Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Yuna Hollander

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Anxious Shane Hollander, Protective Shane Hollander, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Ilya gets professional help, Mental Health Issues, Domestic Fluff, Long-Distance Relationship, Secret Relationship, Light Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Oblivious Hayden Pike, Mentioned Irina Rozanova, Mentioned Grigori Rozanov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros (Game Changers), Texting, Comfort, Depression, Established Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Established Relationship, Ilya Rozanov gets a psychiatrist, Autistic Shane Hollander, POV Third Person Omniscient, Past Tense, Yuna Hollander dislikes Ilya Rozanov, Press and Tabloids, Mentioned Svetlana Vetrova, Coping, Healthy Relationships, Healing, mental health improvement, Fluff, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Soft Shane Hollander, Fluffy Ending

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-18 Words: 10,183 Chapters: 1/1

The Public Eye

Summary

The brush off Shane received when he suggested Ilya try medication was hardly surprising to him. What he found shocking was that he had actually done it. Without telling Shane, no less. And if that wasn't startling enough, finding out the entire hockey community knew because of one ill-timed picture Cliff Marlow took practically knocked him off balance.
---
“Who knew Rozanov would be the poster boy for Prozac?” Hayden muttered with a huff. “God, he’s gotta be floating on cloud nine with that dose. Normal people take like what, ten or twenty? Sixty must mean he was damn near suicidal.”

“Probably,” JJ agreed, shrugging. “I wouldn’t know, I don’t need to medicate myself to cope with life.”

“If he’s all doped up, how come he’s still always such an asshole?” one of the rookies questioned, earning a few laughs.

Shane just felt sick to his stomach. And angry. At his team and Marlow and mostly at himself. Ilya had done exactly what he asked and now, he was getting mocked for taking care of himself. In what world was that fair?

“Maybe that’s why he’s so aggressive on the ice,” another theorized. “He's trying to kill himself and take another player with him to make it look like an accident.”

Notes

Another HR fic in the same week!?!? (This is how you know I've stopped caring about my academics, fr)

Ilya glanced around the room, looking for a clock or his phone. Anything with the time because he had lost track of it since the moment he stepped inside Shane’s apartment. Spotting not his own, but Shane’s phone, he rolled over and grabbed it off the floor. It was nearly four in the morning. Groaning, he sat up, only to feel a hand tugging him back.  

“Don’t go,” he mumbled, still half asleep as he blinked awake slowly.  

Ilya’s lips quirked into a small, downward smile. “I have to,” he replied. “My flight leaves at seven and I still need to pack for airport.”  

If he had been smart enough to put his bag together and bring in with him, there would be no need to leave so early. He could sleep in, let Shane make him some of those disgusting protein filled pancakes he was so fond of, maybe even drag him into the shower before driving to the airport together. Ilya wasn’t that smart, though. So, instead, he stood up and began finding his discarded pieces of clothing.  

“I’ll help,” Shane murmured, dragging himself into an upright position. He rubbed his eyes, rolling his shoulders back as he started picking up their shirts, squinting to try to figure out which was which. “Here.”  

Taking it from him, he pulled it over his head, hiding a few dark marks that had been left along his abdomen. He’d have to be sure not to accidentally let anyone on his team see those when he changed in the locker room for their next game.  

“Are you trying to get me in trouble?” he wondered, gesturing to the hickey on his stomach before dropping the fabric. “You want everyone to know I got laid?” 

He scrunched his nose in response. “They already know that,” he grumbled. “Just make up some name. Tell them Katie did it, or Mary or Alice.” He wasn’t the biggest fan of everyone on the raider's thinking Ilya was having casual sex with different women but if it kept them from suspecting it was him, then he could manage his jealously. Mostly.  

Ilya hummed, shaking his head. “No one would believe it,” he replied, skimming Shane’s jaw with his fingertips. “Everyone knows Canadian women are too boring for hookups. You are barely exception.”  

Shane huffed, tugging on his pants as he searched the room for the rest of Ilya’s things. Finding one of his socks, he tossed it towards him and looked for the other. All in all, it wasn’t too difficult to find everything, despite how scattered everything had gotten in the heat of the moment. He liked to think that it was because of his organizational skills, which kept his bedroom in good enough shape that there was nowhere for their clothes to hide.  

Getting up, Shane stayed in his sweatpants, not bothering to get dressed fully. He knew the minute Ilya left; he would just be falling back asleep. Trying to, anyway. He went to the kitchen, making him a mug of coffee he could drink on the way to the airport.  

Were those little Styrofoam cups really a necessary purchase? Not particularly. But he liked them anyway, even if he only reached into the back of a cabinet for them every once in a while, whenever Ilya came to visit. He walked back into the bedroom where Ilya was nearly finished tying his shoelaces.  

“Oh, c’mon,” he groaned, gesturing to him as he leaned over the edge of the mattress. “Get your shoes off my bed.”  

Ilya creased his forehead, putting his foot down once the laces were secure. “What, you sleep on the comforter instead of under it when I’m not here?” he questioned judgmentally. “Is top layer; no one touches it.”  

“That’s not the point, it still— never mind. Here’s your coffee,” he responded, passing him the cup. “Just finish it before you go through security or they’ll confiscate it.”  

He reeled in his urge to make a sarcastic comment about it not being his first time drinking coffee before a flight. Hell, it wasn’t even the first time Shane had sent it with him. It was one of their rituals now. A pretty nice one, too, if he was being honest. Something about it always tasted better than any cup he could get at the airport.  

“Is good,” Ilya told him after taking a sip of it, nearly burning his mouth. “You bought me my creamer?” It was a slight difference, but he was pretty damn sure he noticed it.  

Shane shrugged, like it wasn’t a huge deal that he had gone out of his way to buy his preferred creamer because he knew he would be in town this week. “You complain when I give you oat milk,” he replied. “I had to make sure you wouldn’t throw the cup out or something when I turn around.”  

He huffed a laugh. “Coffee is coffee, I never waste it,” he replied, pausing for a moment before pressing a quick kiss to his temple. “Thank you, though. Tastes better this way.”  

He nodded slightly, as if he had expected him to like it better. Anything with sugar was automatically better in his opinion and if he didn’t see how hard Ilya worked in the gym and on the ice, he would question how he could even function while consuming so many sweet treats all the time 

Shane looked him up and down, checking that he had everything he needed before he left. Noticing he was missing his phone, he grabbed it off the floor where it had fallen out of his back pocket and nearly handed it to him before clenching it a bit tighter. 

“Actually, uh- have you...given any thought to what I brought up earlier?” Shane questioned, holding his phone hostage until he answered.  

The furrowing of his eyebrows was immediate. “I said no,” he stated.  

“I know you did, but I really think that a psychiatrist could help you unpack some things. Maybe you could get a prescription, just to see how you feel about it,” he went on, noticing how rigid his posture had grown. “I’m not trying to force you, I just...I want you to be the best version you can be and maybe medication would help.”  

Ilya knew that his heart was in the right place, and that Shane thought he might need professional help after he had confessed a few too many things over the course of their relationship. That disclosure had been slow, of course. Comments here and there about his father’s treatment and how he sometimes wondered what peace truly felt like.  

He made a joke about being under the ice instead of on it, which he quickly realized wasn’t nearly as humorous to Shane as he had considered it.  

It was the mention of his mother that had triggered it, though. After admitting she had taken her own life, a fact that no one ever acknowledged—not even the men who buried her and claimed she died of an accident—Shane had become overly attentive. Almost like he was searching for similarities. Or maybe things had just clicked into place for him and a lot of behavior he usually ignored fell into place.  

“I don’t think telling a shrink about my life will be productive,” he responded, exactly like he had earlier. “Medicine would...it dulls, yes? Makes me stop feeling and I like feeling. Feeling joy when I win and love when I get to see you.”  

Shane’s shoulder sagged a bit. “Yeah, but you also feel like you’re always fighting some uphill climb to achieve what everyone expects from you,” he murmured softly. “And sometimes you get that bone deep fatigue that makes you just...want complete silence and emptiness.”  

He knew as much, but Ilya had told him that. Those were his words he was repeating back to him and hearing them out of Shane’s mouth seemed to make them sound a lot worse than they did in his own voice. When he said it, it was just an offhand comment; when Shane said it, it was a declaration. ‘Something is wrong with you’ 

“Silence is nice,” Ilya muttered with a shrug. “Empty can be good, it...no one needs to be consumed with love all of the time. That would be exhausting.” And so much in his life was already exhausting.  

Hockey was exhausting every minute he wasn’t actively on the ice. Thinking about practice, showing up to it, hauling himself home afterwards, it all took so much of his energy. But for a long time, he assumed it was draining for every player. Until Shane actually seemed excited to show up from practice, looked forward to his jogs, wanted to ‘decompress’ after a workout instead of falling face first into a mattress and lay there for an hour.  

“It’s not, though,” Shane insisted, reaching run one of his hands through his curls. “It’s a good feeling, Ilya. It’s supposed to be.” When he didn’t respond, neither to accept the fact that he needed help nor to deny it again, he let his hand fall away. “Just think about it, alright? Needing help doesn’t make you weak.”  

It did the exact opposite, honestly. To Shane, anyway.  

Ilya stared at him for a few moments, eventually giving him a single, slow nod. “I will...think about it,” he conceded, giving him the best answer he possibly could. “I have to make plane, though. So...I should go.”  

He nodded as well, leaning in to give him a quick kiss goodbye. It felt a bit more chaste than he would have liked, almost like as Ilya physically pulled away he also emotionally closed himself off. Shane let him go, still. He didn’t really have much of a choice in it.  

As he left, Shane sat back down on the edge of his bed, glancing at the small spec of dirt that was left on his comforter by the bottom of Ilya’s shows. He huffed, getting back up and tearing the sheets off to wash them at four in the morning.  

Meanwhile, Ilya returned to his hotel trying not to wake his temporary roommate as he packed in a haste while trying to push away the thoughts Shane had put there. But they seemed to stick for some reason. Echo, really, in a way he wasn’t fond of. It was like Shane was practically telling him, straight to his face, that he needed to change. That he wasn’t good enough on his own and needed medicine to fix him, to turn him into someone tolerable.  

Ilya didn’t think of himself as depressed. Images always spung to mind when hearing the word associated with others, usually of his mother. He watched her become more withdrawn, saw the effort it took for her simply to smile, heard her voice growing quieter. Especially in the presence of his father. He saw the changes in her, maybe even noticed the cuts on her wrist before he walked in on her with a bottle of pills beside her body. 

So, no. Ilya never really thought he had depression to the extent she did.  

He was always out, always sharing drinks with the team, always joining Svetlana at the club. And he was always training, playing, or thinking about hockey in some capacity. Depressed people didn’t function so well, in his mind. He functioned fine. Perfectly, even if he was tired more days than he wasn’t. To the point that people who hated him still had the common sense to call him dedicated because they couldn’t deny that his every waking minute was spent thinking of ways to get better.  

Better at hockey, that was. Never just better.  

The thought lingered on the drive to the airport. It lingered on the plane, too. And all the way back to Boston. He had finally gotten home, close to late afternoon when he texted Shane that he was home safely. He was a worrier, like that. Always needed confirmation that he was fine.  

As he closed out of the conversation, he finally saw a text from Svetlana that had been sent while he was still in the air and offline. An invite to go out. That wasn’t unusual. It would probably be stranger if she didn’t offer it, actually. Ilya collapsed onto his couch, feeling exhausted. That word kept coming back to his mind. Exhausted. Not tired, not sleepy. Something deeper than that.  

He responded with: ‘Not tonight, flight was long.’ 

Leaning his head back on his cushions, he closed his eyes. It was still midday. He should be washing his laundry, heading to the rink to destress, going to the gym to spend an hour on the treadmill. Hell, he could at least go to the grocery store after being at away games for two weeks straight. But he couldn’t. Not really.  

Because it all felt...exhausting. 

Fuck that stupid fucking word, he thought to himself as he lifted his phone back up. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, fingers hovering over the keyboard for a few seconds before he finally typed in a search for a psychiatrist.  

They were better than therapists, he thought. He was pretty sure all they did was talk and ask how someone felt. At least a psychiatrist would give him something, try to fix his fucked-up thoughts. He didn’t even tell Shane all of them, certain that it would scare him if he did.  

A few months later, Ilya was...different. Still mean on the ice and all-consuming when he got to see Shane. But he felt steadier now, too. Like doing a few dishes wasn’t something terribly strenuous, and practice might actually be fun instead of another way to drain his energy.  

Shane noticed, of course. But he never asked why, even though he suspected the reason for it. If Ilya didn’t want to talk about it, that was fine. He was just glad he was taking some steps to feel better. Coping with depression was a private thing and he understood that.  

Unfortunately, not everyone did.  

Shane didn’t know it, when he walked into the locker room before playing the Admirals, but everyone was standing around for a very different reason than their usual procrastination. They were hovering around each other, some mumbling and shaking their heads while others straight up laughed. Something about it set him on edge for a reason he couldn’t place.  

His first instinct was to panic about himself, that somehow, they had found out he was gay. But when they looked up at him, their expression filled with no hostility or disgust, he knew that couldn’t be the case. Still, they looked shocked over something.  

“Did you know about Rozanov?” JJ asked, eyes darting between his captain and his phone as one of the guys reached over his shoulder to scroll on his screen.  

He felt his stomach tighten again, shaking his head quickly. “N-no, what about him?” he wondered, moving towards them.  

Was this how they would find out Ilya was bi? Were they really that surprised about a NHL player liking other men?  

“Look,” Hayden told him, turning his phone around to show him the picture. 

Shane grabbed the phone a bit harsher than necessary expecting to the see the worst—a picture of Ilya in a shirt that belonged to him, or a video of them making out in his car when they got carried away outside the airport. Instead, he just saw a picture of the Raiders locker rooms. Ilya was by his cubby, lacing his shoes similarly to how he always did against Shane’s bed.  

He furrowed his eyebrows. “What?” he questioned, scanning the picture. “Rozanov is barley even in the picture.” He looked closer to being cropped out than actually in the frame. It was Marlow and another player celebrating a big win from a game they played a few hours ahead of most team's typical times.  

“Zoom in on his bag, idiot,” Hayden muttered, doing it for him. “Look at the bottle.” 

Shane felt his heart drop, the small orange container of medication peeking out of the edge of his bag just enough to be caught in the picture. They were away, again. Of course, Ilya would have had to bring his pills with him. And he always took them at the same time because Shane once mentioned, off handedly, that they worked better with a consistent routine.  

This was because of him. All of it. Ilya was seeing a physiatrist because of him, he was taking those pills at the same hour because of him, he just had his entire mental health put on public display because of him. Did he know? When did this picture come out? Why hadn’t he texted him about it? Because he was mad, probably. God, he should be. He should be fucking furious.  

Hockey players didn’t talk about their health unless it was physical, unless they were reassuring the public that an injury was healing. Mental injuries didn’t count, not to the media or other players.  

“Someone looked it up,” JJ added, motioning to the picture again. “Apparently, it’s like a hella strong antidepressant. Like, he was on a ledge, and the shrink coaxed him off of it kind of dose.” 

Shane’s eyes flicked back down to the name of the drug. Of course he recognized it. He had done enough research on antidepressants after Ilya told him about Irina that he could probably work in a pharmacy. And yeah, it was pretty fucking high. But Ilya was also doing so well lately. He had so much more energy, seemed so much lighter when he wasn’t always in his head. He wasn’t drowning in his thoughts anymore.  

The dose was probably high because of his weight and body mass more than anything, Shane thought to himself. Even if it was because of his mental health, that didn’t mean anything. A psychiatrist knew what they were doing when she gave them to him; it wasn’t like he picked them up on a street corner the way someone got meth.  

“Who knew Rozanov would be the poster boy for Prozac?” Hayden muttered with a huff. “God, he’s gotta be floating on cloud nine with that dose. Normal people take like what, ten or twenty? Sixty must mean he was damn near suicidal.” 

“Probably,” JJ agreed, shrugging. “I wouldn’t know, I don’t need to medicate myself to cope with life.” 

“If he’s all doped up, how come he’s still always such an asshole?” one of the rookies questioned, earning a few laughs.  

Shane just felt sick to his stomach. And angry. At his team and Marlow and mostly at himself. Ilya had done exactly what he asked and now, he was getting mocked for taking care of himself. In what world was that fair? None of them.  

“Maybe that’s why he’s so aggressive on the ice,” another theorized. “He's trying to kill himself and take another player with him to make it look like an accident.” 

There was another string of laughs, like the thought of someone's depression physically manifesting in such a way was somehow funny to them. He supposed that when it wasn’t any of them struggling to drag their skates on or feeling like they should sink into the ground to disappear after a bad day, it might have been. But to Ilya, playing was a relief he clung to and had to be the best at it or else he would lose the only thing keeping him upright most days.  

“Enough, you guys,” Shane snapped, shoving the phones down so they’d stop looking at the pictures that were spreading like wildfire across twitter and Facebook and every other social media outlet. The major news channels would probably have it broadcasted by morning, if not at the end of the night. “It’s not like he’s the first person in the entire league to get professional help.”  

Granted, few players ever actually spoke about it. Most were more like implied problems after a player divorced their wife or had a sibling die too soon. Nothing was ever truly public.  

They all quieted down a little bit. “It’s not like it’s a huge deal, yeah, but c’mon, it’s weird right?” Hayden commented. “It’s Rozanov, after all. If he was on something, my money would have been steroids not antidepressants.”  

His jaw ticked a little, the comment getting under his skin. He knew that rumor had gone around a few times after a winning streak coincided with some slightly more suspicious behavior than usual on Ilya’s part. Nothing came of it, of course. He never had and never would take drugs like that. It didn’t stop people from making assumptions, though. So fucking many of them.  

“If he needs the help, then he needs it,” Shane retorted, shoulders jerking up in a harsh shrug. “It’s no one's fucking business what he’s taking.” He moved to his cubby, mostly just trying to cover his otherwise seething expression by looking away from them all.  

He pulled out his phone, clicking on Ilya’s contact. Well, Lily’s.  

He typed: ‘I’m going to kill Marlow for posting that’ Then he deleted it.

‘I’m sorry for getting you in this mess’ was his next attempt, but he erased it too.  

‘I saw the picture. How are you holding up?’ was the text he eventually sent after trying to make sure he didn’t get overly soft and frighten him away.  

Closing out of the app, he tapped on Google and as expected it only took the first two letters of his name before the search loaded as ‘Ilya Rozanov drug use’. God, they were fast. The twitter fans, the hockey broadcasters, anyone who was even vaguely aware of the NHL really. Why they wrote it like that, like a bottle of Prozac was the same as a bag of cocaine found in his duffle, Shane had no clue.  

He didn’t like it, though. Didn't like scrolling though the headlines that purposely made things seem so much more dramatic because they wanted to draw views. As if Ilya wasn’t already going to draw them just by existing.  

‘Raiders captain hiding more than game plans.’ 

‘Rozanov’s health takes a hit?’ 

‘Russia’s star crumbling under expectation.’ 

Shane had to shut his phone off, unable to keep reading the hundreds of ways they were already trying to spin things. They were trying to make it sound like he was on the verge of committing, not actively taking steps to get better. That’s what the bottle meant. That Ilya listened to him, that he spoke with someone and got assessed, that he was keeping up with medicine that was actually helping him. How the hell could everyone think that was funny or use it as a hook for attention? 

Shoving his phone into his bag, he glanced over his shoulder. His teammates hadn’t shut up, despite him snapping at them. They just moved on to theorizing about why Ilya was depressed and how long he’d been taking medicine.  

“It can’t be that new if he’s still a total dick,” someone muttered, figuring his personality hadn’t really changed much. “Maybe he’s always been on it.”  

Shane supposed that if none of them actually talked to him, they wouldn’t notice it. But it was there. And it was large. He wondered if any of the Raiders had caught on or if they were just as oblivious to Ilya’s facade as most people were.  

“Hiding something that big for that long has to be rough,” another player mentioned. “Think it’s because of the game? The thing he loves is killing him and all that?” All of them had lives outside of the sport, families usually too. He couldn’t say the same about the Russian.  

JJ shrugged, fussing with his jersey as he pulled it over his head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it had to do with Russia somehow,” he noted. “Place seems like hell from everything I’ve heard.”  

“Any place that churns out people like Rozanov is hell,” a different rookie replied with a huff of laughter.  

“It’s probably from someone in his family,” Hayden commented, tossing his shirt into his cubby and reaching for his jersey to pull it off the hanger. “Depression is genetic, right? One of his parents probably had it. Or both.” 

Shane was pretty sure his brain was moving on autopilot the second he heard Ilya’s parents mentioned. That was always a sore subject, even after all these years. He didn’t like to talk about either of them and that meant he would hate to hear someone else do it.  

Reaching out, Shane grabbed Hayden's jersey, practically yanking him towards him. “Don’t say shit like that,” he snapped, trying to keep his voice low. It was pretty obvious others were watching, though.  

They had no clue how Grigori treated Ilya or how much losing his mother impacted him. No one really did. That was the kind of information the news purposely censored back in Russia. They tried to pass of Irina’s death as some tragic accident instead of suicide and the thought of someone trying to undo that now made Shane furious. 

Hayden actually looked caught off guard, like he had never expected that kind of behavior from anyone on his team, let alone Shane of all people. “Whoa chill, it’s just a theory man.” 

“It’s not your fucking place to come up with theories about his family,” he retorted, pushing him away. “You chirp at his skills, his attitude, his goddamn clothes if you want to. You don’t take shots at his personal life. Ever.”  

That was a common decency they gave to every other player in the league. They could suffer through the same for Ilya, even if it killed them to keep their mouths shut.  

“Okay, alright, fine,” Hayden murmured, still a bit confused as he put both of his hands up.  

Shane let go of his jersey, material falling through his fingers as he stepped back, reaching to grab his own. The chatter started back up, slowly at first before it got louder. It, for the most part, shifted away from Ilya, though. That was a small mercy.  

The game they played wasn’t.  

If someone told Shane two hours ago that they would lose 3-0 to one of the worst teams in the entire league, he would have scoffed at them. It was the first time it ever happened, and he was pretty sure he was a big part of why. He missed the puck, after all. Like literally missed it when someone passed it directly toward him. It was a clear shot that just didn’t register in his head for some reason.  

He tried not to get distracted; he really did. But his mind kept wandering back to Ilya, wondering if there was a text waiting for him. He wasn’t sure if it was worse to not be able to reply if he had or if there wasn’t one to respond to at all. Both made his anxiety flair.  

When he finally got off the ice, he was pretty sure he’d never been so glad to get his skates off in his entire life. He felt worse than the time he played with the flu because he couldn’t risk the team not making playoffs. He was still in them when he reached for his phone, seeing a notification on it.  

His teammates were grumbling behind him, some asking where his head had been at, and others blaming the ice for how they played. Shane didn’t hear much of it, though. He slid up, eyes glazing over the text a few times.  

‘I feel like an idiot,’ was all Ilya had written. 

He swallowed harshly, thirsty but avoiding his water bottle. He typed back: ‘You’re not. You were just trying to get help.’ 

‘Would have been fine without it.’ Ilya texted after a few seconds, like he had been waiting by the phone for him to read his message.  

“Come on,” Hayden stated, his hand hitting Shane’s back. “Let’s get out here before people start throwing tomatoes at us for that performance.”  

Shane tucked his phone away quickly, hiding the texts. He nodded his head, still unable to care very much about the game. He could see the frustration, confusion, and disappointment on his teammates' faces. But for some reason, he couldn’t help but resent it. His team, the other team, the game in general. 

They were moping about a puck not falling into a net while thousands of people called Ilya weak or mentally sick for needing medicine. How could those two things ever compare in his mind?  

Following his team out, Shane kept his distance. Figuratively and literally. He was partially worried he might snap again if anyone mentioned Ilya and he was also still upset about the game to the point he sat in the back of the plane on purpose so Hayden couldn’t jab him in the ribs mid-flight and bother him for his portion of the salted peanuts.  

When he got home that night, he felt more tired than usual. Enough so that he barely had the energy to brush his teeth before crawling straight into bed without dinner. He wasn’t all that hungry anyway. The strange pit that had lodged itself into his stomach hadn’t dulled at all on the flight. If anything, it just grew even larger the longer he was offline.  

Yanking up his blankets, he propped his phone up a little too close to his face and began scrolling back through social media. There wasn’t a single fan or verified account that wasn’t talking about the medicine, somehow. Even when he thought he might have come across something that didn’t mention him, it was just a false start to tweet that was clearly referencing him.  

The worst, though, was when Shane started seeing connections being made to Irina. Mostly speculation because they couldn’t confirm anything when only Ilya and his brother knew the truth now. He was pretty sure his sister-in-law and niece still had no clue. That didn’t stop the media, though, from putting it together. A healthy woman who wasn’t even forty when she died wasn’t just an accident. Not in the way a car accident or heart attack might have been.  

Shane’s phone lit up with the name Lily, and he paused for a moment before swiping up to accept. The other end was silent and for a moment he wondered if Ilya called on accident or if he called on purpose and then decided he was too pissed off at him to talk. “Ilya?” he questioned softly. “You there?”  

There were more silence and rusting, like he was in bed too. Or at the very least curled up on the couch with a few blankets. “I’m here,” he eventually replied, his tone just as quiet.  

Shane let out a slow breath of relief. “I thought...I mean I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to talk to me,” he muttered. “I know I messed up.”  

“What?” was his response, sounding genuinely confused. “What are you talking about?”  

“The pills,” he elaborated like it was sort of obvious. “It was my idea that you get a psychiatrist. You said you didn’t want medication and I pushed and if I didn’t then maybe Marlow never would have—” 

“No,” Ilya interjected, his voice growing a bit firmer than it had before. “You made suggestion and I was against it. But not because it was bad one, it was just...not handleable at that moment.”  

His blankets shifted, like he was sitting up now. Whenever things got more serious, he always stiffened. His fight or flight became more noticeable, like he’s physically remove himself from the situation if it didn’t go his way. 

He nodded slowly to himself. “Oh,” he murmured. “So, it got more handleable, then?” The idea of talking to someone, taking medication, admitting that his thoughts weren’t just moodiness but an actual disorder. He didn’t know which of them he was asking about and which Ilya was referring to, but any of them were a good thing.  

“I think so,” he confessed, pausing for a moment as he thought about it. “Yes. I went because I wanted to see if it could help me and that could be what’s it’s doing, I think. Do you...think, too?” There was a rare tinge of caution in Ilya’s voice.  

Shane swallowed harshly, nodding to himself. “Yeah, yes, I’ve noticed a difference,” he admitted. “I didn’t wanna say anything in case you didn’t want to talk about it, but you...seem lighter.”  

“Lighter,” he repeated softly, like he was trying to figure out if the word really applied to him or not. He never thought it would, but, in a way, he didn’t disagree. Not as much as he used to. “I feel more like maybe things that were difficult before aren’t as hard.”  

Ilya still wasn’t used to being vulnerable. Not this vulnerable, anyway. With his body, sure. That was more an asset than anything else. And sometimes with his thoughts, when he could articulate them properly. But his feelings were harder.  

Usually, he disclosed those physically. Like if he couldn’t say he was in pain then he would just bite down on Shane’s lip a bit harder and hope the small difference was enough of a cry for help that he noticed it. This, talking about them, was newer for him. And with someone who wasn’t paid to listen. Who could hang up at any moment or reject everything he was saying.  

“I like it,” Shane muttered earnestly, picking at a loose thread on his blankets. “Do you- is there a reason you didn’t tell me?” he wondered after a moment.  

He didn’t want to make this all about him but couldn’t deny that it had hurt him to find out he was taking medicine at the same time the rest of the world did. It felt like he was just as clueless as everyone else, instead of the person he was supposed to trust with everything.  

“I...didn’t want it to change how you think of me,” Ilya confessed, sounding rather reluctant.  

He huffed slightly. “It was my idea,” he reminded him.  

“Yes, but you—” he exhaled in a bit of frustration, not at Shane but his persistent inability to convey his emotions the correct way. “—I don’t mean it like that. I mean...if I take pills and it makes me more tolerable then...maybe you never love the real me in the first place. I almost hoped you wouldn’t like this version better.”  

Shane went silent, the confession catching him off guard. He had never really considered that point of view before. In his opinion, medicine was supposed to bring out the best qualities in someone and stabilize the parts that people struggled to compartmentalize on their own. He never thought Ilya might view those parts as important enough that without them he wasn’t himself anymore.  

“That’s not how I feel, Ilya,” he assured him as vehemently as he could, wishing he were there in person to tell him that face to face. “I—” Jesus, what was he even supposed to say to that?” “—There’s no version of you I wouldn’t love. With or without medicine, you’re still you. Still mine. I just want you to see yourself the way I do.”  

He was quiet for a moment, like hearing that had sent a wave of emotion flooding through him. Apparently when he was medicated, he cried more often. He really hated that part, mostly. But sometimes, afterwards, he felt a bit better. Like things grew peaceful after letting his feelings take course instead of repressing them through another drink.  

“How do you see me?” he wondered, throat tightening slightly.  

The fans seemed to think he was a suicide risk or a weak link. If he couldn’t manage himself, how could he manage a full team? That’s what most tweets he saw said, anyway. Or they said it made sense. That might have honestly been the worst ones to read, because they implied that all the work he did to hide his problems had been for nothing.  

“You’re...bright,” Shane eventually replied, unsure how to really phrase it. “You make everything disappear when you smile or laugh.” And he wished more people got to see that side of him because it was so damn nice when he had nothing on his mind. “That dark, broody act is all bullshit.”  

“Don’t spread it around, you’ll ruin my reputation,” he mumbled, trying to lighten the conversation a bit. It fell flat, though, after he remembered the current situation. “That might already be ruined, huh?” 

He went quiet. Was it? It couldn’t be, right? This wasn’t enough to undo the cups he’d led his team to win or the number of fans who loved him despite his arrogance on the ice. The NHL could be harsh, of course, but they didn’t ridicule their players for things like this. Sure, no one had really admitted to full, chronic depression before, but still, that couldn’t be what turns everyone against him.  

“No,” Shane replied firmly. “Your reputation is not ruined. This isn’t- no. You’re taking care of your health, that doesn’t make you any less of a player.” He needed him to believe that. “You’re showing them that what you feel isn’t rare and that getting help isn’t something to be ashamed of.”  

He needed, desperately, for him to believe that. He couldn’t stand to think of him regressing when he had been doing so much better lately. The thought of Ilya throwing away his pills or trying to deny the whole thing hurt. A lot. He shouldn’t have to hide something that impacted him this badly or force himself to work twice as hard to keep up and three times as hard to get ahead when others didn’t have to struggle the way he did.  

“They think I’m a coward, don’t they?” Ilya questioned. “Your team. I know they probably heckled.” He could practically see it in his mind, laughing in the locker room. They were probably thrilled to finally have some public weakness to exploit the next time they played each other.  

He chewed the inside of his cheek. “So what?” he retorted bitterly. “Fuck them.”  

Ilya let out a small huff. “Relax, I don’t care what second best team has to say about me,” he murmured, even though his voice gave clues that said he sort of did care. At least in the arbitrary way that he always cared about his reputation. It was pretty much all he had, most of the time.  

“Well, I do care,” he grumbled in disdain. “It’s not fair that they’re saying this kind of bullshit when you’re just trying to take care of yourself.” And bringing his family into it, Irina especially, made his stomach coil even tighter. “I’m really sorry, Roz.”  

Ilya hummed softly, not quite upset but also not overly thrilled. It sounded mostly like one of those passive sounds he made when he didn’t really know how to feel and just wanted to contribute to the conversation. Probably because he knew too much silence scared Shane after a while and didn’t want him to panic.  

“It’s not your fault,” he reiterated, even though he already knew he was blaming himself for it. “I should have been more careful.” He should have kept the bottle tucked in a side pocket or buried at the bottom of the bag instead of tossing it on top. That had just been the order he packed in.  

“You shouldn’t have to be careful at all,” he murmured, letting out a sigh. “It’s not a thing you should have to hide like some dirty secret.”  

They’re relationship, he could understand. A lot of people might assume that it fundamentally changed something for them in the way they played or thought about the sport. But mental illness wasn’t new in hockey. It was just kept hidden.  

There was rustling on the other side of the phone as Ilya shifted, shoving his blankets off to walk into his bedroom. “Hmf, I wish the rest of hockey community felt the same way,” he mumbled, crawling under the blankets. “You sound like you’re already in bed.”  

Shane furrowed his eyebrows. “How do I sound like I’m in bed?” he wondered, despite it being completely true. “Can you hear the pillow or something?” 

“Your voice does that thing,” he replied vaguely, trying to put it into words. “Like it has dreamy sound before you fall asleep.” He only ever heard it when Shane laying down, either in bed on his lap, about to fall asleep.  

“That sounds like total bullshit,” Shane murmured, his lips quirking upwards as he fought a full-blown smile. “But yeah, I’m in bed. You?” It had been a long day for both of them, between news of his medicine making headlines and the humiliating loss to one of the worst teams in all of hockey. They were both tired, just fighting off sleep to keep talking a bit longer.  

“Mhm. I took an earlier flight than the rest of the team,” Ilya confessed, resting his head against the pillow. “I didn’t want to sleep in hotel tonight, thinking everyone was talking about me.”  

Even though they were his teammates, he knew they were still voicing their opinions behind his back. He just couldn’t seem to tolerate the idea of sleeping in some stiff bed and spending the entire flight home in the morning with their glares aimed at him. A long, late flight might have been abrupt and expensive, but it was worth it. 

“I—” Shane bit his tongue before he apologized again, not wanting to make him feel pitied. “Do you want to stay on the phone with me, tonight?” he suggested.  

“That would be nice,” he responded, reaching to plug his phone in. He settled it beside him on the pillow face up, then clicked the speaker button. “You will not hang up?” 

He scoffed at the thought, grabbing his own charger. “No,” he replied. “I’ll be here in the morning. Promise.”  

Ilya let out a slow breath, tugging one of his blankets up to cover his jaw. He kept it from blocking his ears, though, not wanting to muffle the sounds of Shane’s breathing. They were a bit faster at first, as they laid there in different countries. After a while, though, it evened out. His breaths grew steady and turned slower.  

It wasn’t until after Shane fell asleep that Ilya did the same.  

The next morning, as promised, they were both still on the phone. It wasn’t the first or last time they had fallen asleep like that, either on purpose or by mistake. It usually wasn’t terribly common though, between busy schedules and different time zones it was more of a once a month sort of thing. But in the following weeks, they did it more and more. Nearly every night, to be honest.  

The scrutiny beat down harder on Ilya. Fans, or pathetic excuses of them, went out of their way to analyze the details seen on the prescription including the name of the doctor who filled it. That opened the flood gates for his psychiatrist's place of practice to get ambushed on social media as well. There were a few memes to come out of it, the subtle mocking kind.  

There was a lot of long-winded criticism, too. The kind to dissect what made someone ‘strong’ and question Ilya’s leadership capabilities. Rumors circled about him being demoted in favor of a captain who was more stable. Shane tried to get him not to listen to them, of course.  

But even the live broadcasters found a way to keep bringing it up, going as far as questioning Hayden about it when he was hooked up to a mic during part of a game. Shane was relieved that he spun something about it ultimately being none of his business, otherwise he might have started a fight with his own teammate there on the ice.  

It was probably three, maybe three and a half weeks later when Ilya finally decided to address it. He’d been dodging interviews, ignoring the chirps of fellow players, and even refused to speak with his coach for the most part. But he knew he couldn’t just wait and hope it all went away.  

That of course, led to a lot of people wondering what he would say.  

“He’s probably going to tell everyone to mind their own business, then walk away,” Yuna suspected as she pulled a bowl out of the kitchen cabinet. “Or he’ll curse the reporters out and then walk away. One of the two.”  

Shane furrowed his eyebrows. “If that’s what you think, why are you making popcorn right now?” he questioned, watching her pull the bag out of the microwave.  

He knew she wasn’t a huge fan of Ilya. Frankly, he’d never tried to make her see otherwise because it would be too difficult to explain why he thought of him as a friend. But this was overkill, even for her.  

“Just wanted a snack and it happened to sound good,” she replied with a shrug, glancing at the clock as she hurried to empty the popcorn into her bowl. “It will be a little entertaining, though, don’t you think?”  

Rozanov was so arrogant, so cruel to others. This was a bit of karma, she thought. It wasn’t like he was really going to be in trouble for it and she knew that and was glad because despite her objections to his personality, he was a good player. But a bit of humbling never hurt anyone.  

Shane just sighed, following her into the living room. “Not really,” he mumbled, sitting on the couch as shaking his head when she offered him some popcorn. “It’s just an interview.”  

Yuna hummed, flipping through the channels to find it. “Pretty damn interesting topic,” he mused, settling on the program and turning the television up. “Did you know?”  

He glanced at her quickly. “What?”  

“Well obviously you didn’t know, but did you ever suspect anything all those times you played him?” Yuna wondered, popping a kernel into her mouth. “Did he ever seem depressed?” 

“Uh- no, not really,” he replied, shaking his head again. It was something he knew Ilya worked his ass off trying to cover and keep hidden from pretty much everyone, even Svetlana. “He always seemed, you know...like an asshole.”  

His words didn’t have quite as much bite as he knew his mom was expected and probably wanted, honestly, but he couldn’t muster the effort to pretend he hated Ilya right now. Not when he saw him pop up on the screen, sitting in a chair and looking rather uncomfortable. Maybe most people wouldn’t even notice it, but Shane could see his thumb rubbing over his knuckles. That was how Ilya always soothed himself when he was nervous.  

The interviewer asked him a question, something about confirming the rumors that he had been diagnosed with major depressive disorder. He nodded slowly after a moment, looking like there was real time realization in his eyes that he was actually doing this. He was coming clean about the problems he always intended to take to his grave.  

“Yes, I was,” Ilya eventually admitted out loud. “About six months ago professionally but before that it was always there, just stayed unacknowledged.”  

The woman hummed, glancing at her cards. “So, in response to the speculation that your behavior on ice is a side effect of the medication, you would say there’s no correlation since this is a newer development in your life?” she wondered.  

He nodded again, looking hyper-focused on her as he tried not to look at the camera. “I act how I act,” he replied, shrugging. “People call me abrasive, I guess. It’s just how I am.”  

Shane’s lips quirked slightly as he heard his voice waver towards the end of the answer. He leaned a bit forward on the couch, wishing he could be there with him in person to squeeze his hand and tell him he was doing fine. Better than fine, even. This was probably the most honest any player in the league had ever been about their mental health struggles and the fact that it was Ilya of all people standing up for it, made Shane a little, well, a lot proud.  

“It won’t have any impact on your position with the Raiders, then?” the interviewer asked curiously.  

Ilya shook his head instantly, letting out a scoff. “No,” he stated firmly. “Obviously not. I’m still me, with or without external factors.”  

Shane pursed his lips, feeling a familiar warmth blooming in his chest as he heard him admit what they had discussed several weeks ago over the phone. He tampered it, though, forcing himself to sit back against the couch a bit more as he tried to act relaxed beside his mother.  

“He’s giving better answers than I thought he would,” Yuna admitted, almost sounding displeased. “They’re also going easy on him. Probably gave him a nice interviewer to curb bad publicity.”  

“Mom, stop,” he mumbled, glaring at her. “This isn’t about hockey, okay? It’s someone’s mental health, don’t joke about it.”  

She creased her forehead slightly but looked back at the television where Ilya was still looking a bit stiff. Probably more so than she had ever seen from him. Usually, he was calm and collected on and off the ice. Dare she say a bit pretentious and rude, too? Yes. But he was never tense, not even during the playoffs.  

The interviewer glanced back at her cards. “If your mental health was something you, as you said, didn’t acknowledge, how did you reach the decision to seek treatment for it?”  

Ilya blew out a slow breath, unable to help but flitter his eyes towards the camera lens for a moment as if just hoping to catch Shane’s eye through the other side of it. “The people I care about suggested it,” he admitted hesitantly. “I wanted to be better for them. To keep them from worrying about me, especially when away for games.” 

Yuna wrinkled her nose. “Damnit,” she whispered. “I like that answer.”  

Shane glanced at her, huffing slightly. “Really?” 

She shrugged, pushing a few more pieces of popcorn into her mouth. “It’s a noble reason, I suppose,” she admitted begrudgingly. “I didn’t realize he knew how to pull his own head of his ass long enough to be considerate of others.”  

He nearly winced, unable to deny that there was some truth in her words. At least, theoretical truth. Ilya was always putting on an act of bravado and selfishness. It was on purpose. And as far as family goes, well, he didn’t have much. Not really. That wasn’t a mystery to anyone, even though he rarely talked about it. Never, actually. Shane couldn’t recall a single time when he even mentioned his father or mother or brother. Not even his niece.  

The interviewer nodded slightly. “I can only imagine that losing your father a few years back would have taken a toll on you—” 

Ilya was already shaking her head, interrupting. “No, not really,” he admitted. “He was...man who raised me, not father. My mama, she’s the one who gave me love. I win the cup for her, I get help for my health for her. I live a long life that she never got because of this disease.”  

Shane felt his chest clench, and he could see the look of surprise on the interviewers' face. Besides him, Yuna had sucked in a deep breath that was loud enough to be heard from across the couch. He knew Ilya wanted to try to control the narrative, but he really hadn’t thought he’d bring up Irina.  

“So, uh- your mother also struggled with depression, then?” the interview asked, trying to regain her barring after being caught off guard by his interjection.  

He nodded slowly. “She did, for many years,” he confessed. “It seems...ridiculous, in many ways, to fight with your own mind. I never wanted people to know that, to think she was weak. I never wanted them to know my own struggle in case they thought the same.”  

“You’ve faced a lot of criticism for it, lately,” the interviewer noted, her voice growing a bit more empathetic. “Did that hurt to see from loyal fans and the community you’ve devoted so much of your life to?”  

Ilya mused over it, his eyes flitting back to the camera again for a second. “In some ways, yes,” he confessed. “I am not as uh- supercilious as many people believe. I give everything I have for the sport and being called unstable or unfit because of a few thoughts I can’t even control having is...unfair, in my opinion. But it is also not surprising.”  

Yuna hummed, her eyebrows shooting up at the large word that he didn’t even know Ilya knew let alone could pronounce. She supposed she should have been that shocked, given he had been in the states for nearly a decade by now.  

“You expected this response, then?” the interviewer clarified, watching him nod. “Was any part of it surprising to you? Either your team's response or anyone near you?”  

Ilya sucked on his cheek as he thought about it. “Between the hate and criticism I have seen many people who says it’s nice to feel seen, in a way,” he confessed. “This wasn’t what I planned but if I can bring anyone some sort of comfort, then...embarrassment is worth it, yes?” 

The interviewer nodded her head again. “It’s certainly hard for a lot of people to see someone as stoic as you showing this level of vulnerability,” she noted. “It might come as a surprise to some people that you can even sit for this long without talking about nothing but scoring patterns or upcoming travel plans.” 

Shane supposed that was true. Of all the players in the league, he was probably everyone's last pick for the emotional interview. In fact, if he had been smart enough to take bets on this, he might have managed to make a nice bit of pocket change for himself. Not that he would ever be that cruel or anything. Although, Ilya would have approved of the venture, he was sure. 

“I love this game; hockey consumes me. But...I don’t want to sacrifice myself for it. Not in place of love, peace, and other things that make me happy,” he admitted, shaking his head. “I want both. I want my dream and to feel safe in my own head. I don’t think that’s as unreasonable as many people tried to convince me.”  

To convince others, too, Shane thought. So many people out there felt the same way he did, not just around him but all over the world. There were people who saw depression as a fault or character flaw. Like it made them less of a person. It wasn’t true. Ilya was just now starting to come to terms with that, after fighting with what he thought he knew about depression for a long time.  

“And do you have anything to say to anyone else out there, either in the NHL or in general?” the interviewer wondered. “Words to the other players who might be worried about seeming weak or fans who have either opposed or supported you through this ordeal?” 

He shrugged a bit. “To fans I upset, I suggest you change the channel. To the ones who support me, I hope I don’t disappoint during the rest of the season,” he muttered, thinking for a moment. “And to other players or anyone else who feels frightened by their thoughts sometimes, it is not as scary as it seems to seek help.”  

Yuna clicked off the television before Shane could see the rest of the interview close out. He figured it would just be a brief goodbye, maybe a handshake. He still kind of wanted to see it play out, though. Glancing over at his mom, he saw her tugging her lips to the side in contemplation the way she did whenever she got confused or couldn’t make sense of something.  

“I hate that guy,” she muttered after a while, tilting her head to look at her son. “But I might have a little more respect for him, now, too.” She set her bowl of popcorn on the table, sitting up like she was absorbing the entire conversation. “I didn’t think he was so...human.”  

Shane let out a small laugh, fingers twitching around his phone in his pocket. “Yeah, those were some pretty good answers,” he agreed, trying his best not to beam over how composed Ilya managed to look towards the end of it.  

She nodded begrudgingly. “He’s probably going to get some sponsorship for BetterHelp now,” she commented, looking him up and down like she was already trying to figure out how to one up him. “You don’t happen to feel anything that we might want to diagnose anytime soon—” 

He was already shaking his head. “Mom, no,” he retorted firmly. “At least, not yet, anyway.” Maybe at some point he’d take his own advice and talk to someone.  

Yuna looked slightly surprised by the last part of his sentence but schooled the shock quickly. “Okay, then,” she murmured, picking up her popcorn. “I’m going to bother your dad for a bit, maybe try to figure out how I feel about Rozanov now that I know he’s secretly a decent person.” 

Shane huffed, nodding as she leaned over to kiss the top of his head. He scrunched his nose, not bothering to push her away as she ruffled his hair like she used to when he was a kid. He followed her with his eyes, watching her leave the room before he pulled out his phone and slid open his text message.  

There was a string of texts from Ilya as soon as he was off the air, clearly sent without really thinking about it. Things like, ‘Was that alright?’, ‘Did I sound too nice?’, and ‘That was worst experience of my life’ were the ones that caught his attention the most.  

Of course, only Ilya Rozanov would worry about coming across as too nice in an interview. Smiling to himself, he typed back, ‘You were perfect. I’m proud of you.’ before hitting send.  

The text went through, and he saw the bubbled pop up at the bottom of the conversation. Then, they disappeared. And reappeared. Then, faded again. Before Shane could question his unusual hesitance, a call came through.  

His smile grew wider and he glanced over his shoulder, making sure his mom was outside with his dad before hitting the accept button and bringing his phone to his ear. “Fingers too shaky to text?” he teased, although there was a hint of truth in his words. He could see the way Ilya was nearly jumping out of his chair towards the end, eager for the conversation to end. 

On the other end, Ilya scoffed at him. “You joke but they’re trembling,” he confessed, sounding like he just got off the treadmill instead of a sit-down interview. “That was terrifying.” 

Shane stood up, walking out of the living room and making his way towards the guest room to give them a little extra privacy. “Was that all it was, though?” he wondered, closing the door behind him.  

Ilya let out a small breath as he slowly calmed down when he heard how relaxed, perhaps even proud, Shane's tone was. “No,” he confessed, scrubbing his face. “It felt...good, too. Being honest. It was a bit exhilarating.” Like scoring the game-winning goal, only without the immediate dogpile afterwards.  

He sat on the edge of the bed, getting comfortable. “Yeah?” he mumbled, chest warming at the thought. “What was going through your head?” he asked.  

Laying back, Shane stared at the ceiling as Ilya recounted it. Most of it, he was improvising. Well, pretty much all of it, actually. He hadn’t planned to bring up his mother or intended to sound overly hopeful; it just kind of happened. But when it did, he didn’t automatically regret the words the way he assumed he would. He actually felt almost glad to have gotten them off his chest.  

Ilya had no idea when he turned into someone who was this open about himself, especially not publicly. But now he was talking Shane’s ear off about how liberating it had felt to just admit he was seeking help, to normalize it for himself and maybe even the NHL as whole. And he realized, as he heard those little hums Shane gave and imagined him nodding on the other end of the phone, that he really liked this version of himself.