Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, David Hollander, Yuna Hollander

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Meeting the parents gone wrong, Crack Treated Seriously, Hospitals, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Pre-Relationship, ilya rozanov torture nexus, Passively suicidal man thinking about mortality and struggling to grieve, This fic is kinda stupid dont let the tags scare you, Yuna Hollander Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Supportive David Hollander and Yuna Hollander, Overuse of the word maybe, Grigori Rozanov Haunts the Narrative, the mount royal cross is a character lowkey, Himbo Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, POV Ilya Rozanov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders (Game Changers), Fluff and Angst, cliff marlow and some cannolis, Developing Relationship, Awkward Conversations

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-13 Completed: 2026-07-29 Words: 41,054 Chapters: 3/3

The lights are too fucking bright right now

Summary

There really was no way he would have been able to break up with Shane tonight. He is a weak, weak man. He is a weak man who needs to get the fuck out of here before he goes back on Twitter and causes problems, or before he does something else insane like sniffing through Shane’s underwear drawer or running a reverent hand across his yoga mat. All around him is Shane Shane Shane and Shane is not here. Shane is at Montreal General Hospital in unknown condition, possibly alone.

Ilya is putting his shoes on before he fully realizes that he’s decided to go to the hospital.

 

Shane Hollander is carted off the ice after getting hit by Cliff Marlow. An exhausted and still-grieving Ilya Rozanov spirals, makes some stupid choices, and accidentally finds himself hanging out with his situationship’s parents.

Notes

The story behind this fic is that I have chronic headache/migraine issues that have been flaring up recently and for some reason when I got one like two weeks ago, I decided to distract myself by writing a scene of Ilya where spirals while looking at the Mount Royal cross. Anyways for the past two weeks every time I’ve had head pain+light sensitivity I’ve included “write an Ilya Rozanov mental breakdown :)” in my laundry list of headache to-dos, and then suddenly oops the Hollanders are there! And oops this is an actual fic now with a plot!

this fic is powered by a lot of ibuprofen and gatorade

See the end notes for specific notes on some of the choices I made here!!

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

When Shane Hollander was carted off of the ice on a stretcher, he accidentally took a bit of Ilya’s sanity with him. Ilya isn't sure how he misplaced that little tidbit of sanity; Maybe it flew out of his mouth in the spittle that came alongside his demands to know if Shane was okay. That small loss is the only possible explanation for what is happening right now: Ilya Rozanov, despite prior plans to break up with his long-term-no-strings-attached-turned-strings-attached-hopefully-monogamous situationship (for his own safety and sanity), has instead broken into said situationship’s home (for privacy) to plan a hospital break-in (for love).

At the risk of sounding ungrateful, Ilya had imagined something a little different when he fantasized about being in Shane Hollander’s real apartment for the first time. He imagined Shane pointing out each and every lived-in spot of the apartment like a tour guide. This is the chair I prefer to sit in when I eat breakfast. I like to cuddle this pillow when I watch games on my couch. I put my keys on this hook. Now if you look to your right, you can see my bedroom, where I recently fucked myself on my dildo until I cried. Any questions so far? He imagined eating dinner at a table across from Shane using Shane’s plates and cups. He imagined showering in Shane’s shower, finding strands of Shane’s hair stuck onto the wall, and sticking his own on the tiles right next to Shane’s darker strands. Sometimes, he has imagined running out of Shane’s apartment with the same efficiency and urgency as Shane when he ran out of Ilya’s home a few months ago, just to make Shane feel what it was like. Sometimes he imagines entering Shane’s apartment and just…staying there, possibly forever. He’d become furniture if he needed to.

Reality, as per usual, is far different than Ilya’s overactive imagination. The reality is that Ilya is in Shane’s real apartment for the first time, panicking and alone, while Shane is at the fucking hospital.

Shane gave Ilya his real apartment address and entry code not too long ago, all wrapped up in the implied expectation that he and Ilya would find themselves here after tonight’s game. Part of Ilya was ecstatic to receive the opportunity, eager to finally see Shane’s real, personal space and not the devoid-of-personality sex condo Shane usually invited him to. 

Another part of Ilya was terrified. Since All Stars, Shane has been ready and willingly allowing Ilya to insert himself deeper and deeper into his personal life. It’s starting to get dangerous. If Shane keeps letting him do this, Ilya might never leave. He’ll take up permanent residence in Shane’s ribcage, siphoning off nutrients from Shane’s organs like an unwelcome parasite. Shane will grow tired of his antics. He will have to go under major, invasive surgery to get Ilya out of there. The doctors will crack his sternum open to find the mysterious little creature sucking out his lifeblood and be shocked to find a fully-grown Russian man illegally residing inside. Then, they’ll abort him. He won’t survive it. 

This thought process grosses him out. Fuck his imagination. Fuck his imagination and all of the cute and disgusting things it conjured up that couldn't prepare him for reality.

In short: Ilya knows he needs to end this, and in fact, he planned to end it tonight. He steeled himself knowing that breaking up with Shane Hollander was possibly his final great trial in life. It has the potential to be the hardest thing he has ever had to do and the cherry on top of a lifetime of difficult trials and tribulations. Then, he made eye contact with Shane in the faceoff circle and remembered that he is a very, very weak man. His resolve crumbled into dust as Shane’s eyes traveled from his lips to his eyes, and he felt his own answering smile split his face in half. 

And then Cliff decided to send Shane straight to the hospital before Ilya even got the opportunity to wiggle his way in between his lungs. 

At least this way, Ilya won’t be aborted when the doctors crack Shane open.

Ilya’s eyes catch on a mirror to his left. He, quite frankly, looks completely insane right now. His curls have dried into a minor disaster after his frantic post-game shower. There are faint dark circles forming under his eyes that make the surrounding skin look even paler than usual, and his bottom lip is starting to glow bright red from worrying it between his teeth. He tries very hard to ignore the fact that his eyes are slightly wetter than usual. Behold: a man who is definitely capable of being normal and aloof.

He didn't even really think about what he was going to do when he finally vacated the Bell Centre. If he was a strong, smart man, he would probably have gone back to his hotel with his team as expected and worried himself half to death there. Perhaps he would eat some food to calm his stomach and wait for Shane Hollander updates to roll in his phone notifications. Then, he’d board their scheduled flight at 5:45AM and worry on the airplane instead. 

Ilya is not a strong or smart man. He called an Uber right outside of the back entrance of the Bell Centre and paid a hefty tip for the driver to speed towards Shane’s unfamiliar apartment. For what? Did he plan to wait there in case Shane was discharged and came home? Fuck, Shane was taken off the ice on a spinal board. There is no way he is getting discharged tonight. There is no use in waiting here.

Unless, Ilya thinks, unless he waits here for multiple days. He could set up residence here like he is attending sleepaway camp. He can clean and cook and generally prepare the apartment for Shane’s valiant return, eagerly waiting for him like a puppy waiting for his owner. 

This sounds insane even to him. He takes the idea and throws it in the metaphorical trash can in his mind. 

Ilya could, maybe, go to the hospital. He could see Shane for himself and confirm that he’s fine and functional, then board his flight with his team. Maybe he could leave a note asking Shane to call him when he can. Preferably, he could tell Shane himself in person, and Shane would be awake and coherent enough to respond and hopefully not in pain.

The issue is that there is a very large chance he won’t be let in. Why would he be? It’s the middle of the night and well outside of normal visiting hours. Maybe Shane is somewhere in the hospital where family and approved people can stay with him, or at the very least lounge anxiously in a dedicated corral alongside other equally anxious families of hospitalized people. Ilya is not family. Ilya isn’t even anything specific– he is something undefined and nebulous. Hospitals don’t tend to look kindly upon that sort of thing. There needs to be pre-approval, identification, and concise words. Ilya can’t give that. 

That’s just the crux of the matter, isn’t it? Ilya knows there isn’t much he can give to Shane in general. 

Ilya opens Shane’s refrigerator to find…something to settle his stomach. Mercifully, there is a small package of coca cola, seemingly heaven-sent specifically for Ilya to enjoy. Well, maybe Shane meant to drink them. Scratch that– Shane doesn’t touch coke. Maybe they’re for Hayden or someone else Shane brings around here.

Ilya steals one. Fuck Hayden Pike. Fuck Hayden Pike and his breeding kink and his constant, undeserved access to Shane. These cans of coke are for Ilya right now, not him. Ilya cracks open a can, settles into one of Shane’s barstool chairs, and tries to force himself to think of a better plan.

Ilya could wait until the morning and visit during normal visiting hours. He could convince the nurses that he’s there simply as a rival captain intent on expressing a get-well-soon in a moment of uncharacteristic sportsmanship. He could really sell the charade with an offering of flowers (no, scratch that…too romantic) or a card allegedly from the Boston Bears. He could even forge the signatures of everyone on the team if he really felt like it; He would just need to search online for examples of their autographs and produce something similar, maybe complete with little wishy-washy “sorry one of us tried to kill you! Feel better dude!” messages littered haphazardly across the card. Maybe one of the local corner stores has a selection of cute little cards Ilya could choose from– he would, of course, be obligated to choose a card with a bear on it. If he were to forge the signatures and well-wishes of his entire team, he knows he needs to make it believable, and that means purchasing a cheap greeting card with a bear on it…the uglier, the better. He knows that the team would probably want to choose something completely irrelevant to the situation, like a “happy birthday, grandpa!” card that plays Uptown Funk on a shitty little speaker when you open it. They’d cross out the happy birthday greeting with a sharpie and scrawl in “happy end of season, Hollzy!” or something else stupid.

The issue with this is that the Bears have a scheduled flight that takes off before normal visiting hours even start. Ilya is meant to be up in the sky hovering over American farmland when visiting hours at Montreal General begin. 

Ilya could, if he is smart about it, break into the hospital. Maybe he could bribe some staff members to let him in. Maybe a back stairwell door has a loose lock Ilya can brute force his way through. Maybe there is a small window somewhere where he can peek into and confirm that Shane is alive and well. Maybe there is– 

Fuck. Is he crazy? 

Shane’s oven has a clock nestled into it. 12:19am, the glowing-white digital display reads. It burns his eyes a little to look at. Your time is almost up, Ilya’s brain supplies. He doesn’t have much time before he needs to meet the rest of his bleary-eyed, exhausted team in their hotel lobby. 

He should leave. He should put his now-emptied coke can in Shane’s recycling bin, maybe use Shane’s washroom, and call an Uber to his hotel. He should try to get a few hours of sleep and board his plane in the early hours of the morning. He should content himself with receiving updates on Shane online. 

Instead, he grabs a second coke and opens Twitter. 

Of course, because Ilya is the universe’s favourite little whipping boy, the very first Tweet is just a video of Shane laying flat on the ice. It’s been clipped concisely to show only the initial blow and a few seconds of Shane’s unmoving body before restarting again, and again, and again. The caption on the quote retweet signals that something about the audio the editor chose is really funny, but Ilya can't think of a singular thing that could make that moment funny right now. 

Ilya scrolls.

RIP potential voyageurs playoffs run. cause of death: hollander getting his shit rocked, a Twitter user he does not recognize writes.

Ilya scrolls.

Admiralsnation I can practically taste the cup now

Has anyone edited shane hollander getting hit to the tune of mmmm whatcha say yet?

A tweet that is just a blurry screenshot of Montreal’s coach with his hands gripping his own hair in anguish, captioned 🙈.

If hollander’s neck is broken im going to send a nuke straight to faneuil hall

Roz was really sitting there realizing live on camera that maybe they could have won a few more cups if they started trying to kill hollander earlier LMFAOOOO

Shane Hollander has been admitted to Montreal General Hospital. His current condition is unknown, the only account on his feed right now that Ilya recognizes and actually follows, ShaneHollanderUpdates, posts. 

When he followed ShaneHollanderUpdates a few years ago, fans noticed immediately. Apparently there is a tracker that monitors following activity of MLH players on social media. Ilya follows a lot of accounts that no one gives a shit about. People, however, really gave a shit about him following ShaneHollanderUpdates. They cared so much that their discourse and in-fighting spilled onto Ilya’s Twitter feed and alerted him of the existence of the tracker in the first place.

General consensus on hockey twitter: Ilya knew about the tracker and followed the updates account just to fuck with everyone. Ilya accepted the grace the universe afforded him and kept following the account.

Montreal Voyageurs announce that Shane Hollander will not participate in upcoming games. Shane’s return to play timeline is currently unknown, ShaneHollanderUpdates’ next post reads.

Ilya exits out of Twitter and tries Instagram instead. The first post he sees, posted one day ago, shows Cliff Marlow’s stupid smiling face at a bar with a woman Ilya faintly recognizes as his girlfriend of three weeks. The photo has that awful, desaturated and overly-bright Rio de Janeiro filter that should have died in 2013 on it. Ilya had A Moment with that filter back in 2012 and has since deleted every photo he posted with it in shame. Ilya makes a decision while staring at the spot on Cliff’s face where he knows there currently is a massive pimple that isn't visible in the photo due to the smoothing power of overexposure: It's time to deploy Cliff.

I need to call in the favor, Ilya texts him.

Cliff has owed Ilya a favor since 2011 (after Ilya bailed him out of a holding cell, no questions asked, and managed to keep the entire fiasco far away from both their team management and the press with some effort and two bribes), a fact that Cliff is deeply aware of (given that Ilya reminds him ominously once every few months like clockwork. Cliff doesn’t know this, but Ilya has a calendar reminder set on his phone to remind Cliff that he still owes him The Favor) and Ilya never actually planned to use. He prefers being able to lord it over Cliff. The satisfaction lies entirely within having the power of The Favor, not actually using it. 

Ilya has already decided to throw away that power for the opportunity to see for himself that Shane is okay. He needs to…do something. He can’t board that flight with his team and pretend everything is normal right now. He briefly imagines himself trying (and failing) to watch some airline-provided garbage like La La Land or Sausage Party while eating a tiny bag of tiny pretzels, willing himself to not lose his mind in front of his hungover teammates and a group of innocent flight attendants going through their motions. Yeah, that’s not fucking happening. 

After a tense few minutes, Ilya’s phone chimes.

What do you need bro, Cliff asks. 

Need you to cover for me. I dont care what the excuse is. I need to stay in montreal a few days

Dude, Cliff writes, and then he is calling Ilya. Ilya heaves a deep sigh before sliding his finger across his phone screen to answer the call. 

“What,” Ilya says with a hint of frustration. 

“And here I am trying to do you a solid,” Cliff mocks. 

“The favor,” Ilya reminds him. “You must do this.”

“Dude, really, what’s going on?”

“It’s Jane,” Ilya says. “She has a family emergency,” he makes up on the spot. It’s not his best work, but it will do. Cliff doesn’t need any more details. This is a simple transaction. “I need to stay for her.”

“Shit, that sucks,” Cliff says. “I know this isn’t the time, but I’m glad to hear you’re serious with her now, not gonna lie.”

“What does that mean, Marly?” Ilya huffs. 

“You’re staying in Montreal for a few days because your girl needs you,” Cliff explains carefully. “Boyfriend behaviour,” he continues, in a sing-songy tone. Ilya doesn't have fucking time for this. He’s going to reopen Instagram and report Cliff’s Rio de Janeiro-coated post for inciting terrorism if he doesn't shut the fuck up.

“Ugh, fine, whatever,” Ilya huffs. “I need you to cover for me with coach and everyone.”

“Got it,” Cliff says before hanging up.

You coming back tonight? Cliff texts Ilya while Ilya is washing his hands in Shane Hollander’s washroom. Without his permission, a small part of his brain reminds him that he could have had Shane pushed up against the tiled wall this evening if Cliff hadn’t completely bulldozed over their plans. Another, more evil voice reminds him that he was supposed to break things off with Shane tonight, which means Ilya was never meant to press him up against those tiles and lick shower water from his collarbones. The first voice comes back with a sharp laugh and says: You were deluding yourself.

llya decides on the spot that he won't step back into his hotel room tonight. No, i am not, he responds to Cliff.

Cool, Cliff shoots back. I’ll bring your bag down to the concierge so you can pick it up later.

Thanks, Ilya says before pocketing his phone again. 

Ilya runs a hand, still slightly damp, through his curls and tries not to revel in the smell of Shane’s soap now clinging to his hands. Fucking hell. There really was no way he would have been able to break up with Shane tonight. He is a weak, weak man. He is a weak man who needs to get the fuck out of here before he goes back on Twitter and causes problems, or before he does something else insane like sniffing through Shane’s underwear drawer or running a reverent hand across his yoga mat. All around him is Shane Shane Shane and Shane is not here. Shane is at Montreal General Hospital in unknown condition, possibly alone.

Ilya is putting his shoes on before he fully realizes that he’s decided to go to the hospital. He finishes lacing his second boot when his phone chimes again.

All done cap, i told everyone you got food poisoning 🫡🫡🫡, Cliff writes.

Ilya cannot physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes in front of his audience of no one. This absolute fucking moron. Ilya handed him an excuse on a silver fucking platter. All he needed to do was confirm that Ilya was experiencing a second family emergency, yes, a second family emergency has hit the Ilya Rozanov towers, coach, he won't be traveling with us, yep, he needs a few days off. Cliff did not do this. Instead, he has elected to add another storyline to the pile of bullshit. 

Food poisoning! Ilya wouldn’t be taken out by weak Montreal food. Now his entire fucking team thinks he’s puking and/or shitting his guts out right now. They might even be sending stupid fucking gifs of Ilya in their team groupchat captioned shit like “me when the salmonella hits” followed by a grainy video of Ilya writhing on the ice after being knocked down. 

He switches over to the team group chat and– yep. It has already begun. St-Simon just sent an old, blurry photograph of Ilya face-down on a sidewalk hastily edited to include “when you get medium salsa instead of mild” written on it in comic sans. 

Why did you not say i have a family emergency, Ilya responds after flipping back to his chat with Cliff.

You just pulled that card two weeks ago dude it didnt sound believable

You also literally just said you didnt care what the excuse is

Family emergencies can happen any time, Ilya responds. Its possible for my dad to die and for jane to have emergency in the same month

I already told them all you have food poisoning, Cliff writes back. 

As Ilya begins to type out a i know. what the fuck, Marly, Cliff adds on more insanity: And maybe I already made myself sick just to sell it because we ate the same food earlier

Cliff and Ilya both ate chicken burritos before the game. It’s a pre-game ritual: for the past several seasons, every time they go to Montreal, Cliff and Ilya peel off from the rest of the team and grab chicken burritos from a shitty hole-in-the-wall place they both have come to love. It’s not even a Mexican restaurant, so Ilya has no idea why on earth they’ve got burritos on the menu. Their order is nestled in-between chicken pad thai and chicken a la king on the incomprehensible menu. The questionable authenticity of the place doesn’t matter, not when they’re more than willing to give Cliff the downright unsettling amount of extra cilantro he wants and heaping globs of extra sour cream that Ilya asks for. Cliff likes to wash his down with a cherry limeade while Ilya usually opts for plain water, although on occasion Ilya does find himself ordering a ginger ale despite not liking the drink at all. Cliff always shoots him a weird look when Ilya visibly gags at the taste of bubbling ginger, but at least he never asks why he ordered it in the first place.

Ilya really likes that about Cliff: he never pries. He knows when to press for more information and when to let a line of questioning go unanswered. Ilya does not like some of the stupid fucking choices Cliff makes, however. 

What, Ilya responds.

yeah man i just guzzled a gallon of milk from a corner store and that did the trick, Ilya watches his phone screen in horror as Cliff’s responses pour in. Toilet’s under fucking attack. Lactose intolerance is coming in clutch. 

“Marly,” Ilya says out loud despite knowing Cliff can't hear him. “What the fuck.” 

Why the fuck would you do that when you could just tell them im sick or that my girlfriend is sick or something, Ilya types instead of “what the fuck.”

Felt stronger if i really sold the food poisoning angle. 

Then, immediately after: and if i said jane was sick everyone would start asking questions about her and i know youre cagey AF about that chick. 

Anyways i gotta go back to the shitter

there is something wrong with you, Ilya responds.

Tell Jane I said hi from my poop throne and I hope everything's okay with her

Ilya sends back a photograph of himself flipping Cliff off. He will not tell Shane that Cliff Marlow housed an entire gallon of whole milk in an effort to give himself the runs just so he could method act his way through a completely unnecessary lie. Shane would probably just stare at Ilya in complete disgust and make silly statements like “Lactose intolerance isn't a joke, Ilya. Cliff really hurt himself,” and Ilya would get half-hard from just simply listening to Shane discuss the importance of maintaining a healthy gut microbiome.

On second thought, maybe Ilya will tell Shane once he is awake, safe, and coherent enough to be disgusted by the story. 

Ilya stands outside of the hospital stupidly as his Uber skids away into the cold Montreal night. He was picked up by a gruff, older man who reeked of cigarette smoke. The driver took one look at Ilya’s grave frown and red-rimmed eyes and simply turned the radio volume up and minded his own business. It was a small mercy. Unfortunately, because all small mercies delivered to Ilya Rozanov must be wrapped in barbed wire and then thrown directly at his head, the driver forced him to listen to one of the worst upbeat playlists he has ever heard as he spiraled in the backseat. Ilya had to listen to all 3 minutes and 55 seconds of Pharrell Williams's "Happy,” a fate possibly worse than death. Pharrell Williams announced repeatedly that can't nothing bring him down and Ilya thought Cliff Marlow could if we got you on a rink. He’s good at that kind of thing. That, and having a weak stomach that cannot tolerate milk.

Now, standing outside the hospital and overwhelmed by possibilities before him, he has realized the faint glimmer of a plan he formed in his Uber (in between Ariana Grande and Justin Bieber) to scale the building’s sides and break in through an unlocked window is…stupid as fuck. To start, this building is tall as hell and Ilya has never climbed the side of a building in his life. He may be a high-level athlete, but his attentions have always been focused on the ice beneath his feet. Ever since the day he grew slightly taller than his father, he hasn’t had much of a reason to be concerned with whatever goes on above his head. Besides that, what would happen if he was caught creeping up the brick walls? He can imagine the headlines now: Boston Bears Captain and violent criminal Ilya Rozanov caught on CCTV breaking and entering hospital mere hours after Montreal darling brutally attacked on the ice! Maybe at least one commenter would commend him for his incredible Assassin’s Creed-style moves, if he somehow managed to get past the first floor level.

Ilya wouldn't even be able to call in The Favor and try to get Cliff’s bumbling, stupid ass to cover for him somehow. Cliff is out of commission for the rest of the evening, shitting his guts out in a Marriott hotel room downtown. If Ilya is arrested and thrown in a Montreal holding cell, he would need to call someone else to come pick him up. Hammersmith might be a good option if he isn’t completely passed out. Connors could be a backup, if only Ilya had his phone number memorized. He could call his coach if he develops a death wish. 

The main entrance of the hospital mocks him. It looks warm and inviting, like it is beckoning him with a soft, soothing voice to enter and make an absolute fool of himself in front of some unsuspecting hospital employee. It encourages him to prostrate himself on the vinyl flooring and beg for entry while the staff looks at him in disgust from behind their plexiglass barrier. He supposes that maybe they’ve seen worse in their time, given their field of work. Maybe his worst, most pathetic moment– him crumpled on the floor and pleading to see a man who might not want to see him– is just a regular Tuesday for them. Maybe they’ll just scoff and ask a security guard to escort him out, and then his life will blow up on TMZ.

Instead, Ilya decides to go back to one of the ideas he half-formed in the comfort of Shane’s apartment: finding a side door left unlocked. Ilya walks along Cedar Avenue, fiddling with any and every thing that looks remotely like a doorway as he goes.

These people are professionals. Every door and window is locked tight, probably to keep prying freaks like him out. Only the best for Shane Hollander. It should comfort him, knowing that he is safe inside. It doesn’t.

By the time he reaches the area where Avenue des Pins and Chemin de la Cotes-des-Neiges morph together, his hands are bright red, shaking, and ache from the cold. He needs to stop this madness. He needs to go back to his hotel. He needs to get some sleep before he boards the flight with his team. He needs several days off. He needs to see Shane. He needs a better plan. He needs.

He needs to have a cigarette. 

Montreal General Hospital is halfway up the godforsaken mountain Montreal is named for, a fact that normally would spark mild interest in Ilya, but right now it just pisses him off. It’s cold as all hell here– Ilya loathes to admit it, but Montreal is fucking cold, even for a Russian. He suspects the elevation is making it feel even colder. The last vestiges of wintertime are still clinging to the city and Ilya’s jacket is far too thin for the weather. There is no good, unselfish reason for him to be standing outside while shivering in his coat fashionably cut for something closer to Montreal’s springtime weather, completely out in the open for anyone walking down Ave des Pins to view. He isn’t even sure how he’d explain himself if any of the passerbys recognized him and dared to ask why he’s just standing there being weird in Montreal at one in the morning. Granted, none of these people look like the type to recognize him nor have the guts to say anything; he’s only seen medical staff with bags under their eyes and students lugging cheap wine bottles and backpacks wearily. His fucking lighter, a ridiculous metal thing custom-engraved with Rozanov in neat, cursive script that Cliff gave to him as a birthday gift three years ago, isn’t working. Ilya isn’t sure if it’s out of lighter fluid (he has a tendency to forget to refill the thing and often ends up buying shitty little plastic lighters at corner stores to make up for his failures), or if there is something wrong with his thumb. Off in the distance, the glowing, LED-covered cross that lives near the summit of Mount Royal looms over the city like an omnipresent and omniscient watcher. It’s unbelievably gaudy to the point that it strikes Ilya as downright gauche. At least where he is from, the crosses aren’t covered in LED lights that burn your eyes if you stare at them for too long. 

Ilya is staring at the LED lights for too long. Maybe he deserves the searing pain in his eyeballs right now. It’s the cherry on top of the freezing-your-hands-off-so-badly-you-can’t-even-operate-a-simple-lighter cake. The unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth flops uselessly, shaking a little in his field of vision as he shivers. Fuck. He could probably ask a passerby doctor or med student or whoever the fuck these people are for a lighter. In his experience, everyone in the medical field smokes like chimneys. They’ve always got a lighter on them, hidden away in a pocket while they tell you that you should consider quitting smoking because it is bad for your health. The problem with this plan is twofold: talking to one of them might invite questions (Are you Ilya Rozanov? What are you doing bumming a lighter outside of Montreal General Hospital in the middle of the night? Did you get lost on the way to a strip club? Are you trying to get a late-night emergency STI test? Are you, perhaps, secretly fucking your rival and waiting desperately to see if his brain is still functioning?) or they might speak fucking French.

Shane speaks French. He’d be able to translate for Ilya if one of the doctors who definitely have lighters in their pockets responded in French to Ilya’s pathetic plea.

Fuck.

Ilya tries his lighter again, which is still refusing to eke out a flame. It’s probably empty. The cross on the hill watches him struggle. Maybe there is a corner store nearby? Or if he is truly desperate, two sticks he can rub together like a fucking caveman? 

“Hey there,” the voice of a man appears behind Ilya. Ilya turns around and sees…a man he does not recognize. He isn’t wearing a lab coat or scrubs, nor does he seem to be schlepping around a book bag or cheap wine. He does, however, have eye bags. He looks exhausted, actually.  

This soothes Ilya. He’d probably be more wary of the man if he looked well-rested and chipper. You can't trust well-rested and chipper people outside of a hospital in the middle of the night.

“Need a light?” the man, who is quite possibly an angel sent down from heaven specifically to save Ilya, asks. Ilya nods silently. The man-slash-angel, an older guy with a somehow familiar….something (Face? Demeanor? Ilya is too tired to figure it out right now) and a thick, weather-appropriate puffer jacket pulls out a cheap lighter and a box of cigarettes of his own. The man grabs a single stick from his box and pops it into his mouth before holding up the lighter to Ilya’s face. 

“Thanks,” Ilya mumbles around his own cigarette before accepting the flame. The other man nods and lights his own cigarette. The first inhale of hot smoke hits the back of Ilya’s throat like a warm hug. He really fucking needed this. 

They're quiet for a few moments.

“I used to go to school around here,” the man says casually. Great. He wants to chat. Ilya’s night is going so great. What a wonderful time to be social. “Never liked this hospital much. I still don’t.”

Ilya responds with an uninterested hum. 

“I try not to smoke. My son hates it, but,” the man gestures towards the imposing building behind them. “Sometimes you need it.”

“Sometimes you need it,” Ilya gruffly repeats in agreement.

“You okay?” the older man asks.

“Maybe,” Ilya says. “As good as I could be, I think.”

The other man nods understandingly. “That’s a good way to think about things when you’re standing outside of a hospital at night.” 

“You are okay?” Ilya asks, mostly out of a sense of obligation. He may not be known for his manners, but he has them. His family made sure respect your elders was beaten into his psyche at a young age, both literally and metaphorically.

“As good as I can be,” the other man says through a small, somewhat tense smile. “Who are you here for?” 

Ah, shit. “Someone I care about,” Ilya says after a moment. 

“And how are they doing?” the man asks. 

Ilya shakes his head twice, then stops and moves his head side-to-side in an unsure motion. “I am not sure,” he says as an explanation. “Not yet.”

“That must be stressful,” the man says. “You’ve got anyone in your corner right now?” 

“Ah,” Ilya says. “I am alone.” He immediately regrets the response; what if the other man wants to fucking mug him? Ilya knows better than to tell a complete stranger on a side street in a city he barely knows that he is completely and utterly alone in this world. This is a recipe for disaster. He should probably get out of here. He should probably go back to his hotel room, where he is supposed to be. He should probably be getting ready to board an airplane in a few short hours, where he will be taken far away from Shane Hollander’s hospital room, Shane Hollander’s apartment, and Shane Hollander’s life. He should probably not be smoking. There are a lot of things he should probably be doing right now that he won’t do. 

“I am sorry to hear that, son,” the man says softly. Hearing the word “son” out of the older man’s mouth does something funny and somewhat upsetting to Ilya’s brain, like he’s taken a chisel to Ilya’s walls and put a nice, new crack in it. Ilya needs to patch that crack immediately. 

The other man seems to notice the way Ilya stiffens and immediately tries to backtrack. “Sorry, I’m just– I’m here for my son, obviously, and you know,” the man gestures to Ilya. Ilya does not know. His face must clearly show that he does not know, because the other man just looks at him appraisingly for a few silent moments before taking another drag. 

“So, this person you care about, are they, uh, in surgery or…” the other man awkwardly asks. 

“I don’t know,” Ilya says truthfully. “Honestly, I…” he stops himself because his voice wobbles far too obviously, and he does not want to cry in public in front of a complete stranger who just put him on edge by calling him son of all things while his own son sits in a hospital bed. 

“We don’t have to talk about it if it’s too much,” the man informs Ilya softly. “Sometimes it’s nice to have the option.” 

Something about that makes the freshly-chiseled crack in Ilya’s walls fracture deeper. His own exhaustion and stress are probably contributing factors in this. Regardless of the reason, Ilya finds that the floodgates open just a small bit, ready to let a steady stream out. He’s about to spill his heart out to this random kind man with his shitty lighter and respectable puffer jacket. 

Fucking whatever. He’ll allow himself this one personal failure. He has a whole pile of them already. Why not add one more right now?

“I don’t know what we are to each other,” Ilya begins, trying very hard to force his voice steady. “This person…and I,” he takes in a breath. “We’re something. I love them, I think.” The other man remains quiet, taking a small drag of his cigarette and watching Ilya closely. “Sometimes I think I need to stop this so we both can move on. Most times the idea of doing that makes me feel like I’ll die,” he says. “No one knows I am here,” he says quietly. “They can’t. Not for this person.” Ilya takes a deep breath and stares at a stained patch of concrete directly next to the other man. He can't bring himself to look in the other man's eyes right now, nor can he bring himself to look at the foreboding hospital or the stupid, tacky LED cross in the distance. The stained concrete seems like a safe alternative.

“Tell me about them,” the man asks quietly, once Ilya falls silent. He stubs out his cigarette on a stone wall. Ilya is content to let the rest of his own cigarette burn out by itself. 

“He–they–they’re boring,” Ilya says flatly, which seems to surprise the other man into a shocked, short laugh.

“Wow,” the other man says. It’s not judgemental, just surprised. 

“This is a good thing, believe me,” Ilya adds, and then the little crack in his wall fractures even more and begins to let out another steady stream of words. “They– fuck, he, you already heard me say it, whatever. He understands me in a way no one else does. He challenges me. He is beautiful, and he says it's weird that I call him that, but he is. You'd agree if you saw him. He is the most beautiful. He has freckles on his cheeks that are like nothing else I've ever seen. He…” Ilya trails off for a moment, watching the way his cigarette ash falls to the ground. 

“It scares me, how much I want a future with him,” he continues in a whisper. “Even if it’s impossible.”

“Why is it impossible?” the man asks. 

“Because of us,” Ilya continues. “Because of who we are. We started…this, knowing that we can’t have anything else. We meet. We spend an evening together. We go back to our lives. It’s simple. It’s been like this for seven years.”

“Seven years is a long time,” the other man says. “And it doesn’t sound so simple.”

“It has to be,” Ilya says defensively. “If I start to think it’s possible, I might do dangerous things, like imagine future together. It won’t be so simple then.” Ilya sighs. 

“You are freezing outside of the hospital waiting for him,” the man says carefully. 

“Yes,” Ilya says. “I’ve been bad at simple tonight. I've been bad at it for a while, I think. I told myself I could end this and move on, and then he got hurt, and now I’m here, and not knowing if he is okay is killing me.” More cigarette ash flutters to the ground. “Stupid,” Ilya says, mostly to himself. 

“Hmm,” the man hums. “And what does he think about…everything?”

Ilya shakes his head. “I can’t speak for Sha- for him.” The man makes an aborted noise of acknowledgement. Ilya would probably respond the same way if he asked a stranger if he is okay and the stranger whispered a love confession back. What a shit show. This guy just wanted to be nice and smoke his cigarette while his son is in the hospital. “I don’t know. I’m scared he feels the same way, I think.”

Suddenly, Ilya laughs. “Sorry, sorry, I just…I just realized I never got your name,” Ilya says, embarrassed, reaching his hand out to offer the older man a handshake. He’s forgotten his manners. His father would be so, so disappointed in him if he hadn’t been buried underground two weeks ago. Knowing Ilya’s luck, maybe heaven and hell are real and Grigori Rozanov is watching this interaction with pure, unmitigated disgust. When a parent dies, people love to tell grieving families that their loved one is watching them always from above. He’s been told this more times than he can count on his hands since he arrived back in Boston after he buried his father. He thinks it’s meant to comfort him, but he isn’t really sure. Perhaps other people are comforted by the idea of their dead parents staying with them at all times. Ilya would prefer if his father fucked off forever and left him and his mother alone.

If Grigori is watching right now, he’s definitely looking upwards. There’s so way he made his way past heaven’s pearly gates. No, he’s being punished in hell. Maybe this is his cosmic punishment: for his crimes, Grigori Rozanov is condemned to watch his youngest son flout the rules of etiquette and fall in love with a man.

“I have been talking and talking and never asked for your name. I haven’t asked about your son. I’m sorry for being rude.” Ilya thrusts his hand slightly closer to the man, encouraging him to take it. “I’m Ilya.” 

The other man makes a very, very strange facial expression. 

“I know,” the man says. Ilya’s heart sinks to the bottom of his pelvis. Fuck. He just spilled his heart out to someone who knows who he fucking is. He just told this person that he loves a man. He nearly said Shane’s name out loud, for fuck’s sake. He’s so fucking stupid. The man slowly reaches his hand out to grasp Ilya’s still-waiting hand as Ilya’s face surely morphs into something resembling dumb shock. “I’m David,” he says. Then after a few silent moments of holding Ilya’s hand, David tacks on: “Hollander.” 

It lands a little like a hydrogen bomb aimed directly at Ilya’s apartment.

“I don’t want to make any assumptions,” the man, David fucking Hollander, says as Ilya suddenly becomes nauseous. “But I think we might be here for the same person,” he adds cautiously, like he is talking to a deer about to bolt.

“Uhm, no,” Ilya says. “I should go now, yes?” Faintly, through the sound of blood rushing to his ears and alarm bells going off in his brain, he registers that David Hollander is gripping his hand tighter now, holding him in place. Ilya’s screwed. He’s dead. He’s fucked up beyond belief. His father must be laughing at him in hell right now. “I'm not here for– Hollander, I’m here for–”

“Stay,” the man pleads softly, fucking, holding Ilya’s hand. He has a killer grip. His eyes are completely different from Shane’s own eyes yet the heaviness of the gaze pins Ilya down just the same. Fuck, no wonder he thought the man seemed familiar. Ilya has seen that particular intent set of the jaw in a million contexts since 2008. He’s seen face muscles working over a strikingly similar jawline on the ice, behind rinks, in a smattering of hotel rooms across North America, and in his own home. Even the cadence of their voices are similar.

How the fuck did he not see this a few minutes ago?

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” Ilya says. He can feel himself start to sweat despite the cold. 

“Ilya, son,” Fuck, there it is again. Ilya is a weak, exhausted man. “Come with me,” David pleads.

“I am not on the visitor list,” Ilya protests weakly. “And it is not visiting hours.”

“We can fix that,” David says before tugging Ilya towards the hospital’s brightly-lit entrance.

Ilya knows that something has gone off-plan when David Hollander’s eyebrows climb towards his hairline while talking to hospital reception. Maybe David’s easygoing plan of just throwing Ilya onto the list and getting him in, somehow, had met its natural end. Maybe David will turn around and give Ilya a typical Canadian apology, something along the lines of “Gee, Ilya, sorry. They said there’s nothing we can do. Maybe you can come back later?” and Ilya will have to force himself to pretend that his heart isn’t ripping in half. Maybe someone will take pity on Ilya and hit him with their fucking car when he leaves.

David waves him closer to the reception desk and Ilya inhales a deep, grounding breath. 

Ilya receives a clipboard slid across the laminate surface. The receptionist silently gestures towards a pen chained to the desk, urging Ilya to take it, then points to a space where Ilya is meant to sign his name.

They didn't need to fix anything.

Quietly, while Ilya shows the receptionist his ID, David alerts him that he is number #4 on the shockingly long list of Shane Hollander’s emergency contacts and approved visitors, listed alongside #1 Yuna Hollander, #2 David Hollander, and #3 Hayden Pike (something that Ilya tries very, very hard to ignore– at a later time, when Shane isn't lying in a hospital bed somewhere in the depths of Montreal General, Ilya will pitch a dramatic fit over being ranked below Montreal’s 15th best player). It's apparently extremely detailed and far beyond what the hospital typically sees, sent over automatically from some unknown and probably underpaid Voyageurs administrative worker. I didn't even know our system could handle so many emergency contacts on one file, the receptionist said conversationally while Ilya blinked at him stupidly. That's an interesting first name. How do you pronounce it? 

At some point, unbeknownst to Ilya, Shane went out of his way to make sure that Ilya was there right beside his own parents and (ugh) Hayden fucking Pike on his detailed list of Trusted People. He trusted Ilya enough to swoop in and be with him in the case that his own family and physically closest friend could not…Ilya, who lives in a different country and by all intents and purposes shouldn’t be anything to Shane beyond a competitor. 

When did he do that? Why did he do that? 

“Well then,” David Hollander, emergency contact #2 says with a small, knowing smile. “Not so impossible, eh?” 

Ilya shakes his head and tries to stop the ridiculous, goofy-looking from taking over his face and revealing even more of his secrets to Shane’s father. 

Shane wants him to be here.

“He put me on the list,” Ilya says with a tinge of wonder in his voice. The smile breaks through a little. He probably looks a little insane. Ilya will have to ensure he does not look into any reflective surfaces if he doesn’t want to see the full extent of his lunacy plain across his face.

"We shouldn’t be surprised. He likes to cover his bases," David says seriously. Something about the way he says it makes Ilya bust out in a helpless, somewhat hysterical giggle. He says it like he’s cataloging another chapter in a lifetime’s-worth of silly little instances where Shane’s obsession with planning have been the punchline in a series of situational comedies. There are countless stories behind the simple acceptance in David’s voice. Ilya wants to know them all.

"Let's go, son," David says, as easy as can be, like the fact that he is continuing to call Ilya that term after Ilya made a garbled, nicotine-filled love confession about his real son in front of him isn't making Ilya feel like he's shifted to a different reality. The word keeps coming out like David doesn't even have to think about it; there is no experimenting with the word, no tip-toeing around, nor an ulterior motive. It's just natural to him. 

Ilya follows David into the belly of the hospital.

David, unfortunately for Ilya, does not take him to see Shane immediately. Shane is undergoing some tests and has not been returned to his room yet, and even then, he'd probably be asleep. Apparently, he’s only supposed to be allowed one or two support people, but Montreal General is more than willing to allow Shane fucking Hollander any number of support persons at any time of the day solely by virtue of being Shane fucking Hollander. That being said, there are limits on even Shane fucking Hollander’s powers: he can’t have an entourage of people following him throughout the entire hospital as he is poked and prodded. For now, his people must wait for a more reasonable time to see him.

Ilya kind of wishes David communicated this to Ilya in some way, shape, or form. Instead Ilya follows the older man like an eager puppy on his way to play in the park, only to be severely disappointed when the car pulls up to the vet clinic. In this instance, David is leading Ilya directly towards a waiting room, population: Shane's mother. 

Ilya has heard some things about Shane's mother over the years. She was a talkative, ever-present shadow looming over Shane in their teenage years. Ilya's eyes would unconsciously seek out Shane, knowing full well that the other man would be seated somewhere in the rink watching like a particularly judgemental hawk while Team Russia practiced. Each time, his mother would be right beside him like a palace guard. Ilya isn’t really one to talk; he too had an array of palace guards trailing him in these years, looming over him like additional (and unwelcome) shadows. Sometimes, it was his father. Sometimes, Team Russia's coaching team. Sometimes, a particular no-name staffer attached to the team that Ilya was fairly certain was receiving cash from his father in exchange for updates on his behaviour, although Ilya has never been able to prove it.

Getting Shane alone was difficult back then. Their meeting in the gym after the draft was a gift handed to Ilya directly by angels. Ilya, not satisfied with waiting for the angels to grace him again, took it upon himself to organize the next instance, and even then, Shane's mother was there in the shadows watching over her son. The universe ensured that Ilya was constantly aware of her presence by way of forcing him into an elevator with the woman as Ilya attempted to reach her son's hotel room. He half expected her to read the intentions on his face and deny him access, closing the castle gates and throwing Ilya into the alligator-infested moat out front. It was a really heavy-handed reminder from the universe, Ilya thinks. Maybe the universe could have had an ounce of decorum and gone for something a little more subtle. The only thing that could have made the situation worse is if she had knocked on the door while Ilya had her son’s dick pressed against his tonsils. 

Around the time that Ilya managed to shake these shadows off of himself physically (albeit not mentally-- vestiges of them are still there in the form of memories that occasionally crawl into his mind and fill Ilya with unjustifiable guilt, like when he struggles to get up in the morning and can hear the disembodied voice of his father call him lazy), Shane too managed to mostly shake off his shadow. His mother spoke for him less at award shows and other major events, seemingly content to fade into the background and watch her son with pride. Both of their careers were transferred from their parents’ hands and delivered to capable (or capable-ish, in Ilya’s case) agents. They're no longer teenagers living underneath their parents' thumbs. 

The issue is that Yuna looks like the type of person who would have absolutely no problem snapping back into her former role if the situation called for it. Here, she has returned to being Shane's looming palace guard, blocking Ilya's entrance to the castle that is Shane's hospital room. Fuck, the universe really does not hold back on its punches. The only thing that could make this worse is if the universe decided to give her a sword this time around. 

Looking at her small yet imposing form sitting alone in the painfully-bright waiting room, Ilya realizes in horror that David Hollander has brought him here as a human sacrifice. He is being led like a stupid little sacrificial lamb to Yuna Hollander's altar where she will slaughter him with glee. Maybe this is why David approached him outside– somehow, he knew that Ilya was here for Shane, and decided right then and there that Ilya is a problem that must be dealt with. Before Ilya can turn around on his heel, mutter out a quick "sorry, sorry" in David's general direction and get the absolute fuck out of there...Yuna Hollander spots him. Her eyes glint under the harsh fluorescent lighting.

Ilya is supremely fucked now. He might as well hand her a knife and roll on his back willingly. Maybe she will be kind to him and plunge the knife in fast and efficiently. Maybe he doesn't deserve such mercies. Maybe his recently-deceased father is watching this happen right now, happily looking forward to seeing Ilya’s inevitable demise and already planning out the subsequent scolding he will unleash on Ilya’s ghost.

"Is that...?" Yuna asks, probably directing the question to David. 

"I found Ilya outside," David says casually, like he is describing a stray dog he just happened to stumble upon. In a way, this is accurate. 

"Ilya," Yuna repeats slowly and with confusion laced through her voice. "Rozanov," she says after a moment of tense silence, this time with more confidence behind her voice. She probably has much more experience spitting out Rozanov than she does saying Ilya. 

"Hi," Ilya says quietly, lifting his left hand in an approximation of a wave. 

"Hi," Yuna says, probably without thinking. He knows that Canadians are world-renowned for their unconscious streams of “please” and “sorry,” and maybe greetings are part of that too. His experience with Canadians has supported this hypothesis; Shane wields “please” frequently and eagerly. Please, please, please, more, Ilya, fuck, please. “Sorry” is a bit more rare from him. “Hi” is even rarer; Shane usually prefers to greet him with phrases like “fuck off, asshole,” and “what the hell are you doing?”

"Why are you here?" Her face is scrunched up in confusion and concern. Ilya notices that her eyes (Shane's eyes, a small part of his brain reminds him, as if he needed the fucking reminder) flick back and forth between Ilya and her husband, like she is trying to decide if what she is seeing is a hallucination. 

"To..." Ilya begins. What should he say to this woman? He can't lie outright. David knows too much already. David has watched him tremble like a leaf and declare that he is scared to imagine a future with his son. For fuck’s sake, Ilya’s pretty sure he told David outside that he thinks he loves Shane. That’s hard to back away from. He can’t make up a casual excuse. That ship has already sailed without him realizing he was supposed to be on the passenger manifest, and now he is staring at the crumpled, unused boarding pass in his hand. He can’t try to convince Yuna he is here on a strictly professional basis when he’s crashed into the room a quarter to two in the morning, hand delivered to her by the man Ilya just stupidly confessed one of his deepest secrets to.

The Hollanders are married. They probably, like, talk to each other. Couples tend to do that (although not always. His parents, for example, hardly spoke). Even if Ilya managed to wiggle his way out of this room unscathed, he’s pretty sure the truth would reach Yuna eventually. Then, she’d send him anthrax in an envelope. Like an idiot, he would open it. Ilya’s illustrious career and trainwreck of a life would come to a shocking and early end. Rest in peace, Ilya Grigorievich Rozanov. He died too young. Very few people mourn the loss of the terror of the ice beyond (maybe) fans of the Boston Bears and (hopefully) Shane Hollander.

His last will and testament, something written and signed around the same time he signed his contract with the Boston Bears, states that Ilya is to be buried in Moscow. He does not want that at all. He never fucking wanted that, actually, but it felt necessary to specify at the time. He has since said his final goodbyes to the country he used to call home, laying a bouquet of twenty four gladioli flowers (the number was not on purpose– he intended to get just one dozen flowers, but once he held the twelve stems in his hand, he thought it looked too small. He picked up a second dozen and tried to stop himself from imagining a world where that second set of flowers was from Shane. Then, he combined the two and laughed over the irony of the final number being twenty four) over his mother’s grave (too close to his father’s fresh grave, which made Ilya’s skin crawl. Irina Rozanova does not deserve the hell that is an eternity buried next to her husband) as his final act before heading straight to the airport. 

His will also states that, in the event of his death, Ilya’s assets are to be handled by his father. Now that his father is gone, Ilya’s family would crawl out of the woodwork to chew at every bit of Ilya they could get their mouths on. Alexei would be happy, Ilya thinks. He’d probably be next in line to get the money, and all without having to go through the trouble of demanding it from Ilya. Maybe Polina would make out with a sports car or two. Hopefully Svetlana would be able to glean all of the bits and pieces no one else wanted– small tokens and little tchotchkes Ilya has gathered over the years that have barely any monetary value, like his mother’s old teacup he stole long ago, and shit like the engraved and forever-empty lighter Cliff gave to him. These are, after all, the most important things Ilya owns. 

He hasn’t had the chance to change his will yet. It’s another unchecked box on his long to-do list, nestled somewhere between “get back molar implant checked and maybe replaced” and “write really embarrassing speech for Carmichael’s wedding.”

"Did you know," David begins softly. He puts a hand on Ilya's shoulder. Ilya tries very hard not to stiffen under the touch. Shit, shit, shit, shit. He’s so fucked. David’s about to steer him closer to Yuna so she can more easily slide the knife between his ribs. "...that Ilya is one of Shane's emergency contacts?" 

Yuna blinks. "No, I didn't," Yuna continues with suspicion. 

"Number 4, right behind us and Hayden," David continues. 

Fuck Hayden Pike. If he survives this long enough to talk to Shane again, he’ll ask Shane to demote Hayden to #5. Ilya could be #3. He doesn’t give a flying fuck who takes his place as #4. It could be Rose fucking Landry, for all he cares. No, no, wait, he has spoken too soon. Rose Landry must be demoted to at least tenth place. Number 4 can be taken by anyone else. Slotted into numbers 6, 7, 8, and 9 can be anyone at all– JJ Boiziau, Roger Crowell, the barista at Shane’s favourite cafe, fucking Scott Hunter, anyone. 

"Did the hospital call you?" Yuna asks, turning her confused and definitely trying-not-to-look-pissed-off face towards him. "Because they didn't need to do that. We're here."

"No," Ilya says. He feels like he is withering under her gaze. He knows that at full-height, she barely reaches his shoulders and yet he still feels like he is cowering underneath her sharp gaze. "I went to Shane's apartment after the game," he doesn't know why he is telling her this. He shouldn't be fucking telling her this. "But I couldn't stop worrying...so...I came here."

Yuna just watches Ilya for a few moments. Ilya shifts his weight from one foot to the other, nervous under her assessing gaze.

“Shane’s apartment,” Yuna repeats. There is a question there, although she doesn’t phrase it like one. “You went to Shane’s apartment.”

“Yes?” Ilya responds.

“You know where he lives and you know how to get inside of his apartment,” Yuna continues. 

“Yes.”

"What are you," Yuna says rather than asks. 

"Hockey player," Ilya stupidly blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. What the fuck was that answer? He even biffed the pronunciation of hockey, making the word sound closer to the Russian pronunciation than the English version he practiced over and over again as a teenager. 19-year-old Ilya would be disappointed by how his throat wrapped around the sound of that h just now.

Yuna raises a single eyebrow. She might as well just punch him, Ilya thinks. Her gloves are already off. 

"...to my son," she finishes her question. 

"Ah," Ilya says. "Uh." Excellent work, Ilya. Very coherent.

"Yuna," David says placatingly.

"Why is he here, David?" Yuna huffs, crossing her arms across her chest defensively. 

"I need to be here," Ilya says instead. 

“What are you to my son?” Yuna repeats, giving Ilya another chance that he doesn’t think he deserves. 

“I don’t know,” he says truthfully. He is not proud of the crack in his voice that snaps around the word “don’t.” 

“Yuna,” David says again. “Ilya would like to see Shane.” Yuna just stares at her husband in naked disbelief. “I have a feeling Shane would like to see him too.” 

Yuna scoffs before shaking her head. “You can’t see him right now,” she says. Ilya’s heart, still sunken to his pelvis from back when David introduced himself, threatens to drop further. Ilya half wonders if he’ll need to be hospitalized when his heart inevitably drops so low that it falls out of his ass. Maybe he’ll get a room near Shane’s room. “He’s still getting some tests done,” Yuna adds on. “But maybe they’ll let us see him again later.”

“What?” Ilya asks stupidly, voice continuing to crack. 

“Sit down, Rozanov. We’re gonna be here for a while,” Yuna continues, gesturing to an uncomfortable-looking chair. Us. We. Yuna’s voice using first person plural bounces around in his head. 

“It’s Ilya,” David reminds her softly as he sits down in his own chair. 

“Ilya,” Yuna repeats for the second time tonight, except this time it sounds more comfortable in her mouth. “Sit down, Ilya.”

“Thank you,” Ilya squeaks out before connecting his tailbone with a chair directly across from Yuna.

Ilya feels like he has been transported to another plane of existence. Maybe Yuna really did plunge a knife into his chest and take him out of his fucking misery, and now he’s been condemned to an eternity of awkward conversation in this room as his divine punishment. It's still better than being condemned to his father's ghostly criticism.

The only reprieve thus far came in the form of a nurse walking into the room like he was avoiding invisible land mines solely to alert the family that Shane was okay, but still getting some tests done, and they might not be able to see him for a few hours. He looked Ilya square in the face when he said it, which Ilya suspects is because Yuna’s piercing gaze is too intimidating to look at (and Ilya is seated closer to the doorway than David is). The nurse abandoned them almost as quickly as he entered the room with a quick, mumbled reminder that there are some vending machines and washrooms down the hallway if they need them.

Ilya is again left alone with Shane’s parents. Yuna watches him like he is a puzzle she’s been tasked with figuring out and hasn’t quite cracked yet. For a few minutes, she opens and closes her mouth periodically, like she is on the cusp of breaking the silence but is actively restraining herself. Ilya, meanwhile, looks anywhere but the woman seated across from him. Not knowing what to do and not wanting to reveal more about himself or Shane to Shane’s parents, Ilya offers to go find something for them to drink: coffee, tea, water, anything at all. 

“Oh, don’t worry about it, I’ve got it,” David says, putting his hands on his knees as he lifts himself off of his chair like almost all men his age do. “Coffee, Yuna?” 

“Black,” Yuna responds. 

“Ilya?” David asks. 

“What?” Ilya asks, again, because apparently tonight he cannot stop repeating this word. 

“Coffee?”

“I can get it,” Ilya pleads, eager to get the fuck out of this room and far away from Shane’s parents. Preferably, to go find a dark corner to sit in for a moment as he regains his bearings, or maybe a kind nurse who can be bribed into sedating him. 

“Sit,” David orders. Ilya feels like a stray dog at the vet again. “You played quite a game tonight. You've gotta be tired. Cream? Sugar?”

Fuck, he’s not getting out of this. “Yes, please,” Ilya says, resigned to his fate.

And then David leaves him alone in a room with Yuna Hollander. 

They stare at each other for a while. 

“I’m sorry,” Ilya blurts out without really thinking it through. 

“For what?” Yuna asks, face blank.

Ilya could say a million different things. I’m sorry I’m here. I’m sorry I’ve interrupted your evening. I’m sorry my teammate hurt your son. I’m sorry I’ve hurt your son. I’m sorry that your son apparently cares about me and you’re finding out about it right now. I’m sorry I’ve been sticking my dick into your son’s ass for years. I’m sorry your understanding of your son is changing without any warning. I’m sorry that I might be part of your life forever if your son lets me. I’m sorry that I am making my pain your problem right now. I'm sorry that I smell like Shane’s soap and Shane’s lotion. 

Ilya decides on a simple one. “I’m interrupting,” he says. 

“Ro– Ilya,” Yuna says. Her tone is not angry, but rather something a little more careful than Ilya expected. For whatever reason, Yuna has relaxed into the weirdness that is the current situation. “You aren’t interrupting.”

“Yes, I am,” he says. “I just showed up and you weren’t expecting me.”

Yuna huffs out a small laugh. “That’s true,” she agrees. “But I guess Shane is. Expecting you, I mean.” 

Ilya doesn’t know what to say to that. 

“Boston has a good shot at the playoffs this year,” Yuna continues casually. 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees simply. God, he’s feeling so unmoored right now. Maybe he’s the one with a concussion. Shouldn't she be questioning him? Shaking him down? Demanding answers? If anything, she should be calling for security and emailing every reporter in Montreal to let them know that Boston Bears Captain Ilya Rozanov broke into Montreal General Hospital to finish the job Cliff Marlow started. 

“Can I just– can I ask–” Yuna begins. Ilya immediately feels himself begin to sweat again. He doesn’t think he can provide any answers that she’d find suitable, depending on what she asks. Ilya’s already trampled over Shane’s privacy enough tonight. “What the fuck is wrong with St-Simon this season? I mean, no offense, he’s a good player, always has been, but…” Yuna rolls her eyes. “It’s like he can’t see the effing puck anymore.”

Ilya just stares at her for a moment. Yuna seems undeterred by his silence.

“And your coach keeps putting Kane in the net like an idiot when Koslov has such a higher save percentage–Kane’s been letting in shit that a 12 year old could save– it’s just, I’m sorry, but it’s the truth–”

Before he can stop himself, Ilya starts laughing. It’s a loud, guffaw-ing sound that he can’t really control that causes him to folder over in his own chair. Lack of restraint seems to be a general theme of the evening for him. He keeps laughing, probably a touch too long to be polite, made worse by the fact that his laugh takes on a hysterical edge near the end of his fit.

“You want…” Ilya begins through gulping laughs as he straightens up in his chair again. “To talk about my team?”

Yuna stares at him like she can’t comprehend what he finds so funny about this situation. 

“Well yes,” Yuna says seriously. Ilya tries very, very hard to control his face and squash down the second burst of laughter crawling up his throat, and then watches in shock and amazement as Yuna also begins to laugh. 

“Sorry,” she says through her own laughter. “This is just…weird, right?” 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees through a grin. Yuna smiles back and a small part of his brain lights up with the recognition that he might be bonding with his future mother-in-law right now. Wow. No. Slow down there, he reminds himself. He is flying too close to the sun. 

“How long is your team staying in Montreal?” Yuna asks, still smiling a little. 

“My team is leaving in…” Ilya glances at a clock hung above slightly off-centered the doorway. “About four hours,” he says. 

Yuna’s eyes widen. “Are you going to go straight to the airport from here?” 

“No,” Ilya says. “I’m staying here for a few days, I think. I told my team I have family emergency.” 

Ilya purposefully does not tell her that Cliff Marlow, the very same guy who ran over Shane at top speed and landed them all into this disaster, orchestrated a major bowel emergency just to method act food poisoning. He does not tell her that Cliff is probably still experiencing bubble guts as they speak if he was not lying about downing an entire gallon of milk. 

Ilya wonders if Cliff’s gonna make it onto that flight in his current state, and then he decides that this is not his problem to worry about. Cliff deserves to suffer for what he has caused this evening. Maybe if he hadn’t harmed Shane, The Hollanders would be comfortably asleep in their home and Ilya would be trying to weasel his way into napping in Shane’s bed.

For some reason, Yuna looks like she’s seen a ghost. Maybe it’s just a trick of the sickly-white light, but she seems like she’s gone pale. Ilya doesn’t know what he has done wrong, but he has definitely done something very, very wrong. Fuck, where is David?

“Family emergency,” she repeats in a whisper. 

Ah. It’s the fact that he used the word “family” that is making her stumble. Ilya ought to be more careful with his words– they aren’t family, after all. He and Shane aren’t anything, technically. He’s overstepping by several kilometers by trying to assert himself as anything resembling family. 

“Yes,” Ilya nods. “That is the story I used.” Maybe “story” can do some heavy lifting here. Maybe she’ll forgive him for overstepping if he sets that boundary. 

Yuna loudly sniffs once and schools her face into something that resembles a calm expression. Ilya watches as she scrubs a hand under one eye before tossing her head back and shaking her hair a little, like she’s trying to shake out whatever just came over her

“Are you going to miss a game to hang out here?” she asks once she’s finished. 

“I will not be able to play before seeing that Shane is okay,” Ilya shrugs. He casts his gaze downwards, not wanting to see Yuna’s reaction to that. 

Before Yuna can respond, David Hollander reenters the room carrying a small tray of drinks. 

“Sorry, took me a while to find it,” he says apologetically as he slides a paper cup towards Yuna, who grabs the offering eagerly. 

“And here’s yours,” David says as he offers a cup to Ilya. It smells burnt and way too strong, and Ilya is immediately overcome with embarrassment after he unconsciously grimaces as the scent punches the back of his nose. At the very least, the reaction makes David chuckle, which means Ilya hasn’t completely fucked up another part of tonight. 

“Thank you,” Ilya says seriously. He can still save this if he is polite enough.

David smiles and then begins to rummage in his pocket before depositing a massive handful of sugar packets and little cups of creamer directly onto Ilya’s lap. 

“Oh!” Ilya says, delighted this time. “Thank you. You are the coffee fairy.” 

God, Ilya is so fucking tired. His filter is shot. If Cliff heard him, he’d never let him live the coffee fairy thing down. Every single day for eight months straight Ilya would hear Cliff put on a shitty imitation of a Russian accent and say You are the [insert thing here] fairy! until he decides that the joke has run its course. Ilya wouldn’t be able to tell a singular story without someone on the team asking him, in a grave manner, if the coffee fairy was there. Then, once the joke dies and is finally put to rest, someone would use necromancy to unleash it again when the team is suitably drunk and not expecting it at all, and then Ilya would need to suffer through it all over again. 

He just finally got Ryan Carmichael to stop saying Russians do not blush after two full fucking years. Ryan’s Russian accent is so terrible that it sounds more Scottish than anything else. Ilya once tried to point out that Ryan’s impression of him sounded like Shrek, but all of the traitors on his traitor team ganged up on him and said “No, Roz, it’s a pretty good impression.” Some of the guys have taken to referring to Ilya’s apartment as his swamp. What are you doing in my hospital waiting room, the voice of Ryan Carmichael attempting an Ilya impression intones in his mind. 

“So, Ilya,” David begins, interrupting Ilya’s thought process. “I’ve been working on this crossword and I’d love to get some help.” 

Somewhere around number 43 down, Icarus, according to Daedalus, Ilya falls asleep. 

He wakes up slowly and confused, blinking sluggishly as his eyes readjust to the bright fluorescent lighting. His neck is killing him right now. He slept sitting up in the uncomfortable plastic chair, head thrown back and slightly to the side, and now his neck is throwing a fit about it. He can still taste the faint bitterness of his coffee, now stale and extra disgusting on his tongue. There’s something weird in his field of vision he can’t quite make out until he finally forces his eyes completely open. He blinks off the remains of sleep only to find that the “something weird” is Yuna Hollander holding up her phone directly in front of his face. 

“Oh!” she says, surprised to see his eyes staring at her through her phone camera. “Sorry, it was just kind of cute to see the two of you...” She gestures towards Ilya and slightly to his left before lowering her phone. Ilya’s neck is too stiff to turn normally, so he has to twist his entire torso to the side to see what she’s referring to: David Hollander, similarly positioned in his chair and still snoring. 

“Shane’s gonna love it,” she says. 

“Yes, he will,” Ilya agrees, if Shane doesn’t fucking kill him after all of this. If Ilya is to be killed by someone, he’d prefer it to be Shane. In his final moments he can drown in those furious brown eyes. His obituary would alert the world that Ilya Grigorievich Rozanov died doing what he loved: staring (lustfully) into Shane Hollander’s angry eyes. It sounds a hell of a lot better than being stabbed by Yuna Hollander or pummelled to death by some no-name enforcer goon being paid far too much money in exchange for poor hockey skills. 

He’s been thinking about death a lot recently. 

Yuna smiles, triumphant, and returns to her own chair where her laptop is waiting for her. She positions it on her knees once she is seated. Ilya watches her as she types, partially because he is interested in observing her, partially because there is nothing else to really look at in this room, and partially because she’s directly in front of him and he can’t move his neck without a sharp pain shooting down his upper back. Just like earlier, Yuna keeps pausing her furious typing to look at him like she wants to say something but is restraining herself again. 

“You have questions,” Ilya says eventually. It’s not a question itself but a statement of fact. He knows that she must have a billion questions bouncing around her mind right now, threatening to spill out. He’d have some questions if he were in her place, so he can’t fault her for it. 

To Ilya’s surprise, Yuna looks embarrassed to have been caught. The slight flush of her cheeks reminds Ilya of Shane. 

“It’s nothing,” she says quickly. “Well, actually…”

“You can ask,” Ilya encourages. “But I cannot promise to answer.” He is willing to answer as many questions as she has as long as they don’t brush up into Shane’s-private-life territory, which…probably rules out just about every question she has. It won’t be a very informative Q&A session. In a way, it will feel exactly like a post-game media scrum where Ilya artfully deflects and deflects until everyone leaves answerless yet satisfied. Ilya, there are now 28 Russian athletes under investigation for using performance-enhancing drugs during the 2014 Sochi Olympics amid accusations of a state-run doping program. Do you have any comments on this?

Only performance enhancing drug I know is Dunkin Donuts. That is why the team played so well tonight. Hammersmith’s goal was assisted by a Dunkaccino.

“You don’t really do many ad campaigns,” Yuna begins. Again, this is not at all where Ilya thought this conversation was going. He wouldn’t have guessed it in a million years. He’s burst into this waiting room in the middle of the night with red-rimmed eyes and told her he won’t leave until he sees that her son is safe and sound, and she wants to talk about his fucking team and his sponsorships? “You have the popularity, charisma, and the face for it. You could be everywhere. Just– why not?” 

Ilya tries to blink back the confusion that is probably visible on his face before answering with a shrug. Yuna does not look like she finds the answer to be sufficient, so Ilya adds “my agent says it is not necessary.” 

It’s Yuna’s turn to look confused. “Really?”

“Yes?” Ilya says. 

Yuna honest-to-god scoffs. It’s a full-body reaction that heaves her chest and comes along with a shake of the head. “Your agent sounds like shit,” she says with audible incredulity.

Ilya tries not to laugh. “Yes,” he says seriously. His agent is kind of shit. He’s had the same agent since it became apparent that Ilya was angling to enter the MLH instead of the KHL. Apparently he had an agent prior to this, too– all he can remember is that his father, one day, had a gangly, teenage Ilya sign some paperwork that said agent apparently needed from him. The paper was snatched away from Ilya’s face before he could even read it, which is partially his fault for stupidly signing before laying his eyes on the opening paragraph (not that it would have changed anything. He was far too young to protest his father’s choices). Ilya’s father had similarly handled the transition from old agent to new agent, one who is Russian but based in the United States, without any input from Ilya. The way his father told Ilya that this agent is trustworthy and worth every penny made Ilya believe that he was chosen primarily based on his connections and willingness to listen to Grigori over Ilya. This current agent is mostly hands-off, contacting him for only perfunctory duties and a once-in-a-blue-moon sponsorship (but only for hockey equipment, and once, an electrolyte powder). Once in a while, Ilya gets a text message reminding him to keep his mouth shut about anything that is not hockey, which comes in intervals Ilya has never been able to figure out. He knows better than to make or even breathe in the general direction of any political statements (well, except with the whole doping thing). Perhaps his agent wants to remind him specifically so he never crosses the invisible line. 

Remember to just keep your mind on hockey where it belongs, his agent texted him unprompted on June 26, 2015. For most of the day, Ilya had no clue what that meant until he glanced up at a gym television screen blasting a rundown of today’s news, and then he spent the rest of the session desperately hoping that it was just a coincidence that his agent decided to text him a reminder on the day Obergefell v. Hodges was decided. 

His agent really is shit. 

“You let me know if you want to find a new one,” Yuna continues, brows furrowed and gravely serious, just like Shane when he’s spotted a problem and has decided it’s his job to fix it. “Someone who really understands your potential. I mean, you could be everywhere if your agent just put in some fucking effort.” 

“You sound like you’ve thought about this before,” Ilya says lightly. 

Yuna just shrugs. 

“Believe me, she’s thought about it a lot,” David Hollander’s scratchy, sleep-laden voice rasps beside Ilya. He clears his throat and winces as he readjusts his neck, which makes Ilya’s neck throb in sympathy. “Talked about it a lot, too.” 

Yuna grumbles something under her breath that is too quiet for Ilya to hear properly. 

“Honey, have you slept at all?” David asks Yuna. 

“No,” Yuna says. Ilya finally notices the sleep-deprived bags forming under her eyes that match his and David’s. Someone could walk in right now and say “wow, I see the family resemblance!” and the three of them would laugh awkwardly. No, wait– there’s that family word again– Ilya needs to be careful with that. He isn’t family. His tenuous connection to these two people relies entirely on his connection to Shane, and they aren’t anything at all.

“You should go to Shane’s place and sleep a while,” David says. “Ilya and I will hold down the fort here.” 

“But–” Yuna begins, looking between her husband and Ilya.

“We’ll call you if anything happens,” David promises. 

There is some sort of unspoken communication between them, a back-and-forth volley of blinking and eyebrow movements Ilya does not understand, and then Yuna Hollander is packing up her laptop and standing up. As she leaves the room, she drops a small kiss onto the top of her husband’s hair before stepping towards Ilya. Silently, she places a hand on Ilya’s bicep and squeezes once before disappearing through the doorway. 

Embarrassingly, Ilya’s vision begins to swim. 

“She can’t sleep in a chair,” David explains once Yuna has left the room. Ilya is relieved that David isn't commenting on the wetness of his eyes. “She’s never been able to. She needs a mattress and a blanket, always has.” He chuckles softly under his breath. “Years ago, we flew to Japan to visit some family. It took 23 hours with a layover in Calgary. Yuna didn’t sleep a single wink. We arrived at Narita International and she was so delirious that she kept accidentally speaking French. Shane– he was 4 at the time– kept trying to ‘help,’ but the only words in Japanese he knew were food and ‘thank you.’” Ilya can’t help the smile breaking out on his face as he listens to the story. “I talked to the border officer in English and Shane got upset because that was ‘cheating,’ apparently. Then he started listing all of the words for fruit that he knew.” 

Ooh, he can imagine a tiny little Shane being so excited to help. He probably put on his most serious face to talk to the person at the immigration counter. Ilya imagines a shrunken-down Shane in little overalls frowning slightly as he approaches a group of uniformed adults, muttering about peaches and apples. He’s going to have to ask David if he has any photographs of little Shane. He is too weak of a man to resist the temptation now that David has given him a glimpse.

“Mr. Hollander, I am sorry to interrupt–” Ilya begins, which causes David to look at him with concern. “but, I need to know, do you have any photos of little Shane?” 

“Oh…oh, buddy, do I,” David says with a conspiratorial grin. He takes out his phone (at maximum brightness, so bright it hurts Ilya just like the goddamn fluorescent lights above them and the giant LED cross looming outside of the hospital, but it’s fine because he’s perfectly content with suffering a little if it means he gets to see teeny tiny little Shane Hollander) and begins to swipe through his photo gallery. “Buckle up. This is one of my favourites…we took Shane to the beach for the first time when he was about a year old. He kept trying to eat the sand.” 

“This is still the same,” Ilya says without thinking about it. “His smoothies look like wet sand.”

David barks out a laugh. If he had wanted to comment on the fact that Ilya knows what the texture of Shane’s smoothies looks like, he did a great job of hiding it. 

Hours later, after Ilya is more relaxed and full of images of tiny little Shane (including one of him suited-up in full hockey gear at just 3 years old, which made Ilya involuntarily release a really embarrassing squeal before he begged David to send to him…and, well, now Ilya has David Hollander’s phone number. What an odd evening) and another large cup of awful, burnt hospital coffee, a nurse enters the room. 

“He’s up for visitors, if you want,” she says, looking between Ilya and David. There’s a strange look on her face that leads Ilya to believe that she recognizes him and is baffled by his presence, but her professionalism is overriding any urge to comment on it. 

“You should go first,” Ilya says to David. 

“We can both go, Ilya,” he responds. 

Ilya shakes his head. “We might give Shane a heart attack if we walk in together,” he says. He imagines walking into Shane’s room side-by-side with David and the way Shane would absolutely begin to freak out. Maybe he’d try to put on some sort of an act, telling Ilya that it was a clean hit, Rozanov, Marlow doesn’t have to worry like it isn't too late for him to ham up the rival captains act. Maybe he’ll jump out of his hospital bed and run through the doorway in fear of what Ilya has said to his father and what that means for their future. Maybe he’ll panic so intensely that he’ll decide that he should test his place on the Kinsey Scale again, just to confirm with 100% certainty that he and Rose Landry aren't compatible. “Maybe we…ease him into the idea that we have met,” Ilya suggests.

“And ease him into the idea that you’ve seen about two hundred of his baby photos?” David smiles, seemingly unaware that Ilya is attempting to defuse a bomb before it blows up in his face again. 

“Yes, definitely,” Ilya nods.

“If it makes you feel better, he is probably too high to think about much of anything,” the nurse, still in the doorway, supplies. “And…Mr. Rozanov, uh, he’s been asking for you?” 

Ilya has no fucking idea what facial expression he is making, but whatever it is, it makes the nurse drop the professional mask and let out a little giggle. David must see it too, because he also lets out a short laugh. 

“He has?” Ilya asks. God, he hopes the nurse isn’t just saying that to mock him right now. That would really suck. 

“Oh, yes,” she says, still laughing a little. “Every time he’s regained consciousness, actually. He’s been really insistent that we all tell iiiilllllllllyyyyuuuuuuhhhhhh that he is okay.” The nurse flashes him a small smile. “He tried convincing my colleague to give him his phone so he could call you and tell you himself. He got really upset when we told him we don't have his phone.”

“Go first, please, please,” Ilya orders David, all but pushing him through the doorway. “I need a moment, I think.” 

The nurse wasn’t exaggerating with the iiiilllllllllyyyyuuuuuuhhhhhh comment.

“Ilyaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” Shane breathes out happily when Ilya enters his hospital room and finally lays eyes on Shane’s mostly-fine, mostly-functional self. 

“Shane,” Ilya breathes out shakily, just watching him from the doorway. Shane smiles in response so wide that his eyes crinkle. God, like this, Ilya can see the little lines that will become crow’s feet someday. He really, really fucking hopes he gets to see them through the years as they carve deeper into his skin.

“Hey,” Shane says, starting to beckon Ilya over with a flap of his hand. “Heeeeeey.” 

When Ilya finally reaches his bedside and takes his hand, Shane smiles even wider. There’s bruising under Shane’s eyes that must hurt, but based on the way he’s smiling, maybe Shane can’t feel anything at all. The nurse wasn’t lying about him being very, very high right now. Ilya feels similarly.

“Wow, wow, you’re my second visitor after my dad,” Shane says with wonder. “That’s crazy. You beat my mom and she’s soooo competitive.” 

Ilya’s smile turns helpless. “I see where you get it from,” he says. 

Chapter End Notes

Some notes on some of the choices made here:

I've never been hospitalized or visited a hospitalized person so idk how that works lmao i thought the idea of shane having the longest most insane list of contacts filed at his workplace VERY funny. Imagine an admin person saying mr hollander we only need two contacts and he’s like You Will Accept More and they go uhmm okay Mr Hollander :/ I GUESSS... i'd like to imagine they're so tired of his ass that they don't even blink when he adds Ilya to the list.

Montreal General Hospital is affiliated with McGill University, hence why there are mentions of exhausted students walking around and why David Hollander mentions that he went to school around there! McGill and Montreal General hug Mount Royal. It’s simultaneously cool and terrible. When I went to McGill, most of my classes were in a building halfway up the fucking mountain. In the wintertime they set up a rope system so you could hold on and kind of drag yourself up the sidewalks when they were covered in ice. For some reason I refused to buy crampons for my boots so I used that rope

Iirc you can’t actually see the Mount Royal cross well from the hospital but you just gotta work with me here okay let’s suspend disbelief for a moment

It pained me a little to write “corner store” instead of “dep” but I figured Ilya wouldn’t know that. Similarly I kept wanting to write “favour” but opted for “favor” because Cliff and Ilya live in Boston and therefore probably aren’t fucking with that u.

I recently learned that even numbers of flowers are suitable for funerals/graves in Russia, while odd numbers of flowers are for happy events/living people. At least that’s what I’ve read lol. Works out in favour of delivering 24 flowers to Irina’s grave!!!

As for the specter of Grigori haunting this fic, I wanted to make it clear that part of Ilya’s whole spiral is the fact that he is going through this while still in the depths of a messy and complicated grieving process. Grief can be weird (and also unconscious), especially when you had a difficult relationship with the person who died. Believe me lol

 

ANYWAYS if you wanna chat you can hmu on discord @ taylor.gif

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

As some of you have already noticed, I wrote chapter 1 to stand by itself as a one-shot, but near the end of writing I started outlining a second chapter because I love beating dead horses (adding unnecessary scenes and overcomplicating a story, just look at what I did with one of my other fics operation o canada lmfao)

So anyways

Chapter 2!!

Ilya receives a text from an unknown number. Hi Ilya. This is Yuna. I’m just letting you know that I’m on my way. ETA 15 minutes. I’ll share my Uber details with you. David isn’t good at checking his phone sometimes. At some point, without Ilya knowing, David had shared Ilya’s phone number with Yuna, and she began to abuse the newfound communication point almost immediately. The texts continue to pour in. I don’t want to overstep and make too many assumptions, but I assume Shane wouldn’t react well to us being in his room at the same time without prior warning? Not even 15 seconds later, more pour in. If it’s alright with you, I’d like to have a quick visit with him alone. Afterwards we can meet and make an action plan. Could you tell David to check his texts? I want him to grab us breakfast. 

Then, Also, how is he? How are you feeling? 

As promised, she even sends over her Uber details. She’s…effective.

“Ilyaaaa, who is texting you?” Shane pouts. “I should be the only one texting you.”

“Is nothing, just my teammates saying good morning,” Ilya lies through his teeth. “And you cannot use your phone right now,” he teases. Shane’s weaponizing his massive doe eyes. Ilya suspects it’s unconscious, but he still isn’t completely sure. Shane probably knows the effect he has on Ilya, right? He knows which expressions and little noises make Ilya fold like a sheet of paper. The alternative is that Shane does not do any of it on purpose, which is a horrifying possibility; This means that Shane could potentially be looking at other people with those big, wet doe eyes, possibly several times per day, which is unacceptable. 

“You see your teammates all the time. I didn’t get to see you last night. You’re…” Shane’s face twists into a thinking expression. Ilya resists the urge to ruffle his hair, which is a feat of strength so impressive that he thinks he deserves a Nobel Prize. “You’re mine right now.”

Shane might as well have just hit him behind his knees with a giant mallet from the way that Ilya barely stops himself from falling to the ground. Jesus. Is Shane jealous? First the eyes and now this?

“I’m yours,” Ilya says, embarrassed by the way his voice has gone hoarse. Shane just smiles triumphantly. Ilya clears his throat. “I, uh,” Shane is still smiling and it’s really fucking distracting, because his smile right now is goofy and loose in a way that goes against everything he knows about Shane. He usually carries so much tension in his jaw that Ilya thinks he’ll get his first broken teeth not from a hockey game like every other MLH player, but from grinding his jaw. One day, the stress of being Shane Hollander will cause him to clench just a miniscule bit harder, and his teeth will shatter like glass. Maybe, if Ilya is lucky, he’ll be in the line of fire when it happens. He could live with having a few shards of Shane’s teeth lodged inside of his skin.

Shane’s on the good drugs for sure. He’s not sure what the fuck is wrong with himself, because this is not a normal line of thinking at all.

“I need to go for a little while, to, uh, call my coach,” Ilya continues to lie. Shane’s smile drops so fast that it makes Ilya dizzy. In horror, Ilya watches as Shane’s now-blank face slowly develops a pout that is far more pathetic-looking than he’s ever seen on Shane. This shit has to be on purpose, and because Ilya is a weak man, it works. Shane can play him like a fiddle. 

“No, no, sweetheart,” Ilya hears himself beg– his voice sound disembodied to his own ears, like another person sitting nearby is using Ilya’s voice. It sounds fucking pathetic. Has he ever called him sweetheart before? Fuck. Will this be like the time he called him by his first name? He pushes forward in hopes that Shane didn't notice. “I’ll come right back, I promise. I’ll be here all day if you want me to be,” his mouth continues on. Shouting, warning voices spring up inside of his brain, all telling him the different ways this is stupid: he desperately needs to sleep, Shane’s family is here and Shane is too injured and high off his ass to properly process the myriad of ways Ilya fucked up overnight, and oh, the simple fact that they shouldn’t be doing whatever it is that they’re doing in the first place. 

Shane’s sad, kicked-puppy expression softens into a happy smile again. “Okayyy,” he says. “You can call your coach if you promise to spend aaaaall day with me.” 

Ilya nods. God, he is weak.

His phone buzzes in his hand. Yuna has been dropped off, an Uber notification tells him. 

“I’m gonna,” Ilya makes a weird series of gestures, holding his phone in his hand and stupidly pointing it towards the door. “Yeah.” 

“Okaaay,” Shane says, closing his eyes. 

Ilya throws himself out of the room as fast as humanly possible. 

Yuna Hollander intercepts Ilya in the hallway just outside of the elevator, looking far more refreshed than anyone has the right to. They practically slept the same amount, and while Ilya looks like a bloodshot-eyed disaster, Yuna looks ready for a full day at the office. Granted, Ilya slept sitting upright on a horrible, old hospital chair, while Yuna slept in a real bed, but still. 

“Ilya,” Yuna greets with a small smile. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he asks. 

“Telling David to check his phone, mostly. But also for keeping Shane company.”

Ilya nods stupidly.

“David’s grabbing some food from Le Vieux St-Laurent,” she says like Ilya knows what the hell that jumble of French means. “I figured we probably shouldn’t leave the hospital right now, you know, but I’m sure we can find a private space in the hospital.” Ilya knows that if Yuna is anything like the rumours he heard years ago, she could probably convince the hospital to give her an entire wing to herself if she wanted to. 

“Okay,” Ilya nods. 

“You’ll stay, right? David’s getting you one of their grand feasts– that’s what they call them– it has eggs and pancakes and other stuff,” Yuna rambles. She’s done that a few times now, he’s noticed. It’s wildly different from the image of her he had in his head: unflappable, intense, and piercing. This version is intense, sure, but she’s also unmistakably jittery. “And, obviously, we’d love the chance to talk more,” she continues. Is she nervous? Does she think Ilya’s a flight risk, now that he’s seen Shane? In a way, she’s right. He’d probably be trying his absolute hardest to get the fuck out of here if he hadn’t just promised Shane he’d spend the day with him. Maybe she’s trying to figure out how she can leash him to a pole outside like a dog if she can’t convince him with words. 

“I promised Shane I’d spend more time with him today,” Ilya says.

There’s a flicker of a smug smile on her face that she squashes down quickly. God, it’s like this whole fucking family was designed in a lab to manipulate Ilya specifically. The universe is cruel. 

“I’m going to go see Shane now,” Yuna says. “You’re staying inside the hospital, right?” 

Ilya nods. “I have a grand feast to look forward to,” he says. 

Yuna flashes him a fully-formed smile now. “I’ll text you,” she says. 

Oh, I know, Ilya thinks. 

Ilya just barely reconnects his ass with his uncomfortable chair in the waiting room when his phone buzzes. There’s no way Yuna is finished fussing over her son yet, so Ilya assumes the message is from David. He has no idea where this mysterious garbled French-named restaurant that sells grand feasts is…maybe it’s closeby? Maybe they’re very fast at cooking? It still seems slightly too quick of a turnaround, but it’s not like Ilya would know. 

He checks his phone to find, instead of messages from David, a message from Cliff.

bro where in Montreal are you?? It reads. 

Hospital, Ilya responds. 

Shit, Jane's emergency is that bad? Cliff asks.

Yes, Ilya responds, annoyed. He told Cliff it was a fucking emergency. What did he think it was, a dick emergency? Ilya doesn't miss games for no reason. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s missed games for reasons outside of being incapacitated. He barely took a week off for his own father's funeral. He would have taken less time if he had the option to. Alas, he needed to manage the entire affair: funeral, dinners, the beginnings of executing the will, and everything else that comes along with performing the role of the grieving-yet-stoic son of someone of Grigori Rozanov’s stature, even if every single funeral attendee was already well aware that they were watching the equivalent of a circus act. Everyone, please welcome to the stage: Ilya Grigorievich Rozanov as… a son worthy of his father’s favour!

That sucks bro, i hope everything’s okay.  Cliff sends back. I just left the hotel btw. Im headed to you 

Aw, fuck. Cliff incoming. 

The Boston Bears boarded their chartered flight to Detroit at 5:45am (successfully, based on the blurry photo of St-Simon flashing a peace sign with Connors asleep on his shoulder that was sent to Ilya with the caption wish this waz u 🤪 ✈️💯 🤪💦 ). It’s currently 9:43 am and Cliff is headed towards Montreal General Hospital, which means Cliff didn’t board that flight.

This also means that the Boston Bears are missing both their captain and alternate captain for their upcoming Detroit game. Ilya can practically hear Boston fans frantically typing out their angry and confused tweets, reddit posts, and whatever else they use to communicate with each other. He and Cliff are gonna have to do something drastic to earn everyone’s forgiveness, like agreeing to do some stupid fluff interview their communications department arranges. For the crimes of (allegedly) getting food poisoning, they will be sentenced to doing a lie detector test or a “spend a day with me at the rink!” video that is highly planned out, rehearsed, and edited to avoid actually showing fans anything of substance.They’ve been on partial media lockdown with a strict everything-must-be-highly-edited-and-reviewed-and-preferably-managed-by-the-social-media-team policy for the last eight months since Koslov posted a boomerang on Instagram featuring a small pile of black mold that once lived in a forgotten corner of the rink.

More importantly: this means that Cliff Marlow is headed towards the hospital Shane Hollander is blissfully high in.

Ilya puts his head in his hands, smushing the meat of his palms into his eyes until he sees stars, and groans.

Here, Cliff texts a quick 20 minutes later. Ilya makes his way to the front entrance, tossing his hood over his hair in hopes of anonymizing himself just a little bit. It was one thing to be walking around and inside of the hospital in the middle of the night– now, it’s bright and early in the morning and the hospital is beginning to bustle with activity. He does not know what awaits him in the main public areas. He knows, theoretically, that Montreal is a hockey town. He knows that Shane fucking Hollander can get whatever he wants here, and that some of the nurses recognized Ilya last night, although overnight the receptionist clearly did not. He’s already created an absolute shitstorm for Shane by accidentally meeting (and oversharing to) his parents. He can only imagine how much worse it would be if someone, maybe a random hockey fan who just so happens to be by the water fountain and just so happens to recognize Ilya and Cliff, snaps a photo and uploads it online. Yo Rozanov and Marlow are at Montreal general? Are they scratched? Injury? He imagines the uploader captioning the photo. He imagines commenters picking it all apart and presenting their own theories. Maybe a teammate would stupidly tell someone that they’re both out for food poisoning, and then he’ll truly never live it down. He imagines that a few people would get it right and suggest that they’re at the hospital for Shane Hollander. They’d be laughed at for being delusional, he knows, but the simple fact that the suggestion is out there would be enough to make him (and Shane) panic a little. 

Ilya groans and nearly stops dead in his tracks when he turns the corner and lays his eyes on Cliff. Cliff is standing next to reception wearing a stupid smile and doing an even more stupid wave towards Ilya. In the hand Cliff is not using to wave, there is a massive, gaudy bouquet of flowers in vibrant shades of pink, red, yellow, and orange, all spilling over his arms. He also has Ilya’s bags, stacked on the floor next to him. Worst of all: Cliff is wearing a Boston Bears hoodie and matching beanie, all crisp and clean and so fucking obnoxious-looking. So much for flying under the radar. Ilya keeps his hood pulled up anyways.

“What is this?” Ilya groans, gesturing to the bouquet of flowers as he reluctantly approaches Cliff. 

“They’re for Jane, you fucking dickhead,” Cliff drawls casually. “And good morning to you too.”

“Jane is my girlfriend, not yours,” Ilya snaps. He enunciates “girl” a little more than he normally would. Maybe if someone is recording this interaction right now, everyone will latch onto the mystery woman and leave Shane out of it.

Cliff rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “You’ve been here all night, right? I figured you didn’t have time or energy to get her anything nice,” he explains. “So I’m being a good fucking friend and bringing flowers for you to give to her.” 

Ilya sighs. Really, he wants to be annoyed, but…Cliff’s intentions are nice, even if they’re kind of stupid. He’d probably have a conniption if he knew he technically bought that massive pile of flowers for Shane Hollander, Montreal Voyageurs captain he just sent to the hospital, not a mystery woman Ilya is hiding from him.

“So…” Cliff continues. “How’s Jane? Where is she?”

“Jane’s fine,” Ilya says. “Nothing too bad. Concussion. Broken bone.”

“Concussion?” Cliff asks in confusion. “What the fuck was your girlfriend up to that got her concussed? I thought you said she had a family emergency?” 

Shit, fuck. God, Ilya needs to fucking sleep more. He’s getting stupid with compounding stress and exhaustion. If he keeps this up, maybe he’ll be operating at the same brain capacity Cliff Marlow uses in his day-to-day life.  “Uhm. Car accident,” he makes up on the spot. It might as well have been a car that plowed Shane over– Cliff is built like a brick apartment complex and is shockingly fast on his skates. He imagines Cliff as one of those fucked up-looking cars from the disney movie slamming into Shane. Life is a highwayyy, Rascal Flatts croons as Cliff’s stupid CGI car-face knocks over a regular, human Shane. I’m gonna ride it aaaall niiiight long, which is something Ilya and Shane could not do last night due to the fact that Cliff ran Shane over.

He really wishes he never watched that movie on the plane with Connors last week. 

“I lied about the family emergency. I thought the team would freak out if I said my girlfriend was hurt. Then no one would get on the plane,” Ilya says. “I did not want to overwhelm Jane with entire Boston Bears team in her hospital room.”

“Shit, man,” Cliff breathes out. “That fucking sucks.”

“Yes,” Ilya nods. “You did not travel with the team?” he asks, directing the subject back to the plane. 

“Nah,” Cliff says. “I was shittin’ too much.” Right, right. The lactose intolerance and the gallon of milk and the stupid, unnecessary method acting. “I’m heading out later tonight on a commercial flight, so hopefully I don’t miss much,” he says. “And I wanted to make sure you got your stuff back.”

Ilya nods. “Thanks.”

“Sooooooo,” Cliff continues, looking at Ilya with a little shit-eating and conspiratorial grin on his stupid fucking face. “Jane able to get visitors yet?”

“I am going to end your life,” Ilya says gravely. 

Cliff barks out a good-natured laugh. “Come on, dude!”

“You just want excuse to meet Jane,” Ilya continues. “Manipulator.”

Cliff shrugs. “Come on, man. I’ve been dying to meet this chick. I’ve never seen you act the way you do with her.”

“Marly, shut the fuck up,” Ilya groans. “You will meet my girlfriend when she isn’t severely injured.”

Cliff opens his mouth to protest again, he assumes, but he does not hear what comes out of it. Instead, Ilya’s attention zeroes in on a rapidly growing problem he’s spotted in the corner of his vision: Yuna Hollander walking towards them like she’s on a mission.

Well, she’s walking towards Ilya. She doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to whoever Ilya is talking to.

“Ily–” Yuna begins, faltering when Ilya looks back at her in what he assumes must look like utter horror. Cliff says something, watching Ilya in concern, but Ilya still does not really hear it. Worse yet: Cliff then turns around to see what Ilya is staring at. 

“Oh, Marlow,” Yuna says, flat, taking in Cliff and all of his Boston Bears-covered glory, complete with armfuls of bright flowers spilling over his huge arms. “Uh, and Rozanov,” she tacks on. From an outside perspective, it probably looks like a purposeful insult, like Ilya Rozanov is so hated by Shane Hollander’s family that they’re barely willing to even acknowledge him. 

“Uhm, hello,” Cliff says, looking between Yuna and Ilya with confusion. 

“I’m going to…” Yuna begins, looking supremely awkward. “Go.” She makes good on her promise and vacates the area immediately, shuffling quickly towards a washroom. As she walks away, she takes out her phone and taps at it a bit, and Ilya’s own phone vibrates in his pocket just seconds later. 

“Someone you know?” Cliff asks Ilya.

Ilya can’t imagine not knowing who Yuna Hollander is, but he guesses he isn’t exactly the picture of a normal human experience. He has known what Yuna Hollander looks like since 2008, purely from seeing her shadowing Shane so often. Cliff has not nursed an obsession with Shane Hollander the same way Ilya has. Cliff probably doesn’t even know if Shane has a mother or if Shane was directly hatched from a puck. 

Because Ilya is apparently taking too long to answer, Cliff experiences some sort of epiphany. It blooms on his face like a young child realizing he can eat ice cream for dinner every night when he is an adult who can make his own choices. This is entering dangerous territory; “Cliff Marlow” and “epiphany” do not mix. The last time he had an epiphany, he put in delivery orders for cannolis from all around the city so he could learn which bakery’s cannoli shells were the optimal size for him to jerk off with like disgusting, ricotta-filled fleshlights.

Cliff Marlow is severely lactose intolerant, mind you.

Ilya, to this day, has flashbacks from that. Cliff sent him photos and videos on Snapchat until Ilya blocked him. It was absolute carnage of pastry and sugar. It also ruined their Snapchat streak, which really sucked. 

“Holy shit, is she related to Jane?” Cliff asks, clearly excited. 

Ilya grimaces. “That was Shane Hollander’s mother,” he says. He could have, in theory, used the related-to-Jane excuse, but then again, he has no fucking idea who is potentially listening in on this conversation right now. Cliff might not know who Yuna Hollander is, but Ilya’s 100% certain there are people out there who do. 

There are many people out there who are completely insane and abnormal about Shane Hollander. He is unfortunately amongst their ranks.

“Oh!” Cliff says, obviously taken aback. “Oh shit, is Hollander at the same hospital as Jane? That’s crazy!” 

Ilya is so fucking thankful that Cliff is stupid. 

“Should I go visit him?” Cliff asks. “And, like, apologize or somethin’?” 

Ilya shakes his head, probably too fast and too quickly. “His mother just looked at you like you are a worm,” he says. “I don’t think that is a good idea right now.” 

Cliff nods, considering. “Yeaaaah, you’re probably right. I’m probably not popular in that household right now.” He nods his head seriously as he says this. “Have you seen Hollander?”

“No,” Ilya says. “But it might be a good idea for me to visit as captain, maybe,” he says. He’s gotta cover his tracks. Again, he does not know who is listening, watching, or recording. What if he tells Cliff that he won’t see Hollander and some nosy eavesdropper posts about it online? The best case scenario is that he’ll get a concerned call from the social media director telling him that people online are calling him a major douchebag for being so unsportsmanlike. The worst case scenario is that someone in this hospital lets slip that Ilya did, in fact, see Shane Hollander during his time at Montreal General, which could stir up insane amounts of discourse online. 

Nuclear case scenario: everyone sees right through him, and he’s fucking up his and Shane’s lives forever.

“Okay, cool, cool, good idea,” Cliff nods. It’s not a good idea, but Ilya doesn’t think it’s a good idea to tell Cliff that. “If I get him some shit, will you drop it off for me?”

“Like what?” Ilya asks. 

“I dunno,” Cliff hums. “A card or something.”

“Ugh,” Ilya groans. There’s no actual annoyance behind it. “I guess.” 

“Aight, I’ll be right back,” Cliff promises. “Take your fuckin’ bags and bring these flowers to Jane. I’ll find something we can give to Hollander.” 

Once Cliff is out the door and unleashed upon the unsuspecting streets of Montreal, Ilya finally checks his phone. 

The hospital is letting us use an extra room for privacy, Yuna sent a few minutes ago. They couldn't ensure that the waiting room we used last night would be secure. Ilya gets the feeling that the hospital isn't “letting” them borrow a room more so that Yuna is forcing them to relinquish someone’s personal office or has forced someone to clear out a spare storage room for them to set up their mission headquarters. Head towards the desk and then take a right. Walk approximately 25 meters. It’s the first door past the men’s washroom. 

Ilya follows the directions and finds that yes, this is someone’s personal office that is being temporarily repurposed. He is so, so sorry to Dr. Nguyen. He hopes the doctor doesn’t need it today. Yuna might bite their head off if they try to pop in.

He knocks on the door and waits for David to swing it open. 

“Ilya! Hey, bud,” David greets. One of the flower stems Ilya is holding snaps under the force of his grip. 

“Hi again, Mr. and Mrs. Hollander,” Ilya greets. He is internally pleased by how steady he keeps his voice. Yuna mumbles out a comment about how he should just call her Yuna, but it’s partially garbled through a mouthful of food. Dr. Nyugen keeps a folding table in their office, apparently, or perhaps Yuna bullied the hospital into loaning it to them. As she eats, Yuna is methodically removing plastic takeout containers from thin plastic bags before placing them on the table. There’s also a small leather loveseat with a well-worn pillow, probably for the doctor to take quick naps on, that Ilya tosses his duffel bag on. Then, after quickly glancing at the lack of space on the table, Ilya places the massive pile of flowers on top of his bag. He hopes none of the petals fall off and wedge themselves in between Dr. Nguyen’s cushions. 

The room feels cramped, like he’s slightly too big for the space and the walls are pressing against him. He’s been feeling this a lot lately; in too-small airplane seats even in first class, in constricting formalwear socially acceptable for grieving pressing into his neck and wrists, seated in taxis blasting too-loud pop music, and sometimes, in the fishbowl of the hockey rink. 

David motions towards a little chair. Ilya shakes his head and jabs his thumb towards the door.

“I will be right back,” he promises. “I have to get something else.” He’ll return to this particular set of closing-in walls in a moment once he’s ensured that Cliff Marlow can’t cause any more problems. Knowing Cliff, he’ll cause between one and five new problems within the next thirty minutes.

“Don’t be too long,” Yuna says. “We have a lot to discuss.”

“And your pancakes will get cold,” David adds.

Ilya hurries away from both the responsibility of talking to Shane’s parents and the promise of pancakes like an Olympic sprinter. The pancakes sound nice. He really fucking wants those pancakes, actually, now that he’s thinking about them. The fact that Shane’s parents want to talk and plan does not sound so nice. It sounds dangerous, even.

But…pancakes. He can stomach some more obligations if it means being able to stuff in some pancakes next to them. 

By the time he reaches the main reception area again, Cliff has somehow already returned. This time, he is standing stupidly next to a water fountain while holding a tiny foil balloon that says “sorry” in blue glitter cursive with a little bear attached to it that grips the balloon’s plastic handle. Cliff’s massive hands engulf the thing, which just makes the whole sight look even more stupid. For fuck’s sake, he couldn’t have gotten a normal, adult-sized balloon? Or maybe a normal fucking card like a normal fucking person would? No, he instead got a glittering lollipop of an apology gift. Under normal circumstances, this entire visual would make Ilya laugh. Today, there isn’t anything fucking funny about it. He’s just pissed off.

Cliff flashes him a confused, concerned look as Ilya stalks towards him. 

“Who pissed in your cereal?” Cliff asks. 

“Take your piss kink somewhere else,” Ilya snaps. He’ll never understand the weird phrases Cliff likes to lob at him. Shane uses a few weird ones on occasion, but they’re nothing like the weird shit Cliff whips out. English is such a fucked up language. Why are we digging for clams in the desert? What the fuck is a brick shithouse? What does the verb “to bark” mean when it is done up the wrong tree? Why are we throwing shit at the fan? Actually, Ilya kind of likes the shit hitting the fan one. He’s understanding it more and more as the morning wears on– this whole situation feels like someone lobbed a handful of shit at Ilya’s fan, and now Ilya is trying to clean the splatters off of the walls. “Is this for Hollander?”

“Yeah, dude, jesus christ, it's for fucking Hollander,” Cliff says. “They didn't have many options at the hospital gift shop.”

It’s reassuring knowing Cliff didn’t go far once he was out of Ilya’s eyeline. 

“And I don't exactly have enough time to figure out how to send Hollander an edible arrangement. How do you even say ‘chocolate covered fruit on sticks’ in French?” Cliff continues rambling.

“Shane would not eat this,” Ilya says without thinking. 

Cliff just flashes him a weird, baffled look, like Ilya’s little comment threw him off. “It was either the balloon with a bear or a ‘congratulations on your baby’ card,” Cliff continues after a brief pause. “Or more flowers, but Hollander doesn't seem like the type of guy who wants to be showered in bouquets of roses.”

He's obsessed with roses, actually, Ilya wants to snap. When you stand Ilya Rozanov and Rose fucking Landry side-by-side, the evidence becomes damning. This is not something Cliff needs to know, so Ilya just nods his head noncommittally. 

“I’ll take your balloon to Hollander,” Ilya says, reaching out to pluck the stupid glittery thing from Cliff’s hand. 

Cliff rolls his eyes. “Tell him I said sorry, okay? Don't fucking forget,” he says. Then, to Ilya’s continued horror, he reaches out and lays a friendly set of pats on Ilya’s shoulder. “And I hope Jane is alright, man. That really sucks. I'm glad we happened to be in town when it happened so you could be with her,” he says. “When she’s all healed up, I wanna meet the girl, you hear me? You owe me.”

“I do not,” Ilya says. 

Cliff rolls his eyes. 

“Keep me updated, you dick. I’ll cover for you with coach and the guys as long as you need.”

“Next time, try not to give yourself bowel emergency,” Ilya says. “Just lie like a normal person.”

“No promises,” Cliff says ominously.

He returns to the private room Yuna managed to bully out of some definitely-overworked hospital employee, half expecting to see it turned into a command centre. Yuna seems like the type to scrounge up emergency meeting supplies, like a dry-erase board and catered coffee. Maybe she’s already set up a Skype call with a lawyer who has already prepared a stack of NDAs. Maybe she’s stockpiling guns.

Maybe not. That's more of an American thing. Canadians would be stockpiling…bows and arrows? Porcupine quills dipped in poison? Moose antlers wielded like blunt-force objects? From what Ilya knows about Canada, the real answer is probably hockey sticks, but like, hockey sticks covered in sticky maple syrup and rolled in broken glass. Ilya will have to ask Shane later.

The room looks exactly the same as it did when he left it, except now the Hollanders have spread out entirely too much breakfast food on a table. Yuna is sipping an iced coffee. David is squinting at something on his phone. 

“Ilya! Come, sit,” David says when he notices Ilya standing dumbly in the doorway. Ilya drops off the balloon and the bear next to the pile of flowers before sitting in the empty chair. He can’t help but light up a little when David slides a plastic takeout container of pancakes dusted in powdered sugar and bananas towards him. There are eggs, beans, and potatoes, too, piled high in a second container that David pushes towards him. There are three cups of liquids in front of him like he’s starring in some kind of early 2000s breakfast cereal advertisement that assumes the watcher will want to drink orange juice, coffee, AND water with their meal. 

Shane would make such a disgusted face if he saw all of the food here. Ilya can practically hear him tut as he digs into those now-lukewarm pancakes with gusto. 

The Hollanders watch him for a moment. 

“That’s interesting,” Yuna says, gesturing to the riot of flowers and the ridiculous balloon with her chin and breaking the silence.

Ilya snorts. “Cliff Marlow came by,” he explains, as if she didn’t already know that. She fucking saw him outside. “I told him my, uh,” fuck, how’s he going to explain this? “My girlfriend,” Ilya says, kind of ashamed. “Was having an emergency.” 

The Hollanders stare at him in confusion. 

“It is just an excuse,” he quickly adds. “My team thinks I have a girlfriend named Jane.”

David continues to blink at him like he just started speaking in Russian. Yuna, however, barks out a sharp laugh. 

“His team thinks Shane is a woman named Jane,” she says quietly, elbowing David in the side. David lets out an equally-quiet Aaaah in understanding. 

“But,” he interjects. “Only the flowers are for my Jane.” He ignores the way Yuna mouths My Jane with an eyebrow quirked up, because there is only so much embarrassment he can handle right now, and he’s pretty sure he’s getting close to his limit. He does not need to add telling Shane’s parents that he privately thinks of Shane as his, nor that he almost always uses the possessive adjective when talking about Jane around his teammates. “The apology balloon and bear are for Shane. He, uh, asked me to give them to Hollander if I saw him…as captain of the Bears, obviously.”

David snorts a quick laugh. Ilya is one tick closer to hitting his embarrassment limit. 

“So,” Yuna continues, gesturing again to the gifts, this time with her fork speared with a single cubed potato. “Does Marlow always mock the guys he injures with little gift shop bears?” 

Ilya should have seen this coming. “He didn't mean to hurt Shane,” Ilya says, defensive. “My team is known for being rough, but we don't try to hurt other players,” he continues. Yuna fixes him with a flat, unimpressed look. Ilya winces under it. “Fine, fine. We don't try to hurt players this badly. It was freak accident.”

Yuna still looks deeply unimpressed, but luckily David jumps in. “Back in university, I accidentally sent a guy to the hospital,” he says. “He never played again. I get it, sometimes things just land wrong. It took me a while to come to terms with that.” 

“He deserved it,” Yuna snaps. “That was different.”

“Yuna,” David shakes his head.

“What? He was an asshole!” She throws her hands up. 

David rolls his eyes before leaning towards Ilya. “The guy and Yuna grew up in the same town,” he explains. “They dated in high school.”

“Don't remind me,” Yuna groans. 

“They posed with hockey sticks for their prom photos,” David continues. Yuna groans.

Ilya is absolutely fucking delighted to be hearing all of this. 

“David, you played hockey?” Ilya asks, excited to get some more insight on this frankly insane little family and the fact that David apparently gave his wife’s ex-boyfriend a career-ending injury.

David nods. 

Yuna scoffs. “Did he play?” she asks sarcastically. “He was the best damn goalie McGill had ever seen,” she says. 

“When I remembered to defend my crease instead of pushing guys over,” David says. 

What the fuck? “Goalie?” Ilya asks. He ignores the McGill part, because he doesn’t know what the fuck that means. 

David nods again. “We tried getting Shane into the net when he was little, but it never clicked for him,” he says. Ilya tries to imagine Shane Hollander wrapped-up in goaltending padding, but something about the image just feels too wrong to fully realize inside of his mind. “And, well, the rest is history.”

“You stopped playing after university?” Ilya asks.

David shrugs. “I wanted to focus on my studies,” he says. “I stopped playing after my third year.” 

“No, no,” Yuna shakes her head. “That’s not right. You stopped playing three months into your fourth year.” David sighs like arguing over the specifics of his hockey retirement is a well-trodden path for them. 

“I don’t think you can argue that I played that season,” he says. 

It’s Yuna’s turn to learn towards Ilya conspiratorially. The grin on her face is wolfish when she tells him that actually, David technically played for a few months in his fourth year of university, but he was ejected from games so frequently, it was as if he didn’t play at all. 

Ilya laughs like he’s gone crazy, and Yuna looks proud about it. How the fuck did the world’s most violent goalie produce Shane Hollander? 

As if he could read Ilya’s mind, David wryly explains: “We tried our best to instil an appreciation for good sportsmanship in Shane.”

“Maybe too much,” Ilya says. “He is very good boy.” He regrets saying this immediately as his brain is bombarded with memories of Shane being a very, very good boy. Ilya’s cheeks immediately warm up and he opts to stuff some egg into his mouth quickly before more embarrassing things spill out. 

The Hollanders don’t seem to notice his plight. 

“He is,” David agrees. “Right before I left the team, I realized I didn’t like who I was becoming and wanted to change that.” 

“I still don’t think you needed to stop playing,” Yuna says dryly. Another well-trodden argument for them, it seems. 

David shrugs. “It felt necessary for me,” he says. “And once Shane started playing, it finally hit me that it was possible to play and keep your cool,” he says. “I’ve always loved that about him. I was so worried when Yuna started putting him in hockey camps, but obviously I never had anything to worry about with him.”

“Speaking of Shane,” Yuna continues. Oh, god. Here we go. “What’s the plan?” 

“The plan?” Ilya repeats.

“The plan,” Yuna nods. “I mean, obviously you two are,” Yuna makes a few vague gestures that Ilya does not understand. David nods at his wife, apparently understanding what she means. “I’m just wondering what’s next.”

“Shane asked me to spend the day with him?” Ilya tells them, voice getting higher at the end like a question. 

“I meant after,” Yuna says. 

“My team knows I have family emergency,” he says, purposefully not telling them that his team actually thinks he is holed up in either a hotel room or his maybe-but-not-really-girlfriend’s home, suffering gastrointestinal distress due to a shitty chicken burrito. “I can stay a few days here in Montreal if Shane wants me to,” he says truthfully. He knows he should be getting the fuck out of there and back to his life, but he’s so tired and too emotionally compromised to care, and Shane hit him with the little wet begging eyes– 

Yeah, he can spare a few days. He’s earned a little break after everything.

“That’s good to hear,” David says. Yuna huffs and rolls her eyes a little, clearly annoyed, which is…okay, fuck, maybe Ilya can’t spend a few extra days in Montreal, if they so clearly want him to get the fuck away from their family. He doesn’t blame them for wanting to wrap up this strange, routine-destroying blip in their regular lives. Maybe once he’s gone they can all pretend that this never happened. It will just be a strange little footnote, just a single vague sentence without any citations, in their life story. Maybe they’ll file a restraining order against him to keep him the fuck away from their beloved son. It’ll make things really awkward for everyone when the league catches wind of the fact that two of their star players aren’t allowed to be within 500 meters of each other. Games between the Voyageurs and Bears will get really strange really fast. He wonders how they’d do it– maybe they’d have to take turns playing, Shane playing one game while Ilya gets to play the next one. 

“I meant, what is your plan for…what you two have going on, in general?” Yuna clarifies. 

Ah.

“There is no plan,” Ilya says truthfully.

“I find that hard to believe,” Yuna raises an eyebrow. 

Ilya shakes his head. “There is no plan,” he repeats. “There has never been a plan.” He shovels a mouthful of pancakes into his mouth before he stupidly adds more to the thought, like the only plans we have ever made are to fuck or my plan has always been to just ignore the crushing feeling I get in my chest when I think about him until it finally kills me off. 

“Yuna, honey,” David cuts in before Yuna can get another word in. “Maybe we can talk about this when Shane is here.” 

Ilya shoots him a grateful look, or at least a look he hopes looks grateful enough. He crammed so much pancake into his mouth that it has warped his entire face. It’s hard to look obviously grateful when your cheeks are blown up like balloons as you try to chew an excessive amount of dough into submission. 

“Fine,” Yuna agrees, taking a sip of her coffee. Ilya breathes out a sigh of relief as he manages to get some of the pancake down his throat. “Now, Ilya,” Shit, he’s still on the fucking hook. Should he cram more pancakes in so he doesn’t have to respond to whatever is next? “After our conversation last night, I was thinking about agents, and…”

Ilya eats normally. 

After breakfast, they decide that it’s time for Ilya to make good on his promise and return to Shane, complete with Cliff Marlow’s offerings of flowers, a tiny balloon, and a bear in tow. 

“Ilyaaaaaaaa,” Shane calls out when he enters the room. Ilya could really see himself getting used to Shane calling him by his first name, long, drawn-out, and full of happiness. “You’re back! You’re still beating my mom. She has only been here once so far!” Shane continues. “And you’re two visits ahead of my entiiiiiire team, wow!”

“It is not hard to beat the Montreal Voyageurs,” Ilya says gravely. 

Shane giggles. “They’d be pissed if they found out,” he says. Ilya isn’t sure what he’s referring to: the visits, or Ilya’s barnacle-like existence in Shane’s life in general. While Ilya considers this, Shane’s eyes finally latch onto the armful of offerings Ilya has brought in. “What are those?”

“They’re all from Cliff Marlow,” Ilya explains wryly. “The bear and balloon are for Shane, and the flowers are for Jane.”

“Wow,” Shane breathes, eyes wide. “That’s very nice of him.” 

“Yes,” Ilya says. “He was concerned I was a bad boyfriend and did not get flowers for my Jane.” 

Shane’s eyebrows furrow. “Wait, why would he need to get stuff for Jane?” 

Ilya clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Ah, I, uh, told him that Jane was in the hospital.” 

Shane giggles. “It’s true!” he says. 

“And then Cliff realized that Shane Hollander is also here,” llya continues, making Shane giggle more. “So, obviously he needed to buy apology gifts for Shane Hollander.”

“Lemme see,” Shane demands, reaching his good hand out towards Ilya and grasping at the air. It’s adorable. Ilya wants to punch a fucking wall. He passes the balloon and bear over to Shane and bursts out laughing when Shane looks at the balloon with a confused and kind of disgusted face. 

“Glitter,” he whispers, definitely disgusted. “It’s gonna get everywhere,” he complains. 

“I’ll put it somewhere far away from you,” Ilya says, reaching to pluck the offending glittery balloon from Shane’s grip. 

“No, no, this is mine,” Shane whines, pulling it towards himself. “Tell Marlow I said thank you. For the gift.” Shane inspects it a bit more, turning the little foil balloon around and watching the light bounce off of the glitter. “I’m going to find glitter on me for the next three months,” he says solemnly. “Jade got purple glitter all over me last year and I just finally stopped finding it in my apartment.” 

Who the fuck is Jade? Ilya feels the hot broil of jealousy begin to crawl into his chest. First there was Rose fucking Landry, and now this mystery girl Ilya’s hearing about for the first time. “Shane, who is–” he begins, but is cut off by someone opening the door.

Ilya freezes when David steps inside. 

Immediately, Ilya remembers something very, very important that he and the Hollanders forgot to discuss over breakfast: they never made a fucking plan for introducing Shane to the idea that his parents and Ilya have been hanging out, and now Shane is about to be thrown headfirst into the pool of Ilya’s fuck-ups.

David notices Ilya’s terror immediately. “Whoa there, kiddo, it’s okay,” he says. Then, turning to Shane, he very calmly and carefully says: “I just came to tell Ilya that Hayden and the kids were thinking about swinging by, and I’m not sure if Ilya wants to be here for that.” 

Shane nods seriously. “Ilya probably doesn’t want to hang out with Hayden, but he’ll like Jackie the kids.” Then, after a brief moment, he suddenly looks alarmed. “Wait,” he said, voice going a little tight as he rapidly pales.

The beeping of the heart monitor begins to get faster. 

Ilya is so fucked. How could they have forgotten something so fucking important and obvious? The nurses are going to rush in here any minute now to figure out what the fuck happened to make their patient so distressed, and Ilya is obviously to blame for it. They’re going to kick him out of the hospital. Again, the potential headlines bounce around his head: Dangerous criminal with ties to Russian police apprehended after harassing beloved Canadian icon in hospital and United States deports crazed Russian athlete after violent attack on incapacitated competitor!

Maybe Cliff will back him up. Boston Bears player defends disgraced former captain after violent attack: “he was at the hospital for something totally different, I promise, you gotta trust me bro.” 

Yeah, never mind.

“Shane,” Ilya warns softly, despite the fact that his heart rate is increasing to match Shane’s jumping pulse. “It is okay.”

David walks closer to Shane’s bed and places a hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Yeah, bud, it’s okay.”

“Uhm, right,” Shane says, voice shaking a little. The beeping is still fast. In fact, it seems to still be getting faster. “Uhm, thank you for coming, Rozanov, it really isn’t–” 

“Shane,” Ilya shakes his head, slow and sad. He really hopes Shane isn’t able to tell that he’s trembling slightly. David squeezes Shane’s shoulder, which makes Shane wince slightly in pain. Yikes. It’s an effective distraction strategy, all things considered. “We are okay here,” Ilya adds. 

Shane exhales slowly and shakily, but at the very least, the heart rate monitor slows down with it. 

“What is…” Shane begins, blinking hard like he’s trying to organize his thoughts through the clouds covering his mind. 

“Maybe right now is not good time,” Ilya says at the same time David says “Oh, Ilya and I met outside!”

Shane just stares at the two of them, mouth slightly agape. 

“I found Ilya outside,” David reiterates. “And we had a nice conversation and did some crosswords together.” 

“Whuh?,” Shane asks, eyes continuing to slowly move between his father and Ilya.

“Yes,” Ilya confirms, cringing a little as he says it. 

“Why were you outside?” Shane asks Ilya, nose scrunched up in confusion. “Why didn’t you– your team…”

“I wanted to see you,” Ilya says, then shakes his head. Wanted is not a strong enough word. “I needed to see you.” 

Shane’s eyes flick back to his father in alarm. He probably means for the action to be quick, but everything he does right now is sluggish. 

“Everything is okay, Shane,” David says, lightly patting him on the head. Shane winces very slightly. “It all worked out for everyone! We all got to hang out while we waited for you to wake up.” 

Shane shakes his head, slow and without much range of motion. Thank god he’s mostly high for this conversation, Ilya thinks. He’d be freaking the fuck out if he wasn’t heavily medicated and concussed. Sure, he is freaking out a little, but this is child’s play in comparison to what could have been. 

“Ilyaaa,” Shane groans. “You were just, what, waiting at the front entrance? What if someone saw you?”

Ilya shakes his head. “I was at the back,” he says. “Smoking area.”

“You shouldn’t be smoking,” Shane grumbles petulantly. 

“The universe tried to stop me,” Ilya explains. “I had no lighter fluid. Then, David comes over and becomes my guardian angel, giving me a lighter and letting me see his son.” 

Shane is silent for a few moments, just blinking and processing what he has heard. Slowly, he turns towards his father with the most put-upon facial expression Ilya has ever seen on his face. “Dad!” Shane whines. “I thought you stopped smoking.” 

Ilya finds himself alone within the confines of Dr. Nguyen’s office. Feeling too antsy to nap, Ilya instead decides to follow up with Cliff. Hollander says thank you and no hard feelings, Ilya texts him, before opening Twitter to check whether or not any of the morning’s events have been broadcast to the social networking world. 

Someone’s taken a selfie with Cliff outside of the hospital– Ilya recognizes the street from last night, but the hospital itself is not in the frame. The poster says they ran into Cliff Marleau on their way to class. They’re being eaten alive in the comments by hockey fans telling them to at least spell his last name correctly. 

There’s nothing from inside the hospital, nor anything that points to Cliff and Ilya being near Shane Hollander. Not a single person on Twitter seems to be suggesting that Ilya enlisted Cliff to make an excuse so Ilya could spend the evening in the hospital watching over his recently-injured friend-maybe-kinda-not-really with benefits. 

Thank god. Ilya can’t handle nearly sending Shane into cardiac arrest for a second time today. 

Thanks man! How's he holding up? Cliff responds fifteen minutes later.

Okay, Ilya writes. Out for the rest of the season but will recover. Cliff reacts with a sad face emoji.

And Jane? How's she holding up? Cliff asks.

The same, Ilya responds. a little banged up but will recover quickly. she says thank you for the flowers

I knew she'd be into them. Take notes brother, Cliff responds. Ilya debates telling Cliff that he'd prefer to avoid taking romance advice from a guy who once took a date on those little two-person paddling swan boats and managed to tip the whole thing over. He had to pay for the girl's cell phone which was waterlogged beyond repair. She never called him back. 

When are you leaving montreal? Cliff asks.

Not sure yet. Jane wants me to stay for at least today. Her parents might want me to stay longer

You met her parents? Wow this shit is serious. Cant believe the community dick of boston got locked down by a canadian chick 

Ilya locked himself down, thank you very much. He has made the very purposeful choice to reserve himself for Shane and Shane only. It's not like he's interested in touching anyone else nowadays-- the last time he tried to drown his stress in the simple carnal pleasure of a hookup, he spent the whole time wishing the (probably very nice and interesting) woman riding him was a very particular rude and boring Canadian boy. He couldn't even enjoy a full evening of drinking or dancing without the creeping sadness of this would be more fun if Shane was here and hey, hey, remember that time you saw Shane dancing with his girlfriend he left you for at a club? What a fucking time, right? worming into every wrinkle of his brain.

He's had to seek out new vices to distract himself from, well...everything going on in his head. He's been playing video games a bit more often. He's read a few more books. He's watched so many fucking videos of Shane Hollander on YouTube that he's completely fucked up his algorithm. He found a video of Shane at age 15 giving an awkward interview, like the microphone shoved in front of his face was a loaded gun. Shane's name doesn't even appear in the title, description, or tags of the video-- it's titled ottawa nov 17 06, has no description, and has only 270 views. He's never felt more creepy than he did in that moment while watching that video that YouTube recommended to him. 

Shut the fuck up marly, Ilya writes.

Am I wrong, Cliff sends.

Ilya considers his options. No you are not wrong but shut the fuck up anyways, he writes with complete honesty after a few moments of consideration.

Dont stay too long, the team thinks your dying 

Ilya thumbs up reacts to the message, and then, just to be an asshole, sends back: *you’re

Before Ilya puts his phone to sleep, he receives an email notification that reads You've received an e-card from Brad Hammersmith. Against his better judgement, Ilya opens it, and groans audibly when a Minion gif fills his screen. The minion stares at him mockingly as it throws its ass back in a circle in a rather impressive show of flexibility. Get well soon, Cap! Love, your team fills the rest of the card in bright blue bubble letters. 

He probably needs to return to them as soon as possible and regain control over these fucking clowns before they do something worse, like tell the media that Ilya can't stop shitting his guts out, or worse: plan some sort of team bonding exercise that will leave them broken, defeated, possibly dead, or in the mouths of netizens for the foreseeable future. Apparently while Ilya was stuck dealing with his own father's funeral, his teammates did some kind of DIY CrossFit retreat in Cliff's basement that resulted in Cadyn breaking four of his fucking toes. He didn’t ask for any more details.

Your e-card just gave me motion sickness, Ilya texts the Bears group chat.

HE LIVES! HE SPEAKS! Connors responds in record time, before sending a gif of a man screaming in excitement and waving his hands around. Ilya thumbs down reacts to it. 

That's not motion sickness dude that's salmonella, Carmichael says. Ilya also thumbs down reacts to it.

It's not delivery it's dijyourno, O'Reilly texts.

It's digiorno you dumbass, Carmichael responds. 

Ilya rolls his eyes and puts his phone away. Enough of that. He has more important things to focus on, like the slight headache that is beginning to pound behind his right eye. 

Shane is discharged late that same day, after several rounds of visits: Hayden Pike and his entire family (including Jade, who Ilya was embarrassed to learn from Yuna is a young child and not a grown woman hellbent on seducing Shane away from him), his teammate JJ Boiziau and one of the Voyageurs rookies who has taken to following Shane around like a lost duckling, and one representative from the Montreal Voyageurs management team who wanted to “check in” and find out how many games Shane will be missing. It’s exhausting, because each visitor has to be distracted by one of the Hollander parents while the other rushes to tell Ilya to run back to Dr. Nguyen’s office to hide. Each time, Shane pitches a minor fit and has to be reassured that Ilya will be back as soon as the other visitors are safely out of the hospital. 

Ilya isn’t around to see any of this, opting to nap every time he is exiled to the office, but apparently David and Yuna have to stick around and babysit each visit just to make sure Shane does not loudly complain to anyone about the fact that they’re cutting into his time he could be spending with Ilya. David lets him know that they had six separate close calls.

Once they are freed from the hospital, the Hollanders and Ilya decide to take Shane back to his Montreal apartment for a few days of recovery because he is not in good enough condition to handle a 2-hour drive along bumpy, frost heave-filled roads to his parents’ home in Ottawa. Ilya also suspects that there is an ulterior motive at play: Yuna and David seem to want Ilya to stay a few days, perhaps to observe him like he is part of an ant farm. Maybe they want to see how he acts around their son when their son isn't high or strapped to a hospital bed. Maybe they want to kill him in his sleep. No, he tells himself. He needs to stop that line of thought there. The Hollanders have been nothing but kind to him and yet here he is suspecting them of planning his murder. 

Regardless of the reason, they seem to be fully aware that Ilya will make a break for it if they take him to a second location. He’d make some sort of excuse to get out of the extra travel and end up on the first flight out of there, disappointing everyone involved, including himself. 

Montreal is a safe option for everyone. Ilya was here before Shane’s injury. He has been to Shane’s apartment. His team knows he is in Montreal. His team thinks that Jane is in Montreal. Ottawa is something scarier and more unknown (besides the Canadian Tire Centre rink, where Ilya goes to rub salt into the wounds of the league’s designated laughingstock team). 

So: they will stay in Montreal. 

Just to really make their position known, David and Yuna tell Shane that Ilya will stay with all of them for a few days. Ilya watches in horror as Shane’s face breaks out into a smile so pleased that it fills Ilya with equal parts adoration and terror. The way Shane asks Really? He will? With so much breathless wonder will probably haunt Ilya for the rest of his fucking life. It’s a brief attack on his fortitude– Shane seems to realize what his face is doing and schools his back into something muted and serious, but the damage has already been dealt. 

Well, Ilya can’t exactly say no after that. 

Yuna smirks at Ilya like she just beat him at a game he didn’t realize they were playing. 

Once they’re all piled into Shane’s apartment, Shane mostly returns to his normal self. His hospital high wears off and happy-high Shane is replaced with obviously-in-pain Shane, who is trying very hard to not appear like he is obviously-in-pain. Interestingly, Shane seems intent on ignoring the elephant in the room: Ilya’s newfound acquaintanceship with his parents.

Shane makes for a demanding patient when he is surviving off of ibuprofen instead of the real good painkillers. Normally, Shane spends his entire day active, filling his time with workouts, yoga, practice, traveling to and fro to photoshoots and other obligations, and on occasion, having marathon sex with Ilya when the opportunity presents itself. He never stays completely still for too long. Even when he is still, he occupies himself completely with reading on his phone or watching hockey games. Right now there is nothing in his routine he can do. He is banned from exercising. Yoga is out due to his collarbone. Every obligation outside of hockey was already postponed due to the ongoing hockey season, and even if he wanted to, he can’t exactly pose for photoshoots when he’s so banged up and bruised. He can't look at screens or even handle much light at all, much less camera flashes. He winces when someone talks or closes the refrigerator too loudly, which rules out most audio entertainment. In short: Shane is bored, antsy, and getting increasingly distressed.

Under normal circumstances, Ilya would distract him easily with blow jobs. It'd work perfectly. The issue is that he can't do that in front of Shane’s literal parents.

Shane, despite being banned from screens and loud audio, demands that he be allowed to watch hockey games. A compromise comes quickly: they’ll all watch together but keep the audio turned down low, and Shane is not allowed to actually look at the screen. His mother offers to narrate for him, but David shoots down the offer with a definitive “Honey, if you start talking during the game, you’ll end up screaming.” 

Ilya offers to narrate instead. Shane latches onto the offer readily.

They all settle in with Shane’s parents in Shane’s overstuffed armchairs while Ilya and Shane take over the couch (another demand Shane made, which none of them intend to talk about). As soon as Ilya settles in, Shane’s head lands in his lap. He dutifully keeps his eyes closed. Ilya, before he can stop himself, brings a hand to Shane’s hair and begins to run his fingers through it. A small smile plays on Shane’s lips in response to the touch as he releases a pleased exhale. 

Ilya has to look away. The sight makes something in his chest feel too tight, like someone has reached in and is squeezing his heart a little. Mostly by coincidence, Ilya looks towards Yuna. Yuna wears a complicated expression on her face that Ilya hopes he is reading correctly as relief as her gaze settles on her son’s relaxed form. 

“Who do you think will win tonight, Admirals or Guardians?” Shane asks softly. Ilya forces himself to look back down at Shane. 

“I am not sure about this game,” Ilya responds, voice low and softer than usual, aimed just at the man resting on his lap. “Admirals have been okay, but we are past the time of the year where Scott Hunter’s knees begin to fail, so there is strong chance they will need to end their season here and take him back to the nursing home to recover,” he begins. “Toronto forwards have been strong this season, but their defense is–”

There is the loud, unmistakable sound of the fake shutter click iPhones sometimes do when you take a photo.

“Oop, sorry, let me turn that off,” David says, lowering his cell phone (which was pointed directly at Shane and Ilya) slightly.

“What did you take a picture of, Dad?” Shane asks, eyes still dutifully closed.

“The two of you,” David says. “You look…cozy,” he continues, taking a moment to choose his final word. Ilya wonders what words he considered tacking on to the end of the sentence. Sleepy, maybe. Strange or funny, if David is still reeling at the sight of seeing his son cuddled up with his rival. Cute, if David is only talking about Shane. Shane is cute, but Ilya knows he is not.  Friendly, maybe. In love, his traitorous brain tells him, reminding him of the way he so stupidly ripped his own heart out and showed it to David two nights ago.

Shane hums. “Send it to me. I’ll look at it later,” he says. Ilya hopes he can intercept the photo and check to see how much love is pouring out of his eyes before Shane sees it. Maybe he can delete it in time if it’s too revealing.

“The Bears play a little later tonight. Do you want to watch that one too, Ilya?” Yuna asks. 

Ilya grimaces. “No,” he says honestly. “My commentary will be better for this game.” Shane makes a displeased noise. “I will yell too loudly at the television if I watch my circus monkeys perform badly without me.”

“We’re watching it later,” Shane orders. He’s the most demanding patient ever, Ilya thinks. Ilya will give him anything he wants. He kind of hopes that Shane understands this by the time Ilya leaves the safety of this bubble that is Shane’s apartment and returns back to regular life. He also really, really hopes Shane does not realize the full extent of Ilya’s willingness to give him anything he wants– it might scare him. It scares Ilya.

“Which team members are the circus monkeys?” Shane asks, slightly too quiet for his parents to hear.

“All of them,” Ilya responds seriously. “Okay, maybe no. Marlow is big bear in cage. Hammersmith is a donkey. Connors is…one of those weird water dogs that balance balls on their noses.”

“A seal?” Shane asks. 

“Yes, that,” Ilya nods. He has no fucking clue is that’s the correct English word. He does not care.

“What does that make you?” Shane asks, smile growing wider and mischievous.

“Warm ups are starting,” David interrupts, snapping them out of their conversation.

On the screen, players from the New York Admirals and Toronto Guardians spill onto the ice. 

“Ah, the local science museum is missing one of their fossils. The Admirals gave him a jersey,” Ilya begins his narration for the entire room, but mostly for Shane.

“What are you talking about?” David asks, confused.

“Scott Hunter,” Ilya and Shane respond at the same time. Yuna huffs out a laugh. 

“You know, I think this year is Scott Hunter’s year,” Yuna says conversationally.

“Here she goes again,” Shane groans from Ilya’s lap. “Mom, the Voyageurs still have a chance.”

“Not without you,” Yuna shakes your head. 

“I agree with Yuna, the Voyageurs are done for,” Ilya says. “But I want to remind you all that the Bears are having good season.”

“You know how I feel about how your team is doing this season,” Yuna says. Shane makes an interested, questioning noise. “This isn’t your year. Your coach has made sure of that.” Given that Shane broke up with Rose Landry and Grigori Rozanov left this mortal coil, Ilya would argue that this year is his year. It’s one of his best years yet.

“Yuna, I am offended that you would say this to me,” Ilya scoffs, playing up his offense.

“Hunter has been pulling it together,” Yuna continues, not feeding into the bit Ilya is obviously setting up for her. “He doesn't normally keep it going this far into the season…maybe something has changed for him.”

“Yes. They've started giving him organic prune juice at the nursing home. No more generic brand juice from concentrate for Scott Hunter,” Ilya nods.

“When did you learn all of those words,” Shane mumbles from Ilya’s lap.

“These are necessary words to know when you do community service for seniors,” Ilya says. “Which is what I am doing every time I face off with Hunter.”

The family falls into an easy routine as the game begins. Ilya narrates the game as quietly as he can, as Shane grunts and lets out little sarcastic quips with his eyes closed. Often, Yuna and David cut in with their own commentary; Yuna chips in frequently with her own opinions and predictions, and occasionally provides a more objective description of what is happening when Ilya starts trailing off into stupid tangents about the players. David chimes in less often, mostly focusing his attention on the goaltenders.

He’s absolutely fucking brutal on the goaltenders. Ilya almost feels bad for Eric Bennett.

As the game progresses Shane grows quiet and still, which keeps leading Ilya to believe the man has finally fallen asleep on his lap. He lets his own commentary trail off, partially to give himself a break, but also to spare Yuna and David his particular brand of commentating that seems to entertain Shane but usually pisses other people off. Each time, Ilya’s silence is interrupted by Shane (who is definitely still awake) asking questions about the game or demanding to know why Ilya has stopped his stream of commentary. 

One of these occasions happens during the first goal of the game. The audio gets a lot louder. David, in a panic, grabs the remote and quickly turns the volume down a few notches.

“What happened,” Shane asks, reminding everyone that he’s still awake. It startles Ilya.

“Toronto is committing elder abuse,” Ilya says.

“Kent scored,” Yuna clarifies. “Assist from Barrett. Clean work.”

“I don't like him,” Shane sniffs. 

Ilya chuckles. “They’re both annoying,” he agrees.

“No, no,” Shane says, brows furrowed. “Kent. He’s a…terrible guy. Always says dumb shit when I get near him. Refs don’t care.”

Yuna bristles. “Like what, Shane?”

“Don't wanna repeat it,” Shane says. “Ilya, can you–”

“Oh!” David exclaims. The volume is so low that Ilya can’t hear what is happening and has no idea what transpired in the few moments he tore his eyes from the screen to instead watch Shane. 

He looks up to see the players on the ice forming small huddles near the goal. David turns the volume up a few notches.

“Jalo tried to punch Kent,” Yuna says. “Not sure why.”

“Ha,” Shane says, smiling. “Nice.” 

“Wagner’s holding Jalo back. Barrett is approaching Vaughan,” Ilya narrates. “Hunter is trying to intervene, but he can’t find nice young person to help little old man cross the road and get there in time.”

“Barrett skates like he is heading towards his own execution,” David muses. “Would it kill the guy to have some fun?” 

“I want to watch,” Shane says. “Wanna see Barrett get punched.” Ilya briefly looks down and sees that Shane has cracked open one eye and is attempting to crane his neck just enough to see the screen– two things he is absolutely not allowed to do. 

“Eyes on me,” Ilya orders. Shane complies with an almost embarrassing quickness that makes Ilya’s dick– even more embarrassing– twitch in his sweatpants. Most horrifying of all, Shane seems to notice, based on his immediate mischievous smile and accompanying blush that colour his face. 

Ilya white-knuckle grips his own knee so hard it hurts. 

“It’s over, anyways,” Yuna says. “Fucking pussies,” she rolls her eyes. 

“Yuna,” David chastises at the same time Shane whines “Mom!” as if he wasn’t just as bloodthirsty 20 seconds ago.

“I know, I know. We don’t like fights,” Yuna groans. “But, come on, they’re fun to watch. Ilya, back me up on this. These two never let me enjoy a good hockey fight.”

“I don’t think I should get involved in this,” Ilya says.

“And here I thought I’d finally have an ally in the family.” Yuna says with a small laugh. “I feel betrayed,” she says with absolutely no betrayal in her voice. 

Ilya can feel Shane freeze and stiffen in his lap, and it's not at all the fun kind of stiffening up. It's the terror that accompanies a bad realization. Then, Ilya feels Shane lift his head off of his lap.

Shane grunts as he attempts to sit up, struggling to maneuver his own weight on his one good arm placed against the unstable surfaces of the soft couch and Ilya’s sweatpant-clad thigh. Even worse, Shane is trying to twist to face his parents as he hauls himself up. 

Ilya tries to hold him up, but there’s only so much he can do in their current position without enveloping Shane into a huge hug, which probably isn't a smart thing to do when Shane is already in pain and rapidly descending into a panic.

“What are you–” Ilya asks, alarmed and holding his hands up uselessly in an imitation of helping him. “Shane, don’t turn like that, your shoulder–” 

Shane does not pay him any attention.

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way,” Shane solemnly says to his parents, still attempting to twist himself to face them. His good arm shakes under the effort. Ilya places a hand against his side and tries to hold some of Shane’s weight. 

David mutes the television. On the screen, Scott Hunter trips and falls on the ice. The fact that Ilya can’t even bring himself to joke about such low-hanging fruit is a testament to how serious this situation is. 

“Find out about… what?” Yuna asks after a few moments of silence.

“Shane, seriously, lay down,” Ilya begs. Shane does not move, so Ilya opts to wrap his arms around him like he’s trying to become his scaffolding. 

“About…” Shane begins. “You know. This.” 

“This,” Yuna repeats. 

“Kiddo, you know we’ll support you in anything,” David interrupts. 

“And what is ‘this’?” Yuna asks.

“It’s…” Shane begins, then twists a little more in Ilya’s arms. Ilya winces in sympathy as Shane very obviously does something that hurts his collarbone but tries to brush it off. “Uhm.”

Nothing. Something. Everything. Complicated. New. Been going on forever. Will go on forever. Should be ended immediately. Ilya could write this list all day. He wonders what option Shane will choose. Selfishly, Ilya is too fucking terrified to hear what Shane will choose right now.

“Maybe we don’t have to talk about this yet,” Ilya suggests, letting his own cowardice win. “It’s too much, maybe, yes? Bad time?” He hopes no one catches on to the way he’s practically begging. 

Shane seems to think about this for a moment before nodding. It’s a small movement that is barely visible. Ilya notices, because he can’t stop himself from noticing every twitch of the muscle that happens in Shane’s body. 

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. “Another time.”

“Let’s just rest, okay?” Ilya says, partially to Shane, and partially to Shane’s parents. It’s a plea: Please don’t make us choose right now. It’ll kill me if Shane chooses the option I don’t want. It’ll kill me if he chooses the option I want. Let me just enjoy this moment while I have it. Ilya punctuates the request with a small push on Shane’s ribs, urging him to lay down again, or at least stop twisting himself into the world’s most injured pretzel.

“We’ll wait,” David nods. “However long you need. We’ll be ready to listen,” David says. Yuna looks like she isn’t totally on board with this plan, but nods slightly when she makes eye contact with Ilya. 

“Yes,” she agrees. 

Maybe to prove their alleged willingness to wait and learn what “this” is at a later time, both Hollander parents turn their attention back to the screen. 

“Admirals are sending out their token baby,” Following David and Yuna’s lead, Ilya picks up his narration for Shane, who is still settling back into his original position. 

“Gillis?” Shane asks.

“Yes, the toddler they have been assigned to babysit,” Ilya nods. “Who was born when Hunter had already hit his peak.”

“Ilya,” Shane whispers urgently. 

Ilya looks down in surprise and is met with Shane’s fiercely determined face. He’s seen this facial expression many times: during face offs, in quick half-second glimpses mid-game, in lamp-lit hotel rooms, and sometimes plastered across a magazine advertisement he grabs at the airport. Their current proximity and the low-volume game on the television makes him feel like he’s in an off-kilter, avant-garde version of a face off. ‘Shane,” he whispers back, lowering his head slightly to be closer to Shane (to hear him better, obviously. He has no ulterior motives here. None whatsoever, he tells himself). 

“When the Bears are kicked out of the playoffs,” Shane begins. Ilya lets out a quiet, offended hey! at the implication that his team isn’t going to win. Shane fixes him with an annoyed, scolding expression. “Seriously, when your season is over, I’m wondering…”

Scott Hunter scores. It’s a minor miracle. Ilya does not watch it, instead keeping his head low and his eyes focused on Shane. Beside them, Yuna and David talk about the goal, but Ilya doesn’t listen to them. 

Shane wets his lips and Ilya’s eyes trail the movement like a dog waiting for permission to have a treat. “I have a cottage. Near Ottawa,” Shane continues. “It’s private. No one around. We could…hang out,” he continues. “For a few weeks, just us. It’d be fun.”

Ilya blinks at him a few times. Shane is clearly waiting for a response. Ilya responds with silence. 

“Jalo is out of the penalty box,” David narrates. “Toronto’s not looking too happy.”

“Come to the cottage this summer,” Shane whispers. 

“Maybe,” Ilya whispers back. 

“See? I told you, this is Hunter’s year,” Yuna says. 

“Ilya,” Shane whispers again. He’s brought out the big, wet doe eyes again, which he seems to be struggling to hold completely open due to the harsh ceiling lights shining above them. Ilya’s fairly certain now that Shane is fully aware that his eyes can be classified as bioweapons— he wouldn’t be suffering through the too-bright light if he wasn’t completely dedicated to using them to their fullest extent against Ilya’s endurance. 

His eyes are fucking huge. Ilya can see his own crumbling expression in the reflection of Shane’s massive, dark irises.

God, he’s such a weak, weak man.

“Okay,” Ilya whispers. “I’m coming to the cottage.”

Shane finally takes mercy on him and closes his eyes again. 

In the end, Ilya only stays in Montreal for three days.

He could have squeezed out more if Cliff used the family emergency excuse, but no, he had to use fucking food poisoning instead. Cliff made a “miraculous recovery” within 24 hours and hustled to meet up with the rest of the team, so Ilya’s continued absence is beginning to stir up some drama both in the Boston Bears group chat and in voicemails he receives from the coaching team. 

Hammersmith has begun to tell the team that Ilya’s intestines are more fragile than anyone else’s on the team because there were no spices in the Soviet Union. None. Nada. Zilch. According to him, Russian digestive systems are functionally similar to those of babies under a year old, which is why Cliff recovered so quickly while Ilya is apparently wasting away in Montreal. Dubek expressed confusion because he thought Ilya was from Russia, not this USSR place. Koslov, who was born in South Carolina to Russian immigrants, is fighting for Ilya’s honour (“Roz has been in the US for years! We’ve watched him put tabasco on his eggs before” and “I’m pretty sure Roz wasn’t raised in the USSR, that’s like, way too old”) but also seems confused about whether or not the average Russian person is aware of black pepper and cumin (“I mean, my mom uses pepper, but idk if that’s normal?”). Carmichael suggests banning anything spicier than salt from team gatherings out of respect for their suffering captain. O'Reilly asks why they're talking about spice tolerance when Ilya has food poisoning, which are completely different things, but he is ignored. 

Connors sends a link to a recipe for herring under a fur coat with the caption @roz @koslov is this real????? to which Koslov responds hell yeah brother! Cliff points out that the recipe calls for pepper, but then the team starts making fun of how little it calls for. 

Johansson sends Ilya’s Wikipedia page in the group chat and points out that he, technically, was born in the USSR, which has since caused the chat to explode into a mix of confusion (“wait can roz get arrested for being a communist?”) and glee (“holy shit cap’s so old his home country went extinct. someone tell scott hunter. It’ll be funny as fuck”).

Ilya needs to get back to his fucking team before the situation gets worse.

Literally as he begins to type I am fine. Everyone shut the fuck up, Dubek sends a photo of Vladimir Lenin and asks @roz did you know him?

Ilya deletes his unsent message. Bag skates when I get back, Ilya sends instead. 

Can you even skate yet or will the ice be too spicy, Connors responds.

Oh dude you’re so fucking dead lol, Cliff @s Connors. 

Packing his bag to return to his normal life now somehow feels more somber than when he packed his bag after his father’s funeral. He left Moscow, possibly for the last time ever, feeling lighter than he’s ever felt. His loose ends were tied into neat little knots. He shed the deadweight of his belongings in Russia like a molting snake, leaving behind his apartment and other unwanted belongings in Alexei’s ungrateful hands. Holding a plane ticket to Boston felt like relief then. A little over a week later, he’s packing his bag and preparing his ticket to Boston and finally experiencing something he guiltily thinks he probably should have felt in Moscow: grief. 

Shane watches him silently as he packs.

“You’ll be back soon,” David says as he appears in the doorway. Ilya tries very hard to not appear visibly startled by the intrusion, nor visibly embarrassed by the fact that all of his stuff is in Shane’s personal bedroom. Ilya shared a bed with Shane last night, which is something David and Yuna have not commented on, and based on how things are going, might never comment on. Ilya tried to make a big show out of spreading a blanket on the couch before everyone went to sleep (given that Shane’s apartment only has one guest bedroom, which obviously should go to his parents, and therefore Ilya would naturally end up on the couch), but his plans were thwarted when Shane point-blank asked him what the fuck he was doing. His parents shared a long, silent look with each other before quietly wishing Shane and Ilya a good night. Shane then proceeded to drag Ilya to his own room, tutting and rolling his eyes like the idea of Ilya sleeping on the couch was the most ridiculous thing he had heard in his entire life.

Now, Yuna appears beside David in the doorway. “You’ll be back and we’ll all finally talk about this,” she adds.

“Mom,” Shane whines. 

Yuna ignores her son’s pleas. “At the very least we’ll figure out how to fix your agent situation,” she continues, rolling her eyes. “For now, I sent you an invitation to a Google Sheet where I’m listing out some potential sponsorship opportunities and concepts you can explore.”

Ilya does not know much about Yuna Hollander, but from what he does know, he knows that she wields sponsorship opportunities as a love language. Shane is completely showered in them in a way that most of their peers can only dream of. Part of it, of course, is Shane’s athletic prowess and frankly unfair looks, but Ilya suspects that a larger part is the sheer force of the tidal wave named Yuna Hollander. Now, apparently, she’s directed some of this attention to Ilya. No one has ever done this for him before…not any of his agents, not even his father. Is this what it feels like to have people legitimately give a shit about you? Because it kind of makes him feel like he can’t breathe.

“Moooom,” Shane continues to complain. 

“That is very kind of you, Yuna,” Ilya says seriously. “I will look at them.”

“I colour-coded it with the colours of the rainbow in correct order,” she says seriously. 

“Mom, oh my god,” Shane complains. 

“Did you know the original rainbow pride flag Gilbert Baker designed in 1978 included a pink stripe?” Yuna continues. “I read about that the other day. That’s why I used pink in the spreadsheet in addition to the other colours.”

Shane’s cheeks flame bright red. “Oh, my god. Mom. That’s so corny.” 

“I will look at special pride spreadsheet, thank you,” Ilya nods, choking up. 

Ilya returns to his team with functioning bowels and an immediate need to prove himself by consuming something flaming hot and spicy just to get them to shut the absolute fuck up about his allegedly weak constitution. This is why he finds himself adding drops of tabasco into a shot of fireball in the locker room before their home game against Philadelphia (“to wake me up a little,” Ilya says as his reasoning when half of his team begs him not to hurt himself). 

He chokes on it and spits some of it out. Carmichael cries laughing.

It’s all Cliff Marlow’s fault, really. He should have just told everyone that Jane had a family emergency.

As he nurses his (metaphorical) wounds (and by this, he means drinking some gatorade to wash down the unpleasant taste of fucking hot sauce and cinnamon), Ilya’s phone vibrates a few times. David has sent him a video. Ilya grabs his earbuds and phone and runs towards the bathroom for some privacy. 

“Guys, the fireball ran through him,” Connors mocks as Ilya rushes by. “Clear a path! Call a medic!” 

“His delicate organs!” Johansson cries.

Ilya just grunts instead of responding. Once he reaches a stall, Ilya pops in his earbuds and pulls up the video.

Shane is smiling and looking way better already.

“Good luck, llya!” he says to the camera. “You’ll need it.” Fucking dick. Ilya smiles helplessly.

Shane holds his gaze to the camera for a moment longer before flicking it upwards. Ilya assumes he’s looking at David. 

“Okay, dad, that’s all,” he says. 

“Oh, sure,” David says from behind the camera. The entire video shakes like David has poked the phone, and then suddenly the video is pointed towards the wood floor.

“Thanks for recording that, Dad,” Shane says, no longer in frame. “It sucks that I can’t text him myself.” Ilya can practically hear his pout.

“Ugh, the photo of Ilya Sportsnet keeps using doesn’t do him justice,” Yuna says, voice muffled probably due to her distance from the phone. “He’s way more handsome than that. Remind me that we’ve gotta fix that.”

“Cutest guy in the league,” Shane says.

“I’m pretty sure you hold that title, hun,” Yuna says. 

Shane’s voice is too muffled at times for Ilya to properly hear everything, but he’s pretty sure he’s listing positive attributes. He’s able to make out nicest, and hottest, and funniest, but not much else.

“There weren’t any other nice guys in Montreal, Shane?” David asks. 

There’s a pause. “There’s no one out there like Ilya, dad,” Shane says, as serious as can be. 

Suddenly, the phone jostles and David’s smirking face comes into frame, extremely close to the camera. 

“There ya go, son,” David whispers, and then the video ends.

Ilya can’t wait to go to the cottage.

Chapter End Notes

EDIT: I hear you all in the comments asking for another chapter ... I am considering it .....subscribe if you want more...

Idk if this chapter is funny but I PERSONALLY was cracking tf up imagining everyone refusing to address the elephant in the room (the situationship) and just postponing the conversation. Is that not just heated rivalrycore. Let’s all be weird and avoidant with mama y papa

 

I wanted to cram the mont royal cross in here but I just couldn’t make it work. All of these scenes are daytime scenes and i only ever noticed the cross at night when i lived in montreal. Womp womp 

 

Violent goalie turned pacifist and occasional stress smoker david hollander did not come to me consciously. I just started typing shit and he appeared. Idk. it felt right to me to have david have extremely conflicting feelings about hockey 

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

I am easily persuaded. It only took two people asking me to write The Conversation Addressing The Elephant In The Room for me to fold and crack open a fresh doc. Here's like 11k as a gift. I love you all

I listened to two songs on repeat while writing this chapter so I’m going to link them here in case anyone is interested! Fwiw I don’t speak Russian and cannot vouch for their relevance to the story I’ve written, I just like this album a lot, especially these songs lol:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dMInC0rfIlw
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uzw2unPnhtM

The few weeks between the strange, almost dream-like purgatory that was Ilya’s surprise stay in Montreal and the cottage blur.

Ilya doesn’t know what he and Shane are and what they are doing, but he knows that something is obviously different now. Shane’s parents know (kind of) about them…and the world didn’t end. For a brief moment, they were allowed to exist just as they are without consequences. Shane’s head could rest in Ilya’s lap without entire franchises threatening to rain hellfire on them. Ilya could eat dinner with Shane’s parents without a million strangers having an opinion on it. Ilya could mushily and openly smile at Shane and receive the same in return without having to wonder if he was actively causing an international incident by doing so. 

Lately, he feels lost at sea but in a good way. He is comfortable in a nice blow-up floatie as the afternoon sun lovingly caresses him. He knows that there is a very large possibility that he is headed towards his own doom in the open water– be it a freak shark attack, a lightning strike, starvation, or simply dying of exposure. Until then, he’s comfortable letting the warm water lap against his feet as he drifts away. Maybe he can stay like this forever, coasting on the simple pleasure of being able to stay in Shane’s orbit without having to confront what staying in it will mean for the rest of his life.

For now, he merely exists. He plays hockey. He goes out with his team sometimes. He tries not to be too smug when the Voyageurs’ season ends in a whimper. He tries not to think about the summer too much. He holds on to his cellphone like it’s the only thing still tethering him to land.

Shane gets his own phone back exactly a week after his concussion. Having Shane wait an entire week is a bit excessive, but the Hollanders all seem to err on the side of caution, even if Yuna seems confused by Shane’s stubborn insistence that he is fine and can be trusted with complete unrestricted access to his phone. On day seven, Shane and his parents compromise: Shane can have his phone back, but he and anyone he texts (the implication: Ilya. To a significantly lesser extent: Hayden Pike. Ugh) should try to use voice notes as often as they can to lessen the strain on Shane’s eyes. This compromise lasts all of three days and ends not with the expected whimper of the Hollander's giving up on monitoring their stubborn son, but with a horrifying, deeply embarrassing bang. 

It's another one of Ilya’s fuckups that he tosses onto the top of his mountain of fuckups. Poor Shane will need hiking boots if he ever decides to climb its slope– the good news is that Shane seems to enjoy hiking. The bad news is that if he hikes the mountain of fuckups, he will become intimately familiar with the stones, soil, and trees that make it up. Ilya doesn’t really want Shane to become that acquainted with his long history of fuckups.

Today’s new rock tossed into fuckup mountain began as a simple voice note conversation about how the Boston Bears played their recent game against Carolina. Ilya loathes to admit that it was kind of a shit show, but…it was kind of a shit show. The Bears managed to eke out a win of 2-1 after a shockingly grueling game none of them expected to struggle through. Ilya is beginning to begrudgingly admit that Yuna had some points about their goaltending this season, as well as whatever the fuck spell St-Simon seems to be under that makes him incapable of seeing farther than the tip of his nose. Ilya left the game not feeling accomplished, but rather deeply confused about Coach LeClaire’s recent choices.

Perhaps it isn’t just strange decisions coming from their coaching team, but also the extra pressure Ilya is putting on the team since he returned from Montreal is causing them to fall apart at the seams. Even the most reliable facets of the team, such as Cliff and Carmichael, seem slightly worse for wear. 

Ilya’s ribs are starting to hurt like fucking hell. 

Shane, in a number of smug voice notes, keeps hinting that Ilya will probably be finished with his season by the end of May, not June. In a slip of judgement, Ilya lets the demons in his brain come out and make his real thoughts known: You keep saying my playoff run is almost over, but I know this is just wishful thinking. You just want me at your cottage sooner so I can fuck you stupid, he croons into his phone speaker.

Shane calls him barely 20 seconds later. Ilya’s heart skips a beat. He fucking loves when Shane wants to have phone sex with him. He gets so eager, and it's been a while since they've been able to do it due to the sheer amount of hovering Shane’s parents have been doing. Ilya isn't sure how they have the time to helicopter around him as much as they do– don't they have jobs? Shane mentioned in passing in a voice note just two days ago that his dad left to go to the office. As for Yuna, well, Ilya has no fucking idea.

“I am going to fucking kill you,” Shane says in lieu of a greeting as soon as the call connects. Ilya just barely squashes down the urge to let out a yippee! in response. He fucking loves when Shane gets a little mean. If he has to die young he might as well die by Shane’s hands. He would probably die a little hard, equal parts excited and scared watching Shane’s fury finally culminate into something Ilya thinks he deserves. It’s fitting. It would make Svetlana laugh as she did his eulogy. Maybe if his death is funny in a karmic punishment kind of way it’ll lessen the blow on her.

Because Ilya has a reputation to uphold, he does not say yippee. He says “Oh? Tell me more.”

“My mom heard that,” Shane spits out. 

Oh. “Oh,” Ilya says, immediately deflated, like the brief moment he thought Shane was initiating a kind of mean-spirited sex call filled him to the brim with glee and then someone stabbed him and let it all out in a huge gust of air. “Mrs. Hollander, I am so sorry,” Ilya says, because he may be embarrassing, but he isn’t completely mannerless.

Yuna scoffs. “Do not ‘Mrs. Hollander’ me right after I’ve heard you say filth to my baby,” she snarks. Ilya, thank god, can tell that she’s stifling a laugh.

Shane grumbles something mostly inaudible through the phone, and Yuna finally lets out the snorting laugh she was just trying to contain. 

Ilya is alone in a hotel bed in Seattle and he can’t fucking sleep.

The bed is objectively comfortable and unoffensive, but tonight something about the scratchiness of constantly-washed polyester sheets on a mattress soaked in hundreds of evenings-worth of bodily fluids and spilled wine just isn’t enough to lull him to sleep. The pillow is perfectly cool and cradles his head perfectly, and yet his neck aches with the need to move it around. His right knee aches. The pitter-patter of rain hitting his window is soothing in the same way those weird videos of people tapping long fingernails against glass jars that Carmichael is obsessed with is…but still, it does not help. 

The art hung on the walls of this room is fucking atrocious. There are three abstract paintings that are probably meant to represent the mountains and pine trees surrounding the city, but the mountains kind of look like jagged, ripped paper and the trees look like erect dicks. The plaster ceiling covered in weird semi-circle patterns is far more interesting to look at.

Shane has already drifted off to sleep, which Ilya can't fault him for– Shane is a solid three hours ahead of Ilya right now, and his brain needs him to get plenty of rest– but Ilya guiltily feels pangs of frustration nonetheless. If only he could talk to Shane right now. Shane could drone on about some hockey game from 1982 he watched on fucking VHS (because that’s apparently something the Hollanders do– his family owns a collection of rapidly-degrading VHS tapes they gather from thrift stores and eBay of old taped games and watch them together in the big year of 2017– David Hollander even has a digitization guy he goes to in downtown Ottawa to get the videos ripped and preserved on DVDs in order to thwart the passage of time– Ilya finds this to be completely batshit insane, but what does he know about functional family dynamics? Who is he to shame the Hollanders for their multiple bookshelves of old tapes?) and bore Ilya to sleep. Maybe he could convince Shane to put those delicious glasses back on and Ilya could crank out a fast one, relieving the buzzing under his skin just enough to finally pass out. 

Alas, Shane is asleep at a reasonable hour because he is a reasonable, boring, injured person, and now Ilya has to lay wide awake and alone with his own thoughts on his gross mattress in a room full of abstract penis trees.

Being left along with his own thoughts is often a dangerous thing.

Shane hasn't told him about anything he has told his parents about them or even about that spectacular fuck-up that was Ilya’s asteroid-crash into their lives in Montreal. Ilya asked four days ago, as casually as he could manage without veering into either flippant or frustrated territories, and Shane’s response was…lackluster. They know what they've seen and heard from us, he said. My mom promised to not pry until we can all talk together, don't worry. 

Then he changed the subject.

…Which means nothing but also everything. Like, seriously, what does that mean? And who is Shane Hollander, of all people, to tell him not to worry? Shane’s parents have seen a lot. They've heard a fucking lot. They probably know as much as Ilya does by this point: Ilya and Shane have the general shape of a relationship, but none of the certainty of it. Their connection is some sort of science experiment homunculus formed by combining aspects of a committed, long-term relationship with aspects of a crush. Devotion mixed with frivolity doesn't make for a stable, long-term solution. 

Ilya’s been craving stability for quite some time now. Perhaps he’s always craved it in some way despite drowning that desire in something a recent sports gossip columnist described as “excessive and gross displays of indulgence.” Ilya can agree with the excessive indulgence part of that, to an extent: the cars are indulgences, the parties are indulgences, the sex is indulgence. Ilya loves indulging; he spent too much of his childhood wrapped up in the cloudiness of sadness and endless grief to not take advantage of joy the second the world offers it to him. The indulgences felt nice. They feel nice. The issue is that they’re fleeting, like almost everything in Ilya’s life: his family was fleeting. His career has an already-early expiration date when compared to other career choices, that could be fast-tracked anytime the universe decides so. The cigarettes, alcohol, and all the other substances he’s pumped into his body: all fleeting.

Shane’s attention is fleeting.

Maybe what he wants out of Shane is even more indulgence– Ilya can no longer be satiated by a simple fuck. The greed that courses through his veins demands a larger sacrifice. Somewhere along the way, the greed for anything and everything Shane gave him got swept up in his blood and made its way into his heart, and now he’s all sorts of fucked up about it. Indulgence is not stability. He can enjoy sex as much as he wants, but the joy he derives from it will always be undercut by sheer want of more, more, more. He wants permanence. He wants forever. He wants the promise of a future that can maybe fix whatever the fuck is wrong with him.

A few years ago, then-rookie St-Simon changed his Facebook relationship status from “single” to “it's complicated.” The declaration appeared in everyone’s feeds and kicked off one of the funniest three days of practice Ilya has ever had with the Bears. Back then, everyone delighted in poking at the poor guy’s plight until their coach banned the word “complicated” from the rink entirely. Missed pass? Oh, it's complicated. Scrimmage? Dividing the team will be complicated. Sorry, coach, I can't do that drill today. It's complicated. My plans for tonight? You could say they’re complicated. No one could believe that St-Simon’s relationship status could truly be complicated, much less that he needed to declare it that way. Complicated is just a fancy way to say single but embarrassed about it, some said. Complicated is for high schoolers. Be a man and fix your shit. 

Ilya thought it was rip-roaringly funny back then. He declared just about everything complicated at that time and watched in glee as his team either groaned or stifled chuckles. Now, he doesn't think it's funny at all. Shit is fucking complicated. 

Staring at the plaster ceiling above him, Ilya takes stock of what the Hollanders know:

Yuna Hollander knows that Ilya randomly appeared outside of the hospital and somehow managed to convince her husband to let him in, like he is the matted, ugly stray dog in fucking Because of Winn-Dixie. Yuna knows that Shane and Ilya are close. She knows they’re close enough, in fact, for Shane to allow medical professionals to pull up Ilya’s name and contact information under his own medical file. Yuna knows that Ilya was so fucking desperate to see Shane after the injury that it drove him halfway to insanity. Yuna knows that a heavily concussed and medicated Shane begged for Ilya to anyone and everyone who stepped foot in his room. Yuna knows that they cuddle and sleep in the same bed. Yuna has seen Shane make adorable grabby hands in Ilya’s direction that can only be satisfied by getting handfuls of Ilya’s flesh in them. Yuna has heard Shane make grand declarations about Ilya’s apparent niceness and cuteness.

Yuna knows that they fuck.

David…David is worse. David knows all of this in addition to Ilya’s deepest fears. David knows more than Shane in this regard. 

Shane has seemed really, freakishly, uncharacteristically calm about all of this, which is beginning to make Ilya wonder if maybe he shifted into an alternate universe on the airplane somewhere between Boston and Moscow. For years, one of Shane’s biggest fears was people finding out about them. Now his parents have found out about them, and he’s taking it all in stride? 

Ilya has to be missing a puzzle piece here, and he’s too fucking tired to go looking for it. It probably, like, blends into the carpet (brown-toned and patterned specifically so stains stay invisible and the carpet stays visually acceptable for longer) and doesn't have any distinguishing marks. 

He checks his phone instead. 

Dude do you wanna do something 2night? Cliff texted Ilya 20 minutes ago.

Come on man don't tell me you’re fucking sleeping, Cliff texted 12 minutes ago.

If you're having phone sex with Jane will you at least introduce me, Cliff texted 4 minutes ago.

Cliff is a good enough distraction. At least if Ilya is with Cliff, he won’t have to stay alone with his thoughts. Cliff is often like a stupidity balm applied directly to Ilya’s forehead.

Come to the bar with me, Ilya texts Cliff.

FUCK YES, Cliff responds almost immediately. 

Ilya emerges from his bed, spares a quick glance at one of the dick tree paintings, and throws on a soft, old, and kind of ratty Boston Bears sweatshirt that has faded into a dark grey over the years. He tugs the fraying cuffs over his wrists and briefly wonders if it’s time to finally let this one go. It was a gift from Coach LeClaire a few months into his rookie year– his coach threw it directly at his head while grumbling about Ilya’s wide v-neck shirts being too revealing for the rapidly cooling autumn weather, and that the team owner would put his head on a spike if their new star recruit caught pneumonia because he couldn’t keep his tits inside of his shirt. 

Back then, it was pure black and a little stiff from coming straight from the shelf. Ilya knows he won’t actually get rid of the sweatshirt, at least not anytime soon. He’s not in the mental place to get rid of anything attached to a good memory. 

“Oof, it’s raining cats and dogs out there,” Cliff says conversationally in the shitty hotel bar, gesturing towards a window with his hand that is also holding a shitty beer. He has a Rainier beer in a moist, sweating can that can’t stop dribbling on the bar counter. The paper coaster beneath it barely stood a chance and now is withering away in a sopping wet puddle. Everything in Seattle is fucking wet and grey, even their beer, with its moist, grey can and the word ‘rain’ literally crammed into the name. 

Ilya has no fucking clue why cats and dogs are being drawn into this mess. 

“I need you to speak English like a normal person, Marly,” Ilya grumbles. 

“It means it’s raining a lot,” Cliff explains. 

“You used extra words to say something you easily said with less,” Ilya counters. 

“Man,” Cliff drawls. “You’ve been no fucking fun lately. No clubs or fun bars. Bitching about words. We could be out right now with a rented fuckin’ Ferrari or some shit and club hopping.”

“It is Tuesday,” Ilya says flatly. “In fucking Seattle.”

“And that attitude! Jesus, you’ve always been rough around the edges,” another stupid fucking saying that Cliff just loves to use, “but lately it’s like you’re on your fuckin’ period or something. I thought maybe you’d lighten up a little if you got some alcohol in you, but…”

Ilya swirls around his bottle of Corona. “This shit is like water,” he counters. “And maybe, have you considered, that maybe I am not so fun lately because my fucking dad died?”

Cliff pauses and seems to actually consider this for a moment. 

“I dunno, man. You seemed pretty fine when you came back from the funeral. You were all sunshine and rainbows like two days ago.” Ilya was all sunshine and rainbows because Shane managed to get away from his parents long enough to send Ilya an unsolicited dick pic, which is something he hardly ever does. Ilya can count on one hand the number of dick pics he’s gotten out of Shane. Ilya was sitting in the locker room absolutely fucking ecstatic to be looking at a dimly-lit thumbnail of a penis nestled in his camera roll. Cliff may never know how astute the ‘rainbows’ portion of that observation is. “It’s like you’re spinning a wheel to decide if we get happy or angry Roz each day,” Cliff continues. 

“Grief isn’t linear,” Ilya says. 

“I need you to speak English like a normal person, Roz,” Cliff says. 

“Middle school was hard for you, was it?” Ilya asks. 

“Listen, man, I’m here for you if you need it. The team is too,” Cliff continues, not taking the bait Ilya laid out for him. “Maybe not everyone. Don’t ask Connors for emotional advice. But you know what I mean.” 

Ilya just nods and looks away. The two men fall into a semi-comfortable silence, both staring straight ahead. Ilya’s eyes land on a set of ugly, plastic hanging lamps probably designed to emulate something much more expensive. They probably were trying to go for an art deco kind of vibe with this place, he thinks. It’s very Gatsby meets Ikea. He wonders if the people who designed the place ever imagined two MLH players sitting in the stools drinking watery beer when they drafted the designs. 

Probably not. 

“Soooo,” Cliff continues. “How’s Jane?”

Ilya just sighs. It comes out louder than he expected it to.

“You’ve got a lot going on, huh?” Cliff asks, taking a sip of his beer. 

Outside, the rain comes down harder. 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “I do.”

“Sooo…what are your thoughts on the whole meeting Jane during phone sex time?” Cliff plows forward, because there is something fucking wrong with him.

“No,” Ilya says, shaking his head. “Absolutely not.”

Cliff rolls his eyes. “You're fuckin’ stingy, man.”

“Get your own hot girlfriend,” Ilya grimaces. 

“What, you nervous I'm gonna steal her away?” Cliff raises his eyebrows.

God, what a scenario that would be. Ilya’s life may be a train wreck of unfortunate situations piled onto each other like layers of a cake from a Facebook Marketplace small business operating without a food license, but at least he never has to worry about Cliff Marlow stealing Shane Hollander from him. Even in a world where Cliff somehow miraculously develops a taste for men, Ilya sincerely doubts Shane would be willing to touch the privates of a man who regularly abuses them with dairy products. The closest Ilya has ever heard Shane get to even complimenting Cliff was a quick “his edges are alright, I guess,” in a voice message after the Bears played Tampa the other day. This isn't even to mention the fact that Cliff recently called body wash “kinda faggy.” 

“You should focus on stealing more fucking pucks,” Ilya groans. 

Cliff’s phone lights up as a notification rolls in, which distracts Cliff enough to ignore Ilya’s snippy comment about his playing. Cliff’s been playing great, actually. He had two assists during tonight’s game. 

Ilya checks his own phone mostly to have something to do besides staring at the janky lamps in front of him or making weird eye contact with the other losers at a hotel bar at 11:52PM on a Tuesday.

He is greeted by a message waiting for him from David Hollander. Ilya makes a mental note to wonder why the fuck David Hollander is awake and on his phone near 2AM at a later date. Where’d he get this from? It reads. Underneath it is a photo of Shane passed out on his bed while mouth is open in a snore. The focus of the photo, however, isn’t on Shane’s face. The focus, or at least the part that Ilya’s brain immediately latches onto, is the fact that Shane’s wearing a fucking Boston Red Sox t-shirt. 

That’s Ilya’s t-shirt. The little thief stole it straight from his bag! He thought he was going crazy when he got back to Boston and couldn’t find it amongst the rest of his wadded-up clothes in his duffel bag.

Ilya feels like his heart is going to explode out of his fucking chest. Shane stole his fucking t-shirt and is just wearing it around at home with his parents. He’s sleeping in it!

“Hand over the fucking phone, man,” Cliff orders, snapping Ilya back to reality. “I wanna see the crazy shit Jane just sent you.”

“It is not something Jane sent me,” Ilya snaps. Nice save, you fucking idiot, he thinks to himself. Totally not suspicious. He should have said something about how he doesn't share or that Jane only likes good hockey players or maybe that Cliff should be less fucking weird about women.

“You’re staring at your phone like you want to eat it,” Cliff says, rolling his eyes. “Obviously I know you're talking to Jane.”

Ilya gives up. “I am talking to her dad,” he says. 

“You wanna eat her dad?” Cliff asks, looking absolutely baffled. “Something you wanna tell me? This a whole family affair? Are you sexting her mom too?”

“No I don't want to eat her fucking dad or sext her mom, you porn-brained dumbfuck,” Ilya groans. “He sent me update on Jane.”

Cliff considers this for a moment. “Right, yeah.” He nods. “So, when you met Jane’s parents,” Cliff continues. Ilya braces for what is definitely going to be something fucking stupid, like another weird incestuous porn scenario. “Was that, like, weird for you?”

Okay, so that is not a stupid thing to ask. It’s reasonable enough. “Yes,” he says honestly. “But good weird, I think. It went well.” It went far better than he could have ever hoped, even if it was one of the most stressful evenings of his entire life. 

Cliff looks kind of flabbergasted by this. “And they like you enough to just…text you?” 

Ilya nods. “I think so, yes. They text a lot.”

Ilya has been added to a group chat with Shane’s parents titled “#1, #2, and #4,” referencing their positions on Shane’s extraordinarily long emergency contact list. Ilya tried to change it a few times, citing his disdain for the fact that Hayden fucking Pike holds position #3, but David keeps changing it back (and sending a smiley face emoji each time he does it). It’s not the most active chat in Ilya’s phone, but it’s far more active than he ever expected a chat with Shane Hollander’s parents to be. 

That is to say, he could have never even imagined being in a fucking groupchat with Shane Hollander’s parents, not even in his weirdest dreams. 

David dumps random, often blurry Shane photos and links to clickbait-titled articles he thinks are interesting. Yuna voices her strong opinions on the way the Bears are playing, and occasionally, her opinions on other teams. 

Ilya kind of wants to save every message she sends complaining about Hayden Pike’s skills into a little note for safekeeping, just to refer to when he’s feeling a little down. It’s like cocaine. I can’t say this in front of Shane because he will just tell me to be nicer to his friend but seriously if I have to watch Hayden wobble like a fucking baby deer I’m going to get him traded myself. It’s goosebump-inducing stuff. He treasures each one.

Ilya asks for updates on Shane because Shane chronically undersells exactly how bad his symptoms are. A “I’m good, I promise. My head doesn’t even hurt anymore,” from Shane gets expanded on by David, who tells Ilya that Shane currently has an ice pack on his forehead.

“Dude you’re like…fucking domesticated. That’s crazy,” Cliff says in wonder.

Hammersmith plops down in the stool next to Ilya. Ilya jumps a little in surprise.

“What’s this about domestication?” Hammersmith asks, before trying to wave down the bartender. The bartender shoots them all an exasperated look because Ilya’s pretty sure he’s busy trying to hit on the corporate-looking type of middle-aged woman sitting alone at the other end of the bar. She’s probably from that convention on ethical business strategies or whatever that’s happening in the hotel. Ilya saw a few signs for it earlier in the evening. O’Reilly read one of the signs out loud and couldn’t sound out ‘ethical.’

“We’re talking about how down bad Roz is for his girlfriend,” Cliff says. 

“Does your girlfriend know that you can only eat sour cream and mashed potatoes because of your tragic family history?” Hammersmith asks. 

“I hate it here,” Ilya says.

As Shane predicted, the season ends for Boston near the end of May. 

“My mom wants you to know that she predicted this,” Shane says over the phone.

“Believe me,” Ilya groans, starfished over his bed with an ice pack pressed against his side. His fucking ribs keep twinging in pain. “I know all about your mother’s complaints about my team. She won't stop telling me.” 

“What?” Shane asks. He sounds legitimately shocked by this. “How?”

“You do not know about the group chat?

“Group chat?” Shane yells. “What fucking group chat?”

“So you do not know about the group chat,” Ilya sighs. Another fuckup to add to fuckup mountain, perhaps. At least with this one, Yuna and David can shoulder part of the blame while Ilya ices his bruised body. 

The New York Admirals win the cup fair and square. The old men, against all odds, have moves. Ilya wonders how loud the creaking in Eric Bennett’s joints was each time he lowered himself into a near-split. Next time this team plays, they should mic him up so the broadcast can pick the sound up. 

The cameras cut wildly, seemingly hellbent on showing viewers the full breadth of the celebration on the ice. The camera shows Gillis showing off his repertoire of celebratory dance moves, which seemingly start and end with a rather poor rendition of The Floss. The next few seconds show fans covered in bright red jerseys and hats, who are all beginning to have their skin turn red from the sheer force of their screams. Vaughan seems to be locked in a fierce debate with his television star girlfriend, who teeters at the rinkside looking like she doesn’t trust that her ankles will survive if she connects her (tasteful, albeit a little understated for Ilya’s tastes) high heels with the ice.

Svetlana, sitting on the couch beside Ilya, keeps yelling at the broadcast to turn the camera back to Matti Jalo so she can objectify him harder. She’s been going on about him all evening, commentary about Jalo’s impressive skills and defined chin, for some fucking reason, nestled in between her regular in-depth commentary about the actual fucking game. It was incessant to the extent that Ilya is beginning to suspect that this is some sort of roundabout way to ask him to give her Jalo’s phone number. He doesn’t know why she’s bothering with this when she knows that she just has to ask. He also knows that she is well aware that he’ll make fun of her for months if she does ask. Matti Jalo? Yikes. 

The camera cuts to where Jalo is doing nothing of note besides whooping and hollering. Svetlana goes fucking nuts. This has to be a fucking bit, he thinks. There’s no way she’s being serious. Maybe she’s trying to distract him from thinking too hard.

The camera cuts to Scott Hunter slowly drifting towards the boards. Ilya’s phone buzzes almost immediately. 

Someone needs to come get Grandpa. He’s lost, Shane texts him. Ilya has to bite down on his bottom lip to stop himself from making a really fucking embarassing sound in Svetlana’s presence. Listen, it’s not every day that Shane joins in on dogpiling Scott Hunter. This is a rare and beautiful occurrence, like watching a butterfly hatch out of its cocoon. 

He suspects that the stream Shane is watching is just a touch faster than his own, because he has managed to comment on aspects of the games via text message the literal moment Ilya sees them happen. It feels closer to live commentary than a normal text exchange usually would.

What is he doing? Shane texts. 

Ilya looks up and sees Scott Hunter trying to encourage someone to come down the stairs towards the ice. 

I don’t know. Looking for new personal support worker? Ilya texts back. 

The camera holds on Scott. It seems the camera operator is just as interested in figuring out what the captain of the Admirals is doing as Ilya is. A young, fairly attractive man tentatively makes his way down the stairs and, with some encouragement, steps onto the ice.

Svetlana hums next to him, temporarily dropping her demands to see more Jalo.

Gillis drifts into the footage, far behind Scott Hunter and the mystery man. Gillis has begun to whip and nae-nae. For a brief moment, the camera looks like it is considering focusing on Gillis’ tragic dance moves, and then–

Scott Hunter and the mystery man are kissing. The camera immediately stops in place and holds there. 

The first thing Ilya thinks is: Scott Hunter is a cradle robber. 

The second thing he thinks is: Holy fucking shit oh my god holy fuck holy fucking fuck.

“--ya, oh my fucking god, Ilya,” Svetlana is talking to him. Ilya snaps back to reality. “Did you just fucking black out?” she asks, sounding half annoyed and half concerned. 

“No,” Ilya quips. 

Svetlana snorts and clearly does not believe him at all. “Glad you’re back. Jane’s blowing up your phone.”

Ilya looks down at his phone and sees that his home screen is full of notifications from Jane. It buzzes as more pour in. 

“Go fucking call him,” Svetlana says. 

Ilya begins to nod before stopping himself dead in his tracks. She said 'he.' She knows Jane is a man. “How did you–” he begins.

“I’ve known you since you still wet the fucking bed, do not piss me off, Ilyushka,” Svetlana interrupts, rolling her eyes. “Go call your man. I’ll be here waiting for them to show mine again.” 

Then, she groans and lets the back of her head thunk against the back of the couch. “They’re showing Gillis doing that stupid dance again. I fucking hate this channel. At least show me the kissing men if you won't give me Jalo.” 

Ilya’s plane clumsily kisses the runway of Ottawa airport and Ilya nearly has a fucking heart attack. The contents of his stomach crawl up his throat as the plane jostles. Behind him, someone claps. It startles him.

Fuck, he’s here, and Shane’s probably waiting for him in the parking lot in some kind of ugly, practical car. He’s probably working himself up into a frenzy every time someone walks in front of that ugly, practical car. 

Ilya is simultaneously more excited than he has been in years, and absolutely fucking terrified.

Ilya is flying first class on this plane, but the small size of it makes him feel like a sardine crammed into a tin anyways. The briefness of the flight turns what usually feels like a massive canyon of distance between himself in Boston and Shane over in Ottawa into a brief jaunt. The fact that barely any time passed between him boarding in Boston and landing on Ottawa’s tarmac makes his constant whining and complaining about the kilometers between them feel…ridiculous.

He knows that, reasonably speaking, the distance between them is real. Bridging the distance requires blowing hundreds of dollars for the opportunity to get his passport scrutinized at an international border crossing, a ton of planning, and the small sacrifice of cramming oneself into a large human sardine tin. Regardless, he still takes comfort in the new feeling that maybe it’s not so much after all. Maybe there isn’t a gulf between them. Maybe this is all far more doable than they’ve made it out to be for so long. There are, of course, more hurdles for them to concern themselves with, but maybe distance isn’t the most insurmountable one. 

The plane ride to Ottawa is easy enough, but the drive to Montreal could be even easier. Airports mean extra security, scrutiny, and more people as potential witnesses. A car ride is comparatively private. Boston to Montreal is only about a 5 hour drive. He could manage this. He could sacrifice several hours of sleep or frivolous outings with people in Boston in favour of driving straight through weird places like New Hampshire and Vermont if it means seeing Shane more often. They could take turns making the trek. It’s fine. He can manage this, just like he can manage getting off of this fucking tin can miniature plane and into what he hopes is a positive outcome for the rest of his life. 

Ilya spent the flight smushed up against his neighbour, an elderly woman who spent her time in the air reading elf pornography in huge font on her Kindle. There was no recognition in her eyes when he sat down next to her and apologized for the fact that his biceps were encroaching on her space. She just shrugged and told him that it isn’t really his fault, and then ignored him in favour of pointed-ear men with dubious conceptions of consent. Ilya, intent on being a good neighbour, spent the flight listening to music (more specifically Cupcakke’s Deepthroat on repeat for the entire duration of the flight, because listening to literally anything else made his thoughts spiral in different directions. Only Elizabeth Eden Harris could control and balance his mental state while he whizzed through the air towards his destiny, whatever that may be), trying to keep his limbs contained to his allotted box of a seat, and trying to not read the book over the nice woman’s shoulder. It's hard to resist because the font is so large, it's like reading a billboard sign. 

He’s never seen some of these words in these specific orders. 

Once the plane is safely parked and still (and Ilya finally removes his earbuds), the flight attendants signal to the stir-crazy passengers that they can finally stand up. Ilya winces as he pulls his carry-on suitcase from the overhead compartment, and despite the throbbing in his ribs, makes sure he pulls down the suitcase of the elderly lady who is obsessed with young skinny elf men. 

Within the comfortable, warm walls of the cottage, Shane and Ilya say ‘I love you’-- in English this time, so they’re finally on the same page. Ilya forces himself to stop hiding behind words Shane can’t understand. They agree to stop hiding from each other in general. Most importantly, they begin to plan a future together. 

Distance, it seems, will always be a shadow looming over them, but Ilya is really beginning to think that they can manage it. Boston to Ottawa is not far. Boston to Montreal is even less far. Ottawa to Montreal is practically nothing in comparison. 

They don’t talk about Shane’s parents or what happened in Montreal. 

Feeling…something stupid (maybe elated, maybe drunk on happiness), Ilya snaps a photo of the eight burgers Shane made for them alongside a bagged mix salad and sends the picture to his team. He’s got big plans to go crazy on at least four of those burgers. He’s not so sure about that bagged salad.

He hasn’t really given his team any signs of life since they were booted out of the playoffs. He usually sends them something once per month during the summer to stop them from commenting on his tendency to drop off of the face of the earth each year. This, a pile of burgers set in front of a lake sunset backdrop, seems good enough. It’s nondescript and idyllic enough to not invite questions or prodding– in short, it’s boring.

Looks good, cap, Johansson replies fairly fast. 

Careful with that big dawg it looks like there might be some flavor on those, Connors sends. 

Is that arugula? Can your intestines handle all of that pure heat? Hammersmith asks. 

Ilya regrets sending them a sign of life. He should have sent them a fake obituary or something. Half of them could probably be convinced that Ilya was communicating with them from beyond the grave. Knowing the Boston Bears coaching team, they’d probably send out a ouija board as their first line center if they were convinced Ilya was controlling it from the void. It’d be better than sending out Connors.

I am going to make sure you are all traded before July 1 so we can afford better players, Ilya texts his team.

Like who lmao?? Hammersmith asks. 

Small child from OHL maybe, Ilya replies.  A roomba with a stick taped to it. It will be a big day for the robot community when the Bears draft it in the 2nd round. A haunted victorian doll I buy off of ebay. Marlow’s mom

What time is it even in Russia right now?? Are you eating burgers for breakfast? I thought you’d be eating sour cream straight from the tub for breakfast or something, Carmichael asks. 

what tf you know about the OHL dude, Connors asks.

My mom could whip your ass on the ice, Cliff writes.

I want Cliff’s mom to whip me on the ice 🥵🥵🥵, Koslov writes. 

I am not in russia, Ilya responds before turning off his phone. That’s all they’ll get from him this month. Ilya shifts his focus instead to trying to convince Shane to use salad dressing like a normal person. 

Ilya sees Shane’s parents for the first time since he left Montreal while he has his hand on their son’s ass. 

He and Shane are both shirtless from swimming in the lake and wrapped in Shane’s pathetically-small excuses for towels. They’ve managed to make it inside the cottage before becoming lost in each other’s embrace (despite Ilya’s attempts to get Shane to have sex with him outdoors, which Shane keeps rejecting because he doesn’t want to find tics on his balls), but…just barely. Once they’re fully inside, Ilya sneaks his hands underneath Shane’s shorts to grab both asscheeks in his hands.

The extremely faint squeaking sound of weight shifting on top of the hardwood floor alerts Ilya that they’re not as alone in the cottage as they thought. 

Ilya immediately detaches himself from Shane and looks up, at first in fear and shock, and then in dawning horror as he makes eye contact with Yuna and David Hollander, who are both standing completely still in the cottage kitchen and are gawking at them. He doesn't know how long they've been standing in the kitchen, nor when they entered the cottage. He didn't even hear the door open. He wonders how long they would have just stayed there letting Ilya fondle their only child if he hadn't noticed them.

“Oh, no,” Ilya whispers, still staring at their surprise audience. 

It takes a few moments for Shane to catch up to the fact that Ilya is no longer lavishing kisses on his face and that Ilya’s hand has detached from his ass like it burned him. Finally, after a few seconds that felt like full minutes to Ilya, Shane turns.

“...Fuuuuck,” Shane breathes out, eyes going wide. 

Shane begins to shift like he is about to step away from Ilya and put a respectable amount of distance between them, which Ilya absolutely cannot allow under any circumstances. If Shane steps away from him, the situation will go from bad to the worst thing ever solely due to the fact that Ilya has a fucking boner right now– one that is rapidly going down, obviously, but still, he needs a few more moments. Shane’s parents have already seen way too much; the last thing Ilya can allow is adding his fucking half-chub dickprint to the list. 

Ilya grips Shane’s shoulders and keeps him in place. Shane must assume that Ilya does this for selfless reasons, like Ilya is trying to show Shane that he is both literally and figuratively behind him right now, based on the way his shoulders relax slightly in response. Ilya will keep his entirely selfish reasons to himself until the day he dies.

David flashes them a small smile and waves. 

“Sorry!” Yuna says, but frankly, she doesn’t look sorry in the slightest. She looks annoyed, maybe, mixed with expectant and a tiny bit triumphant. She crosses her arms across her chest. “You weren’t answering your phones,” she explains while tilting her head to the side, gesturing to the spot on the kitchen counter where both of their phones sat useless and abandoned. “And we wanted to see Ilya,” she finishes.

“You just saw plenty of him,” Shane grumbles. 

“I tried to stop her,” David shrugs casually. Clearly he didn’t try all that hard, Ilya thinks. “Sorry,” David adds. He, like Yuna, does not look sorry at all. These fucking Canadians don’t know the definition of that word, Ilya thinks. They throw it around so much that it has lost all meaning. They use it more like punctuation than an actual statement with meaning behind it. 

“This is the most embarrassing moment of my life,” Shane declares. He looks like he is going a little pale and breathing a little faster than he should be, which means Ilya needs to do something to get the situation under control before Shane spirals into a panic attack.

“I can think of some more embarrassing moments,” Ilya says. “Like your ridiculous failed fight with Scott Hunter.” 

It wasn’t embarrassing or ridiculous at all in Ilya’s book, but Shane can never know this. Ilya has watched Shane angrily yell at Hunter a frankly embarrassing number of times. Something about seeing Shane having to be held back by multiple people really gets Ilya going. His chirping in the video left a lot to be desired, that being said. “You’re 45 years old?” Who says that? Shane must have been mind-numbingly pissed off and unable to think back then, because Ilya knows for a fact that Shane could do way better than that. He’s witnessed it firsthand.

“Fuck off,” Shane sighs. “Is this not embarrassing for you?”

Ilya hums. “Mmmm…maybe top five?” he guesses. “Most embarrassing moment of my life was confessing my love for you to your father. Second most embarrassing moment was being photographed face-down on sidewalk outside of shitty Moscow club.”

“What the absolute fuck are you talking about?” Shane whines. He, at least, looks less pale now, so Ilya considers this side conversation to be a major win on his part. “Seriously, I can’t deal with this,” Shane says.

“Shane, the fact that the club was shitty ruined my reputation in Russia for many months,” Ilya keeps going. “I did not even go to that club. I had left better, more respectable club and simply passed out in front of bad club.”

“Boys?” Yuna asks, trying to get their attention back on her. 

“Ah,” Ilya startles and feels his traitorous face warm up slightly. Why did he think babbling about a drunken bender in Russia was a suitable way to distract his boyfriend in front of his boyfriend’s parents? Because he’s kind of stupid, that’s why. 

“This is maybe number three on my most embarrassing moments list now,” Ilya admits.

Shane just stares at him in open disbelief. 

“How about numbers four and five?” David asks. 

Shane’s eyes slide towards his parents, who are still standing awkwardly and expectantly in his kitchen, while Shane and Ilya stand in front of them half naked.

“Can you give us a moment to, uhm, put ourselves together?” Shane asks, before grabbing Ilya by the wrist and dragging him down the hallway and into his master bedroom without waiting for his parents’ response.  

“Fuck, oh my god,” Shane says once they make it to the room. 

“First things first, we put on shirts,” Ilya says, shutting the door behind them and resting against it for a moment. 

Shane nods, breathing out a deep breath. “I can’t believe they saw us make out,” he complains. 

“You mother has heard me talk about fucking you,” Ilya says. “This is not so different.”

This is a lie. This feels really fucking different. Ilya feels like he’s 14 years old and just got caught. Maybe if he pretends that this is all fine and normal, he can convince both himself and Shane to actually believe it. 

Shane releases a frustrated groan. “We’re doing this all wrong,” he says. “I haven’t even told them I’m gay!” 

Ilya can’t stop the hysterical laugh that bubbles out of his chest. “Shane, I think they know by now,” he says. 

“Yeah,” Shane wheezes out. “But I still want to, like, tell them. They deserve clarity,” he says. “It’s just…a lot.”

“They will be okay with it,” Ilya says. 

Shane nods. “I already know that, it’s just…something about actually telling them feels so much scarier than just showing them? Even if I know I have nothing to fear? And they already know? If that makes sense?”

“We don’t have to say anything,” Ilya suggests. “We can just…keep showing them?”

“How? Keep making out in front of them?” Shane snarks. 

Ilya pretends to consider this option. 

“No,” Shane says firmly. “I want to tell them. I know it’s been killing my mom to not ask questions. I think if I wasn’t injured when she found out about you, she’d have locked me in an interrogation room weeks ago,” Shane continues. 

There’s a lot of things that would not have happened had Shane not been injured, Ilya thinks. Maybe Shane would have his hands on the Stanley Cup for the third year in a row, and Ilya would be sitting sad and alone in Boston yet again. Maybe Shane’s parents, in this alternate universe, are having a normal spring and summer that does not involve tip-toeing around the elephant that Ilya has dragged into their home. 

“So let’s put her out of her misery,” Shane adds. 

Ilya walks deeper into the room, grabs a t-shirt, and throws it at Shane. It’s a random one from a stack of shirts Shane had washed and folded earlier that day. Ilya immediately noticed while watching Shane methodically fold their clothes (because watching Shane carefully smooth wrinkles out of soft cotton enraptures him in a way he doesn't plan on analyzing further), that Shane was purposefully mixing their laundry together. Looking at the stacks, one can not tell which shirts and socks belong to which hockey player. Ilya wonders if Shane has done this to covertly steal more of his clothes, like the little thief he is.

Shane makes an absolutely fucking disgusted face when he unfolds his randomly-selected t-shirt and sees the graphic on the front. He silently turns it around for Ilya to see.

It’s a fucking Boston Bears t-shirt. Ilya barks out a laugh so loud he’s almost certain Yuna and David can hear it. 

“Fuck you,” Shane says before putting on the t-shirt anyways. Then, he digs in his closet, not the recently-washed pile, and throws a folded shirt towards Ilya’s chest. Montreal Voyageurs est. 1919, the white t-shirt mocks in bright blue lettering. Ilya grins and throws it on over his head. 

“Let’s go answer some fucking questions,” Ilya says. 

Shane’s parents tactfully do not comment on the t-shirts, although Ilya does notice the way Yuna’s eyes practically bug out of her head as she takes in the scene in front of her. David, for whatever reason, looks unfazed. 

“Okay, okay, let’s talk about this,” Shane says like he’s talking about his inevitable trip to the gallows whilst gesturing towards his dining table.

“Finally!” Yuna cheers. David huffs out a laugh at his wife, while Shane just barely stifles a groan without much irritation behind it. “What? I think I’ve been very patient with you boys,” Yuna says defensively. 

“You have been. Thank you,” Shane says. It’s fond even despite the undercurrent of nervousness laced through it.

Once they’re all seated, Ilya looks over at Shane and sees that he is tapping a fingernail against his thumb repeatedly. Ilya’s noticed this over the years– it’s some kind of nervous tic he does when he isn’t sure of himself. Ilya saw it most often during the early years of their careers back when they were both young phenoms with a lot on their shoulders. Back then, Shane would occasionally field interview questions whilst tapping his fingers right where a camera couldn’t see him. Sometimes, he’d miss the mark and the movement would be caught on camera. People, for the most part, did not notice. 

Ilya noticed. He fidgets too when he is nervous (like right now. Ilya can’t stop wiggling his right ankle). It has always felt strangely comforting seeing visual proof of yet another thing they hold in common. 

“I don't know where to begin,” Shane says after a moment. “You already know a lot.”

“Do we?” Yuna asks, quirking an eyebrow. 

“We know there’s something going on between the two of you,” David adds slowly.

“Right,” Yuna nods. “Okay, yes, we know some things.” Shane flushes bright red. “Let’s start with the obvious. You two are both…bisexual?” Yuna ventures.

“No,” Shane says. “Well, I mean, Ilya is, but I’m not,” he says.

“Hmmm, so Rose wasn’t…” Yuna continues.

Shane shakes his head harshly. “Rose and I dated, like, actually dated. I didn’t know I was, uhm, fully gay? I thought maybe I was bisexual? But I’m not.”

Ilya nods gravely. “Shane is super gay.”

Shane lightly slaps him on the shoulder. “I’m regular gay,” Shane says. David looks a little lost, but he’s nodding, so he gets points for having the right spirit.

“Hmm. Sorry, I just assumed, because you’ve both been with women before. I’ve been doing some research…” Yuna continues. 

“Mom,” Shane immediately groans. 

“What? You threw me into the deep end, boys. I needed to do my due diligence,” Yuna defends.

Shane huffs. “Ilya and I are dating,” he says. It sounds like he is ripping a bandaid off. It’s also a very effective way to distract Yuna from further questions regarding her son’s specific place on the Kinsey scale. 

“Oh, finally!” David says, a huge smile spreading across his face.

“Finally?!” Shane and Yuna repeat at the same time. They make the same exact facial expressions and say it in the exact same way, to the point that Ilya is creeped out for the briefest of moments. 

“I mean, when Ilya and I talked about everything,” David continues. Ilya kind of wants to get up and walk directly into the lake. He wonders if he can get out of this conversation forever if he just gets up and starts swimming. “Things seemed a little…wishy washy? Unclear? So it’s nice to hear that you figured it all out.”

“What do you mean when you and Ilya talked,” Shane asks, blank-faced and with a tone that sounds almost robotic. 

Yuna also looks completely exasperated. “I thought we all agreed to wait to talk,” she says. “You two went behind our backs?”

“It was nothing too crazy,” David continues. Ilya looks out at the lake and wonders how quickly he can run into the water if he gets up and starts sprinting right now. “When I found him outside of the hospital, we talked a bit about why he was there.” David looks a little fond as he surely replays the memory in his head. “For some reason I assumed he recognized me, but he didn’t, so that made things a little awkward!” 

“What…did you say?” Shane asks, turning towards Ilya.

“Nothing,” Ilya says. 

“Oh, kiddo, that was not nothing,” David says. 

“And you didn’t feel the need to tell me any of this?” Yuna asks, baffled.

David shrugs. “It didn’t feel right to do that.”

Yuna rolls her eyes. 

“So…” David continues. “It’s official?”

“Yes,” Ilya answers. “Boyfriends.”

“Boyfriends?” Shane asks, sounding so hopeful. Oh, this stupid jock guy who knows they’re dating but apparently hasn’t thought of what title comes along with dating. He made them a 10-year plan and somehow this is the thing that surprises him. God, how Ilya loves him.

“I think so, yes,” Ilya nods. “Probably.”

Shane smiles so happily and helplessly that it kind of makes Ilya want to cry or squish Shane’s cheeks. 

"So what was going on...before you became boyfriends?" Yuna ventures.

Shane snaps back into interrogation mode. "We were..." Shane trails off, clearly looking for a suitable word to use. Ilya briefly sees months upon months of his own internal struggles copied and reflected across Shane's face. Nothing, something, a disaster waiting to happen, beautiful, the best part of my life, as easy as breathing, the most complicated thing I've ever done. "uhm," Shane continues.

Ilya knows a simple term that should do the trick and fits well enough within the context of what they once were and what they are now. "Lovers," he supplies. It’s perfect: a romantic and sexual affair without the specificity of labels like "boyfriends" and everything that comes after that. Lovers enjoy love. He was too afraid to use the word before they expressed it to each other-- he knew a long while ago that what he was experiencing was love, but he could not decipher Shane's stance on the matter. Using that simple term back then would mean implying something about Shane's role as active, knowing, and in agreement with Ilya. He could not be sure of this until very, very recently. 

Finally having a label for whatever the fuck they were doing all this time, before they became actual boyfriends, feels like a breath of fresh air. 

"No, Ilya, that's gross," Shane breathes out, equal parts exasperated and disgusted.

Okay, never mind. Fuck the English language.

"Casual?" Yuna suggests.

"Simple," David suggests, harkening back to what Ilya told him under the glowing lights of that awful fucking LED-covered cross in Montreal. 

"I don't think I would describe it as simple," Shane grimaces. "But sure."

David flashes Ilya a small, private smile. Ilya tries to return it, but it probably looks a little more like a grimace than a smile. 

"And how long were you...simple?" Yuna asks. 

"We started casually seeing each other," Shane begins, emphasizing his obvious strong preference for casual over simple, because yeah, they never were simple. Nothing about this situation has ever been fucking simple. Ilya thinks about St-Simon's it’s complicated announcement on Facebook all those years ago. "During our rookie year."

"Your rookie year?" Yuna exclaims. David just nods. Ilya faintly remembers telling David on that godforsaken cold Montreal evening that he and his mystery love in the hospital had been orbiting each other for seven years. Of course he isn't surprised. 

"No, no," Ilya cuts in, as the strange desire to be finicky about all of this sets in. He is suddenly very certain that he does not want them to think he and Shane just pounced on each other after a game one day well into their rookie season, insane and restless from months of their rivalry clouding their brains until they became incapable of making educated decisions. Ilya didn't orchestrate one of the most pathetic, hopeful displays of horny intention in his entire fucking life just for it to be swept up into the vagueness of their rookie year. Looking back, he did the MLH equivalent of showing up outside of Shane's house holding a boombox with a mix cassette tape.

Maybe he should do something like that. Shane doesn't really listen to music. He works out in silence like some kind of psychopath. One time, Shane texted him saying he listened to an Audiobook on the treadmill, which is potentially the most unsettling thing Ilya has heard in his life. Hockey players across the league, especially goaltenders, live in fear of Shane Hollander, and they don't even know the half of how fucking scary he can be. If Ilya made him a mix CD covered in little sharpie hearts and hockey stick stickers like they're lovesick little middle schoolers, would Shane listen to it? 

Ilya files the thought away for later.

"It was the summer before," Ilya says insistently. 

"Not helpful," Shane says. Ilya begs to differ. It's really fucking helpful. It proves that they were something even before Montreal and Boston fully sunk their claws into them. 

"Wow, uh," Yuna says, stunned speechless.

"Fine, if you want to push it back even further, maybe we say draft day?" Shane counters, glancing towards Ilya. There's a challenge in his eyes, like this is somehow a competition now.

"Draft day?!" Yuna exclaims. David puts a hand on her shoulder, perhaps to calm her down, or perhaps to hold her back. She does seem to be climbing closer and closer to the edge of her chair. There's only a matter of time before she's climbing on top of the table and strangling them. 

Ilya takes the bait, partially because Shane has presented him such an easy way to one-up him and win their little game, but also to distract his parents from asking them about draft day. Truly, what the fuck would he tell them about draft day if they asked? I went to the gym to shake off my father's misplaced disappointment and left with a massive fucking boner because your son made me realize I like when he follows my directions? He can't fucking say that shit. He would need to actually go outside and drown himself in the lake after doing that.

"2008," Ilya says, grinning towards Shane. "Shane made the first move. It was very romantic."

Yuna looks like she is going to fucking faint. David grips her shoulder harder and eases her further back into her chair. 

Shane snorts an ugly, short laugh that cuts through the tension like a knife thrown through the air as hard as possible. Ilya loves hearing it and wants him to do it again and again. "Romantic? I told you to stop smoking and then babbled at you for like six minutes while you stared at me," he says, deadpan.

"Most romantic pickup line I've ever heard," Ilya deadpans. "I was speechless."

"You just kept saying 'okay' until you told me you were going to beat me," Shane continues. 

"What else could I say? Cute boy with beautiful freckles approached me and swept me off of my feet. I was just a poor, defenseless, little village boy unprepared for advanced Canadian flirtation. I did not stand a chance!"

"You were neither poor, nor defenceless, nor little, nor from a village," Shane quips. 

"Are you messing with us?" David asks, lifting his eyebrows and blinking in surprise a few times. "Because this kind of feels like you're joking, but..."

Ilya is just about to tell them that yes, this is a little game they're playing, when Shane announces "We're being serious."

And, well. Ilya sits back and nods, because yeah, maybe that was serious. He was speechless and did not stand a chance.

Yuna just blinks at them in confusion, mouth downturned into a small frown. “So…you’re boyfriends. Now what?” she asks.

“What do you mean?” Shane asks.

“What’s the plan, boys?”

“We’re working on it,” Shane says vaguely. The plan exists, but it’s still in its infancy. There’s so much for them to talk about and figure out before the various moving parts can begin to do their thing. Ilya suspects Shane might be trying to keep things a little vague in front of his mother so she doesn’t bulldoze all over those little baby plans before they’re ready to crawl.

“You need a good plan, boys,” Yuna snaps. “There is a lot that can go wrong here. We can start working on statements and contingency plans, and I can reach out to some sponsors when–”

“No, no,” Shane interrupts. “We’re not…we’re not coming out anytime soon. There’s too much at stake.”

“So, what, you’re going to stay closeted until you retire?” she asks. 

Shane nods quickly. “...Yes,” Ilya responds verbally, because Shane doesn’t seem like he wants to. 

“That’s sad,” Yuna says, and god, she looks legitimately sad to hear this. It makes Ilya feel a pang of guilt for being the cause of it. “But, I understand,” she continues. Shane tilts his head slightly and furrows his brow, like this is an unexpected reaction. “When I was doing my research, I took a little look at the situation in Russia.”

“You…did?” Ilya asks.

“Of course I did,” she says, looking a little offended that Ilya even bothered to ask, like it’s obvious that she would do such a thing. “I can see why this would be complicated for you and your family,” she continues. Ilya tries not to snort because he’s pretty sure it would come across as rude.  “Sorry, I know your father recently passed. My condolences,” she adds. 

“It’s fine,” Ilya says through his teeth. It’s fine. It’s better than fine, actually. Ilya used to feel like he was constantly treading water in a room full of leaking spouts that all required his attention. His father’s passing closed up some of those spouts, and now he can actually stand up with his feet on the floor. 

“Does the rest of your family…know?” she asks. 

Ilya shakes his head. “My mother passed when I was 12 and I do not talk to my brother anymore,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Oh, that’s–” Yuna begins frantically, rapidly falling straight into the shocked and over-the-top sympathy North Americans just love to exude whenever they hear something even remotely sad. 

“It is fine,” he says. “Russia is complicated, yes, but not because I want to ever go back. It is only complicated because of my visa status.” 

“What is your status?” David asks. 

“P1-A athlete visa. It’s attached to my Bears contract,” Ilya answers. 

“You’ve never…tried to get a more permanent immigration status in the States?” Yuna asks. “Even knowing how dangerous this is for you?”

Beside Ilya, Shane’s fingers pick up their quiet tap tap tap against his thumb. Ilya smushes his ankle against Shane’s under the table. 

Ilya shakes his head. “My agent said it is not possible.”

“That’s complete bullshit,” Shane and Yuna say at the same time. God, it’s so creepy how they keep doing that. Will Ilya become as unfazed as David seems about it, someday? If Shane lets him, obviously. 

“I…” Ilya thinks about his horrible, awful agent and his horrible, sporadic text-message reminders to stay on his best behaviour. He thinks about missed opportunities. He thinks about his father hand-selecting the man to manage Ilya’s career, and by extension, his entire adult life. He thinks about being purposefully kept in a state of instability. He thinks about being artificially kept at an arm’s length from something that could have granted him more control over his life earlier. He thinks about his father’s purpling, wrinkled hands poking out of his uniform holding him by the collar across international borders and an entire ocean. “Yes, it is probably bullshit,” Ilya acquiesces. 

Ilya and Shane share a look. “But…” Shane begins. 

Yuna and David both perk up.

“But…” Ilya picks up. “I would like permanent status in Canada more than the United States,” he says. “Things are not so good for Russians in the United States right now. There is always the possibility that my application would stay in limbo for long time. Canada seems…better,” he continues. 

Shane nods along as Ilya talks.

“Next July, I become free agent,” Ilya continues. “I am going to try to sign with Ottawa. I will be closer to Shane. I can get a Canadian work visa. I will get permanent status in a few years, maybe. Eventually I will have Canadian passport when I qualify.”

“Ottawa,” Yuna repeats, clearly baffled by where the conversation has turned.

Ilya and Shane nod. “Ottawa,” Ilya repeats.

“With the Ottawa Centaurs,” Yuna repeats again, still baffled.

“Yes, I think we established that,” David says.

“You would leave Boston?” Yuna asks pointedly.  “To go to…Ottawa?”

Ilya just nods.

“To play with the Ottawa Centaurs?” David asks. 

“Come on, seriously?” Shane groans, tossing his head back in frustration.

“It’s not a good team,” Yuna continues. 

“Boston was not a good team when I was drafted,” Ilya shrugs. “Ottawa seems nice. You live here. Shane is from here. It is close to Montreal. I have chances to get secure Canadian residency status,” he continues. “Boston is nice, yes, but Boston is not…”

“You have the chance to win the cup again in Boston,” Yuna interrupts.

“I could have that in Ottawa,” Ilya counters. Yuna snorts in response. Even David grimaces a little. Jesus. They could stand to have a little love for their hometown team. Don’t North Americans love that type of shit? Those underdog stories? The miracles no one could ever expect? Aren’t they usually overcome with the urge to cheer on the little guy? This is a tough crowd. 

“Mom, I know what you’re thinking. Stop it,” Shane says suddenly, staring at his mother. Yuna is making a facial expression Ilya can’t fully read: it’s disbelief mixed with suspicion, perhaps. Her lips are pursed as she draws a single eyebrow downwards. It kind of looks like she doesn’t believe a fucking word they’re saying. 

“I’m sorry, Shane, it’s just…loyalty is important, you know?” You’d think admitting that he’s been obsessed with her son since 2008 would be loyal enough, but…

“He’s trying to be loyal to me,” Shane seethes. 

“Yes,” Ilya just nods. 

“Sorry,” Shane cuts in. “My mom cares a little too much about hockey.”

Ilya just barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. “You are the same.”

Shane’s parents stay for the rest of the day. Inevitably, they all end up surrounding Shane’s fire pit because apparently staring at fire is what Canadians do for fun during the summertime. Ilya will eventually admit to Shane that the flickering of the light of the fire is nice to look at against the dark backdrop of moonlight. Today is not the day he will admit this; There have been far too many admissions today. He’s surpassed the quota he has invented in his mind at this very moment. 

“Ilya’s afraid of loons,” Shane tells his parents. 

God, seriously, has he not suffered enough today? He better be declared a saint when he dies with the way he’s been tortured more than Jesus. 

“They sound like fucked-up wolves,” Ilya says solemnly. 

“Well, son, you’re gonna have to work on that if you want to become a Canadian,” David says. “We can't have you screaming every time you pick up a loonie.”

“What the f--" Ilya stops himself, because he realizes maybe he shouldn't swear so brazenly in front of his boyfriend's parents. It's bad manners and he's still trying to make a good impression, after all. He knows they've heard all of that and more from him by virtue of watching him play hockey all these years, but still...he's trying anyways. If he tries hard enough, maybe he can wash away from their minds all of the years of hearing him scream every swear word he's ever learned. He's learned a lot of them. Maybe he should ask Shane to teach him from French ones so he can cuss out Drapeau a bit better? "What is a loonie?” Ilya asks.

“It’s a one dollar coin,” Yuna says. 

“Terrifying things, those loons,” David says seriously. “The only way to stop a loon attack is to throw a loonie at it. They’re even afraid of themselves. That’s why the loonie defense works.” 

“They bite,” Yuna adds. “They’re venomous.” 

“Shaaane,” Ilya whines, putting on a real show for the Hollanders. “I am being bullied.” He slumps to the side, ostensibly to seek Shane’s comfort, but it’s mostly just as an excuse to rest his head against Shane’s freshly-healed shoulder and collarbone as he enjoys the light of the fire and the fond, asshole-ish ribbing of Shane’s parents. He sees where Shane gets it from.

Shane smiles down at him and presses a quick kiss to Ilya’s temple. Ilya feels so fucking lucky that this is his life now.

Then, Shane does a fucking loon call.

Chapter End Notes

Me, a person who went through Canadian immigration and has already written a canadian immigration fic, trying not to overcomplicate the Ottawa conversation with details about visas and pr and such: aaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUAUAAAAAaaaaaaaaaUUUUUURR

Sorry I made Cliff Marlow significantly worse in this one than I have in my other fics. It just felt right