Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Hayden Pike, Rose Landry

Additional Tags:

Original Character(s), Alternate universe - canon diverence, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Protective Shane Hollander, Explicit Sexual Content, Sad Ilya Rozanov, Author doesn’t really know hockey, POV Ilya Rozanov, POV Shane Hollander, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Jealous Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Leaves the Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros, in this fic hockey is in the closet, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, My Kink Is Inserting Black Women Characters in Everything, Late-Stage Capitalism Haunts, Ilya Frontline Defender, Shane Apologist, Minor Original Character(s), Second Chances, Falling In Love, falling back in love, Coming Out, Happily Ever After, Developing Relationship, Politics, BAMF Shane Hollander, frontal lobes devellpoment is frontal lobbing, They went to therapy, Getting Back Together, Career Ending Injuries

Language:

English

Series:

Part 8 of Inspired By... Hollanov

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-15 Completed: 2026-05-27 Words: 16,662 Chapters: 3/3

Public Record

Summary

In 2016, Shane's career ended; it was also the year he last spoke to Ilya. Nearly a decade later, it’s 2025. Shane is the mayor of Boston, Ilya has just won his fourth Stanley Cup with the Bears, and a celebratory dinner throws them back into each other’s orbit. They’re not teenagers anymore, and no longer interested in almosts or what-ifs. This time, they want to try being partners for real. This is the story of their relationships.

Notes

So, I’m back. Same obsessions as always: figuring out how to weave political and social commentary into romance, and romance into political and social commentary. I also really love relationships that move beyond miscommunication and teenage/early twenties confusion into something shaped by fully developed frontal lobes and deliberate choices. This is very much a “meeting again later in life” story, centered around one of my favorite tropes: choosing each other, over and over, as adults. Being a couple doesn’t magically prevent conflict; it just changes what conflict looks like.

I don’t yet know how many chapters this will be. So far, I’ve always finished my fics, and I fully intend to finish this one, too. Thanks for reading.

Also, for those who are reading my fic Counting Summers, this one is justice for Iro :-)

• Inspired by death and taxes (and shane hollander) by fingersfallingupwards

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

Huge thanks to my beta readers
Witwandwolfbird,
and Faithella

This table was so long, too long. Objectively, it was not the longest table Ilya had ever sat at, but this one felt like the longest, busiest table he had ever eaten dinner at, as at the end was Shane Hollander—Mayor Shane Hollander. It was the closest Ilya had been to Shane in six years, except earlier that night when Shane shook his hand in the line with the other teammates. Ilya was an eager eater, but tonight, he was very self-aware of his food, the dinner, the multiple plates, the chatter, and the cameras. He had spent an hour deciding what to wear. He had hoped he would be seated, as captain of the Bears, next to the mayor, but the chain of hierarchy and command had put him in the middle of the long table after the coach, GM, owners, and chief of staff. His plan to tap Shane’s foot under the table was off.

Ilya had had a crazy idea. Could he pull it off? Flirting with the mayor, bringing back the nostalgia for Shane, of secret hook-ups from their twenties.

But they were not in their twenties anymore. It had been years, and during those years Shane had had time to become a totally new person. The one in interviews, shaking people’s hands, doing public speeches, carrying babies, and becoming Shane Hollander, the first Asian-American and first gay mayor of Boston. And what had changed for Ilya? He was still the captain, still winning Stanley Cups. He was a U.S. citizen now, an orphan, a man with a complicated relationship with his brother. He lived in the same house. When Shane had shaken his hand, and Ilya had said with a knowing look and voice, “Hollander,” instead of the flushed face he had been used to years ago, Shane had looked at him and answered, “Ilya, so good to see you,” and clapped his shoulder.

“The mayor has a favorite!” Marleau had shouted behind him in the line.

It was the first small dissonance between Ilya’s memory of Shane and this version of Shane. From afar, because he had followed everything about him, he had known Shane was not the same. Outside of hockey, he had become someone else, or become what he could be without confined rules. To Ilya’s displeasure, Shane was not in the business of clandestine hookups anymore, and had very public relationships; one was a baseball player, of them happened to be a sports journalist, which ruined F1 commentary for Ilya, and last year, a European prime minister, according to TMZ. However, since his election, he has been single, and voted by several media outlets, even the straight ones, as the most eligible bachelor in Massachusetts, every week being shipped with rich and famous gay men.

Shane Hollander had changed, but one thing had remained constant: being first. In his life, the first former hockey player to become mayor, but in Ilya’s life, the first person, regardless of gender, who was out of his grasp. Who he could not get out of his head, heart, and skin.

The dinner was reaching its end, and Ilya saw Shane standing, not leaving, but heading to the bathroom while guests where invited to the reception room. This was a dance he knew. They were at the Tuckerman-Parkman Mansion. This was not a public event so surely security would not follow him to the bathroom.

Ilya counted to fifteen and went to the bathroom too. He would wait for Shane to get out and make some sexually charged comment to test where Shane stood. It had been a while since he had flirted. Coming out of a serious-ish relationship with Rachel, he had not been back on the dating market yet and stuck to only picking up in clubs after games which did not require too much talking.

He came close to the bathroom door, strategically placed to be discreet at the end of a corridor. He was getting ready to place himself back against the wall, leaning, waiting for Shane to come out, looking effortlessly hot. He unbuttoned one more button of his shirt. As he approached, the door opened, and Shane looked at him.

“I thought you’d count to thirty.”

Ilya had not planned for this scenario. He had been ready to be a predator tonight and instead he felt as if he had fallen into Shane’s trap.

“Waiting for me, Hollander?”

“I was,” Shane replied. He stayed silent for a moment. “Come. I don’t have a bathroom kink.”

Shane started walking as if he knew all the corridors, and Ilya had to remind himself that it was his official house, so he did know all the corridors. Shane pushed a wall that was secretly a door, and they entered a small office that was not in the official pictures.

“Should I be afraid for my life?” Ilya asked.

“Too many witnesses tonight. You’ll get out alive,” Shane said, sitting himself on the corner of the desk, considering Ilya. “You look good. Very good.”

“You too, Mister Mayor.”

“You can call me Shane.”

“Oh, because I saw your dick?”

“Many hockey players saw my dick. If I remember correctly, you did more than just see it,” Shane said, tracing his tongue on his teeth.

This again. The rules of engagement had changed. It was supposed to be an Ilya line, not Shane’s.

“You taught yourself how to flirt, Holl—Shane?”

“Frontal lobe development.”

Ilya tried to get back the upper hand, closing the gap between them, walking toward the desk, and Shane moved swiftly so Ilya was perfectly placed between his legs, close enough that they could breathe on each other. Ilya smelled of red wine, and Shane smelled like Canada Dry.

“You wanted to be alone with me, Mister Mayor Shane.”

“I’m sure it was a reciprocal plan, Mister Captain Ilya.”

And before Ilya could put his hand on Shane’s jaw, Shane kissed him, one hand in his hair, a firm and soft kiss. Ilya's hand was on Shane's waist. Maybe he could fuck him here on the desk or kneel or, better yet, watch Shane get on his knees for him. The phone on the desk rang twice, and Shane stopped; both of their erections were visible.

“What?” Ilya asked.

“It’s Anita, letting me know we need to come back.”

“Your chief of staff knows that we’re making out in a secret room?”

“She knows things about me that I don’t even know... Give me your phone.”

Ilya gave it to him. Shane put his number in it.

“I’ll call you. Go.”

Ilya kissed him again. He got out of the small room, breathed, pressed down his erection. He felt like two hours had passed, but it had only been ten minutes. Ten minutes that felt easier than he had planned to get close to Shane’s pants, but at the same time, more complicated. It had been too easy. It was another Shane.

Ilya looked at his phone and the contact name Shane had entered: Mister Mayor.

When he came back, people had moved from the dining table to the second reception room. More guests had arrived, drinks were being served, and a jazz band was playing. He spotted Shane in conversation with the Boston Bears owner. How did he arrive before Ilya? Surely, there was another secret door. He turned and saw Carter Vaughn's sister, Anita, who smiled back at him.

Before leaving, they took a group picture, Shane standing in the middle, next to Coach LeClaire and the GM, and at his right, Ilya. The rest of the players spread out, one on the floor, and the Cup at the center held by their youngest rookie, Keenan.

"Do you want to hold it, Mayor?" St-Simon asked.

"Not a hockey player anymore, but you never know, don't want to jinx it. Still believe in superstition," Shane said. Ilya did not see when Shane disappeared from the party; he waited in his car outside, after saying goodbye to the guys who would go off to wherever they came from for the off-season. Now that he did not have to go to Moscow, Ilya's summers were mostly, since 2017, random plans organized around invitations from friends, Monaco trips for F1, or, when he was still with Rachel, some highly curated itinerary to make the most of her limited lawyer vacation.

Svetlana had plans for Italy; he told her maybe he would think about it after the Cup. Shane's office invitation arrived, and he no longer thought about vacation.

On the ride home, his fingertips trailed his lips. He wanted to taste Shane again, but the several champagne flutes he had drunk washed it over. 'I'll call you,' Shane had said. Would he call him? It was what Shane had said the last time they spoke in 2016, but he did not call, nor answer Ilya's texts. They continued to follow each other on social media, liking each others posts. Shane disappeared for a year, but he came back a few months after the Hunter moment, and slowly his Instagram became less and less about hockey, until it was full of political campaign content.

Last year was the first election Ilya could vote in; he went to the booth with the screenshot of Shane's Instagram post.

Resolution 1 : vote yes

Resolution 2: vote no

Resolution: 3 : vote yes

He needed a shower, not only to get clean but to blow off steam from the low he had all night. This time, unlike the many times in past years when he had jerked off to memories of Shane, he had new visuals. Shane's stronger, leanerbody, a new cologne, the new confidence.

The next morning, coffee in hand, scrolling through last night's media coverage of the reception for the Bears at the Mayor's residence, Ilya searched for Shane's face, searching to see if he could still read him, but so many new expressions were there. The ease in his face and eyes when he was talking to Anita or his comms guy, Iro; the confidence when he was shaking hands with the governor and other elected officials. The genuine openness, but still Shane - reserved, sometimes quiet. Ilya recalled the video from the election night. Ilya was used to stadiums chanting his name, but Shane had stepped out in front of thousands of people who had chosen him, not for a game but to be their mayor, to deliver on a promise of an affordable city to live in. And he saw in Shane's eyes the same light; stronger, bolder than the one he had when he raised the Cup in 2015 and 2016.

Ilya remembered the numbers, like he remembered Shane's stats for assists, goals, and ice time. He remembered Mister Mayor's stats.

3789 volunteers canvassing

24560 votes in the primary

93456 popular votes, 66.7%

It was another scale, something no hockey stadiums could give someone. 93,456 people put a ballot in the mail or took time to stand in line to vote for Shane Hollander.

He should go for a walk. He put the idea of looking for a flight to Italy in a 'probably no' box in his head. Shane would not go on vacation, for sure. Ilya had another tab open on his phone, just for Shane. The city website made it very easy to stalk the Mayor. His agenda for the next 6 weeks was there: children's hospital, inauguration, Vatican delegation, summer school program, DSA conference host in Boston, July 4th, and 10 days off begining of August before first day of school.

Maybe he could go with Shane wherever he was going. Ilya caught himself before he read into this any further. It was only a kiss, a heated kiss, and now here he was, fantasizing about vacation with Mister Mayor.

Maybe he would go to Moscow for a week. He had gone last year with Svetlana for two weeks before heading to Costa Rica with St-Simon and Marleau.

Maybe... maybe if Shane did not call him, he would go. Surely he would not call him.

It was already 11 a.m. now; he should call Marleau or Carmichael.

His phone rang with the words Mister Mayor flashing on the screen. Without thinking, he answered after only one ring.

"Hey," Shane said.

"You called."

"I told you I would."

"You said that last time.

"True, but we are not in the same time anymore."

"Oh, and which time is it?" Ilya asked. His question was vague, but he craved for a 10-point program—the same as the 10-point program from Shane's campaign he had a copy of somewhere here. He wanted Shane to give him in his Mayor voice a 10-point program for this week, this summer, or for his life. Ten points for where the kiss would lead.

"Are you free tonight?"

"I might be."

"At 7?"

"Yes."

"Would love to have you for dinner at my place."

"At the city house?"

"No, my private house. Will send you the address."

"Should I use the service door?" Ilya paused. "For privacy?"

"No, I mean not for mine. Do you need privacy?" Shane asked, and Ilya considered it. Did he need it? He had the blue passport, but still, there was the hockey world's opinions of what the Bears' captain would be doing alone with the very openly gay Mayor at 7 p.m. on a Saturday.

"No. Should I bring something?"

"No, or maybe pajamas if you want," Shane said, and Ilya let out a laugh. When did Shane become so bold?

"I like to sleep naked."

"I'm looking forward to that. See you tonight."

"Bye."

Ilya parked his car on the driveway behind what seemed to be Shane's car; across the street there was a car with two men who were obviously Shane's security detail. He had been torn on which car he would drive to Shane's and settled on a sports car with a sensible color, a metallic grey McLaren. He did not bring pajamas, but he did bring a small travel bag containing briefs and a T-shirt, a toothbrush, and cologne. He would not go inside with it, but if he was still there tomorrow, it would be useful.

Ilya believed in being fashionably late, but tonight he was fashionably early by ten minutes. He survived the afternoon by keeping himself busy: tidying the house that was already professionally cleaned, working out, attempting to watch movies, and finally watching someTV.

"Hey," Shane said, opening the door.

"Hey."

***

You cheated death; it would be a shame to cheat life too.

It was Anita who told him years ago, the first time they met. When she met the prior version of Shane, a version still living inside him, but fragmented. He was now seated across from Ilya, smelling nice, looking good. He did not kiss him when he opened the door, not because he did'nt want to, but because he was trying to leave room for Ilya to make the choice, acknowledging that he was the one who did not call back nearly ten years ago.

"You cooked?" Ilya asked him,

"No, it's catering, but I put them on the plates."

"Great work," Ilya said with a smirk, but it really was great work. Shane had to bargain minutes to find a way to order and get the catering delivered from the best Russian restaurant in the city, making his chauffeur stop by on his way home. He had the best vodka delivered, according to Katarina, his deputy of housing. He hoped that he did not look too tired. He had spent three hours battling with the real estate representatives and owners' association on zoning to push more multifamily housing and affordable buildings, and two of those hours were them playing in his face.

"I voted for you," Ilya said, taking a sip of vodka.

"Thank you, did I convince you?"

"You were the only candidate I knew, and I liked point 5."

"I didn't know you were into childhood programs."

"I liked what you said about having to take care of children, that they are the responsibility of everyone to protect them."

"Thanks."

"How is it, being mayor?"

"Tiring. Busy"

"More than hockey?"

"Way more. At least off-season and out of the rink, I could think about something else. Now it's always, always a crisis, but it's exciting. You know, making a large-scale difference, not just representation." And it was better than before when he was supposed to be a representation for Asian kids in Canada. Because of hockey and being a role model, he was required to not speak about anything consequential: be polite, be the best at hockey, be an object that anyone could project on. Now, a lot more people hated him, and a lot more people knew him, but at least a part of it, not all of it, was because of his ideas.

"Why didn't you try to be mayor in Montreal? You spent more years there."

"In total, barely, but not the most important years." It was one of the points of attack from his opponents. Yes, Shane was born in Boston when his father was deployed by his firm in the 90s for few years, but he left at three for Ottawa and only came back at fifteen when his father was again sent to redress the same shipping sink office before he left for good to Canada's treasury. During the primary, the question was not on the table; it would be bad for any DNC candidate to attack another on whether they were a real American or not when immigration violent crackdowns were the major opposition in the state against the current administration. The general election was different; the Republican opponents went full-on, circulating ads that calculated how many years Shane had spent in the US versus Canada. They surely thought that it would be less xenophobic to do that than to blast an ad saying for him to go back to Ontario.

Iro came up with the slogan, "The Years That Matter," focusing on Shane's journey: attending high school in Boston, graduating a year early, playing hockey for three years at Harvard and earning his Bachelor of Liberal Arts degree there, joining the Montreal Voyageurs, and eventually returning to Boston after his retirement. Boston was the city he always came back to, the place that helped him survive the tragic end of his career. Iro did an excellent job with the television campaign ad, featuring photos of Shane at prom night, at iconic Boston teen landmarks, with the Harvard hockey team, and at the Boston parade. The phrase "The Years That Matter" was also a call not to disappear during the four years of the current White House resident, promising that Shane's mandate, a mandate for justice and equality, would matter most during those years.

"You are different," Ilya said.

"I hope so. We are 34 now. You are different, too."

"I am still a hockey player, still in Boston, still handsome."

"Yes, but different. This was the only way I made it, you know, becoming someone different," Shane said.

"It was hard?"

"The hardest."

"We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," Ilya said. They both understood what the "it" encompassed.

"We can. I talked about it all over the campaign," Shane said.

"I don't want to talk about it like in campaign videos," Ilya said. The campaign videos were a meticulous crafting of his public image as a mayor; as someone who came from far away, the American story of resilience, of persistence. It was not fake, it was based on real truth, but not all the truth, because it could not have shown all the scars.

"Let's go to the living room," Shane said, taking Ilya's empty plate and putting it in the sink.

They reached the couch. Shane placed their glasses on coasters on the coffee table, let Ilya sit first on the large couch, and then sat next to him with his legs folded. He looked at Ilya for a moment and kissed him gently on the cheek. Ilya turned his face to Shane and they kissed. Shane felt the desire to make the kiss more intense, but he did not want to evade the questions or go back to his old self, so he slowed down their kiss. He pulled away and put his head on Ilya's lap. Ilya started to trail his hand through Shane's hair. His hair was cut short, but not too short to appeal to young people, yet still adult enough to make one forget he was a 34-year-old mayor.

"I almost didn't make it. Saying I was a mess would be such an understatement. I was nothing."

"When I called you?"

"It was not even rock bottom. And it was not a lie when I said I would call you. I really planned to do it." But then at the hospital, the doctor came into the room, and calling Ilya became impossible as his life crumbled under the words "career ending." He looked at his mother, and she did not have in her eyes the Yuna look—"we will find a way."

Shane originally thought that a higher power had pulled him out of the stupid Voyageurs accident. Two rookies and a PT were in a coma, and he was one of the ones who was injured but not unconscious. He went into surgery thinking that he would miss six months or a maximum of a whole season. He thought he would put in the work and get back on ice. At least he would have that to not think about it the accident. About J.J. and Hayden covered in blood, about the news of Comeau, who lost his left leg. He even had the time to talk to Rose on the phone. When Ilya had sent a message, "Please be okay, Hollander," he had called him. It was not how it was supposed to be. Rose had broken up with him two weeks previously, he had finally figured out he was gay, and was looking forward to the All-Star games.

He had waited for his mother to not be in the room and called, as he promised not to look at the screen. He had said to Ilya that he would call him after the doctor visit. He had told him he wanted to talk, and he was sorry for leaving the way he did last time. "Your girlfriend is with you?" Ilya had asked, and he told him that "we are not compatible." It was not meant to be the last time he talked to Ilya. But the doctor had come, and everything went bleak that morning of December 18th, 2016.

"When was the worst time for you?" Ilya asked.

"June 2017, first time I really thought that maybe dying would be less painful." For six months, Shane was living like a hermit. He gave over his life to his mother and she dealt with his sponsors, selling his apartment, and finances. After two weeks in hospital, he left and made the drive to his parents' cottage for two months and then went to his cottage. His mother was the one who published the announcement of his retirement due to injury. He removed all social media apps from his phone first and then turned his phone off. Rose called him on his parents' phone; he did not answer most of the time. He did not answer Jackie or Hayden, even after Hayden made it back home to rehab and was set to get back on ice. He did not answer J.J., who was also going back. He did not even answer Drapeau, who lost his leg, or the rookie who only had two months in MHL before his career ended. He did not answer his parents when they asked him if he wanted something.

Ilya let a dry laugh out.

"What?" Shane asked, putting his head up.

"For me too, it was 2017, but in June... my father, he died in March, and my brother, he's not good, we're not good. My father was not a good man either... but I don't know, when playoff started, everything came back all at once, I was alone here in Boston, no living parent, no brother. I've got teammates and my friend Svetlana, but it wasn't enough. I drank a lot, wasn't a good friend, was not a good captain."

"I was not good at anything—friend, son, and no longer a captain. I was even bad at the therapy that my mom forced me to do. I almost joined a cult that promised to cure everything," Shane said.

"What made you stop thinking about... you know?"

"Dying? J.J.'s wedding." Shane had planned not to go, sending a gift or more likely asking his parents to send a gift, but his mother had reached her breaking point and instead of "take your time honey" or "we're here," she came to the cottage and yelled at him for being so rude "You are alive, you cannot play professional hockey but you can still train, run, swim, think, and you're just hiding here because you have the money to do so. You treat your dad and me like shit. We know it's hard, but you have to want something or let us help."

He had agreed to go to the wedding, which was at the end of July. His life had stopped, but not the world’s. Even hockey’s attention had moved on from half of the Voyageurs roster being lost to career-ending injuries to Scott Hunter coming out. The accident had thrown J.J. into full I have to make a major life decision mode, which apparently culminated in marrying an American chef who had opened a trendy restaurant in Montreal and also happened to be a distant cousin of Carter Vaughn. The wedding was the first time Shane had seen Hayden, Jackie, and their children since the accident.

Shane had to thank his mother, who had surely spoken to J.J. about table placement. Shane had declined the best man position and was at a table with his parents and five other guests that were non-hockey people from the U.S. Amongst them were Anita and Iro.

"We just clicked," Shane said to Ilya, recounting what happened. He never had a better word for how their trio formed. He was always socially awkward—the last time he found someone easy to talk to was Rose—but Anita and Iro were different. They were strong individuals and still a unit; Iro was Anita's plus one. Shane had developed a distinct and singular fascination with each of them. In Iro, he saw another kind of hyphenated identity: Iro was Japanese American and also gay, but unlike Shane, he was out and an extrovert; a window into a never-existing version of himself. Anita seemed to possess an almost supernatural precision with language. She always knew exactly what she meant, exactly how to say it, and exactly how it would land. She was never long-winded, and she was funny too, as if she knew some private magic trick for making sentences.

After the wedding, instead of running back to his self-inflicted pugatory asceticism at the cottage, he stayed three days in Montreal. He did not recall how the two forced him to show them around, nor how they coerced him to come visit in Washington D.C. They were both working for the DSA, and Anita was a postdoc at Howard University.

Integrating himself into an already established duo should have made Shane feel like a third wheel, but instead, the three of them fit together with surprising ease, finding overlapping pieces of themselves everywhere. There were particular affinities shared by three millennial people of color moving through the same world from slightly different angles. Shane and Iro gravitated toward each other through the tangled axis of race, gender, and sexuality. With Anita, it was hockey culture: both had grown up in hockey families and within the strange, insular world surrounding the sport. She understood what it felt like to be one of the few people of color, or the only person of color, in a room, especially with hockey, something she had witnessed first-hand growing up as Carter’s sister.

They could have met back when Shane was at Harvard. But for that to happen, Shane would have needed to care about something other than hockey and making it to the Voyageurs.

He visited them for a week. They lived in a house with a guest room, and they refused to let him stay at a hotel.

Shane had already prepared himself to feel uncomfortable, but the house was tidy, warm, and immaculately clean. Anita and Iro were both remarkably neat, and they had a way of existing together without constantly needing to fill the silence. One week became two, and then three. Then he started going with them to their meetings, then Anita asked for input on a sports proposal, and then he started speaking in DSA town hall meetings. Three weeks turned into six, by then it was mid-August, and the guest room became "Shane's room." One day, he realized he had not thought about hockey for 26 hours, and his mother kept shipping more and more personal items. He started answering messages, had called Hayden, JJ, Rose, and then one day he posted a picture of the library.

"I really started it by accident," Shane said, continuing his retelling. The 'accident' was a dinner at their house with DSA section representatives from across the country. He was now an official member and unofficial assistant to Anita. Someone was talking about youth and sports, and they asked Shane his opinion, and to his surprise, he had an opinion about how to make sports more inclusive, and how important sports were beyond the goal of "going pro." Sports were for "making friends, learning teamwork, building communities, staying active, and should put less pressure on everyone to end up in the major league."

After this night, Anita told him they had a position for a few hours a week at the Capitol office, to work on the youth program. "It was just my opinion, I don't know anything about how the government works," he told her.

She told him that democratic socialism believed you didn’t need to be a Yale J.D. to do politics, that organizing should belong to everyone. “I still want to learn more,” Shane had said.

And before he knew it, Shane was writing a personal statement for late admission into a dual M.A. in Political Science and Community Development at Howard University, with a concentration in queer theory. He started showing up with things to say to his therapist other than "fine" or "I don't know what you want me to say."

Yuna and David, who had always thanked the heavens that Shane was drafted by a Canadian team rather than a U.S team, were happy that he stayed in D.C. His quietness and outstanding neuroticism in hockey were not out of place. He learned how to be heard without yelling, to stand his position, and to breathe through anxiety. He became better at therapy and learned that it was okay to be gay.

"Were you mad about what hockey people said when you came out?" Ilya asked.

"At the time, they weren't important anymore," Shane said. He did not come out; he just posted a picture at dinner with Iro and his boyfriend, and Shane's boyfriend at the time, Peter. He had been in DC for over a year, juggling his job and university. He was now a speaker rep; his Instagram was less hockey and more politics, his followers too. Being a Democrat was not popular among hockey fans, but democratic socialist was not even the most popular among Democrats.

Some blogs talked shit about it, but at the time, it had been two years since the accident. He was only in contact with Hayden and JJ; there were no All-Star games and no post-game interviews to be bullied at. He was no longer in the space where hockey was his whole world. In 2021, when Anita, Iro, and he were key staffers of Sernie Danbers, the three decided that Shane could have a shot at 2024 Boston. At that point, hockey was just a demographic line on his profile that could appeal to moderate Republicans and young men under 35.

"I thought about calling you when I came back to Boston," Shane said.

"Why didn't you do it?"

"It wasn't right to Paul."

"Oh, the fiancé."

"We were never engaged, but yes, a serious long-term relationship."

"He didn't allow you to have friends?"

"I knew I could never be your friend, and also, it was a crazy time." A time when Shane became an assembly member, learned to survive five hours of constituent one-to-ones, handshaking, political backstabbing and snakes, fundraising, political scandal, and smear campaigns. His three-year relationship with Paul did not survive.

"So you didn't invite me to dinner to be friends with the hot captain of the city's favorite team?"

"I think the Celtics are the favorite team," Shane changed position and sat on Ilya's lap. "I don't want to be your friend, Ilya. Did you come over because you want to be my friend?"

"No."

"Why did you come?"

"You kissed me in the bathroom, and you are a pretty mayor, and I never fucked a mayor. I—"

"I don't want to be your fuck buddy."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"What do you want?"

"I want to try with you..."

"To be something?"

"No, I can’t do an undefined relationship; my life could not accommodate one. I want to try with you, for us to be together, a couple."

"Boyfriend?"

"Partner, yes."

"And how do we do this?"

"Like this. By spending time together, going on dates, talking."

"Sex?"

"Fuck yes."

"And public?"

"I don't want to push you to come out of the closet. We don't need to rush, and we could surely find a way to be discreet, private. But I am the mayor; it would not stay secret unless we just met behind closed doors, and I am not going back in the closet. But we don't have to figure it out tonight or now."

"Will be the first hockey partner of Boston. Adding to your list of firsts."

“My list of firsts?”

“Yes, funfactsaboutMayorHollander.com, very good website. First Asian American mayor, first Canadian-American, first elected Mayor of Boston who went to a Historically Black University, first former major league athlete, first openly gay mayor elected, first Millennial, first democratic socialist mayor of Boston, and youngest Boston Mayor.”

“You learned all of that?”

“I like to do my research before voting,” Ilya said.

"Do you want to see my bedroom?"

"I very much want to."

Ilya stepped closer and gently pushed Shane back, walking him towards the bed. Shane started to unbutton Ilya’s jeans, but Ilya stopped him. He removed Shane’s shirt and pants before taking off his own. They were both left only in their briefs. Ilya climbed onto the bed, making Shane lie down, and got on top of him, kissing him. Unlike the kiss on the couch, this one was hungry, messy, and wet.

"I haven't stopped thinking about fucking you since yesterday," Ilya said into Shane's ear. "I thought about it for years," Shane answered. Ilya pulled him up; they were both standing now, Shane reaching for more kisses, his hand on Ilya’s waist, Ilya grasping his head and sucking his tongue. Ilya stepped back, and Shane dropped to his knees, taking off Ilya’s briefs.

"Look at you, on your knees for your favorite constituent. So pretty."

Shane took him in his mouth but kept his eyes on Ilya, while Ilya trailed his hand through Shane's hair, following the cadence of Shane's head.

"Fuck, I dreamed about this. I missed your mouth," Ilya said. "You're doing so well, sweetheart."

Ilya was now panting, “Fuck, fuck, Shane,” as he stepped back. "I won't survive if I don't fuck you. Bed."

Ilya stroked himself slowly, looking at Shane lying on his back on the bed. "Tell me what you want."

"You inside me," Shane said. "Let me."

"No, tell me more. Which part?"

"I want you, your tongue, your fingers, your cock."

"I want to taste you, see if you taste the same," Ilya said, trailing kisses down Shane's body until he reached his cock, then pushed Shane's legs up and began kissing his hole. Moans escaped Shane slowly at first, but when Ilya started putting his tongue in and fucking him with it, the sound Shane made was scandalous. "Fuck, Ilya, fuck, yes." His hand tried to reach for Ilya's head, but only caught Ilya's hand and interlaced their fingers. "This is so good," he moaned. "I won't last, you need to come inside me. Drawer." Ilya reached in the nightstand drawer for lube and a condom. Ilya entered the first finger, then a second. Shane tried to touch himself, but Ilya removed his hand and inserted a third finger. He placed a kiss on Shane's cock, then took him in his mouth.

Shane tried to flip over.

"No, I want to see you. Been too long. Keep yourself open for me," Ilya said. Condom in place, Ilya teased Shane's hole first before slowly entering him. "Look at you, taking me so well."

"Fuck, your cock is so big. I forgot how fat it is."

"Did you miss it?"

"So much."

"Almost all in there, you're so good for me."

"Please, come deeper."

Ilya obliged, pushing in. "You're so perfect. Perfect."

Ilya was pounding, faster and harder, trying to keep kissing Shane, as Shane begged for more, crying, "You fuck me so well. I missed you."

"Will you come for me?"

Shane came, and Ilya followed after, crashing on top of him and kissing him, out of breath. "Fuck, that was hot. I missed you, Ilya."

"Me too."

“Did you bring your pajamas?” Shane asked, while Ilya was cleaning him with a cloth he retrieved from the ensuite bathroom.

“No, but I had've a little sleepover bag in my car.”

“You don't need to get it now. I was hoping you'd stay," Shane said, kissing him, after each word. "I have an extra toothbrush, and you can have one of my old T-shirts.”

All clean, Shane slipped into the left side of the bed, turned off the light, and put his head on Ilya's chest. Seventeen years, they've been so many things to each other: opponent, rival, fuck buddy, more than fuck buddy, almost something, estranged, yet tonight would be the first time they slept in the same bed, and Shane could not find an ounce of anxiety in his body.

“Good night, Ilya.”

“Good night, Shane.”

Chapter End Notes

For this fic, I tweaked Boston’s mayoral history a little while keeping the city’s demographics and electoral dynamics largely intact. I also tried to stay grounded in the real political conversations happening at the time. In reality, Michelle Wu became Boston’s youngest elected mayor at 36 in 2021; here, Shane is elected at 33 and becomes mayor at 34. I’m not really interested in writing RPF, so while some of the political figures in this story will feel very recognizable and some names may resemble real politicians, they are not meant to be direct portrayals of actual people, and I will use only a limited number of real names. As someone who follows politics and electoral systems pretty closely, I know that electing a DSA-aligned mayor in Boston would require a significant shift in the city’s political coalition and demographics (this is not New York). Side note, I have so many issues with DSA, but I think that to most, left Shane could go.

That’s probably the biggest stretch this fic makes politically, though I tried to keep it within the realm of plausibility rather than pure fantasy. Think of the political world here less as strict realism and more in the tradition of shows like Scandal, The West Wing, or House of Cards; fictional settings that clearly echo contemporary political figures, conversations, and institutions without being one-to-one depictions of real people.

check out my other fic, Counting Summers

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Huge thanks to my beta reader
Faithella

"It's Anita's birthday. You should come," Shane said.

"Am I invited?"

"You can come with Svetlana."

"Thought I was your plus one."

"You are, but it's at my place, so my plus one gets a plus one," Shane said before kissing him. It had been two weeks, and yesterday was the first time Shane slept at his house—the first time he'd come back since 2016. In the past two weeks, Ilya was unfolding Shane's life: his never-ending agenda, late meetings. They didn't talk about being public again; Shane disappeared, but he didn't try to hide them. Ilya came by for a quick lunch in his office at City Hall, another day, they had coffee with Anita and Iro. Last night, he heard Shane talking to his mom: "I'm at Ilya's, so I can't look it up."

"Still got time for a run," Shane said, surprising Ilya. Last week, they went for a run after a night at Shane's place, and it ended up all over the Boston press. Nobody was speculating yet about their relationship; the coverage just focused on the Boston Bears captain keeping the mayor fit. As if Shane needed him; sure, he wasn't a solid 200-pound muscle guy anymore, but he was still all lean muscle. Spending time with him, Ilya saw just how disciplined he was: an hour-long run every morning and lifting weights every other day.

Ilya said okay because he was not mad at the picture. He even wished for a little speculation. Maybe people thought he was not good enough for the most eligible bachelor of Massachusetts; that he could only be a coach, or a former rival looking for the next step. In two weeks, Shane did not push him to talk about the news—the ones all hockey media had been talking about since May; the Cup win made it worse. He had told him, "I will tell you when I am ready," so Shane was waiting.

"What're you doing tonight?" Shane asked on the way back from the run. Ilya didn't know how to answer; for the last two weeks, his summer had revolved around Shane. He didn't make plans ahead of time, not wanting to miss lunch, coffee, dinner, or his favorite—spending the night together. He already had things at Shane's: some stuff in the bathroom, a drawer. Last week, Shane had said, "We could do it the U-Haul lesbian way." Ilya laughed. Truth was, he felt ready to move in, but he knew he couldn't. Being an openly gay mayor was one thing; an undefined, unnamed relationship was another. There was no moving in without being public about it. They weren't in Utah, but still, uncommitted, unmarried elected officials weren't something Shane could afford in year one.

"Might call Svetlana, see if she wants to go out. I'll ask her about Saturday. And you?" even though Ilya knew the agenda.

"Dinner with the governor. Trying to get some money for the universal childcare thing."

"Didn't your friend in New York get it already?"

"Yeah, Sohrab got it, but we've got a different governor. And New York City brings in so much money for the state that it doesn't need state support as much as we do. Seriously, sixty percent of my job is just begging for money."

"Prettiest beggar."

"Such a flirt. Let me shower. My car's coming in 30 minutes, and I gotta stop by my place for a suit."

He should have asked him to leave one or two suits here. He should have asked him to come after his dinner. Even if Shane was the one to suggest the lesbian U-Haul relationship pace, Ilya still felt the constant fear that pushing too hard, too quickly could make him disappear like in 2016. Logically, it would be difficult for the mayor of the largest city in Massachusetts to do so, and still, the ease of those two weeks did not provide any relief in Ilya's mind. Shane had an important, very visible job, with millions of people knowing his name and face in the country and even outside. Even the first American Pope knew who Shane was. He was the face of Boston, and their relationship was going smoothly, more smoothly than he could have imagined when the two of them were the face of the 4th most popular major league sport.

"So, you're friends with the mayor?" Svetlana said. They were at a new, trendy, overpriced rooftop serving fusion food.

"Might be more than that."

"Mmm, is he Jane?"

"Yeah."

"Knew it. I'm so fucking brilliant."

"When?"

"When he came out, years ago. I did the math when we were all moping after the Voyageurs bus accident."

Moping was a nice way to put how he had been so depressed after Shane disappeared, combined with his father's death and Alexei being a jerk. He lost himself in continuously blank, drunk nights, so much that he had been benched by the coach for three games.

Svetlana had been the one to corner Marleau, threatening kidnap and torture if he let Ilya go bar crawling any more, and pushed him to seek help. He had found Galina. The therapy had helped but it was not enough; after one year, he agreed to antidepressants. The scars left by Shane were still there, but he continued to build around them, never able to erase them. By the time he met Rachel, he was ready to try.

"Would've been the best hockey player if he was still playing. Tell him I voted for him."

"You can tell him yourself. He invited you to his best friend's birthday. Anita, Vaughn's sister."

"I know who she is. I read the Globe. She's chief of staff, always in official pictures. When?"

"Saturday."

"Dress code?"

"Didn't ask."

"I'm coming."

"Be nice to him. Don't embarrass me."

"Ilya. You're the only one I'm not nice to. I'm very charming, especially with hot mayors who used to play hockey."

"Erk, you're weird."

"Why?"

"Your dad was a hockey player too, and now he's in politics. It's weird."

"First. Fuck you. Two. Was not weird when I fucked a Russian hockey player in the same team my dad was. Oh, wait, it was you, you fucking hypocryte. Third. My dad was appointed. Hollander was elected—he went for a fight. Remember how vicious the campaigns were? He's a modern-day millennial gladiator. Fourth. Is Anita single? She's hot."

"No. Stay away from her. And seriously, you should go see a psychoanalyst or something, because now it's just weirder. She looks like your mom."

"She is not, and that's kinda problematic. Not all Black women look alike."

Ilya was typing frenetically on his phone and giggling.

"What are you doing?" Svetlana asked.

"Wait."

And Ilya turned the phone to her.

Ilya: [photo]
Mister Mayor: Who is this?
Ilya: Svetlana's mom when she was young. She is an actress.
Ilya: Does she remind you of someone?
Mister Mayor: She kind of looks like a light-skinned version of Anita.

"Fuck you," Svetlana said.

"Oedipus. You should look it up," Ilya said.

The theme of Anita's party was "loud graphic tee." "Such a Cancer," Svetlana had said. They arrived at 9 p.m., one hour after the start time. Ilya knew he would sleep there after everyone left. Svetlana was wearing a graphic T-shirt with the "Dick is abundant and low in value" on it and a mini red leather skirt. Ilya went for a Hot Girl Summer sleeveless shirt with dark beige linen pants. When they arrived, the house was full; the living room, kitchen, and dining room were full of people chatting, music playing, and there were smokers in the backyard. It was an interesting mix organized by Shane: some people were serving food and drinks, while, with Anita's energy, others were seated on the floor, telling jokes.

Shane saw him across the street and reached him. "Hi," he said, and he squeezed Ilya's hand.

"Hello," Ilya said, fighting the desire to kiss Shane, but he knew he could not. They had not talked about it, or more precisely, Ilya had not talked to Shane about it.

"I'm Svetlana, nice to meet you, Mayor Hollander," she said, giving her hand to Shane.

"Nice to meet you and welcome. Please call me Shane. Let me introduce you."

Ilya trailed behind Shane, taking the opportunity to admire his beautiful ass in his jeans, his T-shirt reading "Boston is actually the capital of the world" tucked in. Shane introduced Svetlana to Iro and his husband Damian, to other friends, and finally to Anita.

"Hello, happy birthday, and thank you for having me," Svetlana said, giving her a hug, and Anita gave one to Ilya.

"Thank you. Ilya's friends are my friends, and I heard you're a fellow hockey-adjacent, even if daughter-adjacent wins over sister-adjacent," Anita said.

Svetlana laughed. "But left-wing-adjacent might win over goalie-adjacent. I love your T-shirt."

"Birthday time is Riri time," Anita said. She was wearing a pink T-shirt with the bold font "BBHMM" and "Resolution 8"—the resolution that Shane's administration was trying to push to raise taxes on the richest Bostonians and on people owning a second property in the state. Basically, coming for Ilya's money, though it wasn't as if he wouldn't give freely and happily for Shane and the greater good.

"Look who is here," Ilya heard while feeling a large hand on his back. He turned and saw Carter, Scott, and Kip.

"Carter, coming for the cool sibling party. And Hunter?"

"Rozanov, always a displeasure," Scott said.

"Hello, Ilya. Can't wait to have you back at the Kingfisher."

"Hey, yes, you need people who are actually good at karaoke, not grumpy retired grandpa," Ilya said.

And Scott turned to Kip. "I don't understand how you like him."

"How's retirement, Hunter? Playing bridge, fishing?" Ilya said

"Actually fishing is very relaxing. You will know soon enough." Scott answered.

Turning to Carter, Ilya remarked, "How is your sister so cool and you're so an ...Admiral?"

"Fuck off, Roz, yeah, she is the coolest, my Irish twin."

The party continued. Ilya moved from group to group, meeting Shane's colleagues and friends, while still keeping Shane in his line of sight. Shane would pop up, join a conversation for a few minutes, slightly touching Ilya's hand, but he was the other focal point of the party—people called to him, reached out to him. Ilya lost sight of him for a minute. He moved from the living room, where Svetlana was breaking down everything that went wrong in the Admiral's last season with Carter, and Scott looked happier than ever to have retired in 2022. He found Shane seated on the couch next to Paul—the Paul, the 3-year relationship, the one everyone knew, the baseball player for Boston's team. Ilya had already had to take a deep breath earlier when he saw Peter, the F1 sports commentator Shane had dated for a few months, according to TMZ. But this was not a simple "hello"; they were in deep but jovial conversation, and Shane was laughing. It was his real laugh, not the post-game laugh of his twenties or the "thank you for your question" mayor laugh.

Everyone here knew this man as Shane's ex, and Ilya as... whatever Ilya was—former rival, Boston captain, potential trainer, friend. No one, except Svetlana, Anita, and Iro, knew that Ilya was the one sleeping in Shane's bed three times a week, that they texted every day, that they had lunch in Shane's office, or that he helped him find the right tie yesterday. He wanted to lash out, to go to them and make a scene, but he could not. It would be unfair to Shane, to Anita's birthday party, and on a more practical level, the rush of fight or flight he used to have in his body, after years of therapy and medication, did not kick in the same way. It was still there, but it did not transform into action.

"You're gonna kill him if you keep staring," he heard Iro say.

"I was not."

"You were, it's okay. I'm the jealous husband; the downside to having a hot partner," Iro said. Partner... were they partners? They had not even discussed being exclusive, even though they were technically. The mayor was not Bill Clinton, wasn't sleeping around, and neither was Ilya.

"They're just friends. You should go talk to him or just state your claim, but do not piss on the carpet," Iro said.

Ilya walked to them. Before he could say anything, Shane stood up.

"Here he is. Paul, this is Ilya. Ilya, Paul."

"Nice to meet you. Amazing season."

"Thank you," Ilya said. He was not going to give the man any compliment, even if his team won the World Series this year.

"I'm going to give Anita a gift. I have an early flight tomorrow," Paul said, and Ilya watched Shane hug him, and he had to shake his hand after that.

When Paul left, Shane asked him, "You having fun?"

"I was. Didn't mean to stop your little catch-up," Ilya said, and Shane gave him first a confused look, then a sweeter one. He stepped into Ilya's personal space, reached for his hand again, and brushed his thumb quickly. "We can talk later. I can't wait to be alone with you."

It was 2 a.m by the time all the guests had left. Some went to an after-party at a club Carter knew, and Svetlana went there too. The catering service had finished tidying up and left. Ilya was in the bedroom before everyone left because it was easier to disappear then than to be the last guest. He put on the sweatpants he left in his drawer, the t-shirt, and scrolled on the bed waiting for Shane.

"So," Shane said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"So?" Ilya said, his face visibly irritated.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"You were the one talking, laughing, and being all cozy with Patrick."

"His name is Paul, and we're friends, Ilya. We broke a year ago. No, in fact, it's been more than a year."

"It's been more than nine years since we split up. Oh no, we weren't even together, and yet here I am. Maybe he wanted to get back in your bed."

"It's not, and it's not even a bed he knew. He never slept here."

"So I'm supposed to feel better that you lived together and he you had an 'our bed,' 'our house'?"

"It was an apartment," Shane said, but quickly realized it wasn't the time for lexical precision.

"Did the F1 guy also have an apartment with you? Felt less like your best friend's birthday and more like Shane's exes' reunion."

"We only dated. We never lived together," Shane said.

"Oh, I know. He was telling me how you dumped him two days after the Stanley Cup so he was not in the mood to go to the parade. De said you weren't ready for commitment."

"Wish he hadn't told you that, but yeah, I stopped things because I knew he wanted more."

"So you dated for three months and a day, then just said, 'not ready,' and left?"

"I should have done it before; it was not fair of me," Shane said, but he could see his words were not appeasing Ilya, that Ilya was doing a calculation, becoming stiff, breathing more tensely, pulling back. He tried to see what went wrong. It was deeper than jealousy for two exes or former flings (technically four, but Ilya didn't know the others at the party).

"Ilya, it's only you. You don't have to worry about Paul or Peter."

"How so? You broke up with him after three months, two days after the Cup, so eight days before the dinner, and me. It's been only two weeks, maybe my expiration date will come sooner."

"No, no, it's not!" Shane understood—the misunderstanding, that he hadn't made up his mind, that he'd walk out.

"I should've talked to you before. I did break up with him after the Cup, not because I wasn't ready for commitment, but because I didn't want commitment with him. When you won the Cup, the next day, Iro put your team's dinner on my agenda, and I just couldn't lie to myself anymore. I thought I was taking it slow because of Paul, and still being in my first year of my mandate. But as soon as I knew I'd see you, would be close to you, I spent two days fantasizing about what I could say, to even kiss you, or maybe more. So I knew it wasn't a commitment thing, but a person. And you were my person."

"And if I wasn't available, or not easy?"

"It was a risk I had to take, and it didn't matter at the end, because I was dreaming about you. I didn't kiss or talk to you for nine years, and someone was waiting for me to get serious, and still I was thinking about you. I didn't want to be that kind of person."

"You wanna commit to me?"

"Yeah, I told you, I want to. I know my track record isn't the best, but I'm serious. I'm not running. You've got the right to be cautious, but I promise you I'm all in. I don't wanna rush you."

"Maybe you'll get scared if I push you."

"Are you scared of pushing me away?"

"Yeah."

"You don't have to. In 2016, it wasn't just you, us, or me. I wasn't ready, and you weren't either. And maybe if the accident hadn't happened, we would've had this conversation, but we can't live in what if." Shane paused. "Can I kiss you?"

"Yeah," Ilya said.

He kissed him gently, hoping to communicate reassurance and comfort.

"Maybe I can tell you something and make a big jump, be the one taking a risk."

"What? Dirty political secret? Do you know who really killed Kennedy?"

"Stop. No, something that's scary for me too," Shane paused again, looked at Ilya. He could do it—take a big jump as he had when he reached rock bottom, as he did when the DSA told him his profile and commitment could make it to City Hall in Boston. This time, he had to do it to stop this suspense, to step out of the liminal space of their relationship. "I love you."

He said it, and now he waited. "I love you. The idea that it's not reciprocal doesn't even scare me. I'll wait."

"I love you, Shane. I love you so much," Ilya said, reaching for his face, kissing him, and pulling him down to the bed, rolling over him. "Fuck, feels like our twenties again," Shane said, as Ilya put his hand on Shane's chest.

"I want to tell you something scary too," Ilya said.

"Anything."

"I have depression, chronic. I go to therapy. The small box in my bag in the bathroom... it's my pill."

"Thank you for telling me," Shane said.

"That said?"

"Not going anywhere."

"Now I've got to worry about all the athletes and athlete-adjacents at the party?"

"I don't date all athletes or sports people."

"But all your exes are athletes or former athletes," Ilya said.

"Not Thomas and Zakhary."

"Wait, I met them, the museum and the professor guys. What the fuck, Shane? How many men at this party have had your dick in their mouth?"

"Not important."

"Tell me," Ilya said, pinning Shane to the mattress, holding his wrists up.

"Four and a half."

“Half?”

"Marc, architect, I didn't reach his mouth."

Ilya, was now battling, removing Shane’s belt messily. “Clothes off. On your stomach,” Shane lost no time. Ilya put one hand on the back of Shane’s head, the other on his hips. Usually prone to teasing and making Shane beg, tonight Ilya had a need to repair a wrong. He wanted Shane, all of him. He wanted to remind him that only Ilya could give him everything.

"I'm going to fuck you so hard. You won't think about anything or anyone else. No half, no quarter." Ilya whispered. Shane gasped. Ilya lowered his body, first pressing his tongue on Shane's hole. Shane screamed, starting to tremble. Ilya felt his power come back. Putting lube on two fingers, he started moving slowly around Shane's hole. " Only I can give it to you like this."

Shane gasped, "Ilya, yes, only you."

Ilya removed his fingers and entered Shane in one stroke. He started steadily and slowly, but Shane wanted more. “Harder, Ilya.”

Ilya, in vengeful bliss: "You're mine. Say it."

"I'm yours, Ilya."

Ilya continued, pressing him against the mattress. "So pretty. So good, my Shane."

Shane was breathless, Ilya’s hand tightening on him, wanting everything. "Only yours." Shane, lost in his pleasure, was saying everything and anything, close to coming.

And Ilya lost it, now holding him close, wanting to keep him, to push him, to cuddle him, and at the same time make him say his name.

"Ilya, Ilya!" Shane screamed while Ilya pounded into him.

Shane came first, and half-conscious, Ilya was slowing down. “Don’t come.” Shane pushed Ilya out of him and got on the floor on his knees. Ilya removed the condom, and Shane was face up, looking at Ilya with sex drunk eyes, tongue outside his mouth. It only took Ilya four strokes to shoot his cum onto Shane's face.

"God, fuck, Shane. I love you."

Shaking from the release, he went down to the floor next to Shane, kissing him, taking his cum on his fingers, and slipping them into Shane's mouth. Afterward, they lay together, breathing hard. Ilya went down next to Shane, kissing him, holding him close.

"You know, I get jealous too," Shane said, wrapped in Ilya's arms as they were getting ready to sleep.

"For what? I don't have a party with four and a half people I've fucked."

"You're friends with Svetlana."

"Oh, is that why you invited her? To see how... measured up?"

"I just wanted to see what you two are like. I know I'm friends with Paul, so I can't be that jealous of you with your ex slash childhood friend."

"We were never girlfriend or boyfriend. We're best friends who sometimes fucked, like if you did it with Iro."

"Please don't, he's like my brother. But still, it's not like I hadn't followed your whole relationship with Rachel via TMZ."

"I did follow yours with Paul, but you're fancy, so I had to read the society pages in GQ, Out, and Harper's Bazaar," Ilya said, pressing Shane against him.

"Did you love her? Rachel?"

"I had love for her, but I'm not sure I loved her. We stayed together three years, but it wasn't exclusive."

"So, you were in an open relationship?"

"I'm a millennial; very common."

"You're the most possessive motherfucker I know."

"I am with you. I only want you to be mine. Did you love him, Paul?"

"I did, but not—not the same as you. You felt different."

"How?"

"Like total silence in my head when you're with me. Like ease. Like, I need to know where you are in a room. All the cells in my body respond to you. I feel you deep in my bones."

"I want to be public."

"You want to?"

"Yes."

"You shouldn't do it for me. Coming out should be for you."

"It's for me. I can't live without everyone knowing you're mine, that I love you. I want to kiss you when I cross the door and hold hands after our run. I don't want to be your trainer."

"Are you ready for hockey? There will be a shitstorm." Ilya knew it. After Hunter came out, he had spent more time in New York, on the pretense that it was a cool city and Kingfisher was cool, but he liked being around the Kingfisher group. And he knew, being an MHL statement of openness, the amount of shit Hunter had to take from the league and players.

"Yes, but it'll only be one year," Ilya said.

"You never talked to me about it. I didn't want to push." And it's true, Shane never pushed Ilya to talk about the elephant in the room—the media room. Two weeks before the playoffs, Ilya had announced that the 2025-2026 season would be his last in the MHL, that he was retiring. He was 35. Thirty-five was not a dramatic age to retire—Marleau retired this year—but still, Boston fans, media pundits, and management took it as an early retirement. He had lost many teeth over the years, ribs, and more likely would need hip replacement in a few years. But by hockey standards, as the GM had told him, "You still have years of hockey in you." But he didn't feel it. He wanted something else.

"You inspired me with your campaign. I had a glimpse of your life before, but I listened to all your interviews, read them, watched you, and the way you explained how you reinvented yourself outside of hockey. I was just starting to get tired. I don't have the spark anymore, but didn't know if I could do something else."

"So what are you gonna do, buy a boat and go fishing?"

"I'm not Granpa Hunter. I'm too hot to hide under an ugly hat. I started online classes."

"You did? Why didn't you tell me?"

"It's not big university classes, Shane. It's for coaching certification."

"Oh my god, this is amazing, Ilya! But would you leave or be a coach for the Bears?" Shane said, and Ilya heard the apprehension in his voice—don't leave.

"A Boston team looking for an assistant coach for Boston, but not the Bears. Boston Prestige."

"Fuck, you're going to be a PWHL coach! Fuck yeah!"

"I don't have the job yet, Shane. I don't have the certification yet. I only passed the first exam. I have the second one in January, and then I have to be an apprentice."

"You're gonna have it. You're Ilya Rozanov, four-time Stanley Cup winner, fucking Boston legacy," Shane said.

And anyone who believed Russians never blushed would have been proven wrong, because in that moment, Ilya definitely did.

***

They were finally on vacation. Shane was really serious about the lesbian U-Haul. He asked Ilya to move in one week after Anita's birthday party. Ilya's house was bigger than Shane's in Jamaica Plain, but it was too far away from city hall, and Ilya liked Shane's house better. He had a moving company pack most of his belongings, and instead of selling his house, he rented it to last season's three rookies, making sure to remove his five cars first to a private garage.

They were supposed to be at Shane's cottage in Ottawa ten days ago, but they were at Martha's Vineyard instead. Two days before leaving, flash floods hit Boston, electricity shut down, and a major crisis had to be coordinated. At the same time, the White House resident tried to announce a major deployment of border patrol and immigration agents in major cities. Shane was mostly visiting the house, getting up at 6 a.m. to the center for relief coordination, and negotiating for funds from the governor. Because New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania were also affected, the federal government saw this as an opportunity to bargain that those cities abandoned their Sanctuary cities status.

"How was today?" Ilya asked him. He was stuck at home; non-essential travel was prohibited.

"Everything was terrible. Since February, we've been trying to get past a flood contingency plan for Seaport, and now, of course, they are the most affected area, and be sure to remind me of the 10% of the city tax. Why does everyone think it's the best time to negotiate?"

"You're very tired and very frustrated. You're hungry?"

"Yes, I ate a bad sandwich."

"I made food. Go shower, I will prepare dinner for you," Ilya said.

Ilya got into Shane's rhythm for the summer. The notion of off-season disappeared, and he didn't even register the hockey media mess that happened one week before the flood. They let Anita and Iro know that they would be public, and Anita had said, "Public and exclusive?"

"Yeah, why?" Ilya had asked.

"Always keep it real—with Shane, and now with you. Shane is gay, but he is very limited in his queerness potential."

"He has a ratio?"

"What we mean is, I can be queer, I can be spotted in some type of club, even be in a polyamorous relationship, but I would never. But Shane is the mayor of liberal, conservative-ish New England," Iro said.

"He's young enough, but reaching the limit to be in a relationship but not married, and he can’t do a situationship. The Catholics here already look past the fact that he's not Catholic or Christian," Anita said.

"So we've got to sign a statement?" Ilya asked.

"Absolutely not. We're sure to take the limit of cisheteropatriarchy in the game of winning elections, but we don't have to enforce it. You two just go hand in hand like it's nothing, and when questions happen, Shane answers like—" Anita mimed Shane like he knows his part.

"Oh yeah, I've got a partner. Next question," Shane said.

"Et voilà," Iro added.

They did it: they went for their run, then walked back to the house, hand in hand, with their coffee.

Ilya expected a massive flood of homophobia in his comments, even though he’d let the GM and his coach know in advance. But the influx of Shane supporters as followers put him in a different world. Now, hockey fans made up only half of his social media base. Ilya used to think hockey fans were the most relentless bullies online. That was before he discovered DSA activists: determined college grads with the deadliest deadpan humor, who could take a meme and run with it all day and night. They were fiercely loyal; Shane and the mayor of New York had to be protected at all costs. They easily found Ilya's years of private donations: to children’s protection, mental health, queer, and refugee causes. He was deemed good enough by the girls, the gays, and they/them's for their pristine mayor.

"The commissioner did not give you shit? You're okay?" Shane had asked. He didn't receive shit from the commissioner, nor from management. It was not for him, but for not wanting to be on the wrong side of the mayor while seeking to renew authorization for street closures, the sanitation department, and the police force during games and post-game.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Shane asked all week, and Ilya did not know how to answer him, how to tell him that he was the most okay he had been for years. That would be more complicated now, but not dangerous, as he already returned two years ago when he became a U.S. citizen. That yes, receiving homophobic or xenophobic insults from Shane's opponents was not a good way to wake up. But he was okay. He was happy.

The retirement plan he made was mostly a lifeline, as he didn't trust himself not to get back into bad habits, but now he felt he had a partner, someone along the road to push him and support him. He was okay. He just had to not think about the upcoming season, his last year with Boston. He prepared for other players to give him shit, and he would survive. The scariest part was being far away from Shane. Shane's job was mostly in Boston, but he sometimes traveled to other cities. In Boston he had to go to City Hall, the Parkman House for receptions, to anywhere he had to give public speeches, meet people, or attend inaugurations. Ilya made a game of catching him randomly during the day, stopping by for lunch.

"I should get a bike—be easier to catch you," Ilya had said to Shane, while rubbing his feet after a long day at the disaster center.

"You're not buying a death catcher. You've got enough cars."

When they came back from Martha's Vineyard, it was time for school opening season and Ilya's pre-season. Shane had organized a full-hand meeting with Anita and Iro.

"Ilya, you'll need to step in now," Iro had said.

"Yep, we'll need you at some events when you aren't on the road or playing, and Shane, you go to some of Ilya's games, but not all of them. You still need to be seen at baseball, basketball, and minor league games sometimes—no favorites," Anita said.

"Copy," Shane answered, turning to Ilya. "You good with that? We can wait."

"Wait for me to be the hottest first partner of Boston? No. I'll stand pretty just behind you and shake hands," Ilya said.

"Perfect, because in ten days we have the big reception. All of the mayors and delegations from our sister cities are coming. Big, fancy reception, so be handsome, both of you," Anita said.

"Mayors from Strasbourg, Barcelona, Hangzhou, Padua, Melbourne, Beira, Taipei, Sekondi-Takoradi, Belfast, and Praia. We still have to see how to deal with the Taipei mayor being there with Hangzhou, they need to be kept apart at all times," Shane said.

"Ilya, send me your calendar. Someone from my team will be in touch with you to let you know when your presence would be appreciated."

"No pressure," Shane said.

"Of course, but it's still better if you're here to support your lovely partner and push the gay agenda," Iro said.

After everyone left, Ilya sat across from Shane at the kitchen island, searching for the right moment to speak. Honesty felt like the only option. He knew his mind could invent stories that weren't real, and some of those worries faded just by speaking aloud, not by searching for what Galina called "confirmation bias."

"I don't want to embarrass you," Ilya said.

Shane hummed and then, registering what Ilya said, "What? What are you talking about?"

"The event with important people. I don't want to embarrass you by saying I'm not as polished as Paul, and you don't want to tell me. I can stay home."

"What the fuck, Ilya? Why would I want that? I want you there. I just don't want to force you. It's very long and tedious. Wait, did I say something? Did someone say something?"

"No, it's nothing."

"Please, Ilya, talk to me. You said we can talk to each other."

"The interview last week, when she asked about me," Ilya said, his voice dropping.

Shane had appeared on CNN just before the Democratic National Convention, right in the middle of the DSA faction wars. That week, DSA progressives had taken four major cities—New York, Boston, Seattle, and Minneapolis—plus several special election seats.

The interviewer asked, "Mayor Hollander, you and the mayors of New York, Seattle, and Minneapolis represent the face of DSA city leadership. Last week, you took a strong stand against former Vice President Farris, who's still a major voice at the convention and claims the DSA's position on taxation isn't enough to win back the White House."

"I have great respect for Jaila Farris, and we're, at the end, in the same party. But the DSA results in major cities and elections are proof that when our party stands for strong measures for affordability in action, with plans to fund housing, childcare, and health care, we mobilize people. And the DSA is very committed to winning back the White House but also the midterms, and our work in those major cities and the small ones is living proof of what the party can do, and not just a pipe dream."

"It’s interesting because the two of you actually have a lot in common. She went to Howard, like you, and spent part of her teenage years in Montreal. She’s also a Black woman of biracial Asian descent who’s in an interracial relationship with a white partner. The main difference is that her partner isn’t an athlete — he’s a Harvard Law graduate and litigator. In many ways, you could say you both represented some of the most cosmopolitan and diverse circles within the party."

"I think we should focus on the policy and political vision we share. I am very proud of all my identities and fight for everyone with those, or at the intersection of those, who can benefit from the promise of justice and equality."

"Oh my god, Ilya, no, I did not mean to dodge or not talk about you at all. You're not embarrassing me; fuck."

"You're not embarrassed I'm a hockey player with a Russian accent, and not a Harvard lawyer?"

"Not at all, I love you so much, I am so proud and lucky to be with you.”

"I'm sorry, my brain sometimes makes things up."

"It's okay, you can talk to me. I love you."

“Love you too.”

“And thank god you're an immigrant Russian with an accent, because, as Iro said, blond with blue eyes, they're eating me up. Wasian not beating the white proximity allegation," Shane laughed.

“For your re-election, we will put brown contact. Tone down whiteness.”

“Such an ally.”

Chapter End Notes

Bitch Better Have My Money by Rihanna is the best anthem for taxing the rich.

Check out my other fic (one chapter to go), Counting Summers

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

beta readers
Witwandwolfbird,
and Faithella

September 2025

Ilya saw Shane waving on the Jumbotron; it was still warm-up time for their first home-ice game of the season. Shane's face appeared next to Anita, Iro, the deputy commissioner of sport, and Svetlana. His name flashed: "Mayor Hollander."

The commentator laughed lightly. “Well, John, we’ve got Mayor Hollander with us tonight supporting the team and his partner, Captain Rozanov.”

“Still strange to say out loud,” John admitted. “Not the captain coming out—we’ve seen that before, starting all the way back with Hunter in 2017—but these two? That’s the shocker.”

Onscreen, Shane looked relaxed, one arm draped behind Svetlana’s seat, completely unbothered by twenty thousand people staring at him.

“Former rivals,” Alan continued. “People forget how heated that Rozanov–Hollander rivalry used to get. Those playoff series between the Bears and the Voyageurs were brutal. Hockey fans spent a decade believing those two genuinely hated each other.”

“And now they’re living together,” John added, half-laughing. “After Hollander, I mean Mayor Hollander was publicly dating someone else what, two months ago?”

Alan made a noise somewhere between amusement and disbelief. “The speculation online has been insane. Depending on which corner of the internet you end up in, this is either the greatest enemies-to-lovers story in sports history, a political publicity stunt, or evidence they’ve secretly been together for fifteen years.”

John snorted. “I saw someone claim the rivalry itself was staged.”

“Oh, people are going full conspiracy theorist,” Alan said. “There are fans digging up old clips, old interviews, every fight they ever had on the ice. Suddenly everybody thinks there were ‘signs.’”

“The handshakes lasting too long,” John said dryly.

“The staring.”

“The odd timing. Rozanov announces retirement, confirms the relationship, and then neither of them explains anything. Which, honestly, only makes people crazier.”

Ilya caught Shane's eye and blew him a kiss, resulting in major cheers from the audience. Toscano, one of the rookies, skated next to him. "Did you talk to him for me?"

"No, not talking to him about your parking ticket. Park better," Ilya answered.

They won 2-1. Ilya was ready to shower and get home, but Shane came down, said hello to the guys, and told Ilya to go out with them— they stepped out into the hallway. "I will wait for you at home. I have some calls to make," Shane told him before kissing him and reaching for his hand to squeeze it.

Ilya went to the post-game interview.

"Ilya, for The Athletic: Tonight, you played a very energetic and aggressive game. Did the presence of your partner, Mayor Hollander, make the difference?"

"I always play well, but I do play better when Hollander is there, on or off the ice."

"Ilya, what's your response to people saying your relationship with Mayor Hollander blurs the line and brings politics into sport?"

"They should spend more time on their own relationships. I hear there's a male loneliness epidemic out there."

"Is your relationship with Mayor Hollander the reason for your retirement?"

"No, my bones are."

Ilya went back to the locker room to change and catch Shane's interview, having been cornered by journalists.

"Mayor Hollander, will we see you more often here to watch your partner playing?"

"You know Boston is a city of sports. We have many amazing teams, so I plan to go all of them and also to minor league games as much as I can. But it's always a pleasure to watch the Bears play, and my partner, Captain Rozanov, is always a delight—as the best player in the league," Shane said.

Ilya thought that Shane had really made it his mission to make Ilya's heart jump.

The game was against New York, and Ilya could not have dreamed of a better first game. The New York team, thanks to the legacy of Hunter, had strong players—menacing, but not fans of throwing homophobic slurs on the ice. He was sure he wouldn't say the same in two weeks against Toronto, who, even without Kent, seemed to inherit Kent's spirit. Their new captain, Douglass, had made clear what he thought about Shane and Ilya's relationship and made sure to repost every attack by the Republican Party on Shane.

But none of this really mattered to him. His locker room was under control; the three unrepentant guys had a very enlightening conversation with the coach and GM. It seemed that a theory, started on some subreddit, was spreading to management—that Ilya and Shane were in a relationship before, and Ilya announced his retirement because he feared being out and playing would be unsustainable. He noticed that fans, Boston commentators, and even the GM tried to reassure him in hopes he'd change his mind. He didn't try very hard to deny it, because in fact, his relationship with Shane predated his announcement—at least he'd have a nice last year.

He planned to play an amazing season, give everything he had for the last round, but tonight he was thinking about Shane watching him, about going home—home with him, to their home now. Shane had let him make some arrangements: the gym in the basement was extended to fit more equipment for two, plus a sauna in the backyard. The house had four bedrooms. Shane took the one on the first floor as an office: "You need an office too, future coach." Ilya also transformed one into an office/trophy room for both him and Shane—six cups, one Rookie of the Year, five MVPs, fifteen All-Star prizes in total between the two. Ilya also brought Katarina, the cleaning lady from his other house, and his personal chef, Karl, who now also prepared lunch boxes for Shane.

Seeing two of everything, two lunches, two rowing machines was amazing, but the reaching was Ilya's favorite thing: the little, constant things, like not having to restrain himself in public. The way Shane would usually pace the corridor in the house when he was on long phone calls and meetings, then come looking for Ilya at the gym for a kiss while muting his phone call, or telling him, "Lunch together," wrapping his arm around Ilya while talking on the phone, or even squeezing Ilya's ass randomly. When he came and sat on his yoga ball at the gym, watching Ilya sweat during his workout, and venting about his many political nemeses and frenemies, or, since most of the time when it was only the two of them at home, Shane left the door to his office open and would call for Ilya, wrapping him in a hug while still seated in his chair, his head perfectly placed at Ilya's hipbone, covering it with small kisses. Ilya also liked the random horniness—like two days ago, when some guys from the team and Marleau, who seemed unclear about what he was supposed to do now in retirement, were there to watch the Toronto-Calgary game. It was a Sunday. Shane was home, not watching the game, but using his rare day off to take several naps and catch up on reading, as he said, "balance his sleep debt." He came to the living room: "Hey guys, can I borrow Ilya for a few minutes, admin stuff, get him back before intermission?"

"No problem, Mayor," Marleau had shouted.

They entered Shane's office, which was larger and farther away from the living room—Ilya first, then Shane after him—and locked the door behind them.

"I knew it," Ilya said.

"I dreamt about you during my nap," Shane said, directing Ilya's hands inside his pants—he was fully hard.

"You need me to take care of it?" Ilya said, after kissing him.

"Yes."

"How?"

"Mouth."

Ilya pushed Shane on the couch, pulled his pants and briefs down, got on his knees, and got to work. It was a very efficient affair—Shane managed to be as silent as he could, and Ilya returned to the living room with the taste of Shane's cum in his mouth.

The downside that Ilya didn't plan for was the extent of the "gay agenda." Hockey was a constant reinforcement of heterosexuality and masculinity; you could be gay, but looking or doing things outside of narrow rules was not allowed. Nevertheless, it was full of rumors about who might be gay or bi—outside of the openly gay players or former players, now it was just him and Troy Barrett; the others had all retired. But outside, he hadn't realized how many queer men lived in Boston—or on the internet. Everywhere they went, men were throwing themselves, more or less subtly, at Shane; they were even camping in his comments. People had no respect for elected representatives. The overt flirting when Ilya was present, by men ranging from college students to senators, judges, union reps. So Ilya was a dream for Iro because, up to the start of the season, Ilya made sure that he was available for all public appearances alongside Shane.

***

October 2025

“Anita, this is harassment,” Shane said.

For three weeks now, Anita, with Iro as her co-conspirator, had been running a campaign called Put a Ring on It. Every day, she showed up in a different piece of Beyoncé merch from I Am... Sasha Fierce, and at least once daily, “Single Ladies” somehow ended up playing in the lounge.

It had all started at the end of the summer, after Shane canceled his address at a cross-university event. Several student organizations had walked out in protest over the five largest universities’ brutal response to the pro-Palestine student encampments the previous year, and the backlash had turned the event into a disaster before it even began.

That night, they had been stuck at the office late, preparing for the next day’s meeting with the various university presidents and trying to figure out how to make the new academic year different from the last. It was 10 p.m.; everyone was exhausted, and Ilya texted him that a delivery was on the way: four dinner boxes of ramen, lovingly prepped by Karl. Shane had laughed and said, “I need to marry him.” At that, Anita and Iro’s eyes lit up.

"I will not rest until you two are married, Shane. This is ridiculous; seventeen years, and now living together... What more do you need?"

"I don't want to rush," Shane said.

"Oh my god, now you sound like the other demon on the housing committee;don't want to rush a thirty-year housing project. Wake up," Anita said.

"I bought the ring," Shane admitted.

"Correction—I bought the rings, so no one saw you enter the shop," Iro said.

"Anyway, I have the ring," Shane replied. "I'm just waiting for the right moment. It's one crisis after another. After we get the universal child care initiative signed..."

"Not you putting your love life in the hands of our friend the governor, who hates your guts," Iro teased.

"No weapon formed against us will prevail," Anita declared.

"Amen," said Iro.

"My parents are coming this weekend for the new library opening. It'll be the first time they have a chance to spent time with us."

"How romantic. But please, make it happen before the end of the fiscal year. At least before December. I can't have you unmarried when you're traveling abroad. Those British people are so annoying about etiquette," Anita said, dropping a sticker from the I Am... Sasha Fierce World tour.

Shane's parents knew Ilya; unlike 2016, Shane never hid that they were seeing each other, even before going public. Shane's secrecy about his dating life had vanished sometime around 2018, when names would tumble out, and then his parents formed a relationship with Paul and had also met Peter briefly. He was 34, and not being able to tell his parents the name of someone he was seeing seemed ridiculous at this point. Surely, in another life, his parents would have been stunned -shocked even - by Shane and Ilya. His mom is the Voyageurs' biggest fan and had been horrified by the Boston menace. But after what Shane had survived, and what his parents had survived the year after his accident, they were open to every surprise.

It had been similar to Hayden and J.J. when Ilya and Shane's relationship went public. Hayden had called him as soon as he heard. "I would have been surprised. But Shane Hollander going from hockey to shaking hundreds of hands a day, to being mayor—I believe anything now. Still, he's an asshole."

J.J., who since the accident had been fully committed to his new life and the power of second chances, had told him, "Go for it. Love and live, that's more important than anything." Shane had still been surprised a cult hadn't grabbed J.J. after all those years, but by now, J.J. had two children and had retired the previous year. He left the Voyageurs three years after the accident, moving to San Francisco when his wife was offered the chance to be head chef of a restaurant there. He was lucky to be traded to their team and even won a Cup. Hayden retired as well; he was never quite the same after the accident, and after years of hard hits, a shoulder injury ended his career in 2022. The last Cup the Voyageurs won was in 2016.

Yuna and David could never imagine their son being more famous than a hockey star, and yet here they were, seeing his face on covers as one of the faces of the DSA. While Shane had been Yuna's son during his hockey years, entering public office changed his relationship with his dad, who was also a public servant. Now, they had constant chats about funding mechanisms, his dad's more Keynesian stance, and comments on taxes and new development proposals that Shane's administration put forward. His mom was always on the communications side: "Good answer, but you could use more signaling to explain this bill," or "What a fucking pig," during a general election debate.

Since they were living together, his parents had spoken to Ilya in passing because Shane would put them on speakerphone or FaceTime, but tonight was the first true introduction, a stepping stone in Shane's plan to propose. The governor had better not fuck up the child care program; Shane needed a big win.

"Philadelphia's defense was all over the place last week. You were great, but they need to do something about this. Their goalie can't be the only one working out there," Yuna said. Shane could see she was happy to talk hockey with Ilya. Shane always thought of the grieving she had to do, but couldn't, because she worried about Shane descending into depression that first year. Seeing the glimpse in her eyes, after so many years, she tried not to mention hockey, not turn on the TV.

"They shouldn't have traded Clarke. Heard the GM hates his guts, and now they've got the shittiest defense ever—and they're all uglies."

"Ilya," Shane said.

"How are you getting used to all these public events with Shane?" David asked.

"It's good—just standing there, being handsome while he shakes hands, and I eat food and talk to the wives and husbands of important people," Ilya said.

"We're really looking forward to you two spending the summer at the cottage," Yuna added.

"Oh my god, don't remind me of this summer. Feels like we're still mopping Seaport," Shane said.

"But for Christmas, maybe?" David said.

"Yeah, if we don't have some kind of snowstorm, I think we can make the 24th and come back before the New Year reception," Shane said.

After the call, Ilya said, "I like your parents;" his head on Shane's chest in their bed.

"They like you, too," Shane said.

"Sorry, I don't have parents to introduce you to," Ilya said.

"Don't be sorry, it's not your fault."

"My mother, I'm sure she would've loved you."

"I'm sure I would've loved her too," Shane said. He wanted Ilya to be part of his family—the small one of three, him and his parents—but also the extended one, with his friends.

"Mmm, interesting. Svetlana posted a picture at Dartmouth?" Ilya said.

"How interesting?" Shane said.

"Didn't you tell me Anita was at Dartmouth this weekend, too? Some young women in politics thing?"

"I did, I did..."

"I'm just saying, Hanover is a little random destination for a random October getaway for the two people at the same time, without us knowing."

"Indeed."

***

The last time Ilya was that relieved to hit the ground at Logan Airport was when he came back from Moscow after his father's funeral and cutting out Alexei. Now, nothing dramatic had happened. He was coming back from his first West Coast roadie since he and Shane lived together: seven days, five games, two losses. And because he had to pay the universe some punishment for all the good the past month had been, November was the busiest time for Shane. He could only make quick calls in the morning and sometimes after games at night, but he would fall asleep.

In two days, it would be the midterm election. Shane had been on all the TV panels and interviews, standing next to incumbents in seats for the House of Representatives, the Senate, the Attorney General, and even the mayors of other Massachusetts cities. After his win with the universal child care program, his approval rating went up. Ilya would only have tonight and tomorrow with him before election day, before their house was transformed into an election watch party.

When Shane signed the universal childcare program with the governor, Ilya couldn't push away the thought about their potential children, but he had to talk himself out of it. He already had so much—so much he didn't have six months ago, so much he didn't even think he could have. He knew and trusted Shane about being all in and serious. They lived together, were public, and committed; it was already so much. He couldn't push for a conversation without an actual plan. Yes, he'd soon be a coach, but it would still mean a lot of travel, less than in the MHL but still, and Shane had at least three years of his term—more likely seven.

He sent Shane a message letting him know he was on his way home but didn't get a response. It was possible that he was still at a meeting at City Hall since it was only 6 p.m. He parked his car. Shane's car was there, but that was never an indication of whether he was home or not, as he rarely drove himself.

All of the lights in the house were turned off. Ilya dropped his bag in the crate space Shane had added to avoid his stinky hockey gear being in the way. He was ready to go to the kitchen to find something to eat and shoot another message to Shane, when he heard a "Hi."

"Hey," Ilya said, happy to find Shane, kissing him and burying his nose in his neck. "I thought you were at the office."

"I missed you so much," Shane said.

"Missed you too. Why are all the lights turned off? Is this some new mayor plan for climate?"

"No, come," Shane said.

Ilya followed Shane into the living room, where a dozen small candles were lit, trailing a path to the fireplace. Shane stood before it, facing Ilya, and dropped to his knees.

"Gosh, Anita would kill me—such a conformist hetero move. Anyway, Ilya, I love you. I love living with you. I've loved you for so long, and now it's been four months."

"Four months and three weeks," Ilya said, his eyes wide open.

"Right, almost five months. Ilya Grigorievich Rozanov..."

"Did you abuse your power to get access to information at city hall?"

"I have a copy of your passport... I was saying, almost five months, will you marry me and be my husband, Ilya Grigorievich Rozanov?"

"Yes, yes, Shane. Come here," Ilya said, taking his face to kiss him. It was his life now, coming from home, to find the love of his life, soon to be husband. Ilya kissed Shane with all the passion, the longing, and the love he had in his body. Ilya knew he was sentimental, and Shane made him a romantic.

"I have a ring."

"Should I buy you a ring?"

"No, I have two rings."

And Shane put a ring on it.

The romantic program Ilya had imagined during his flight home, for their day together, was obsolete.

They spent the day as they spent the night, in different iterations of their bodies, parts of their bodies entangled. Food was delivered, and during the day, they lounged in the living room, CNN and ESPN running on mute on their sophisticated media system. Shane checked in at the polls, and answered calls between two blowjobs or an epic fuck.

"Do you want to wait to have a big summer wedding?" Shane asked him.

"No, we can go now to city hall. You're the mayor, you can get someone to marry us."

"No, I can't. But I want to do it soon, too. Maybe Thanksgiving break so that we can have our friends and my parents come," Shane said.

"Yes, doing it here?"

"Iro thinks it'll be more Boston if we do it at the Public Library, and we can do the party here after. I don't want it to be a political communication, but I have to think about, you know, being a mayor in office who's getting married," Shane said.

"I love it."

"Okay, I'll let you do the announcement. Can't do all the work in the relationship—proposing,"

"Oh, little brat, you're doing all the work? When I carried you and fucked you on the wall this morning?"

"I engaged my core," Shane said, and Ilya tugged closer to him on the couch.

"I love you."

"Me too. Forever."

Ilya sent the most Ilya announcement, a selfie attached, to their friends and Shane’s parents, and Shane forwarded it to the ones Ilya didn’t contact, mainly Hayden, and JJ.

Ilya: Going to be the first husband of Boston, the most handsome of course. November 20th, afternoon. You're invited. More beautiful invitations will be sent later.

Anita: Finally. Perfect choice of date and time. See you tomorrow. [Link: Love on Top by Beyoncé]

Rose: Love wins! Am I too old to be a flower girl?

Svetlana: I always said that being a whore gets you a ring. Congrats, Ilyusha. Love you both. See you tomorrow.

Iro: The gay agenda (Damien said: not in the bi-erasure sense).

Iro: [Link] Damian and I may or may not already have planned your wedding. Respectful of your non-existent vision, my friend Rebecca, wedding planner, will call you.

Yuna: This is amazing news, booking tickets now. Will call you tomorrow.

David: We are so happy to have you in the family.

Marleau: I am not calling you 'First Husband.' Congrats, man. Please ask your fiancé to do something about my fucking neighbor and his leaf blower.

St-Simon: Congrats on marrying up, Cap.

"You should invite your little harem, so they know you're mine forever," Ilya said to Shane.

"You're impossible. I'm inviting Paul and his husband. How many times do I have to tell you he has a husband?"

“If I had a husband, I would leave him for you.”