just keep coming.

@eden.tanner.esq

Again, I know I’m new here—here being the hockey world—but I have had people in my mentions all week about indicting the MLH for discrimination and I have bad news. 

↳@eden.tanner.esq

That is, unfortunately, not how employment discrimination law works. In order to get justice for employment discrimination, the employee(s) who faced discrimination have to file complaints.

↳@eden.tanner.esq

As some hockey fans have pointed out, there is one out gay player in the MLH. He could file a complaint, maybe, and sue. But anyone else experiencing harassment would need to out themselves.

↳@eden.tanner.esq

That, as we all know, would hardly be justice. Sure, players could form a class and sue, too, but they would still have to prove discrimination, which means calling attention to their protected characteristics. 

↳@eden.tanner.esq

In a very white, very men-are-masculine sport such as hockey, would you want to call attention to yourself if you were POC or gay? Likely not. 

↳@eden.tanner.esq

So how does a culture like this change? Internal pressure—players and teams punishing the behavior—and external pressure—keeping our eyes on the MLH and expressing outrage at the usage of slurs and borderline hate crimes. 

The MLH Homophobia and Discrimination Saga

Here’s what you need to know about the ongoing video leaks of MLH players pouting homophobic and racist rhetoric while on ice.

John Tyler Rhodes

November 3, 2017 [Last Update: November 9, 2017]

Here at OutSports, we’re committed to keeping you informed of the ongoing events surrounding the video leaks from MLH games. This page will be updated as more information emerges.

Chapter 48: all my monsters live in the mirror

Shane’s plane touched down in Boston and he sighed, looking out across the tarmac. The Scouts were headed into a four day break with optional practices, so he’d talked to Joe about flying directly from St. Louis to Boston, using a brand meeting as the excuse. Joe hadn’t even blinked, just nodded and said they’d see him at practice before their next game.

Things on the Scouts weren’t tense, exactly, but he needed some time away. A majority of the team and the organization as a whole were completely indifferent to—or supportive of—his sexuality, but there were still outliers. Dawson and Bates sprang to mind. They hadn’t said anything to his face, but he could feel their eyes on him in the locker room, on the ice, at team meetings. He didn’t have to be vigilant, exactly, but he was glad to be out from under their eyes for a few days.

He had been pleasantly surprised after their game in Dallas. He’d been sitting in a row to himself on the team plane while they were at cruising altitude when CC had dropped into the seat beside him.

“Hey, Hollzy, can I… I’d like to talk to you. Is that alright?” the younger defenseman had said, his voice carrying a bit of a waver.

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I… I want to apologize. I said some things about…”

When he had trailed off, Shane supplied, “About gay people.”

“Yes. About gay people. Um,” CC had said, his eye-line dropping to the back of the seat in front of him. “I didn’t mean to make you or anyone uncomfortable. I just… I didn’t mean it like… like I’m sure it came across. I thought I was just chirping, you know?”

Shane had nodded. “I know. You gonna work on it?”

“Yes,” CC had said in a burst. “Yes. I want to work on it. I didn’t realize what… what my words were doing. I am trying to be better.”

“That’s all you can really do.” Shane had said gently. “That, and apologizing. Which you did. Can I give you some advice, though?”

CC had nodded, trying to meet Shane’s gaze even though his own was glassy and his cheeks were ruddy with embarrassment.

“There is always going to be a guy who makes himself feel bigger by making other people smaller. And that guy? He usually surrounds himself with people who imitate him, hoping to be his friend. Don’t be one of those followers. It’ll lead you places you don’t recognize, okay?”

CC’s brow had furrowed, but he’d nodded slowly. “I… I just wanted a friend.”

“I know,” Shane had said, his voice gentling. “But those people aren’t your friends. They’ll turn on you the second they feel small again. You hear me?”

CC had nodded once more. “Yeah. That makes sense. And I’m sorry again. I’ll… I’m going to try.”

“We’re okay, Casey,” Shane had said. “You know who needs the apology more?”

At CC’s confused look, Shane had smiled a bit. “Talk to Lakey. He’s the one you hurt the most.”

“Right,” CC had murmured, blowing out a breath and looking away. “Um, you’re right. Okay. I’ll talk to him next.”

“Great,” Shane had said, meaning it. “He may not forgive you. You have to be okay with that. Only thing you can do is show him you’re trying to be better, okay?”

“Okay. Yeah, okay. Thanks, Hollzy.”

“Sure,” he had said, and watched CC slip out of his row, brace himself, and move toward the front of the plane where Lakey and Ava were sitting.

Even with CC turning a corner, it was a relief to walk off the plane in Boston knowing that he’d be seeing Ilya in about an hour. They hadn’t planned on seeing each other—Ilya's break was effectively only two days long—but Shane had needed to see him. Scott hadn’t been wrong about something being off with Ilya, and though Shane knew it was depression—Ilya’s own brain—hounding him, Shane couldn’t help but want to be there, standing between Ilya and all of his enemies, a shield against his darkness.

So, he hopped in a rideshare with his hat pulled low and his sunglasses high on his nose and tried not to fidget for the 45 minute drive out to Ilya’s house. He retrieved his own bag and waved the driver off before inputting the code for the front door and letting himself into the quiet house.

It didn’t immediately strike him as odd that the house felt as though it was sleeping. Neither did the dishes stacked in the kitchen—Ilya was a mostly tidy person, but not by any means perfect. It wasn’t until Shane stepped into the gym and realized Ilya was not in there, doing his morning run, nor was he in the sauna, that a frisson of worry traveled up his spine.

“Lyunya?” he called as he began to take the stairs. He heard nothing in reply as he quickened his pace down the hall and stepped into the darkened main suite.

For one long moment, time seemed to stop as his eyes caught on the form in the bed, very still beneath the comforter.

Then the shape shifted slightly, rolling against the pillow and Shane felt the breath in his lungs return. “Shanya? You are here?”

“I’m here,” he rasped, then cleared his throat and stepped further into the room. “I’m here. I—I meant to surprise you.”

“You’re here,” Ilya murmured as Shane sat on the edge of the bed by his hip. Ilya’s hand reached up to brush over his freckles in something akin to wonder. Shane nodded into the touch and brought his own fingers up to push the curls back from Ilya’s face.

“Are you… you’re in bed really late, ma moitié. Are you feeling okay?”

“Just tired,” Ilya sighed, closing his eyes and leaning into Shane’s hand. “Feel… heavy.”

“Were you hurt in your game last night? I didn’t see—”

“No, no, I am fine,” Ilya murmured. “Just tired, I promise.”

“Okay,” Shane whispered, looking down at him. “How about I shower off the plane and join you?”

“Mm,” Ilya agreed, his eyes fluttering as if they were too heavy to keep open. He sighed with his entire body and seemed to sink further into the bed.

Shane’s heart was pounding as if he had been running, and it didn’t calm as he stood, moving quietly to the bathroom. He’d been reading up on depression ever since the devastating conversation at the brownstone, so he recognized exactly what this was, but he hadn’t realized it had gotten this bad. When he saw Ilya, there were moments, small things, that showed he wasn’t quite himself, but never had Ilya seemed as lethargic and absent as he has just been.

He knew that these things came in waves, and that maybe he was a mitigating factor—he felt worlds happier when he was within Ilya’s orbit, why would the reverse not be true?—but he also knew that Ilya was a master in hiding how he felt.

Shane let out a breath that shuddered and slipped into the shower.

It would be so much easier if he could keep Ilya with him every single day.

When Shane slipped between the covers with him, his hair damp and his eyes worried, Ilya reached out to tangle their bodies together. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” Shane repeated, his gaze searching across Ilya’s face. “You didn’t tell me it was this bad.”

Ilya closed his eyes. “I did not want you to worry.”

“I worry anyway,” Shane said, and Ilya heard the slightly-morbid humor in that and tried not to grin into the pillow.

“It’s just…” Ilya began and huffed out a breath.

“What?”

“I didn’t… you are doing so much, I didn’t want you to think…”

“You’re not weak, ma moitié,” Shane murmured, knowing Ilya’s soul better than he did sometimes.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Ilya whispered back, his voice cracking.

“One breath at a time.”

Ilya let out a shaky one at that, turning his face further into the pillow and willing the tears down behind his tightly closed lids. Ten breaths later, he felt calm enough to say, “I want to be better. I don’t want you to have to fix me.”

“There is no have to. And there is nothing about you to fix.”

“The depression—”

“That’s not you. That’s not fixing you. There is only helping you deal with it.”

Ilya opened his eyes to look at Shane, who nodded slightly against the pillow. “If you do not want me to help, I won’t, you know. I can just listen, when it gets hard. But…”

Shane looked a bit embarrassed, and Ilya scooted closer, pulling his warm body harder against him. “But?”

“I was reading about it. About depression.”

“Mr. Research Man,” Ilya teased, sniffling. He took another breath. One breath at a time.

“Shut up,” Shane shot back with small grin before he let it fade. “Do you want to know what I learned?”

“Mm, tell me.”

Ilya closed his eyes again—breathed—and listened as Shane talked about the brain, and genetics, and neurotransmitters—a word Ilya recognized because Russian had borrowed it—like serotonin. There was a lot of information, but Shane took it slow and ended with, “I also did some research about the pills people take. I know… I know pills are scary for you. But it’s really hard to overdose on those ones specifically. So… it might be okay to try them. Especially if you take just a small dose.”

“What do the pills do?”

“They make it so your brain can’t absorb all of the serotonin too fast. That’s why you feel sad, because there’s not enough around, and the pills make it so it sticks around longer.”

Ilya’s heart was racing a bit—the base fear in his soul from his mother’s death, he thought, making itself known—but he opened his eyes and studied Shane’s face as he took another breath, deep, all the way down to his toes. “I will try them. Emiliya, she did not tell me all this when we first talked about the pills.”

“She probably wanted to work on other stuff first,” Shane murmured and Ilya nodded.

“I will talk to her about it. I see her on Friday, while I’m in California. Virtual appointment, you know?”

“I know,” Shane whispered. “Now kiss me. I missed you, and sex is also a mood stabilizer.”

“Oh, you have magic asshole now?” Ilya asked, making a thinking face. “Makes sense, actually.”

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Shane teased back right before Ilya took his mouth, his breath, his love.

Kyle’s brain short-circuited.

It was the only way to describe what happened when he knocked on Kip’s door and Eric Bennett—of all people—answered it in only a towel, his long dark waves dripping water. A single droplet slid down Eric’s clavicle toward the hollow at the base of his throat and Kyle stared at it, his mouth half-open, unable to remember exactly why he was here, the day of the week, or even his name.

When he managed to rip his gaze away from that single drop of water, he found Eric watching him, a light blush on the very tops of his cheekbones. “Hey. Kip’s in their room, changing. He lost track of time.”

“Wh… Okay,” Kyle managed.

“Okay,” Eric repeated, then stepped back, holding the door open wider so Kyle could enter the apartment. He squeezed past, trying to make himself small—and he hated that—so he wouldn’t brush up against Eric as he walked into the living room. He set his backpack down by the coffee table and sat on the couch feeling… something.

“I’ll, uh… I’ll just go finished getting dressed,” Eric said behind him. Kyle didn’t reply. What did he care if Eric was naked and showering in Kip’s apartment. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care.

He’d met and mingled with Eric’s wife. He’d known Eric was married since the moment he met him. What did it matter that he’d also known Eric was mouthwateringly gorgeous and just exactly his type—if he was some flavor of queer, at least. So what if Kyle admired an older man who seemed perpetually reserved but had something about him that said, “I’d fall apart for you.” He wasn’t going to act on it when Eric’s wife had complimented Kyle’s skills with a cocktail, had talked to him about his art degree, had asked him about his hopes and dreams like he was a cousin she hadn’t seen in ten years.

He wouldn’t do that.

Not after last time.

Not after it destroyed his life.

Kyle closed his eyes and scrubbed at his face before pulling his laptop out of his bag. He was here to write a paper in the company of one of his best friends, even if he hadn’t quite managed to kill the crush on said best friend yet. But he would, because Kip was so incandescently happy with Scott. It was both wonderful and nauseating, but Kyle would get over it.

Somehow.

He stared at his outline, trying to refocus his brain, but all he could see was a surgery scar on a shoulder that looked like a boulder, dark chest hair, muscles cut from bronze. The Artemision Bronze come to life, maybe, with long hair and a shorter beard. Definitely Poseidon, Kyle thought.

Someone cleared their throat and Kyle jumped, looking up.

Eric was back, still looking a bit flushed, but now he was in blue suit pants and a white button up—the two top buttons were still undone, but a tie rested on his shoulders and he held a matching blue jacket in his right hand as he did up the button at his left wrist.

Fuck, Kyle thought.

“I’m, uh… I wanted to talk to you for a second, if that’s alright?” Eric said.

“Sure,” Kyle managed then cleared his own throat. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Eric moved into the living room and sat on the other end of the sectional, keeping as much space between them as possible, it seemed. Fuck, does he know?

“I needed to apologize to you,” Eric said, cutting off Kyle’s spiraling.

“What? Why?”

“Well that’s a good sign,” Eric said with a rueful smile. “I was… I was out of line the other night at the bar.”

Kyle racked his brain. They’d had a nice enough time drinking Naughty & Nices and then Scott had come in… “Oh.”

“Yeah, I… It’s not that I didn’t want you to know or that I didn’t want anyone to tell you or whatever. Or even that I thought you couldn’t be trusted with this thing we’re doing. I know… I know you’re not an idiot.”

“Okay,” Kyle whispered.

Eric cleared his throat again, another one of those unhappy smiles tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I was having a bad night. It wasn’t about you.”

“Okay,” Kyle repeated. “It’s okay. It’s fine.”

“It’s not, but… thanks.” Eric shook his head and stood. “Anyway. I’ve got to head out, so… have fun with Kip.”

“Thanks, um… you, too?”

Eric huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, ending a decades-long marriage. It’ll be a blast.”

“Wait, what the fuck?”

“Oh,” Eric said, the embarrassment from earlier coming back in the form of flushed cheeks and pursed lips. “Yeah, that night… Holly asked for a divorce. It’s why Scott and Kip are putting up with me. Just until I get a new place sorted.”

“Fuck, Eric, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s really okay,” Eric said, but he was making that sad-smile face again as he pulled on his suit jacket.

Kyle studied him for a long moment. “You don’t have to lie about that, you know. We are friends, sort of, right?”

“Right,” Eric confirmed, his eyes flitting away. “Well. I’ve gotta go. It was good to see you, Kyle.”

“You, too,” Kyle murmured as Eric moved over to the dining room to pick up a thick leather portfolio that had been sitting on the table.

“Bye, Kip!” Eric called as he walked to the front door. “Bye, Kyle.”

“Bye,” Kyle said, watching him disappear through the front door and wondering what the fuck he was supposed to do with his feelings now.

Chapter 49: the silence is deafening, keep fighting

Chapter Notes

Ilya’s alarm went off early, despite the double header they’d just played—a lose against Anaheim, but a win against Los Angeles, which would have to do—and the fact that most of the team had agreed to sleep in before they descended on Disneyland to 'show the Scouts how to really have fun,' as one of the rookies had said.

“Rozy?” Connie mumbled, lifting his head and squinting into the dark.

“Go back to sleep,” Ilya said, pulling on sweats and a hoodie.

“Where’re you goin’?” He sat up and flicked on a light that speared through both of their eyes.

“Just out,” Ilya said. “Sleep. Is only 6:00.”

“I’ll come with you, hang on.”

“Connie. Go back to sleep. Am just getting coffee before a meeting I have.”

“I like coffee,” the other man protested, rubbing at his face and looking decidedly miserable. “What meeting? Can I come?”

Ilya sighed. “Therapy. I have therapy in an hour. I am going to get coffee and a conference room so I can talk to my therapist, okay? You can’t sit in on therapy with me.”

“Oh,” Connie said, looking like he’d been hit by a truck. “Oh, I guess not.”

“I will see you when team meets for Disneyland, okay?”

“Okay,” Connie repeated before laying back down and flicking off the light, temporarily blinding the both of them. “Sorry.”

“Is okay,” Ilya assured him before he slipped into the bathroom to brush his teeth and try to look like he’d slept at all. By the time he slipped out of their hotel room, Connie was snoring into his pillow.

Ilya called Shane on the way to the coffee shop, hat pulled low despite the absence of anyone else in the street.

“Hello?”

“Solnyshko moye, you cannot have my friends follow me everywhere,” Ilya teased.

“I didn’t tell them to—”

“Connie tried to shadow me to my call with Emiliya this morning.”

Shane snorted. “Okay so maybe they took my words a bit too seriously.”

“So, you did tell them to stay with me,” Ilya said with a small smile, though he knew he should have been at least a little annoyed.

“I just told them you needed friends around. If they took that to mean following you to watch you in the bathroom, that’s on them,” Shane said, his sarcastic drawl making Ilya’s face split into a grin as he pulled open the door to the little cafe he’d chosen.

“Not quite that bad yet,” he admitted. “How is Tampa?”

“Good, hot, humid as shit already. We landed an hour ago.”

“Wait, what time is it there? Is it morning skate? I can—”

“Not for another hour, ma moitié. We’re good. How’s L.A.?”

“Quiet. No one is awake here,” Ilya said with a smile at the barista. She grinned. “One second, lyubimyy, need to order my coffee.”

Ilya pulled the phone away from his ear. “Large, black coffee, please.”

The barista nodded and took his card, swiping it quickly before handing it back. “Do you want a receipt?”

“No, thank you,” Ilya said. “Ah… you may have 20 large men coming for coffee just before 10 though. I apologize for them in advance.”

“Co-workers?”

“Something like that,” Ilya said with a wink. She laughed and then turned to fill a large to-go cup with coffee.

“Fixings are over there,” she said nodding to the side of the shop.

“Thank you,” Ilya repeated before putting his phone back to his ear. “Shanya?”

“I’m here,” Shane said. Ilya’s heart did a slow turn.

I know you are, he almost said, before he decided that was too sappy at 6:30 in the morning and asked about Shane’s game the night before against Carolina. They talked like that until Ilya slid into a seat in one of the private conference rooms at the hotel.

“I have to go,” he said, regretting every second he wasn’t near Shane.

“Me too,” Shane murmured. “Call me later?”

“Always,” Ilya promised. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu, Lyunya.”

When Ilya logged into the patient portal for his session with Emiliya, she joined him only seconds later.

“Ilya,” Emiliya said, a soft smile on her face, and her Russian as soothing as ever. “How are you today?”

“Okay,” Ilya said in that same language, having learned that if he lied, she would know. “Worse than last time, I think.”

“Do you want to start there today?”

“Mm, no. First…” Ilya swallowed, took a sip of coffee to hide his nervousness, then tried again. “My Shanya—my boyfriend. He was telling me more about the pills, for depression.”

She nodded, and he continued, talking through what Shane had told him with her. In the end, it was simple.

“I will write you a prescription. We will start with a small dose, yes? And then we will adjust from there. I can even have it sent to your house. When are you home next?”

“Monday. Or the Thursday after.”

She nodded and smiled. “This is a big step, Ilya. You should be proud of yourself.”

“More nervous than anything,” he admitted.

“That’s okay, too,” she assured him. “Now, let’s go back to why you feel worse than last time we talked. Tell me what is happening.”

“I am… It’s hard to get out of bed. I just want to lay there, sleep. I only get up if I have to. I feel… alone. I don’t know.”

“Okay. What does get you out of bed?”

“Shanya. Always Shanya. But also hockey, or if a friend needs me. This, too, because I cannot call you from bed,” Ilya said.

“You said you saw Shane this week.”

“Mm, and last week. Next week if we are lucky, too. I have another game in New York, and with our breaks, and the last New York game… We see each other a lot this month. More than usual.”

“Tell me how it is different when Shane is with you.”

Ilya took a deep breath and looked away from his phone’s camera for a minute. Emiliya said nothing, let him hide for a bit, until he was ready to say it out loud.

“With him, I am just me, just Ilya. Not… this person the MLH has created, you know? Even with friends, I have to be their captain. Not Sveta—but she saw me at my worst, always, in Russia, with my father, and so she watches me so closely. It feels like she is waiting to see my brother or my father in me. Shane… he just sees me. And I see him. Just him. We are… ourselves together. I can be quiet and read with him, or tease him and make him watch action movies with me. And he is not so stiff and awkward around me, so I feel like I am needed, you know?”

Emiliya nodded. “You don’t need to be needed to be worth something, Ilya.”

“I know. In my head, I know that. And Shane does not tell me he needs me like this, doesn’t ask it of me. It just is. Like… like I need him to see just me. He does nothing special, but I am just myself with him. No pretending anymore.”

“Ah,” she said. “Yes, I understand.”

“Sometimes I wish we were still pretending,” Ilya murmured before he could stop the words. He shook his head to ward off the tears that came whenever he thought like this, and looked away from the screen again, unwilling to see the disgust or judgement on Emiliya’s face. She was silent while he mastered himself, and when he looked back, there was no criticism in her expression.

“Why do you say that?” Her voice was gentle, so gentle, and Ilya almost broke.

“It is so much harder like this,” Ilya rasped. “Loving him, but not being able to tell everyone. Only seeing him sometimes, and not every day. When we were pretending, when we were nothing… I did not feel like this. Like… like I will die if I do not get to hold his hand in the street. Like I am crawling out of my skin when he is near and I cannot touch him.”

“Do you think you felt like that anyway, before? When you had no opportunities to be near each other?”

Ilya opens his mouth to disagree immediately, but then thinks of their hockey games, where all Ilya wanted to do was slam Shane into the boards for a chance to breathe the same air as him. “Probably, yes. Underneath the lying.”

Emiliya nodded. “It sounds, Ilya, like you do not want to be private anymore. Is it something you and Shane have talked about?”

“Not in a while,” Ilya admitted. “We came up with a plan over the summer. How to be together now that he is in New York, and what we will do in the next few years, depending on how this one goes, but we never talked about… about coming out.”

“And do you want to come out?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

“I… I know why I cannot. I know why he is scared to. It does not matter if I want to when…” Ilya shook his head.

After a long minute, Emiliya prompted him gently. “When?”

“When he is not safe if we come out. He was not safe with his last team, and I cannot do that to him again. And I am not safe. Russia, you understand. But also the league. Have you seen the videos? The slurs? Scott Hunter?”

“Mm, yes. I saw.” She shifted. “It would not be something I followed normally, but now that I have a hockey client, I have to.”

He breathed out a laugh, just as she had intended, he knew. “So you know why we do not do it.”

“Ilya,” she started, tilting her head and pursing her lips. “It seems to me things have changed for you since the last time you talked to Shane about this. Do you think things have maybe changed for him?”

“I… Maybe. He is on a new team. The videos are new, people being punished for their words. I don’t know.”

“You know how you will know?”

Ilya managed a weak smile. “Talking to him.”

“Yes,” she said, an answering smirk working its way onto her lips. “This is your homework. You must talk to your Shanya about how you are feeling, or how else is he supposed to know what is wrong?”

“Why is it that my homework is always talking to people about my feelings? Why can I not just bottle them up and never speak of them again?” he asked, taking a sip of his coffee while she laughed at his teasing.

“I promise that every client gets the same homework. It turns out that talking about your problems often solves them. Who knew?”

“Seems stupid,” Ilya said with a teasing eye roll even though he did feel better from getting the words out.

“Mm, I know. Now tell me the rest. What else is on your mind?”

The MLH Homophobia and Discrimination Saga

Here’s what you need to know about the ongoing video leaks of MLH players pouting homophobic and racist rhetoric while on ice.

John Tyler Rhodes

November 3, 2017 [Last Update: November 17, 2017]

Here at OutSports, we’re committed to keeping you informed of the ongoing events surrounding the video leaks from MLH games. This page will be updated as more information emerges.

November 17 — Leaked Audio from Metros Locker Room, Theriault Under Investigation, More Leaked Videos, What Now?

[+Expand Section]

November 16 — MLH Rolls Out New Rule: Referees Can Issue Game Misconduct for Slurs, Two Issued In First Game Alone.

[+Expand Section]

November 15 — Coaches Across League Express Frustration with Roster Turmoil, Four More Suspensions

[+Expand Section]

November 14 — Crowell: “This is a distraction; let’s get back to hockey.”, Six More Players Fined, Public Outcry at Fever Pitch

[+Expand Section]

November 13 — “The Women’s League Can Handle It, Why Can’t We?” Carter Vaughn on Rampant Homophobia in Men’s League, Total Number of Suspensions Reaches 35

[+Expand Section]

November 12 — Admirals’ Vladimir Petsov: “Russian Athletes Are Not Protected from Backlash” for Supporting LGBTQIA+ Teammates, MLH Boycott Appears to Be Impacting Attendance and Sales

[+Expand Section]

November 11 — Retrospective: Metros Culture Through Years, Three More Players Fined and Suspended

[+Expand Section]

November 10 — MLH Mandates Required Diversity Training, Seattle Leviathans Wear Pride Tape Despite League-Wide Ban

[+Expand Section]

November 9 — Seven Players Suspended and Fined for Homophobic Slurs, MLH Still Silent, ‘It’s a Culture Problem’

[+Expand Section]

November 8 — Scott Hunter’s Recovery Following Targeting, Insider Says MLH Offices Scrambling for Solution

[+Expand Section]

November 7 — Three More Metros Players Suspended Following Leaked Footage of Minnesota Nomads Game

[+Expand Section]

November 6 — Record-Breaking ALH Call-Ups Following Homophobia-Leaks, Former MLH Referee Speaks Out About Pervasive Slurs

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November 5 — ‘Simple: We Say Slurs, We Run Stadium Stairs,’ Boston’s Captain Confirms, Behind the Teams Currently Unaffected by Suspensions

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November 4 — Two More Suspensions, No Response from MLH or Crowell’s Office, MLH Boycott in Motion

[+Expand Section]

November 3 — Montréal’s Response to Suspensions, Four More Players Suspended Across the MLH, Public Outcry Increases

[+Expand Section]

Previous Articles:

- Five Metros Players Fined and Suspended After Game Against New York Admirals (November 1, 2017)

- Montreal Metros Spout Hateful Rhetoric and Targeted Scott Hunter (October 31, 2017)

- Brooklyn Scouts’ Dawson Shields Fined, Suspended, and Benched for Practice Following Homophobic Slur (October 28, 2017)

- Hockey has ‘an inclusivity problem’”: Scott Hunter Responds to Homophobic Slur from Scouts Game (October 27, 2017)

- Brooklyn Scouts’ Dawson Shields Uses Gay Slurs Against Scott Hunter, Captain of New York Admirals (October 26, 2017)

@haleyloveshockey

Anyone else obsessively checking @OutSports MLH Homophobia Dashboard? No? Just Me?

@hunter_me_scott

Another day, another scandal

@GregHockeyDad

They’re seriously investigating Theriault, a coach who led his team to back-to-back cups over this? That is just how locker rooms are. If you can’t deal with it, get out of the league.

↳@haleyloveshockey

Gerry, you’re fucking exhausting.

↳@GregHockeyDad

For the last time, my name is Greg.

↳@haleyloveshockey

Okay, George. Whatever you say.

@john.tyler.rhodes

If hockey players could stop being fucking horrible, that would be great. I haven’t had a day off in November because of this shit. 

[This tweet has been deleted.]

@john.tyler.rhodes

Working overtime, just like my anonymous source. Wish we weren’t, but alas. I feel you, anonymous source, whoever you are.

@shilya_rozander

Rumors: “It was a culture fit problem.”

Shane: “I can’t speak to the culture THIS YEAR. Tried to lead by example though.”

Theriault: seven slurs in a five minute speech, telling his team to stop being p*ssies, talking about f*ggots

Me: …checks out.

↳@hollanov4life

Just thinking about how Shane wasn’t getting defensive coverage like he usually did about halfway through last season. Remember that? I remember that.

Chapter End Notes

I am not cut out to be a journalist. Sorry I didn't write all the articles, but hopefully the headlines give you the idea? LOVE AND KISSES. If you're a fan of Pride & Prejudice, I'm doing an HR x P&P AU now, too. You should check it out.

Chapter 50: I need him like water

Shane was still coming down off the win against Tampa, but he’d been tapped for media while Lars got a tweaked knee looked at, so he stood in the hall outside the visitors’ locker room and furrowed his brow at the frankly excessive number of journalists filing into the space. Ava was a little ways down the hall, ready to note down quotes she wanted to use for later posts, while Cary, the media liaison, directed everyone. Shane made a questioning face at Ava and received a shrug and a head shake in return. 

Great, so the comms department had no idea why there were so many journalists. That boded well. 

“Shane, how are you feeling after this win? Four points this evening, that has to feel good.”

“Uh, yeah, always nice to win, especially against a good defensive team, and especially nice to see younger players developing into scoring powerhouses,” Shane said with a smile. Fin and Lakey had both scored off of assists from him, and then he’d gotten two of his own. 

“Any secret to their increased points this season?” Someone else asked, and Shane had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. 

“No, no secret, we’ve just been playing our game, keeping it simple, capitalizing on our chances. Fin and Lakey have been working hard and our play styles work well together, that’s all.”

“Shane, any comment on the audio leak from Montreal?” A journalist at the back called. Shane felt his brain stutter to a stop and blinked twice.

“No, no comment,” he said.

“Was the culture in Montreal always like that? Is that why you left?”

“No comment,” Shane said again, with a little more force. He’d heard the audio of course. Hayden and J.J. had been yelling about it in their group chat yesterday. It had been pretty typical for Theriault, if he was honest, but he couldn’t say that.

“Any idea where the leak may have come from?”

“No comment.” 

“Fans are speculating that you came out to your team last year—was the Metros’ locker room unsafe for you?”

“I’m just focused on my new team in Brooklyn, building our systems,” Shane managed, feeling his panic rising and looking over to Ava. She looked stricken for a second and then yanked on Cary’s sleeve and started whispering furiously while Shane wrenched his brain back to his media training. “There are a lot of great guys here who are doing good work on the ice, and I want to keep the focus on them. Happy to answer any questions about that.”

A different reporter spoke. “Fans online have been analyzing your games and noticing a lack of support for your line from Dawson Shields and Lewis Bates when they’re on defense. Do you have anything to say about that analysis?”

Shane just stared at the man for a long second. He could feel his heart in his throat, along with the contents of his stomach. He opened his mouth to say something, but honestly thought he might start screaming, so closed it again, shook his head, and pushed away, making his way toward Ava and Cary.

“Get me out of here,” he managed when he was within earshot, and Ava grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the locker room as Cary rushed forward to block the journalists from following.

@haleyloveshockey

Anyone else catch Hollander’s media availability? 👀

↳@shilya_rozander

Did you see what I saw? 👀👀

↳@haleyloveshockey

Depends on what you saw, but I think I saw what you saw. 👀👀👀

↳@shilya_rozander

If we saw the same thing, that must mean it’s real, yes? 👀👀👀👀

↳@haleyloveshockey

[gif of Shane’s interview; he looks quickly to his left and has a slight flush on his cheeks] 👀

↳@shilya_rozander

ENHANCE!

 @hunter_me_scott

So Brooklyn wins at home against Carolina 6-2 on Thursday, then they win in Tampa 5-2 on Saturday, then some reporters swarm Shane about his old coach, and then on Sunday they lose 2-4 at Carolina…

↳@hollanov4life

It’s very interesting, isn’t it? *puts on lab coat and goggles*

↳@hunter_me_scott

One could say that, yes. 🤔 Connecting dots, putting pieces together. 

Three days later, Ilya felt as though he’d jinxed their chances of seeing each other while he was in the area around New York by telling Emilia he would be seeing Shane. With Ilya’s team doing morning skate in Boston before flying into Newark for their game against New Jersey, and Shane being an hour away and in the midst of his own preparations for his game against Philadelphia at home, they had no way to see each other before their games. 

They’d talked on the phone, of course, but not about anything truly important. It hadn’t felt right to bring up Ilya’s struggles with their secrets over the phone. It was too big a conversation, and if Shane had a panic attack, Ilya wanted to be there to ground him. Selfishly, he also wanted to be held while they talked about it. Maybe then Shane wouldn’t run out of the building.

The Raiders had an early morning flight back to Boston for their game against Pittsburgh the next afternoon, so they’d all been ordered to bed as soon as they’d cooled down and had a post-game dinner provided by the team nutritionists. Back-to-backs on the road were miserable affairs, but it meant Ilya could sulk quietly in the room he was sharing with Connors rather than have to beg off of a team outing or trip to the club.

Ilya dozed off before he could see what Shane’s surprise had been, but he reasoned it’d likely be at the front desk in the morning. They didn’t just send up random packages without hearing from their guests.

He woke in darkness, Connie across the room in his bed, curled into a ball under the covers and facing away from him, his quiet breathing steady and deep. He could have sworn he’d heard the sound of something hitting wood, and fumbled around for his phone, thinking maybe he’d dropped it out of his hand. He’d been waiting for Shane to text him goodnight, he remembered. 

Then he heard the noise again, a soft tap on the hotel room door. Stifling a groan, wondering which rookie had gotten into trouble—and how—he rolled out of bed. When he checked through the peephole though, it wasn’t a rookie looking down the hallway with his hands shoved in his pockets.

He opened the door a crack, and Shane slipped through. He said nothing, just pressed his lips to Ilya’s and put his large hands on Ilya’s waist, backing him to the empty bed again.

“How—”

“Shh,” Shane murmured, quieting him with another kiss. “I got the car service to drop me off.”

Ilya stood dumbstruck as Shane rounded his bed and began to shuck his clothes, folding them neatly and setting them on the side table. Ilya shook himself, then slipped back into bed as Shane pulled the covers back and joined him. They met in the middle of the bed, their arms tangling round each other, and their foreheads pressed together. 

“Good surprise?” Shane whispered.

“Best surprise,” Ilya confirmed, stealing a kiss. “What time do you leave in the morning?”

“Car service is getting me at 8:00 so I can get back in time to catch the team bus to Philly.”

Ilya nodded. “We leave at 6:00.”

“Then you need to sleep,” Shane murmured. “We can talk in the morning.”

It was easy to drift off, with his heart back in his arms, his soul made whole again. His dreams were quiet things, and when Connie’s alarm went off, Ilya could have sworn he smelled his mama’s perfume in the moment between the groans from across the room and the light turning on.

“Rozy, you up?” Connie mumbled, rubbing his eyes as he sat up.

“I’m up,” Ilya confirmed, not turning over and instead watching Shane’s eyes flutter open, sleep lingering in his gaze before he blinked and realized where he was. The small smile that bloomed on his lips was dawn cresting over the ocean. 

“Wh-why are there two of you?” Connie asked when he stood, and Shane snickered.

“Go put your contacts in, stupid idiot,” Ilya drawled. “Shane came after you fell asleep.”

“Oh. Oh! Hey, Hollzy.” 

“Connie,” Shane said, burrowing further into Ilya’s arms.

“You go first,” Ilya said to his friend, who was standing like he’d forgotten what to do. 

“Right, right,” Connie said, then scurried away. 

“What time is it?” Shane murmured. 

“He set the alarm for 5:00,” Ilya mumbled into Shane’s hair. Shane nodded and Ilya just breathed him in, one breath at a time. He’d been using that thought as a mantra ever since Shane had offered it, and he found even when he was having a good moment—like this one—it helped him stay steady.

“There is something I need to talk about with you,” he whispered after a little while. “But I do not want to do it when we are rushed, and Connors is in the next room.”

Shane brushed his nose along Ilya’s collarbone and then pressed a kiss to the hollow at the base of his throat, causing a shiver to course down his spine. “Okay. Is everything okay?”

“I am fine, solnyshko moye, do not worry. Is serious, but not urgent. Just want to talk about it when we have time.”

Shane hummed in acknowledgment. “You’re in Philadelphia next weekend. I could drive out again. I’ll probably drive out again either way. But if you want even more time, I’m in Boston the weekend after that.”

Ilya smiled. “I knew you had calendar memorized.”

“Of course I do. I spend every day counting down to the next time.”

Ilya had to close his eyes to stop the rush of emotions that simple statement elicited from spilling out. His voice was a little rough when he admitted, “Me too.”

“So, we will wait until you are ready to talk about it, ma moitié, and enjoy these few minutes while Connors is taking the longest shower ever known to man.”

“I think he is giving us time to finish,” Ilya said with a chuckle.

“Don’t you dare take him up on it,” Shane hissed as Ilya’s hands drifted lower.

“Your body is saying different things, lyubimyy,” Ilya said, and proved Shane’s lips the liars.

When Connors came out, they were curled into each other once again, if a little more flushed. Ilya did his quick morning routine in ten minutes flat and when he came back out, found Shane packing his suitcase more carefully than Ilya ever had.

“You have two minutes to get down to the lobby in time to grab a coffee,” he said as he zipped up the case and pulled it off the luggage rack, setting Ilya’s jacket on top.

“I’ll go call an elevator,” Connors said. “Give you two a second.”

“What, you don’t want a goodbye kiss?” Ilya teased him.

“Would I get one?” Connie smirked, then waved. “See you later, Hollzy.”

“Later, man,” Shane called before the door closed behind him.

Ilya pulled Shane into a long hug. “Thank you for coming. I needed this.”

“I needed it, too, you know,” Shane murmured, kissing Ilya’s shoulder and holding him slightly tighter. “I need you to know that I need you, too.”

“I do. I know, solnyshko moye.”

“Now go, before you miss your chance for coffee.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“I love you, too.” Shane stole one last kiss then pushed him gently toward the door. “I’ll see you in a week.”

“One week,” Ilya murmured, then slipped out the door.

The MLH Homophobia and Discrimination Saga

Here’s what you need to know about the ongoing video leaks of MLH players pouting homophobic and racist rhetoric while on ice.

John Tyler Rhodes

November 3, 2017 [Last Update: November 17, 2017]

Here at OutSports, we’re committed to keeping you informed of the ongoing events surrounding the video leaks from MLH games. This page will be updated as more information emerges.

November 24 — Video Compilation of Dallas Kent, Frank Zullo, and Gilbert Comeau’s Usage of Slurs; The Homophobia is Deeper than Heat-of-the-Moment

[+Expand Section]

Chapter 51: keep it going, we push through

Chapter Notes

“Shane!” His mom lifted a hand from a table a little ways into the restaurant, and he smiled before pointing his parents out to the hostess and walking their way. 

“Hi, guys,” he said as she stood for a hug and wrapped him up tight.

“Hey, bud,” his dad said as he followed suit. “Good to see you again so soon.”

“You didn’t bring any of your friends?” Yuna asked as Shane placed his napkin in his lap and picked up the menu.

“Not this time,” Shane said. “I kinda just wanted it to be only family today.”

He couldn’t help the reflexive look next to him, as if Ilya would magically appear in the fourth chair at the table, eyes crinkling and a joke about weak proposals on his lips. His mom’s melancholy smile was the closest he got, as if she knew exactly what he’d been thinking. Knowing her, she probably did. 

Ilya was at home in Boston, preparing for a game against Edmonton, while Shane was in Ottawa, desperately wishing all the pieces of his family could just exist in the same room for more than a moment, and preferably without having to hide it. It didn’t feel like too much to ask, but apparently it was. 

“So, Dad, how’s work?” Shane asked before his mother could leap in to comfort him about something they couldn’t change yet. 

His dad talked about the project he’d had to finish up before he’d been able to come to New York, and Shane nodded at the appropriate times, asking questions and prompting him about his coworkers for long enough that the waitress came to take their orders.

His mom started in on some talk about brand deals and campaigns various sponsors wanted to do shoots for, and Shane tried to pay attention, he did, but roughly 80% of his thoughts were somewhere in Boston, wondering what conversation Ilya wanted to have in person when they had longer than an hour and more privacy than Connors showering in the next room could give them. He thought his mom must have noticed, because she ended the topic by telling him, “I’ll email it all to you, summarized, so you can tell me which ones you want to do, okay?”

“Sure, thanks, that’s perfect,” Shane said, taking a bite of his caprese chicken gnocchi and wondering what Ilya would say to see him eating potatoes at lunch before a game.

“Shane…” his dad said, his voice gentle. “Are you okay? You’ve been kind of… distant.”

“I’m fine. Sorry. I’m fine,” Shane repeated, putting down his fork. “Just… focused on the game, I guess.”

“Honey,” his mom admonished. “We know you. This isn’t you focused on hockey. This is something else.”

Shane closed his eyes and nodded, because she was right of course. “I promise I’m fine. I just… I know I saw him two days ago, but I…”

“Miss him,” his dad supplied when Shane couldn’t find the words. Shane’s nod was small. “That’s normal, you know. To miss the person you love.”

“I know,” he said, and he did know that, but this was more. This felt like being forced to live with half of himself always removed. “I just… I don’t know if I can… I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?” his mom prompted, looking slightly alarmed. “Be with hi—”

“No. No, sorry. I meant… I can’t keep doing it like this. I want to be with him every single day. I know this was the plan, and it’s better than it was, it really is—especially since if I’d stayed in Montreal I wouldn’t have seen him until fucking January—but it’s not enough and it’s starting to get to me. And it’s only November.”

Shane had to look away from the pity in his mom’s eyes and found his dad watching him with understanding written into every line of his face. “Have you told him this?”

“No,” Shane admitted, setting his fork down. “He’s got so much going on and he’s been struggling with his depression—he’s seeing someone about it, so that’s good—but I haven’t wanted to add one more thing to his plate.”

“Honey, that’s what couples do, though,” his mom said, reaching across the table to take his hand. “They share their burdens so that they can help each other carry the load. I mean, I can’t fix the drama with Julia at Dad’s work but he still tells me about it, and it helps, doesn’t it David?”

“It helps,” his dad said, nodding. “Ilya shares his with you, why wouldn’t you share yours with him?”

Shane shrugged and his mom squeezed his hand again. “What if he’s feeling the exact same way, sweetheart?”

Shane thought about the shock on Ilya’s face as he’d backed him into the hotel room in Newark, about whispering beneath the bedcovers, and the roughness in his voice when Ilya admitted to counting the seconds between their meetings. “There’s nothing we can do about it right now anyway. What would be the point?”

“Knowing you’re not alone,” his mom insisted. “And maybe coming up with a plan to get you in the same place faster.”

“Think about it,” his dad said. “That’s all we’re saying.”

“Okay,” Shane said, his voice a bit raw. “I will. I’ll think about it.”

“And eat your lunch,” his mom said, letting go of his hand. “You need your strength to beat Ottawa tonight.”

Shane breathed out a quiet laugh at that and picked up his fork. “It’s just Ottawa, Mom.”

“Sorry, sorry, I know I’m late,” Kip said, rushing up to Kyle on the sidewalk outside the gallery. Kyle couldn’t help but smile and shake his head; Kip was chronically rushing through life, late or otherwise. 

“You’re fine. I just wanted to wait for you out here,” he said as he hooked an arm through Kip’s and pulled him to the glass doors. Truthfully, he hadn’t wanted to go inside to face Eric alone. He could handle an innocent crush on his best friend that had never gone anywhere and never would. He could not handle being alone in an art gallery with a man who made every molecule of his body sing just by existing, a man who was broken and needed comfort, a man who looked like that.

God, he was wearing a suit, or rather, part of one. He had on blue suit pants that cupped his ass like they’d been tailor-made, his hands shoved into the pockets, a white button up with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, and a matching belt and dress shoes. His wavy hair was pulled back into a bun, his salt-and-pepper scruff was perfectly trimmed, and he was gazing in wonder at a modernist landscape done in vivid color, so lost in it he didn’t seem hear them approaching him. 

Kyle wanted to eat him up.

“Rundle’s Song,” Kip murmured, reading the plaque beneath it, and Eric just hummed in agreement, then turned his gaze to take them in instead.

“It’s a mountain in Banff,” he said.

“Oh, have you been?” Kip asked.

“No, but I’m thinking I’d like to, if it looks like that.”

Kyle was inclined to agree. He did some hiking, not a lot, but to see a view like that in the flesh would be the finest temptation to do it more often.

“You know, I never really thought about it, but even though you hockey players travel all the time, you never really see much of the places you go, do you?” Kip said as they drifted to the next painting.

“No. Hol—” Eric stopped suddenly but they all pretended not to notice as he swallowed that sentence down. “I usually traveled some during the summer, but mostly overseas. Scotland, France, that sort of thing. I never really thought about seeing more here.”

“You should,” Kip decided out loud as they continued to inspect the artist’s work. “I bet you would have a great time.”

They were all silent for a moment, then Kyle finally worked up the nerve to say something. “I love her use of color in these. The over-saturation? It’s…”

“Breathtaking,” Eric suggested for him when Kyle couldn’t find the word.

“Yes. Breathtaking,” Kyle said as Kip pulled away and reached into his pocket.

“Sorry, my phone—” he said as he looked down at the screen and started to back towards the front of the gallery. “It’s my sister, she never calls, I’m going to just… Hey, Meg, give me one second, I’m in an art gallery.”

Just like that, he and Eric were alone, and Kyle had no idea what to do with his hands. Fuck. 

“Scott told me you’re studying art history as well?”

“Oh, no,” Kyle said, hoping none of his nerves came across in that short sentence. “Or, well, sort of. I’m doing a grad program for ancient art and architecture at Columbia. It’s not quite art history—that’s what Kip’s studying—because the focus only goes up through late antiquity, whereas he has to look at… well, all the rest.”

“Ah okay, I can see how he got art history from that,” Eric said, nodding slowly while Kyle mentally kicked himself for drawing attention to the fact that he was still in college, even if it was graduate school. He knew Eric saw him as a kid, but that didn’t mean he had to remind the man himself. 

“Either way, sounds fascinating,” Eric added, looking away from Kyle and back at the paintings they were still standing near. 

“It is, so far. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it, to be honest, but I like learning, so…”

“Me, too.”

“Oh, yeah?” Kyle asked, smiling over at Eric. “Are you a reader? Or are you one of those guys who listens to science podcasts?”

“Reading’s more my speed,” Eric said with a slight huff of laughter. Kyle watched a tiny flush work its way out from under his stubble. “I majored in English Literature.”

“Really?” Kyle asked, genuinely surprised into re-evaluating the man. He supposed he could picture it, Eric reading classics by a fire, his long fingers wrapped lightly around a book, carefully turning the pages. Kyle almost had to shake himself out of the fantasy. “Where did you study?”

Eric’s lips twisted, and Kyle realized he’d been staring at them, so yanked his gaze back up to the other man’s eyes. To his surprise, Eric seemed like he was almost embarrassed by what he was about to reveal. “Harvard.”

Kyle blinked, looking away for a moment to collect himself. Fuck, if finding out he was wildly intelligent didn’t make the man’s sex appeal skyrocket even higher. “You have a Harvard degree?”

“Yes,” Eric said, blushing to the tips of his ears. “Don’t worry, you’re not the first to be surprised by it.”

“Not surprised, just… impressed. Wow.”

“Sorry again,” Kip called as he came back inside. “I don’t know why she thought dinner plans for around Christmas were urgent enough to call me about but I’m back.”

And thank God for that, Kyle thought, because Eric Bennett had just revealed himself to be perhaps the most absurdly perfect man Kyle had ever met, and he was completely and absolutely untouchable. 

Ilya found that even with therapy, he would have good days and bad days, and then he would have days where he thought he could have stayed in bed and the world would have been better off. It was one such day, and it showed. 

Ilya’s game was off again. Not enough that he wasn’t one of the top scorers in the league still, but enough that it was noticeable. Commentators, fans, journalists, even his coaches had been looking at him askance and wondering—he assumed—whether he was on his way out, whether he had peaked, and his career was all downhill from here. No one had said it to his face yet, but he saw the looks, he watched the replays, he read the think-pieces in the sports section.

A part of him—a small, quiet part that sounded a bit like a boring Canadian he knew very well—knew it was the depression making him feel this way, at least partially. He’d only been on the anti-depressants for a few days, and Emiliya had told him the pills wouldn’t have a noticeable effect for weeks, but he’d been hoping that talking to her would have helped by now. He’d thought that spilling his thoughts into another person’s lap would get them out of his head, or get him out of the spiral they caused at least. Evidently, it wasn’t nearly so easy, but he’d hoped anyway. 

So when he missed a shot by millimeters in the first period, missing the opportunity to tie them up with Edmonton, and his brain reminded him that he was weak, he was worthless, he would never be good enough, it was easier to believe it. His play suffered under the onslaught of internal castigation and rumination on why anyone had ever signed him to an MLH team in the first place, let alone kept him on for so many years.

Bullshit, his Shane’s voice whispered. It drowned under the torrent of other thoughts. 

“Hey, Rozy,” Marley said as he sat next to him in the locker room during the intermission. “You’ve got that look on your face.”

“I do not have a look,” Ilya retorted immediately, causing half the team to look over at him.

“You definitely have a look,” Ryan Carmichael said.

“Yeah, it’s the ‘I’m going to kill everyone with bag skates’ look,” Lexi said, causing a bunch of the younger guys to throw assorted gear at him and yell at him not to give Ilya ideas.

“No, it’s not that look,” Oregan said, and everyone turned instead to look at the goaltender. “It’s the ‘I can’t believe I missed that shot, why do I even play this game’ look.”

Ilya just stared at him, wondering if one of the quirks of being a goaltender was mind-reading. 

“You can’t be serious,” Hammersmith said to Oregan, then shot a glance at Ilya. “No way Roz is thinking that.”

Ilya leaned his elbows on his thighs and scrubbed at his face and hair, trying to hide his sigh in his hands. He felt Connie collapse on the bench next to him, but the other man didn’t touch him, just let him know he was there while the rest of the room dissolved into petty spats over whether Ilya thought he was valuable or not. 

“Okay!” Marley finally shouted as intermission drew to a close. “Give it a rest. New period, clean slate, let’s fuckin’ go!”

Sticks were tapped, whoops of camaraderie were sounded, and the clatter of nearly twenty men leaving a room filled the air. Marley patted him on the back before he walked away, offering silent support and leading the team out because Ilya couldn’t. Not at that moment.

When Ilya finally lifted his head, nearly everyone had filed out and he found Connie still sitting beside him, waiting patiently.

“I’m so fucking tired,” Ilya admitted in a hoarse whisper.

“I know, man. But we’re here to hold you up, you know?”

Ilya nodded, only partly believing it. “Let’s go get this done.”

Connie slapped him on the shoulder pads, then stood, holding out a hand to hoist Ilya to his skates as well. “Let’s get it done.”

Chapter End Notes

The painting they are looking at is called "Rundle's Song" by Sharon Lynn Williams, and can be seen in this article about her work.

Chapter 52: we've both been very brave

Shane arrived in Philadelphia at midnight, fresh off a close home game against Ottawa, and knocked on the door of the private room Ilya had reserved for them, giving Connors their shared room for the evening. When he opened the door, Ilya looked as though he’d been lying in bed dozing, his hair still damp and rumpled, his cheek creased from the pillow.

“Do we need to talk now, or can it wait a few more hours?” Shane asked as he stepped into the arms Ilya slid around his waist.

“It can wait,” he murmured against Shane’s shoulder as his embrace tightened. 

“Then let’s lay down, Lyunya.” Shane guided his sleepy barnacle back over to the bed and made him sit on the edge of the mattress while Shane set his stuff on the luggage rack and slid out of his street clothes.

“Missed you,” Ilya murmured as they tangled beneath the sheets, his body heat already making Shane feel as though he’d laid down in a furnace.

“Missed you, too,” Shane whispered. “Now sleep. I’ll be here in the morning.”

Ilya pulled him in tighter and drifted off; Shane let out a sigh of pure contentment before following him into dreams. He awoke to a different sort of fantasy, with Ilya’s lips roaming over him, his fingertips trailing behind, and the soft sigh of endearments pressed into each of his ribs, his hips, his skin.

“Will you tell me what’s on your mind now?” Shane asked when they were fresh out of the shower and had their room service breakfast laid out on the small coffee table in the sitting area of the room. 

Ilya seemed to freeze in place for a moment, then he forcibly swallowed the bite of pancakes—whole wheat, at Shane’s insistence—he’d been savoring before the question. He nodded slowly and put down his fork before taking a sip of coffee. “I… I am nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because I am scared that what I have to say will make you run.” Ilya’s voice shook slightly, and Shane blinked a few times as he processed that quiet statement.

“Never,” he managed, his voice coming out stricken. “I will never run from you. Lyunya, never again. I promise.”

“What if it is scary?”

“Then I will panic here, with you.”

That made Ilya snort out a laugh Shane was sure he hadn’t intended to release, but it made a small smile tug at each of their lips. “Okay. Okay. I… I have been talking with Emiliya, yes?”

“Yes, of course.”

“She helped me realize something and…” Ilya cleared his throat and rubbed at his nose. “And it is about us.”

“Okay,” Shane said, his own breathing shaky now. “What is it?”

“I don’t want to hide anymore,” Ilya said. The words came out ragged, as if they had been dragged through broken glass before they made their way out into the air. 

Shane felt his heart begin to race, and his breathing speed up, and closed his eyes against the feelings. He could feel the first tendrils of panic winding their way up into his body, and took a deep breath. Ilya did not want him to leave, he reminded himself; he had been very clear about that. So, it could not be the first conclusion his mind had jumped to: Ilya wanting to end the relationship that he had to hide. It’s something else, Shane thought, and then repeated that thought over and over, willing his body to calm down.

“Shanya?”

“Just need a second,” he croaked. “I’m not going to run, but my brain—I thought you meant you wanted to break up for a second, and I need to calm down.”

“Would me holding you help?”

“Please,” Shane said, his voice cracking. He heard Ilya move around the table to take a seat next to him on the couch, then felt Ilya pulling him in so he could rest his forehead in the crook of Ilya’s neck. Shane took another dozen steadying breaths, then pulled back slightly to look into Ilya’s eyes. “Sorry. I’m okay now.”

“We don’t have to talk about this,” Ilya began, but Shane shook his head immediately.

“We do, though. My brain jumped to the worst conclusion first, but I know you didn’t mean it that way.”

“Of course not.”

“Okay. So what did you actually mean?”

Ilya looked down at where their hands were tangled between their bodies. “I… I want to be able to hold your hand in public. I want to be able to say ‘oh, my boyfriend loves this sushi place,’ or ‘did you see my Shanya score that goal?’ I want to hug you in the Kingfisher, not like I’m your friend, but like I love you, because I do. The hiding… it’s killing me. Not—not like I will kill myself, but like… like every day that I cannot be loud about you, the rest of me is going quiet.”

“Fuck.”

“I know you are not ready to come out yet. We don’t need to change anything—”

“No, Lyunya, I’m not upset,” Shane said, lifting his hands to Ilya’s cheeks and forcing them to make eye contact so Ilya could tell he wasn’t lying. “Do you know what I said to my parents last week?”

“No…” Ilya’s forehead wrinkled with his confusion at the subject change, but Shane just plowed on. 

“I told them that this—the sneaking into hotels and only seeing each other when our schedules lined up—wasn’t enough anymore.” Shane watched as Ilya’s eyes searched his, as they did when he was processing. It took a full twenty seconds, but then Ilya’s smile broke like sunrise over the ocean, his eyes crinkling.

“You know what Emiliya said to me when I told her this? ‘What if your Shanya feels the same?’”

“My parents did, too,” Shane admitted, smiling back as he dropped his hands.

“But what can we do?” Ilya asked. “That is what I am worried about. You did not want to come out—”

“I basically did, already, Lyunya. It’s an open secret now. I’m more worried about you, and Russia.” Shane looked over toward the window. “Let’s talk to that immigration attorney my mom found for us, okay? It’s not going to be fast but… I can’t lose you, okay? If Russia took you, I—I don’t know what I would do, but I would fight with everything I had to get you back.”

“We will not let that happen,” Ilya promised. “Knowing you feel this way, too… it helps. To know I am not alone. But yes, the immigration lawyer. This we can do.”

“You’re never alone. I’m here. Always,” Shane promised, pressing a palm to Ilya’s heart and curling the fingers of his other hand into the hair at the nape of his neck. 

Kyle was scrubbing the counter at the Kingfisher, trying to remove a stubborn spot of dried simple syrup, when the door opened. It was early in the evening for most of their regulars, but they did occasionally get people popping in for a drink before dinner. Without looking up, Kyle called over his shoulder, “Hey, welcome in! I’ll be with you in a second.”

“No rush,” Eric said, his deep voice soft. 

Kyle stiffened before he could control himself, then forcibly relaxed his shoulders before tossing a smile Eric’s way. “For a teetotaler, you sure visit this bar a lot.”

“‘Teetotaler’ makes me sound ancient,” Eric said with a self-deprecating laugh, completely dodging the question Kyle refused to voice out loud—are you coming here for me?

“What would you call yourself?” Kyle asked, setting his dishcloth on top of the sugary spot to try to soak it with some water before he turned to rest his elbows on the bar near where Eric had settled.

“I just don’t like how it makes me feel. I like being in control,” Eric said with a shrug. “Maybe ‘sober?’”

“Oh.” He kept surprising Kyle. “Why tempt yourself?”

“That’s a question,” Eric said, chuckling again, the blush in his cheeks rising. 

“That’s not an answer,” Kyle quipped, then abruptly straightened when he realized how flirty he was being. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer me, I was just—”

“I’m bisexual,” Eric blurted out. Within milliseconds, his face was the color of a beefsteak tomato, and his eyes were as wide as soup tureens. “Shit. Uh, I’ve never told anyone that before.”

“Wait. What? You’ve never told anyone? But you told me?”

“Shit,” Eric repeated. “Should I not have?”

“No! No, I mean… I’m flattered—honored. And you can trust me. Just… Why me?”

Eric ducked his head. “I’ve been wanting to tell people. To tell someone. It’s been on my mind a lot actually. It just… slipped out?”

“Okay,” Kyle said, letting out a deep breath, then leaned down onto the counter again, studying the other man. “Okay. Well, I’m happy for you. That’s great, that you’re telling people. But…”

“What?” Eric asked when Kyle drifted off, looking away. He was trying so hard to wrap his mind around this change in their conversation, in their dynamic, in the possibility that Kyle might know what it felt like to be wrapped up in the man sitting across from him.

“Well, it doesn’t really answer my question about why you keep coming here, a bar, where our food is crap but we serve an okay drink,” he teased, leaning back on flirting as a defense mechanism. For this situation, where he wanted to climb over the counter and straddle the man he was defending himself from, it wasn’t the best strategy, but it was the only one Kyle had.

“Oh. Oh, right. Um.” Eric straightened himself and smoothed his hands down over the casual t-shirt he was wearing, as if trying to settle everything in his place. “You’re going to think I’m strange if I tell you.”

“I promise I won’t.”

“I’ve never really… acted on it. Being bisexual, I mean. And I don’t even know how I would go about it, either. The Kingfisher is…”

“…the only gay bar you know,” Kyle finished for him, nodding in understanding and trying not to let his eyes stray to the way the t-shirt stretched over Eric’s biceps and pecs. 

“Well, I was going to say ‘safe,’ I think,” Eric said with a small smile. “But also that. And I know people here.”

Kyle smiled despite himself. “That’s me, I’m people.”

“You are people,” Eric said with another breathless laugh. 

“So you’re bi, but you know nothing about being bi, but you want to know how to be bi, and you can do that here. So you come to a place that serves nothing in your clean, vegetarian, non-alcoholic diet ,” Kyle summarized, them smirked. “Makes sense, actually.”

“Is it that weird if most of the bartenders know I don’t drink alcohol and make me one of your mocktails before I even ask?”

“Point taken,” Kyle said. “Speaking of, want one?”

“Sure,” Eric said, relaxing a bit. Kyle whipped up a virgin Scott Hunter—something he delighted in ever since that Russian hockey player had pointed it out—and slid it across the bar-top.

“Okay, so, Gay Guru Lesson One—”

“Gay Guru?”

“Yes, that’s me,” Kyle said. “I am now officially your Gay Guru, Eric, you cannot back out now.”

“Okay, makes sense, continue,” Eric said, smiling before he sipped his drink.

“Gay Guru Lesson One: you don’t need to prove your sexuality to anyone, not even to yourself. You know this, right?”

Eric nodded and set his drink back down. “I know. It just… doesn’t feel real to me. I want it to feel real.”

Kyle nodded. “Fair enough. Gay Guru Lesson Two—”

“Are you going to preface every tip you give me with that?”

“Depends; are you going to interrupt me every time I do?”

“Maybe,” Eric said, grinning from ear to ear now, and Kyle’s heart did a slow turn in his chest.

“Then I most definitely am. Gay Guru Lesson Two: there’s no right way to be gay. Or in your case, bi. Although, caveat, don’t be a homophobe. That’s not the right way to be gay.”

“Kyle, are all the lessons self-explanatory?”

“Hush; who is the gay guru here?” Kyle said, flashing a smile. “Although, that one is less self-explanatory than you’d think.”

“Fair enough.”

“So, do you have a type?” He tried to keep that question casual and was afraid he missed the mark when Eric ducked his head. Deflecting, he added, “Because as an expert in the field, we have many regulars who’d climb a hot MLH star goalie like a tree.”

“Jesus,” Eric murmured. “I’m retired, anyway. Hardly a star.”

“Not hearing an answer, hot retired MLH star goalie. And every time you delay, I’m adding another adjective. I bet I can fit ‘Cup-winning’ in there.”

“I don’t know,” Eric admitted.

“Can you describe it? You don’t need to know whether you like bears or twinks or—”

“No, I mean—” Eric sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “It’s weird.”

“It’s probably not weird,” Kyle assured him.

“Probably?”

“We don’t kink shame, but…” 

That made Eric chuckle again even though he didn’t look less stressed. “It’s not a kink. I just meant like… I don’t have a type, really? Even with women, I couldn’t give you a description. I didn’t realize I wanted to sleep with Holly until after we were already friends.”

“Oh!” Kyle leaned down onto the bar and smiled. “That’s basically normal. You should look into demisexuality. Basic definition is when you’re not attracted to someone until after you’ve formed an emotional connection.”

“Huh,” Eric said, looking down into his drink with a slight frown.

“Did that resonate?”

“Little bit, yeah,” he said with a nod. “I mean, I know when someone is attractive, I’m just not… interested.”

“That also counts. As with most of this stuff, it’s a spectrum,” Kyle offered as someone else entered the bar, disrupting their privacy. Kyle nodded at them and called, “I’ll be right with you.”

When he looked back at Eric, he found himself the object of intense study and had to take a deep breath to steady himself. Those dark eyes were heavy on his face, roaming slowly over him, as if measuring each and every millimeter. When their gazes clashed again, Kyle cleared his throat. “I have to get back to it, but… thank you for telling me about you.”

“Thank you for listening,” Eric said, his voice inexplicably hoarse. “And for being my Gay Guru.”

Kyle wrenched himself away from the temptation across the scarred oak bar and walked toward the other customer. Against his better judgement, he threw one last flirtatious word over his shoulder. “Anytime.”

Chapter 53: hear you laughing, so nostalgic

Chapter Notes

Shane fidgeted in his chair. Ilya reached out and put a hand on his knee, rubbing his thumb over the inseam of his jeans. They were sat in his office, in front of the laptop, waiting for the immigration attorney to sign into the video call Yuna had arranged. She wasn’t late—Shane had insisted they sit down in the office five minutes early, though he was clearly regretting that now.

“Why am I so nervous?” he muttered, and Ilya sent him a ironic smile.

“When are you not nervous?”

“Fuck off, I’m not—” Shane huffed when he realized what Ilya was doing, but then a smile broke across his face, seemingly despite himself.

“It’s because it’s important, lyubimyy. You’re nervous because it matters.” Ilya lifted his hand to brush at his favorite freckles.

Shane took in a shaky breath and nodded his head just as the laptop chimed to alert them that someone else had joined the meeting. A second chime followed the first, and there were two new people on the video call.

“Hello, I’m Carolina Lopez,” the woman with the vibrant teal shell and the tortoiseshell glasses said. “This is my assistant, William Evans. I want to assure you both that anything said in this meeting is protected under attorney-client privilege, and William here is required to hold to those standards as well. Mrs. Hollander informed me this was a sensitive matter, so I wanted to soothe any worries in that direction right out the gate.”

“Is nice to meet you, Ms. Lopez, Mr. Evans. I am Ilya, this is Shane.” Ilya said. “Ah… are you hockey fans?”

Ilya could tell that William was, because his eyes gone wide the minute he’d seen both of them on screen.

“Please, call me Carolina. And no, I am not. But Will is, if I remember correctly.”

“Uh, yeah. Big fan, um. Not of the Scouts or the Raiders though, sorry.” Will looked positively chagrined, and Ilya couldn’t help his smile.

“No problem,” Ilya said. “As long as it is not Toronto.”

“Ottawa, actually, much to my endless disappointment,” he said, eliciting a chuckle from them both.

“For your sake, Carolina,” Shane said, his attention turning to the hawk-eyed woman, “Ilya is the starting center for the Boston Raiders and their captain. I am the starting center for the Brooklyn Scouts—though I was the captain of the Montréal Metros until the end of last year. Um. We… well, the MLH has always pitted us against each other as rivals. People only began to realize we’re friendly last season. Um—”

“We’re lovers,” Ilya cut in. 

“Ilya, no, that’s gross,” Shane muttered, pulling a hand down his face, much to Ilya’s amusement.

“What, is true!”

“I hate that word. So much.”

“Okay, fine, boyfriends. We are boyfriends.” William’s face was turning a startling shade of red, but he said nothing while Carolina nodded slowly. 

“Okay. Explain to me how this affects your need for a Canadian immigration attorney. It seems you might be better off with one of our American specialists, given your current residence and citizenship.” Carolina’s firm specialized in both Canadian and American immigration, something Ilya knew wasn’t commonplace, but felt necessary in his case. 

“Ilya is a Russian citizen,” Shane supplied. “And he’s relatively famous there. And here. The law there means that if he were to be discovered to be in a relationship with a man—”

“He could be subject to their anti-LGBTQ laws and other, less-official consequences,” Carolina said, continuing to nod as William scribbled notes.

“Yes,” Ilya said. “I would very much not like that to happen. I could, of course, apply for American citizenship, though not with my current visa, but with the political environment being what it is, it is not ideal, either. And…”

Ilya looked to Shane, who finished, “We want to be together. Publicly, eventually, but in general, too. And Ilya wouldn’t feel safe without a way to stay out of Russia. I already have Canadian citizenship, obviously, so we thought it might be easier if Ilya got Canadian citizenship as well, but we are willing to hear other options.”

“Right, okay, I am catching on. If Russia were not a factor, would you be in a public relationship?”

As Ilya and Shane looked at each other to try to silently figure out how to explain, William coughed. “I could, uh, explain a bit, if you’d like.”

“Sure,” Shane said, nodding.

“Boss, hockey is extremely, uh… traditional? Regressive, might be a better word. Either way, the only out LGBTQIA+ player is Scott Hunter. He came out in June. Since then, there’ve been quite a few homophobia-related scandals in the MLH. Scott Hunter got basically hate-crimed on live TV a month or so back. So, there’s that. It’s getting better—right?”

“Right,” Ilya said with a nod. “Slowly.”

“But that does not take into account these two being generational talents and rivals who have been pitted against one another since they were teenagers.”

“And on competing teams for the whole of our careers,” Shane offered. “Historic rivalry between our original teams going back nearly a century, in fact.”

“We are worried people will think we cheated,” Ilya said plainly. “We did not, of course. But they will think it, and it could put my contract at risk, and, from there, my visa.”

Carolina was nodding slowly, her eyes unfocused as she processed all of this information. “Okay. I think I am understanding the roadblocks. So, you’re interested in a path to citizenship for Mr. Rozanov.”

“Yes,” Shane said. “Ideally, quickly, so he could not be deported if we were to get outed, for whatever reason.”

“There is, unfortunately, nothing quick about citizenship, but showing that Ilya would be in danger should he be repatriated could get him asylum protections while the wheels of government turn. Emphasis on ‘could’; there is nothing easy about the asylum process.” Carolina said, tilting her head in thought. “Okay, there are a few options. Would you like me to go through them?”

“Please,” Ilya said.

“In order for Shane to be your sponsor for permanent residency in Canada—the first step to getting citizenship—the two of you would have to be in a relationship so committed, the Canadian government believes it’s real. There are three ways to do that. The most obvious is to get married, but in Canada, marriage certificates are matters of public record, and I’ve never heard of one being held confidential. Now, it’s not as if Canada puts all marriage certificates on the internet, so it wouldn’t trigger any Google alerts, but if someone wanted to, they could find your certificate by simply requesting it from the relevant government office. And there’s no real protection from someone within the government leaking the info. There would be a court battle should it happen, but it would be too late.

“The second is to prove a common law partnership. In Canada, this means you have lived together in the same household for more than a year, support each other financially, and have a public relationship. Obviously this is not relevant in your case, given you are not out.

“The third is to prove you are conjugal partners. This is rather like a common-law partnership, but the difference is that the applicant—Ilya—lives outside of Canada, and you could not live together as a couple due to reasons outside your control. In this case, sexual orientation and employment. This seems to be the best case for your needs.”

Shane looked at Ilya, then back at Carolina, nerves clearly showing on his face. “We haven’t uh…”

“Our relationship is less than a year old,” Ilya supplied when Shane trailed off. “We were official as of March of this year. Maybe January, depending on how you counted it. We were together before this, of course, but not…”

“Not serious,” Shane finished.

“That does make things a bit trickier.” She said nothing more, just watched them.

“How would it look after that?” Ilya asked.

“Well, you’d need to be a permanent resident for at least two years, to start. And you need to prove you resided in Canada for a certain number of days out of the five years prior to applying for citizenship. They make you track the days pretty religiously,” Carolina explained. “Then there’s a citizenship test, language requirements—which I can tell you that you meet, based on this conversation—and taking an oath of citizenship.”

“Years,” Shane breathed, and Ilya’s hand spasmed on Shane’s knee beneath the desk. He said nothing himself, just nodded as he absorbed the information. Carolina said five years, but even with summers at the cottage, Ilya doubted he would accumulate enough days to get citizenship until after he retired unless he moved to a Canadian team.

“From my limited understanding of the American system, it would be at least the same if you were to pursue citizenship here. But Permanent Residency or Green Cards theoretically prevent deportation if you were to lose your job for whatever reason. Those take less time than full citizenship, of course,” Carolina continued, but Ilya’s ears were ringing and he could not focus on what she was saying. 

Shane wrapped up the conversation, his voice staying calm and even while Ilya felt like his brain was full of buzzing insects. When the call had ended, Shane turned to him.

“I can’t do years, Shanya. We can’t—we can’t hide that long, I will die. I’ll die, I can’t—”

“Lyunya, breathe. Deep breath in. Good, now out. In,” Shane coached in a near whisper, their typical roles reversed for once. “Out. Good. We will figure something out. I promise you.”

“Can you do years of this?” Ilya rasped as Shane pulled him into a tight embrace. The love of his life said nothing, only ran one big hand up and down his spine in an attempt to hide his own tremors.

They stayed like that for a long time, breathing and holding each other, until Shane pulled back. He set his hands on Ilya’s shoulders and looked hard into his eyes, no doubt seeing the despair lurking there. 

“Okay,” Shane said, looking resolute. “Okay. We can figure this out. You only risk losing your visa if you lose your job. Would Boston drop you for being bisexual?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Ilya said after a long moment’s thought. “Maybe for being with you, for thinking we cheated. I don’t know if my agent would fight them very hard to prove we did not, either. But another team might not care.”

“But if you get traded, we’d be further apart,” Shane said, looking over Ilya’s shoulder and out the office window as he thought. “You need a new agent, someone who will fight for you. Do you want to talk to Farah? My mom can probably arrange it.”

“Yes. If you think it will help.”

“It won’t hurt at least,” Shane said, rubbing his thumbs in soothing sweeps along Ilya’s collarbones. “Okay. We talk to Farah. We tell her about us, see what she says about our chances of staying with our teams should we reveal we’re dating. Based on what she says, that’ll help us decide what’s next. Small steps. That’s how neither of us freak out. Small steps.”

“One breath at a time,” Ilya offered, unable to stop his lips from curving. 

“Yes,” Shane murmured, his own small smile spreading like sunshine over his face. “Exactly.”

A little over 24 hours later, Shane stared into Ilya’s crystalline eyes at center ice. It was their first game of the season against each other, their first since they had—officially—started dating, and Shane had missed this, missed seeing the other half of his soul in the place they both felt free. It was exactly the same, and yet so different. Hayden wasn’t on his wing, J.J. wasn’t behind him, but Ilya was still poised like a tiger, wearing that cocky little smirk he only got when he was about to say something truly egregious.

“Always so pretty, Hollander. You dress up just for me?”

Shane huffed a breath through his nose and grinned back at the menace across from him. “What would you do if I said yes?”

Ilya’s pupils blew out, and Shane knew he was coming up with a dozen things he wanted to do when they got home. “Maybe I take you out, show you Boston. You like steak dinner? Then I’m thinking victory sex.”

“Knock it off, Rozanov,” the linesman muttered as he came within hearing range to drop the puck even though Shane was chuckling.

“I take you on a date, too, Nate!” Ilya said. “If you ask nice.”

“Wow, cheating on me before our first date. Didn’t think you had it in you, Rozanov,” Shane said, causing Ilya to throw his head back in laughter.

“You’re both the worst now that you’re friends,” Nate the linesman said, but he was clearly fighting back a smile. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

Chapter End Notes

A dear friend has started helping me do some Russian translation -- they've gotten through the first few chapters. I will start editing that in soon, but it will not change the content of the story. Wanted to let you know that was coming.

Also! It should be noted that though Russia has never been friendly to LGBTQIA+ people, it was not explicitly illegal to be gay in 2017. They would have been able to fine Ilya for promoting an unnatural lifestyle, but if they wanted to punish him further (on account of him being a public figure) they would have had to come up with fake charges. In 2020, a constitutional amendment passed banning same-sex marriage in Russia, and in 2023 the "International LGBTQ movement" was classified as an extremist organization, and anyone promoting the "lifestyle"—including displaying a Pride flag—can be arrested and face long prison sentences.

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Art inspired by "I'll Move, Just Hold My Hand" by thirteenthsister by skargasm