Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova, Shane Hollander & Svetlana Vetrova, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Original Male Character(s), Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Career Ending Injuries, Career Change, Hockey Coach Ilya Rozanov, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Player Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander & Svetlana Vetrova Friendship, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Anxious Ilya Rozanov, Body Image, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Courts Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-22 Completed: 2026-06-02 Words: 12,629 Chapters: 4/4

Back in Boston

Summary

Ilya had a nice life in Providence, Rhode Island. He was married, technically. He was an American citizen. He had a good job. His NHL career, cut short, was in the past and so was his old hook up.

So why the fuck was Shane Hollander standing outside his front door?

A Shane Hollander Courts Ilya Rozanov story.

Notes

This is a sort of companion piece to "Back in the crease", or maybe "mirror" piece is more accurate. A what if Ilya had been the one to have a career ending injury and Shane got to be the one who chased Ilya.

Chapter 1

Montreal

“Shane, I need you to talk to me.”

“There is nothing to fucking talk about!”

The argument had been going on for an hour, or really, it had been going on for months. Nico hung his head, his arms clasped in front on him on the dining table. He was handsome even in anger, which Shane hated because he always felt so goddamn ugly when he lost control.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Nico said reasonably to the table.

“You don’t understand. It isn’t like at the hospital where you can just be out and everyone’s fine with it,” Shane said, the same sort of words he’d said when he first explained to Nico that they couldn’t be open.   

“I know that, Shane.” Nico raised his head, eyes kind and patient. “I know that I’ll never understand how hockey culture works, not completely, but Shane,” he begged. “This isn’t sustainable. Something’s gotta give.”

Something’s gotta give.

Shane was terrified it had to be him.

Providence

“Hello sweetheart,” Ilya said in Russian to Anya as she bounded to greet him at the door. The house behind her was quiet in the afternoon. “How was your day? Mine was good. Team was good.” After giving her more than enough cuddles, more than his bad knees allowed, he stood, wincing at the pain, and made his way into his kitchen with his supplies.

His phone rang as he put things away in the fridge, the word wife  lighting up.

“Yes?” 

“Have you seen the news?”

“Be specific, Sveta, please.”

“Hollander.”

Ilya froze, milk halfway to the fridge door. Svetlana had paused as well, but when he did not respond, she continued, “He is finally leaving Montreal. The bastards let him go.”

“To where?”

“No one knows yet. It’s all just rumours. Everyone probably signed an NDA. It is all fucking bullshit. His complaint to the players’ association will probably be withdrawn or hushed up. It’s all a cover up,” she spat the words, anger rolling off her. Ilya put the milk away and leaned over the kitchen counter, squeezing his eyes shut as Svetlana continued her rant. “We will probably never know the full extent of the abuse, but he’s out, Ilya, he’s free.”

He’s free.

“Good for him.”

“That’s all you have to say, really?”

“What the fuck do you want me to say? The bastards found a way to fuck him over while he gets what he wants? That’s the story of every fucking NHL player.” Me included, he did not say.

“You should call him.”

“And say what?” Ilya scoffed. “Congrats on escaping your shitty homophobic team, sorry for not speaking to you since 2015, and oh, yes, I am still married.”

“Not for long.”

“Not the point.”

“Ilya.”

“Please, leave it alone.”

Svetlana was merciful and allowed him to change the subject to her job, his job, how was Anya and all the little mundane things they spoke about. He promised to come to Boston on Sunday and have brunch.

When he finally hung up, he went online and read every speculative article about Shane’s sudden departure from the team that drafted him, the team that had ultimately betrayed him.

Shane Hollander will not be back on the ice for Montreal – what we know about his accusations against his team and where he might go next. Exclusive scoop!

Ilya, like the rest of the hockey world, had been following the scandal about the “accusations”, the icing out, the homophobia, the downright unsafe work conditions. What the public knew probably barely scratched the surface. Montreal had gone from winning cups to leaving Shane alone and struggling on the ice. Then, Shane had come out, admitted he was gay, even told the world he was in a long-term relationship with a doctor, a surgeon, someone nice and stable and probably supportive.

The result? Finally, after months of obvious abuse from the team, visible for the world to see on the jumbotron, Shane had finally filed a formal complaint. Some details had been leaked, which included accusations of unsafe working conditions and harassment. Suddenly, management had been all about reviewing internal procedures and keeping things civil. Shane had stopped playing altogether, refusing to comment publicly.

Ilya wondered if Doctor Kim had supported Shane’s decision.

Three weeks after Shane was free from Montreal, Ilya got a very unexpected text.

Jane: I’m sorry for texting you out of the blue. I know you don’t want to hear from me, but I have to ask you something. If you ignore me I’ll take it as a no.

Ilya waited, not knowing what he was hoping for. I forgive you, fuck me again, I hate you, I need you still. All of the above perhaps. His eyes scanned upwards to the last text Shane had sent, which Ilya had not looked at since it reached him.

Jane: I’m sorry I keep texting, but please just let me know you’re ok?

He felt a stab of the old shame when he saw the unanswered text. This time, he would be answering, no matter what. Finally, a new message arrived, but it was not what Ilya had expected.

Jane: Are you ok with me playing for Boston?

The air went out of Ilya’s lungs in a woosh. He was on the ice, but close enough to the boards to grip. He was sure he would collapse without the support.

“Hey coach, I thought there’s no phone during practice?” Greene, left winger first line, shouted at him.

“Do as I say, not as I do!” someone else replied, but Ilya wasn’t paying attention. There were a few laughs, but then quiet. “Shit, did something happen, coach?”

“No,” Ilya forced his eyes up to his guys. He tried to smile, his eyes seeking out head coach Wilhelmson and giving him a nod.

“Everything ok?” Wilhelmson asked later when he skated close. “If you need to leave early…”

“I’m fine.”

Ilya did not write back until he was home.

Lily: It’s fine with me, I don’t play for them anymore.

It was a pointless statement, as if Shane wasn’t intimately familiar with Ilya’s injury, forced retirement and banishment to Providence. His home was only an hour from Boston, though he spent just as much time in Sveta’s apartment, but he was never at the Garden for a game. He watched his team play at the Pavillion now, where his life was good. His therapist told him how well he was handling it all the time. Sveta was so proud of him, she said often. The AHL wasn’t the NHL, but he had worked hard to find a place, and his team had won the cup last year.

So what if Hollander took his old place in Boston? Shane could have it all. He always got it all.

Except supportive teammates, Ilya reminded himself. Soon, he would have that too.

Ilya might not visit the Garden anymore, but he still hung out with Cliff and the guys, and Ilya knew exactly what sort of gossip they said about Montreal. He had come out to them himself years ago.

“How the fuck do you let homophobia lose you Shane fucking Hollander?”

“Do they just not want to win cups anymore?”

“Fuck it, I’ll go gay for Hollander if he wants to come here.”

“I thought Canada was supposed to be better than us on that shit?”

“They all want to be him and get confused and think they’re gay, trust me.”

“They say let’s just play hockey, but they’re clearly not playing hockey with him? Fucking pussies.”

Ilya knew they would welcome Hollander. If Hollander could ever enter Canada again without an assassination attempt, that was a different question.

The team had the cap space. They had yet to rebuild after Ilya’s departure, which had come at the same time as a series of other setbacks they were still not recovered from.

Shane didn’t reply to Ilya’s text.

A week later and it was official: Shane Hollander was coming to Boston.

Montreal put out a generic statement about wishing him luck in his future endeavours. The entire nation of Canada was in a civil war. People had seen how the team had treated Shane on the ice before and after his official coming out, and they suspected a lot about how they  treated him in the locker room. Those people wished him luck, even in Boston. But of course, there were those who sat on the fence, who said he still should have stayed loyal.

Ilya hated those people almost more than those who just called Shane a fag. Theirs was a fake allyship, conditional, less important than hockey.

Ilya tried not to read the news. He didn’t watch Boston play. He didn’t even check the results.

About a month after the start of the next season, Shane knocked on his door.

He looked stupidly handsome of course; his freckles still perfect. He wore nice clothes, probably picked out by his Dr. Kim. Had the boyfriend moved with him? Did he put Shane over his own job?

“Hi,” Shane said. He looked Ilya up and down. What did he see? Ilya was still fit, he worked out as much as his knee allowed, but surely, he was looking a little worse for wear since they had last seen each other?

“How did you get my address?”

“I-…” Shane looked away. “Cliff told me.” You call him Cliff. Of course you do, Ilya thought. “I told him I wanted to thank you. Send you a gift.”

“Thank me?”

“Yes, which I do want to do. I told him about asking you if it was ok that I came to Boston. He seemed to think it was, like, noble.” Shane shrugged with one shoulder.

“Marlow used the word noble?”

A small smile appeared, and Ilya almost stumbled down his front steps to kiss it away. He was holding onto his doorframe for dear life.

“Can I come in?”

Ilya gestured. Shane approached, and yet Ilya did not move more than to shift sideways so Shane could pass by him into the house. Regret filled him a moment later when Shane was close enough to smell, close enough for Ilya to count the freckles.

Shane took off his shoes, hung up his coat, and then looked at Ilya, who forced himself to move forward into the living room. It was a pretty decent house, nothing like where he lived before, but he still had investments from his NHL days that treated him well, in addition to his ever-growing salary with his current team.

“This is nice,” Shane said, polite.

“Good enough for Mr. Real Estate?”

Shane made a soft “haha” sound, but he was clearly too nervous to take the joke. His thumbs were in his pockets, and his eyes were taking in the décor. Was he wondering where Ilya’s old trophies where? Why they weren’t displayed prominently, so everyone who visited would know he had once been the great Ilya Rozanov?

The pictures on the mantle drew him in. The most prominent was of Ilya’s new team, with their Calder cup, but he was not truly among them. He was at the side, with the other staff, in fleeces instead of jerseys. He was smiling at least. There was another group photo next to it, of Ilya’s first post-Boston team, a college team. He wasn’t smiling as brightly in that one, and the picture had only been put up when he had finally put up the cup-photo.

 “Congratulations,” Shane said, turning back to Ilya. He gestured with his head to the photo. “On the cup.”

Ilya bit back a retort about Shane’s undignified exit from last year’s playoffs. He wasn’t angry at Shane for that, obviously, he just didn’t want to feel Shane’s pity, so he reached for anger and resentment instead.

“Can I get you something? Drink?”

“Oh, no, that’s ok. Can we sit?”

Ilya wanted to snap at Shane to get out and go back to his perfect boyfriend and his new team, Ilya’s team, but instead he just nodded numbly and sat on the couch.

“So,” Shane began, his hands rubbing his knees in nervousness. “I wanted to thank you, like I said-“

“There is nothing to thank me for,” Ilya interrupted. “You can do what you want, Hollander, is not my team.”

“It is, though,” Shane insisted. “The guys say you hang out with them all the time, and they love you. Even before I knew that I didn’t want to make things awkward for you in your city.”

“My city.” Ilya tried not to scoff.

“Yeah, I mean, it was between Boston and Ottawa,” Shane explained.

“Ottawa?” Ilya asked incredulously.

“I was looking at teams who seemed to actually want me, not just,” Shane made a gesture at the concept of “Hollander, Hocky genius”, and Ilya understood. “Boston was obviously the better team, and management seemed really convinced the team would accept me, so we made a deal. I play one year, with the possibility of extending the contract if I feel the room’s good. Ottawa basically told me they’d wait for me if I changed my mind, so this seemed like a good solution.”

“Any team would be stupid not to wait for you,” Ilya said without meaning to. Shane gave him a look.  “So, you are testing out Boston?”

“I think it might work out. It’s been good so far. Really good.”

“They are good men.”

“They are.”

“So,” Ilya clapped his knees. “You have thanked me. Good luck.” He moved to rise.

“Can we be friends?” Shane blurted. Ilya froze before collapsing back into the couch. He took a deep breath, but before he could answer, Shane continued. “I don’t want you to stop coming out to see the guys just because I’m there, and I think I’d like it… being friends, I mean.”

“Yes, fine, Hollander. We can be friends. I’m a friendly guy, you know.” It didn’t seem like the right answer. Shane was clearly disappointed because he nodded and forced a smile. “I am busy so…”

“Right. I should have called.”

Shane got up and walked back towards the door. Ilya watched every detail of him, committing it to memory. He had put on more muscle over the years, Ilya noted. He was probably a good deal stronger than Ilya now. The thought made something strange settle into the pit of his stomach. He suddenly ached to trace Shane’s broad back with his tongue. He was so distracted he almost walked into Shane when the man turned suddenly, looking intense.

“See you around,” Shane said, extending his hand. Ilya couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. Strangely, he felt his eyes sting slightly a moment later as he grabbed Shane’s hand and shook it firmly.

When they let go, Shane took a beat to just look at Ilya. His eyes were at Ilya’s mouth for a second, the bastard. It made Ilya’s reckless side come out.

“I assume you have not told your boyfriend we used to hook up?”

“What?” Shane looked truly shocked. So, he hadn’t.

“He would be ok with us being friends? He will not be jealous?”

“We broke up.”

Ilya opened his mouth to retort, but then the words registered. “He… did not want to move to Boston?”

“No, I broke up with him. He was a good guy, and without him I wouldn’t have been able to file the complaint, but I just knew it wasn’t going to work out. We weren’t compatible.”

“Compatible?”

“We weren't right for each other.”

“Ok,” Ilya nodded. “Well, Boston has a good gay scene. They’ll love you.”

“Will your wife mind that we’re friends?” Shane blurted, the words coming out harsh and angry, but the man reeled back a little, surprised at his own outburst.

“Why would she mind?” Ilya asked, feigning casualness. “Are you trying to be a homewrecker, Hollander?” He regretted the comment immediately when he saw how Shane shut down. It was a ridiculous idea, anyway. Shane Hollander only ever cared about Ilya Rozanov, generational talent, the one who could match him on the ice and fuck him in a penthouse, not Ilya, assistant coach in a suburb of Providence, Rhode Island.

“Right,” Shane said, nodding. “I should go. It was nice seeing you.”

“We are getting divorced.”

 “What?”

“It is only paperwork left now,” Ilya barrelled on. “But it is… friendly,” he struggled to find the word Sveta had used, “amiable,” he sounded it out, “we are still friends, always we were friends, the marriage was not romantic.” It was to save him, he wanted to say, not just his visa, but his sanity. She had needed to watch over him, sometimes literally, when he almost lost the battle.

But he now had citizenship and immigration had never doubted they loved each other. That part had been easy. He had been a citizen for over a year, but they were still waiting to do the final paperwork. It hadn’t seemed important to either of them to rush it. Svetlana still held some anxiety around the idea of not being Ilya’s spouse for emergency reasons.

“You married for…”

“You can not tell anyone.”

“Of course not.”

Ilya nodded, suddenly at a loss at what more there was to say. Have a nice evening, Shane, see you next time you win for Boston and realise you are too good for everyone, including me.

“So, it's open?”

“What?”

“Your marriage,” Shane explained. “You and Svetlana. You see other people?”

“We never…” Ilya huffed and felt his cheeks go a little pink, but a part of him needed Shane to know. “We never fucked while we were married. I was not- She took care of me.” He spoke to his feet, hating how soft his voice went.

“I’m glad she was there for you.”

Ilya nodded, not looking up.

“So, when the paperwork is finalized… could I ask you out?”

Ilya’s head snapped up. Shane held his gaze with a determined stance. Ilya wasn’t sure what he had expected when Shane showed up at his doorstep. Pity, most likely, a fuck for old time’s sake, maybe, but this? No, Ilya did not get “asked out”. Propositioned, at least once every time he went out, yes, even now, but politely asked? He did not think anyone had ever asked that of him.

“Out?”

“On a date,” Shane clarified, as if Ilya didn’t know the expression.

“What sort of dates does Shane Hollander go on?”

“Just regular dates,” Shane said, a smile forming. “What sort of dates do you like?”

“I have not been on many.”

“Well, we’ll figure out what we like together.”

“Together.”

“So, that’s a yes?”

“Why wait, Hollander? We can go to bedroom and have date right now.” Ilya stepped forward, perhaps to prove to himself that he could still have the same effect on Shane.

The effect was still there, and Shane’s eyes flickered to Ilya’s mouth again, breath stuttering.

“I think we should wait,” he said breathlessly.

“Why? I told you, Sveta and me were not romantic.”

“It’s the principle,” Shane said stubbornly. “And also, I think maybe it’s a good idea to just be friends first. I can’t guarantee I’ll be staying in Boston yet. And besides, we might not like each other once we get to know each other.”

Ilya smiled, staring at Shane’s face, cataloguing the freckles up close, the perfect brown eyes, and the lips that Shane had just subconsciously licked.

“I do not know when divorce will be final,” he said softly, shrugging, “it might be over a year. I do not think you can wait that long.”

“Well…” Shane hesitated. Ilya delighted in being right. “We can see how things go, until March at least. Then we can try a date, and see.”

“March,” Ilya whispered, moving even closer. “You have game plan for dating life, like everything else.”

“I like being clear,” Shane said, something a little harder entering his expression. “It helps avoid miscommunication.”

“Dr. Kim teach you that?”

“Partly, yes, but also my therapist. I’m not always good without-“

“Clear instructions,” Ilya finished.

“I just want to know what you want,” Shane said, frustrated.

“What do you want?”

“You,” Shane swallowed. “As a friend, which is what I hoped for when I came here, or as something more, if we can be.”

Ilya swallowed too, overwhelmed by the knowledge that this thing between them might actually be something. Shane appeared completely sincere. Ilya knew he wasn’t capable of lying about this. After everything, after rebuilding his life from the ground up and almost failing so many times, could he really get to have this?

Shane’s eyes were flickering over Ilya’s features, probably trying to figure him out. When he spoke, it was soft but sure, “Can you tell me what you want?”

Ilya leaned in slowly, letting Shane move away if he wanted. Their lips met softly, just a press of lips without any other part of them touching. It felt easy and momentous at the same time.

“Clear enough?” Ilya whispered when they parted. Shane nodded. “Good. We will become friends. Then in March, you can ask me out. Maybe meet Svetlana, get her blessing. She will give it.”

“Good. I’d like that.”

“Good.”  

“Good,” Shane repeated, his smile full of relief.

“Then we will date, and if you make it to the playoffs, we can go steady.”

“Steady?” Shane laughed.

“Yes, is old expression-“

“I know what it means. I don’t think the team’s ready for the playoffs.”

“They have Shane Hollander now. They better get to the fucking playoffs.”

“Well, when the stakes are this high, I guess I better get to work.”

“You should.”

They fell silent for a moment. Shane looked like he really wanted Ilya to kiss him again, but the man had set the game plan, so now Ilya wanted to see if he followed through.

“I should go,” Shane said eventually. They stepped away so that Shane could put on his coat and shoes. Outside his new car stood waiting, a sensible, boring one, of course.

“See you, Hollander,” Ilya said as the man stepped down from the porch. Shane turned.

“Maybe you could call me Shane, if we’re going to be friends.”

“See you soon, Shane.”

“Bye, Ilya.”

Ilya stayed put until Shane’s car was backed out and off down the road, feeling every time Shane caught his eye until there was nothing left to watch for.

When Ilya was finally alone again, he collapsed on the couch, feeling like he would wake up from a dream at any moment. He went through the motions of the day in a daze. When he was seated for his dinner, his phone chimed, and he smiled when he saw the text.

Jane: I changed your contact name, I hope that’s ok.

Ilya: That’s fine, Shane.

Shane: I hope we can see other soon. Cliff said you usually come out with the guys before the first roadie?

Ilya: Yes, usually. I will se you there.

Shane: Can’t wait.

Ilya sighed, and allowed himself to imagine for a moment how he would feel having Shane. A part of him expected it to feel like a reward. Ilya had stumbled and clawed his way into a bearable life post-injury, and now Shane was here, and Ilya was alive. Instead of feeling that, however, Ilya looked around his house, eyes catching on the pictures of his team and the objects that told the story of his life in Providence and realised he was just happy at the thought of including Shane in this.

He picked up the phone and called his wife. She would be delighted.

Chapter 2

Boston

Ilya was going to go insane. He needed to call his therapist. He needed a sedative. He needed to go back in time and tell his stupid younger self that answering Shane’s worried text was more important than anything.

Instead of saving himself heartache in addition to depression, Ilya was stuck in the present, sitting in Connor’s “mancave”, which was a fully decked out sports bar, watching Shane smiling and being friendly with his team. His team, not Ilya’s.

He was so goddamn beautiful it was making Ilya’s skin itch.

Ilya couldn’t even be angry at him. He had been afraid of his own brain. He had been terrified that what he felt for Shane would be crushed under the enormous weight of resentment at seeing him have what Ilya lost.

Instead, he just felt overwhelming fondness and contentment. It was so strange. There was sadness too, he realised. In a different reality maybe they would have played together. But at least Shane was close.

Perhaps too close.

“What do you think our chances are, coach?” Hammersmith asked. The guys’ attention shifted to him. Going from captain to coach had felt forced at first, but now Ilya felt only the team’s affection. It was Shane’s attention that burned a hole in the side of Ilya’s face. Shane was next to him, eyes eager, a little flushed from the beer he was just finishing.

“Team is good,” Ilya said, taking a sip of his beer. “If Hollander can fix his backhand, maybe you have shot.”

Shane laughed along with the guys, and the combined sound made Ilya’s heart skip. He wondered why he hadn’t realised Shane accepted his brand of chirping the same way his team always did? Perhaps, in a way, Shane had been destined for Boston after all? After a few more chirps, the conversations split up again. Shane kept his focus on Ilya.

“How are your guys doing?” he asked.

“Good,” Ilya nodded. “Still high off last season’s win, so we’re trying not to make them complacent.”

“It’s early days, but I’d watch out for Chicago this year.”

“Oh, I know.”

Ilya was not surprised Shane knew practically every AHL team in and out, but it still warmed him how they could still talk hockey without it feeling like Shane was lowering himself. His voice never changed. He spoke about players just the same as when discussing the NHL.

“Man,” Hammersmith, seated across from them, said suddenly. “It is still a trip to see you two getting along like this.”

“The rivalry was really the media playing it up,” Shane said easily, sending a smile at Ilya.  

“Is true. I never understood it,” Ilya shrugged. “We never even fought once, yet still they claim we hated the other.”

“Hey, yeah,” Connor said. “You guys never threw gloves.”

“Well, Hollander doesn’t throw them at all,” Marlow said.

“Like that would’ve stopped Rozanov!”

“I beat Hollander without needing to punch him.”

“Oh, you beat me?”

“When it counted,” Ilya grinned. “First time, for example, in juniors.”

“I literally won the next year.”

“But I won first, just like I got drafted first.”

“I won rookie of the year!”

“Yes, it was probably consolation prize. They knew it would take you so long to win a cup, and MVP.”

“Consolation, wow, big word.”

“Guys, guys, chill!” Connors laughed. Everyone was loving it, though, because the team knew this was how Ilya was, and apparently, now they knew Shane was like that too.

A little while later, Ilya was contemplating heading home. He did not like indulging in too much alcohol these days, so he had driven. It messed with his meds and routine, which would make his knees worse. In truth, he knew how close he had come to indulging too much too often. One of his worst setbacks after his injury.

“Hollander,” Connor said, his voice suddenly more serious. He leaned over the table. “I was wondering…”

“What?”

“You’re single now, right?”

“Uh… yeah?”

“My wife has this amazing personal trainer. Like, if he wasn’t gay, I would not be okay with it, levels of hot. He’s a real sweetheart, and he’s into nutrition. I think you guys would hit it off.”

Ilya wanted to kill Connor.

Then it got worse. Connor’s wife’s personal trainer was apparently known to several members of the team and their girlfriends, and they all started hyping him up, telling Shane he definitely needed to give him a shot.

“I appreciate it,” Shane stuttered, face growing redder as the team’s enthusiasm for the idea grew. “But I’m really not looking to date right now.” Ilya’s heartrate calmed at Shane’s reluctance to even entertain this oh-so-hot, nutritious personal trainer.

“Come on! He’s really into hockey, but in a totally not fanboy way!” Connor was practically whining. It was embarrassing. Ilya knew he was probably glaring more than necessary.

“Who’s a fanboy?” Marlow appeared, back from the bathroom. Ilya had not noticed he had been absent, but apparently Connor and the boys had, because everyone at the table sent their shoulders to their ears and were suddenly not interested in matchmaking.

“Oh, just a friend.”

“Uh-huh, this friend a certain personal trainer?” Marlow asked as he sat down next to Connor. Before the man could answer, Marlow turned to Shane. “Don’t feel pressured, Hollander, they’re just desperate to tie you down.”

Shane’s eyes went wide. “What?” he gave a nervous chuckle.

“We obviously all want you to stay in Boston. So, someone,” Marlow glanced pointedly down the table at several guilty parties, “thought if you met someone special you might be even more inclined to stay. I told them it was an idiotic idea. One, because anyone dating Shane fucking Hollander would probably move for him, and two, because you stay if we play good hockey, not play matchmaking. Oh, and: I know you’d hate being manipulated.”

“It’s not manipulation!” Connor protested. “We just want him to find happiness, settle down!”

“Win all the rest of his cups with us!” Hammersmith added with a grin. A chorus of “hell yeah” went around the table. Shane clearly did not know quite what to do with this type of attention.

“Uh, thanks guys, but I’m really not looking. I’m focused on winning games.”

“And you will,” Marlow said, raising his beer. Everyone toasted, though perhaps Ilya’s wasn’t quite as enthusiastic.

“At least tell us your type!” Connor said, a dog with a bone. Shane shook his head, but he was smiling.

Ilya forced himself to stay a little longer, so that his annoyance wasn’t so obvious. When he finally did excuse himself, Shane did the same, and they both ended up leaving together. In the driveway, Shane stopped him just as Ilya reached his car with a touch to his arm.

“I meant what I said, by the way,” he said when Ilya turned to him, his eyes filled with intense sincerity. “I’m not looking elsewhere.” Ilya tried to find some quippy retort, but his brain went blank. Shane stepped closer, or maybe Ilya did. It was that same old pull, but Ilya wondered traitorously if the personal trainer might be better for Shane in the long run. A stable life, a happy one even, was not enough to keep Shane Hollander, even before Ilya’s unstable patterns of depressive episodes were factored in. He should warn him about those before they got too far lost in the game.

“Are you sure Hollander? This guy sounds like hot shit.” I’m just a washed-out old fuckboy with nothing but a dog and a divorce.

“Very sure,” Shane said, smiling. Just then the front door opened again, and the pair whipped their heads to the side in time for Marlow to emerge. He took one look at them and grinned.

“Should have known,” Marlow said, walking off the porch to stand in front of them.

“Shut up, Marlow,” Ilya said. He glanced at Shane, who was watching Marlow with an unreadable expression. But he was not stepping back, Ilya noticed. “You know nothing.”

“You two circled each other your entire career. It makes sense some of that tension gets converted into… you know.” Marlow waggled his eyebrows. “Besides, you’re blushing, Rozanov.”

“Russians do not blush! I have told you this!” Ilya’s face defied his statement by turning even redder. Even Shane laughed.

“Just for the record,” Marlow said, fixing Shane with a look. “If this goes anywhere I’m going to need to do a proper shovel talk, because Roz is still my guy.” Ilya’s face turned even redder.

“Fuck off Marly!”

But Shane just nodded seriously. “Of course,” he said. He glanced at Ilya then addressed Marlow. “I would never want to hurt him.”

“I am right here,” Ilya felt compelled to say.

“Good,” Marlow said. “Then we’re on the same team. See you bright and early tomorrow. Roz, good luck against Springfield.” He nodded and began walking down the street, his own house just a few down from Connor’s.  Shane watched him walk away for a while before smiling back at Ilya.

“Fuck you too,” Ilya said petulantly, making Shane grin wider.

“They all care a lot about you.”

“Idiots.”  

“I care too.”

“Well, you play with them now, so…” Shane just shook his head, still smiling.

“See you when we get back?”

“Yes. Good luck.”

“You too.”

They didn’t touch, but Ilya felt as though he had been checked into the boards. He drove home in silence and cuddled with Anya, looking up personal trainers and Dr. Kim from Montreal, staring at their polite and handsome faces, wondering what on earth would make Shane want him instead. He resolved to tell Shane exactly why this could not work. They could hook up like they used to, but this polite courting shit had to stop. Once Shane understood just how broken Ilya was, he would find someone who could match him better.

Boston, Sveta’s apartment

“So, are we going to talk about it?” Svetlana asked as she sipped her wine. They were watching an AHL game on the couch after their “date”. Ilya ignored her in favour of pointing out a missed shot. Svetlana rolled her eyes, leaned forward to grab the remote and clicked over to the pre-game show for the Montreal-Boston game.  

“Hey, I need to watch that,” Ilya said, glaring at her. She just stared at him, eyebrows raised. “Put it back.” She narrowed her eyes, tilting her head, and Ilya knew she was trying to figure something out. He ruthlessly froze his face into a glare, hoping he would give nothing away. She saw right through him.

“You haven’t watched a single game, have you?”

“Why the fuck does that matter?”

“Have you watched his interviews?”

“Sveta.”

“You need to watch.”

“Why?”

“Because I know you are crashing,” Sveta said, her voice soft. She put her wine glass down and scooted closer. Ilya avoided her gaze. “You called me after he showed up and you sounded so excited. He’s made it clear what his intentions are. And now,” she placed a hand on his arm. “Now you think reality is setting in, but it is not reality, it is just your brain lying to you.” She touched his cheek, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. “Your brain is telling you lie about all the reasons you can’t be together. You need to watch him so you can see how well he’s doing.”

“So I can see him be better than me?”

“You want him to do well,” she insisted fondly. “Stop lying to yourself. Watch the interview at least. The one he did last week for some Canadian channel.”

In truth Ilya had read a little about the lead up to the Montreal-Boston game. There had been a lot of speculation. Some said Boston had hired bodyguards for Hollander. Just when he was about to come up with a new protest, the people in the studio cut away to a previous interview with Hollander after the New York-Boston game, drawing their attention.

“Congrats on the win tonight,” the reported was saying. Shane was smiling. Ilya had not seen him smile in an interview for a long time. It made something loosen inside him. “How do you think you’ll fare against Montreal on Friday?”

Shane’s face shifted into his serious PR look. “I think we’ll do well. I’m confident we can win it.”

“Do you have any fears about your reception in Montreal?”

“My hope is that we get to play a good, clean game against each other,” Shane said, sounding tired.

“Are you confident Montreal will play a clean game?”

“I know what I will be doing, and that’s what I’m focused on.”

Ilya wanted to shout at the reported for their horrible needling. Shane looked like he wanted to snap.

“How do you feel about returning to the Bell Center? How do you think the fans will welcome you?”

“I suspect they’ll welcome me the same way they do any player from Boston.” Finally, the PR rep pulled Shane and the camera cut back to the pundits in the studio, who immediately started speaking about the fans, cutting to several straw-Shane Hollanders being burned in effigy outside. Extra police had been called in. Apparently, the mayor of Montreal had made a statement trying to calm the situation

“Fuck,” Ilya said. “Why would you want me to watch this?”

“Not this,” Sveta said, voice filled with disgust. She clicked over to the YouTube app and searched up “Shane Hollander interview” and found a sit-down interview Shane had done a week ago for Canadian television, filmed at the Garden. Shane was in his Boston jersey. Ilya felt himself sit up, a flare of heat knocking the air out of him at the sight of Shane in Boston colors.

The first part of the interview was perfunctory. How are you settling in, how’s the team, how’s Boston as a city. Shane looked polite and handsome.

“What would you say to the fans who feel betrayed that you went to Boston?” the interviewer asked, not harshly. Clearly, the questions had been submitted, because Shane did not look shocked, merely thoughtful.

“I understand fans have feelings about it. Players switch teams all the time, for many reasons. I did not go to Boston because of the rivalry. I did it for personal reasons.”

Personal reason. Something in the way he said it made Ilya shiver.

“And look,” Shane continued. “Playing this game is a privilege. I’m grateful every day that I get to keep playing. But I think it’s important to remember that hockey players give their lives to play this sport. We give our health. We sacrifice time with our families. It’s the deal we make.”

“And Montreal didn’t keep the deal?”

“What I felt in Montreal was that they weren’t letting me play. That’s how it felt. I wasn’t a hockey player anymore.” By the tone of his voice, it was clear that Shane could have just as well have said “I wasn’t a person anymore.”

“And in Boston you get to be a hockey player again?”

“Definitely. And the fact that they’ve welcomed me, despite the rivalry, says a lot about them, I think.”

“This is sort of an aside,” the interviewer said apologetically. “But have you seen the video compilations comparing you and Ilya Rozanov? They’re lining up your shots and playing them over each other. Some are saying you’re stealing all his old moves.”

Shane grinned, shaking his head. “I haven’t seen that, no. I’m pretty sure we had similar moves all through our careers. I don’t think I’ve watched more tape of a single player than Rozanov, so it makes sense.”

“Boston hasn’t been the same since his retirement. Do you feel like you can bring them back?”

“Boston will never be like it was under Rozanov. Every era is different. He’s still giving me pointers, so I might have more moves from him soon.”

“You’re in touch?”

“He’s in Providence, doing great work with the AHL, so I see him around,” Shane smiled, even with his eyes, and Ilya felt his heart stutter.

“You’ve managed to become friends?”

“Like the rest of the team, Rozanov was always professional off the ice, and we never had any bad blood between us. It was always about competition. And, he’s still competitive.”

The interview ended on a light note, having avoided anything that might be covered by an NDA. It was a clear PR piece, trying to set the tone for the fans: Shane Hollander was right to leave Montreal, and if you’re upset about that, that is not his job to fix.

Afterwards Svetlana switched back to the live feed of the game.

It was a terrible game.

The booing was unhinged. The refs might as well have stayed home. Players dropped gloves faster than they shot the puck. Boston was protecting Shane while Montreal had it out for him. It was a miracle anyone shot the puck at all.

They couldn’t even get enough speed to hit hard. It was like watching angry cats on the ice. The second one player ramped up, another was already on him, pushing, gloves down, fists flying. Everyone was bloody by the end of the third period. Shane had been protected, but he’d still gotten hit and punched and pushed, but never once had he hit back. Shane Hollander didn’t fight, and Montreal was not going to force him into it. Ilya wanted to scream at him. He was going to get himself injured.

Then security had to start escorting fans out of the stadium. There weren’t many Boston fans in the stans, but Montreal itself was divided between those who wanted accountability and those blindly loyal. It was a shitshow both on the ice and in the stands.

Finally, in sudden death, Shane scored.

The fight seemed to finally leave everyone. 0-1 to Boston.

The absolutely terrible hockey might have knocked some sense into the fans, or maybe they realized that this level of animosity resulted in both bad hockey and bad fighting. The predicted “riots” if Boston won never materialized. If this was how Montreal played without Shane Hollander, maybe they weren’t worth getting arrested for.

When Svetlana finally switched off the tv, she looked at Ilya seriously. “I think you should call him tonight.”

“Ok.”

Chapter 3

Montreal

“I don’t need a babysitter. Really. You should go with the guys.”

“You think any of us are going out to celebrate that shit?”

“No- that’s not- I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” Marlow clapped him on the shoulder. The man was enormous, but he was gentle off the ice, and he had the piercing eyes of a big brother who always knew you were up to something. “None of that was your fault. Anyone who can’t see that is a fucking idiot.”

“I know,” Shane nodded, taking a breath. He wasn’t sure what he had imagined playing for Boston in Montreal would be like, but reality had made a fool of him. At least he had gotten lucky, nothing broken, just horrible bruises and a pathetic win in overtime. Their next game against Toronto was going to be like walking with glass in your shoes.

Marlow clapped him gently once more before disappearing into the bathroom of their hotel room. Shane sat on his bed. It felt a bit weird sharing a room with someone other than Hayden. It felt even weirder thinking about Ilya sharing with Marlow in the past. Being compared with Ilya had been his reality since before the draft, but since Ilya’s retirement it had died down. Now, with Shane’s move, the comparison had come back with a vengeance, and maybe Shane was doing most of the comparing.

“You know,” Marlow said, appearing in the bathroom doorway. “I saw a lot of pride flags up there too, so it wasn’t all idiots.”

“Yeah,” Shane forced a smile. His phone chimed and he glanced down, feeling a whirl of emotions at the sight of Hayden’s text. It was full of understanding that Shane wasn’t going to be leaving the hotel. He wondered how Hayden and JJ were being treated, especially now they had defended Shane against their own team, pulling people apart instead of instigating fights. He hoped they were ok.  

“You should call him.”

Shane frowned. “Who?”

“Rozanov.”

“What?”

Marlow just smirked. “Oh, sorry,” he said, feigning an apologetic lilt, “I mean, you should call Lily.”

“Wha-“ Shane tried to scoff, or laugh, but nothing came out. His body was frozen in fear.

“Am I wrong? Damn, I was so sure I’d guessed right. Lily and her Jane, Boston and Montreal.”

“I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Dude, you were opening up Lily’s text thread like a nervous tick when you first arrived, then you go see Roz, and then the next day you’re opening up the same text thread, only it’s Ilya.”

“That’s not…” Shane shook his head, trying to find an excuse.

“Look, I’m not trying to tease or chirp you about it after a game like that. In fact, I’m telling you, call him. He probably needs it just as much as you. I’ll head to the bar for a drink, give you half an hour.” Marlow moved towards the door, grabbing his wallet and room key from his jacket pocket. Then with one last nod, he was gone.

Shane tried to steady his breathing, processing what had happened. He knew Marlow had seemed ok with the idea of Shane pursuing Ilya, but the secret of Lily had been so ingrained in him his fear response had been automatic. Would Marlow not care, even if he knew Shane and Ilya had history?

He was startled by his phone ringing, fear turning into relief when he saw the name Ilya light up.

“Hey,” he said, heart calming.

“Shane, are you ok?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Just bruises. The guys got it much worse.” They protected him, even more fiercely than Shane could have imagined. He had barely been able to express his gratitude in the locker room after the game.

“Good. Where are you?”

“At the hotel. Marlow went to the bar so I could call you.” There was a pause on the line, and when Ilya spoke again, he sounded fond.

“I’m sorry you have to room with him. His snores are legendary.”

“Yeah, he got me earplugs,” Shane laughed. God, he felt so much better just hearing Ilya’s voice. How had he gone years without this? He swallowed, nervousness creeping back. “He knows about Lily. He saw that my text thread changed from Lily to Ilya, and he remembered you had a Jane.”

“Wow, I did not think Marlow was that smart.”

“Ilya!”

“What, is true. He once asked me if I could see Alaska from Moscow.”

Shane barked a laugh, then sighed. “I can’t wait for this roadie to be over.”

“You mean you can’t wait until March, Hollander?”

“I-” Suddenly, the thought of not falling into Ilya’s arms again the moment he was back in Boston felt impossible. “I do want to take things slow, Ilya. Because I’m very serious about this.”

“You are serious about everything.”

“Nothing more than this. I don’t need a shovel talk from Marlow to know how important it is to get this right, this time.” When Ilya didn’t immediately fill the silence with another chirp, Shane pushed on. He had promised himself when he chose Boston that he would be honest with Ilya about his feelings. After “the season from hell” with Montreal, he was not letting anything get in the way of what he wanted. “But I’m not going to lie, the thought of not being close to you physically until March is very difficult too.”

“Shane…”

“Maybe we could do dinner when I get back? With Svetlana.”

“You want to do dinner with my wife?”

“You said she’d give us her blessing.”

“She will, she has.” Ilya fell silent for a beat. “She knows about Jane too.”

“Oh.”

“I had to tell her. Before, when we got married. I was… it was not easy for me to keep secrets from her then.” Shane took a deep breath, telling himself that was years ago now, and obviously, Svetlana would do anything for Ilya.

“That’s ok. I’m glad you had someone to tell. She’s really ok with it?”

“Of course. She already loves you.”

“Then I can’t wait to meet her.”

“We watched the game together today.”

“Not my best work,” Shane tried sounding lighthearted, but it came out pained.

“They never deserved you.”

“No, they didn’t. They’re pathetic assholes, excepting Pike and JJ, and I hope they never win another cup for as long as I play.”

It was clear Ilya was surprised by the admission, but Shane had worked hard on his feelings for Montreal.

“I hope they never win another cup. Ever.”

Shane was too much of a professional to ever agree, but he loved the protectiveness he could hear in Ilya’s voice. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that the crazy fans and think pieces about his “betrayal” were worth it. He was in Boston for as long as they would have him.

Sveta’s apartment, Boston

“Shane Hollander, we meet at last,” Svetlana smiled beatifically as she pulled Shane into her apartment, kissing his cheeks.

“Good to finally meet you too,” Shane managed, reddening even further when she looked him up and down with a keen eye.

“You are even prettier in person.”

“Uh,” Shane tried to chuckle, “thank you?”

“He’s adorable,” Svetlana told Ilya, who merely grinned at the sight of his two favorite people interacting.

“He is.”

“I feel like I’m being ganged up on.”

“No, no, we will be ganging up on him,” Svetlana said, taking Shane’s hand and leading him away. Shane shot Ilya a slightly panicked look. Ilya just winked back.

“Tell me all about how you are finding Boston.”

Svetlana poured wine and served a diet-friendly dinner. It felt very adult, which even at Ilya’s age always felt strange. Despite being married for years, he had never felt like other married men his age. A consequence of his arrangement no doubt. Seeing Shane and Svetlana across from each other, speaking about their favorite subject, was making him think very inappropriate things.

Shane became increasingly animated as he realized just how well-informed Svetlana was about hockey. In no time at all, Svetlana had him speaking more than even Ilya had heard him.

Inevitably, it turned to Montreal.

“They are tanking their standing on purpose to rebuild,” Svetlana said, waving her fourth glass of wine a little more forcefully than before. “I mean, they are terrible without you, of course, but they are also using that as an excuse to play poorly.”

“For sure. Pike told me Theriault basically said as much, without saying anything.”

“Pike is too good for Montreal.”

“I agree with that, obviously. Our teamwork is the only thing I miss.”

Ilya tried not to scowl, but it was hard. Shane caught it though, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Are you still claiming he’s Montreal’s fifteenth best player? Now?”

“Being best player on Montreal is no accomplishment now.” Shane just smiled and took a sip of wine. Ilya hadn’t asked him about him drinking and Shane hadn’t asked why Ilya wasn’t.

“I hope he finds a good place, when he’s a free agent again,” Shane said. “I just worry for his kids.”

“He can start his own hockey team. He has enough.”

“He has four.”

“He probably miscounted.”

Shane rolled his eyes. Svetlana had a look in her eye, which Ilya did not appreciate. She smiled, eyes fond.

“You do get him,” she said to Shane suddenly, causing him to blink in surprise. “I was worried most about that. That he had to censor himself.”

“Sveta,” Ilya warned.

“Ilya has never censored himself in front of me,” Shane laughed. He looked at Ilya, his eyes going from mirthful to serious. “I never had to either. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more myself than when I’m with Ilya.”

Ilya broke the eye contact first. To distract himself he took a sip of his water, but the effect was ruined by Ilya’s two favourite people giving him knowing looks of affection. After a beat of silence, Svetlana changed the subject, but not to something better.

“Have you dated many people, since your days of hooking up with Ilya?”

“Um, I don’t know what “many” is,” Shane said, too focused on answering the question to realize it might not be appropriate for Svetlana to ask. “I had one other regular hook up after Ilya for a couple of years. A few one-night stands when on the road, all terrible. After I told my parents they kept trying to set me up, so I have gone on a lot of first dates, but none of them fit. Then I met a guy, Andrew, in the summer of 2017. We dated for one season. Then I met Nico. Is that a lot?”

“No, I think that’s normal,” Svetlana said. “Why did you and Nico break up?”

“I guess… It felt like a relationship that had everything good on paper, but…”

“But?”

“Svetlana stop interrogating him,” Ilya muttered in Russian.

“Do not speak Russian in front of my guest, Ilya,” Svetlana admonished. She smiled at Shane. “Ignore him. Go on.”

“Um… I guess it just didn’t feel right?”

“And now you are committed to waiting for Ilya? That feels right?”

“Yes,” Shane said at once, causing Ilya’s heart to thud almost painfully.  

“That’s why you chose Boston?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that officially, but off the record, yes.” Ilya thought he finally knew what it felt like to be close to fainting. He gripped the cold glass in his hand and tried not to look up. If he caught either of their eyes now, he would do something he regretted.

“He deserves the best.”

“Well, I am the best, so.”

Svetlana gave an undignified snort of laughter at that. Shane grinned. Ilya stared at them through his lashes, thinking he might want to exist like this forever.

“I’ve wasted a lot of time,” Shane said more seriously. “Not being honest about who I am, what I need, what I feel or want. So, I’m trying to be honest. To myself and the world.”

“I respect that, Shane. It was a brave thing. The complaint, especially.”

“No,” Shane shook his head, brow furrowing in pain. “I let it die. I let them bury it just to get out.”

“No, you told the world,” Svetlana corrected.

“Not enough. I signed the fucking NDA.”

“We cannot fix the world in one day. You took the first step. Other teams will think twice. Montreal will maybe not change tomorrow, but they will lose a lot of talent in the coming years. More, I think, than they will get in. Especially in support staff and fans.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Montreal’s loss is our gain. I cannot tell you how happy I was when I heard you were coming to Boston.” Shane blushed, because it was obvious by the way Svetlana looked at Ilya while she spoke that she was not just talking about hockey.

“I’m glad. It’s been great so far.”

“Your chances are looking better than I predicted,” Svetlana said. “You are integrating faster with the team than many thought possible.”

“Well, I am really motivated to reach the playoffs this year.”

“More than usual?” Svetlana raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“Definitely,” Shane shot Ilya a smirk.

“Is this some sort of bet?”

“No,” Ilya cut in. “It was joke.”

“I know,” Shane said softly.

The evening slowly came to a close, and Svetlana kissed them both goodbye, whispering “I love you” into Ilya’s ear as she hugged him.

Outside, Shane pointed down the road. “I’m this way.”

“My car is this way.”

“Do you want to…?”

“I have early practice.”

“Of course.”

Ilya searched for something more to say. Perhaps this was the moment? Shane should know Ilya was a lost cause. But he looked so nice, and Ilya was selfish.

“Can I call you next week?” Shane asked.

“Ok.”

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Providence

The thing about Ilya was that he knew himself better now than he ever had. It didn’t always help; he knew that too. Sometimes, his brain just decided that he was going to feel like nothing. His medication kept the worst of these episodes at bay. It had been years since he had been at the bottom of that hole.

This wasn’t that, he recognized. Not just depression, but laced with anxiety. Instead of deep and heavy, the feeling lay high in his chest and felt like constant static.

He wanted Shane to stay in Boston. He wanted Shane to go find a nice man in Ottawa. He wanted Boston to win so Shane never left. He wanted Boston to lose so he wouldn’t have to watch Shane leave because of him.

It became a pattern. If the team lost, Ilya spiraled. If the team won, Ilya beat himself up for wanting too much. He went back to not watching.

His own team was doing well. Their last game before Christmas break was against Bridgeport, at home. It should be an easy win.

Ilya was distracted, however, because he knew Shane was in the audience. Svetlana too, but she had been to many games before.

If the guys knew Shane fucking Hollander was watching them play, they didn’t show it. They were too professional for that. The fans, however, loved every second Shane got put up on the jumbotron, thankfully only before and after the actual game; the producers weren’t that disrespectful to their own team.

Still, something about it made Ilya angry. Was this it? The moment Ilya’s resentment finally found purchase, an excuse to unleash his anger on Shane?

They won. During their celebrations, the cameras cut to Shane and Svetlana cheering and clapping. Ilya wanted to feel good about the support. Why couldn’t his brain just be grateful?

“Great game,” Shane said with a grin when they finally met up. Shane had waited for him. NHL superstar Shane Hollander had used his rare spare time to wait outside the Pavillion for Ilya. What a waste.

“I will tell the guys Hollander approves.”

“Yeah,” Shane laughed, like it wouldn’t make their day.

“Svetlana leave already?”

“Yeah, she said, uh…” Shane blushed slightly. “She said I could give an excuse, but that you would know she was leaving us alone anyway.”

“Ah,” Ilya said, cursing Svetlana’s persistence.

“Do you have dinner plans?”

“Is not yet March, Hollander.”

“I meant as friends!”

“People might get wrong idea if we are seen together without our teams.”

“Well, I don’t really care.” At Ilya’s incredulous stare, Shane frowned at him. “I don’t. Besides, they know you’re married. Svetlana was literally at the game. They can speculate all they want. Or, if you’re worried, we could order in.”

The thought of taking Shane home with him sent a spike of anxiety through him.

“You think I am that easy, Hollander?”

“No, Ilya - I just want to spend time with you,” Shane said with frustration. Ilya tried to reign in his feelings. He was out of control. He felt himself slipping into bad habits.

“I have plans.”

“Oh,” Shane looked sad and confused, like a lost fucking puppy. Ilya was apparently the type to kick puppies. “Sorry, I’ll see you around then.”

“Maybe.”

“Ilya, has something changed?”

Everything, Ilya thought. Everything changed the moment he played his last NHL game. His life wasn’t what it was supposed to be, and Shane wasn’t supposed to be dragged down into it.

“You are the one who said March, Hollander. Is December. I have plans.”

“Fine,” Shane took a step back, his face and body tensing. “Have fun.” He left quickly without a backwards glance. Ilya breathed through his nose, fighting the urge to call him back, to confess his own stupidity. I’m broken, he wanted to scream, it’s not my fault.

He stood still long after Shane’s car was gone in the distance.

People were still talking about Shane and Svetlana at the AHL game over a month later. The Boston fans hadn’t been completely enthusiastic when the Hollander trade had gone through. Of course, they wanted the best, but they had speculated about what sort of man Hollander could be if he had abandoned his team for their arch-rivals. Would he really give them 100%?

After a couple of games, that was not in doubt anymore.

What really cinched it was, annoyingly, Shane being seen at the AHL game. Apparently, the fact that Shane was supporting his old rival, attending a game with said rival’s wife, made Shane into a different type of noble hero. Wasn’t Ilya Rozanov oh-so lucky? To be graced with the presence of his old rival? It was incredible that Shane fucking Hollander even remembered his name from the old days.

Ilya really needed to get off social media. He had watched more fan edits of Shane and Svetlana hugging after the game than the length of the game itself. Of course, the worst of the fans speculated that Shane was cucking Ilya. He took Ilya's team, Ilya's position, Ilya's city, and now all that was left was Ilya's wife. In his darkest moment, Ilya fantasied that he believed it. He never really did, but the nightmare produced some emotion, which was preferable to inaction.

At the end of January, Ilya got divorce papers in the mail. He called Svetlana.

“Are you seeing someone serious?” he asked her before she could finish her hello. He was always more emotional in Russian, because he could speak it so much faster. 

“Ilya,” she said with a tone that spoke of years of patience for his moods. “I just thought we should get this finished.”

“You said you didn’t want to divorce me unless our circumstances change.”

“And they have changed, have they not?”

“No, not for me.”

“So, Shane Hollander did not admit moving to Boston for you?”

“The season is not over.”

“He is not going to Ottawa,” Svetlana said with the tone she used when Ilya was particularly stubborn.  

“You don’t know that.”

“Ilya, whatever your brain is-“

“My brain is clear! What the fuck do you think is going to happen? He’s not in love with a depressed AHL coach who feels the weather in his fucking knees. We used to fuck because it was part of the game. I can no longer play the game. We share nothing now.” The admission sent made his heart hammer in his chest. She could probably hear he was close to tears.

“Stop this, Ilya. You know that is not true. He came to Boston for you.”

“No.” Ilya squeezed his eyes shut, crumpling the papers in his hand.

“Remember what he said, Ilya. He said he was never more himself than with you. Do you think he was lying?”

“No,” Ilya bit out, forced to admit Shane would never lie about that.

“Do you think he would hurt you?”

“Not on purpose.” He heard Sveta sigh.

“I’m coming over. I’m sorry I sent the papers in the mail. I’m coming over right now. We’ll talk it through.”

Ilya slumped against the wall. “Ok.”

Boston

“Coach! Congrats on the playoffs!”

“You as well,” Ilya grinned as Marlow pulled him in for a hug, the slap on his back hard enough to reverberate through his body.

Ilya tried to feel excitement at the thought of his team getting so far. Another good year for Providence meant Ilya’s job was secured.

He usually celebrated his wins with Marlow and his old team. He wasn’t going to inflict his presence on the guys in Providence. Partying with their own coach wasn’t as fun after all.

The problem this time was Shane Hollander standing in the corner of the bar. They had not spoken since Ilya had dismissed him outside the Pavillion. Ilya had convinced himself Shane had decided to move on. Svetlana said he was giving Ilya space by following their original plan, waiting until March. It was currently almost April.

Ilya made the rounds, congratulating his old team mates on their individual contributions, trying not to use his “coach” voice too much, but they seemed to appreciate it nonetheless. He avoided Shane, making sure not to accidentally catch his eye.

An hour, maybe two, later he was at the bar getting another coke. Shane slid up next to him, catching the bartender’s attention just as Ilya’s drink arrived.

“I’ll pay for that, and can I get a ginger beer?”

Ilya stuffed his phone back in his pocket. He did not look at Shane while the man paid and got his own drink. The bartender moved on. Shane sat on the barstool next to Ilya.

“Congrats on the playoffs,” Shane said. His voice was only audible because of his proximity. Ilya tried not to flinch away.

“Likewise,” he bit out.

“So… you come here often?”

“What?” Ilya was forced to glance at Shane in sheer confusion. It was the standard bar for the Boston team, which Shane obviously knew. The man was smiling slightly, a twinkle in his eye. It deflated Ilya’s protective anger.

“What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” Shane asked with an odd lilt to his voice.

Ilya recognised the line from movies, though he had never really understood the meaning of the question. Shane seemed to think for a second.

“How about this one,” he said, leaning forward with a barely contained grin, “Can I be your penalty? Because I’d love two minutes alone with you.”

Ilya snorted before he could stop himself. Shane released his full grin. Ilya shook his head, taking a sip of coke to keep from laughing. “Bad, Hollander, so bad.”

“I’ve got like ten more memorized.”

“Please, stop.”

“I’m good on the ice, but I’m great in bed.”

“You are terrible at this.”

“You make my puck drop,” Shane said, his nose scrunching in confusion. “I don’t really get that one.”

“Shane,” Ilya looked at him fondly, feeling his chest tighten with something other than anxiety. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to flirt. Obviously, I’m not very good at it.”

“No, but you failing at something is charming too.” They smiled at each other, and it felt like the first time they smiled at each other, during a fake face-off for a commercial before their rookie year. Shane was bigger now, stronger and broader than at 19, and had a couple crow’s feet around his eyes, and Ilya was a different person entirely, but it felt the same, just then.

“Can I take you out sometime?” Shane asked.

“Sorry,” Ilya said, looking down at his drink, a wave of dread making his shoulders hunch. “I am a married man,” he managed, voice unsteady.

“I spoke to Svetlana yesterday. She told me to tell you to say what you want and not be stupid about it.”

“Do not get dating advice from my wife, Hollander,” Ilya said without heat.

“Why don’t you want me? What changed?”

“Nothing. Is just reality.”

“Can we go somewhere and talk about it?”

Shane had been leaning steadily closer as their conversation went on, and they were now pressed shoulder to shoulder. Ilya revelled in Shane’s firm, hard presence.

“Please?” Shane all but whispered into his ear.

“Fine.”

He downed his coke and strode out, assuming Shane would follow. If the guys noticed they disappeared together, no one called out to them.

“Did you drive?”

“No.”

“Get in.”

As they made their way silently to Ilya’s home, he suddenly wondered if this wasn’t the worst idea he had ever had. Then he thought about himself at 19 casually convincing his agent and a dozen brand representatives that a CCM commercial with him would look even better with his new rival Shane Hollander.

Anya came running to the door before it was fully open, and Ilya allowed himself to be distracted by her. He picked her up, even though she was way too big for that now and pressed his nose into her fur.

When she was let down, she went to Shane, who crouched to pet her.

“What’s her name?”

“Anya.”

“Hello Anya. Aren’t you beautiful.”

Ilya had to turn away. He disappeared into the kitchen to grab yet another coke, even though his teeth protested. Shane appeared with Anya running past to her bed by the big windows where she could watch the garden.

“Ginger beer?”

“Oh, sure.”

 They sat on the couch in the same positions as last time.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya said. He tried to look at Shane, but it pained him too much.

“For what exactly?”

“For being like this.”

“Like what? Ilya, I don’t know what happened.”

Ilya forced his mouth to open and speak, and once he started, it all came out. “I get… depressed, sometimes. I’m on medication. This time, I was anxious more, maybe, I think. My therapist says I am bad at recognising signs. When I have job and friends who rely on me, she says I am-“

Ilya scratched his forehead, trying to think how to word it. He usually spoke about his mental state with his therapist or Svetlana, both in Russian.

“I am depressed but still functional in day-to-day, she says, but I do not feel very functional. Sometimes I am not functional at all. It is like being sick with flu, only I do not know for how long. I just lie in bed. This does not happen often now, but it can. I have found the good drugs, the right combination. It took a long time. But still…” Ilya took a breath. “My brain can lie to me. Tell me things that are not true.”  

There, it was laid out and Shane would understand how stupid his game plan had been. Better to run to Ottawa and find a nice Canadian.

“I’m sorry you have to deal with that,” Shane said softly. “I get being anxious, obviously, but I don’t know much about depression. I want to know, though. Can you tell me what your brain lied about this time?”

“Maybe not lies. Just…” He sighed, frustrated again. Shane just waited. “I assume your feelings. Think I know what is better for you, what you really want, and is not me. It can never be me. I am not him, anymore.”

“Him? What are you talking about?”

“I am just coach from Providence now.”  

“You’re Ilya Rozanov,” Shane said like he was stating the obvious. “You’re the guy I’ve been obsessed with since before I even played against you. You,” Shane scooted closer on the couch, eyes intense. “You’re still him. You still make me feel like you always did, every time I’m near you. I hadn’t seen you in years and when I finally saw you again it felt like… coming home.”

Ilya swallowed, feeling tears prick at his eyes. Shane’s own were a little glassy.

“But-“

“No buts. I hate that you had to retire, of course I do. But it does not change how I feel about you. We could play go fish and I’d still get that feeling like I want to beat you and lose to you at the same time. I loved playing against you, but it was never about the hockey, Ilya. We could have both worked at fucking Costco and I’d still have fallen in love with you.”

“Oh.” Ilya tried to get his brain to accept all the English, but the last line was crystal clear. “You are in love with me?”

“I mean… yeah,” Shane said, looking away nervously. “Maybe even before I came down here, but definitely after. Yes.” He looked back, determined to look at Ilya despite his apprehension.

“I am too, with you,” Ilya managed. He felt like he might dissolve if he didn’t touch Shane soon, to check if he was real. Maybe Shane felt the same, because suddenly they were reaching for each other and Shane was in his lap and they were kissing and clutching at each other.

It did feel like coming home.

Ilya slid his hands under Shane’s sweater and shirt, delirious with the feeling of finally touching his smooth skin. Shane kissed him like a man possessed, his hands fisted hard in Ilya’s hair.

“I want you so bad,” Shane said against Ilya’s lips, kissing more between every word. “You’re the only one, Ilya. It took me too long to realise I wasn’t missing the hockey rivalry. I was just missing you.”

“Shane,” Ilya gasped. He pulled away slightly just to think clearly. “I’m sorry I did not answer your text, after I got hit. I should have.”

“Don’t be,” Shane said, cupping Ilya’s face. “I’m sorry I gave up on you. You didn’t tell me to fuck off. I should have tried again. I knew you’d be feeling bad about everything and I should have reached out so many times.”

“No more sorry’s, I think,” Ilya said wetly. Shane smiled. They rested their foreheads together, just breathing.

“Do you want to go to the bedroom?” Shane asked. “We can wait, if you’re still not ready,” he added quickly.

“I am not sure I will ever be ready.”

“What?” Shane pulled back to look at Ilya.

“I am not as I was.”

“You mean positions? I can ride you, and we can-“

“No, I can still fuck you, Hollander,” Ilya squeezed Shane’s sides and smirked when he saw Shane’s blush and the involuntary way he bucked in Ilya’s lap. “But, you should not expect…” Ilya felt himself blush in embarrassment. Instead of finishing the statement, he slid his hands to Shane’s front, spreading his fingers over the hard abs he found there, then slid them up towards familiar, well-defined pecks. Shane gasped at the sensation, clearly trying to keep his thoughts straight while Ilya touched him.

“Expect what…?” Shane stuttered. Then, as Ilya’s hands slid downwards again, mapping out the contours of his abs, he gasped an “Oh.” He put his hands over Ilya’s, stopping them, and then reached for the hem of Ilya’s henley. “Can I?” Although everything in him wanted to keep the shirt on, Ilya also wanted things to progress. If this was the moment of rejection, it might as well come now. So, he pulled it off.

As it went over Ilya’s head, Shane got off his lap and kneeled on the floor between Ilya’s legs, his hands going immediately to Ilya’s chest. There seemed to be no hesitation. “You’re insane if you think you aren’t sexy as hell still,” he said. By the look in his eyes, Ilya thought Shane might be telling the truth. Ilya gasped as Shane leaned forward and began kissing everywhere he could reach, moving his way slowly downwards. Ilya’s heart was hammering like he was running bag skates. He cradled Shane’s head, watching him worship Ilya’s chest and stomach.

“Shane… fuck, Shane.” He clearly wasn’t hearing him. Ilya tugged on his hair and finally Shane looked up. His eyes were glassy, and Ilya finally felt that old heat return, the one that told him exactly how to ruin this beautiful man. “I can fuck you, but not on the couch. I need proper bed. Come.”

Shane scrambled up so fast Ilya started laughing, which set Shane off. Soon they were kissing and grinning all the way to the bedroom.

“I have one more pick up line, but it’s one you have to say,” Shane said as they finally arranged themselves naked under the covers. Ilya raised his eyebrow at him, settling between Shane’s thighs.

“Give me line then.”

“I bet my stick would look good in your crease.”

Ilya laughed so hard he shook the bed. He made sure to show Shane exactly how good his stick was.

Chapter End Notes

So that's where I'll leave it because I need to limit myself. Maybe I should add an epilogue so they can have their date. Tell me how you're feeling about it.