Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

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No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

Gen

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike, Hayden Pike/Jackie Pike, Shane Hollander & Jackie Pike, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike & Ilya Rozanov, Jackie Pike & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov & the Pike Family

Characters:

Hayden Pike, Shane Hollander, Jackie Pike, Ilya Rozanov, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Ruby Pike, Jade Pike, Arthur Pike

Additional Tags:

POV Hayden Pike, post-tuna melt meltdown, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, two men struggle to have an emotional conversation that goes nowhere, Hurt/Comfort, get jackie on the phone expeditiously, Episode: s01e04 Rose (Heated Rivalry), hayden & shane are best friends, jackie runs their shit like the navy and everyone should thank her i think, Confessions, Coming Out, when the gay confession doesn't matter as much as the fucking your rival confession, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, unrealistic standards of casual intimacy between two adult men in the mid 2010s, Good Friend Hayden Pike, hayden finds out and then immediately wants to ruin ilya's life, Canon-Typical Violence, Hockey Fights, Texting, Protective Hayden Pike, hayden picks a fight and rocks ilya's shit and then becomes the number one hollanov stan, Good Friend Jackie Pike, vague slut shaming implications, Light Angst, implied/referenced canonical mental health issues, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Hayden Pike Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Supportive Hayden Pike

Language:

English

Series:

Part 5 of heated rivalry masterlist

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AHRFC

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-16 Updated: 2026-02-23 Words: 52,388 Chapters: 4/6

take it slow, take it easy on me

Summary

“I did something stupid,” Shane confesses, inhaling rapidly. He's still crying, still frozen in the doorway, besides his hitching chest and watering eyes. Hayden's never seen him like this, overtaken with emotion, bitter exhaustion in his voice. He makes a soft choked noise, and Hayden immediately wants to kill something, whatever it is that's making him feel so awful. “I—Hayds—you're gonna hate me—”

“No,” Hayden says before he can even finish the thought, almost hurt by the accusation. “No way. You're—I wouldn't. I won't.”

Shane sniffs, offering him a sad smile, his eyes watery and solemn. It's an unfamiliar look, burnt through with sorrow and twisting doubt, sharp worry in the furrow of his brow. “You are,” he says, soft and certain. “I do, and I'm the one who's doing it.”

OR: Shane returns to the hotel room, post-tuna melt. Hayden spirals.

Chapter 1: it's the dirtiest clean, i know

Chapter Notes

“Dude, you were almost late,” Hayden says, over his shoulder, tossing his clothes in his bag. He grins at the note Jackie had slipped in, a tiny we love you! signed by the girls and picks it up, to show Shane, eager as always to talk about his kids. “Look at what—”

He cuts himself off, staring. 

Shane looks ruined, his face a mask of pain, his shirt distinctly not his; dressed in completely different clothes than he left in. Hayden drags his eyes down his body, frowning at the sheer mess of him, before he snaps his gaze up, his brow furrowing. 

“Uh,” he says, blinking. A sour worry begins to build in his stomach. Fuck, he should have packed those antacids like Jackie always tells him to; he definitely has heartburn, because what the hell is this? Is he dying, and Jackie told Shane to break the news? Wait, fuck, is Shane? “Are you okay?” 

Shane nods. 

“Do you—do you want to try that again, and maybe not lie this time?” Hayden asks. He's—he's absolutely not equipped for this, whatever the fuck this is. Fuck, did Lily fucking die? He's not smart enough to be a grief counselor, and he knows that absolutely none of the others on the team are either. Holy shit, this is bad timing; they have so much shit to do later. “Did something happen?” 

“I—” Shane starts, before he closes his mouth. “Hayds—I—”

Hayden shifts closer, careful and delicate, well aware of how easily Shane can spook. 

“Yeah?” Hayden says, soft and thin. Shane's really starting to freak him out now, his eyes dead as they stare at nothing, pain still etched across his face. 

Shane's left eye twitches, and abruptly Hayden realizes he's crying silently, the rest of his body completely still. 

“Buddy,” Hayden says desperately, and decides, fuck it, Shane can be touched a little as he scrambles over to him, one hand settling on his shoulder. It's another sign of how fucking out of it Shane is when he doesn't even shift under the touch, a strangled sort of fear rising fast and hot in his ribs. “Hey, hey—what's the matter?” 

“I did something stupid,” Shane confesses, inhaling rapidly. He's still crying, still frozen in the doorway, besides his hitching chest and watering eyes. Hayden's never seen him like this, overtaken with emotion, bitter exhaustion in his voice. He makes a soft choked noise, and Hayden immediately wants to kill something, whatever it is that's making him feel so awful. “I—Hayds—you're gonna hate me—” 

“No,” Hayden says before he can even finish the thought, almost hurt by the accusation. “No way. You're—I wouldn't. I won't.” 

Shane sniffs, offering him a sad smile, his eyes watery and solemn. It's an unfamiliar look, burnt through with sorrow and twisting doubt, sharp worry in the furrow of his brow. “You are,” he says, soft and certain. “I do, and I'm the one who's doing it.” 

Hayden blinks at him. “Well, aren't we our own greatest critics?” he asks, vaguely dumbfounded. He doesn't even know where he got that from, but it sure sounds good. Maybe Jackie said it to him once? He pats his shoulder, trying to smile, even though he feels like he's going to throw up. Could he ever hate Shane? No fucking way. “Isn't—never mind. What matters is that I'm not gonna hate you, Shane, that'd be, like, impossible.” 

Shane stares at him for a beat before he shakes himself, wiping at his eyes. “I'm being dumb,” he says, shaking his head. He shifts under Hayden's hand, as if to break away, but Hayden tightens his grip, scorched through the soft middle of him with a desperate need to understand. 

“You're going to have to—” he blinks at Shane, shrugging as he fumbles for his words. Jesus Christ, he wishes Jackie were here; she always knows how to translate for him when he gets tangled up in threads. “Or, not have to, but—Shane, you can't—what the hell happened? Are you—did you get—did—?” He doesn't even know how to ask any of the questions bubbling up inside of him. 

He just—he's always thought that he knew Shane. Has always felt that they were, well, best friends, to sound a little soppy with it. But this—he's never seen him like this. 

“I'm fine,” Shane says, like a fucking liar. He pulls himself away, Hayden's hand slipping from his shoulder, the too-big t-shirt sliding across his palm. “It's—I just…I miscalculated. That's all.” 

Hayden almost wants to laugh. 

Shane miscalculated? Shane Hollander? The guy who's so zealous about routines that the entire team has a tiny briefing packet for newcomers so they don't disturb his captaincy? The guy who's so neurotic about the exact things he does with his time that it took Hayden almost two years to figure out that when Shane says I'll be there in seven minutes, he means exactly seven? He washes his fucking hands when he plays in Ruby and Jade's fake kitchen, for fuckssake. He doesn't do miscalculations. 

“Okay,” Hayden says into the silence when Shane says nothing else. “Uh. I don't want to say that you're a liar, but—” Shane stares at him, and Hayden flushes, shrugging. “Dude, you look wrecked,” he says, as gently as he can. “I don't—do you—are you sure there isn't anything I can do?” 

Shane nods and shrugs and nods again, like that clarifies anything, and Hayden swallows down the urge to scream. 

“Okay,” he repeats carefully. “Do you want to shower?” 

Shane blinks at him before he nods slowly. “Do you—” 

“All yours,” Hayden says immediately, gesturing towards it. “Go wild.” 

He backs up, pretending he isn't tugging his phone out to text Jackie as he settles in on his bed, his eyes darting between Shane's sluggish movements and his screen. 

sos, he sends. shane's fucked up. 

The text turns to read immediately, and Hayden swallows back a swear as his phone begins to vibrate, Jackie's name flashing at the top. 

he's still in the room, give me a goddamn second, he types out, swiping away her call. 

what the fuck do you mean, sos? Jackie texts. is he hurt? do you need help? what room? are you still at the hotel? do i need to call yuna and david?

holy fucking shit, DO NOT, he sends. he's crying. or was. i don't—something happened, and he's not in the clothes he was last night, and he looks

He swallows, glancing up to track Shane's back as he heads into the bathroom, still moving slowly. He's seen Shane walk off harder injuries on the ice with more grace.

he looks wrecked. idk. give me a second until he's showering, and I'll call. he's not hurt, like physically. 

you're lucky you're cute, Jackie sends after a long moment. i went into full panic mode. 

yeah, Hayden types out, warmth curling around his heart at how much Jackie cares. i could tell. 

The shower turns on, water thrumming through the pipes. Hayden waits a moment before he rises, heading to the corner farthest away. He'd leave, except he thinks that might be worse, because what if someone overhears him? Shane would kill him. Shane's probably going to kill him if he finds out he's even mentioning this to Jackie, but Hayden's lost; he has no idea what else to do.

He inhales. Exhales.

Fuck it. If it helps Shane, he'll take the anger. 

The phone doesn't even ring once before Jackie picks up. 

“What's going on?” she asks immediately, concern suffusing her tone. “Is Shane okay? Are you?” 

“No,” Hayden says, honest and raw. He feels better just hearing her voice, and all the worse too. He wishes she were here, in arm's reach. “I don't—Shane went out to meet up with a friend last night—” 

“Lily?” Jackie asks, and Hayden hums an agreement. 

“Think so,” he says, his heart in his throat. “And he stayed the night—” 

“That's a big step,” Jackie murmurs. “Before a game, too? He hates a disrupted routine.” 

Hayden nods before he remembers she can't see him. “I know," he says, solemn and earnest, the gravitas of everything bowling him over. “And I think it—” He glances at the bathroom door, pausing to be sure the water is still running, before he continues. “I think it ruined his life.”

“What?” Jackie says. “How?” 

“He came back, and he was crying,” Hayden mutters. He feels like he's going to cry, just thinking about the devastation that was painted across Shane's face. “He’s—everything is in pieces. He's showering now, and we have to be at the rink in half an hour, and he's still in the shower, and he never shows up later than half an hour early because he's neurotic about shit, and I can't—what if this—what happened?” 

“Breathe,” Jackie orders, her tone firm before she softens it, careful and gentle. “I'm assuming you asked, and he gave you nothing.” 

Hayden makes a noise of disagreement before he can stop himself, and she pauses. 

“Or not?” 

Hayden steals another look at the shut bathroom door. “He said I would hate him,” he whispers, unable to cull the worry from his voice. “That he hates himself about it and that I would too.” 

Jackie inhales sharply. “What the fuck?” 

“I don't know,” Hayden says, desperate for any reassurance, shifting on his feet. “Babe, what the fuck do I do?” 

“Could he realistically do something that you would drop him over?” Jackie asks lightly, and sighs when he makes a shocked-sounding noise of disagreement. “Then there's your answer.” 

“How is that a—” He cuts himself off as the door swings open, steam billowing out, another sign of how out of it Shane is. He only takes sweltering showers when he's trying to drown himself because he thinks he's fucked up. 

“Give Shane the phone,” Jackie says immediately; her sixth sense for somehow just always knowing shines through. “Now.” 

Hayden blinks at Shane. “Jackie wants to talk to you,” he says dutifully, and steps over to hand the phone to him. 

Shane takes it without a word, lifting his phone up to his ear. 

Hayden feels insane as he watches Shane's face, tracking the press of his lips, the tremor of his jaw as he listens to whatever Jackie is saying. He still looks quietly ruined, soaked through with an awful sort of pain, but the edge lifts ever so slightly as he cocks his head, stepping over to his suitcase to carefully fold his clothes. 

The delicate care as he smooths out the crumpled creases on the t-shirt, the soft touch of his fingers to the collar; Hayden's not the most observant, but this is—Shane's got to be in love with Lily. There's no fucking way it can be anything else. Fuck, what if she told him that she was done with him? Oh, god, Hayden would've died if Jackie had done that to him; his stomach hurts just thinking about it. 

“Tell them thank you,” Shane murmurs, splintering his thoughts. “And yeah, we can have dinner when we get back.” He sighs, a soft smile curling at the edges of his lips at whatever Jackie's saying, and something eases in Hayden's stomach, the hard knot of worry unraveling. At least they're okay; one less thing for him to worry about. “Yeah, I am still on that bird food diet. Yes. Okay. No, this was—yeah. Okay. Thank you. Do you want to talk to Hayds?” 

He pauses, a pulse of shock spilling across his face. “Oh,” he says, after a long, long pause. “I—” He sniffs, chewing on his bottom lip. “I love you, too, Jackie. That's—yeah.” He meets Hayden's eyes and flushes. “No, he's here—here you—yes, thank you—” He hands over the phone, and Hayden doesn't think too hard about the way his hands are shaking. 

“Hey,” he says, lifting his phone to his ear. He pauses, almost uncertain how to continue after hearing half of that. “Any—”

“He's your best friend,” Jackie interrupts. She sounds worried still, but softer, as if she can feel the odd pain that’s swirling through the room. “You just need to make sure he knows that, babe.” 

“Oh,” Hayden says, feeling dumb. “Yeah, I can do that.” 

“I know you can,” she says, earnest and kind. God, he loves her so much. “Break a leg at the game, honey. We're rooting for you—for you both. Love you.” 

“Love you, too,” Hayden murmurs, pulling his phone away from his ear and tossing it on his bed. He stares at it for a beat, unsure what to do. He doesn't want to not acknowledge that this is—that things are weird, but he also doesn't want to force Shane into anything. 

“I—” He starts, and then falters, peeking at Shane, who's staring down at the black t-shirt with a lost expression on his face. “Shane. You're—there's nothing you could—” 

“I'm sleeping with Ilya Rozanov,” Shane blurts out, so fast that for a second Hayden thinks he's imagined it. “And it got too real, too fast, and I—” He pauses, blinking rapidly. “It…ended poorly.” 

Hayden stares at him. 

“What about Lily?” he asks, faint and shocked. Is he having a heart attack? Is this—is this real life? He thinks he's going to pass out. He wants to laugh, but he's pretty sure Shane will punch him in the face, and Jackie will somehow appear and punch him too. And he'd deserve it, he knows, but also what the fuck is going on. “You've been—you went to see her last night.” 

Shane snorts, shaking his head. He's shaking, Hayden realizes, his whole body shivering. “Lily's Ilya.”

“So this has been…” 

“Years,” Shane says, dashing away his tears angrily. “Fucking—it's been for basically—as long as we've been in the NHL together.” 

“Holy shit,” Hayden says. He feels useless, mouth agape, as things rapidly click into place. “Holy shit.” 

“I know,” Shane says. 

“You play better after you sleep with him,” Hayden blurts out, holding his hands up when Shane jerks around to glare at him. “Holy shit, are the games fucking foreplay? Afterplay? Aftercare?” He gestures at the room, trying to capture what the fuck he means. “Flirting?”  

“I don't—” Shane bites out. He looks shattered, adrift. “It's not—I don't know if it'll ever happen again, okay?” 

Oh my god, Hayden thinks, high-pitched screaming rattling through his ears. The shy smiles, the gentle touches, the fucking texts, the besotted expression that Shane’s never owned up to, even when Hayden’s tried to tease it out of him. Shane's in love with Rozanov.

Oh my god, he realizes, like some fucking idiot three passes behind. Shane's gay.

“I don't care that you're gay,” Hayden blurts out. “I don't even—I mean, I think you can do better than fucking Rozanov. Can Jackie introduce you to one of her friends? A gay friend, I mean. A guy. He's nice! He does, uh, construction?” 

Shane stares at him for a beat before he bursts into silent tears. 

“Oh, shit,” Hayden yelps, scrambling over to him. He scoops Shane into a hug, not even thinking about it. “I'm sorry, I didn't—was it the construction thing? I didn't mean to upset you.” He swears under his breath. Holy shit, Jackie is never going to let him live this down. “I don't—was it insensitive to assume?” 

Shane sniffs, tucking his face in tighter as Hayden clings to him, desperate to make everything better. “Was what insensitive to assume?” he croaks out after a moment of silence as Hayden wracks his brain for how to fix his own goddam idiocy. “You're not making any sense, Hayds.” 

“I don't even fucking know,” Hayden answers, feeling dizzy with relief. “I just—you know. Foot in my mouth syndrome.” Shane sniffles again, and Hayden holds him tighter, all the words he doesn’t know how to say thick in his mouth. 

He’s your best friend, Jackie had said, fuck, he has to say something, doesn’t he? Shane’s sure as hell not going to, not that Hayden can really blame him. He’s sort of already said everything there is to say. 

“I don’t—I can’t say this—this is a shock,” he says, tightening his grip when Shane tenses in his arms. “But Shane, buddy, c’mon. I fucking,”—shit, he’s tearing up, thinking about how long it’s been, how much they’ve been through, how long he’s stood at Shane’s side, grinned at him over the ice, how instinctive it is, to glance up and find him, skating across the rink—“I don’t, or well, it doesn’t matter to me. I don’t care if you’re gay. I mean, I care if you want me to set you up with someone other than an asshole, but I don’t—you can—it’s all—whatever you want. Whatever you need.” He pats his back roughly, unsure what else to say. “Dude, I love you. And that’s—you’d have to like kill Jackie or one of my kids for that to change, and even then, it’ll probably depend on the day.” 

Shane snorts, a wet, sad sound, but relaxes. 

For a long, somber moment, they stay pressed together, Hayden carefully holding him. They’re both going to be late, but fuck it, this is way more important. 

“You’re my best friend,” he finally says, flushing hot at the honesty that crackles through his words. It’s almost embarrassing how it feels to say it so bluntly. “That’s—I’m not gonna drop you over anything. And nothing like this. I mean, I have opinions, like, c’mon, Rozanov, but I’m not—that’s—” He pauses, trying to pull himself back on track. “He made you like, stupidly happy. I think. Unless you have a roster of men, in which case, pick another.” Shane makes a tight sound in his throat, and Hayden sighs, feeling like an asshole. “Sorry. Sorry—I just. I want you to be happy.” 

“I don’t know what to do,” Shane mutters. “I just—I left. I panicked.” 

“Well,” Hayden says, disbelief coursing through him at the fact that he’s about to advocate for fucking Rozanov. God, he hates that guy. “Maybe you take a little bit of a break and then, uh, text him back.” He scowls at the wall. “After we beat him.” 

“Oh, fuck,” Shane says, tearing himself out of his arms. He glances at the clock on the nightstand and swears, darting to the bathroom. “We needed to be at the rink twenty fucking minutes ago.” 

“This was a little more important,” Hayden says, scooping his phone up. “I can text the team and say we’ll be there in ten—something about traffic?” 

“Yeah,” Shane agrees, emerging with all his toiletries, before he dumps them into his bag, another sign of how rattled he is, Hayden notes anxiously. “Yeah, uhm. Yes. And, uh. Thank you. And Jackie. And—” He meets Hayden’s eyes. “Please don’t, uh, tell anyone. You can tell Jackie, because I know that she’s—well. I know that you can’t keep a secret from her.” 

“Yes, I can,” Hayden says instinctively, frowning at him, before he caves under Shane’s raised brow. They both know he’s right. “I mean, why would I though?” 

Shane sighs, but he’s smiling faintly, the closest thing to any positive emotion Hayden’s gotten from him all day. 

“C’mon,” he settles on, grabbing his bag. “We’ve got a—well, we’ve got a game to win.” 

Shane inhales, closing his eyes as he zips up his bag, before he nods. “Yeah,” he agrees, and just like that, he’s Shane Hollander, Captain of the Metros, the ocean of despair sweeping away as he runs through his usual patdown check to be sure that he’s gotten everything. “Yeah. Let’s—let’s go.” 

“Dude,” Hayden says, pausing right at the door, twisting to look at him. “I mean it, alright?” Shane looks vaguely confused, and Hayden sighs, reaching out to press his hand to his shoulder. “I love you,” he says again, flushing slightly. He’s absolutely not used to saying that to anyone other than his kids and Jackie, but he’s not going to let Shane go another moment without understanding how much he means to him. “And I just want you to be happy.” 

Shane blinks, emotion swirling through his eyes, before it shutters, pressed away carefully. 

“I—I love you, too,” he says, quiet and tired. Hayden aches, for a moment, about everything that’s still unsaid between them. He just—he wants to understand, but he knows, he can’t press. Not here. Not now. Not with the game. “Thanks for not hating me.” 

Hayden scoffs, squeezing his shoulder hard, before he lets go and tugs the door open. “Dude,” he says, honest and a little too raw as they spill out into the hotel hallway. “It’s never gonna happen.” Shane hums, and he shakes his head, meeting his eyes again. “Never,” he promises. “And not over something like this.” 

Shane stares at him for a beat before he sighs, the corners of his mouth turning up. “Alright,” he says, before he straightens up, rolling his shoulders back as they step into the elevator. “How about we make Boston really hate us, then?” 

Hayden grins back at him, relief swirling through him. “That’s what I like to hear,” he says, eager to take to the ice, shaking the tension from his body. God, he’s going to fucking check Rozanov so fucking hard, the absolute ass. He doesn’t even care if Shane thinks he’s done something wrong; Hayden knows the truth: Rozanov definitely did something. 

He beams at Shane, a little too wide, a little too bright, but he can’t stop it. They’re going to crush the fucking Raiders tonight, and he’s going to make Rozanov suffer for everything that he’s ever put Shane through. 

“Let’s win this fucking game,” Hayden says, holding the door open so they both can step out onto the street, cold swirling around them. It smells like a snowstorm is rolling in, thick pressure on the wind. 

Good, he thinks, the sharp ice skittering down his throat, curling in his lungs. Jackie’s probably going to be unimpressed when he gets punched in the face later tonight, but she’ll understand when he tells her. She loves Shane, too. 

He grins, barbed and furious as he looks off at the slowly setting sun. Good, he thinks again, aching and upset at all that Shane’s been hiding, at all that he felt like he couldn’t say. His hands are tight around his bag, his feet furious as he steps down towards the car that Shane’s ducking into. 

He can’t wait to see Rozanov. He’s got a smile to bloody. 

Chapter End Notes

i could not for the life of me figure out if they played each other after the tuna melt scene in the show. i ran with yes, since ilya mentions that it's an afternoon game the next day and i can't think of another reason shane & the metros would be in boston, but also what the fuck. how do you even play after that quiet devastation.

it's critical to me that everyone knows that shane takes playing with the girls too seriously. he thinks bad at it because he treats it like it's a real goddamn job. they're like "can i get an order of the princess soup" and he's like "it needs more salt, it's not ready" and they're like "uh, mr. snickers needs some now" and shane's like "he's going to complain. it's not ready, but if he needs it...i guess he can have some."

jackie absolutely knows hayden is lowkey in love with shane. she's so chill with it. my queen. when hayden tells her after the game, she totally says "you should offer to be a rebound" and laughs about the noise he makes for months after.

let me know what you think!

Chapter 2: my care, my coat, leaves on a high note

Chapter Notes

The thing about hockey is that Hayden sort of hates it sometimes. 

Not the game; no, he loves that, loves the slide of his skates over the ice, loves the way it feels to be on a team, loves what it means to chase down the puck, that tiny merciless comet that’s forever slipping away from him. 

No, Hayden hates the rush of anticipation, the fear that builds in his stomach and winds up his spine, that curdles like acid in the back of his throat when they're just waiting to go out. 

But, tonight? 

Tonight he's eager. 

“What the fuck is up with you?” Drapeau asks, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “You look like you wanna kill someone.” 

Hayden, very carefully, does not say the first thing that comes to his mind. 

“Just—ready,” he says, and tries not to be obvious about how he doesn't look at Shane as he laces up his skates. “To win.” 

Someone hoots an agreement, their voice echoing off the walls. Another person slides a Gatorade across the floor, swearing when one of the rookies kicks it by accident. Hayden can see Shane's shoulders growing tighter out of the corner of his eyes, can see the way he snaps his wrists, tugging harder than usual. 

This is so bad. 

Hayden still doesn't look at Shane. He can't, because he'll give it away somehow, he knows. He'll look at Shane, and then someone will go oh my god, Hollander is gay for Ilya Rozanov and Hayden will have to kill everyone who so much as makes a single derogatory comment, and he can't do that.

Like, he could, if it came down to it, but he doesn't want to; he wants to kill the man of the hour, Ilya Rozanov, instead.

“Attaboy, Pike,” Drapeau hollers, squeezing him tight. Hayden winces at the noise and shrugs, unwilling to say more. “Captain, any other words to add?” 

Shane rises steadily, his laces double-knotted, his face clear of anything. His eyes, though, Hayden looks once, and can see the sharp sorrow in them, can see the quiet pain. He grinds his teeth together, looking away. 

He’s going to kill Rozanov. Murder him. Fuck him up at the very least, despite the fact that he’s a good five inches taller than him and definitely has more fighting experience. Just because Hayden doesn’t drop gloves often doesn’t mean he can’t. He’s bloodied his knuckles before—Jackie calls him scrappy, which he thinks is a compliment, but he’s never really been able to parse. 

She does it the most when she ruffles his hair, and it sort of leaves him feeling like he’s a dog called to heel, but there are worse things in the world than being sentenced to a lifetime of Jackie’s iron-fisted rule. 

“We go out there,” Shane says, dragging his attention back to the issue at hand, even as he doesn’t bother to raise his voice. He doesn't need to. Everyone listens to Shane, or they do in the locker room, at least. “And we win.” 

Drapeau nods eagerly, finally dropping his arm from around Hayden. “Let's fucking go,” he roars, the rest of the team howling in agreement as they head for the tunnel, and Hayden hangs back, just long enough to nudge Shane. 

“Okay?” he asks, despite knowing that he’s about to lie. 

“Never better,” Shane mutters, tugging his helmet down. Hayden can read the discomfort in the line of his shoulders and wants to scream. “Let’s—let’s go.” 

Hayden nods, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to hurt, but keeps quiet, following at Shane’s heels. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever been this angry before. 

He knows he’s slow to it; it’s one of Jackie’s favorite things about him, how it takes mountains of emotion for him to stay angry—but it’s also one of his worst, since once he’s actually mad, he has such a hard time calming down. 

And sure, Rozanov has chirped at him before, has needled at him with his quips and jokes, has gotten his blood hot, but he's never been angry with the man; not for real. He's always been content to leave it on the ice, or on social media when Rozanov randomly tweets some insult about him out to the hordes of his adoring fans. It's not his favorite place to be in—and never will be—but he didn't really care; it’s hard to let his words hold any weight when he has a near-perfect life. 

But, now?

Now?

Now that he's seen the aftermath of Rozanov, the reflection of quiet sadness and devastation that's smeared through Shane? 

Now, he's fucking pissed. 

Shane is his best fucking friend. He's the godfather to Ruby and Jade; he's in their fucking will—Hayden would die for him, and he knows that Jackie would too. The fact that there was ever any doubt about Hayden supporting him is eating him up inside, but that’s—he can deal with that later. 

He gets it, in a sort of nebulous way, because he doesn’t think it was ever really about him. He thinks the secrets were about Shane, and about how the league is, and Jesus Christ, he can’t think any further down this path, or he’s going to fucking kill someone. Jackie already spent the whole car ride to the game calming him down over text once he'd spilled the news, and here he is, undoing all of her hard work. 

It’s so goddman unfair, and he knows he needs to rein it in before he gets on the ice, because the last thing he wants to do is drop gloves without reason—even though he has a reason. He doesn’t think Shane would appreciate it, even if it would provide a good distraction. Shit, maybe he should start a fight. Jackie would understand. Jackie would probably be calling for Rozanov’s head on a spike. 

Fuck. 

He has no idea what to do, and he can’t call Jackie—though her last texts of support for him are heavy on his mind—because they’re heading out of the tunnel and the roaring crowds of Boston are greeting them, the jeers bouncing from the rafters of TD Garden. 

He grinds his teeth together as he steps out onto the ice, eyes fixed on the 81 he can see circling in the distance. 

“Hayd,” Shane says, skating in close, his voice low. He doesn’t even look at him, staring instead at nothing, his face set into a bleak mask. It looks eerily similar to his we're destroying them face, something that makes Hayden's stomach swoop. “Drop it.” 

Hayden has no intention of dropping it, even as he nods, his eyes following Rozanov's jersey as the man makes slow loops around the Boston net, talking to Marleau. 

Whatever. He's got this. He's so got this; Boston’s not even going to know what hit them. 

The game comes and goes in waves, flashes of moments unspooling from long, grinding minutes of flying over the ice. 

He has no idea how he’s playing, no idea if he’s being reckless or stupid with his passes, if he’s being too sharp with his turns, too messy with his skating. 

All he knows is that every time Rozanov moves, and he’s out on the ice, Hayden’s there: checking him into the boards, swearing at him under his breath, listening for any taunt to slide out from between his clenched jaw, and slamming into him harder a little than before every time they connect because someone has to take him down a peg, and it's certainly not going to be Shane.

But he honestly doesn't even know if Rozanov says anything, doesn't know anything other than the anger that's curling in his stomach, the fire lining his veins. The boys seem extra thrilled with him, going out of their way to pat his shoulders, to tap their helmets against his as the lines change out. 

It makes him feel odd. He's not doing it for them. 

He's doing this for Shane.

“You can—stop,” Shane mutters at some point, when they're both on the bench, panting with exertion towards the middle of the second period. He doesn’t look at him as he adds, “You don't—you should leave him alone.” 

“Uh-huh,” Hayden says, completely unimpressed. You don't need to take the high road, he wants to say. Get fucking mad, he wants to beg. “Is that an order, Captain?” 

“Fuck you,” Shane spits back, but it's worn and weary, and all it does is harden Hayden’s resolve as he stares at Rozanov across the ice. 

It is odd, though, he has to admit as he cools down ever so slightly, that Rozanov hasn't chirped back at him. He thinks back over their constant tangles over the course of the game and realizes that Rozanov has hardly snarled a single thing back, has let Hayden run his mouth without pushing back for real. 

It's just—it's fucking bizarre. Normally, he can't even breathe around Rozanov without it turning into some kind of goddamn problem, but what, now that Hayden has a reason to throw down with him, he's suddenly taking the high road? 

It's fucking stupid. He's not tricking Hayden, no fucking way, because Hayden knows what he fucking did—or, well, he knows he did something, and that's enough. He knows Shane well enough to know, too, that even though he said it’s my fault without ever actually voicing the words, the odds are it’s not. Rozanov just loves to push, and Christ, thinking about this is only making him angrier. 

Theriault hollers something, and Hayden only realizes it's about him when Shane nudges his shoulder into his. 

He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts from anything other than the game, but it's hard. Way harder than he expects. How the fuck does Shane even do this? How the hell is he playing such a clean game without breaking? He knows that the two of them normally aren’t like this, but how the fuck is Shane so good at hiding?  

They glide out across the ice, Hayden settling in at Shane's flank, his eyes already fixed on Rozanov's blank face. 

It's just—he doesn't look happy. 

He looks pretty fucking awful, but that's not—

No, because that doesn't make any sense. That doesn't make any sense at all. 

Rozanov is supposed to be bitchy and delighted, pleased to have led Shane on for years, to have crushed his heart to pieces.

He's not supposed to look so fucking broken. 

Hayden squints at him and then glances at Shane, who’s so pale he could be made of ice. Neither of them so much as says a word to each other, and anger surges higher in the center of his stomach as he watches Shane blink slowly, something sharp and hurt smeared across the set of his jaw.

Fuck, and they’re in the middle of a goddamn game. He can’t sit down and ask anything, because they’re on the ice, and because he doesn’t even know what to ask at this point. 

He’s just—he’s mad as hell still, and he can’t do anything actually constructive about it immediately, and it, maybe, makes him a little more reckless and a little more bold, so that when Rozanov slams him into the boards a minute later, he doesn’t even think before he’s shoving at him, far harder than he needs to. 

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” he snarls, baring his teeth, curling away from him, and ignoring the loud shouting on the other side of the glass as a Boston fan hoots go home, Pike! at him. His mouth is moving faster than his brain as he spits out, “You slimy motherfucker, I know what you did, you fucking asshole.” 

“Oh?” Rozanov says, breaking his silence finally, and even with the taunting, Hayden can tell his heart isn’t fully in it. It doesn't dissuade him from trying to slam into him harder; Rozanov always deserves to be knocked down a peg. “Score? Yes, Pike, I can see how that would be news to you. Puck goes in the net, yes? Very unfamiliar for you.” 

“No,” Hayden says, sharp and quiet, lowering his voice, before he slaps the puck out of the scrum over to Shane, not even paying attention to anything else on the ice aside from making sure it lands in the cradle of his blade. He lowers his voice even more, only vaguely conscious of where they are as he glares at Rozanov, “I know about Shane.” Rozanov freezes for a beat, and Hayden meets his eyes, dark and serious, anger like he’s never seen before swirling in them. “And you’re going to pay for what you did earlier today. For what you fucking did to him.” 

“You—” Rozanov says, his lip curling. “You know nothing, Pike. Sad, little man, making up stories.” His eyes shift, and there’s the asshole, roaring back to life as he somehow gets closer, swaying in to stare directly into Hayden’s eyes. “Or, no? Is it jealousy? You are upset. You will never know what he looks like, satisfied and worn out. Will never know what he tastes like, hm?” He leans in, their helmets nearly touching, and Hayden can hear the refs starting to take notice of their frozen tableau, but all he can hear is the rush of his heartbeat, the thrum of blood in his veins as rage crawls its way up his spine. This is what he's been waiting for all game; finally, Rozanov is chirping back, the fucking bastard. “Is okay, Pike. He is easy. All he needs is one smile, and he goes to his knees, ready to take it.” His mouth curves into a cruel smirk, and Hayden just knows everything is coming to a head as the whistle blows and his anger rises to a boiling point. Fuck this guy and everything he stands for, all the pain he's given Shane—Hayden fucking hates him. He lowers his voice, leaning in closer as if they're sharing a secret. “Too bad if you try, you will only ever taste me.” 

Hayden blacks out.

All he remembers is dropping gloves and the crack of his fist against Rozanov’s nose, so quick that the man nearly drops, before he shifts forward, all elegant, lean, lethal grace, and Hayden’s yelling at him, screaming insults, before the refs drag him away. 

He surfaces from his rage in the locker room, staring at his knuckles. There’s bright red blood smeared across them. His hand hurts. His knuckles are swollen. Rozanov didn't even get a punch in. 

He's not entirely sure that he's in his body. He’s been ejected, he thinks. He doesn’t really know. 

He can’t believe he punched Rozanov.  He can’t believe Rozanov said that shit. 

Heat creeps back up his spine, at odds with the sweat cooling on his back, anger swirling in his stomach. He thinks he's gonna throw up. 

That's the guy that Shane likes? That fucking asshole who said that? Who threw the fact that Shane—

It was too real, too fast, Shane whispers in his mind. It ended poorly.

He didn't ask enough questions; he's realizing as agitation winds its way through his ribs. He doesn't know what the fuck that means. Did Rozanov reject Shane? Did one of them get caught somewhere? No, they couldn't have, because it would've been everywhere and the team definitely—

Oh, fuck. 

The team. 

He has no idea what to even say to them. He doesn’t even know who the fuck walked him back here, who pulled him off the ice. He's not wearing his jersey or his pads anymore, but he can't remember when he stripped them off, as a chill sinks in through his compression shirt. 

There’s an ice pack beside him, slowly melting, so someone was here, but he’s got no idea who. Honestly, he doesn't think he wants to know. It would make everything worse to understand just how fucked he is right now, and it's all because of fucking Rozanov.

Anger rises in his stomach again, savage and merciless. What the fuck is wrong with Rozanov? How could he ever even say that shit about Shane when Shane's clearly in love with him?

He's fucking pissed. 

He wiggles his hand, wincing at the pain that radiates up his knuckles. Fuck, but Rozanov has a sharp face. He should ice his hand, he knows, but he can't seem to get it together. His words keep echoing, overlayed with Shane's. 

Too real, too fast. Goes to his knees, ready to take it. Ended poorly. He is easy. Too real. Easy. Easy. Easy. 

Is it jealousy?

Hayden blinks and realizes he's nearly bitten straight through his lip, anger coursing through his body. 

What the fuck does he do now? What the fuck can he do? He's so fucking mad, and he's so fucking worried, and all he can think about is how hurt both of them look, but it doesn't make any sense when he tries to line up the expression on Rozanov's face with the words he said.

Because Rozanov is many things: an asshole, a showboater, pure savagery on the ice, but he doesn't go after people like that. Whenever he chirps at Hayden, it's always about him and his supposed failures, or his idiocy, or his shitty hockey skills. Rozanov doesn't go after people he cares about, even though some of the other guys do. 

Kent went after Jackie once, calling her a fucking whore and a broadmare and an all-around bitch, and it had been the only time Hayden had seen Shane actually drop gloves. He'd nearly broken his hand with his punch, but Kent had been knocked to the ice, and that was all either of them had cared about.  

But with Rozanov, it's different. He's always been an asshole, but to a point—it makes this change all the stranger. 

The edges just don't fit with what he knows.  

Shane is—he winces as he thinks it, but it’s true here—far easier to align in his brain when he thinks about tonight. Hurt. Upset. Not nearly mad enough, and Hayden’s just—

He's struggling to understand what the fuck has even happened over the last twelve hours. 

He doesn't know what to do, and the longer he sits here, the worse he feels. He just wants to understand, wants the anger to dissolve under a wave of clarity, wants to know just what the fuck has been going on with Shane and Rozanov for fucking years. 

He leans back against the edge of his stall, breathing slowly, trying to calm down. 

His phone buzzes in his stall, startling him. The abrupt zzzt, zzzt bounces through the empty room, fading into silence quickly, and Hayden glances up and behind, as if he'll somehow be able to get to it without moving. 

Fuck, it's probably the league trying to get in contact with him. He's probably going to be fined, but it's whatever. He'd do it again in a heartbeat, and he and Jackie can afford it. 

He jolts upwards, brilliance breaking through his fog of bewilderment. He actually doesn't have to go through this alone. He can call Jackie. 

He's on his feet, his phone in his hand, faster than he can think, ignoring the way pain reverberates up his arm as he frantically swipes open his phone, ignoring the texts and emails that have clogged his screen. 

“Pick up,” he hisses, hitting the call button on Jackie’s contact. “Pick up, pick up, pick up.” 

The line rings once, twice, and then she's answering, sounding just as normal as ever. 

“Hello?” 

“Babe,” he says, the word bursting from his throat, greedy and desperate for reassurance, before the weight of everything he wants to say strangles him and he falls silent, faltering. There’s just so much he wants to say, he doesn’t even know how to begin. 

Jackie waits a beat before she exhales, slow and steady. “Are you hurt, honey?” she asks. “I saw—I saw the punch.” 

“I'm fine,” he gets out. “I—my hand hurts. But that's—he didn't get—that was it.” 

“Okay,” she says, clearly waiting for more, but he doesn't know how to say anything else. He's got no direction in his thoughts, bouncing from anger to confusion to fear to anger again in a dizzying circle.

“Hayden?” Jackie says, calm and easy, a balm to his rapidly fraying nerves. God, he wants to punch Rozanov again. He thinks he might throw up. He sort of wants to cry, and he doesn't want to deal with any of it. “Do you want to tell me why you decked Rozanov on the ice tonight and broke his nose?” 

He grinds his teeth together and tries not to let the satisfaction leak into his voice. “He—he said some shit about Shane,” he gets out, tugging at his collar. “About how easy he is, about how—” He swallows hard, clenching his eyes. “About how if I ever slept with him, I’d be tasting him. Like Shane's nothing more than a goddamn toy to be discarded.” 

“Out of the blue?” Jackie says carefully, after a swollen pause. Hayden can hear the slow burn of anger kicking up in her voice and doesn't know if he should wince or applaud, because he has no idea if she's angry with him. “Because the replays show you two caught up in something for a moment before you punch him.” She pauses again and then quietly adds, “And you were gunning pretty hard for him earlier in the game.” 

“He fucked Shane up,” Hayden bites out, because this isn't fair; he's trying to be a good friend. “And I can't—I wasn't—I had to do something, Jacks. It's not fair for Shane to take it on alone. And it wasn’t—he wasn’t—I just said that I knew, that’s all.” 

“Hayden,” Jackie says, her voice smooth as glass. He pauses, his skin prickling. He hates this tone; it always means he's done something wrong. “Did Shane ask you to take care of it?” 

Hayden snorts before he can stop himself, scrubbing a hand over his head, raking his fingers through his sweaty helmet hair. “What? No. No fucking way. Shane would never—” Jackie makes a sharp noise in her throat, and Hayden’s voice cuts out. 

“You're not gonna make me feel bad about punching Rozanov,” Hayden snaps after a beat. “He had it fucking coming—he crossed a fucking line.” 

“He did,” Jackie agrees without pause, which settles Hayden, only for her to immediately stir him back up as she continues. “But did he instigate it, or did you start something and maybe drag a deeply personal issue out onto the ice where cameras are?” 

Hayden's mouth flops open. That's not—he didn't do that.

“Jackie—” 

“Did you or did you not potentially air something that could end both of their careers on the ice?” she asks, all of her anger tucked away, nothing but calm disappointment radiating in her voice. 

“I didn't say anything explicit,” Hayden says weakly, his pulse racing. He feels too big for his body all of a sudden, unwieldy with fear. “Rozanov did.” 

Jackie hums, and he can feel shame splintering into his veins, detonating in his stomach like a puck straight to his solar plexus. Because that's not—he didn't—

Holy shit. 

“Shane's going to kill me,” he croaks, weak-kneed as he settles back on the bench. “Forget the punch and the ejection.” 

“Honey,” Jackie says, but she's too late, as panic surges again in him. 

“I think I'm gonna throw up,” Hayden moans, bile coiling in his throat. “I'm—and they’ve—I just found out, and I'm the weakest link. I can't—I wasn't even thinking about it, I just wanted Rozanov to fucking pay because he's the fucking worst—” Jackie makes another noise, and Hayden scoffs, disbelieving. “What the fuck does that mean?” 

“You owe them both an apology,” she says, ignoring the way he inhales wrong and starts to cough, choking on nothing. “Hayden. You and I are probably the only two other people in the world who know. And you immediately used it as ammunition against Shane’s—” She stops talking, her words faltering. 

The air crackles between them, Hayden catching his breath. Shit. He'd honestly never thought about it like that—Rozanov is Shane's. Was Shane's? He doesn't even know what the fuck happened last night, he's realizing, and shit, what is he doing? How did he turn into this?

“You immediately used it against Rozanov,” she murmurs. “Who, one, had no idea you knew, I'm guessing—” 

“Oh fuck,” Hayden mutters, guilt swelling until he's dizzy with it. 

“—and two, probably has no one else in the world to talk to.” She pauses, her silence expectant. 

Hayden stares at the stalls across from him, turning Jackie’s words over in his mind. 

“You can't possibly—” 

“I am,” she says, and he loves her; he fucking would die for Jackie, but this is insane. She's always been perfect in his eyes, but this is—what the fuck. He has no idea why she thinks this is going to work. He broke Rozanov's nose earlier, and now she thinks he can just waltz up to him and not get killed? “Either you make the offer of talking to him, or I do.” 

“Jackie!” 

“Hayden,” she murmurs. “I love you. I've loved you since we were idiots just figuring out what it meant to be together. But we got to do that. We got to go out and hold hands and be obnoxious on Shane's couch and sit in the fucking sun together.” She exhales, shakily, and Hayden can hear how close she is to tears. “And they haven't. At all. And the one person who knows immediately used it as ammunition against them.” 

“Not them,” Hayden protests weakly. “Just Rozanov.” 

“I hope you can hear how stupid you're being,” she says, after a beat. “You need to apologize.” 

“I don't—” He falters. Want to is how he was going to finish that sentence. His ears burn as he shifts against the uncomfortable bench. He sounds like a fucking child, even to his ears. “I—babe, I don't know how,” he settles on. It's the truth, even as it sits poorly with him. “You think I should just go and find him and say, what? Sorry?” 

“Yeah,” Jackie murmurs. “Exactly.” 

“What about Shane?” Hayden says, grasping for straws. “I can't leave him alone.” 

Jackie exhales, something like exasperated laughter in the edges of her voice. “Shane isn't going to want to talk to you,” she says, pointedly. Hayden's stomach drops out, and he doubles over, breathing harshly. “I'm not saying he's going to never talk to you again,” she says, because she can definitely tell that's where his mind is drifting to as his breathing gets tight and panicked. Oh god, he wants to throw up as his stomach roils. “But you and I both know that he doesn't like it when things don't follow a pattern. I'm guessing he told you to stop at some point, given how hard you were going after Rozanov, and you didn't absorb it.” 

Didn't absorb it is far kinder than Hayden deserves, and they both know it. Outright ignored it is far more truthful, but Jackie doesn't need to say it. They both are well aware of how poorly everything's spun out of control tonight. 

“I’ll talk to Shane,” Jackie says, after a pause as they both listen to his panting ease. “I wanted to anyway, and I think he deserves a kinder ear than what he's gotten tonight.” 

“I'm gonna throw up,” Hayden croaks out again. “I'm the worst person in the world.”

“You aren't,” Jackie soothes. “You're just—caught up in emotions. Did you do some things tonight that we should talk about more in-depth when you get home? Yeah, babe, you did. Do I think that your intentions were mostly good? Yeah, that's true too. Do I think that the person who needs support more than anyone in this situation is Shane? Absolutely.” 

“I didn't mean to,” Hayden whispers. It's not enough, he knows it's not, but it's all he has. “I just wanted to protect Shane.” 

“Well,” Jackie says. “The best laid plans of mice and men and all that. And I know I'm asking you to do something you don't want to do, and I know you're a fully grown man who can make his own choices and not do anything. But honey, you hurt Shane tonight. You hurt Rozanov. And I trust your emotional read of Shane, before you got to the rink, so I think you're probably right about him being in love and scared. And you lashed out.” 

“I'm sorry,” Hayden rasps. 

“Good practice,” she murmurs. “But it's not me that you need to say that to. And I think—when you talk to Rozanov, can you try to get his number or give him mine or yours?” 

Hayden straightens up, frowning. “What the fuck?” 

Jackie sighs, like he's being impossible, instead of her recognizing that she's being insane. “He doesn't have anyone in his corner,” she says. “Or, maybe he does. It doesn't matter. What does matter is that you still should offer to be there, either through you or through me.” 

“Rozanov isn't going to want to talk to me,” Hayden says. Is he in a nightmare? This feels like a fucking nightmare. Just in case she somehow forgot, he adds, “I punched him in the fucking face.” 

“I still think you should offer,” Jackie says. “I'm not going to make it a demand, because I know I'm asking a lot of you hockey men when I ask for clear communication, but it would make me feel better. Imagine if you didn't know, but Marleau did, and Shane was left to spiral alone.” 

Hayden pauses, letting the thought bounce through his mind. “I don't like this game,” he says quietly, vaguely sick to his stomach with nerves. God, this whole thing is so fucked. “I do know.” 

“Exactly,” Jackie says, her tone pointedly neutral. “So be a bigger person about it.” 

He sighs, turning it over in his head. He doesn't even know why it feels like such a betrayal for him to offer—aside from the obvious issue of Shane. But Jackie’s right: he would want someone to extend any modicum of support to Shane. 

Which means, he's going to offer Jackie up to Rozanov because god knows that he'll probably lose his mind if they try to talk. Fuck, he's probably going to get fucking punched, and worst of all, he'll fucking deserve it. 

“I love you,” Jackie adds. “This doesn’t take away from that. It never could. But I think it’s the right thing to do, and I think you know it too.” 

“I love you too,” Hayden says, his mind spinning. 

The room is empty, but even if it weren't, Hayden could say that in front of everyone and not even think twice. No one's going to go after him for saying he loves his wife. No one's ever gone after anyone for the I love yous. 

He's never even thought about how easy it is. About how accepted he is. He's just existed, and the world has simply paved the way. It's routine, and he's never even spared a thought. Never bothered to think about how standard and usual and lucky he is. 

Fuck, how many people have been crushed under the weight of pretending? How long has Shane been tangled with Rozanov in a deadly serious way? How many times has Hayden said, but look at this woman, she would be a good fit, and forced Shane back into something heavy and false, all under the guise of him needing to prove he's a good friend?

“You're spiraling,” Jackie says, cutting through the noise. “Hayden, honey, please. You need to keep it together because if you somehow out Shane to the team, he's going to be crushed.” 

She doesn't add, even more than he already is, but that's okay. Hayden can read between the lines and hold onto the disappointment for both of them. 

He inhales, ragged and tense. “I got it,” he says gruffly, wiping at his eyes. “Sorry, sorry, I just—I didn't mean to make him feel so alone.” 

“I know,” Jackie murmurs. “But here's your chance to fix a piece of that. Clearly, he wasn't alone this whole time. He has someone, honey, and isn't that important?” 

“Yeah,” Hayden whispers. “Yeah, it is.” 

They're quiet for a beat, Hayden listening to her even and steady breathing, the shift of her body against the couch. He wishes she were here, wishes that he could hold her in his arms, could hear her heartbeat. 

“I love you,” she says again. “I trust you to know what to do, despite all the confusion. Just,” she laughs, a soft, trembling sound, “be like Paddington. Ruby and Jade have been running around screaming, it doesn't cost me—” 

“—anything to be kind,” Hayden finishes with her, exhaling shakily. It's a familiar enough refrain in their house that it fills him with a little bit of warmth, spilling through his empty, washed-out body. “Yeah, okay.” 

“Okay,” Jackie says. “Be good. I love you.” 

“I love you too,” Hayden whispers, and then she's gone, emptiness ringing in his ear. 

Fuck. 

He lowers his phone, keeping a tight grip on it, and stares into space. 

Jesus Christ, everything's gotten so insane. He can't quite figure out how everything spiraled so fast, how he lost it like this.

It's just hard for him to understand the details since he doesn't know anything, and for Shane to be so hurt—hurt enough to fucking cry—for it to mess up his routine and throw off his patterns, and yet still be the same on the ice—

How long has this been going on? He knows that Boston Lily has been around for forever, but how long has Rozanov actually been around? How did Hayden never catch that Shane was—is?—slicing pieces of himself off, parceling them into neat and tidy boxes, fit for public consumption? 

What the fuck is he supposed to do with this now? How is he supposed to slot the two truths together, that the Shane he knows has been carrying on a years-long arrangement with his fucking rival? 

It's not even like Hayden feels as if he doesn't know Shane, because he does. Shane is Shane: dependable, brilliant, neurotic, an absolute fucking braggart when there’s more than a drink in him, an incredible person who Hayden fucking loves. And still, there’s this—a ghost inside of him that Hayden is only just realizing might be his whole heart.

He can’t even be angry at Shane, or more importantly, doesn’t want to be, and it’s simple enough to let it go.   

It's easy, really, when he spends a single second of time thinking about it. 

Shane, regardless of how true it is that he's in love—Shane is something with Rozanov. And his first instinct, the very immediate one, was to assume that Hayden would hate him over it. 

Hate him, as if that’s fucking possible. 

And that's—Hayden knows the expressions on Shane's face, he was watching the twitching curl of his shoulders, the way his mouth went flat and still, how his eyes flickered over from his forehead to his chin, the shifting under the heavy weight of Hayden's hand—all of that was Shane building to an apology.

Shane fell in love, Hayden thinks, sourness heavy in his stomach as he stares at the ground, and his first instinct is to say sorry. To make himself smaller to fit better under the weight of expectations. To suffer quietly and alone so that he doesn't have to worry about disappointing other people, for the single sin of falling in love. 

He's going to be sick. His ears are ringing, a dull tone rising as he stares at the worn floor of the Garden's visitors' locker room and fights down the urge to sob. 

And this is all without the idiocy he's added in by throwing a fucking punch. Holy shit, he's lucky Jackie even deigned to speak with him after the stupid, bone-headed stunt he pulled on the ice. 

But thinking about the ice riles his anger, because where the fuck does Rozanov get off saying that shit? 

He glares at the floor harder, a scowl overtaking his face as he clenches his phone. God fucking dammit, he hates this. He wishes he could redo this entire fucking game.

“Holy shit, you're still fucking mad, Pike,” Comeau says as he yanks the door open, startling Hayden from his daze. He glances up, taking in the rest of the team as they follow after him. Most of them stare at him as they pass, even as the regular murmurings after a game start up, people tossing easy chirps back and forth. “Dude, what the fuck did Rozanov say to you?” 

“Nothing,” Hayden manages, his throat tight. He can hardly even believe enough time has passed for the game to be over; it feels like too short and too slow at the same time. “It was fucking dumb. I—I overreacted.” 

“Enough to break his fucking nose?” JJ says, frowning at him. His eyes are dark with suspicion when Hayden meets them. “It cannot be.”

Hayden shakes his head, his lips pressed together. “It was a mistake,” he mutters and drops his gaze as Shane enters the room, ice crackling from his body. Goddammit, Hayden can feel how pissed he is as he strides over to his stall next to him. “Didn't mean to leave you shorthanded.” 

Drapeau cackles, throwing his head back. “Hollander had it well in hand,” he says, yanking his jersey off. “Hat Trick Hollander has struck again, boys,” he yells, as the crowd of them hoots and hollers in agreement. “Seriously, Pike—the Boston cocksuckers didn't even know what was happening.” 

Mitty whistles in agreement. “They were some fucking disgusting goals,” he calls over the chatter. “Makes me glad he's on our team.” 

Hayden nods, letting the noise sweep over him, hyper aware of Shane's silence beside him. He zones out as Theriault enters, taking his public scolding with a blank face, well aware of the real punishment that's coming from Shane. 

He wishes Jackie were here. He wishes his kids were here. He'd take any kind of comfort over this frozen stillness beside him, this icy oasis of control that has spilled into his best friend. That he's caused. 

He sits on the bench, waiting as the team slowly peels off to the showers, incredibly conscious of Shane waiting beside him. 

He opens his mouth half a dozen times, only to falter. He has no idea what to say. No idea how to approach this. He doesn't want to start something here, not when he's going to end up in tears probably, but he doesn't want to leave without acknowledging that he fucked up. 

Shane shifts next to him as the heavy press of steam begins to leak into the room, the voices of the team muddled and indistinct as they holler at each other. 

“I can’t even look at you,” Shane finally says, his voice completely flat, and fuck, Hayden’s made everything so much worse for Shane, he can tell. He's staring at the stall across from him, and Hayden can hear the emptiness in his voice. “Play the fucking game, Pike. Or get off the fucking ice.” 

It was for you, Hayden wants to scream, guilt and cloying rage simmering in his veins, thick on his tongue. It was for you, because Rozanov’s done something, he’s twisted you up, he’s made you into this fragile, hollow creature, and you were crying earlier, and I’m supposed to do nothing about that? I’m supposed to just grit my teeth and bear it and pretend? 

He glances at Shane from the corner of his eye, and all the anger vanishes, only sick blame swirling in his stomach. Shane looks like all of his worst nightmares have come to pass, his whole body contained in nothing more than stern, perfect posture. He looks as if he's a hollow puppet of a man, empty of anything that could blemish him—emotions and all. He's vanished into his captaincy, shaken free from the Shane that Hayden knows so well. 

I love you, he wants to beg, wants to plead, wants to prove. Trust me with you. I love you. You’re enough, and I’m protecting you, and I love you. 

He doesn’t say anything as Shane pushes himself off the bench and strides for the showers, leaving him alone. 

He can hear the team still showering, the sound of their voices echoing off the tile. It makes him feel even worse, to be sitting on the bench, hollowed out through the core. 

His phone vibrates next to him. find Rozanov. apologize, Jackie texts. i'm going to call shane in fifteen.

he's showering, Hayden sends back, his fingers numb. make it twenty.

Jackie doesn't respond, other than heart reacting to his message, and Hayden stands, quiet and aching. 

He feels dumb, slow. Like the weight of guilt is a physical thing, tied to his ankles. He just—he was trying to help, and he did the thing he's always afraid he's going to do, which is bulldoze into something he shouldn't and hurt someone he loves. 

He pulls himself off the bench, shrugs on his sweatshirt, and heads out the locker room door, more eager than he wants to be as he flees.  

He avoids the hallway that heads towards Boston's locker room and instead starts down the winding path that leads to the outside. He's seen Rozanov smoking in the eaves by their usual entrance before, which he always took as an intimidation tactic—oh, look at me smoking and still faster than you on skates—but now, he's wondering if it's something he does to catch a glimpse of Shane. 

His heart twists at the thought. 

He can’t even comprehend how much it must hurt to stay in the shadows like that, inventing excuses just to catch a mere glimpse of the person you love. How hard is it to see and want and still be held back, dragged into the dark, a hand over the mouth to muffle any noises? 

Jackie's right, as she so often is: this is so fucking sad. 

And he, in his stupid, awful, idiotic need to help, made everything fucking worse. 

He steps out of the double doors, breathing in the cold press of air, the rumble of the city surrounding him. Distantly, someone shouts, laughter echoing off a building, only to be lost beneath the horn of a car. 

Hayden inhales the familiar, heavy scent of snow and tries to let it calm him down as he moves down the steps, heading for the entrance of the alleyway, only to freeze as someone shifts at the end of it, smoke appearing as they exhale. 

Fuck—that's definitely Rozanov. 

His phone buzzes in his hand, and he glances down on instinct, frantic for anything that would drag him away. Apologizing had seemed daunting inside, but now, on the precipice of it, it feels almost impossible. 

Instead of it being anything that pulls him away, though, it's Jackie's name he catches as he reads her texts. 

apologize, Jackie has sent again, because she knows him better than anyone. His phone is hot in his hands from his anxious fidgeting, before she follows it up with, he might surprise you. if he says something fucked about shane again, though, go for the balls.

jesus christ, he texts back, wincing at her blunt instructions. He glances at the cherry-red end of the cigarette he can see in the gloom of the dim shadows. Fuck, he doesn't want to do this. He bites his lip, adding, you're a menace 

stop stalling. go. give my love to shane when you're done, Jackie orders. don't fuck this up. 

He grits his teeth, sliding his phone back into his pocket. Jackie won't respond until he says he did it, and she's like a bloodhound for lying, and he's just—fuck. He hates having to be the bigger person. He hates everything about what happened. 

Shit. 

Fuck. 

He's really going to apologize to goddamn Ilya Rozanov, the fucking worst person in the whole world. 

Who Shane clearly likes. Or liked. Or wants, maybe? Hayden doesn't fucking know. He doesn’t fucking understand still. 

It's just—Jesus Christ, when the fuck did life get so complicated? 

He'd wish that he didn't know, except that's not true at all, because he wants to know. He wants to know everything Shane wants to share, and he doesn't want Shane hiding out of fear or shame, and that means…

Goddammit. 

He straightens his shoulders, rolling them back and wincing at the pop of tension in his spine. 

He steps down, off the nasty concrete steps, and makes his way down the dimly lit hall, spilling out next to Rozanov, who looks utterly unimpressed as he inhales around his cigarette. 

For a second, they stare at each other, or well, Hayden stares. Rozanov just watches him, his eyes dark. He's far looser than he was, though Hayden thinks the last time he saw him was maybe a little out of the ordinary—the ice, blood, the sharp crack—with his shoulders tipped back against the brick, his legs kicked out before him, casual and steady. He doesn’t even look phased, which Hayden hates to admit, since it does piss him off a little bit. 

“Oh, good,” Rozanov finally says, his voice flat, his nose taped up. He doesn’t even sound anything other than annoyed, as if Hayden’s some buzzing insect, set to bother him. “You have come to finish the job.” 

“Dude,” Hayden says, immediately exasperated as Rozanov drops his cigarette on the ground and stamps it out. “This isn’t fucking—I’m not—I don’t want to fight you.” 

Rozanov barks a laugh, his face dark with anger. “Of course you do, Pike,” he spits out, his brows furrowing as he looms over Hayden. “On the ice was not enough, no? You had to come and pick at things that are not yours. Asking questions that are not yours to ask. Fighting for things that are not yours, not even close.” He scoffs, scrubbing a hand through his hair before he crosses his arms. The bruise on his face is already settling into a shiner, Hayden thinks, and winces. “You are yappy guard dog for Hollander, no? Sent to make sure I will not act out.” He scowls, but Hadyen isn’t watching his face; he’s watching the way his fingers are trembling, ever so slightly as they rest against his arms. “Do not worry, Pike. There is no story to even tell. I said too much—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Go away.”

“I came to say sorry,” Hayden blurts out, and gets the immeasurable pleasure of watching Rozanov’s whole face freeze. “I think I made—I made things worse, huh? Shane—Shane told me to drop it, and I didn’t, and then by the time the third rolled around, I was sort of, uh, noticing that maybe I had been too much of a dick, and it was too late, because you were uh, punched. By me.” 

“I was punched by you,” Rozanov says quietly, staring at him. He looks almost hurt by the apology, Hayden notices, and feels sick. “Pike. What the fuck are you saying? I—” He shakes his head. “I instigated, no? Said those things, asked for it.” He worries at his lip, his face creased in pain. “Deserved it.”  

Hayden huffs, shaking his head back. Deserved it says a lot about Rozanov, he thinks, and fuck, Shane’s so right to be pissed at him, isn’t he? Fuck, Jackie’s right; he started it by mentioning he knew on the ice after trying to fight him all game, and fucking goddamn, he’s the worst. 

“I don’t even know if you’re alone in the problem,” he says, even as rage stirs again in his stomach at the words Rozanov let slip. But the man before him and the man on the ice are two different beasts, and he doesn’t really know what to do with that. “But I know you’re important to Shane, and that’s—” 

Rozanov laughs, sharp and tight. “You do not know anything,” he says, fading back into his usual taunting facade. It looks like it’s an ill-fitting mask this time around, and Hayden hates that he knows Rozanov enough to somehow pick up on that; he blames Shane for all the highlight reels he’s been subjected to, and wow, suddenly a lot of things are making way more sense now. “You say this to try to convince me you are sincere? Bah, is good joke, Pike. Yes, very funny. So funny that I am sick of it already.” Hayden blinks at him, and Rozanov cocks an eyebrow. “I would like to be alone now, yes?” 

“Dude,” Hayden says, bewildered. “Aren’t you Boston Lily?” 

Rozanov stills again, and this time Hayden can’t parse a single emotion that flies across his face, which is a huge fucking relief. 

“How do you know Lily?” Rozanov says, which isn’t an answer, but Hayden can read between the lines. “I had not thought—” 

Hayden shrugs, swallowing hard. “I mean, uh, she's been around for years. And that's just, that's just when I've noticed. But I mean, I didn't know until today.” He squints at Rozanov's face. “Until this afternoon.”

Something sharp and sorrowful crosses Rozanov's face, and oh, fuck, Hayden knows that look. Hayden had that look the entire week he and Jackie broke up their sophomore year; it’s the look of a man who's in fucking love and stupid with the pain of it. 

“Did—” Hayden can't even believe he's about to ask this. “Are you okay?” 

Rozanov rears back, his whole face changing into sharp anger. “You punch—you break my nose, and you ask if I am okay?” he spits out, furious. “You are impossibly stupid, Pike.” 

“Not about your face,” Hayden hisses, guilt sitting in the pit of his stomach. Man, he always feels so fucking stupid after he drops gloves. He hates falling back on punching instead of just ignoring, unless someone's really asking for it. Which, Rozanov was, but in hindsight, he definitely hadn't started it.

No, that glory was all on Hayden's shoulders. Goddamn, he’s on fire tonight for fuck ups. They should give him some kind of an award: dumbest man in Montreal. 

“You look fucking wrecked,” he blurts out. “Like Shane.” 

Rozanov stares at him. 

Hayden stares back, helpless. He doesn't know what he's doing. He doesn’t know why he cares about fixing this so badly, even though he doesn't think he actually does. 

It's just—

Shane likes him, Hayden can tell. Like, even more than what he alluded to in the rushed confession. And that means something. 

Shane doesn't like a lot of things. He doesn't like mess, or mushy vegetables, or sugar, or a loss of control. He's terribly bitchy when push comes to shove, and he's relaxed enough to have an attitude, and he's an absolute menace on the ice, and Rozanov is the complete and utter opposite of him, except for how he isn't. 

This is the fucking worst; Hayden's spent all of five minutes with Rozanov, and he can already tell that the two of them fit. And not even in some bullshit forced way, no, Hayden can see how they'd mesh. How all of Rozanov's assholery would blend with Shane's secret attitude, how they'd fucking click. 

They're hopeless, the two of them, Hayden thinks despairingly, and Christ, Jackie’s never going to let him love this down. He knew watching Love Island with her was going to bite him in the ass. 

“What the fuck even happened?” Hayden asks, giving in to his burning curiosity. “Shane wasn't—it was bad earlier. He wasn't happy, like he usually is.” 

Rozanov arches a brow. “Wow, and you are asking, instead of assuming.” He shakes his head, clicking his tongue. “And world says you cannot teach old, dumb dogs new tricks.” 

“Fuck you, man,” Hayden snaps, raking a hand through his hair. “I was—I don't like you,” he says, watching as Rozanov rolls his eyes. “But you—my wife, Jackie, she's the one who fucking—I'm in Shane's corner, one hundred percent. And she just—” Rozanov gestures for him to hurry up, and Hayden groans. He can't believe what he's about to offer. Fuck Jackie for being so perceptive. Fuck him for loving Shane enough to make a deal with the literal devil. And fuck Rozanov, simply for existing. “You can talk to me. Or Jackie. I won't—I won't freak out. This is kinda—Jesus Christ—literally, this is—do you have any friends? Who knows?” 

Rozanov stares at him. “I am in a coma,” he murmurs, unblinking. “Nightmare, no? Pike is offering—” He breaks off into Russian, and Hayden stands there, listening to the torrent of words he doesn’t understand like an absolute buffoon as his shoulders climb up to his burning ears. 

This is so stupid. 

Still, something keeps him there, waiting for Rozanov to finish cursing his bloodline, or whatever, in Russian.

“I do not need you, Pike,” Rozanov finally says. He looks both haughty and uncertain, as if he's looking for the correct combination that'll scare Hayden away. 

Ha! Hayden wants to say. I'm way more scared of my wife than you, buddy. 

He keeps quiet instead, his eyebrows rising as he waits for Rozanov to answer his question. 

Rozanov stares back, as if waiting for Hayden to move, before his brows draw together. 

“I am fine,” he says pointedly when neither of them has said anything for thirty seconds. “I do not need you or your wife to coddle me.” 

“I don't want to coddle you,” Hayden says quietly. He knows Rozanov is close with Marleau, but he doesn't know if they're close enough to talk about this. The only other person Hayden thinks he knows who hangs around Rozanov is the stunning Russian woman whom Jackie really wants to sleep with. Every time she says that, though, Shane looks like he wants to die, so he's still not sure if it's a joke or not because they always get caught up in his expression, and holy shit, is Shane jealous of her? He fucking—he must be, oh my god, so many things make sense about his bitchy little comments about Jackie being too good for her. Jesus, Hayden needs to stop having revelations tonight. He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. “I want to know if you have other people you can talk to about this.” 

Rozanov pauses, and Hayden presses forward into the tiny gap. “You don't need to talk to me,” he says, frantic. “But my wife, Jackie, can lend an ear. Shane said I could tell her, and she's great, really. Better than I deserve. She is also, unfortunately, on your side. Well, wait—not unfortunately, because that's good for you, but just unfortunate for me, even though I think this is working out. Maybe? I don't know. Please just take her number, or, actually, give me yours. She's going to track it down even if you don't, and it'll all be for nothing in the end. She's, uh, persistent.” 

“Better than you deserve,” Rozanov repeats. “Would not be hard to achieve.” 

Hayden nods, because yeah, that's fair. Rozanov scrunches his face up. 

“I do not want your numbers,” he says. “But I will give you mine to take to your wife. Maybe show her what she is missing out on.” 

“Dude,” Hayden says, tugging his phone out. He's dizzy with relief, the sweet sting of it rushing through his veins. “It's not even you I have to worry about, it's your Russian friend.” 

Rozanov cocks an eyebrow, faint confusion on his face, before he tilts his head to the side. “Jackie likes both?” 

Hayden hums, opening up a new contact and holding his phone out. “Oh, yeah,” he says, watching as Rozanov rolls his eyes but takes his phone, gently tapping his number in. “She's bisexual. She had a whole girlfriend before me, and they're still super close.” 

Rozanov's fingers still, and Hayden glances up to meet his eyes, something unreadable in them. “Ah,” he says lightly. “She is like me.” 

Hayden blinks at him, his eyes wide. “Oh wow,” he says, after a beat of silence. “I—congrats?” 

Rozanov snorts, but Hayden thinks he catches a ghost of a smile spilling across his face before he returns his attention to his phone. “There,” he offers, after another moment of quiet. “My number.” 

“Thanks,” Hayden murmurs, snagging his phone back and sending Rozanov's contact—unsurprisingly named the best hockey player in the world—to Jackie, before he shoves his phone back in his pocket. “Uh. I should go.” 

Rozanov nods. “I am sure Montreal is missing their clown,” he says, tugging a packet of cigarettes out. He leans back against the wall as Hayden wrinkles his nose. “You did not have to apologize, Pike.” 

Hayden shakes his head. “I did, though,” he mutters, shame bleeding through. “It was fucking stupid, and a huge mistake.” 

Rozanov hums, shaking his head. “I am—hm. I pushed, no? Said words to make you upset. Spoke about—spoke about him in a way that could be unforgivable to some.” 

Hayden sighs, the last of his ire melting away. “I don't like what you said,” he says quietly, trying to be as honest as he can, even as it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. “But I also—I was a fucking dick this whole game. And I had it in my head that it was for Shane, even when he asked me to stop. So that's—that's on me. But, for the record—” He draws himself up, staring at him. “If you ever say some shit like that again to me, I'm going to let Jackie do whatever it is she wants to you, and then I'll probably have to bury your body.” 

Rozanov's head tilts, before he grins, wide and boyish, delight like Hayden’s never seen before lighting up his face. “You are scared of her,” he says. “She is, hm, top dog?” 

“Dude, you have no idea,” Hayden says, smirking at him. Man, he can't wait for him to run into Jackie's brutally efficient ways. “She's the scariest. I love her to death, but she's terrifying, and she's so intense—it's fucking wild.” 

Rozanov's face shifts, something almost hurt appearing, before it's buried beneath his cocky attitude. “Well,” he says, gesturing at him. “She has to deal with you. Would drive anyone insane, no?” 

Hayden shakes his head, even as he keeps smiling. “I'm not going to dignify that with a response,” he says, rocking back on his feet. “And I want to leave with some dignity, so I'm leaving now.” 

“You have no dignity,” Rozanov shoots back immediately, before he pauses. “I—I do not like you either, Pike,” he says. “But you have—I will talk to your wife.” 

“Good,” Hayden says, and finds himself unfortunately meaning it. He shakes his head, rolling his eyes as he turns to go. “Bye, Rozanov. Please don't kill me next game for Jackie's sake.” 

Rozanov's sharp laughter follows him up the steps as he heads back inside, even as he makes no promises. 

He meanders down the hallways in a daze, coming to a stop outside their locker room and tugging his phone back out. 

he doesn't want to talk to me, Hayden sends. but i apologized. it went better than i expected, but he's still an asshole. i have his number now, sent it to you. 

he might not talk to you, but he's going to talk to me, Jackie texts back immediately as Hayden chokes on a stuttering laugh. He can picture her face, creased with irritation, the tilt of her mouth as she plans for her next steps. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so glad to have her, doesn’t think he’d be half the man he is without their conversations, without her hand held tight in his. do you feel better? 

yeah, he texts, but then he pauses, because that's not fully true; he feels better for sure, but he also feels bad about so much of tonight. not perfect, though. i need to talk to shane. 

he's back in your hotel room, Jackie sends after a beat, and Hayden exhales so loudly it almost sounds like a sob as he sets his head against the concrete and stares at the words. He wasn't sure if Shane would be willing to talk to him tonight, if he was planning on asking for a different roommate. Just reading Jackie's texts is so reassuring that he almost cries, the screen blurring from his damp eyes. waiting to talk to you. 

i love you, he texts. whatever you want me to do when i'm home, i'm doing it. i couldn't have done this without you. 

i know, she says. rozanov says you're scared of me. 

of course i am, Hayden sends back immediately, even as his mind whirls. Jackie moves so fucking quick it makes him feel wild; he doesn't know how he ever survived without her. i think you hold all the secrets of how to rule the whole world, and you're just being benevolent and letting others have their turns. 

you're cute, she texts. shane wants to talk to you. c'mon cowboy. quit flirting and go talk. 

He heart reacts to her last message, and straightens up, pinching the bridge of his nose. He gives himself one beat of freaking out—of all the outcomes he had predicted this morning, this would have never been one—and steps back into the nearly empty locker room.

JJ glances up as he enters, his face twisting into something sharper than Hayden expects. 

“You are keeping secrets,” he announces, as Hayden’s heart stops. “Are you not?” 

“JJ,” Hayden starts, before he falters. He has no idea how to even answer that. “It’s—can you please just drop it for tonight? It's been a long day.” 

“Shane would like to kill you,” JJ says, instead of answering his question. “The team; they think it is because of the ejection.”

Hayden stares at him, his brows lowering. “And you?” he asks stiffly. “What the fuck do you think?” 

JJ glares at him for a beat before he sighs, rolling his shoulders back. “I think that you both forget that I am here,” he says. “But I do not think that this is the time for tantrums, non?” He stands up as Hayden blinks at him. “If there is anything you need, please let me know.” 

“JJ—” 

“I do not need to know,” JJ says firmly. “I would like to, but I do not need to. There is a difference, okay? But I am on your side. Yours and Shane, and we cannot win when we are splintered so.” He narrows his eyes at Hayden, an unfamiliar scowl on his face. “Fix it.” 

Hayden nods, pressing his lips together. “I’m working on it,” he says. “Are you coming back to the hotel?” 

JJ shakes his head. “I will take a long walk before I meet up with the team at the bar,” he says. “Captain is waiting for you in your room, I fear. I would wish you good luck, but I trust you do not need it and will instead fix it immediately, yes?” 

“Working on it," Hayden repeats, snagging his bag. “See you at breakfast.” 

JJ nods, returning his gaze to his phone, as clear a dismissal as ever, and Hayden heads out of the room, as swiftly as he can. 

He ducks his head low as he heads for the exit, unwilling to linger even more so than usual—not when he's damaged Boston’s captain. He already knows the next game will be a brutal answer to his violence, that odds are he'll go home bruised and battered. He won’t even try to fight it; he knows it’s deserved.

He doesn't bother with an Uber, well-accustomed to the walk back to the hotel that they always stay at—Shane usually drags him out for a brisk walk at some point as a part of his pre-game routine—and it's a quick enough journey as he makes his way back to their room. 

He keeps his head down, despite the fact that he’s rarely recognized, because the only thing worse than a Boston fan is a Boston fan with a grudge; he's seen enough effigies of Shane burned to know that they don't fuck around. 

The last thing he wants is to need a fucking rescue from Shane when he's already upset; it would just be humiliating for them both. 

But the walk back is seamless, Hayden’s face tucked into the collar of his jacket, even as he enters the lobby. unwilling to draw attention from anyone, even his teammates if they're around. He just wants to talk to Shane and then fucking shower and then pass out; the day has been so fucking long. 

It's silent as he enters their shared room, one solitary lamp on, Shane sitting at the couch across from the desk, not even glancing at Hayden as he steps in. 

For a second, Hayden doesn't even know what to do, standing in the doorway like an idiot, before he moves, dropping his bag on the ground and kicking his shoes off, pausing to line them up neatly as Shane likes them.

He drifts over to the desk chair across the room and sits, his mouth dry. 

“Shane—” 

“You can't ever do that again,” Shane says before he can get any further, staring at the wall. His voice is still flat, annoyance threaded through, pain lurking behind the dull tone. Does Rozanov know you like this, Hayden thinks, and wants to kick himself. “I don't—I told you to drop it.” 

“I know.” 

“And you still went after him.” 

“I know.” 

“And you punched him in the fucking face, even though I asked—”

“I know,” Hayden says, his voice breaking. He drops his gaze to the floor, unable to make any attempt at eye contact with him. “Shane, I'm so fucking sorry.” 

Shane inhales. “Are you?” 

“Shane, buddy,” Hayden says, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. “I went and apologized to Rozanov. Believe me. I'm fucking sorry.” 

Shane makes a noise Hayden’s never heard before, and he snaps his head up, meeting his gaze. 

“You what?” Shane says, hoarse and wild-eyed. 

“I—he was smoking, in the alleyway, after,” Hayden says, stumbling through his explanation. “I—he said some shit and I, well, I overreacted, I guess, even though I don't—he was cruel, about you. And I punched him, but I also, I said that I knew on the ice before that, so it was my own doing. But yeah, I mean, Jackie talked to me about it. She was right, of course, but I just—I had to apologize. Dude, I mean, c'mon. You're like, stupidly gone on him. Stupid because of how far gone you are, not because of the gay thing. And, honestly—I can't even believe I'm saying this—but he's not the worst. He didn't even swing on me, even though I'd probably have let him.” 

Shane stares at him for another beat before he bursts into tears for the second time that day. 

“Shit,” Hayden yelps, scrambling over to him, forgoing his usual song and dance of touching to immediately lay a hand on his back as he settles in next to him on the couch. “Shane, buddy, what the fuck did I say? Was I not supposed to talk to him? I thought it might make everything easier if we tried to get along for your sake. Wait, was I supposed to be mad at him? Did he actually do something fucked up? I can punch him again, buddy, just say the fucking word.” 

“I fucked up,” Shane moans into his hands, before he scrubs them over his face roughly. “I fucked up.” 

“Okay,” Hayden says slowly. “Uh. How?” 

“I can't be in love with him,” he says, tugging at his hair. “Hayds, I can't, okay? It's bad—” 

“Whoa,” Hayden says, his brow furrowing. “Who the fuck said it was bad?” 

Shane shrugs, his fingers still knotted in his hair. “I—the world? Everyone? I can't be in love with Ilya Rozanov. It's not possible.” 

Hayden stares at the wall before he drags his gaze back to Shane. “Buddy,” he mutters. “I think you already are.” 

“I tried so hard not to be,” Shane says, and god, if that doesn't gut Hayden where he stands. He can't even imagine watching Jackie from across the room and loving her so completely and being unable to go to her. It would be fucking hell. And to add to that, to love her and think it was wrong? To have such a fundamental truth of his life turned into a fucking burdensome secret, something he can't even think about without worrying? 

He feels fucking sick.

He doesn't even realize he's teared up until one drips off his face, dropping down onto his shirt. “I tried—but no one's ever, and I don't actually want anyone else, and I didn't even know I was gay until this morning, because I couldn't—” 

He inhales, sour and tangled, the sharp gasp loud in their room. “I tried so hard, Hayd. I just—I don't fit with it, and I got—I got so scared this morning, and Ilya told me that it didn't have to mean anything, but we both knew he was lying, and I just—I couldn't be there anymore so I fucking ran away like a coward. And then you—” 

Hayden freezes, guilt spinning through his body. 

“I—you're the first person I told. The only person. And you said you loved me still. Despite it.” 

“It's not despite it,” Hayden says, rubbing his hand on Shane's back. “Dude, I love you full stop. I told you, you'd have to like kill my family to get me to stop.” 

Shane lets out a watery chuckle before it turns back into ragged breathing. 

“I'm mad at you,” he says after a beat. 

Hayden winces. “Okay.”

“I'm sorry that I lied—” 

“Don't apologize—” 

“—and I don't want you to punch Ilya again, but I guess I appreciate that you were standing up for me? What the fuck does that mean?” 

“I don't think I want to add to this,” Hayden says delicately, his mouth twitching when Shane snorts, before he tips his head back, meeting his eyes with a baleful stare. “Fine! He sorta, I dunno man, he said you were easy for him. And that if—Jesus Christ, I can't believe I'm telling you this—if I tried to, I dunno, make a move, that uh, that you'd just taste like him.” 

Shane's brow furrows before he tilts his head to the side. “You're married.” 

“Uh,” Hayden says, bewildered. “Yeah. You were my best man. Did you hit your head after I got ejected?” 

Shane rolls his eyes. “Fuck you,” he shoots back, chewing on his lip. “I just—you wouldn't cheat on Jackie. Everyone fucking knows that.” 

“I'm not—I wasn't mad about the cheating allegations,” Hayden says slowly. He has no idea how Shane thinks that that's the issue here. “I was mad that he kinda called you a slut. For him.” 

“Oh,” Shane says, after a long pause. His cheeks burn bright red, and Jesus Christ, Hayden is not investigating what the fuck that means. “Yeah. Sorry.” 

Hayden sighs. “You’ve got to stop apologizing,” he mutters. “You didn't say it.” 

Shane nods, ducking his head down. Hayden lets the quiet grow between them, familiar with the ways in which Shane untangles his thoughts. Any push, any rush, and it makes the conversation harder, pulling Shane further and further into something that is less honest and vulnerable and more aligned with what will make them stop talking and asking and pressing. 

“I'm scared,” Shane breathes out. “What if I ruined everything?” 

You didn't, Hayden wants to say. I saw the look on Rozanov's face, and he's gutted at the mere potential. He said something nasty, and his attitude held up like a wet paper bag once I put any pressure on it. He loves you stupidly, if only because once it becomes apparent it's the most obvious thing in the world. I think you both threaded this damn needle yourselves and stitched your hearts together, and running is only going to hurt. 

I don’t think you need to worry, he wants to say. I think I’m going to have to deal with Rozanov for the rest of my goddamn life because he loves you, and I’d be more upset about it if it weren’t so fucking obvious that you love him too. I think you’re going to be obnoxiously in love for the rest of your life, and goddamn, am I lucky enough to see you loved like I love Jackie. 

“I think Rozanov is scared too,” he says, because he's apparently lost his damn mind. “But Shane, you're not going to know until you try.” 

Shane muffles a choked laugh, the sound exhausted and wet against his palms. “Jackie said the same thing,” he mutters. “You two are really in sync.” 

A wave of relief crashes through him. If he's repeating things Jackie said already, then he's definitely on the right track. “Well, you know,” he says, patting Shane's back. “It’s just something that can happen if you spend enough time around each other.” 

Shane sniffs, and belatedly, Hayden realizes that it could be misconstrued as a dig at him and Rozanov. “Sorry,” he says hastily. “I didn’t mean to rub that in your face.” 

Shane glances over his shoulder, nailing him with an incredulous look. “You know this isn't new,” he says slowly. “You talk about Jackie like eighty percent of the time. I'm not gonna lose my mind over it now, if I didn't when you two were just getting started.” 

“Yeah, but that was like, rookie season,” Hayden says, before he pauses at the expression on Shane's face. “Wait, when you said basically as long as you've been in the NHL—” 

“Summer before rookie season,” Shane rasps, looking gutted. “Our entire adult careers.” 

Hayden—Hayden doesn't care that he smells like sweat and blood and cigarette smoke, or that if either of them were in their right minds Shane would be squirming away from him; he has to tug Shane into a hug, sliding his hands around his back as Shane carefully settles his chin on his shoulder and clings back. 

Hayden can feel him trembling in his arms, the quiet sniffling that's started up again. 

“Buddy,” he says, raw and wretched with emotion. How cruel to have this love and keep it hidden, how painful to watch as everyone around you steps into the light. How worth it, it must be, if Shane hasn't given it up and has fallen so immediately to pieces now at the hint of a stress fracture. “I'm sorry, and I love you, and you should be as mad at me as you want to be, but I don't want you to—there is nothing you could do that would break the two of us. And I know I just put my foot in it and tried really hard to kick that bond down, so that's on me. But still, I love you and I just—whatever you need, I'm there.” 

“Okay,” Shane whispers, clinging tighter. “Okay.” 

“I don’t—I’m not going to be able to solve this for you, but I think you should talk to him. I think you should reach out and clarify and work on this, because that’s what a real relationship is,” Hayden says slowly, fumbling for his words. “Fear is totally normal—when Jackie proposed, I almost threw up, and I knew it was coming. I wanted to marry her. And this is, well, it’s leagues away from marriage, I’m guessing, but it’s still real enough to be big and frightening, and that’s okay. I just—and I can’t even believe you have me advocating for fucking Rozanov—I think you need to talk to him.” 

Shane sniffles in his arms. “Did you get replaced by a fucking pod person?” he asks, after a moment of silence. “You punched Ilya in the face earlier today.” 

“Dude, I don’t even want to talk about it,” Hayden mutters. “It’s just—I don’t like him. But I also don’t know him enough to not like him, really, and if you think he’s worth getting to know, then I can set aside that for now.” He pauses, and then clears his throat. “I also feel really fucking bad about everything I did on the ice today, and he wasn’t—he was an asshole about it, but he didn’t make me feel worse. I don’t know. I feel like I owe it to him to be honest about how I can really, unfortunately, see it working for the two of you. I mean, I don’t know anyone else who’s ever been able to keep up with you, and I can—when we were talking, it just clicked how well you two would fit.” He smooths a hand down Shane’s spine. “Even if it’s insane, buddy, I trust that you know yourself well enough to know what the fuck is best for you.” 

Shane tightens his grip. “Thank you,” he whispers. “I’m—you’re a really good friend, Hayds, even if you pissed me the fuck off today. This is—I didn’t think you’d ever—I was scared. Am scared, still. What if I reach out and he doesn’t want to talk to me?” 

Hayden sighs. “You’ve gotta just try, dude,” he says. “That’s all life is. Trying over and over and over again. And for what it’s worth, I think he does. But I also think he’s messed up about whatever happened, and that, clearly, makes people say and do dumb shit.” 

“Yeah,” Shane murmurs, pulling back. He scrubs a hand over his face as they detangle. “Okay. Uh. I guess I should call him?” 

Hayden shrugs. “I won’t tell our Captain that you’re sneaking out,” he says, grinning when Shane rolls his eyes. “I think you’d have a better time in person. You hate phone calls.” 

“I just don’t like not seeing people’s faces,” Shane mutters, digging in his pocket for his phone. “I can never get a good read on them.” 

“Oh, like you can in real life?” Hayden shoots back, smirking when Shane glares at him. “I’m gonna take a shower. If you’re not here when I get out, just text me when you get there. And, if it fits, tell Rozanov to fuck off for me. He’s already cocky enough; he doesn’t need to know that he has my blessing.” 

Shane arches an unimpressed eyebrow. “Right,” he says, snide and bitchy. “Because the fifteenth best Montreal player is who he needs to ask.” 

“Dude,” Hayden says, grinning wildly, his hand settling over his heart. He feels insane, fizzy with delight, so happy that they’re back to how they were before, even with the odd tension underlying everything. He’ll take Shane’s snippy comments with a grin and delight if it means that he gets them. What a fucking relief; they can figure the rest of it out later. “I take it back, do not get with him, you’re mean enough on your own.” 

Shane shoves at him, fighting a grin of his own. “Go shower, jackass,” he mutters. “You smell like sewage.” 

“Whatever,” Hayden says, rising from the couch. “If you’re gone, just know I love you, and I believe in you.” He meets Shane’s gaze, smiling at him, his mouth trembling. “You can do hard things, buddy. And you deserve happiness.” 

Shane blinks at him, his eyes damp even as tears don’t fall. “I can do hard things,” he murmurs, as if it’s a revelation and not his everyday life. God, Hayden loves him so fucking much. “I love you too.” 

Hayden nods, just once, blinking back more tears, before he turns and heads for the shower, eager to scrub the worst of the game off of him as Shane shuffles around in the background. 

Somehow, he has a feeling he’ll come out to an empty room. He hopes, at least. 

His phone buzzes on the counter as he strips down, the sharp noise echoing over the rushing water. 

proud of you, Jackie texts. a little birdy told me they were braving the boston chill to go see someone. 

Hayden grins at the screen, stupidly thrilled. 

good, he sends back. i told him he could do hard things. that he deserved happiness. 

he does. he can, Jackie writes. still, there was a lot of emotion tonight, and i’m proud of you despite it all. 

oddly backhanded, he says, even though he deserves it, before adding, do you think they’ll make it through this? 

honey, Jackie texts, and he can hear her exasperated tone even through the texts; that was never a question. of fucking course they can. 

i guess we’re gonna see a lot more of rozanov, Hayden says, his nose wrinkling as he swipes at the condensation collecting on his screen. i wonder what he’s like around shane. 

we’ll find out next game in montreal, Jackie sends. they’re coming over for dinner. 

what????? Hayden texts and groans as Jackie stops responding, leaving him on read. 

He glances up, catching sight of his grin in the mirror, and rolls his eyes at himself. What a fucking night. 

His phone buzzes again.

going to ilya’s, Shane’s text reads. don’t wait up. 

There’s a pause, and then, thank you. 

of course, Hayden sends back, and means it with his whole fucking heart as he adds, always. 

Chapter End Notes

ngl, the comments got me so bad. this is for every single one of you who asked.

i'm debating writing a third part? idk, jackie pov is lowkey calling my name... much to think about. i love her.

and yes, in this verse, shane stays the night so the tuna melt scene happens uhhh in the morning? i guess they can be freaks and have tuna for breakfast [i'm an avid tuna melt enjoyer, it's just the idea of it being the first meal of the day that's wild].

lmk what you think and follow me on twit!

Chapter 3: an interlude: such a [****]able lamb to me

Chapter Notes

not a hayden chapter, not a jackie chapter... but instead, a secret third thing: an ilya chapter

If there is one emotion in the fucking world Ilya never wants to feel, it's gratitude for fucking Hayden Pike. 

And yet, here he is, staring at the minutes-old text from Shane. 

I'm—I want to apologize. In person. Is it okay if I come over? No pressure. I understand if you want space. 

He thumbs across the screen, pressing down, as if the ridges of the words I want to apologize could drag against his skin. 

He can't remember the last time someone said sorry. 

Well. Outside of tonight. And what a fucking shitshow tonight has been.

the door is unlocked, he had written back, and it had taken everything in him not to send i'm sorry, please don't run again or tell me what i did so i can't do it again, or even worse, just, i miss you. 

And he knows this is all because of fucking Hayden Pike. 

His face aches, the dull shine of a black eye growing darker by the minute. 

It's strange how almost honored he is to have affected Pike badly enough to have been punched by him. Pike rarely drops gloves, and it's always a point of defending someone when he does. His team had been enraged, as they often were when he got injured, but it was a different sort of anger, a wondrous sort of, what the fuck did you say?, which, at the time, had only made him angrier. 

Now, though, it's a reminder: there are lines he should not cross, even when he feels as though he is being dragged down to hell. Fuck Hayden Pike and his dull, insipid playing, but also, good for him, for refusing to accept the venom he spat.

Hockey, Ilya has found over these long, wild years, is quite a nebulous thing, for all its the same, time and time again. It's good to be reminded of the edges every once in a while.

His phone buzzes, dragging his attention back to the screen. 

next time you're in montreal, dinner? Jackie texts, as if they're old friends and not only maybe beginning, before another one slides across his screen. It's been shockingly easy to speak with her, though he can admit that knowing she's bisexual gave her an edge. He's just fallen back into treating her with about the same amount of dickishness as Sveta, and she's been a fucking delight once she got all her apologies for her husband out of the way. It helps, too, that she sent him some very cute pictures of her three kids in Hollander jerseys—anything is better than a Pike jersey. no pressure, and i'm extending this pointedly, no matter what happens tonight, because even if Hayden did apologize, he should've never swung on you with such limited information. even if you were a dick. 

Ilya snorts, his mouth twitching. He has no idea how Pike has married someone who’s so immediately great, except for how he does, since he can't get the earnest look on his face out of his mind. 

Are you okay? Hayden Pike had asked, and Ilya, struck stupid by the sheer kindness of the question, had unraveled like a pathetic, tenderhearted thing, a string caught on a branch; undone by a simple fucking question. 

am always a dick, he sends back, shoving his discomfort back, and fights a smile when she laugh-reacts, only to freeze when she texts back again. 

i have a feeling you aren't with shane, she sends. we're rooting for you two. 

Ilya swallows hard and flips his phone over. He can't read that again. Once was already too much. 

He doesn't know what's happening. 

He had texted Shane back immediately, because of course he had. He's ugly with his wants; a tree emptied of its leaves, spindly and reaching for a sky that only brings heavy snow, stripped bare by his hopes. 

He cannot help it. 

He wants to know what Shane Hollander looks like when he apologizes. He wants to know what Shane Hollander looks like in the mornings when he doesn't flee. He wants to know what it feels like to be able to touch Shane Hollander in the quiet moments when there is no desperation, to know that he will be allowed, to know that he will be welcome.

He wants and wants and wants, and it's the worst thing in the world. 

He leaves his phone on the counter and steps over to his fridge, cracking it open to stare at its contents. 

Nothing's changed since this morning, something that feels monumental after all the missteps today. The lines of ginger ale are still carefully stacked next to the cokes. The premade tuna sits in its container, half full. The condiments are all tucked away in their usual spots, cold and unmoved. A tomato lies, half used, in a plastic container that's far too large for it. 

He stares at it for long enough that his fridge starts to beep at him, impatient with all the cold air he's letting out, and he lets it swing shut, mindlessly continuing his stare at the paneling. 

He has no idea what he's going to say when Shane arrives. He has words built up behind his teeth, sticky like molasses; words that feel like gravel in his throat, words that he knows will hurt both of them. 

I'm sorry, he wants to say. Please don't leave me, he wants to beg. We can't, we shouldn't, go home and forget me, Shane Hollander, he needs to order, but those batter at his soft spots the most, worn down and sore, like the ache of a bruised rib. 

He hates how easy it is to accept pain as his due, he thinks, even as he lets it guide him. It's useful, has stabilized him in all things, but here—where he hungers for more, where he's greedy for more—he could almost falter against this swell of newness. It hurts in a bewildering, strange way to think about not seeing Shane. Hurts even more than this morning, because now—because now—he is well aware of how it feels to lose completely. 

How pathetic is he, to let himself be open again for the sting of another goodbye? 

He inhales, sharp and ragged, and glances over his shoulder at his phone on the counter, sleek and quiet.

we're rooting for you two, sits heavily in his mind for all that he’s just read it. 

How stupid is it, he wonders, to be enchanted by words from a woman he's never met? Even he and Shane have been unable to be honest to that point; he thinks he knows what Shane wants, but he has no actual idea, as evidenced by how poorly this morning went.

Ilya knows he is walking a fine line. He’s balancing his own desires against the rest of the world, and the only thing that has changed—because it has always felt like it is him versus the world—is that he's somehow insane enough to think that he could actually get what he wants this time. 

To have hope, now, after all the hurt. 

He is so impossibly undone. Fraying at the seams. Splitting down the center with the knife's edge of desire because he has done the unthinkable, and he has let himself care. 

It is nothing, means nothing, he said. 

He lied. 

And worst of all, they both know it. 

And even despite it all, with the shock of longing and the devastation of this morning and the sharp, bitter pain under his skin, he cannot ever regret it. 

He's afraid—oh god, how he's afraid—but fear has never been a reason for him not to do things. He is better than that, forced to be for most, but also because he knows he can be.

He's always risen against every impossible odds, has he not?

He inhales and steps back over to his phone, flipping it face up. He can be brave, he thinks. Brave enough to hope in the face of all this madness. 

we're rooting for you, Jackie's text reads, and Ilya lets himself believe. 

Shane's knock sounds at the door a moment later, gentle but present, much like he is, and Ilya doesn't let himself hesitate. 

The front door swings open, and there Shane is, wind-chapped cheeks, torque pulled low, his eyes glittering in the faint light spilling from Ilya's fireplace that barely reaches the steps. 

“Hi,” he says, his mouth soft. His lips are dark with indents from his teeth, worried down to rawness. “Ilya.” 

Ilya, unbelievably, wants to cry. He wants to go to his knees, he wants to beg for forgiveness; he wants to fight, he wants to bloody his knuckles. He thinks he could drag Shane in and fuck him, and they wouldn't have to have this conversation. He thinks it would ruin them even more, and he can't decide what the fuck ruining them would even mean. He doesn't know what he wants, besides Shane, and that's stupid and impossible, and it doesn't make him want him any less. He's angry and sad and fucking thrilled that this is happening, and it's so goddamn unfair that this is what they're forced to: stolen, frozen moments, shattering themselves under the weight of their secrets, the heavy press of greed.

He suddenly, abruptly doesn’t feel brave at all. 

“Hi,” he says, instead of weeping. His broken nose aches. The rush of heavy Boston air stings at his skin. “Shane.” 

Shane's mouth quivers. His eyes grow damp and hot, and Ilya can see the way his fingers have curled into his Metros sweatshirt. He looks small, on Ilya's doorstep, the last of his storm shutters blown out, all his walls knocked down. 

“Can—I'm sorry,” he blurts out, looking impatient with himself.  His fingers twist tighter, white-knuckled and tense, stark enough against his sweatshirt that they could almost be bone. “I didn't mean—I didn't—you and—I shouldn't have run.” He inhales, ragged and sad. He's still on Ilya's doorstep, the door wide open, cold air streaming through, white clouds of his breath wreathing his face. His feet are planted on the granite step as if he's bracing for a hit, and Ilya aches with something he dares not name, for fear that it will destroy him. “I—okay. It scared me,” he says, slow and careful, the words clean and deliberate. 

Cards on the table was one of the first American idioms Marly had taught him in the mess of his rookie year. He's never gotten it fully, until now, watching Shane pluck each word from his throat as if it's gold spun from nothing. 

It touches that wild, tangled, dangerous part of him that wants to throw everything into the air and say fuck it. 

“It meant something… different, this morning,” Shane says, and closes his eyes. “And I wanted it to be something so badly I ran, because that would mean that I—” 

He pauses, and Ilya can't stand this careful distance between them for another moment. 

“Shane,” he says—his name bright and beautiful as it burns across his tongue—and nudges the door even wider somehow. “Come inside.” 

Shane, as he almost always has, listens and steps forward, eyes slitted as if a wind is blowing directly at his face, as if he's braced for snow blindness. His shoulders bunch around his ears as he slinks through the doorway, and Ilya can't stop the faint smile from curling across his face as he immediately steps out of his shoes, carefully nudging them into a neat line, before he tugs his hat off and hangs it on the hook. 

The latch of the door shutting behind him is loud, but not startling, and Ilya does as he always wants and steps closer to Shane, letting his hands settle around the cold edge of his jaw. 

“Kiss?” he murmurs, and has to swallow back tears at the ragged gasp that escapes Shane as his hands curl around his wrists, clinging tightly. 

“Please,” Shane manages, pushing up towards him as Ilya leans down, and they're kissing, soft and gentle, easy and solemn. 

For all that they linger, it's a kiss that goes nowhere. Desire laps at his bones because it always will, because this is Shane, but Ilya has no need for it now, not as he feels Shane's mouth grow warm beneath his. 

“I'm sorry,” Shane gasps against him, and Ilya can taste salt from his tears. His whole body hurts, as if he's tugged a blade from between his ribs and suddenly discovered he was wounded all along. “I didn't want to go, I just—I didn't know what to do, and I was scared, Ilya, because—it can't mean nothing. It doesn't mean nothing. Not to me, and that means that I'm—”

“Shane,” Ilya says, pulling back to press his cheek to the side of Shane's head, his arms sliding around his shoulders, his voice shot through with unwieldy amounts of emotion. He is such a fucking fool; he should have known that the most dangerous thing he could do was open his door. “Shane.” 

“I miss you,” Shane says into his throat, which is impossible, if only because he should not. “I miss you all the fucking time. I don't want to know what my life would be like without you in it, Ilya.” 

“We can't,” Ilya says, his heart breaking. He can hear it shattering beneath the swell of something that tastes like devotion. All his ideas are falling to the wayside; a mess made of desire and hope as Shane trembles in his arms. “Shane—” 

Shane's fingers clutch, pulling him in tighter, and suddenly, Ilya is crying, silent and sorrowful, the smell of snow, and blood, and Shane filling his lungs. 

“Ilya,” Shane says, before his voice breaks over those three small, impossible words, and it's nothing Ilya could have ever prepared for, because how can someone prepare for falling into such a sweet abyss? How can anyone possibly know what it means to tuck another in close and want to bury them into their skin? How can anyone hold this much? How is he not splintering at the seams, breaking down at the atomic level, incinerated by the sheer force of his wanting?

He's immolating with hunger, desperate with need, aching with too much to name. He's been dashed upon the rocks and stitched back together in one fell swoop.

Sveta is fond of the saying not with a bang, but with a whimper, and Ilya has always rolled his eyes and said when I go, it will be in an explosion, and only now is he realizing that he has lied.

Surely, death has already found him, because this is—

“Shane,” Ilya says, his voice creaking with the weight of all he should not say. He can feel them, though, breaking free from the wall he has tried to bury them behind, static fizzing up his spine. “Shane—” 

And he's a fucking moron, because he doesn't say what he should, doesn't pull back and deny, doesn't lash out and hurt him, like he needs to to protect them, to stop this from growing. 

No. He’s a blustering, harebrained fool, because of course he is. Because this is Shane, and he would do anything for him. 

No, he—little idiot, he can hear Sveta say, because she has always been his compass in all things, but he knows she would be soaked through with fondness watching this utter trainwreck, knows too that she would want him to be brave—says them back. 

And it's all over now, he knows, as soon as they hit the air. Cards on the table, indeed. 

Shane curls in tighter, and Ilya can't stop himself from dropping kisses across his hair, his tears falling steadily. 

They're still standing in the entryway, tangled together. His heart's racing as Shane tips his head back and presses a kiss to the hollow of his throat. 

“Okay,” Shane says, winded with emotion, hope thick on his tongue, and fuck, how did Ilya ever think he could possibly escape this, when Shane is everything he wants? “Ilya, it's okay.” 

“It's not,” Ilya rasps. “I did not mean to—we can't—” 

“But, if we could—” 

“We can't,” Ilya repeats. “You should not have come here,” he mutters, even as he clings tighter. He's so glad Shane is here; he might just expire from the force of it, even as the warning bells of disaster ring in his mind. “This is—”

“I want to,” Shane says, and it feels as if they're having half a conversation except for how Ilya knows what he means. 

“I am not worth it,” he says mindlessly, pressing into familiar wounds, because he can't possibly be. Across the room, the fire pops, the sound sharp in the suddenly frozen house as Shane stiffens in his arms, pulling back. 

“What the fuck?” 

Ilya blinks at him, exhausted. “Shane,” he says helplessly. He didn't mean to say that. Look at him, already ruining everything; his father's son to the very bitter end. “I—”

Shane stares at him, his eyes dark and assessing. He looks as he does on the ice, as if he has foreseen the exact moment he knows someone will misstep and has already made certain that he will be there to watch their downfall. 

Will you disappoint them? Ilya had asked once. It was a stupid question, in hindsight, for a generational talent, for the one-in-a-million player that Shane is.  

Distantly, as if in a fog, he wonders if somehow Shane is already feeling disappointed. He would not be surprised; tonight, especially, Shane could pluck any blunder from thin air, and it would be true, he's sure of it.

Shane reaches out, pressing a thumb to Ilya's lips, watching intently enough that Ilya closes his eyes, parting his mouth. 

His thumb slips in, pressing against his teeth, warm and solid, before his nail clicks against his enamel, a barely there and gone tap, pulling his hand back before Ilya can lap at it. 

He feels oddly bereft at the distance, despite how close he can see Shane standing as he cracks his eyes back open. 

“C'mon,” he says, his hand dropping to tangle with Ilya's. “I want to shower before bed.” 

Ilya's eyes fly wide. “Shane,” he repeats, helpless and slow. Everything feels muted, as if he's slogging through mud, the world distant and too close at the same time. He's overworked with emotion, stripped down to the bleached white bones of prey, exhausted of everything. 

“Shower,” Shane says firmly, as if that makes any sense. “Hayden's covering for me.” 

Normally, Ilya would snark something, would worry at the ease with which Shane trusts Pike, but tonight, he's emptied of it all, the edges of his distress wiped clean. 

Tonight, at least, he, too, can trust Pike. 

“Okay,” he says, and lets Shane guide them across his home, drifting out to sea, only the tether of Shane's fingers keeping him even slightly anchored. 

The water is warm, the room full of steam by the time he resurfaces in his body. He doesn’t know where he was, just that it was muted and gray, quiet in an uncomfortable way, as if he was lost.

“Hi,” Shane says, seconds after he comes back. It strikes at the hollow heart of him, the depth of affection he manages to convey in that singular word. It feels impossible that Shane is as attuned to him as he is to Shane, but the mounting evidence grows harder and harder to ignore in every quiet moment. “You okay?”

Ilya shrugs, the effort monumental, and lets Shane guide his forehead down to rest against his shoulders, careful and gentle with his face. 

“That's fine,” Shane says, his hands warm even beneath the hot press of the shower as they drag up and down his back. “Big night, huh? And I know—it's, there's stuff we still have to talk about. About you, about me, about what the future means, about where we go from here. But, that can all be—later, okay? I'm not—I just want this, right now. Nothing more than you, okay?” 

Ilya nods, somehow sagging even more into Shane's arms, and lets the hot rush of tears rise to his waterline, uncaring of how soft it makes him, to weep quietly in Shane's embrace. 

This is already more than he had ever let himself imagine. 

It's immense, and terrible, and the most wonderful thing in the world to have this. To get Shane. To be able to rest for a moment, to have another person at his side saying, I'm here, I see you, I—

Ilya cuts off his thoughts, too raw at the mere memory of the words. It’s a terrible thing he has been gifted with.  

“Okay,” he whispers, and lets himself cry. 

He's still dazed as they finish the shower, sinking and soaring in equal turns, dizzy with the weight of everything that's happened today. 

Shane's careful as he dries them, his hands gentle and easy against Ilya's skin, as if he's something precious to be cared for. It soothes the last tendrils of fear that he's imagining this somehow, because in his wildest fantasies, he would never treat himself so tenderly. 

He lets himself be guided out of the bathroom, standing in his closet, uncertain when Shane had gotten so familiar with his room to know where everything is. It makes sense, though, in an awful, twisting way; Ilya has hoarded all the slivers of Shane he could get. It's hard to believe, but of course, Shane would maybe do the same. 

They dress slowly, familiar clothes sliding across his skin, comforting amongst all the newness. 

He has to close his eyes tightly for a moment as Shane shrugs on Boston sweats, crouching down to cuff the ends before sliding on thick wool socks. He repeats the same motions with Ilya, his hands assured of their welcome, steady. 

Something inside Ilya crumbles, an ache rediscovered under things he long thought were, if not hastily healed, at least forgotten about enough to not matter. 

There are things he doesn’t like to think about. 

The shape of Mama, on that quiet, awful day. The noise Andrei had made when he had stumbled over Ilya in the doorway. The shape of Moscow, the first time he flew away to North America, distant and old, hazy through the clouds. It had felt like damnation. 

It still feels like damnation, even after all these years. A quiet hell, to leave. An even worse hell to enter. 

Shane's leaving had tasted the same. 

And yet, somehow, here is Shane, touching him as though he matters. 

You hurt my feelings, Ilya thinks, like a fucking child, as he stares down at the crown of Shane’s head. You ran away, and it hurt me. 

Crouched before him, his hands still touching his ankle, Shane makes an odd, wounded sound, and Ilya only realizes he's spoken as Shane tips his head back and meets his startled gaze. 

“I know,” he says, his eyes glossy. His whole back shifts as Ilya watches, the svelte heft of him tensing for a beat before something unclenches and rolls down his spine. “Ilya, I know. And I'm, I'm so sorry for leaving. I'm sorry for even making that an option. I'm sorry for hurting you, and I'll be sorry about it forever.” 

“Forever is a long time,” Ilya murmurs, struck dumb.

“I know,” Shane says, and doesn't look away. “That's why I said it.” 

Ilya blinks at him, and then, suddenly, Shane is rising up, pulling him back into his arms. 

The warmth of him is indescribable, almost painful, as if he is running nearly frostbitten joints under cool water. The sting of being alive, of being aware enough to hurt; it rushes through him as he curls his arms around Shane again and lets himself sink. 

Shane has him now; he knows, even if he cannot make sense of what that means. 

They stand in the dim shadows of his closet for a long, long time, just clinging to one another. 

“C’mon,” Shane says eventually, when the only parts of Ilya that are warm are the parts that are touching Shane. “Bed.” 

Ilya nods and lets himself be led out into his bedroom and tucked under his sheets, shivering once at the cool touch of them against his skin. 

He shivers again as Shane slides in next to him, his familiar hands reaching for him immediately. It's instinctive to curl into him again, despite how needy it feels. 

He's shattered through, soaked to the bone with exhaustion and fear, with honey-sweet hope and greed. It swirls together in his chest, throbbing as if a second heartbeat.

“We have tomorrow,” Shane murmurs, as he snakes an arm over Ilya's back, tugging him in impossibly tighter. He sounds lighter than he has before, despite the ever-present fear Ilya can hear in his voice. “We can figure it out then, yeah?” 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, exhausted enough not to fight. 

He thinks it’ll be a common occurrence, giving in to Shane. He hopes, at least. 

Shane’s breathing deepens and steadies as Ilya slides into the cusp of drowsiness, the heavy tug of fatigue lapping at his bones. 

Please don’t let this be a dream, he prays, and lets sleep wash over him, tucked in Shane’s arms for the second night in a row. 

Chapter End Notes

congrats to literally everyone who asked for more - you fucking got me hooked on this verse, so here's another tidbit!

i wasn't planning on giving ilya a voice in this fic, but he demanded to be heard, and i wanted to get the impossible 'i love you's' out of the way, since i think a headspace check for hollanov was needed and they set up some other things i'm excited to explore - re: pike dinner with a better established hollanov but still on shaky ground. emotions are there, and so is the want for more, but where exactly does it leave them? who's to say.

pike family dinner is in the works! you can find a couple of sneak peeks on my twit (direct links to them are here and here). without spoiling too much, i have no idea when the next chapter will be out, because it feels only halfway done, but is already about 13k. which is like. the size of chapter 2, so, there's a lot coming. do i have two other chapters maybe started? yes. is one a jackie pov and another a rose arc chapter? yes. if you'd be interested in either of those, lmk!

and, as always, lmk what you thought of this little insight into ilya!

Chapter 4: shed some light, shed some light on me please

Chapter Notes

Jackie, Hayden knows, is one of the smartest people in the whole world. 

She's clever and kind and witty, with the kind of sly humor that hits you hours later, when you've turned a good joke over in your head and then realized there are layers to it. 

She's the best mother to their kids, a fucking goddess that he worships, and yet, for all of that, he's never seen her so frazzled—not even on their wedding day, when her mom had stepped on her veil and somehow ripped it straight down the middle, three minutes before she was supposed to walk down the aisle. 

No, she'd laughed then, brilliant and sparkling, loud enough that he could hear it at the altar, and he could remember going gooey on the inside, glancing back at Shane, only to find him already grinning, his eyes bright and delighted. 

But here, now, as he watches her militantly vacuum the beaded throw pillows on the couch, he thinks she may have lost her goddamn mind. 

“Jacks,” he says, carefully holding Arthur. He can hear the twins shrieking upstairs, the loud clatter of blocks spilling across the carpet before laughter bounces down the hall. “Are you okay?” 

“I'm fine, honey,” she says, flashing him a brilliant grin. He pauses, struck dumb by how lucky he is, before he narrows his eyes at her, well aware of how easy it is for her to play him. She winks, her smile turning filthy for a moment before she returns her attention to the couch. “Why?” 

“You seem,” he starts, before he rethinks just what he was going to say. Tonight isn't just a big night because they're hosting Shane and Rozanov for the first time, but it's a big night because they're telling them that Jackie is pregnant. Again. 

Hayden already knows how Shane will react; the same way he always does, wide-eyed and watery, a bright expression blooming on his face. He'll probably be holding Arthur, if the kids are still up, because Arthur adores Shane, and he'll get soft and happy and press his fingers to his mouth like it can hide his wide, beaming smile. 

And Jackie will probably start to cry, and then Shane will tear up, and then Hayden will have to cry too, because he’s not being left out of such a moment, and it’ll be perfect and lovely and fucking amazing, because Shane actually, really, means it when he says he’s happy for them. He never has any of the sucks for you edge that some of the other guys had when they found out their first kids were twin girls. 

Hayden, sometimes, maybe even all the time, can't believe how lucky he is to have someone who loves his kids as Shane does. 

Rozanov, on the other hand—

Well. He's seen how he is with kids, and it's always been one of the very few things Hayden has admired about him the most. 

The sharp, icy persona he has nearly everywhere melts in the face of kids; really, with anyone under the age of eighteen. He’s always extra careful with the rookies on his team, and he’s never viciously gone after any of Montreal’s either. He’s checked them, for sure, because that’s how the game is, but he’s not nasty. Sometimes Hayden wonders if there’s a hit list for rookies based on how hard some of the Metros’ hits ‘em, but Rozanov has never really overstepped, at least not with the kids on the team. 

And it sucks, for more than just a point in Rozanov’s favor, because so many of the other guys just do not understand how to talk to their own kids, let alone other people’s. He doesn’t know how many hosted parties he’s left annoyed after watching some of the guys ignore their kids or their wives. He's gotten shit for leaving conversations to help Jackie, but like, that's his fucking wife—he’s not going to ignore her if she's asking for something, and especially not if she's asking for help. 

But, Rozanov, he's watched him get down on the floor and carefully stack blocks with some of the Boston kids. He's seen him in the background of interviews, wrangling kids and grinning, letting them clamber all over him. He genuinely seems thrilled to hang out with them, which is more than almost anyone in Hayden’s life can say. 

Even Shane, who he knows adores his kids, has a hard time with them sometimes. Their mess, their loudness, their unrelenting need to be right all the time; god knows Hayden can find himself exhausted by them. But it's like Rozanov is just a giant kid himself when he sees any children, folding down all his sharpness to something easy and gentle. 

“Thinking hard?” Jackie asks, startling him. The vacuum is off, the cord in her hands as she steadily wraps it up. She meets his eyes, flicking her hair over her shoulder, the anniversary earrings he bought her from their first year sparkling in her ears. She only ever puts them in when she wants to feel extra good, he knows, and feels his stomach flip at the reminder. “Nervous?” 

Hayden shakes his head instinctively, his mouth flattening, and then rolls his eyes, shaking out the stiffness. Arthur squirms in his arms, and he sets him down, carefully directing him away from the pristine couches.

“I mean like, yeah,” he admits, watching as Arthur makes a beeline for his dinosaur toys, snatching up the soft, stuffed triceratops that Shane bought him for his first birthday last year, the colors bright purple and lime green. “I didn't—I don't know. It's not even because it's Rozanov, even though that's definitely some of it. But like, this is their first couple thing, maybe, right? And, I just, I want it to go well. And this is Shane's first big relationship. First real relationship. And, Jesus Christ, maybe even Rozanov's? Or like their first dinner thing, together with other people, I’m assuming. I dunno, maybe I'm projecting because I want to be stupidly involved in their relationship because it's Shane.” 

“Because of your big, secret crush on him?” Jackie murmurs, her grin sly and sharp. It only grows at the strangled noise he makes and the way he flushes a bright, hot red. “Aw, babe, I didn't mean to embarrass you.” 

Hayden shoots a look at Arthur, who's making loud roaring noises, and decides he can pay the swear jar as he hisses, “Fuck you.” Jackie cackles, loud and bright, and Hayden can't stop himself from sweeping her into his arms, dropping a kiss on her grinning mouth. 

“If Roz finds out, he's gonna kill me,” he mutters, pulling back to meet her amused gaze. “Please don't out me at dinner.” 

Jackie snorts, patting him on the chest, the thump of the cord slapping against him. “Hayd, I hate to break it to you, but he already knows,” she says, pulling out of his arms. “We've chatted about it.” 

“Jackie,” Hayden whines, his face flushing even darker. Christ, he'll be lucky if he makes it through this in one piece. He just knows the second the kids are in bed, everyone's gonna tear him to pieces somehow. He doesn’t know how he keeps ending up friends, or something sort of distantly, almost like acquaintances, with such snarky assholes. “What the fuck happened to husband-wife confidentiality?”

She grins at him again. “It's superseded by the bisexual alliance,” she says, winking at him. “We came to an agreement. Shane lets him tell me filthy stories about their sex life because Ilya wants to gossip and Shane's a little freak, which god, I love that man, and in return I tell him—” 

“About ours?” Hayden yelps, loud enough that the girls pause overhead, and Arthur jerks around, startled. “Jacks, what the fuc–hell?” 

“Daddy said a bad word,” Jade hollers, and Hayden yanks his head up to find her standing on the landing of the stairs, her hands on her hips. Her face is creased with stern disapproval, and for a second, she looks so much like Shane he wants to laugh. “That's a whole dollar.” 

Jackie grins at him. “You literally watched me text him a story last night,” she says in an undertone, before turning back to Jade. “I'll make sure Daddy puts a dollar in the jar, baby. Go upstairs and keep playing. I'll call you down when Uncle Shane and his friend arrive.” 

“You were texting Lily—” Hayden starts, as Jade thunders back up the stairs before he pauses. “Wait, you changed his name to Lily?” 

“Makes it easier to text him, and it cracks me up,” she says, before she pauses and adds, “I thought you knew, you know, because of the name. If it makes you uncomfortable, I can stop.” 

Hayden shakes his head. “It’s—I just didn't realize,” he says slowly. Discomfort isn't exactly what he's feeling, but he doesn't really want to examine the specifics. “Uh.” 

Jackie eyes him for a beat before her mouth curves into a smirk. “Yeah,” she says, and fuck, Hayden is suddenly wishing they weren't hosting tonight, and they could pass the kids off to his parents. It's not like she can get knocked up twice. “That's what I thought.” 

“You're killing me,” he hisses at her, and averts his eyes as she wanders out of the room, her hips swinging a little too deliberately for his comfort. 

He shakes himself out of his haze and glances over at Arthur, who's carefully placing all of the smaller stuffed animals he has into messy lines behind Shane's. 

“You're on my side, right, Art?” he asks, and groans when Arthur shakes his head no with a bright giggle. “Buddy, c'mon, not even a little?” 

“No, no, no,” Arthur chants, abusing his favorite word as per usual and slapping his hands against the ground. “No, no, uh-oh! No.” 

Hayden sighs. “Story of my life, bud,” he mutters, and settles himself down on the floor next to him, tugging his phone out of his pocket. 

don't be weird was the last text Shane had sent him, thirteen minutes ago. please, hayd. 

He thumbs across the edge of his case, chewing on his lip even as he tries to hide a smile. It's crazy, what just seeing those words mean, how Hayden knows that it's Shane saying I'm nervous, and I want this to work, and help me make this work, without ever actually voicing it. 

It's a complete one-eighty from what Rozanov sent him last—which was this morning and one of the three times they've texted so far since everything's unfolded—and it was nothing more than six gifs of him punching Rozanov in the face and a sly, rematch tonight? 

He hadn't bothered responding to Rozanov; he knows well enough by now, after years of futile chirping on the ice, that anything he says will just be twisted against him. 

And more than that—Shane’s made it abundantly fucking clear what will happen to Hayden if he ever drops gloves on Rozanov again. Their immediate hangouts post-punch had been nothing more than torture sessions, with Shane dragging him to the rink and making him do bag skates until he threw up or collapsed. 

To say nothing of the insane, overprotective speech he gave, which was bewildering to get; Hayden had wanted to pull out the literal Bears’ merch declaring Rozanov BOSTON'S ICE DEMON and ask him if they were talking about the same fucking guy. 

But he gets it, he guesses. At least enough to want it to go well tonight. He's never really had to share Shane before—because Jackie doesn't count—so it'll be a good test to see what fits. If it's possible that they can even fit. 

The timer for the oven chimes in the kitchen, and Arthur sings along with it, before dissolving into babbling, the soft drag of him walking his dino across the thick carpet a familiar sound. 

“You know,” Jackie calls, her voice floating through the living room. “If it makes you feel better, I'm nervous too, babe.”

Hayden groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. Knowing that actually might make him more nervous, because before, at least, he could pretend that this was all very normal and not at all bizarre and out of the bounds of anything he'd ever imagined. 

Jackie laughs, the sound quiet under the noise of her shifting things around in the oven, the hiss of the rice cooker. “Sorry,” she says. “I forgot you're the only one allowed to have nerves.” 

“You know,” he says, throwing an arm over his face as he lies down, unsurprised when Arthur starts to clamber over him, well-used to being a roadblock for him. “I just—if we're both nervous, who's driving the bus?” 

He listens as Jackie's steps pad into the living room, his mouth twitching as his arm drops off his eyes, meeting Jackie's unimpressed gaze. 

“We can both have emotions about this and still be adults,” she says, arching a brow. “And I know that you're working on it, babe, trust me—I'm so fucking proud of you for it—” 

Swear jar, Hayden mouths at her, grinning when she rolls her eyes. 

“—and I also just know that if I lie to you, you're going to get all huffy about it, especially since admitting that I'm nervous is completely logical and you know it, but if you want to play stupid games and win stupid prizes—” 

“I don't,” Hayden says immediately, shaking his head, his eyes wide. “Sorry. I can't—you're like my north star, Jacks. I'm not used to you being in the,”—he gestures around them, trying to convey emotional bamboozlement without saying it—“you know?”

Jackie nods, still looking vaguely unimpressed, before her face twitches up into a fox-like expression that always spells trouble. “I thought it might help from a, you're not alone with the weirdness standpoint, but if you're the only one who's allowed—”

“Jackie, baby, please don't do this to me,” Hayden begs. God, she can be such a dick, and fuck, does he love her, even when she's deliberately twisting the knife. He can see her mouth curling into a satisfied smirk and hastens to add, “You have the emotions, you can have them, I swear—” 

“Oh, so, it's okay because I'm permitted—” 

“I'm gonna jump in a lake,” Hayden says, staring up at the ceiling as Arthur pats his cheek with a suspiciously damp hand. “Why is everyone I love such an asshole?” 

Jackie laughs, low and dangerous, the kind that makes his mouth dry and his stomach twist. “Good starting point for Ilya, huh?” she murmurs and saunters out of the room as Hayden rapidly tries to recalibrate. 

“You're the worst,” he says, frowning helplessly at nothing as she laughs again from the kitchen. He shakes his head, glancing down at Arthur. “It's just dinner, right, bud? We can survive dinner.”  

“Uh-oh,” Arthur says, toppling over and shrieking with laughter as he kicks Hayden hard in the thigh, and Hayden sighs, letting his head drop back down to the carpet. 

Fuck, he just doesn’t even know what he wants out of tonight, aside from this to go well. But in that, even, he doesn't know what ‘well’ means—aside from the obvious of no blood, no fights, no yelling. 

In the few moments outside of the rink that he's interacted with Rozanov, he's never really liked him. The most positive he's felt about him was the last time he saw him, which was a fucking mess and a half, and he's pretty sure that it only went well because he was so full of guilt that he couldn't even feel any other emotions.

Well, he reminds himself, he was furious, but by the end of it all, it had absolutely shifted into a horrified, sad sort of ferocity, where it was more anger at the situation than at Rozanov himself. 

Don’t be weird, Shane had texted, but Hayden doesn't even know what weird is at this point; everything's turned inside out since the Boston game a month or so ago, and he doesn't think weird can even really capture the fucking insanity that's been the past weeks. 

But, he can admit to himself—and to Jackie, when she makes him—that things have been better, for the most part. Shane's not so tense, which makes the team play better, even though Hayden’s taken to biting back too-sharp comments now, because holy shit, it's like he's just realizing what a shitshow the locker room is like. 

He has no idea how it even passed by him before; he's always thought of himself as open-minded, but the language that's flying around the room, that's been said in the team chat that he’s in—he’s become horrified, a little bit. 

And even when he tempers his instinctive reactions, whenever he says anything, Comeau will jump down his throat like he's not the father of three, soon to be four, kids. Like it’s a fucking problem that he wants to make the locker room a little bit more open and a little bit less of a shitshow.

JJ's taken to sending him messages every once in a while, normally after he tries to back him up, and he really needs to talk to him. It would be another thing, too, if Shane were active in the chat, but Hayden knows he has it muted for the most part because the team really only listens to him in the locker room and on the ice. In the chat, it’s just Shane being nagged for being a stick in the mud. They aren’t even directed at Hayden—having kids can get him out of most things—and they still turn his stomach. 

And he knows Theriault is one of those old-school fucks too, so any attempt to stamp the shit out from top down is going to fail from the get-go. He calls them pansies half the time, which Hayden hadn't heard, before joining the team, in years. 

It’s almost worse in some ways, though, because Shane isn’t saying anything. Because this is his normal, somehow, that he's known for years instinctively, and then with overwhelming candor, the fact that he loves men is a despised trait of his, despite no one even knowing. He’s expecting nothing but cruelty and slurs, because every team they beat is full of goddamn good-for-nothing cocksuckers, and every time they lose, it’s because everyone’s a lazy-ass gay boy, or worse. 

Shane doesn’t even flinch. No, Hayden is now, which is only adding to the harassment he gets for trying to corral them, but he’s not—he’s not going to ask Shane to step in. That would be nothing short of insanity. Half the team definitely already thinks that they’re in some fucked up throuple, and god knows it’s only acceptable because Jackie’s involved, and Shane already gets enough slurs thrown at him—because apparently everyone and their goddamn mother thinks it's normal and right to use slurs as some fucked-up kind of us versus them bonding—without the extra stress. 

And, like, Shane’s a good fucking Captain. He shows up for the boys. He accepts their offers to brunches and birthday parties when he isn’t training or at some sponsored shit, or working on some ad that Yuna’s sent him out to. He keeps the peace as best he can, despite the clear level of distance, and somehow, it feels like almost everyone on the team is still waiting for him to trip up. 

He can't even remember the last time he saw Drapeau or Cardot without a goddamn beer in their hands when they weren't at the rink, let alone the last time either asked him about his kids. But Shane somehow keeps track of everyone on the team, of their families; he knows the names of people who work at the Bell Centre, and he's never been afraid to put in the work to actually be a fucking leader. 

And still, he's notably distant, edged out, as if he isn't good enough, and it makes Hayden want to scream. The whole thing is stupid, and shitty, and he, really, genuinely, can't think about it for too long, or he's going to lose his goddamn mind. 

Arthur rams his forehead into his thigh, and Hayden sighs, reaching out to cup the back of his head, instinctively catching him as he begins to topple to the side after the thump; faintly amused by how ungainly and endlessly confused Art is by how his body moves, even after a year and a half of being alive. 

He just—why the fuck is it so hard to be kind to people? He loves hockey, truly and wholly, in a way different than Shane, but still—hockey's been his whole life for as long as he can remember. 

Why the fuck can't it get with the times? Who cares about two men dating, even when they're both archrivals playing on teams from the Original Six? 

He rolls his eyes at himself. God, he's a glutton for trouble—Jackie's fucking right. He would kill it on reality tv. Fuck, at this point, they all would. Who knew that being friends with the quietest guy on the team would lead to so much drama?

A soft knock at the door jolts him out of his stupor, and Hayden hastily pushes himself up from his sprawl, grabbing Arthur around the middle and smiling as he dissolves into giggles. 

He makes his way to the front, Jackie emerging from the kitchen, and eyes the two shapes he can see smudged in the fogged glass door. 

They're backlit by the setting sun, swaths of winter-burnt orange pooling across them, their shadows long and distended, before they shift closer and merge into one, their muddled shape splling across the floor. For a second, as he watches, Hayden’s almost scared, about what opening the door means, about what he’s going to have to figure out. 

But in the end, it’s easy. Shane’s his best fucking friend. He’s not going to leave him out in the cold. 

He glances over his shoulder and meets Jackie's damp but excited eyes for a beat before he jostles Arthur in his arms. 

“We're gonna see Uncle Shane and his partner tonight, aren't we, buddy?” he murmurs, and accepts the thump of the triceratops across his face as his due. “Pushy, pushy, Art. You've gotta learn some patience.” 

Jackie laughs from behind him, and Hayden tugs the door open to avoid hearing whatever quip she's about to let loose. 

“Ilya,” she says instead, as soon as the door swings fully open, grinning wide and bright at him, like they're best friends, and Hayden has to stop himself from gaping as he watches her drag him in and sweep him into a tight hug. He knew they'd become close in the past month or so, but he hadn't realized just how close they were; apparent sex story sharing aside. He’s never seen her so excited to see someone outside of Shane. “I'm so glad you could make it.” 

Shane's eyes are glittering when Hayden glances at him, which is enough for Hayden to tug him into a hug as well, squeezing tight just like he likes it, Arthur babbling loud nonsense between them. 

“Excited?” Hayden asks in an undertone and grins as best as he can when Shane nods and then shrugs, before shaking his head. “You and me both,” he says, pulling back. He steals a glance at Jackie and Rozanov, who have smirks on their faces that Hayden immediately doesn't trust. 

“We're doomed, Hollander,” he says, and grins even wider when Shane laughs, a soft, content huff that he rarely hears. “Any strategies, Captain?” 

Shane rolls his eyes, despite the fondness Hayden can see spreading across his face. “I can hardly wrangle him on the ice,” he mutters, keeping his voice low. “You think adding Jackie to the mix is going to help?” 

“We're so fucked,” Hayden agrees immediately. Yeah, this was a terrible mistake, except for all the ways it wasn't. “It was nice knowing you, dude.” 

Shane shakes his head before he peers at Hayden, his eyes squinting. “You sure you're good, Hayd?” he asks, still keeping his voice quiet, even as he reaches out and plucks Art from his hands. “I know this is a lot.” 

Hayden claps his shoulder, touched that Shane would even ask. “I mean, it's going to be weird as hell,” he mutters. “But I know that this is important, and that despite both of your best efforts, you've somehow decided to try to make this work. It’d be kind of fucked of me to throw a wrench in the plans after all that shit, you know? And I trust you. Enough to give Rozanov a chance.” 

Shane bounces Arthur in his arms, his eyes going glossy the way they always do when he's trying not to get too emotional. “Oh,” he says softly. Hayden's whole heart squeezes, a big wet thump of tangled feelings that he can't even try to parse. “Yeah, okay.” 

“Love you,” Hayden says, flushing pink. It's odd to say in front of Rozanov, who's smirking at the two of them alongside Jackie, who looks pleased. “Shit, you should come in, we're letting all the warm air out—” He clears his throat, stepping back to let Shane in, as the door shuts behind him.

“C'mere,” Jackie says, stepping over to tug Shane into a hug, before she presses a kiss to his cheek and steps back. “Give Art back to Hayd for a sec—you know better than this, Shane, c'mon, shoes off, jacket off, then Arthur time.” 

Shane rolls his eyes but listens, Arthur whining in Hayden’s arms, already reaching back for Shane as he shucks off his coat. Hayden glances over, watching in faint disbelief as Rozanov gently toes off his shoes too, thick Boston Bears socks on. 

“You can't wear those,” he blurts out, only to freeze when everyone swings their head around to stare at him. 

Shane blinks at him, his mouth dropping open as Rozanov starts to grin. “Oh?” he says, glancing down and pointedly wiggling his toes, before he nudges his shoes up against the wall, just as Shane did. “I must go cold in your house, Pike?” 

“Babe, what the fuck?” Jackie says, her exasperation clear. “You can wear only Boston's merch, and we won't care,” she says, like a fucking liar as she accepts the coat Rozanov hands her. Hayden cares. Hayden absolutely cares. If Ilya Rozanov shows up at his house decked out in Boston gear, he's throwing hands, and he doesn't even care if it makes everyone mad at him. 

Given the way Shane and Rozanov are eyeing him—one with deep concern, one with smug amusement—both of them can tell exactly where his thoughts have gone. 

“Thank you, Jackie,” Rozanov murmurs, a sly, crooked smirk curling across his face. Hayden glares at him, and his delight only deepens. “I am—you have been very kind, opening your home for me.”

“Too kind, some might say,” Hayden mutters, and hands Arthur back to Shane to avoid the elbow he tries to slam into his ribs. “Jesus Christ, alright. Forgive me for being a little alarmed at a fucking—at the captain of the Boston Bears in my house.” 

“Swear jar,” Jackie and Shane chorus, and Hayden groans at the sparkle in Rozanov's eyes. 

“Do not,” he orders, stabbing a hand at Rozanov. “Extenuating circumstances, anyone? I don't even get one night, or even one swear, to fu–freaking adjust to this?” 

Shane shrugs when he glances at him. “It's Jacks’ rule,” he says. “Whatever she says goes.” 

Rozanov's mouth twitches, and Hayden can hear a ghost of his voice, she is, hm, top dog?, as he narrows his eyes at him. 

“The swear jar has never been disbanded for extenuating circumstances,” Jackie says, arching a brow at him. She looks way too amused for his wallet's well-being, though, and he can feel his mouth curving into a frown as he squints suspiciously at her. “You think this is going to—” 

“Scared you cannot do it?” Rozanov murmurs, his teeth glinting, and Hayden's mouth drops open as Jackie's voice falls silent. 

“You're—” Hayden starts, and then stops, because he can't think of anything aside from a fucking rat bastard, and clenches his jaw when Rozanov laughs. “Don't interrupt my wife, you—” 

“Sorry,” Rozanov says, winking at her, who, he’s betrayed to note, rolls her eyes, as if he's being ridiculous. He's not; he just doesn't want her to be talked over. By Rozanov, specifically. Maybe his intentions are rooted in sexism, rather than chirping at him; he doesn’t know! He’s just trying to be supportive of Jackie. 

Hayden grits his teeth at her lackluster support and turns to his best friend. “Shane?” 

Shane shakes his head, his mouth set into a firm line that would be more helpful if Hayden didn't recognize it. It's his, this is your problem, fix it now, face, that he gives the team when he's fed up with the amount of penalties they're accruing. Hayden's not entirely used to it being leveled at him: he's far more accustomed to standing at Shane’s shoulder as backup and glaring at the worst of the offenders.  

“Jesus—fine,” he mutters, and very maturely doesn't scream when Jackie and Rozanov grin at him, as if his stress is somehow funny. 

For a moment, they sort of just stand in the entryway, awkwardness settling over them. In the corner of his eye, Shane ducks his head, a faint flushing climbing up his throat, and he can see Rozanov shifting on his feet, his hands clasped behind him, as if waiting for instructions. Everything stills for a moment, a strange sort of stagnation hanging over them as if they’ve never spoken to each other before, until Jackie remembers she has their jackets in hand and lurches back into motion, hanging them up in the hall closet. 

“This is Arthur,” Shane murmurs to Rozanov, smiling when Arthur hides his face in his neck, Art’s triceratops snug between them. “He's a little shy.” 

“He is very cute,” Rozanov allows, and Hayden feels a flash of smug pride, before he adds, “Is very clear how much of Jackie one can see in him.” 

“Oh, fuck you,  Rozanov,” Hayden says, with gusto, and rolls his eyes at the swear jar all three of them hit him with, Rozanov's smile widening. Fuck, he’s never going to hear the end of it; he can already tell. “Whatever.” 

Something slams upstairs—the plastic lid of one of the girls’ toy chests, if Hayden had to guess—and he sighs, giving up on having any say in how tonight goes. 

“Girls,” he calls up to the second floor, cupping his hands around his mouth. He can hear the clattering of toys stop, the bounce of their voices falling quiet. “Uncle Shane is here, and his—” 

“Friend,” Shane supplies, peeking over at Rozanov, who nods, his smirk softening into something that's more of a smile. “For now, maybe?” 

“Friend,” Hayden repeats, raising his voice again, careful to keep anything but studious neutrality out of his tone. “Is here.” 

For a moment, there's silence from upstairs, the sort of ominous absence that makes Hayden take a step towards the stairs, before a thunder of noise bounces off the walls. 

Hayden glances over at Rozanov, half-expecting to hear some sort of snark about the herd of elephants who live in his house, but the man's quiet, his eyes darting between Shane and the landing, his back straightening as if he's about to be judged and found wanting. 

Shane has half a smile on his face when Hayden shoots him a what the fuck? look, and shrugs, turning his attention to Arthur when he babbles louder, a tiny stream of uh-oh's mixed in with all the garbled noise. 

Uh-oh is right, Hayden wants to say, straightening up too, although he has no idea what he's preparing for. Shit, does Rozanov somehow have beef with his kids already? He racks his brain, unable to think of a time they would’ve met. 

“Uncle Shane,” Ruby shrieks as she whirls down the stairs and throws herself at Shane’s legs, Hayden instinctively bracing him despite how Shane doesn’t move an inch. “I missed you for forever and ever, and Jade thought you were never going to get here and—” 

“—no I didn’t,” Jade yelps from the landing, her face furious and bright red. She turns, and Hayden sees immediately as she clocks Rozanov, her eyes getting wide. “Who are you?” 

Hayden muffles a snort at the clear disdain in her voice.

“Jadebug,” Jackie says, laughter clear, even as she tries to be stern. Hayden can see Shane fighting a smile beside him, and resolutely doesn’t make eye contact. Jade is easily the prickliest of all his kids, for all that Arthur is the one who's going to take the longest to adjust to a new person. Ruby, despite the fact that she's a rambunctious demon most days, is the clear social butterfly of their family as she rubs her face against Shane’s hip in some weird greeting that she’s taken to doing recently. He has no idea why, but one of her teachers mentioned something about cats on the playground, so he’s betting that’s the starting point. “Is that how we greet and meet people?”

“Hi,” Jade says, clomping down the stairs. As she steps onto the floor, Hayden realizes she’s wearing a Princess Tiana costume over her regular clothes, with mismatched costume heels on, and a canvas tote bag from Provigo slung over her shoulder. 

“Hi,” Rozanov says, blinking at her. “I am Ilya. I like your purse.”

“Thanks,” Jade says. She squints at him for a beat before Ruby detangles herself from Shane's legs to come stand next to her, both of them staring at Rozanov, who doesn't so much as shift. 

“You're tall,” Ruby says, her hands settling on her hips. She sounds like she can't quite decide if that's good or not, and Hayden doesn't bother to hide his smile as he watches her tilt her head and narrow her eyes. Unleashing his little firecrackers on unsuspecting people is one of his favorite things to do, though he thinks Rozanov is going to pass with flying colors. 

“Yes,” Rozanov murmurs, watching her carefully. 

“Are you taller than the tallest building ever?” Ruby asks. “Taller than the trees, too?” 

“Ah,” Rozanov says, his mouth twitching. “No. I am only taller than your dad, and your Uncle Shane, and your mom.” He leans in, grinning at them, a soft, conspiratorial smile on his face. “But, if it is allowed, I could put you on my shoulder, and then you would be the tallest, yes?” 

There he is, Hayden thinks as both of them whirl on him and begin to beg, all of their uncertainty shoved aside in the face of a new experience. He just knows this is going to haunt him, that the girls are going to demand sitting on his shoulders over and over again once Rozanov leaves. They'll probably complain that he isn't tall enough, too, because they're terrors. Fucking asshole. 

Jackie grins at him over their heads, and Hayden rolls his eyes, just barely stopping himself from sticking his tongue out at her. He knows that would haunt him, absolutely. Shane already makes fun of how it's his first instinct with Jackie; he doesn't need Rozanov adding fuel to the fire. 

Hayden also knows better than just to give in; they have to have some sort of order to this madness. 

“Jade, Ruby, did either of you introduce yourselves to,”—he forces down the way he doesn't want to say Rozanov's first name, and grits his teeth, well aware of all of the adults' amused smirks. Rozanov, of course, looks incredibly pleased in the corner of his eye—“Ilya before asking for shoulder rides?” 

“I'm Ruby,” Ruby says, bouncing on her heels. “Can I please sit on your shoulders?” 

“No fair,” Jade shouts, kicking her heels off and dropping her bag on the ground. “I wanna—I'm Jade, and I wanna too!”

“We can do—turns?” Rozanov says, glancing at Jackie. Hayden can feel the prickles of annoyance thrumming under his skin; he's their father, too, he can answer the fucking question, but forces it back. Anyone other than Rozanov wouldn't be irking him like this, and he knows it. He needs to chill out. Be normal. Not be weird, he guesses, to steal Shane’s word. 

He tunes back in when Shane nudges him, some agreement having been met. 

“They're going to do a tour,” he says, his eyes darting over to Rozanov. Hayden follows and is unsurprised to find that Jade is somehow on his shoulders, looking utterly gleeful. Ruby's darting around, shouting bits and pieces about the living room as Rozanov nods along, Jackie trying to make some sort of sense from the shit Ruby's yelling. “You wanna get me a ginger ale?” 

“You know where it is, asshole,” Hayden snarks, but takes the out gratefully, leading the way into the kitchen and making a beeline for the fridge. 

Shane follows without pause, leaving Rozanov to the wolves, and sighs as he settles in at the counter, accepting the cold ginger ale Hayden passes him. 

Hayden shuts the door of the fridge and leans back, eyeing him carefully. 

“You sure you're good?” he asks, keeping his voice quiet even though he doubts Rozanov can hear him over the girls. “We didn't start moving too fast?” 

Shane rolls his eyes, but something seems to steady in him as he draws himself up. “No, you dick, and you know it,” he mutters, smoothing a hand over Arthur's head and nodding when Art babbles no, no, duh, at him. “It just—I don't know. It feels like this is some sort of dream.” 

Hayden’s heart sinks. This feels like a dream? A bog standard dinner with his insane, obnoxious family? This is just regular life, if Hayden had to put a label on it. Which he never does, because it's literally just his fucking life. 

“It's stupid,” Shane says, drawing back into himself. Fuck, Hayden hopes his faint disbelief wasn't clear. “Sorry. You don't—need to pretend.”

“Pretend?” Hayden repeats dully, a crackle of annoyance sparking in the pit of his stomach. 

Shane nods, chewing on his lip, and Hayden's grabbing a straw before he can interrogate Shane about what the fuck he means, and sliding it his way before he resettles across from him, his elbows on the counter. 

“Pretend what?” he asks carefully, trying hard not to edge up into furious disbelief. Does Shane still think that he isn't backing him? He sort of thought that this whole night was about literally proving that he can take up with the actual fucking devil, and Hayden would support him.

“I don't know,” Shane whispers, letting Art curl a hand around his thumb, and all of Hayden's anger slides out of him. 

He watches silently as Shane cracks open his ginger ale, sliding the straw into the can through the spun-around tab; another moment, he knows, he can't push, despite his impatience to untangle the knot of worries that live inside of Shane. 

“It doesn't feel real,” Shane finally says, nudging the can back so that Arthur can walk his triceratops across the counter. “That I should be this lucky.”

Hayden bites down his instinctive response of this isn't anything at all, this is just basic fucking decency, and nods instead, waiting. 

Silence falls between them again, broken up by Jackie's voice bouncing down the hall. 

“No one on the shoulders up the stairs,” Jackie says sternly, to a chorus of whines, and Hayden can hear Rozanov in the mix, stirring shit up as well. “I mean it, girls—Ilya, I'm including you in that, too.” 

“You are sternest mother alive,” Rozanov says, but even from just his voice, Hayden can hear that he's grinning. “Okay, Pike twins, you have heard—” 

There's a loud burst of laughter and then the thunder of the two of them racing up the stairs, Jackie and Rozanov following after, their voices fading into indistinction. 

“I just,” Shane starts, startling Hayden back into their conversation. “I don't—know, I guess. What to do, sometimes. We're—something, for sure, for real, but—” He shrugs, swallowing hard. “I don't know where the edges are, and it's kind of driving me insane. What's too much? What's too little? This feels—this is a huge step. I want this to be a huge step. I mean, I'm basically introducing him to a huge part of my family, and I don't—it's going to hurt, I think, to pretend again, after tonight.” 

“Do you want to call this off?” Hayden asks, his heart in his throat. He thinks it would sort of break everyone's heart if Shane wants to, including his own. He thinks it would even hurt his heart to have to watch everyone's joy turn sour, to have to lie. He'd do it, though, for Shane. “I can—my mom can have an emergency, and we can have to go or something.” 

Shane's shaking his head before he can even finish his sentence. “No, no. I just feel selfish, I guess. To have this. To pretend.” 

“Shane,” Hayden says, as gently as he can. “I don't think any of this is pretend.” He waves a hand towards the door. “Out there, yeah, I get what you mean. We're both going to have to act like we don't know what Rozanov looks like after being forced through the twin terrors’ gauntlet, but there’s nothing fake here. In our home.”

Shane bobs his head, a rough approximation of agreement, but Hayden can see the way he's holding back tears, his eyes glossy again. 

“Buddy,” he says, and straightens up, tucking his trembling hands inside his pockets. “You're introducing us to your—to your partner. We're with you all the way, even though it's fucking Ilya Rozanov.” 

Shane inhales shakily. “Right,” he croaks, and knuckles at his eyes. “Sorry,” he mutters. “It's just going to take some time getting used to it.” 

Hayden huffs, arching a brow at him. “Well, you'd better get used to it fast, because the way I hear it, Jackie and Rozanov are already exchanging illicit sex stories.” 

Shane groans, but latches onto the unsubtle subject change, his cheeks turning bright red. “I thought Ilya was joking when he said Jacks had questions, but he fucking wasn't—”

“Obviously, dude,” Hayden says, arching a brow. He fucking knows that’s a lie. Jackie was right earlier, then, which tells him almost more than he wants to know about Shane’s sex life. Almost, because well, sometimes a guy gets curious. What are best friends for, if not nosiness? Is it a crime to have some questions? He doesn't think so. “Jackie loves to terrorize people with stories.” 

“I know,” Shane says, and Hayden hides a grin at his petulant tone, because Shane's the only one she's always terrorizing, and they both know it. Get a drink in them both, and the kids’ sent off to bed, and she and Shane get gossipy like no one's business. He has no idea how Shane knows half the shit he does about other teams and their locker room gossip, but he's always got something new. “And I don't care, really, you know that.” 

“I know,” Hayden says, smirking at him. It's always cracked him up how strange Shane and Jackie's relationship is; most guys wouldn't want to hear it, but for all that Shane's a prude about his sex life—which, in hindsight, makes so much fucking sense—he's always been down to listen to Jackie ramble about theirs. Hayden tends to just sit there and listen to the two of them cackle together, a warm ember in his chest. Why would he care if Shane hears about it, so long as everyone’s comfortable? He’s the one lucky enough to be sleeping with Jackie. “It must be weird to be on the other end, huh?” 

“So weird,” Shane says. “And Ilya's always so smug about it, which is like—” 

“Save it for Jackie,” Hayden says, holding his hands up, his smirk still playing around his mouth. “Dude, I can't think about you and fucking Rozanov—” 

“Oh, so now you're just outright choosing to be homophobic,” Shane says, grinning, and then snaps his mouth shut, his eyes widening as if he can't believe what he just said, vibrant crimson sliding across his skin. 

Hayden stares at him for a beat before he throws his head back and laughs. There's another pause, and then Shane starts to laugh too, his voice soaked in disbelief. 

“You can't pull that card out every time I say I don't want to hear about whatever shit you and Rozanov get up to,” Hayden says, grinning at him, still a little shocked by his audacity. “But that was fucking ice cold, Hollander.” 

Shane shrugs, his face still bright pink. “It's nice,” he says, so quietly that for a moment Hayden doesn’t know if he was supposed to even hear him. “That it can be a joke that doesn't target me. That I don’t have to overthink, like, am I giving something away? Am I making myself a target somehow by doing something inherently, uhm, gay? So, yeah. Nice to joke about here, at least.” 

Jesus fucking Christ, Hayden thinks, somehow keeping his smile on his face through sheer willpower, I have to kill everyone on the Metros.

“You know I can actually start bringing shit up with the team, if it’s bothering you,” he says slowly. “I haven’t because I thought it might make everything worse, if it wasn’t just me telling them to knock it off because no one wants to hear it.” Shane makes a faint noise of disgruntlement, and Hayden sighs, shaking his head. “Dude, it doesn’t feel like it’s enough, not after everything they said, but I don’t want to—not, like, rock the boat, but like, accidentally make it all worse for you. Comeau won’t shut the fuck up about how prissy I’ve gotten over it, and it’s like—” He exhales, his gaze drifting up and over, staring at the framed picture of the team from their last win of the Stanley Cup. “It’s just fucking bad. And I know you know that, since it’s basically always an indirect, if not direct, insult about you.” 

Shane shrugs, but Hayden can see some sort of decision rising behind his eyes, only for it to fade as the girls clatter down the stairs, their voices echoing down the hall. 

“We’re heading to the playroom,” Jackie calls, loud enough to be heard over their chatter. “Come hang out with us.” 

“Be right there,” Hayden calls back, glancing at Shane. He waits, but isn't surprised when Shane stays quiet, his face back to being flat and relaxed, all tension wiped away.

“You think Rozanov would want a juice box with the girls?" he asks, instead of pushing, a mean little smirk playing around his mouth, and grins when Shane barks a surprised laugh. “Or is that just going to endear everyone to him even more because he'll look like a fucking clown drinking a Capri Sun, and somehow everyone'll love it?” 

“He’s already everyone's favorite in this home,” Shane says, shaking his head and grinning at him. “I think adding a juice box is only going to make that clearer than ever, but he'll probably whine about not getting one if he doesn't, so.” 

“He's not my favorite,” Hayden says, meeting Shane's eyes and watching as his face goes soft and pink with delight. 

“Crazy that you think your opinion matters in this house,” Shane shoots back, but he's a little too pleased to make the insult really stick. 

Hayden shrugs, reopening the fridge to grab three chilled Capri Suns, and leans over to snag Shane's can of ginger ale as he rises, tucking the juice pouches into the crook of his arm. “I'm just here for as long as they'll keep me,” he says cheerfully.

“Don't let Ilya find that out,” Shane says, leading the way down the hall and towards their playroom. Arthur waves at Hayden, and he wiggles the can of ginger ale back, grinning at him. “He'll start a goddamn petition.” 

“He might have charm and charisma,” Hayden mutters as they step into the playroom. It looks like a mess as always, the girls' play-kitchen pushed up against the far wall, nestled in between two big windows overlooking the backyard. Shelves of fake food and plastic tea sets are stacked in bookshelves beneath the windows, and large bins full of Playmobil and thick Lego pieces are dumped out in the center, Ruby showing something to Rozanov, both of their faces set into concentration. A wide, semi-beaten-down corner couch sits against the right wall, with Jade and Jackie before it on the floor, who Hayden thinks are negotiating over the price of fake food, given the little cash register set up Jackie has before her. Jade, he knows from her ruthless shakedowns, loves a bargain. In Shane's arms, Arthur babbles a stream of excited noises, and Hayden knows without even checking that his eyes are fixed on the wooden Thomas the Tank Engine train set in the left corner, a whole fleet of various trains already on the tracks, carefully set to his exact wants. “But I know what makes good bribes for the girls.” 

Shane laughs, bright and sparkling, and Hayden has the absolute misfortune of catching the besotted expression that fills Rozanov's face as soon as he hears it. 

“Uncle Shane,” Ruby says, as soon as he sits on the ground next to Rozanov, Arthur crawling off his lap and making a beeline for Toby the train, his favorite. “Did you know that Ilya plays hockey too?” 

Shane grins at her, accepting the can from Hayden before he leans back on his hands. “I did, Roo,” he says, as Jackie stifles a laugh across the room. “Did he say anything else?” 

“He said he was the best player,” Jade says, over Ruby's shriek of delight as Hayden hands her a Capri Sun. “Better than you and Daddy.” She sounds unamused at the thought, and Hayden grins to himself.

Fuck yes, all his positive self-talk about hockey is playing off—the girls totally know what's up. And Rozanov's not enough of an asshole to argue with his kids, or at least he doesn't think so. He smirks at Rozanov, leaning back to cross his arms. Fuck you, asshole, he wants to crow, despite the ever-present swear jar tax, and the way both of them would immediately repeat it. My kids know the truth.

“It's silly,” Jade says, shaking her head. “Daddy always says you're the best, Uncle Shane. So Ilya’s really just better than Daddy.” 

For a moment, everything stops, Hayden's heart included. 

“Oh, Hayd,” Shane says, condescendingly amused as Rozanov starts to laugh; true, deep laughter rumbling in his chest. “Ouch, buddy.” 

“Jadebug,” Hayden says, staring at her. He's cognizant enough to be grateful that Jackie didn't laugh too, though he's pretty sure she whipped her head around to hide a grin. “What?” 

She hums, smiling at him, a big, wide, and genuine one that he can't help but smile back at even as the rest of his face collapses into quiet devastation. “Uncle Shane's the best,” she says, which is like—yeah, Hayden talks him up all the time. And he has no trouble admitting he doesn't play to either of their levels, but this is—this is absolute betrayal. 

“Your children are brilliant, Pike,” Rozanov says, and ducks his head to accept the crown Ruby insistently pushes on his head, the plastic gold and scratched costume gems glittering in the light from the setting sun and the overheads. He doesn't even know where it came from—he thought the girls kept their costumes upstairs in their rooms. “I am very impressed.” 

Hayden’s mouth falls open, but he can't really disagree, can he?

“Take your stupid juice box and shut up,” he mutters, tossing one at him and sliding the other across the floor to Jade. He ignores the way his mouth is twitching into something that’s almost like a smile as he sits down next to Jackie, shaking his head. 

“Hey,” she says, finally turning to look at him. “We raised them to be honest, at least?” 

Shane snorts, and Hayden turns betrayed eyes on him. 

“No one in this family loves me,” he says, leaning back against the legs of the couch. “I'm so sad.” 

“Don't be sad, Daddy,” Ruby demands, stomping over to him with a hot pink boa. “You can be a princess too.”

“Not a prince?” 

She shakes her head, carefully draping the boa around his head, going so far as to tuck it behind his ears as she wraps it under his chin and over his hair. Jackie muffles another laugh, and Hayden can only wonder at how and why his entire family decided to humiliate him this entire night. Was there a meeting that the girls had, where Jackie told them to ruin his life? 

“Princesses only, Daddy,” Ruby corrects. “Ilya's one, and Uncle Shane's gonna be one, and Momma is always one, but she's the queen too, and even Artie can be one.” 

“I don't—” 

“I am excited to learn how to be the best princess,” Rozanov says, distracting Ruby. “I have heard you are the best, and if I am a princess, I must be better than your dad.” 

“No way,” Hayden shoots back, his eyes narrowing. Like hell he's losing again to Rozanov. “I'm the best princess here, outside of Jade and Ruby.” 

Rozanov looks like Christmas has come early, and Hayden feels his face flushing a deep, bright red. Despite that, he doesn't back down, glaring at Rozanov.

Ruby claps gleefully, her eyes wide. “Daddy never says he's a princess,” she announces to the room, because of course she does. He just can't get a fucking break. “He always says he's a prince.”

Hayden flushes at the looks everyone nails him with. “I don't know,” he says, shrinking back slightly. “I'm a guy! That's—that means prince.”

Rozanov shakes his head, his face set into a mocking frown. “You are so behind the times,” he proclaims. “It is 2016, almost 2017, Pike. Anyone can be anything.”

“Yeah!” Jade says cheerfully, her fists full of fake money as she stands up to her full height. “I can be a butterfly, fairy chef, and play basketball.” 

“Basketball?” Hayden says, in tandem with Shane and Rozanov, all three of them looking aghast. 

“Jadebug, this is a hockey home,” Hayden says desperately. “We don't—you—basketball?” He turns to Jackie, ignoring the way she looks completely amused. “Did you know about this?”

“I thought anyone could be anything,” Jackie says, grinning at him, before her eyes dart over to glance at Rozanov and Shane. “Or is that only about men being princesses?” 

Hayden follows her gaze to find Rozanov's hands held up, his fingers spread wide, as Shane's face continues through the stages of grief. 

“All shortfalls are Pike's doing,” Rozanov says, and takes a sip of his Capri Sun, looking smugly satisfied at the dark look Hayden nails him with. “Jackie, of course, you are correct.” 

“Basketball,” Shane repeats, sounding utterly dazed. 

Rozanov shakes his head, a mournful look on his face. “Every time he thinks of another sport, his wires short out,” he whispers loudly, reaching out to squeeze Shane's face, ignoring the way he scowls and bats at his hand. Hayden hates that Rozanov can actually be funny, sometimes, as he smooshes Shane’s cheeks, his thumb smoothing over his freckles. “Is, hm, incomprehensible to him.”

“Nice vocab, jerkface," Shane says, his voice pinched and muffled as he swats at him even harder. Hayden rolls his eyes at the looks they give each other—Jesus Christ, once he sees how they’ve come together, he can't unsee it. He can't even believe they've hidden it for so long; they're so fucking obvious. “And I do not. I just—isn't that American? Who even plays basketball here?” 

“Princess Shane,” Ruby says, settling a witch's hat on his head as Rozanov drops his hand. “Are you comin’ to the tea party?” 

“Of course,” Shane says seriously, and accepts the tiny pink teacup she sets in his hand with grave honor. “Thank you, Princess Roo.” 

“Come here,” she demands, pointing at the little table she's dragged out. It's Jackie's old one from when she was a little kid, pockmarked with decades of arts and crafts incidents, and smells of old oak and hot glue. Every time he sees it used, he almost wants to cry, overwhelmed with the tiny, perfect family they're building. 

“Please,” Jackie murmurs, before Hayden can. “Ruby-Roo, we ask with kindness, not with demands.” 

“Please,” Ruby whines, stretching the word out. “We need to sit at the table for the party.” 

Shane flashes a smug smirk at being picked first, and Hayden rolls his eyes at Rozanov's pout. 

“Are they seriously competing over a tea party?” Hayden asks in an undertone, tucking the hot pink feathers from the boa out of his face so he can see better, watching as Rozanov folds himself down to sit at the table too, per Ruby's instructions. He watches her and Jade confer for a moment, their giggles slipping out every so often, and narrows his eyes at the look on Rozanov's face as he cocks his head to listen in. “Like, for real?” 

“They are lifelong rivals,” Jackie says, pressing a button on the till, and grinning when it makes a cha-ching! noise, the drawer sliding open. She yanks out a stack of fake money, counting it and humming to herself, before she nods and puts it away; Hayden, briefly, is so overcome with fondness for her that he feels lightheaded. “What, did you think that would just disappear?”

Well, no, Hayden thinks, mulling it over. But it didn't temper them? It made them worse, somehow? They're going to compete for everything for the rest of their lives, and I'm gonna somehow be stuck in the middle, aren't I?

“Daddy,” Jade says imperiously, as she strides over to tug on his shirt, distracting him from his thoughts. “You're not a princess anymore.”

“I'm not?” Hayden asks, vaguely stupefied. Five minutes ago, he would've been pleased to hear it, but now, he only has a sinking feeling in his stomach as he clocks the grin on Rozanov's face. “Uh. What am I?” 

“Dancer,” Ruby informs him from across the room, her face set into concentration as she sets one of their babydolls into a chair, delicately adjusting each limb. “Okay? Hokey pokey, now, Daddy.” 

“I've been demoted to a dancer?” Hayden says, completely aghast, before he can think it through, and glares when Rozanov laughs so hard he almost topples over. 

“Hokey pokey,” Jade says, louder than before, shoving at him until he stands up. “Hokey pokey!” 

“I don't even know the dance,” Hayden says, exasperated and completely lying through his teeth, only to whirl around when the song starts to play from the speakers, Jackie grinning at him. “No, no—” 

“Just one dance,” Shane calls, pressing his hands together and fluttering his eyelashes, and god, Hayden hates him so much. He can feel himself turning red, and is almost positive his face is a brighter color than his boa. “Please, Hayd?” 

“I'll do it with you, you giant baby,” Jackie says, pushing herself up. She crosses the room to swoop Arthur up, swinging him around. “C'mon, Pike. It can't be more humiliating than our first dance.” 

Shane laughs at the memory—the one where Hayden absolutely ate it at the very end when Jackie had spun him out, tripping over his stupid feet—sharp and loud, and Hayden groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. 

“Rozanov wasn't there,” he mutters, but gives in, to everyone’s obvious delight. 

It helps that halfway through, after the song's being replayed for the second time, Jade orders Rozanov and Shane to dance too, so it's not just him and his feathers, acting a fool as Jackie and Art smoothly waltz around him. 

And, he has to give it to him: Rozanov dances his fucking heart out. 

He follows the instructions, and then does a whole bit where he spins each of the girls around, and Hayden’s fucking exhausted just watching him, as they dance across the room, before the three of them trap Shane in some sort of nebulous dance circle and make demands of better dancing. 

Hayden takes the out and collapses on the couch next to Jackie, both of them watching as Shane and Rozanov grin at each other and bounce on their feet for the whims of their terrifying daughters. It’s so fucking sweet, Hayden can literally feel cavities developing as he watches. 

“You weren’t kidding about them fitting,” Jackie murmurs, as Arthur wiggles out of her arms to crawl across the couch and settle against Hayden’s other side, sighing as if he were somehow the one dancing. “It’s kind of insane, if you think about it too hard.” 

Hayden snorts. “If you think about it at all, it’s insane,” he mutters. “Generational talents? Rivals? The literal, actual teams they were both drafted to? Everything’s been a goddamn competition since day one, and somehow they actually had a real conversation without it turning into a who can run away first moment. It’s a fu–freaking miracle.”  

Jackie clicks her tongue, and Hayden sinks further down into the couch, listening as the music shifts into Whole New World from Aladdin, and Jade and Ruby demand to be slow danced with. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, after the first few lyrics have been sung. Jade is carefully standing on Rozanov’s feet, her hands clasped in his. Ruby’s beaming up at Shane, her face split into a wide smile he feels like he hardly sees anymore, her whole face lit up with joy. All four of them look unrepentantly happy. “It still feels fake to me.”  

“You gotta believe in them,” Jackie says quietly. Her voice is soft and damp with emotion, tacky with the sort of tears that come from being overwhelmed with love. “I mean—look at them, Hayd.” 

Hayden—Hayden honestly can't look away. Even with most of their focus on the girls, he can tell that they're aware of each other, attuned on a level that he's pretty sure he's only seen from fucking Yuna and David, and that's because they've had decades of fitting together. 

This, the two of them here, in his living room, shouldn't work. Hayden can think of a million reasons it should have never happened. 

And yet—he can't help but be a little glad it did. 

But that's too much to think about, so when Arthur pats at his leg and shrieks with joy, Hayden scoops him up, pushing off the couch to join the other slow dancers on the floor. 

“You snooze, you lose,” he says, turning to grin at Jackie, who smiles back, her whole face full of satisfaction.

“I think you'll find I never lose,” Jackie says, and kicks her legs out across the couch, smirking at all of them. “Entertain your queen, why don't you?”

“Your mother is very scary,” Rozanov murmurs to Jade under the lyrics of indescribable feeling, and Hayden doesn't even try to stop the bright grin that spills across his face. 

By the time the song finishes, Hayden’s slow danced with both Jade and Ruby, and Arthur is back in Shane’s arms, still shy enough to hide from Rozanov. 

“Have we entertained you enough, your majesty?” Hayden asks, lifting up Jackie's legs to resettle on the couch. “Or are you still searching for something more?” 

She shrugs, tipping her head to grin at him. “I guess you can live another day,” she says, turning the volume down slightly as another Disney song begins to play. “My benevolence is beyond compare.” 

“Since when are you killing me?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at her. “What the fu–heck?”

Jackie shrugs again, a mean little smirk appearing. “I was going to make you do gladiator reenactments and thumbs down every time,” she says, laughing loudly. “Go big or go home, right?” 

“You're evil,” he mutters, rolling his eyes, and she hums, hooking her legs over his thighs to lever herself up to smack a loud kiss against his cheek. 

“I adore you,” she says, ignoring the way he flushes at her words. “Thanks for being such a good sport about all this.” 

Hayden shrugs, embarrassed about his prior nerves. They're still there, he knows, but are so much easier to deal with when his kids are around, mainly because they're the biggest distractions he knows. 

“It’s easier than I expected,” he allows, keeping his voice low to not draw the attention of either Shane or Rozanov. “It's just—easier, with a distraction.” 

Jackie hums, settling her head against his shoulder. “He's good with them,” she murmurs. “Says a lot about a person with how they treat kids. Especially their supposed sworn enemies' kids.” 

“I don't think we're enemies,” Hayden says, with startled honesty as he watches Shane carefully tip Rozanov's crown back onto his head before it can slide off his curls. Rozanov's fingers settle around his ankle for a beat, and Hayden watches his hand flex as he squeezes, before he tears his eyes away. “I think I probably register as an annoyance more than anything.” 

“Who's an enemy then?” Jackie asks, sounding genuinely curious, like they haven't had an enemies discussion before. Well, they haven't had one about Rozanov's enemies, Hayden supposes, since normally his name shows up as a top-hated one on Hayden's.

Not anymore, though, and isn't that a mindfuck. 

“Kent,” Hayden says after a beat of thinking on it. “Barrett, probably. Comeau and Drapeau for sure, especially if he knows what they're saying in the locker room.”

“So unlovable assholes,” Jackie says, tilting her head to press another kiss against his shoulder. “Good thing everyone finds you pretty lovable.”  

Hayden snorts, raking a hand through his hair and shaking his head. “I wouldn't go that far,” he mutters, but doesn't argue any further, settling in next to her. 

It's bewildering to watch Shane and Rozanov with his kids. Shane has always been their favorite uncle—an easy top choice given how much Jackie's brother and her brother-in-law's suck, and that Hayden is an only child, but he's fairly certain Shane would top the list regardless—but he can just tell that after tonight, he's going to get demand for Rozanov equally as much. 

He listens to them intently, with a patience Hayden is almost shocked to see, and treats them like full-functioning adults, just like Shane does. 

And despite keeping a competitive edge between them—who can be served tea first, who's going to be ordered away from the table to work in the kitchen, who's going to become the sparkliest princess of them all—they also help settle each other. 

Rozanov lets Shane answer the more rambling questions that the girls pose, and overacts all of his emotions, pretending to weep at one point as he's banished to the kitchen, Jade barking orders at him as he crawls over to make their esteemed princess soup that somehow always seems to come up when they play. 

Shane, in turn, keeps some sort of order at the tea party and treats everything with complete seriousness, as if he really is a princess being asked which land they should annex, as Ruby babbles about Trainlandia and Dinoplace—two lands Hayden’s intimately familiar with, as he's been banished to them both for being bad at tea. He'd be prouder of their exacting standards if he weren't somehow always falling short of them. 

They both keep an eye on Art, too, Hayden can tell, though Rozanov doesn't approach and lets him crawl around him instead, as if he's a skittish dog. 

“You know, I was thinking we could use them for date nights,” Jackie murmurs, after a long stretch of time has passed. It's crazy how soothing it is to listen to his kids play, to watch them be happy and content and full of imaginative ideas that he's not being made to go through. “But this is just as entertaining as any play or movie.” 

“I know,” Hayden says, shaking his head. “Who knew that the girls would meet their playmate match in fucking Ilya Rozanov.” 

“Swear jar,” Jackie mutters, before she tugs her phone out from under her hip and curses. “Hayd, we need to eat, it's like after seven.” 

“What?” Hayden blurts out, startled. He twists his wrist, glancing down at his watch, and sure enough, 7:13 blinks up at him. “Didn't they just get here?” 

Jackie snorts. “Time flies when you're having fun,” she says, pressing another kiss to his shoulder before she pushes herself up. “Princesses,” she says, commanding enough that even Shane and Rozanov startle, Shane's witch's hat sliding off his head. “Your queen commands you—it's time to wash up for dinner.” 

“But Momma,” Jade says, as Jackie steps over to scoop up Art. “I don't wanna—are they leaving?” 

“We're staying for dinner, Bug,” Shane promises as Rozanov pushes himself up and offers a hand to Shane. “And Ilya doesn't know where to sit. Do you think you could help your mom set up the table for him?” 

“I can,” Ruby shouts, tossing down her fake meal onto the table. “Momma, can I set the table? Can I please set the table?” 

“Me too,” Jade hollers. “Me too, me too, me too!”

“Inside voices,” Hayden says, rising and watching as Rozanov heaves Shane up, the two of them impossibly tangled for a beat, Shane's hands landing on Rozanov's hips, before they step apart, a faint flush on his cheeks. “If you wash up, you can help set the table, while I grab the food with Uncle Shane and Roz—Ilya.” 

Rozanov smirks at him, carefully setting his crown down through the point of Shane's witch's hat, and Hayden rolls his eyes. 

“Don't get used to it,” he mutters as he brushes by them, Jackie leading the way to their bathroom, the kids trailing behind, already full of ideas about where everyone should sit at dinner. “You're always going to just be Rozanov to me.” 

“You whisper such sweet things to me,” Rozanov says, laughter in his voice as he dutifully follows after him and Shane. “Wow, I am—not in amazement, but, hm—”

Shane mutters something too quietly for Hayden to catch, and Rozanov laughs. 

“Yes—I am enamored with your words, Pike. What an honor to be seen so clearly. Just Rozanov. So kind, I love it.” 

Hayden rolls his eyes as they enter the kitchen, snapping the overhead lights on, but dimming them before Shane can complain. “You don't have to be such an asshole,” he says, making his way towards the oven. “Some people actually do like kindness and compassion, you know? Some of us don't make it our life's mission to be utter terrors.” 

Shane clears his throat, and Hayden knows, with absolute certainty, that Shane isn't one of those people who's into kindness. No. He's into people who are fucking horrors released onto the earth. 

He hates how fondly he thinks that, even in the privacy of his own mind.

“You know, I've been thinking—” 

“You don't have to say whatever it is you're about to,” Hayden says, shooting a glare over his shoulder. 

“It’s nothing bad,” Shane says, like the filthy liar he is. “It’s just—oh, man, do I wish you guys had cameras in the playroom.” He's smirking at Hayden when he glances back again, Rozanov beside him, both of them looking gleeful, the fucking bastards. “I think I could get a lotta mileage out of you announcing you were going to be the best princess.” 

“Do not forget the expression on his face when he was demoted, too,” Rozanov adds, sliding an arm around Shane's waist. “I think it hurt more than always losing to Boston.” 

Shane kicks him, despite the wide grin on his face. “We don't always lose, and you know it, you asshole,” he says, too fondly for Hayden to feel even remotely good about the reprimand. “But no, you're right, that was pretty good too.” 

Hayden throws his hands up, rolling his eyes. “You two dickheads deserve each other,” he says, before he yanks the salmon bake out of the warming tray in the oven. “Jesus Christ.”

“Mm, dickheads is a good word for—” 

“Shut the fuck up, Ilya,” Shane hisses, narrowing his eyes, and Hayden just barely stops himself from shouting HA! at him and sticking out his tongue. Serves him right for being a fucking dick. 

Rozanov pouts at Shane, muttering something that sounds not at all apologetic in Russian, and Hayden rolls his eyes as Shane flushes. 

“Whatever fucking foreplay is happening—” 

“Swear jar,” Rozanov says cheerfully, grinning at the inarticulate sound of rage Hayden lets slip out. “Is very important, I hear,” he adds conspiratorially, “the girls are excited to buy a pony at the end of the year with all the money.” 

“Oh, you freaking suck, dude,” Hayden complains, shaking his head as he pulls out the other sheet pan of roasted broccoli. 

Shane shakes his head, but detangles from Rozanov, heading to the cupboard that holds their serving dishes and grabbing one. They've done this song and dance enough times that they both know exactly how to move through the space, and Hayden notes, with sour annoyance, that even Rozanov being in the kitchen doesn't disrupt their routine.

“Come carry in the broccoli,” Shane orders, not even bothering to look over his shoulder, and Hayden hides a smile at how immediately Rozanov complies. He doesn't even roll his eyes when he presses a kiss to Shane's cheek, despite how much he wants to. 

Hayden waits until he's out of the room to make a whipping noise in the back of his throat, grinning when Shane narrows his eyes at him. 

“I'm not saying anything,” he says, smirking. “I'm just—the guy's got it bad.” 

Shane flushes, as if this is somehow news to him. “Shut up,” he hisses, his ears turning pink. “He's just—he's being helpful.” 

Hayden nods, knowingly. “Right, right. Like I am, with Jackie?” 

Shane sniffs, his mouth settling into a haughty tilt. “According to Jacks, you actually aren't helpful, Hayd,” he says as he picks up the serving tray full of salmon, and Hayden grabs the two bowls of rice and kids' mac and cheese. “So maybe work on that, before—” He falters, falling quiet. 

Hayden bumps their shoulders together companionably as he scooches by. “I didn't say it was a bad thing,” he mutters, and has to bite back the sigh of exasperation that wants to escape. Why the fuck does he always find himself rooting for goddamn Rozanov? This whole thing would be so much easier if he were an actual asshole—then, Hayden would be able to say, dump him and let's go get you another guy, but instead, Rozanov meets Shane where he stands, like a fucking good person. It's terrible. 

“He should be a worse person, actually,” he says, scowling at nothing as he leads the way and listens to Shane laugh. God, he thinks he’s heard Shane laugh more tonight than he ever has before, and how fucking awful is that?

They step into the dining room, the long, solid table set with the casual, fancy dishware that Jackie likes to use when she wants people to be impressed but not in a pointedly, fuck you way; not like the way that she uses the nice china for whenever her parents are over. 

It's definitely nicer than it usually is when Shane comes over, though, and Hayden catches the flicker of recognition as it slides over his skin, his eyes widening for a beat before he relaxes. 

It's set up mostly like normal, with Shane's seat across from Jackie and Hayden's, the girls bookended by the head of the table, and Arthur's high chair settled in next to Hayden’s seat; though he suspects Art's not going to want to stay next to him. 

The big difference is Rozanov, who's settled into the seat next to Shane's, placidly listening as the girls chatter at each other about something with chalk drawings and birthdays. 

Hayden sets his dishes down, dropping a kiss on Jackie’s forehead when she glances up, and grins as Art immediately starts to squirm in her arms. 

“Oh, buddy,” he says, and scoops him up, passing him to Shane as soon as his hands are free. He tips his head towards the highchair—his dinner already set out on the tray, because Jackie is so on top of things—that's still at the wrong end of the table and glances at Rozanov. “Wanna grab that and see if he'll accept it tonight?” 

Arthur, predictably, doesn't want to sit in his highchair—no, he wants to sit on Shane's lap, his little hands clenched tight around his triceratops, despite how unsure of Rozanov he still is. 

“I can—move?” Rozanov offers as Arthur's wide eyes land on him again, and he makes a low squeaking noise in his chest, before Shane smooths a hand over his head and he drifts back into his arms. “I would not want to disrupt the routine. He is very settled with specifics, no?” 

Hayden blinks at him, stunned anew at how much Rozanov notices, before he shakes his head. “Art's just going to have to get used to you—isn't that right, buddy?” he says, grinning at his son. It's kind of funny that he isn't immediately enchanted with Rozanov; the only one of his family to not be, and ironically, the one who's the most like Shane.  He has no doubt, though, that Art will be falling into Rozanov's trap sooner rather than later. “He can handle a dinner on Shane's lap like this.” 

Jackie's hand lands on his, squeezing tight, and he glances up, stilling at the looks all three of them are giving him. “What?” 

Rozanov's face does something weird before he drags his eyes away, shaking his head. It doesn't do much to hide the sudden faint smile that's curling at the corners of his mouth. 

Shane, on the other hand, looks like he's going to cry again, and Hayden shoots a panicked look at Jackie, only to find her smiling at him, soft and warm. 

“Did I—” 

“Momma,” Ruby hollers, as if she's not sitting at the table with all of them. “I wanna sit with Ilya.” 

“You are, Ruby-roo,” Jackie says, squeezing his wrist once more before pulling away, leaving Hayden no less confused. “We're all at the table, see? And inside voices, please, you don't need to yell.” 

“But I wanna sit with him,” she says, as Jade nods fervently beside her. “Like Artie sits with Uncle Shane.” 

Rozanov is quiet, his eyes darting between Ruby and Jackie as if it's a test he's suddenly failing. 

“I could sit between them,” he murmurs, and stills when Hayden shakes his head. 

“They've already got you bending to their whims,” he says, rolling his eyes when both of them start to whine about how unfair everything is. Jackie snorts, poorly hiding her smile behind her hand as he narrows his eyes at the twins. “If you promise to try a bite of everything, even Uncle Shane's special salmon recipe I made tonight, then yes, Roz—Ilya can sit between you two.” 

“I promise," Ruby shrieks, before lowering her voice as Jackie makes a shushing motion. “I promise, Daddy. Ilya, come sit here, over here.”

“Over here, over here, over here,” Jade says, slapping her hands on the table, getting louder and louder the longer Rozanov sits in his chair.  

Hayden shakes his head, glancing over to meet Rozanov's eyes. “Good luck with the terrors,” he says, as the man starts to move, Shane beaming at his side. “You're never escaping their evil ways now.” 

“You're evil,” Jade says with complete sincerity, and Hayden scowls at the laugh Rozanov lets out, all of his hesitance shoved aside. 

“You are very fearsome,” Rozanov says as he settles into his new spot at the head of the table. Hayden glances at Shane to see if he's upset with the new arrangement, but he looks lovesick, like he's half a beat away from propping his chin on his fist and sighing as literal hearts throb in his eyes. Hayden bites back the teasing that rises in response and glances at Jackie, who grins at him, a tiny smirk playing around the corners of her mouth. Thank god, she's here—they will absolutely need to debrief after this. 

Rozanov's voice catches his attention again, and he turns to find him examining the twins, a smile on his face. “Swift with your orders. Like, ah, varóbushik, no?” 

“What the heck?” Ruby says, blinking at him. Frankly, Hayden's just glad she didn't whip out fuck as she had a month ago with dinner with Jackie's parents. He'd had a terrible time explaining where she learned that from, especially since everyone knew it was his fault and Jackie’s mom couldn’t stop glaring at him—not that that was really anything different than usual. “What does that mean?” 

Rozanov smiles at her before his eyes drift over to Shane, whose brow is furrowed, mouthing along the word.

“Little sparrow,” Rozanov says, glancing back at Ruby. “It is Russian, my first language.” 

“What does that mean?” Jade asks, rising up to stand on her seat and peer at him. Hayden narrows his eyes at her. She absolutely knows she's not allowed to stand on the chairs at dinner; trust her to think that guests would prevent him from saying anything. “Is Russian my first langswage too?” 

“I do not think you are supposed to stand there,” Rozanov says, offering her his hand to sit back down before either Hayden or Jackie can say anything. He wiggles his fingers at her, holding her steady until she sits back down slowly, peering up at him. “Language is—hm. I am not sure how best to explain.” 

“It's how we speak,” Jackie answers, before Hayden can even try to figure out how the hell to answer that question. “The words we say. You know how Uncle Shane and some of the kids in your class speak French?” 

“No,” Ruby says suspiciously, squinting at her. “What's French?”

“You know French, you rapscallion,” Jackie says, shaking her head as Jade bursts into loud, pealing giggles. “You said merci the other day.” 

“That's just thank you,” Ruby retorts. “It's justa different way of saying it.” 

“That's what language is,” Jackie says, deftly serving the table. She follows the usual insanity of their Pike house family meals and gives everyone but Shane and Art a scoop of the kid’s mac and cheese—Annie's bunnies mac and cheese this time, because Jade got to pick it out—before following it up with their actual meal: salmon, rice, broccoli. Art gets yogurt for dinner tonight, something he's incredibly enthused about as he babbles in Shane's arms and leans forward for more. “Different ways of saying things.”

“Okay,” Ruby says doubtfully. She sounds just like Jackie does when Hayden assures her he's got everything under control, and they both know he's lying. “If you say so, Momma.”

Jackie snorts, settling back into her seat and gesturing for everyone to eat. “I do, Ruby-roo.” 

For a moment, under the clatter of silverware as everyone tucks in, they're all quiet, as if they've all just remembered exactly who they are and how impossible this is. It reminds Hayden of why he was so nervous to host. God, he hates an awkward silence. 

But, like sunshine breaking through clouds, his daughters remind him why they decided to make their first dinner at their house with the kids. 

“You know what I love?” Ruby says, in between bites of her mac and cheese. She did the opposite of Jade and ate her salmon first, her nose wrinkling through the three measly bites, before she started to house her actual dinner with so much gusto, Hayden’s a little worried she might choke. “Panda Es’press.” 

Hayden blinks at her before looking at Jackie, who looks just as confused. “When did you go to Panda Express?” he asks. Maybe it was during a school trip? He can't remember signing off on anything like that, and their school tends to be pretty strict about allergies, and given the way Jackie looks bewildered, he has a feeling this isn't something either of them approved. 

Ruby snorts, shaking her head. “You don't go to Panda Es'press,” she says, with so much disdain that Rozanov muffles a laugh into his palm. “It comes to you.” 

“Like, delivered food?” Shane says, blinking at her. He neatly catches a dribble of yogurt from Arthur's mouth, effortlessly multitasking in a way Hayden can only kind of be envious of; he's given up eating in pursuit of feeding Art and paying attention to the conversation. “Like you place an order and food gets dropped off at your door?” 

“No,” Jade says, huffing. She's poking at her salmon with a disgusted expression, ignoring the looks both he and Jackie are leveling at her. “Only hot cocoa.” 

“Panda Express has hot cocoa?” Hayden repeats, glancing at Jackie. “And don't play with your food, Jadebug. You promised you would try it.” 

“If you have a bite and do not like it, I will eat it,” Rozanov says, nodding when Jade glances up at him, wide-eyed. “I am jealous. I have not had salmon in weeks,” he says, pressing a hand to his heart. “Is good for you, and,” he leans in, whispering like it’s a secret, “it's Uncle Shane's favorite.” 

“You have some,” Ruby says, pointing at his plate. “Ilya, Ilya, Ilya, you have some.” 

“I'm still confused about the Panda Express,” Shane mutters, as Rozanov thanks Ruby for pointing that out in the background, meeting Hayden's eyes. His cheeks are faintly pink, and Hayden can't remember the last time he looked so happy, so content. It sort of makes him want to cry, except that if he starts crying, he's absolutely going to set all his kids off, and the last thing he wants to do is start a Pike family bawling session in front of Rozanov. 

Jade sighs, loud and long. “It's a train, Uncle Shane. You take a train, and there's a bell and Santa, and you get hot cocoa, and the Panda Es'press takes you up.” She hums to herself, poking at her bite of salmon and glancing between it and Rozanov. “There’s ice, too.” 

“Baby,” Jackie says, after a beat of quiet. It's far different this time, more struck dumb by what Jade's said, than any sort of awkwardness. “Do you mean the Polar Express?” 

“No,” Ruby says, wrinkling her nose. She tips her head to the side, shoving her hair out of her face with a haughty expression. “C'mon, Momma, it's Panda.”

“I don't think—” Hayden starts, only to be cut off by Rozanov, who's shaking his head. 

“No, no, the girls, they are right,” he says, laying a hand on his heart and smirking as Hayden glares at him. “Panda Express, yes? It is Russian. You would not understand.”

Shane laughs, trying to hide it poorly under his breath, and Hayden levels a glare at him, completely unimpressed, even as Arthur giggles, set off by Shane. He won’t be taken down by sheer cuteness, even if Arthur staring up at Shane and laughing is fucking adorable. 

“Oh, so we're just lying now?” he says, pointing a fork at Rozanov. “He can just lie to my kids?”

Rozanov blinks his wide, blue eyes at him, mocking shock appearing on his face. “Wow, Pike. I did not know—you speak Russian now?” 

“Rozanov,” Hayden starts, glaring at him harder. “I swear to god—” 

“Is it a lie?” Jackie asks, smirking at him as he whips his head around to stare at her. Christ, he knew introducing them was going to spell his downfall. “What? You don't know.” 

“I'm going to lose it,” Hayden says, setting his fork down with a click. He can feel himself getting red, irritation flooding his skin. He has no idea why this is the hill he’s choosing to die on. Ideally, he would’ve chosen no hills. “Panda is not polar in Russian.” 

“Are we Russian?” Jade asks, neatly cutting off whatever Rozanov was going to say. She slides her half-eaten piece of salmon onto his plate and watches him very intently, as if gauging his seriousness about eating it. “If Ilya's Russian, I wanna be.” 

Hayden puts his head in his hands and very pointedly doesn’t scream. He can hear Jackie answering, the low cadence of response, and Rozanov talking, but he doesn’t look up until Shane lightly kicks him in the shins. 

“That’s the question that got you?” he says, looking utterly unimpressed. “The Russian heritage one? You literally did a whole song and dance for all of us earlier.” 

Hayden rolls his eyes, his cheeks going pink at the reminder as Rozanov grins at him. “This is—you know they’re going to tell everyone that panda is polar in Russian, right? Like, this is an established fact that they’re serial repeaters, hence the need for a swear jar.” 

“Hence,” Shane repeats, his mouth shifting into a smirk. “I didn’t know you were back in college, Hayd. Good for you.” 

Hayden narrows his eyes at him. “You’re dead to me, Hollander,” he mutters. “Full stop.” 

Shane shrugs, looking unbothered. “Whatever you say, Hayd.”

“Boys,” Jackie says, as she always does. She's not even looking at either of them, focused on making sure that Ruby doesn't dump the whole ketchup bottle on her mac and cheese. “Stop flirting at the dinner table.” 

For half a beat, Hayden’s worried that it's a step too far after all the revelations of the past month, that Rozanov will take offense, that somehow Shane will get up and tell them off for making everything a fucking joke, but Shane just grins like he always does—which god, Hayden is wondering if he’ll ever get over how brave he fucking is, to hear Jackie say that and not run all those times before—and Rozanov snorts, and everything's fine. 

Dinner passes as it always does: a loud, chaotic mess. 

Ruby tips over her drink, Arthur manages to get broccoli in Shane's hair despite being nowhere near Shane’s plate, and Jade instructs the whole table on the proper way to play hopscotch, which Hayden was unaware was so vicious for kids, or that there was a wrong way to play.  

Throughout it all, Rozanov sits and listens, mostly quiet, his eyes darting from person to person as they speak, only to constantly be drawn back to Shane. 

He ducks down to hear the too-loud whispers of Ruby when she insists on telling him a secret—where her stickers are stashed in her room—and nods gravely when she asks him to never ever tell nobody. 

He gamely gives Jade back a piece of her salmon when she gets jealous about not having any, despite having given hers away to him. 

It's kind of blowing Hayden’s mind how well he fits in.  

Even his chirps have a softness to them at the table, as if he's worried about doing something wrong, which is so insane that Hayden immediately rejects it as a possibility. Rozanov's never met a social situation he hasn't been able to bulldoze; there's no way he would ever be nervous here. Not in his home, not with his kids, and certainly not with him. 

He sent him the goddamn rematch tonight text earlier. There’s nothing about nerves in that. 

No, he's fairly certain he's got Rozanov's number. He's got nothing to worry about. 

He sighs, shaking his head, and tunes back into the chaos at the table, just in time to catch Jackie's chair as it snags on the carpet and nearly topples to the floor. 

“Thanks, babe,” Jackie murmurs, rising from her seat. “I can grab the dishes and then get the girls ready for bed?” 

“I’ll clean up,” Hayden says as she pauses in her reach, before he glances at the girls, meeting their eyes. “And then, if everyone’s been good, I’ll come up and do story time with Uncle Shane and Ilya.” 

He doesn’t look at Rozanov, but he doesn’t need to, to know that it’s something that’ll make him smile, or hide one, at least, because he’s allergic to letting Hayden make him grin unless it’s at his expense. 

“We’re always good,” Ruby says, like the little liar she is. Like she hadn't just tried to goad Jade into putting a piece of broccoli stalk up her nose. “Tell him, Momma, we’re always good.” 

Jackie hums, stepping around the table to scoop Arthur from Shane’s arms, and tilts her head. “What about the shrieking from this morning? And the fight you and Jade had over the maple syrup?” 

“I was still being good,” Ruby argues, scrambling down from her chair and darting for the stairs. “Sometimes you gotta yell.” 

“Who’s telling you it’s okay to yell?” Jackie asks, glancing over her shoulder, but Hayden holds his hands up, shaking his head. He certainly isn’t saying that shit—they’re already too loud without being enabled. “Did someone at school say that?” 

“Grandpa did,” Jade says gleefully, following after her sister. Her voice echoes off the walls as she races down the hall. “And Grammy said that it’s okay to shout at the TV, ‘specially when Daddy’s on it.” 

“Of course they did,” Jackie says, rolling her eyes. “Guess I’m having another conversation with my parents about what’s allowed to be said to our ever-present elephant ears.” Shane clicks his tongue, and Jackie sighs. “Don’t I fucking know it,” she mutters, shaking her head as the girls thunder up the stairs and into their jack-and-jill bedroom. “Alright, be good down here—I’ll send one of the girls to holler when we’re ready for bedtime stories.” 

They wait at the table for another beat as Jackie leaves the room, before Shane exhales, shaking his head. 

“Her parents are so weird,” he mutters, a familiar refrain that always makes Hayden feel a little bit better about the whole thing. “Do you think they’re yelling insults at the games about you?” 

Hayden rolls his eyes and pushes himself up. “It’s not even a question,” he says, well-aware of just how unimpressed her parents are with him, even after all these years. “When I scored the game-winner for round one of the playoffs last year, her dad texted me that he expects more from me.” Rozanov makes a noise, and Hayden deliberately doesn’t look at him as he gathers up the plates, stacking them neatly. “Problem?” 

For a moment, Hayden wonders if he’s about to brawl with Rozanov. There’s a new, sharp layer of almost anger to the air, the thrum of blood ready to be spilled, before Rozanov shifts in his chair and clears his throat.

“Those who cannot do, judge,” Rozanov mutters, an edge to his voice that for once Hayden doesn’t think is aimed at him. “Ignore him, Pike. He probably wouldn't know which end to hold the stick.” 

Shane muffles a laugh, and Hayden can feel his mouth twitch; he's almost shocked enough to actually grin at the other man. 

“Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “Sure thing, Rozanov.”

He carries out the plates to the kitchen, stacking them next to the sink to be rinsed before put in the dishwasher, and pauses, letting himself just breathe for a beat. 

He just—he doesn't know what to do with an Ilya Rozanov who's a friendly dick. He knows how to treat him on the ice—ignore, chirp back, ignore, ignore—but in his home, it's a total mess. It doesn't feel genuine, despite how genuine he knows it is. 

It's weird. 

He's fine with it. It's just—fucking bizarre, despite how much it suits him. Rozanov is widely regarded as one of the biggest assholes in the league. He'll chirp about any mistakes you make on the ice, including ones you would never expect him to know—Hayden will never be able to forget the chirp about him tripping over his laces from 2013, since he'd tripped on the rink alone—and even when he's off the ice, he's a fucking dick. 

But there’s a difference between being a funny dick, which Hayden will never ever admit to him, and being a literal fucking monster, which some of the guys on other teams are. Some people on the roster of the NHL clearly get on the ice to hurt people, and that's never been Rozanov. 

No, Rozanov, like Shane, gets on the ice to win. 

There’s a clatter of dishes from the hallway, startling him from his thoughts, and then Shane is setting down the stack of leftovers on the counter, hesitating when Hayden glances at him. 

“Do you want another moment alone?” he asks in an undertone. “Ilya and I can wait a couple of minutes in the dining room.” 

Hayden shakes his head. “Was my freak out obvious?” he asks, reaching for the plates to rinse off. “Or are you just using your freaky captain intuition?” 

Shane shrugs, his eyes darting away when Hayden glances at him. “Both, I guess?” he says. “There’s just—it wasn't very subtle, and I know you don't get along with Jackie's parents.” 

Hayden snorts. Don't get along is pretty mellow given the absolute fucking disaster their relationship is. He's been a disappointment since day one—because Jackie’s parents had a plan for her to marry a doctor or a lawyer—and they've been unrelenting in their disapproval. 

“Jackie doesn't get along with them,” Hayden points out, turning the sink on. “Sometimes I think they're actively plotting my murder.” 

Shane hums, rocking back on his feet. “But it's okay when I do it?” he asks lightly, stepping over to yank open the dishwasher. Hayden shoots him a confused look, and he grins. “Plan your murder, I mean.” 

He can't help but laugh. “Well, yeah,” Hayden says, shaking his head, drifting backwards so that Shane can snag one of Jackie’s specific counter-cleaning sponges. “Because that's not your fucking baseline, dude.” 

“Swear jar,” Rozanov singsongs as he slinks in through the doorway, the final stack of dishes in his hands. He grins when Hayden shoots him a dirty look, smugly pleased as he sets them down next to the stack of dishes. “Is not my rule, Pike,” he says, drawing out his words and thickening his accent like it'll get him out of trouble. Which, maybe it works with Shane, but this is his fucking house. He's not going to be distracted by Rozanov's mouth or voice. “I am being respectful.” 

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Hayden says, but even he can hear the faint laughter in his tone, even as he tries to prevent it from appearing. He shakes his head when Rozanov shoots him a faux-shocked look and staggers back against the counter, miming being shot. “You're so annoying.” 

“Shane,” Rozanov whines as he slumps over the counter. “You see how he treats me? Like I am trash, like I am nothing.”

“Put the food away,” Shane orders, brandishing a sponge at him and ignoring his despair completely. Hayden hides his smirk, turning back to the dishes, and the kitchen falls into a pleasant sort of quiet, one that he hadn't even known was possible to have around Rozanov, as Shane softly directs him to where their tupperware containers are. 

The familiar rhythm of cleaning is soothing, the standard rinse, rack, repeat settling Hayden more than his earlier moment of quiet had. It's strange how often the cleanup at the end of a day is one of his favorite parts of it. There's just something so satisfying about things being settled into their spaces that makes him relax. 

It moves even faster when Shane's here, but only in a good way, because Shane also gets it. They work together just as well as they do on the ice, trading jobs and specifics every time they come together, but everything gets done as it should. Jackie likes to joke that they're her little cleaning fairies, which now, well. Hm. He's not sure if she can say that anymore. 

He slots the last of the dishes into the dishwasher, grinning when Shane instinctively kicks up the door into his waiting hands, and meets Rozanov's faintly bewildered face. 

“Jealous?” he asks, shoving the pod into place, and then wants to smack himself. What a stupid, junior high level taunt, and worse, what if he is? Shane hasn't been super transparent on the details, but he sort of doubts that they've been cohabitating at all aside from sex, because why the fuck else would Shane have freaked out? Like, he knows for a fact that Shane was absolutely getting laid, and returning to the hotel after in Boston, so there can't have been—

“No,” Rozanov says, his mouth twitching. “I am not jealous of watching you two clean. I am jealous of Jackie for being able to escape it.” 

“Whatever, dude,” Hayden mutters, exhaling as he presses start. “S'not my fault, Shane and I have this locked down and don't need you.” 

“Wow, you are so right, Pike,” Rozanov says dryly. “Woe is me.” 

“Who the hell taught you woe is me?” Shane asks, a snarky sort of disbelief wound through every word. “I know that's not what your teammates are teaching you.” 

Rozanov gasps, turning to him with a grin, and Hayden tunes them out, returning his attention to the stovetop, where splatters of their dinner are caked onto the metal.

It's nice, he guesses, to have their voices behind him, the soft rise and fall of sound that he doesn't have to pay attention to. It's normally just him down here, or Jackie, since they trade off who gets kid duty when he's home. 

They aren't doing much more than chirping at each other when he glances at them, but he doesn't think he's going to be able to get the image of Shane grinning up at Rozanov in the dim amber light spilling across his kitchen. There's something about the way Rozanov is looking at him, about the curve of his mouth, the softness of his eyes, the way the two of them look utterly content and blindingly happy to just be around each other. 

He doesn't really believe in soulmates, not like Jackie does, but he almost wants to believe, just because of their connection. It’s honestly fucked that they make him want to believe, when even he and Jackie don’t, but it’s just so palpable. 

It’s like watching the wave of despair hit the other team when Shane steps out for a power play, or the synchronization he finds on the ice with him; it clicks, it makes sense, and it’s so unbelievably apparent that Shane loves him, just like he loves hockey. Another pillar of his being, another staple of his life. 

“Can Uncle Shane and Ilya come do storytime?” Jade asks, her voice echoing down from overhead and startling him into jerking back from the oven to catch her peering over the bannister. She’s dressed in the kids' official Metros’ pajamas because Jackie is fucking amazing and hilarious. Hayden can hear the muffled laugh the second Shane clocks the outfit, along with the quiet groan that Rozanov clearly tries to hide from Jade’s ears. “Momma said that we’re ready-setty for bed and number twelve, and all we need is a tuckin’ in.” 

“We’ll be up in a second, Jadebug,” Hayden calls, and waits for her head to disappear from the stairs, before he glances over at Rozanov and Shane. “We’re on book twelve of the Magic Tree House series,” he says, meeting Rozanov’s gaze and noting the faint confusion on his face. “It’s like about these kids who travel all over the place through a tree house. We only read them together when I’m home, so it’s been a slow-going process, you know?” 

Rozanov nods, something on his face shifting. Hayden has no idea what the fuck it means, but Shane steps closer, bumping into him deliberately as he wipes down the counter. 

“I’ll do the reading if they ask one of us to,” he says quietly, and damn, Hayden hadn’t even thought about how it might be harder for Rozanov. “Or we can just listen, or we can stay down here—whatever you want to do.”

Hayden turns back to the stove, scrubbing harder at the spot of dried cheese on the gleaming chrome. 

“No, no, Hollander. It’s fine. I will go up and listen—if that is allowed, Pike?” 

“‘Course it is,” Hayden says gruffly, and tries to not feel weird about how easily Rozanov has slotted into their lives in a single night. He just, he thought he vaguely got how they fit when they were apart, but to see them together—it really is just something else entirely. He’s always liked Shane, from the very beginning, and he’s always been so fucking glad how easily they’ve slotted together, how much Jackie likes him. But it’s been like Shane’s been carrying a ghost, like there’s been a space left open for someone, and only now does it make sense—Ilya fucking Rozanov’s been haunting him in more ways than one. 

“I think we're reading in our room tonight,” he says, absentmindedly trying to fill the quiet. “We try to limit when they get to fall asleep on our floor, but our Magic Tree House nights are special, you know? We'll probably get through only a chapter or two before they knock out and we carry ‘em to bed.”

“Very domestic,” Rozanov murmurs, but he doesn't sound like how other people have when Hayden lets bits of their nighttime routine slip. There isn't a pitying edge to his words. He sounds almost sad, but that's insane, so Hayden shoves the part of his brain that's overanalyzing everything Rozanov does away and just hums an agreement. 

“Do we get a hint about the book tonight?” Shane asks, rinsing off the sponge. “Or is it a surprise?” 

Hayden squints at the stovetop, racking his brain. “I think there's a polar bear?” he says, wiping the last of the suds off the range. “I remember Ruby was really excited because they're her favorite animals right now.” 

“No longer camels?” Shane says, blinking at him in surprise when Hayden tosses the sponge in the sink and turns to look at him. “I thought she’d said that she was never going to love anything like them.” 

He shrugs, wiping his hands off on a dishtowel and passing it to Shane. “She changed it recently, but I don’t know how long it’ll stick. Jade’s still obsessed with dolphins, though, the creepy fuckers.” Rozanov makes a faint disbelieving sound of amusement, and he narrows his eyes at him. “You got something to say, Rozanov?” 

Rozanov shrugs lazily, grinning at him. “Good to know your weaknesses, Pike,” he says, tilting his head. “Maybe the Boston aquarium can help host the next home game versus Montreal. Wheel out a little tank, full of fish.” He wiggles his eyebrows at him. “I would love to see what happens when there are dolphins on the ice.” 

Shane whaps him with the towel, shaking his head. “Sometimes I think you use your whole head for coming up with insanity,” he mutters, like that isn’t clearly Rozanov’s whole deal, before he hands the towel back to Hayden. “We’re only going to do story time if you fucking behave.” 

Rozanov groans, low in his throat. “I have behaved,” he says, rolling his eyes. He ruffles his hair with his hand, his eyes fixed on Shane, a faint smile playing around the corners of his mouth. He looks far too pleased for someone who was just, rather abruptly, told to behave. “I have not said half the things that Pike deserves—” 

“Fuck you, too,” Hayden mutters, raising a brow at him and needling him just because, even as his bullshit detector starts to vibrate. There’s something strange happening now; he can just tell. Something about the glint in his eyes, the expression on Shane’s face. It looks eerily similar to the Boston Lily expressions Shane would wear. “This is you behaving?”

“—and I have been kind and nice all night, and I have not told Jackie to get a paternity test even once, and—” 

“To be fair,” Shane says contemplatively, interrupting the next line of fucking nonsense that Rozanov was sure to spout. “He has been on his best behavior.” 

“Again,” Hayden says, even though they all know it’s true. Rozanov has somehow been exceptionally well-behaved tonight, for all the shit he’s said. “This is him behaving?” He shakes his head, wrinkling his brow. “And you’re the one who said he hadn’t been. Hang on—is this a—” He pauses, narrowing his eyes, his gaze bouncing between them, taking in Shane's flush and Rozanov's glinting teeth, the way they've slowly been inching closer and closer together. “Is this a fucking sex thing?” 

“No,” Shane says, too quickly, pulling back abruptly and glaring when Rozanov starts to laugh. “It’s—no, I’m not—this isn’t—” 

Hayden drags a hand over his face. “That’s way too much protesting, dude,” he mutters, his cheeks turning pink as he studiously doesn’t look at Rozanov, who’s back to grinning broadly at the two of them, instead of trying to eyefuck Shane. “And like, what the hell, Shane, where the fuck did that even come from?” 

“We don’t normally just hang out,” Shane says, spluttering, before he buries his head in his hands. “It’s—I fucking—it was instinctive, I don’t know, he was just standing, and he did that smirk and I just—” 

Hayden’s torn in two; half with indignity, because what the fuck, can’t they just keep it together for like another couple of hours, and half with sorrow, because holy shit, that’s fucking bleak. 

Even Rozanov looks faintly taken aback, the smug tilt of his mouth fading slightly. “It’s new,” he allows, before his mouth kicks up into something smarmy. “The talking, you know.” 

Shane groans and buries his face even deeper into his arms. “I hate this,” he mutters. “Sorry, Hayd.” 

Hayden sighs. “I'm not even going to pretend that this isn't going to happen again,” he mutters, and rolls his eyes when Rozanov smirks at him. “C'mon, horndogs, let's go get a bedtime story read to us.” 

Shane groans again, but listens, straightening up. He brushes past Rozanov, lingering a second in his orbit, before he pulls away, and Hayden's realizing that they really haven't touched either, despite all the ways it's been clear that they want to. 

It's a little surprising; he knows how Shane tends to brace himself for touches, how there's always a bit of hesitation on his end to touch Shane. He just doesn't want to overcrowd, not after the panic attack he accidentally walked in on their first year playing together, when all the guys had dogpiled him in celebration of a fucking nasty game-winning shot, and he'd nearly passed out underneath them all. 

He hadn't panicked then, no, Shane had been woozy but standing at the end of it, his hands curled tight; the panic had come after, in the quiet moment, tucked away in the hall of the Bell Centre, as if he'd been suddenly released from shock, his mind catching up to what he'd been through. 

Hayden had found him backed against a wall, far out of the way from the usual halls they haunted; he'd only stumbled over him because he'd been looking for a quiet place to call Jackie. 

He'd been shit at comforting him, half-terrorized that someone would find them, and he'd get blamed for sending Shane into hysterics, and half-afraid that he was making everything worse as he babbled about the game they'd just played. 

But eventually, Shane had surfaced, and in the aftermath had haltingly told him about the rush of too much that could rise when there were too many new and unexpected sensations spilling across his skin. Hayden had tried his best to stop him from getting dogpiled like that again in the intervening games after, and eventually, no one on the team tended to touch Shane without it being relatively expected. 

Here, though, even with the unexpectedness, it's clear that Shane wants Rozanov to be close, that he wants to feel his hands on his skin. He's attuned to the other man like a sunflower seeking the sun, and now that Hayden’s realized how careful they are not to touch too directly, he sort of wants to scream. 

He doesn’t, though it's close, as he watches Shane lead the way upstairs, Rozanov on his heels, before he shakes himself. He's fairly certain that if he says please feel free to touch each other, that Rozanov is going to turn into the type of menace that he will have to ban from his house for public indecency. He's absolutely not inviting that shit into his home. 

“I'm reading tonight,” Jackie says, interrupting his thoughts as they make their way into their master bedroom. She gets it out before anyone else can say a word, and ignores the way the girls whine as she pats at the sprawl of pillows tossed across the floor, directly next to the tiny velvet sofa that sits next to his bedside table. She's also outfitted in branded Metros’ pajamas, and Hayden can't hide his grin at Rozanov’s pained face as he realizes. “C'mon, boys. Get cozy.” 

The rest of their bedroom looks like normal, thank god, he thinks as he glances around their large bedroom. Their bed is rumpled but clean, the duvet hastily pulled up over their sheets. Jackie's vanity is cluttered with trinkets and perfumes, her tiny collection of makeup shoved into the corner. The blinds are half-parted, dull orange from the streetlights drifting in through the windows that face the street, and the doors to their ensuite and walk-in closet are cracked, not fully open, hiding the messes he knows are chronically inside.

He doesn’t bother to check for more than that, positive that Jackie’s hidden anything embarrassing, as he tucks himself in between her and Jade and gestures for Shane and Rozanov to join them. 

“Ilya, sit next to me,” Ruby demands, patting the pillow aggressively between her and Jade as Jade bobbles her head so fast it makes Hayden feel a little nauseous. “Have you ever read the Magic Tree House?” 

“No, I have not,” Rozanov says, carefully folding himself down next to her as Shane settles in on the other side of her, already reaching for Arthur, pulling him from Jackie’s arms. 

For a moment, Arthur regards Rozanov with faint suspicion, as he has all evening, before exhaustion takes over, and he closes his eyes, snuggling in tighter to Shane. Hayden tries not to let his amusement show as Rozanov relaxes, but he knows Jackie’s clocked in by the narrow-eyed look she shoots his way. 

Ruby and Jade are filling Rozanov and Shane in on what the other books have all been about as Jackie leans in, her eyes bright. “Everything good? You took a second to get up here.” 

Hayden nods, meeting her eyes and smiling. “We're good, and I'll just—I'll fill you in later,” he mutters. “Little ears, you know?”

Jackie's eyebrows raise before she grins at him. “Oh,” she says, after a beat, clearly picking up what he’s putting down. “I hear you.” 

He’s helplessly charmed by her as always, his smile turning even more sappy than usual. For a beat, they just grin at each other, before Shane pointedly clears his throat, the sound a touch softer than usual. 

“Be in love later, weirdos,” he mutters, smoothly rocking Art. It does nothing to disguise his clear fondness. “I thought you were going to read to us.” 

“Oh, so this is read-to-famous-hockey-players time, and not loving-my-family time, huh?” Jackie says, even as she grabs the book off of the stack on his bedside table. “Should we make it mandatory at practice?” 

Rozanov laughs softly, his eyes glinting when Hayden glances over at him, but for once he keeps his mouth shut, seeming unwilling to even incur Jackie’s joking wrath.

Jackie nods smugly. “That's what I thought,” she murmurs, and then flips open to chapter one of Polar Bears Past Bedtime. 

Hayden lets her voice drift through one ear and out the other, even though he generally enjoys the books, leaning back against the edge of the sofa they use as a laundry deposit, more often than an actual seat. 

His eyes linger on his kids’ faces, tracking the sleepy expressions that grow drowsier and drowsier the longer Jackie reads, until Jade slumps over Rozanov, her head settling in on his thigh, her lashes fluttering as she sighs. 

His eyes dart up, watching as Rozanov's whole face changes, tiny, awed delight unfurling, as if he's been hoping for this show of trust the whole night. 

When he glances at Shane, his eyes are glassy, his expression distant, as if he's had a revelation beyond his own comprehension; some chain unwinding, a click of a key unlocking a depth he had never known to look for. 

His stomach hurts at the naked honesty on both of their faces, and he averts his gaze, uncomfortable with the sheer amount of raw want that's painted across their faces. It looks painful, to feel so much, to be caught on the hooks and nails of desperation for something so simple and domestic. 

The edge of it lingers, as Jackie slowly finishes out the chapter—only one tonight, and he knows that they'll have to reread again when everyone is awake next time. He can't find it in himself to mind, not when he gets these quiet moments. 

Jackie shuts the book, her whole face aglow with love, everyone quiet and breathing, soaking in the relaxed atmosphere. 

“I'll get Arthur and come back for one of the girls,” Hayden finally whispers, pushing up off the pillows and tiptoeing as best he can over to Shane. “If you two want to head downstairs, we'll find you in a few.” 

Shane nods, stretching, and Hayden glances over to find Rozanov gently lifting Jade's head from his thigh, where she had passed out, his hand curled gently around her head. It makes his stomach hurt a little bit to see the blatant care on his face, how he isn't even trying to hide any of it. 

It's still so crazy to Hayden that this is his life now, apparently. That he gets to watch Rozanov, someone who, after a few hours with his kids, has become utterly undone by them, a softness Hayden’s really never seen on his face. 

He ducks down out of their bedroom before he can get caught watching, and flicks on the hall nightlight as he passes by, falling into the true rhythm of bedtime easily. 

It’s strange, the way guilt climbs up his throat at moments like these, where he’s so aware of the finite moments he gets with his kids when they’re really kids; when it shatters into the knowledge that he will never be able to have these nights again, once they’re gone. That for a good chunk of the year, he’s missing out on things like this—that sometimes, he isn’t here enough. 

He settles Arthur into his bed, smoothing a hand over his head, before he presses a soft kiss to his tuft of messy hair. “Love you, buddy,” he murmurs, tucking in his triceratops right next to him. He twists the baby monitor on; its twins are in the kitchen and in their bedroom, and he sneaks out of the room, creeping back down the hall. 

Ruby’s already tucked in her bed when he peeks into her room, taking a moment to whisper, I love you, Ruby-roo, just in case she’s hovering on the cusp of sleep, before he ducks back out, overly familiar with the way she starts to wake if there’s even a hint of someone else in her room. He meets Jackie's eyes as she's about to reenter their room, and immediately turns towards her, quirking an eyebrow. 

“I've got it,” she murmurs, waving him off when he shifts closer, glancing over her shoulder to see Jade sprawled out across the pillow, drooling already. He grins at the sight and mouths love you, Jadebug, because he can’t help it; his kids are kind of the best tiny humans on the whole planet. “Go see if Shane or Ilya needs company downstairs.” 

He nods, but darts forward to steal a kiss. “Love you,” he mutters into her mouth. “You’re the best fucking mom.” 

She kisses him back, her mouth curved into a tiny smile. “Love you too, babe,” she whispers. “There’s no one else I’d wanna be in a partnership with.” 

He grins at her, helpless and sappy with love, but listens when she shoves him back towards the stairs, happy as always to listen to her. 

“You did not eat,” Rozanov murmurs in a tone Hayden’s never heard before, and he freezes on the stairs’ landing, his head cocked. “Solnyshko, you need to eat.” 

Shane sighs, and Hayden can hear a rustle as he shifts. “I’m not hungry,” he demurs. “I can—I can eat later.” The floorboards creak above his head as Jackie heads down the hall towards the kids’ rooms, and he holds his breath, as if his faint breathing will somehow alert them to him. “It’s fine.” 

“A bite,” Ilya cajoles, and Hayden risks a glance over the bannister to catch him standing with his hands hovering over the boxed up leftovers, his brow furrowed. “Sweetheart, for me.” 

Shane groans, but Hayden can catch the slightest dip of his chin, and he exhales shakily, twisting on his heel and heading up the stairs. He doesn’t know it all, but he knows enough; Shane would not want him to be present for whatever is happening downstairs. 

Jackie’s standing in the doorway of Jade's room, watching her toss and turn as she settles into her bed. For a moment, they're quiet, Hayden curling his arms around her waist and setting his chin on her shoulder. 

“Rozanov is making Shane eat right now,” Hayden murmurs into her ear, his head cocked as he listens to the faint hum of the microwave, the gentle clink of metal against ceramic and glass. “We should give them like five.” 

She hums and leans back against him, and the two of them stand for a long, quiet moment, watching their daughter sleep soundly. 

“You see it?” she asks, soft and tender, as if it’s a gift to have seen. She doesn’t offer an explanation for what exactly she’s talking about, but Hayden doesn’t need to ask. 

He knows what she means. 

“Yeah,” he answers, squeezing her tighter. “They work.” 

They linger in the doorway for long enough that the quiet noise from the kitchen disappears. 

“I think I should be freaking out more,” he finally mutters into Jackie's ear, dropping a kiss on the side of her head. “This is—weird, right? But not bad?” 

“Not bad,” Jackie echoes. “Strange, I think, but only because of how easy it is. He's been perfectly polite—” 

“I wouldn't go that far,” Hayden grumbles, wrinkling his nose.

“—and he clearly is in love with Shane,” she says, ignoring his mumbling. “And that's really all we can hope for, right? That he loves Shane, that they love each other enough to try? I mean, it has to be fucking serious if Shane is here introducing him to the kids, right? He would never if it didn't mean something real, even if I pushed for it.” 

“Yeah,” Hayden murmurs, sighing. “It just sucks, you know? Not the—I guess not even the Rozanov part, but just how it happened. What I did, what they did to each other. And I dunno, I don’t even know all the specifics, but I know that it was bad enough to have Shane actually crying instead of the damp-eyed tearing up thing he does, and that’s like—that’s so bad.” 

“Sure,” Jackie says, before she spins in his grip, hooking her arms around his head. “But babe, that’s their business. I know you want to know, but sometimes the inner bits of relationships are mysteries. That’s just how life is. I’ll never know why the fuck Val puts up with Comeau, but she does. And maybe I hate that, which, for the record—”

“You fucking do.” 

“—I fucking do,” she repeats, grinning at him. In the shadows of the hallway, she’s nothing more than a smear of soft gray, the shine of the hallway nightlight just enough to illuminate the slope of her nose, the glint of her teeth. “And, you know, it's okay to feel jealous about it too, babe. I know you want to know everything there is to know about Shane because you love him, and now someone supposedly new is coming in. But I'm fairly certain that they've known, if not personally, then about each other since like, 2008. That's longer than you two have known each other.” 

Hayden blinks at her. “You're wrong,” he blurts out instinctively and winces at the look she nails him with. “There’s no way they've known each other longer than Shane and I have.” 

She shrugs, looking amused enough that he can see it, even in the dimness. “I did some research,” she says. “I know they didn't start-start until their rookie year—” 

“Summer before,” Hayden corrects blankly. It hadn’t hit him before just how long that was, just how many years that’s meant. Rookie year was ages ago—but hearing Jackie say it out loud highlights just the depth of their relationship.    

“—summer before,” Jackie allows. “But I wanted to know if they hit it off, like, immediately, so I was trying to find pictures of their first meeting. And they clearly saw each other on their draft day, but the vibe was just—hm. I thought they had definitely run into each other before, and they may have, at the World Juniors. In 2008.” 

Hayden’s shaking his head before she finishes. “No fucking way,” he murmurs.”That's not—I don't think so, right? There's gotta be—I can accept 2010, but 2008?” 

Jackie's mouth quirks. “You wanna bet?” 

“Yeah,” he says, before his mind can catch up with his mouth. Jackie only makes bets when she knows she's going to win; this is a dirty fucking pool, and he walked into it with his eyes wide open. “Fuck.” 

She grins at him. “Usual stakes apply. May the odds be ever in your favor.”

“You know this isn't fair,” Hayden grumbles at her, and shakes his head as they detangle. “You only place rigged bets.” 

“You're the one who keeps falling for them,” she points out as they head down the hall and to the stairs. “It's not my fault, I'm irresistible.” 

Hayden rolls his eyes but can't argue; he wouldn't want to, really, anyway. She is irresistible, at least to him. Her smirk only widens as they wander into the kitchen, both of them clocking the clearly just used bowl set out on the drying rack, before Hayden catches the murmur of voices through the opened up french doors that lead into the living room. 

Shane and Rozanov are standing by their still pristinely vacuumed couch, their heads tilted together as Shane quietly points at the pictures spread across the room.

“How late are you guys planning on staying?” Jackie asks, rummaging around in the fridge for one of her iced teas as Hayden wanders into the room. “Actually, shit, sorry, my limit is ten-thirty tonight, unfortunately, if anyone wants to know. Only because Arthur's been screaming his head off at five am recently and I'd like to get maybe four hours of sleep before that.” 

“Why's Arthur up so early?” Shane asks, his brow crinkling as he stares at the pictures on the wall, quietly pointing out the baby pictures of the twins and Art to Rozanov. “I thought he normally slept pretty well.” 

Jackie shrugs, pulling herself out of the fridge. “No clue, babes. Your guess is as good as mine at this point. I thought maybe teething? I think it’s really just that I wouldn't mind the early rise if it wasn't accompanied by screaming.”

Hayden scrubs a hand over his face. “I didn't know we were raising a fucking fire alarm as a child until he started wailing like this,” he mutters, ignoring the sly swear jar Shane mutters under his breath. The kids are in bed; he’s absolutely swearing. “And sometimes, he just wants to crawl into bed with us? Sometimes we have to find something for him. It's always a guessing game, and I'm not exactly running on all cylinders that early in the morning.”

“But you are later in the day?” Rozanov says, blinking at him innocently, before he sits on their smaller living room couch, taking the side closest to the other couch. It's the one full of throw pillows that Rozanov smirks at for some reason before he drops down. “Wow, I did not know that you were using your whole brain on the ice.” 

Hayden rolls his eyes. “You know, I’m on the first line with Shane, right? Like, it’s important to me that you know that the Metros think I’m a valuable fucking player.” 

“Would be more impressive if it were not the Metros,” Rozanov says, and grunts as Shane drives a bony elbow into his shoulder. “Rude, Hollander.” 

“Don’t be a dick,” Shane says pointedly, which ignores the fact that that’s Rozanov’s only track when they’re talking. 

“Does anyone else want something to drink?” Jackie asks, neatly cutting through the brewing storm. She narrows her eyes at him, and Hayden obeys her unspoken command, sitting down on the couch, kitty-cornered to Rozanov. “Shane, I have another ginger ale for you? Ilya? Hayd?” 

“I'll take another,” Shane says, settling in next to Rozanov on the loveseat. “Thanks, Jacks.” 

“All set—I'll just steal sips from Shane,” Rozanov says, grinning at her. “Thank you.” 

“‘m good too,” Hayden says, tipping his head back to smile at her and to avoid watching Shane and Rozanov lean into one another. “Thanks, babe.” 

Jackie flashes a smile at him, bumping the fridge shut with her hip, before she winds her way into the living room. 

“Not to be an attention hog, but we have something we want to tell you, too,” she says, as she settles in on the couch next to him, after passing off the ginger ale to Shane, who beams at her, setting her own glass of tea down on the coffee table. “This wasn't just a dinner date, though I absolutely want to schedule another at some point, okay? But this one was dual-sided, and there's—well, we have some news for you.” 

“For both of us?” Rozanov says, arching a brow when she nods. 

She inhales, and Hayden reaches out to squeeze her hand before his eyes start to water and he has to pull away, or else he's going to bawl even harder than he already is going to, and he doesn’t even care that it’s in front of Rozanov. Sue him, he fucking loves his family. 

Rozanov looks faintly alarmed by the time he glances up, but Shane's beaming, bright and wide, his fingers already pressed to his mouth. He looks completely thrilled, his eyes damp and sparkling. 

“No way,” he says, setting down his ginger ale on a coaster, as careful as always. “Another kid?” 

Jackie nods, her mouth trembling, and that's enough for Shane, who shoves himself up and stumbles over to Jackie, yanking her into a hug and staggering back, nearly tripping over the coffee table. 

Rozanov exhales, catching Hayden's attention, his mouth relaxing into a smile, one that turns into a smirk when he meets his eyes.

“So you are trying to build a hockey team, no?” Rozanov murmurs as they watch Shane and Jackie hug, rocking side to side. Hayden knows, at this point, to give them a minute, to let them take time to talk about whatever it is that they're talking about. He's pleased, too, that Rozanov is instinctively giving them space as well. “Will be stressful to know that they will all beat you on the ice as soon as they touch it. But do not worry, Pike. I can teach them how to be good at hockey.” 

“Man, fuck you,” Hayden says, but it's undercut by how wide he's grinning. “You and Shane deserve each other—when we told him about Arthur, one of the first things he said was that I would have enough kids for a line now, and that he could show them how it's done.”

Rozanov laughs, his head tipping back. “He is quite an asshole,” he says, sounding utterly besotted. “Everyone thinks he is Canada's golden boy. No one knows what he looks like when he loses at a board game or cards and spends the whole day running drills and pouting because he needs to be the best.” 

“Have you tried playing Uno with him?” Hayden asks, and grins when Rozanov shakes his head. “You should try.” 

Rozanov glances at him, and Hayden grins at him wider, letting his unspoken challenge shine on his face. 

“Bah, your silly card games cannot scare me,” he says, but Hayden doesn’t miss how he keeps his voice low, his gaze darting to Shane and back. 

They're quiet for another moment, just watching as Jackie and Shane spin in another slow, rocking motion. 

Hayden clears his throat and carefully doesn't look at Rozanov. “I do want to say that I'm, uh, still sorry. About punching you,” he says, guilt and shame crawling up his throat at the memories. “I was a dick that day, and I really thought I was protecting Shane, which isn't an excuse, I know. But yeah. So. Still sorry.” 

Rozanov snorts, and Hayden can see his mouth twitching in the corner of his eyes, but he resolutely doesn't look. 

“I understand,” Rozanov says. “We are fine, Pike. It was—hm. Tempers were high, I said shit, you reacted. It doesn't bother me. I would rather get punched a hundred times for insulting Shane than have it slide by people who say they are his friends.” He pauses, and Hayden's stomach twists. “Shane is, hm. Still angry.” 

“Oh,” Hayden says, glancing at him. “I know. If the bag skates until I vomit didn't tell me, the complete and utter lack of any sort of good flavor in the smoothies he forces me to choke down after would.” He shifts, prickles of discomfort racing over his skin. “He's uh, sort of, uber protective over the people he thinks of as his, so I deserve it—frankly, I'm lucky he didn't just punch me in the face back.” 

“Violence doesn't solve problems,” Rozanov says, in the exact cadence that Shane says it when he's fucking pissed. It sends a shiver down Hayden’s spine to hear how easily he slips into Shane's exacting temper. “Be better. Do better. Earn the rink's respect back, and maybe, I will meet you there on the ice. Maybe.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Hayden mutters. It's word-for-word exactly what Hayden's heard Shane say when someone's ego gets too inflated for their playing. He hasn't heard it recently, though—hasn't heard him say anything even approaching cockiness in the locker room in months, if not years. “Did you practice saying that? That was fucking terrifying.” 

Rozanov laughs quietly. “Will be using on the ice, then, yes?” 

Hayden groans, shaking his head. He can already imagine how awful it's going to be to hear that across from him. And it's worse because both of them are fucking terrors who can back up their shittalk. Not that Shane's chirping everyone, but most of the time, whenever he deigns to snap back, it's the coldest thing Hayden’s ever heard. 

It's awful, too, because it will be about something from games ago, and then everyone's stuck with the knowledge that Shane's just been very aware of how shitty everyone else plays around him—his own team included. Hayden's heard the guys grumble about how preternaturally aware he is, but they still think they're somehow slick with all their insults and group chats. 

It’s so fucking stupid. Sometimes he hates his teammates. 

“Oh,” Rozanov says, dragging him from his thoughts as he pushes himself up from the couch. “You are done hugging? My turn, Jackie?” 

Jackie laughs, watery and pleased, and beckons him over as she and Shane separate. “Get over here,” she orders, but Hayden loses sight of them as Shane yanks him off the couch and into a hug. 

“I’m so happy for you,” Shane whispers, and Hayden presses his lips together as his eyes start to water. “You and Jackie are—your kids don’t know how fucking lucky they are.” 

Hayden sniffs and clings to him, soaking in the feeling of him being close before he gently shifts back, smiling at Shane’s damp eyes. 

“They’re even luckier since they have an Uncle Shane too, yeah?” 

Shane nods, burrowing closer, and for a moment, everything is so perfect that Hayden can't help but let a few tears slip out, happy beyond imagining. 

“I love you,” he whispers, knocking his head against Shane's. “You're going to spoil the hell outta the kid, aren't you?” 

Shane laughs, pulling back to wipe at his eyes. “Someone's got to,” he mutters, his mouth twitching. “And if you think I'm bad—” 

“Oh fuck no,” Hayden groans, realizing. “You've gotta keep Rozanov on a fucking leash. I can't have my kids wandering around in Bears merch! They'll murder me out on the streets.” 

Shane shrugs, looking way too unconcerned for his liking. “If a fan sees it, just say it's a prank?” 

Hayden's shaking his head before the sentence even finishes. “Fuck you, Hollander,” he says, grimacing. “I noticed you didn't even try to promise to corral him, and I'm not forgetting this fucking betrayal, dude.” 

Shane shrugs again, utterly serene. His eyes are dark with joy, glinting in the gentle light from the lamps. “I’m not the one complaining about free baby clothes, and even I can admit the little bear onesies are cute.” 

Hayden rolls his eyes. “That’s not the point, asshole,” he says, but he’s laughing a little as he says it, completely cutting through any chance of his point sticking. Shane clearly knows it too, given the broad grin he gives him, before he moves back to the couch, settling in as Jackie and Rozanov pull apart. 

Jackie wipes at her eyes again, grinning at him. “You’re a softie, Ilya Rozanov,” she declares, and darts in to press a kiss to his cheek, daring and happy. “I’m really glad you’re my friend.” 

Rozanov stills for a moment before he nods once, his mouth curling up into a soft smile. “I am glad you are mine,” he murmurs. “The best thing Pike has ever done is giving me your number.” 

“Asshole,” Hayden mutters, rolling his eyes when Rozanov laughs, brightly, still somehow quiet despite the deep rumble of it. 

“Is true,” Rozanov assures Jackie, as he steps over Shane’s legs and settles back on the couch. “I am both an asshole, and you are the best thing from Pike.” 

Jackie laughs and doesn’t even try to defend him, which Hayden supposes is typical after how the night has gone. What’s another personal injustice against the face of Rozanov’s charm? 

“You’re too sweet,” she says, circling back to sit on the couch and beam at them. “But, ignoring all that, enough about us. How are you two?” 

Shane and Rozanov share a long look, one that Hayden doesn’t even try to read into. 

“We're—we're figuring it out,” Shane says quietly, and doesn't move away when Rozanov's leg settles more firmly against his, the sort of quiet support Hayden had never thought he'd use. He sort of figured Rozanov was all about the big, messy showboaty moves, and Shane would be more even-keeled and steady. 

“It—there are complications,” Rozanov adds, a thread of worry that's obvious even to Hayden. “With my country, yes? With my family. I cannot—if there is a hint, it will be—” He exhales, shaking his head. 

“Bad,” Shane supplies, his mouth flat. “Really bad.” 

Jackie clears her throat, her head tipping to the side. “But between you two, it's going well?” 

Rozanov smirks, and Hayden groans, already shaking his head. “Shut the fuck up,” he hisses, narrowing his eyes at him. He absolutely doesn’t want to hear the filth that’s going to come out of Rozanov’s mouth. If he's going to hear it, he only wants to hear about it from Shane or Jackie without Rozanov's smug face present. “Don’t even think about it.” 

“Very well,” Rozanov purrs, and doesn’t even pretend to flinch when Shane swats at his shoulder, his face pink. He catches Shane’s hand and tangles their fingers together, dropping the persona, and Hayden watches as his whole face shifts into something more serious, contemplative. “It is—I—yes. It is going well.” 

“Yeah,” Shane confirms, his mouth curling into a tiny, satisfied smile before it flattens out into a frown. “Just, you know. Hard, still. To have and still not, a little bit. There’s a lot we need to, uh, figure out about the future. But I’m, I don’t know. It’s nice to have the pieces we have.”

Jackie hums. “I know we’ve been calling you partners all night,” she says slowly. “Is that—are you—I don’t really know how to say this delicately, so I’m just going to spit it out, and if I offend you, well, next time we go out, shots are on me.” 

Rozanov grins, and Hayden has a vision of a future where he has a tab of ninety thousand high-end Russian vodka shots after Rozanov’s bought the whole bar a round on his card and tries not to whimper. He believes in Jackie’s unending ability to navigate emotions. He does. 

He just really hopes she isn’t going to say something insane. 

“Are you officially labeled?” she asks, and Hayden lets out a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding, wincing when she pinches his hand in retaliation for his obvious worry. “Like, you’re together, yes? Dating? But are you—I know it’s serious. Do you want a label? You don’t have to! God knows that the way half the WAGs tell it, they were in talking stages for eons before labeling it.” 

“I haven’t even thought that far ahead,” Shane says, his face smoothing out as he stares across the room, before he scrubs his face with both hands, looking a little helpless. “Partners is nice, and it’s less of a—I mean, you know, I appreciate that you didn’t tell the girls that, since they’re, uh—”

“Serial repeaters?” Hayden says dryly and grins when Shane nods. 

“I mean, we’re—we just are,” he continues. “Like, Ilya is—” He flushes, ducking his head, glancing at Rozanov, who’s watching him with a fond expression. “And I don’t want, I mean, we’re exclusive now, so that’s got to count for something.” 

“It does,” Jackie says, before Hayden can, her hand landing on his wrist. “Babe, it absolutely does.” 

“So we're—” Shane shrugs, his words faltering, pink stippling across his cheekbones. “Whatever that means.” 

“Boyfriends,” Rozanov supplies, shrugging back when Shane glances at him with blatant wonder in his eyes. Jackie's grip tightens on his wrist, and he presses his lips together to keep from saying anything as they watch the two of them. “I think, yes. Unless you don't want—” 

“I want,” Shane says firmly, and reaches out to tangle their hands together again, his cheeks turning bright pink.

Hayden sort of wants to cry and then throw up, and then punch a bunch of people. What a gentle, agonizing thing to witness. How brave they both are to have let him and Jackie see this moment. How fucking stupid it is that this is what all these years of their back and forth, of their longing and yearning have culminated into—that they're now defined as boyfriends. 

The world should be a fucking kinder place, and it sucks that it isn't. Sucks even more to realize that they can only be boyfriends in a few places, in private. There isn't anywhere for them to go but the shadows, and it makes Hayden so fucking angry. 

“Have you thought about telling anyone else?” Hayden asks quietly, watching as the joy slides away and grief emerges on Shane's face, and Rozanov stills completely. “Or is it—no?” 

“I haven't,” Shane murmurs, his eyes drifting away to land on the far wall. “I mean, okay, I have, but not like—I don't know. Or, well, I know, or I think—I hope my parents would be good with the whole, uh, gay thing. I just also think that the Ilya bit would be—” He shrugs, his brow crinkling. “Too much?” 

Hayden nods, completely understanding. Yuna is not quiet about her hockey opinions, to say nothing of her opinions on Boston and Rozanov. He can't even imagine how it's been over the years, listening to her stern words. 

“I guess, really, the only person I have been thinking about talking to is JJ,” Shane says, and Hayden startles enough that Shane's gaze darts back to meet him. “What? You think I shouldn't?” 

Hayden presses his lips together, shifting under the weight of Rozanov's gaze. He doesn't want to air their team's shit out, but, well, Rozanov probably knows more about how Shane deals with it all than anyone else. 

“I don’t think JJ is the problem,” Hayden says, as diplomatically as he can, watching Shane intently as he takes a sip of his ginger ale. “I think—I don’t know how the rest of the team would react.” 

“I’m only talking about maybe talking to JJ,” Shane says, his voice turning tight. “Fucking Christ, Hayd, talk about jumping the gun.” 

Hayden shrugs helplessly. “I mean, do you want to—I don’t know, hide? For the rest of—for however long you play with the team? I just, JJ is fine. He’s good. He’s the only one who actually bothers to back me up when I say shit. But I just—people talk.” 

“Yeah,” Shane says bitterly, setting his can down on the coffee table with a sharp click. “I’ve heard.” 

Hayden winces. “I can talk to the team—” 

“Again?” Shane snaps, his mouth flattening. “For the tenth time? They’re not going to listen, because they’re fucking homophobic assholes, Hayd. The only thing worse than me liking dick is that I like fucking Ilya Rozanov’s dick, and I’m not telling them that part. I wouldn’t have told you that part if I hadn’t fucking freaked out like a goddamn idiot.”

Hayden knows his face is doing something weird when Shane groans, pinching at the bridge of his nose. He tries to stop it, but it doesn’t work as Shane sighs, shaking his head. 

“Jesus—Hayd, I love you, okay? I love you. That’s not—I know we’re new to saying that, but it doesn’t make it less true. It’s just that—I didn’t know, okay? I didn’t know I was fucking—I was gay until I blurted it out at you, which was fucking humiliating, because I’d just fled from Ilya, and I was all out of sync, and everything was crashing and burning.” Shane inhales, ragged and worn, and Hayden’s gaze drops to his and Rozanov’s intertwined hands, his white-knuckled grip, the slow circles Rozanov’s drawing on the back of his hand. 

“I just—I didn’t want anyone to know. For years, it was this heavy, awful secret. Not because of Ilya, but because I couldn’t figure it out. I couldn’t square it away. It was this fucking—I was so scared. I am scared. I’m scared every fucking day. What if it leaks? What if my parents find out? What if the team finds out and then they trade me to fucking Toronto, because being gay is too much for them, and they're secretly hoping I get fucking hatecrimed? And I just—I don’t want to tell anyone, not really. I don’t. And I’m sorry if this is like an issue for you, but Hayd. C’mon. This is my fucking life. And I’m dealing with this sort of massive upheaval in the dark, and it’s—” 

Shane pauses, flushing as if everything he’s said has just caught up with him, the room completely silent.  

“Sorry,” he mutters, but instead of ducking his chin as Hayden expects, he tilts his head back to meet Rozanov’s eyes. He’s quiet for another beat, something passing between them that Hayden doesn’t understand. He doesn’t want to either, he thinks, despite his constant curiosity about how they match each other. “I don’t—” Shane sighs again and glances over him. “I don’t want to tell my parents yet. I will. Eventually. But JJ—I just thought you might want to not be alone with it. And JJ’s, he’s good with—he’s fine with gay people. He won’t shut up about that lesbian bar his cousin and her wife run.”

“It’s his favorite bar,” Hayden offers tentatively. He feels vaguely shell-shocked. He can’t think of another time Shane was so candid with his actual feelings, and still, he feels sick to his stomach. 

Give me some of the weight, he wants to say, but that’s impossible. He can’t carry this any more than Shane can carry his shit. All he can do is be there for him, and it feels like not even close to enough. 

“I just,” Shane sighs, low and long. “I know they’re not really going to listen to me, not out of the locker room, not off the ice.” He bites his lip, hard enough that Hayden can see the skin of it go white. “And I know that it’s because of the fucking—the rumors, the theories, the idea that I can’t possibly get it up unless another dick is involved—” He elbows Rozanov without looking, knocking the faint smirk from his face. “Coach already expects the Cup, and I can't—we're running into walls already, and I don't want to disrupt anything we're maybe able to build.” He pauses, his face twisting into something dull and empty. “And it shouldn't fucking matter either way.”

“No one else has to announce that they like women,” he mutters, looking bitter and hollow. “I don't know how it's anyone's business that I don’t.” 

For a long moment, no one says anything. Hayden doesn't even know where to go with everything he's feeling; the sharp, crackling rage, the slow burn of disappointment, the sheer waterfall of worry coursing through him. He feels like he got dragged under a riptide, thrown out an airlock without a parachute. 

“It isn't,” Jackie says, quiet but sure. “That's—Shane, babe, your life is your life. And the fact that you don't have—you don't need our permission, obviously, to do anything. You never, ever, will, and maybe I'm saying shit you already know, but still—sometimes you have to hear someone say it to be able to believe it.” She rolls her shoulders back, her jaw clenched when Hayden sneaks a look at her, and he reaches out, snagging her hand in his. 

She squeezes his hand once but doesn't look away from Shane and Rozanov. “I don't—I can't speak for what you're currently going through, but when I told two of my friends that I was bi and had a girlfriend, one of them was really good about it.” She pauses, swallowing hard, and Hayden pulses her hand in his, gritting his teeth against the wash of emotions this story always brings up. “One. The, uh, other friend, well—an ex-friend for certain now—she, uh, outed me, to my parents, and to a larger circle of people, before I was ready, before I had found my words, before I could decide if it was what I wanted.” 

Rozanov hisses between his teeth, and Hayden glances up to catch the stark expression of fear and anger swirling across Shane's. 

“She had a whole host of reasons, of course,” Jackie says, like it's nothing, like it's easy now. And Hayden loves her, vastly and deeply, and more completely than he can ever explain, for how fucking brave she always is. “You know, she wanted me to be supported, and she was worried about me, and it was an accident all along, like I hadn't read the letter she wrote to my mom.”

“And I was lucky, you know? Because, really, at the end of the day, my parents didn't care enough to pursue it. They chalked it up to me ‘being experimental’ and never brought it up, even when I brought my girlfriend over.” She sniffs, a faint laugh that rings with sourness. “Even when I had a girlfriend for two whole years, we were always just very good friends.” 

She shrugs. “And the first time I told my college roommate that story, you know what she said? She turned to me, looked me dead in the eyes, and just went, ‘that fucking sucks that you didn’t have a choice,’ with so much genuine anger on my behalf that I was shocked.” She shrugs again, her cheeks pink. “And maybe it's stupid of me, but I hadn't ever really thought about it actually sucking for me, because I'd been so caught up in the panic and then so caught up in the everything's fine mode, and then by the time my ex and I were over, I was just sort of done thinking about it.”

“But it lingered,” Shane murmurs, because he loves Jackie just as much as Hayden does, and he knows how she works, how she spirals, and when Jackie nods, he grimaces, his whole face set into muted agony. 

“Of course it did,” she says, with another quiet huff. “And I thought, why the hell did I let myself pretend I wasn't upset with my own reality while it was happening to me? So, I don't know what you should do, Shane, Ilya. I don't know if this story even meant anything—I just. You're not alone in that tangled knot of just not knowing, of just being fucking scared, of just pretending everything is fine.” She pauses for a beat, chewing on her bottom lip. “Maybe everything I just said was stupid and unrelatable, but I just, you both deserve the world, okay? I don't—it's so scary, to be forced into something you didn't have a choice in. I think, and maybe I'm wrong, but I don't think that Hayd meant you had to tell the team. I think he was just trying, clumsily, to think ahead, because he's heard from me about how awful it is.” 

Hayden nods, blinking rapidly. “I'm not trying to put any pressure on you,” he says carefully, into the quiet that lingers. “That's, that's the last thing I want to do. I just want to know the lines in the sand, I guess. I want to—I want to be there for you, especially because I fucked it up so fucking bad the first time. I don't want to—Shane, buddy, it almost killed me, when I realized what the fuck I had done.” He flushes, avoiding looking at everyone. It’s goddamn humiliating to think of what his stupidity had wrought, of how much he had almost cost them, simply because he was angry. “It's like—I don't want to do that, but this is so fucking new, and it's more dangerous for both of you, and I don't want to fuck it up again. I can't fuck it up again.” 

“Well, now I feel like a fucking dick,” Shane mutters and rolls his eyes when Rozanov snorts. “Sorry, Hayd.” 

“Don't apologize, asshole,” Hayden says, relief swirling through his veins. “You’re right, that I don’t know how it actually is, but I just don’t know how any of this should go, and we all know that I’m going to stumble over my own bullshit more than once. I don’t want forgiveness for every little shitty misstep, really, I promise, it's just that I just want a little bit of grace for when I inevitably say something fucked.” 

He exhales shakily. “I don't—I want you to let me in. I want you to let me support you, even if you're dating this asshole,” he says, jerking his head towards Rozanov. “If you think he's worth it, then I'm with you. I—it's so fucking stupid to say this out loud, but I don't want to hurt your fucking feelings, okay? Either of you, even if Rozanov could stand to be taken down a peg.” 

“You are just jealous,” Rozanov says, a tiny smirk on his face, and Hayden hates how reassuring the chirp is. “That I have Shane and you do not.” 

Hayden rolls his eyes and ignores the way his cheeks are turning pink. “Whatever, asshole,” he says, and glances back at Shane. “Jackie said it best, you know? I just want to prepare for the eventual decisions you make, because, I mean, dude, like, c'mon. This is clearly so serious to you both.” 

Shane nods, a tiny, shallow thing, his eyes glossy. “I just—it freaks me out,” he murmurs. “The idea of all that attention. That suddenly, I'm not just a captain, that there's another part of me up for grabs to pick at, to examine, to blame, when things go wrong. I don't want to—” He shakes his head. “It feels so fucking shitty to even be complaining. I know I'm lucky. I know that I'm a role model and that little kids look up to me, because they can see themselves in me, and I love that, really, but I don’t want it.” 

He swallows hard, his mouth wobbling. “I just want to play hockey and be in love, and everyone else gets to do it, and it's just—why can't I too?” 

Hayden presses his lips together and shrugs helplessly. He doesn't—he has no idea how to even start to answer that, because there isn't an answer. There isn't anything other than useless words and empty hope, and he thinks he gets this part of it, too, that Shane doesn't want to be known for this either, because it's just his life. 

There's nothing special or unique about it, not to him, because it's all he's ever known. And to have that possibility, that thread of an unwinding, that staple of you will be an example no matter what you do—well, Hayden can't even imagine. 

The roughly ten times a year he gets recognized—not when he's with the team, when he's out running errands by himself—have always been little sparks of fun for him. It's not his norm to be recognized on the street; he's just another white guy in a sea of white guys, who gets double takes every once in a while. People tweet at him, and he can joke back, and there's never been an edge of being anything more than personable and kind. He's never had to wonder if he's representing himself well enough—he could trust that he would be given a chance to smooth any ruffled feathers. 

And, even more than that, he's never been forced into it, into visibility; not like Shane. 

And they've made jokes about it before, little quips about the face of the franchise and not messing up his perfect persona, but Hayden's never really thought about how claustrophobic that must be. Why would he? He's always been comfortable in his own life, with his own level of recognition, and Shane has been Shane to him for so long, he forgets that he's fucking Shane Hollander sometimes. 

“Have you thought of telling anyone, Ilya?” Jackie asks quietly. “I don’t think I know your team well enough to have any idea of how anyone would take it, so if that’s like—if it’s uncomfortable to even think about, you don’t have to answer.” 

Rozanov shrugs, his eyes darting from Jackie’s face to his, and Hayden has a sudden sinking feeling that he might be a reason for Rozanov’s discomfort, despite Rozanov assuring him that everything is fine between them. 

“I have a friend,” he says, before Hayden can offer to—he doesn't even know, leave? He guesses? But Rozanov is still talking, so Hayden settles back into the couch and tries to seem as welcoming as possible without being weird about it. “Svetlana.” 

“But no one on your team?” Jackie asks. “Again, if I'm prying, or there's some sort of unspoken rule about telling me because I'm a Metros’ WAG, I won't be upset.” 

Rozanov shakes his head, his face unconcerned. “It's not a problem. I have friends, yes, Marleau and Connors. St-Simon. I am not concerned about them knowing about me; Marleau has a tiny niece, who is an out and proud lesbian, and he has threatened many people over her safety. I know my team would be kind.” He shrugs. “The Hollander bit would throw them, yes, I'm sure. But I do not think it would be a very big problem. But I cannot, still. Not now, when I have too many ties back to—” He inhales slowly, his mouth flattening. “It is too risky for me, now. To tell. Sveta, she knows that I like both—that I am bi—and she knows of Jane, who is, of course, Shane. But I have not told her that part either. She suspects, but I have not confirmed, and she will not ask.”

He's quiet for a moment, and Hayden can see the worn tracks of weariness that's running through both of them, as they tilt into each other unconsciously, their shoulders settling in, their thighs pressed tight. “She is a better friend than I deserve, I think. Has been very understanding of this whole mess, of the ups and downs as I have sorted through.”

“That sounds exactly like something you deserve,” Jackie murmurs, and rolls her eyes when Rozanov shrugs. “I’m being serious.” 

He shrugs again, a heavy edge to the motion before his mouth curls up. “You are just saying so, so I will pass on your words to Sveta,” he says, batting away any sentimentality. “I know that you are, as the kids say, yes—into her?” 

Jackie snorts, her mouth curling up. “I mean like, aside from Shane, who wouldn’t be?” 

“Me,” Hayden says, before he can think, because like, yeah, she’s attractive and all, but he’s not into her. He’s into Jackie, and no other woman will do it for him, but even with that in mind, he shrinks back at the disbelieving looks both Jackie and Rozanov nail him with. 

“You know I’m not an insane person, right?” Jackie says, a little bit condescendingly. “You can find other women hot. I find other women hot. I text Shane about other women, which, now that I think about it, explains why he never responded with more than a sure, yeah, or a thumbs up.” 

Shane groans, shaking his head and glaring when Rozanov turns his smirking face on him. “You are finding women hot, Hollander? This is news to me.” 

“I’m really, really, not,” Shane says, blushing furiously. “I just never know what to say! Whenever I hear guys talk about women, it makes me feel gross, and like, what? Am I supposed to text Jackie back, yeah, that’s a nice pair of—of tits, like I don’t fucking know what to do in that situation, so agreement seemed the best way to do it.” 

“I didn’t mean to freak you out,” Jackie says, but she’s laughing as she talks, her mouth curling into an almost believable apologetic smile. “I can stop, if you want.” 

Shane shrugs, his cheeks still pink. “I mean, it doesn’t bother me, really? I just am not going to have anything more to say than a—” He offers a thumbs up, and Jackie full-on cackles, her face full of glee. “But if you’re fine with that, then sure, keep sending me those texts.” 

Rozanov clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Poor Shane, tormented by beautiful women,” he murmurs, his face set into faux-sorrow, and Hayden bites his lip to hide his laugh as Shane swats at him, his whole face wrinkling up into annoyance. “I will protect you from Jackie’s mean texts.” 

“Oh, because you’d love to—who am I kidding, you would love to talk to Jackie about girls, wouldn’t you?” Shane says, narrowing his eyes. “I’m onto you, Rozanov.” 

“No,” Rozanov says, shaking his head, a hand coming up to cover his heart. “There is only one girl in my heart for me, Jane.” 

On principle alone, Hayden sort of wants to boo him. But watching Shane’s face stops him; the sparkle in his eyes, the soft expression that spills across him, the way he presses his lips together to poorly hide his smile. 

“Gross,” he whispers to Jackie, still too loud, and laughs when Shane throws a pillow at his head. “Sorry, sorry! It was getting sappy.” 

Rozanov sniffs, squinting at him. “You have no appreciation for romance, Pike,” he mutters, before glancing at Jackie. “My condolences.”

“Don't offer condolences to my wife, asshole,” Hayden says, before he can think better of it. “I can do romance.”

Rozanov blows a raspberry at him. 

“Are you fucking serious?” Hayden says, caught between indignation and the urge to laugh, which only makes him more irritated—he cannot laugh when Rozanov is insulting him; he'll never live it down. It doesn't help that Jackie and Shane are clearly hiding smiles; this house is a fucking nightmare. “What are we, twelve?” 

“I’m stopping this before it turns into a middle school fight,” Jackie announces, ignoring the way Hayden glares at her and Rozanov’s brows draw together in confusion. “Actually, can you settle a bet for us?” she asks, tilting her head to the side and grinning. She's rumpled with drowsiness, her chin caught on her hand. “Did you two meet in 2008?” 

Shane blinks at her as Rozanov starts to smirk. 

“Oh, wow, you are a fan to know so much,” he drawls out, looking incredibly pleased. “Jackie, I will send you my jersey—”

“Can I kill him?” Hayden asks, glancing around the room for any sort of sympathy and frowning when no one seems to care how insane that idea is. “Like, legally, this is grounds for murder.”

“—and everyone will know that you love to support the winning team,” Rozanov continues as Shane scoffs. 

“We just won back-to-back Cups, asshole,” Shane says indignantly. “The Metros are winners. Literally proven winners. We're defending the Cup—did you hit your head on the boards today?” 

Rozanov shrugs, a lazy motion, his eyes locking onto Hayden’s, and he just knows the man is about to say something fucking rude. 

“You have Hayden Pike,” he says, his smirk curling up the corners of his mouth. “Cannot be winners with him, no?” 

“I hate your ass,” Hayden snaps, narrowing his eyes at him. “You're not welcome back.” 

“You're welcome at any time,” Jackie says, and Hayden groans, scrubbing a hand over his face, trying to ignore the shit-eating grin emerging on Rozanov’s face. “I hope that we made you feel, well, welcome, even if that’s a little silly to say.” 

“You have been very kind,” Rozanov says, and it doesn't even feel like he's excluding Hayden when he says it. Hayden hates that he feels even a modicum of warmth about it; Rozanov is clearly a fucking disease that Shane’s inflicted on his whole family, and fuck, it’s probably terminal. He just knows he’s going to be seeing his stupid, smug grin across the table for the rest of their family dinners. 

“We should get going,” Shane murmurs, after another beat of quiet. “It’s a little after ten, and I don’t want to piss you off, Jacks.” 

Jackie snorts, rolling her eyes. “You could never, babe,” she says, pushing herself up off the couch as both Shane and Rozanov rise too. Hayden follows after a beat, just taking another moment to watch all three of them. 

The glow from the lamps spills across them, illuminating the clear laugh lines on Jackie’s face as she smiles, the glint of Rozanov’s teeth as he nods, listening to her intently. Shane looks as though he's been struck by lightning, sheer joy so expressive it's lighting him up from the inside out. 

Hayden sort of wants to keep this moment stretching out into eternity; all of his favorite people, and Rozanov, safe and tucked inside his house, happy and healthy, and just content. 

“Hey,” Shane says, staying in the room as Jackie leads Rozanov to the front. “I—I'm really glad we came over for dinner.” His eyes are fixed over Hayden’s shoulder, and he's sure Shane's tracking their partners as they chat. “It—I—I know that you're trying, Hayd, and it really—you don't even know how much that means to me. That you would even give me a chance to expl—” 

Hayden yanks him into a hug, squeezing him tightly. “You need to stop, or I'm gonna cry,” he mutters. “You know I get emotional whenever Jackie's pregnant, this isn't fucking fair.” 

Shane wheezes, faint laughter unspooling in his voice. “Yeah, okay,” he says, and hugs him back. 

They stand in the living room, clinging to each other for long enough that it could almost be awkward when they detangle, but Shane still looks collected, his eyes bright. 

“I'm glad you're my friend,” Shane says, bluntly, finally meeting his gaze so that he can see how serious he is. “I don't want to think about what would've happened if you hadn't been here, even though—even if I'm still upset about it.” 

“Dude,” Hayden says, choked up. “I'm glad you're my friend.” He shakes his head, unable to find the words for everything he's feeling. “I—I love you, and that's never gonna change, okay?” 

Shane nods, blinking, and clears his throat. “C'mon,” he mutters, stepping back and heading for the foyer. “I don't want to make Jackie actually irritated at me.” 

“She could never be,” Hayden mutters, but rolls his eyes when Shane waves him off. 

In the foyer, Rozanov stands, his jacket shrugged on and his shoes already back on his feet, Shane's coat in hand. 

He visibly brightens when Shane appears, something that appears evident to everyone, given the look Jackie shoots him over her shoulder and the way Shane melts, just a little; enough to be clear to anyone who knows him.

“Hey, ready to go home?” Shane says, and accepts his jacket from Rozanov as he nods, the corners of his mouth tipping up. 

Shane tugs it on easily and turns to sweep Jackie into a hug. 

“I love you,” she murmurs, and Hayden drifts to the side, trying to not listen as she whispers other words of encouragement into his ear. 

“Thank you for tonight,” Rozanov says, startling him into glancing at him. His eyes are fixed on Shane and Jackie, his mouth curved into a smile, as if all he needs in life is Shane's happiness to fuel his own. “I know we do not get along, Pike, but this was—it was very kind of you to welcome me in.” 

Hayden shrugs, uncomfortable with the praise. “I mean, like, no offense, dude, but I didn't do it for you. I mean, Jackie definitely did, but I just want Shane to be happy. And since you're a part of that—” He shrugs again. “You're welcome, I guess. It really was nothing.” 

Rozanov arches a brow, and Hayden gets the feeling that he thinks he's an utter dumbass, but that's no different than usual, so he lets it go. 

Jackie and Shane separate, both grinning at each other, and Hayden accepts the hug that Shane offers, despite having just hugged him moments before.

Shane squeezes tight, knocking their foreheads together as if they're tapping helmets. “Love you, Hayd,” he mutters. “I'm so fucking happy for you. Thanks for having us over.” 

“Love you too,” he mumbles back. “Thanks for coming.” 

Unspoken, but clearly heard, is his thanks for giving me a second chance, and Shane squeezes him tighter, just for a beat, before he steps back with a smile.

He slides his shoes on as Jackie and Rozanov detangle, and Hayden holds his arm out, sighing as Jackie slides under it. 

“I wasn't kidding about doing this again,” Jackie says as Rozanov unbolts the stormdoor. “The kids adore you both, and we always need more babysitters.” 

Rozanov grins, raking a hand through his hair, and Hayden hates how effortlessly suave it looks as he leans against the wall, his eyes darting between Jackie and Shane. “When your kids like me more than Pike, you will not regret it,” he promises, and Hayden rolls his eyes. 

“Whatever, asshole,” he says. “You just wish you had kids as cool as mine.” 

Rozanov shrugs. “They are very cool,” he admits, and Hayden feels smug satisfaction at his admittance, before he ruins it with, “But that is all Jackie, no? She is the one who raises them while you sit on the bench.” 

“Okay,” Shane says, sliding in between them before Hayden can even figure out what to say, a familiar thrum of annoyance rising. “We're getting a little uh, ruder, with our words, so we're just gonna go.” He pauses, glancing around at all of them. “Thanks again,” he says, softer than before. “This was really nice.” 

“Of course,” Jackie says, simply. “You're welcome over at any time. Both of you.” Hayden grimaces at the offer but doesn't disagree, wrinkling his nose when Rozanov smirks at him. 

“Okay, okay,” Shane says, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, before he turns and shoves at Rozanov. “We're going for real—open the door, asshole—good night, Jacks, Hayd. Thanks for hosting.” 

“Night,” Hayden offers, as the door swings open and cold winter air rushes in. Jackie shivers but ducks out from under his arm, following them out in just her socks. 

“Have a good night!” Jackie calls, waving at them from the top step. “Next time, you're hosting.” 

Shane laughs, an unspoken agreement in his voice, and Hayden grins, tugging Jackie back in as the two of them settle into Shane's car, shutting the door behind them. He flicks the lock on the storm door and then slowly closes the sturdy front door, and locks that one too, the click echoing through the foyer. 

For a moment, they stand in crystallized stillness, before Jackie reaches out to curl her arms around him, her forehead pressed against his shoulder. 

“Fuck,” she mutters after a beat, as if everything's just hit her. “And now they have to—pretend? Lie about this intrinsic, massive part of themselves? About their fucking happiness?”

Hayden inhales. “I don’t think I can talk about it,” he admits, his voice cracking. “I think—I don’t—Jackie, what the fuck?” 

“I don’t know how they’re doing it,” she says, sounding utterly dazed. He can feel tears forming in his waterline, as if he’s in some sort of weird delayed shock. Fuck, he hates it when he gets wrung out like this, his emotions all over the place. “And I know we were gonna debrief, but Hayd, I think I'm going into shock.” 

He laughs, tight and disbelieving. “Me too,” he mutters, and pulls her in impossibly close, breathing in the familiar soothing scent of her, the jasmine and honey that clings to her hair. 

He loves her so much, and he knows he never could have done this on his own. 

He’s never seen Shane like tonight, a fact that he’s both mourning and honored by. So much of tonight had been a goddamn gift, a window into Shane, and even a window into Rozanov. Hayden sort of feels like he’s been hit by a two-by-four, his head ringing with all the various revelations of the night. 

Like he knows, as best as he can, how hard Shane thinks and tries. How he winds himself into knots, how he splits down the middle to accommodate everyone and everything as best he can, even when it ruins his whole day. 

But knowing it and hearing about the pressures and the worries are two vastly separate things. 

Shane, from the beginning, has never been a complainer. Not even about things that everyone complained about: shitty hotel coffee, or scratchy bedsheets, or the absolute cardboard taste of the protein bars the social media team would make them taste test for content. No, Shane does it all with a smile—a press smile, granted—but a smile nonetheless. 

And tonight, it wasn’t even complaining, not for real. It was just worry bubbling out of him. 

Jackie sighs. “Well,” she says slowly. “I think that made it obvious that everything's reciprocal.” 

Hayden tips his head back and starts to laugh as quietly as possible. “Yeah,” he says dryly. “That might be an understatement.” 

Jackie snickers and pulls away, capturing his right hand before it drops and tugging him after her, up the stairs. Hayden hits the lights as they go, flooding the downstairs in darkness. 

The faux-candle hallway nightlight flickers, guiding them up familiar steps. The air feels like it does when a storm rolls out, washed clean but thick with water. It feels almost stupid to be bowled over by a simple night in, but Hayden can't remember the last time he got to see Shane enjoy himself so much. 

He'll have to do better in the future, he resolves. Even if that means that he's putting up with Rozanov all the time now. 

Jackie drops his hand, and the two of them slide into their nighttime routine easily, changing into pajamas, flipping on the baby monitor that permanently stays in their room, and as Jackie steps into the bathroom to finish up, he walks down the hall, peeking in on all his kids. 

They're all soundly asleep, their breathing soft and even. He can hear Ruby snoring from the doorway of Jade's room, their bathroom doors cracked, but he still slides down the hall, peeking in and finding her pillows tossed to the floor, a leg sticking out over the edge. 

She's a tornado in sleep, and he knows it's not worth it to toss the pillows back up next to her; she'll kick them off again within ten minutes. 

Arthur is his easiest check, his head poked in for just a second before he wanders back to the master bedroom, listening to the gentle breathing of Arthur as it crackles through the monitor. 

He crawls into bed, plugging his phone in where he had discarded it onto his bedside table and kills the lamp next to him, sending the room into dim light, only the nightlight in their bathroom on as Jackie moves about the space. 

“Final walkthrough done?” Jackie asks, half-teasing, half-checking in. “All present and accounted for?” 

“All three are dead to the world,” Hayden says, sliding deeper under the covers. “Christ, what a night.” 

Jackie hums, but stays silent, and Hayden lets everything roll over him once again. 

“He was way too nice tonight,” he says abruptly, finally voicing what the fuck has been bothering him all night. “Like even when he was chirping, he never went as hard as he could've.”

“I think there's a word for that,” Jackie says from their ensuite. She drolly adds, “Friendship, maybe?”

“Shut up,” Hayden says, instinctively and aghast, only to freeze as Jackie pokes her head out, her brows raised. “Sorry.” 

She shakes her head at him and snaps the light off, clambering over him on her way to her side of the bed, ignoring the way he grunts as her knees collide with his legs. 

“It was good, right?” he can't help but ask as she settles in, yanking the blankets around her like usual, uncaring that it leaves half of his body out in the cold. “Like, I wasn't—I didn’t—there wasn't any accidental homophobia on my end, right?” 

She snorts, the sound fondly condescending somehow, and pats his shoulder. “Your homophobia levels were normal, babe,” she says. “Stop worrying.” 

“I kinda think I’m always gonna worry,” he admits, exhaustion soaking through his body. Holy shit, he’s tired; who knew that having so many emotions in such a short time could feel like a workout? He pauses and then sighs. “I can’t believe I’m worrying about fucking Ilya Rozanov,” he mutters. “What the fuck has the world come to?” 

Jackie hums and curves into him. “Would you change befriending Shane, if you’d known this was the outcome?” she asks, sounding faintly curious. “Or is he worth it?” 

“Worth it,” Hayden says, before she can finish asking, gently pinching her hip. “Fuck you for even asking.” 

She laughs, the noise stretching out into a quiet yawn. “Then quit worrying, just for the night,” she murmurs. “You love him. And he loves all of us. We’ve got his back. What else is there to care about now?” 

Hayden blinks, his eyelids heavy. “Wanna make sure he’s okay,” he manages, sleep lapping at his temples, tugging at his mind. “S’all I want.” 

“Then you did it, babe,” Jackie whispers as his eyes close. “He’s safe, and he’s okay, and he knows we love him. I know you want to protect him from everything, just like you want to with everyone you love, but a cage is still a cage, even with good intentions.” 

“Only good intentions,” Hayden slurs, and he can feel Jackie press a kiss against his temple, before nearly all of his awareness slides away. 

“Yeah,” she says, and even in the muted blanket of sleep, he can hear the love in her voice. “Only good intentions.” 

Chapter End Notes

so, take it easy nation, (which, hi, hello! there are so many of you now!!) how are we feeling? i had so much fun writing this chapter. i have no idea how large the other chapters are going to be, because i really was thinking this one was gonna be like 15k max, and then.... oops, it may have done more than doubled the word count. my b.

some notes on the chapter:

the gossip shane always knows? that's from ilya. full stop. shane only pays attention because it's about hockey tangentially, but ilya pavloved him into getting the goss after hookups - initally bc it made him laugh that shane was so oblivious (he's not, ilya is literally just v perceptive) and then later, bc it would keep shane in his bed for longer and longer. now, it's just habit.

everyone on the metros is basically convinved that hayden and jackie have a throuple thing going with shane, but no one will shit talk about jackie for fear of shane fucking losing it. (that, of course, only adds to the drama)

it's important to me that hayden is a good dad. he's a little tangled on his own shit (re: TLG-nail polish/prince v princess) but i'm choosing to interpret that as him trying to protect, rather than trying to shut down. the prince thing is just such a thing for him to have a hang up about and not even realize he's being weird by enforcing gendered terms for his kids. he's still just a guy, you know?

in that same vein: hayden completely missing the fact that shane is the one for big moves (they're just private), whereas ilya is all about the small moments is soooo important to me, bc i think that it's a side of shane that hayden will never get. shane's always been there for the quiet moments in his life, so that's how he's blocked him out in his mind. but shane is such a "once i'm in, i'm all the fucking way in" guy. once the ball is rolling, he fucking wants it there. i just think it's important to note that hayden loves shane, and still gets big pieces wrong sometimes. you can love your friends so fucking much and still not know them completely and you don't have too!! friendship is always just about showing up for each other, which hayden desperately wants to do for shane

re: hayden's punch. ilya is absolutely of the mindset that he deserves the punch/still owes hayden for what he said. shane has not forgotten and has not forgiven. his anger is absolutely a slow burn and is still making its way through him. both of them were on their 'best' behavior at dinner though, because jackie was the one who asked to do it and neither want to upset her. shane is going to make hayden throw up from bag skates again, later in the week though. he's got a running tally of it: once for every day ilya was bruised. it has the added bonus of being 'training', so in shane's mind, it's perfect

also the panda express v. polar express is a real, live thing that my honorary nieces have said to me. kids are so fucking funny. they crack me UP. i adore them, and hope that they can one day be true to themselves and ride the panda express.

wasn't planning on writing the jackie being outed explanation, but all that means is that the TLG fanmail incident literally is hayden's number one fear. he (obvs) never wanted to do it in canon, but in this verse? oh he would genuinely be so distraught and inconsolable. jackie for sure would have to make him sign up for therapy to get over the guilt complex and you just know he's getting suspended from games for throwing hands against the metros the first time anyone says anything

i have absolutely no idea when the next two chapters will be out. this was a monstrous undertaking and i abandoned other wips in my drafts entirely that i do want to see the light of day. i haven't posted smut in a while, and lowkey am itching to do so! but, trust and believe, i do have both other chapters already started, so we'll see where the winds take me.

as always, lmk what you thought, and if you want to chat, find me on twit!