Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Jessica | Shane Hollander's Ex-Girlfriend, Hayden Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Gilbert Comeau, Patrice Drapeau, Theriault (Game Changers), Roger Crowell, Grigori Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Svetlana Vetrova, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Jackie Pike, Original Characters

Additional Tags:

Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Outing, Coming Out, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov Relationship Timeline Reveal, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Abusive Parents, Bodily Fluids, just spit and blood, Implied Sexual Content, Erotic Language, No Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Sexual Repression, Control Issues, Making Out, Kissing, Coming of Age, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Anxiety Attacks, Depression, Hockey, Humor, Texting, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s01e01 Rookies (Heated Rivalry), unhealthy relationship with food, Secret Relationship, Relationship Reveal, Character Study, Hockey Injuries

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of Alternate Relationship Reveals - there are no secrets that time does not reveal

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-08 Completed: 2026-09-01 Words: 114,579 Chapters: 15/15

A House in Nebraska

Summary

Shane Hollander doesn't know what he is. He knows what he wants. For a long time, he tells himself those are different things.

Ilya Rozanov knows what he is. He can't control what he wants. For a long time, he tells himself those are the same thing.

They’re just boys who handle it badly—from a junior tournament in Canada to the NHL draft to the moment a security camera at the end of a hallway changes everything

-

Shane and Ilya are discovered before they even play their first game

Notes

This fic has two inspirations.

The first is Ethel Cain's "A House in Nebraska." I have always enjoyed the idea of writing a fic exploring the more youthful aspects of Shane and Ilya's relationship. And what would happen if that relationship was exposed earlier on, when they were still just two stupid, risky kids. There is a darkness to desperate youthful love that I’m trying to capture in this fic.

The second is a text I sent to my friend referring to the two of us as "the deprived and the depraved."

I'm incredibly proud of this fic and really excited to share it with you all. In the end, there will be some fluff and some humor, but there's also an intensity about their relationship that I really wanted to depict. This fic is about desire and repression and control and chaos. And what it means to build a home. And sex. And hockey.

 

(This is important, so read this if nothing else)
A note on the tags: This is a very particular fic (and by particular, I mean pretentious), which makes it hard to tag with labels that I know and love. So I will do my best to describe what's going on here.

Shane has a not great relationship with food for parts of this fic. It’s being used as a metaphor for his desire and his want to have control over his own body, and doesn’t really persist after chapter 3.

Additionally, I have no idea how to tag the sex in this work. The best way I can describe it is like the movie Challengers. Just like with the tennis in that movie, the hockey is the sex and the sex is hockey. If that makes sense. Sex will be implied heavily, but will never be displayed explicitly.

Beyond that, there will be vivid descriptions of body parts (non sexual) and spit.

I will update the tags and this note as often as I can as things come up while I write. Heavy angst ahead, so set your sails accordingly and consider this your storm warning (happy ending, though).
(I’m not kidding. Angst. Angsty af)

Enjoy! (hopefully)

Chapter 1: PART I: Boys

Chapter Notes

Boys are often told they are messy. And they are. They chew on the strings of their hoodies, leaving broken plastic and frayed thread. They pull at the chains around their neck, letting the gold rub at their skin until it leaves a harsh red line. They yank at the bonds their parents use to train them or restrain them, believing the fighting will create someone stronger, someone braver. Someone kinder. They leave behind broken homes and messy sheets, not able to tell the difference between the two. 

They are simply careless. They take for granted the things they are given and forget the things they need. 

They break hearts they haven’t realized they have stolen, tucking them under mattresses next to lint and magazines, in the name of protecting themselves or something else just as stupid. 

Oh, how careless boys are with the things they own. 

Especially the things they don’t even realize are theirs. 

* * * * *

2008 International Prospect Cup - Regina, Saskatchewan

“You will not be so nice when we beat you.”

“That’s not happening.”

Rozanov tilted his head in obvious disbelief. Shane started walking away.

“See you in final.”

Shane lifted his hand, which was still inside his jacket pocket, in acknowledgment. He didn’t know what he had expected from the Russian. An introduction? Maybe a returned compliment. He felt bad for feeling a little irritated at Rozanov’s response, especially given the state of his English. He just…well…

He had naively hoped that Rozanov had spent as much time thinking and studying his opponent as Shane had. Finding grainy videos from weird Russian websites, Shane had been able to watch some of Rozanov’s games, admiring the way his back stretched towards the puck and his legs spread out across the ice. He was a hell of a skater, and Shane couldn’t help but feel threatened by him, his cheeks flushing red with every click of his computer mouse and every drag along the bottom of the screen, allowing the video to start again. 

Nervously approaching his competitor, his heart had raced when he had laid his eyes on Rozanov. He had shoved his hands in his coat pockets so Rozanov couldn’t see them shake from the bitter Canadian cold, but when he finally caught his attention, he couldn’t help but stick his hand out to shake Rozanov’s, as if guided by some unknown force. 

And now he was walking back to his parents’ car, cheeks still burning and hands still sweaty. He tried to wipe them inside his coat pocket.

“Wait, Hollander!” an accented voice cried out behind him.

Shane turned back towards the rink, glancing at the car, which was still mostly out of eyesight. Ilya Rozanov was rushing toward him. Was he going to fight him? Shane felt his body tense as Rozanov approached. He was handing him something.

Oh.

It was a phone.

“You give me number, yes?”

Shane was momentarily speechless, gawking at the phone being presented to him. 

“Er, why?”

“We play hockey together.”

“I mean, against each other, but yeah. So?”

“So, I practice English. Will need to chirp on ice.”

“You…” Shane blinked at him. “You want me to give you my number so you can practice…chirping?”

Ilya nodded firmly. “Yes, exactly.” He shook the phone at Shane impatiently.

Mechanically, Shane took the phone from him, their hands grazing. Shane wasn’t sure why it affected him so much. He wasn’t sure why he was suddenly thinking about his girlfriend, Jessica. 

Shane quickly entered his number into Rozanov’s phone, typing his name out as well. He handed the phone back to Rozanov. Their hands touched again, allowing Shane to feel the callouses on the pads of Rozanov’s palm, slowly scraping along the edges of his fingertips.

Glancing down at the phone, Rozanov scoffed and began typing on the little keyboard. “Ah, no. Not your name.”

“Uh…that is my name.”

“No. I will use ‘Jane’?”

“Jane? Why Jane?”

Rozanov shrugged. “Would be weird if I text Shane Hollander every day. Does not look weird if I text girl.”

“What, so all of the girls you’re talking to are actually Canadian hockey players?”

Rozanov let out a sharp laugh, and Shane’s feet went numb. Probably because of the snow. “Mm, yes. Something like that.”

Shane smiled back, but he was replaying Rozanov’s words in his head. “You’re going to text me every day?”

He smirked and shrugged again. “Lots of English to learn. I will text so much. Soon you will hate me.”

Shane cocked an eyebrow. “I already hate you.” But even Shane heard the comment go flat at the end.

Rozanov shot him a deadly smile. 

“Yes. So much.”

Shane felt his face grow hot, his head burning underneath his toque. 

“I really gotta go, but I’ll talk to you later?” Shane stammered out.

“Yes. You will,” Ilya remarked with a grin that was spreading across his face. Drifting off his breath, Shane caught the lingering smell of the cigarette Rozanov had held between his lips earlier, letting the taste of it roll around on his tongue.

He shivered and made his way back to his parents.

Slamming the car door closed, Shane sat in stunned silence for a moment, breathing hard, as if he had just finished a shift on the ice.

“So? What’s he like?” his mom asked from the passenger seat.

Shane thought about it. “Kind of an asshole,” he landed on.

His phone pinged, and he looked down at it, the light emitting a soft glow onto his fingers.

Unknown Number: Hello Jane

Shane blinked at the phone, listening to his dad start the car engine. It rumbled around him, shaking his body ever so slightly, forcing his legs to bounce and his spine to tingle.

He blinked again.

Clicking on the contact, he quickly typed out a name, as if his brain would try to stop him before his fingers finished. He clicked back to the messages.

Hello Lily

* * * * *

The lights of the arena seemed to dim as he met Rozanov for the first face-off. Radiating from the ice, the cold air found its way to Shane’s face, making him shiver slightly as he peered into Rozanov’s blue eyes that were looking at him through thick lashes. In the newly darkened room, Shane drew closer, bending over, resting his weight slightly on his stick. 

Rozanov ran his tongue across the bridge of his lip, leaving a faint trail of spit along the bow, emphasizing the depth of it.

Shane inhaled sharply. 

The puck dropped, and they clamored for it, attacking each other and shoving their shoulders into one another. The back of Shane's gloved hand ran along Rozanov’s arm, and Shane could hear him breathing heavily into his ear. Rozanov managed to slap it back to one of his wingers, and the game was on.

The game was fast, faster than Shane was used to, but his body raced to match the tempo, meeting Rozanov move for move. His team was skating around him, feeding him pucks and intercepting blocks, but Shane couldn’t help but feel like it was just Rozanov and him on the ice. His pupils grew larger, trying to capture every detail, every flinch in one direction or another to sense where Rozanov’s next move was. 

Every time he stole the puck, racing down the ice, he knew that he would soon feel Rozanov’s body crash into his, driving him up against the boards. He knew. And he was doing the same thing to Rozanov, the urge to shove him growing over the course of the game. Constantly pushing and pulling at each other, Shane felt like he could still feel the impression of Rozanov’s body etched into his own, even from the bench.

Rozanov scored. And then Shane scored. And then Rozanov scored again.

Shane let out a moan of frustration as he heard the second buzzer sound through the arena, floating over the cheering crowd, taunting him. Staring at a celebrating Rozanov across the ice, Shane sketched the contours of his figure, taking stock of his movements, trying to learn and adapt. There was something hidden beneath Rozanov’s pads and cocky facade that Shane knew was there but struggled to see. He felt that the missing piece was the solution to playing a perfect game.

So he continued to study Rozanov, letting his blade smack against the Russian captain’s, feeling the strength behind it, allowing it to seep into his bones. He felt the urgency of the game rising in him, pooling in a pit in his stomach. He felt Rozanov’s smug grin growing, and Shane’s own movements began to feel sloppy and hurried. 

And then the moment came. The moment when there are fifteen seconds on the clock, and the puck is stolen right out from underneath you, in spite of the stick that is clawing and scrambling desperately. It all came rushing at Shane as he watched Rozanov dart toward the other end of the rink, with fifteen seconds left, an empty net, and a point gap that was about to increase by one in the Russians’ favor.

They were going to lose. They had lost.

The buzzer sounded, and the noise of the arena slammed back into Shane, where previously he had been able to keep it lingering on the brink of reality. He bashed his stick hard against the ice in frustration, just like his mother had always told him not to do. 

He lined up for handshakes, trying to fix his face into what he hoped was a sportsman-like expression, but he couldn’t help but feel trapped in his own heavy breathing and flushed face. By the time he had reached Rozanov, his face had fallen into a slacked, relaxed position, feeling almost satiated by the thrill of a truly hard-fought game. As a ‘prodigy player,’ Shane had consistently felt like he was rushing ahead of his peers, never satisfied by their speed, their strength. But with Rozanov, he couldn’t help but enjoy the rush of being pushed to the very edge.

He reached for Rozanov’s hand, expecting the firm, hard handshakes that hockey players tended to give to prove their place, their dominance. But Rozanov’s hand didn’t clench around Shane’s, muscling his fingers together.

It was soft.

“See you at the draft,” Rozanov said quietly with a wink.

Shane said nothing, but he let out a deep breath with the air that had been collecting in his waist and hips. 

* * * * *

Lily: Was good game. Should do it again sometime

Shane stared at the text, sitting in a slouchy leather chair, waiting for them to call his boarding group. The chair was cracked from having carried so many travelers before him, the thin black strips of badly constructed fabric flaking off into Shane’s fingernails as he picked at the enlarging gash. He glanced around at his other teammates, holding his phone tightly between white knuckles, as if one of them would come rip the phone from him. Or as if the phone would magically bounce from his hands and the text would disappear into the stiff carpet below.

Shane bit his lip as he typed out a careful response. What was he even supposed to say? His phone slipped slightly as his palms grew clammy. He hadn’t felt this nervous texting anyone since he joined his first junior hockey team group chat.

Yeah for sure.

He slammed the phone quickly down into his lap, breathing hard. What the fuck was he doing?

He felt a buzz along his inner thigh and picked up the phone again.

Lily: wow hollander. This is all you say?

I thought we werent using our real names

Lily: you want me to call you jane?

It was your idea

Lily: yes

Lily: i will call you Jane

Lily: my lovely lovely girl

Shane’s eyes grew wider as he stared at his phone, rereading each letter of the last text. He felt his face turn red with embarrassment, and he pushed the keys of his phone a little harder as he typed.

Fuck off

Lily: ))))

Shane frowned. He turned to one of his wingers sitting a few seats down from him.

“Hey, Gentry. What does it mean when a girl sends you a bunch of parentheses?”

Gentry looked up at him slowly, a shocked expression spreading across his face.

“You’re texting a girl?”

Shane frowned. “I literally have a girlfriend.”

“I mean, yeah, but—” Gentry shrugged. “It’s not like you ever talk to her much. Especially not on the road.”

Shit, should he be texting Jessica more?

“Whatever, man. Do you know what the parentheses mean?”

Gentry just shrugged and shook his head, already turning back to his own phone.

Shane reread the text message. Staring at the name ‘Lily,’ Shane felt a pang of guilt hit him, filling up the edges of his throat.

He felt his thumb move the messages down the screen a little before gliding across the words.

Lily: my lovely lovely girl

He closed the thread and opened up the one he had with Jessica a few scrolls down, giving her a quick update on the game.

* * * * *

He started texting Rozanov everywhere. At practices between drills. Under the dinner table next to his family. Beneath the covers, swallowed in the darkness of his room. And if he wasn’t texting him, he was thinking about what to say next, replaying old text messages in his head, imagining the curve of each letter, the curl of each period. During practices, he swore he could see flashes of blonde hair out of the corner of his eye and small printed text scrolling across the ice. He was constantly within sight of his phone, often picking it up to stare at the blank screen even without an alert or buzz. His phone slept next to him, resting underneath his pillow in case he needed to draw it out in the middle of the night, desperate to remember every check, every glove that grazed the other’s when they had wrestled for the puck.

Lily: you are very boring jane

Is that the chirp you’ve been building up to? This is what all those english lessons were for?

Lily: only need few words for you. 

Lily: Boring. 

Lily: Plain. 

Lily: Dull. 

Lily: Tedious.

Did you swallow a thesaurus?

Lily: I do not know this word

Look it up

Lily: You are the worst english teacher

Lily: So mean to me

Lily: I like it

Fuck off lily

Lily: ))))

Shane had figured out that Rozanov used parentheses as smiley and frowny faces. Apparently, it was a Russian thing. Shane often found himself having to delete more of his messages to his teammates after he started including the parentheses in his own texts. But he felt his restraint wavering by the day, letting Ilya Rozanov fill his body, cigarette smoke curling around his toes and Russian characters falling from his fingertips. He almost couldn’t be angry at himself for drawing a little parenthesis next to his mom’s name on his hockey stick. Almost.

Shane was determined to beat this, eventually. He was allowing himself a short indulgence in…something. There were so many kids his age doing so much worse—staring into video games, procuring pills from contraband bottles, ravaging porn magazines. Shane was allowed to have a similar distraction that he would grow out of. This was just hockey. It made sense that he would think about his competitor. Shane was a professional. He was going to be great.

But only if he could stay in control. 

He found himself avoiding certain foods more, restricting his diet further, and working out for longer hours. His own hunger was poking at the edges of the silhouette he had worked so hard to shape. The one his mother had trained to be disciplined. The one his father had encouraged to be considerate. Shame was seeping in through his skin, and he let it pool in his stomach where he otherwise would have let indulgent meals rest. He made his showers shorter and his mornings earlier. 

Lily: are you awake?

Shane felt like he was always awake, constantly fidgeting, waiting for the next text. He had never felt so betrayed by his own body, which, for the first time, didn’t seem to want to work with him, pushing against every attempted crossover, every flick of his skate, and every pivot in a different direction.

Yeah

Lily: You wake up so early

How else am I going to beat you

Lily: will never work. Cannot get up early enough

He started hanging out with Jessica more. She was beautiful. Her hair was brown, and her eyes were green. She was kind and always laughed at the jokes Shane wasn’t actually telling.

Shane respected her, so he didn’t usually touch her.

But the more they saw each other and the more attention Shane gave her, the more Jessica seemed to touch him, leaving a hand on his thigh or a foot resting against his own. Shane had never enjoyed physical touch with most people, never having very physical relationships outside of the teammates he would push against during practice, so the feeling of her slender hand running along his arm left him feeling slightly itchy and sick.

But he was in control, and he knew that this behavior was expected of him. So he let her hands travel, trying to reciprocate where he could. He kissed her, trying to remember movements as if they were hockey plays. Lip goes here. Tongue goes there. Hands move downward. He let a hand travel along the base of her hip, feeling the bone that jutted out there, and tried not to think about the phone buzzing against his other hand, still stuck in his pocket.

He broke up with Jessica five days later.

* * * * *

“—the Boston Raiders select Ilya Rozanov.”

Fuck.

Flanking him on his left and right, his mom and dad clapped politely, his mom a little shorter and harder than his dad. He felt a quick nudge from his mom, and he met her urgent eyes. He plastered a smile on his face and gave a look that he was sure did not read as ‘incredibly proud of all my hard work’ or ‘pleased with my new team,’ joining his parents in the applause.

He watched as Rozanov prowled onto the stage, taking the jersey they handed him and shaking the hands presented. His smile, which was usually cockier and flashier, was slightly restrained, as if he was trying to comb back the corners of his smirk with the rest of his curly hair.

Shane felt like his head was fogging up, the panes surrounding his brain blurring from the heat radiating within his body. He tried to clear the condensation, cracking open a few windows to allow for cool air to circulate, but the mist remained. He made the mistake of looking at Rozanov with a bit more focus. His suit was well-tailored, hugging the slope of his back and calmly sliding down his legs with irritating precision. The dark jersey he was holding up to an appreciative audience was reflected in his eyes, making them appear pitch-black. Shane felt like he was drowning in those eyes, and he couldn’t understand why he wasn’t trying to gasp for air.

He hated him. His stomach churned and skin tingled as he watched Rozanov walk behind the stage with the Boston managers. He had won. Again. Shane could almost hear the horn sounding above the hum of the crowd.

Shane felt a buzz in his pocket.

Lily: Sorry

Shane scoffed loudly, making his mother give him a sharp look and a disapproving glance at his phone. Shane’s name was about to get called; he knew that. He was going to be on the Montreal Metros, which he knew, logically, was the better fit for him, geographically and culturally. He didn’t have the aggression that the Raiders prided themselves on fostering in their players. But he couldn’t help but keep his phone open, texting underneath the table, with frequent glances towards the movement on the stage.

No you're not

Lily: I am sorry you are upset

Shane frowned. That hadn’t been the response he was expecting.

Im not upset

Lily: Liar

The word echoed in Shane’s head as the evening continued. As he accepted his blue-and-red jersey. As he took pictures with his parents. As he shook hands with the Metros’ general manager.

Liar liar liar liar liar liar liar

“Hollander! Can we steal you for a photo? We need one with the top three draft picks,” a man called from the corner, standing next to Rozanov and the third pick, Dylan Korogyi.

Shane felt Rozanov’s eyes meet his before he had fully processed them rotating in his direction. Somehow, Shane didn’t feel like he was looking him in the eyes, instead landing on something slightly below them. 

Liar

A woman pushed a jersey back into his hands, and he steadied himself before walking over to the group, where he was rushed to Rozanov’s side. 

“Come on, boys, let’s see those jerseys,” a photographer called, holding the camera over his face, light flashing into Shane’s eyes, making him flinch slightly. He held up his jersey, stiffening when he felt a hand graze his own as Rozanov did the same. The edges of their pinkies rested against each other as they kept their jerseys up, the name on the back lining up evenly with the one next to his, almost blending together. He stiffened and raised two fingers with his other hand, signaling his disappointing position, trying not to glance at Rozanov’s own ‘number one’.

“Can I get some smiles? Where’s that smile number two?”

Shane let his lips fall open, his teeth poking through.

Liar

* * * * *

Lily: Jane

Shane was lying flat on his hotel bed, breathing hard and staring at the ridges on the ceiling. His parents were down the hall from him, probably already asleep, snoring contentedly next to each other. Shane rolled over and looked at the phone lying innocently on the pillow beside him. With a groan, he grabbed it, the plastic slapping hard against his palm.

Lily

Lily: You are awake

I wouldnt be texting you if I was asleep

Lily: Funny

Lily: Come to the gym

Why?

Lily: I feel like running

So? Run by yourself

Lily: Is more fun if you are here

Shane set the phone down and pushed his palms against his eyes until little spots of color filled the blackness. He felt the phone buzz against his chest and glanced back down at it.

Lily: Scared?

Shane blinked

He blinked again.

Be there in ten

Shane entered the hotel gym wearing baggy shorts and a tight white compression shirt that emphasized the curve of his pecs and the hard stomach beneath them. He wore the thin top like a suit of armor, exaggerating the shadows in his muscles. Rozanov was already there, walking on a treadmill and sporting a loose tank top that exposed his long arms, which hung lazily at his sides, bouncing with every step. 

Looking over his shoulder upon hearing the door swing open, Rozanov shot him a careless grin, watching as Shane walked over to the treadmill beside him, hitting a few of the buttons to match his pace.

Well.

Or a few clicks faster.

Rozanov watched the numbers increase and smirked, slowly reaching to increase his own.

Shane hit his button a few more times.

Rozanov did the same.

Soon, they were sprinting side by side, panting loudly. Shane felt a small whimper escape his lips as Rozanov masochistically reached to increase his own speed again. Rozanov seemed to stumble briefly before pushing his feet faster, the movements becoming rushed and less paced. 

Droplets of sweat were trailing down the inside of Shane’s thighs, clinging to the seams in his shorts. Rozanov’s throat bopped, glistening with the sweat leaking across his brow and along his cheekbones. Shane pumped his legs faster, further, fighting for that last goal to finally clinch the win for him. 

“Fuck,” Shane gasped and pulled the emergency stop key from the machine, letting the belt carry him to the end of the frame, breathing hard. Rozanov quickly pulled his key as well, stepped off the machine, and crouched over, letting his arms rest on his knees.

Shane carried himself, stumbling a little, over to the mirror that lined the wall, and he leaned against it, letting his sweaty hair leave streaks in the glass. He closed his eyes, feeling the pressure of his heartbeat sound loudly in his ears. He felt a body press against the mirror next to him.

“Woo!” Rozanov cried with one of the many breaths he was panting out. “What a fucking day, eh, Hollander.”

“Yeah,” Shane breathed, feeling his neck grow slightly sticky from the drying sweat. He pushed more of his weight into the mirror, trying to keep his legs from collapsing.

“Is everything you wanted?”

Shane almost laughed.

“Almost.” He lifted his eyes to peer at the Russian beside him, who was already focused on Shane. Rozanov’s lips parted slightly, letting more air into his lungs, the edge of them glistening with perspiration that had yet to be brushed away.

“What else did you want?” Rozanov asked, his mouth twitching to reveal a slight smirk.

“Asshole. You know what I wanted.”

“Mm. Yes, I do.”

A tense silence filled the room for a moment, bouncing around the weights and the still-warm treadmills. 

“Montreal is—is nice, yes?”

“Yeah, it’s awesome.” Shane gave Rozanov a pointed look. “Boston’s nice too.”

Rozanov let out a little breathless laugh that glided along the mirror into Shane’s own throat. “Yes, well. Cannot all be best player in league.”

“Oh, and that’s you?”

“Mm. Yes.”

“You wish.”

“Well, who is best player then? You? Mr. Second in draft?”

“It could be. Maybe it’s Scott Hunter.”

Rozanov scoffed loudly.

“Scott Hunter is very old.”

“He’s really not,” Shane retorted, but his mouth was still drifting into a lazy smile, his brain clouded by his continued heavy breathing. 

Silence found the room again. Shane couldn’t help but let his gaze drift down Rozanov’s face, head falling to look at the chain that hung loosely around his neck, at the way the gold cross rested on his chest. His eyes flicked up, but he kept his head low, staring at Rozanov through his brow. Rozanov was peering at him, mouth still hanging open slightly. He lifted his water bottle to his mouth, sucking on the end of it. Shane watched the movement, listening to the sounds of the liquid moving down Rozanov’s throat.

Rozanov raised an eyebrow and shook the water bottle at him, breaking Shane’s trance.

What was wrong with him? Why did he feel more breathless now than he did getting off the treadmill? His mind was flashing through a series of images as if trying to provide him with clues to a puzzle he couldn’t solve. A poster. A spray of ice from a sharp stop. An arm. A mole.

Rozanov tilted his head down slightly.

“You do not want it?”

Shane shook his head, dazed. “What?”

“The water. You do not want?”

“Oh, I…I…” His voice tapered off as Rozanov pushed off from the mirror to put his body in front of Shane's. He saw little flashing warning lights ping across his mind, but felt his body drifting slightly forward, as if drawn into the gravitational pull of a stupid black shirt with thin straps that hung across the dip in Rozanov’s clavicle. 

Too close. Way too close.

Rozanov moved slightly closer.

“You want?” he said quietly, his voice slightly gravely, and Shane could feel the whispers of breath land on his lips.

He felt like the mirror was shattering behind him, his feet getting cut by the falling glass. His brain was hit with the shock of sudden clarity.

Ilya Rozanov was going to kiss him.

He was going to kiss him. 

And Shane was going to let him.

“Hollander?” Rozanov said, impossibly soft. He lifted a trembling hand to run across Shane’s jaw, the little bit of stubble he had sending small vibrations across the rest of his face as the fingers pushed against each pore.

He heard his voice before he felt his tongue push the words out.

“I want,” he whispered.

He felt a pair of lips graze his own. For a moment, nothing happened. It was just skin on skin. The tension between them teetered precariously but did not snap.

And then Rozanov used his thumb to softly pull down on the skin beneath his lip, drawing his mouth open further before slotting his lips between Shane’s.

Holy shit.

His entire body relaxed into the kiss, and he grabbed desperately at Rozanov’s shirt. His mind, which was usually buzzing with tapes that displayed the same ten seconds on an endless loop, went completely silent. Rozanov ran his hand up and down Shane’s jaw, continuing to release some of the tension there, allowing him to slip his tongue into Shane’s mouth, running it along the back of his teeth. Rozanov moaned slightly, and the vibrations crawled across Shane’s nose, making him shiver violently.

Rozanov deepened the kiss, pressing Shane’s head against the mirror, and Shane pictured his reflection pushing back against his body. Rozanov’s hands wandered down his back, caressing the base of his waist. Shane stopped himself from pushing the hands further down, his own hands trailing underneath Rozanov’s shirt, feeling the press of hard muscle beneath his fingertips.

He was going crazy. He was crazy. He had never felt anything like this in his life and was already clawing for more, desire running through the blood that coursed in his calves, his biceps, his neck. He felt dizzy, as if his body was about to hit the ice. He dug his skates in, pushing harder.

Rozanov pulled away, and Shane heard an embarrassing whine fall from his lips. God, what was happening to him? Shane was panting hard. His mouth was dry. Rozanov watched his lips, and Shane opened and closed them slightly, making a sticky sound with each movement. Slowly, Rozanov lifted the water bottle that had at some point been set down on the rack of weights beside them. He lifted the bottle and took a long swig, his eyes not leaving Shane. Shane watched every movement.

Rozanov held the water in his mouth and leaned forward again. Shane felt the gulp of water spill into his mouth, and he moaned loudly, swallowing the water as Rozanov swallowed the noise, tugging at his lips. 

He pulled away again, his face maintaining its close distance.

“Hollander,” he grunted, almost whimpering.

“Rozanov,” Shane returned in kind.

“Where is your room?”

Shane had only been drunk once in his life before. He had hated it. Hated the way the buzzing in his head only increased, but with less concentration. Hated the way his body couldn’t remember how to move. He couldn’t understand how the rest of his teammates seemed to enjoy it, smiling and giggling through more swigs of beer and shots of god knows what. He didn’t understand what they were feeling.

But he imagined it felt a little like this.

“Sixth floor,” he whispered.

Rozanov grinned, and Shane felt his breath hitch, his eyes running along each tooth. He grabbed Shane’s hand.

“Take me.”

They ran down the hallway, stifling laughs and nervously checking around corners. Reaching Shane’s door, his hands shook as he pulled the hotel key from his pocket, Rozanov kissing the back of his neck. The door clicked open, but before Shane could pull the handle, Rozanov turned his body around and kissed him hard, the handle pressing into Shane’s back.

Without thinking, Shane reached up and grabbed a handful of curls, kissing him back just as desperately. Reaching the other hand behind him, he pushed down on the handle, allowing them to fall into the room, the door shutting softly behind them.

Nobody had seen them. Not Shane’s parents in the room only a few doors down from his. Not the Metros general manager snoring loudly on the eighth floor. Not Dylan Korogyi, who was talking excitedly to a friend on the second. Not Rozanov’s dad sleeping soundly on the seventh.

No one.

Except the security camera at the end of the hall.

Chapter End Notes

*gasp* a camera...

I hope you enjoyed! And I hope you get what I meant by "hockey is the sex," haha.

And I hope you liked the water bottle scene...I giggled writing it. Felt fun. Felt slutty. Here we are.

Let me know your thoughts <3!
Updates hopefully every three days.

p.s. if you are my sister (who spent seven hours on ao3 yesterday trying to find my account) and you are reading this, no you are not

Chapter 2: Where we found each other on a dirty mattress on the second floor

Chapter Notes

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Shane groaned loudly and threw an arm over his head, feeling the stickiness of the perspiration that had dried there. His head was throbbing, and he blinked hard, the crust in his eyelids making it hard to open them. The sun was shining into his room through a crack in the curtain, dribbling across his face. His head pounded some more in a constant stream of thumps.

God, his head hurt. Everything was too loud, too bright, too repugnant. Internally, he screamed at his brain to shut the fuck up.

“Shane?” a muffled voice called. “Shane, open up.”

He frowned. Why was his brain calling him? Was it angry about the series of curse words he had just sent its way?

A rush of clarity hit Shane like a particularly nasty shove, and he bolted up in his bed, panicked. A flood of memories filled Shane’s brain, and he coughed a few times, choking on the weight of them. He looked around the room, searching for the irregularities, the witnesses to the night before, each one slamming into him like a firm check into the boards, his teeth chattering together upon impact. The sheets around him were tangled and messy, a pillow having made its way across the room to the floor. The smell of men’s cologne and sweat drifted through the air, neither of them belonging to him. A little strand of golden hair was stuck to his forearm, making his skin crawl. He tried to pull the strand off of him, feeling its graze against his arm hair, but his hands kept missing it, the string making its home in the crook of his elbow. He felt like he was going crazy.

The knocking continued.

“Shane! We really gotta go!” his mom called from the hallway.

Holy shit, his mom was in the hallway, and he was still lying down with little white streaks running down his mouth from his own dried drool in a room that had pretty clearly been used for purposes that the NHL had not intended when they reserved it for him.

Holy shit, what had he done?

“One minute, Mom!”

He raced around the room, shoving his folded clothes into his suitcase. Thank god he had the clarity of mind to fold them last night, not sure how he would have explained to his mom that the son that she had known for years had inexplicably thrown his clothes carelessly on the floor. He ran over to the window, shoving it open and wafting his hands uselessly, as if his desperation would do anything against the lingering musk. 

With his bags packed, clothes thrown on, and a glob of toothpaste circling his mouth ineffectively, Shane hurried toward the door, looking at himself in the mirror for the first time, his jaw dropping.

Fuck.

His hair was sticking up in ways that it never had before, as if someone had spent the whole night running their hands through it and pulling (because they had). His lips were red and slightly swollen. Worst of all, though, he could see the hints of a bruise that rested slightly above the collar of his shirt.

He was going to kill Rozanov.

He watched the blood drain from his face, making his pink lips stand out even more

Rozanov.

He had kissed Ilya Rozanov. He had slept with a player drafted to another team. He had licked his predetermined NHL rival. In a sterile conference room somewhere, they were already designing posters of the two of them, giving each other hard expressions, going head-to-head. Their relationship had already been drawn up and signed. Shane could still taste him on the back of his tongue, the scent of the other man lingering in his lungs. He let out a deep breath, trying to expel the smoke.

And Ilya Rozanov was a man.

Shane wasn’t even gay; he was just, well…really into hockey. Hockey. Which he was sure he would lose if anyone found out about what he had done. It was risky, and Shane didn’t take risks. He felt a sob bubble in his chest, threatening to make itself known as he felt his eyes begin to water. In the reflection, he could almost see his aspirations written in tiny print, scrolling across, taunting him with everything he had always dreamed of accomplishing. The letters slid down the glass, pooling at the very bottom, forming different, more incriminating words. Words like ‘fuck, Rozanov,’ ‘please,’ and ‘I want.’ 

He stared at his own brown eyes, peering back at him from the mirror. The face was judging him. It knew what he had done, what he had just given up. 

He was better than this.

He would be in control.

He threw on a sweatshirt he had kept in his backpack, throwing the hood up to hide his hair and hopefully conceal the stupid fucking hickey, and flung open the door, eyes meeting an impatient and worried Yuna Hollander.

“Shane! There you are, what—” she broke off, examining his appearance. He felt his heart skip a few beats with every limb her eyes drifted to.

“Are you sick? You look a little pale.” She held a hand up to his forehead, feeling for his temperature, which Shane was sure was a bit high. “Did you oversleep?”

“Just couldn’t fall asleep last night. Too much excitement,” Shane stammered out, letting the lie float out in front of him. (Well, not exactly a lie.)

Yuna grabbed onto it regardless and nodded meaningfully, hurrying him down the hallway that he had been running through only a few hours before.

“Well, your dad is waiting downstairs for the taxi, so we need to go now.”

The ride to the airport felt torturously long. The three of them were squeezed into the backseat of the cab, and Shane pressed himself into the corner against the car door, leaning away from his parents, sure they could smell the sin that had seeped into him. He pulled his hood higher, letting his parents think he was just upset about his draft placement. Letting his mom glance over him with worry and his dad pat his shoulder in support. His head still hurt, and his stomach churned with each turn of the car, swallowing down the bile that stung his throat.

He felt like he was going to die, the weight of his parents’ presence crushing him into the metal of the door. His mind was trying to shove little images into his field of vision, displaying brief glimpses of the night before over the picture of his parents chatting and showing each other things on their phones. If they glanced over, would they finally see the blood that was spilling into his cheeks and the teeth marks on his lips from a jaw larger than his own? Would they see his eyes shift as they scanned over the tan leather seats, thinking of a wide expanse of pale back that was interrupted with moles and freckles?

Amid all the many emotions that were crowding his bones, pressing them closer to his skin, he felt an eerie sense of loss. Something was missing. It was something he knew without thinking about it. He tried to sort through his body and his bag, searching for the missing thing. He still had his feet and two shoes covering them. He reached down into his backpack and felt his charger curl around his fingers. So, not that.

Finally, he pulled out his phone, flicking it on. He saw that he had one unread message received at 3 am. 

He felt a deep sense of calm rush over him that he didn’t want to examine too closely.

Lily: Goodnight jane 

He tried to ignore the smile he felt growing on his face.

Absentmindedly, he ran a tongue across the roof of his mouth, sucking lightly on the spit that wasn’t his.

* * * * *

Shane had gotten very good at pretending. Four months of pretending. And then his phone lit up with a picture of a puddle.

Lily: Is this you?

Shane stared at the picture. He was pretty sure Rozanov had taken it himself.

Why is that me this time

Lily: Is what you will look like after

After what

Lily: After I fuck you so hard you cannot move

He wasn’t blushing. He wasn’t. It wasn’t even a good sext. Rozanov had sent him much better already over the last couple of months, texts that had been carefully deleted from his phone, but only after he had stared at them late into the evening, his hand drifting down his chest. 

Never going to happen

Lily: Sure, jane

Lily: My beautiful jane

No one had ever called Shane beautiful before he started talking to Rozanov. Now, he was getting called it at least once every other day. Shane wasn’t sure what Rozanov’s game was. They had fun, and Shane was pretending not to have daily panic attacks over it. Months of this, and Rozanov had not yet relented. Surely there were others clamoring for his attention. Others who had also begged to taste the crease of his inner thigh.

God, what was wrong with him?

Lily: I dream about your tongue

Funny. I dream about crushing you on the ice

Lily: I think is the same dream 

Fuck, he could feel the panic attack starting to build at the base of his pelvis, the cogs slowly connecting together, grinding the series of wheels that would allow it to reach his heart. Why the fuck was he still doing this? He barely understood why he had started it in the first place. He had never hated so many parts of his body at the same time. Usually, he picked one, using additional training to build muscle and strength where he perceived weaknesses, toning the edges of his flaws. Now, it felt like his whole body was wrong, each muscle stretching too tight, each bone moving too stiffly, and each graft of skin tingling with a memory he was trying to forget.

But he couldn’t forget it. Couldn’t forget the closed door and hushed voices. Couldn’t forget the feel of the carpet scraping his knees. Couldn’t forget the itchiness of the comforter beneath him as he clenched his fingers into the fabric.

Fuck, the panic attack had breached containment, and he lay down on the floor of the bathroom adjacent to his childhood room, dressed only in the towel he had hastily wrapped around himself post-shower. He felt the cool tile seep into his cheek, letting the chill freeze some of the firing neurons in his brain.

No one could ever know. And it was never going to happen again.

Glad to see your english is being put to good use

Lily: you will not need english when I am done with you

* * * * *

“Are you getting the salmon, Shane?”

Shane stared down at his menu, the list of options slightly blurring as he looked at it longer, fat percentages whispering in his ear.

He closed the menu and glanced up at his mom, who was looking at him expectantly.

“Yeah, just the salmon for me.”

Across the table, his dad gave him a look that he couldn’t read and fiddled with the drink menu.

“Should we order a bottle of wine for the table?” his dad said in a light tone, coughing slightly.

The noise of the restaurant was poking at Shane as if running a nail down the back of his neck. The two girls on their right were laughing harshly, and the couple on their left were staring at each other loudly. Trying to tune the crowd out, Shane pretended he was on the ice, focused on the puck in front of him rather than the fans pounding on the glass.

“Oh, yes, we should,” his mom declared, lifting her hand to flag down a waiter, who hurried over to them. The waiter was quite tall, and his eyes were slightly sunken, creating a dark expression, emphasized by the way he peered down at them as he stood next to the table, pen held between his long, thin fingers.

Shane swallowed hard, thinking about the wine. 

“—three glasses please,” he heard his mom say.

“Two,” he corrected, his parents turning to look at him in confusion.

“Honey, you can have a glass of wine,” his mom said, peering at him with a pointed expression. 

Shane opened his mouth, trying to piece together all of the right reasons to refuse the drink, sorting through the ones he could never say out loud. 

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea. Not this close to the Prospect Cup.”

His parents looked at each other. His dad shook his head, and his mom shrugged, allowing the waiter to take the rest of their orders. Handing his menu back to the waiter, looking up into the dark eyes, he felt a hand graze his own, and he shivered, trying not to think about another set of fingers that were probably already drifting to sleep miles away, slowly typing out another text that would make Shane more aware of the dirt in his fingernails and sweat on the back of his legs.

He felt a buzz on his thigh.

He did not move to reach for the phone.

His texting habits had changed drastically since the night of the draft, no longer reaching for his phone with every alert. He forced himself to be more careful, only looking at his texts behind closed doors and dim rooms, no longer able to fix his expression into something subtle while reading the profane messages. He had lost the battle with his face, conceding and moving the fighting to different ground, determined to win the war. 

He tried to focus on what his parents were saying, nodding when he thought he was supposed to and smiling when his dad did.

“I’ve found a couple more apartments that I want you to look at. One of them is particularly close to the rink, and the gym seems suitable,” he heard his mom say.

“Yeah, that sounds great. If you add them to the folder, I’ll look at them tonight.”

His mom hesitated for a second, fidgeting with her fork. She placed it down carefully, centered on the napkin beside her plate.

“Shane, are you sure you want to live alone? They’ve offered to set you up with an older player or even another one of the rookies many times already. I worry about you being all on your own.”

Shane shook his head. He was more worried about living with another person, so easily able to witness Shane’s perversions and weaknesses. He had started googling his name ritualistically every morning, anxiously scanning headlines, looking for the words he knew would end his career prematurely. The sense of relief he felt when he found nothing was becoming addictive.

Shane’s mom took a bite of her steak, looking up in thought. “Have you been working on your French? I’ve been watching interviews of the other Metros players, and a lot of them do their interviews without a translator.”

“Yeah, the ones from Quebec.”

His mom shrugged. “I just think it would be a good look for you to be able to do it as well. It would be a good way to ingratiate yourself with the city.”

“And it could help you make friends. Maybe even meet a girl,” his dad added, wiggling his eyebrows. 

Shane blushed, trying not to think about the Russian language book he had purchased the other day, which was currently burning a hole into the threads of the bottom of his mattress.

“I know French,” he mumbled.

“Yes, but it’s always good to improve. We need to make sure your public image remains steady. A lot of kids are going to be looking up to you, kids that don’t see themselves at your level very often.” His mom paused, a hard look forming on her face. “And a lot of brands,” she couldn’t help but add.

“Yeah, Mom. I know,” he whined slightly, picking at the wood under the table. 

His dad placed a hand on top of his mom’s. “How’s Jessica doing, by the way? Have you been able to talk to her recently? It’s been a while since we’ve seen her around. Is she excited about her NHL star boyfriend?” his dad asked, a warm, teasing smile on his face.

Shane frowned, the salmon he was chewing seemingly losing its flavor all at once. He raised a hand to cover his mouth while he spoke. “Dad, we broke up a while ago.”

His mom’s fork clattered loudly against her plate.

“You did? What—when? You never said anything,” she said a little too loudly with a shocked expression that his dad matched.

“Are you okay with it?” his Dad added, his eyebrows scrunched upward, looking concerned.

Shane shrugged, trying to look casual. Don’t fidget. Put both hands on the table. Smooth out your forehead. Keep your lips straight. Scratch that. Don’t think about lips.

“Yeah, it just wasn’t going to work out. I wanted to focus on hockey,” he said as calmly as he could, lifting his fork to his mouth. His mom copied him, obviously thinking hard but taking another bite of steak. Shane’s mouth watered slightly as he looked at it, his tongue running along the salmon that sat dryly in his mouth, pretending it was something else.

“Honey, you can focus on hockey and still date,” his mom said curtly.

“I know, I just…” He just what? Just felt like every time he was with her, he felt a sense of guilt creep across his toes, crawling up towards the hands that she kept trying to hold? Just didn’t feel like what he had with her was comparable to the vivid descriptions of the girls his teammates were seeing? Just didn’t think about it that much?

Each answer left a bitter taste on his tongue.

“We just don’t want you to focus too much on hockey. It’s important, but it’s not everything,” his dad added kindly. Shane furrowed his brow in confusion. Of course, hockey was everything. Hadn’t this whole conversation been about hockey?

His mom hummed slightly, visibly deciding to let the issue rest with the dishes being cleared from the table.

“I liked her,” she said, reaching to take a sip of wine from her glass. 

Shane shrugged again. “Me too.”

He didn’t like that it felt like another lie.

He excused himself quickly and walked hurriedly to the bathroom, where he closed the stall door and took a few measured breaths behind it.

He pulled the phone out of his pocket.

Lily: I sleep now. Sweet sweet dreams of my sweet jane

Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes.

Goodnight lily

* * * * *

Shane’s knee was shaking in anticipation, the sound of the bouncing skate muffled by the rubber mat below it. He felt the exhaustion of the round-robin tournament with every movement.

He was going to win.

He had to fucking win.

He would not be subjected to the humiliation of losing to Russia two times in a row. He was stronger now, the results of his meticulous exercise manifesting on his body. He adjusted his earbuds, his finger dragging along the cord down to the base of his phone. 

He took a few deep breaths, trying to push the distractions from his mind. He mapped out the ice in his mind, placing teammates in different positions, running through plays in his head. Manipulating the puck between them, he felt his heart race as he made the image of himself collect a pass from his winger, speeding down the ice. He cocked his stick back and slammed it forward toward the goal. 

He heard a sharp, accented gasp reverberate through his head as the puck hit the net.

Grabbing the cord, he ripped the headphones out of his ears.

Lily: Yours or mine

He stared at the phone in confusion, glancing around quickly at his teammates who were still throwing on gear before allowing his fingers to move across the keyboard.

I’m winning this one

Lily: No

Lily: I mean after

What are you talking about

Lily: We are meeting after game

No we’re not fuck off

Lily: No I fuck you

He shoved his phone into his locker, listening to the clatter of plastic, his face red and his jaw clenched in anger. Reaching down toward his skate, he loosened the laces before retying them, pulling each loop tighter than strictly necessary, until he could feel the boot compress around his foot.

* * * * *

The game felt different from last year. The checks were just as hard, the skating just as fast, and most of the players had carried over from one team to the next. But as Shane flew down the ice, a certain blond Russian nipping at his heels, he couldn’t help but notice that the game was better, more exhilarating, the familiarity of it all enhancing the satisfaction of getting to play a sharp, grueling game. He knew them now—the weight of them, the give of their bodies against his, which pivots would make them sloppy and which pressure points would force a mistake. Listening to the sound of his own breathlessness, he grinned and turned sharply, sending the puck to a player on his right. 

He was playing well. Really well. And he hadn’t made eye contact with Rozanov once. Not that the score was reflecting that, with zero points on the board all around, but it would.

Shane watched as Rozanov stole the puck and skated fast down the rink, his legs pumping hard as his blades cut into the ice, leaving deep ridges that Shane let his skates follow as he chased after him. He slammed Rozanov into the boards, his eyes not leaving the puck once as he clawed for it in between Rozanov’s legs. Rozanov let out a loud moan, trying to shove Shane off of him. Shane pushed harder, feeling the blades of Rozanov’s back press into his chest and receiving sharp elbows into his side, leaving him gasping for breath. Shane finally felt the edge of the puck touch his blade, and he gathered up as much strength as he could, flinging the puck hard to his left. 

Shane looked over, expecting triumph, but groaned at the blank space, not a single fucking teammate in sight, all waiting aimlessly too close behind him. The ref blew his whistle for the icing call, and Shane pushed away from the boards towards the face-off circle.

“All alone, Hollander?” he heard an accented voice call behind him. 

He grimaced, not turning in acknowledgment, watching as the two teams drifted into the proper positions.

“I can fix this,” the voice said.

Shane spun around, his heartbeat moving loudly into his ears. “Are you fucking insane?” he hissed.

“Yes, crazy for you,” Rozanov responded with a grin. Shane was looking at him now, his eyes rapidly darting around the man's face as if they had been waiting urgently to do that exact thing. He drank in every eyelash and acne scar. Blue eyes stared darkly back at his, looking at him as if he were something to be swallowed.

“What is your fucking problem? We’re playing a game right now,” Shane spat at him, glancing around nervously at their teammates, making sure none of them could hear them.

Rozanov skated closer, and Shane urged his skates to move backward, but his legs were listening to a different brain—one covered in sweaty blond curls. Rozanov tilted his head, examining something on Shane’s face.

“Yes,” he agreed, “We are playing a game.”

And then he leaned forward and licked Shane’s nose.

Shane shoved him hard, and a ref stepped in between them, yelling something at Rozanov, who was cackling loudly. His teammates let out outraged cries around him.

What. The. Fuck.

He was seething, his breath coming out in even rasps and his hands shaking beneath his gloves. His entire body was burning, a dark feeling inking its way into the base of his spine. Shane couldn’t believe he would be so fucking stupid as to put them at risk like that. 

“I told you. Is same thing,” Rozanov called with a snicker from behind the ref.

Shane reached an arm up as if to wipe the spit off his nose but only let the fabric slightly graze the tip of it, leaving the patch of saliva that resided above his lip in place. Having been warned off by the ref, Rozanov joined him at the face-off circle, his eyes traveling down Shane’s face, lingering near the middle.

Rozanov grinned.

The puck dropped, and Shane sped off with it.

* * * * *

They won.

Shane played like a maniac, less controlled than he usually did, his legs shifting direction sharply, pushing his edges almost to the point of failure, his arms stretching for pucks that he usually left for other teammates. His name echoed from the arena speaker so often that it was starting to sit wrong on his back and tongue.

The buzzer sounded, and his teammates rushed him, jumping on top of him and patting his helmet appreciatively. 

“Hollzy, you fucking beast!” he heard one of them say. He could hardly make out the voices of his team over the sound of the blood rushing around in his ear, his eyes not leaving the other side of the rink, where Rozanov was prowling across the end zone, tracking every twitch and turn. As his teammates moved to line up for handshakes, Shane felt like every strand in his tendons was pulled tight, waiting for a finger to run along them, making them scream. 

As he reached Rozanov, Shane’s hand jumped to grab his, and he squeezed hard, feeling every bone in the other’s hand. Rozanov only laughed and moved further down the line.

“Hollzy was on one today. Had to prove that he should have been first in the draft, eh?” a teammate called, entering the locker room as Shane ripped off pads, shoving them hard into his bag. 

He received another enthusiastic pat on his shoulder, but Shane kept his head down, focusing on the laces of his skates. He pulled his foot out, which buzzed, still numb from the game. He stood on it without shaking it out, causing him to wobble slightly.

Shane was furious at himself. He hadn’t played a good game. He had been selfish with the puck, letting his emotions cloud his sense of the rink, forcing him to rely on instinct and muscle memory. He had been all over the place, his usual discipline dripping from his body with every stride, leaving him exposed and frantic on the ice.

He picked up his fucking phone, flipping it over.

Lily: room 824

He felt like screaming, hot tears burning the corners of his eyes. Ilya fucking Rozanov.

Lily: 9 pm

He was going to kill him. He was actually going to kill him.

Shane threw his bag hard over his shoulder, hearing the yelp of someone behind him. Storming out of the locker room, Shane started drafting plans to murder Ilya Rozanov.

* * * * *

“Hollzy, you have to come out with us! We fucking won!” Shane’s teammate called from their shared bathroom.

“We’re not even supposed to go out,” Shane replied, standing in the middle of the room unmoving, unable to sit and unable to pace, simply looking at the shape of his shadow on the black TV screen.

Mickey poked his head around the corner and shot him an exasperated look. “Hollzy. Even the coaches know no one’s following that rule.” 

Mickey walked over and placed two hands on his shoulders, giving him a pointed expression and shaking him a bit. Clenching his core, Shane held his body firm against the movement.

“Come oooon,” the other boy whined, looking up at him with big, pleading eyes.

Shane rolled his eyes. “No, I’m really good,” he said, giving him a quick shove, letting Mickey exaggerate a stumble as he let his lanky limbs carry him closer towards the door. Mickey opened the door before giving Shane one last look.

“Go. Please. I really don’t want to go.”

Mickey shook his head. “You’re so fucking weird, Hollander,” he crowed, hurrying out of the room with a laugh.

The click of the closing door sounded in Shane’s throat, and he felt the room immediately start to shrink, the presence of his roommate no longer there to help to keep his dread at bay. It drizzled into Shane’s clothes, oozing into his limbs like a cold breeze, making him shiver.

He wasn’t going to go.

He wasn’t going to fucking go.

His stomach gnawed at him, and he heard it grumble furiously. Taking a protein bar Mickey had left out on a nightstand, Shane ripped open the wrapper, shoving the pasty block into his mouth and chewing furiously. His stomach only got louder. He flung the rest of the bar in the trash can, and it clattered loudly against the plastic.

His body was thawing, and a burning heat filled it, sweat starting to drip through his hair down his neck. Now that his limbs had defrosted, he paced back and forth around the room with ease, mouthing small rants and mantras to himself, letting his mouth form the letters but keeping his lungs from sounding the words.

Shane glanced at the alarm clock next to his bed.

He wasn’t going to go.

He knocked on the door softly and, glancing around the hallway nervously, Shane went through the strategy again in his head, flipping through the tape and slowing down the more risky maneuvers. He had a script prepared and everything. What had happened had happened. But it wasn’t happening now, and it would never happen again. It was a moment of stupidity, merely a reflection of his mental state following the draft. He was just really stressed about hockey. And then he would block Ilya Rozanov’s number and consider buying a new phone, potentially burying his current phone in his parents’ backyard.

As he waited impatiently, slowly rocking back and forth on his heels, he let his thoughts wander from the main plan into the backup. The one where he let his hands wrap around Rozanov’s neck, pressing into the skin slowly, feeling the heartbeat vibrating under his fingertips quicken. He pictured Rosanov’s eyes growing wide and his lips turning a pale bluish color, whimpering and gasping beneath him. He imagined thrusting a knee into his thigh, the man squirming underneath him, clawing at his back until his breath stuttered and his limbs went limp.

Oh my god, should he just run? Why wasn’t the fucking door opening? He was standing in the hallway like an idiot, looking around for someone to pass to. He didn’t have an alibi, and Mickey’s testimony would be damning. He could picture him now, walking towards the witness stand. No, your honor, I didn’t see Shane Hollander after I left him all alone in our hotel room. All alone. Who knows what he could have done after I left. He could have stood outside a different room for hours waiting for Ilya fucking Rozanov to open the fucking—

The door opened. Shane still found that it shocked him even though he had been waiting for the exact thing to happen for what seemed like years. Blood pumped fiercely through his veins, and he geared up to force his way into the room and slam Rozanov into the wall, holding his arm up against his neck. He was ready to scream. To yell. Because how dare he do that to Shane on the ice? How dare he. Fuck him.

He came up short when he actually looked at Rozanov. A phone pressed up against his ear, Rozanov spoke softly into it. He took inventory of Shane’s startled expression and unmoving feet, and pulled him inside the room by the strings on his sweatshirt, not stopping his Russian mutterings. Shane followed him in, letting the door shut behind him. Rozanov didn’t look at him as he stalked further into the room, sitting on the bed, his back completely straight. Shane had never seen the Russian captain so subdued, so controlled. 

Without thinking about it, Shane moved to sit next to Rozanov on the bed. With his ear closer to the phone, Shane was able to hear someone yelling through the phone speaker, almost feeling the spit on his own face from the harsh consonants hissing into the room. Rozanov was giving short, one-word answers now, staring at the floor at his feet that were completely still. This version of Rozanov seemed so tame compared to the person he had clawed at on the ice. His jaw, which Shane knew was soft if you touched it just right, allowing your hand to run along the smooth skin, looked sharp and stony. Even the thin sweats and tank top Rozanov was wearing seemed perfectly tailored, with not a wrinkle in sight. It was all so clean.

Shane said nothing, but did not draw his eyes away, letting Rozanov finish his phone call. He muttered a few more words, and Shane heard a name, a title between the meaningless sounds that made his heart dip with emotion he didn’t quite have a name for. Rozanov closed the phone, letting it fall aimlessly into his lap, and stared at it.

“Was…was that your dad?” Shane asked carefully, his pinky twitching towards Rozanov.

“Was nothing,” Rozanov murmured.

“Didn’t sound like nothing.”

Rozanov’s head whipped up to meet his, his blue eyes flashing. “What did it sound like then?” he snarled. 

Shane’s eyes went wide, suddenly feeling hunted as Rozanov glared at him, seemingly looking for sudden movements. The man beside him transformed into the person Shane was used to, his curls rising from his head, blazing in the dim light of the hotel lamps. Shane did not move away, allowing himself to sweat under the heat of the flame. 

Suddenly, Rozanov pounced, grabbing onto him and kissing him hard, teeth pushing into Shane’s, scratching along the ivory, creating a small screech that traveled right to Shane’s brain. Without thinking, Shane’s hands moved with the unconscious effort he had only found when holding his hockey stick, switching position easily, relying only on muscle memory. He grabbed Rozanov’s shirt and wrenched him in, pushing his mouth further into the other’s, letting his tongue slide against Rozanov’s, sending shock waves along his spine.

Rozanov hauled Shane onto his lap, and Shane didn’t even have time to feel embarrassed as he found his legs slotted around Rozanov’s, pushing his hands further into Rozanov’s hair, letting the curls tickle the inside of his fingers. Rozanov’s arms reached under Shane’s shirt, grabbing at the muscles that protruded from his upper back, trying to find purchase in the hard surface. 

“Did you like the room number?” Rozanov whispered into his mouth, letting the condensation of his breath fog up Shane’s gums.

“What?” Shane said, swaying back and forth, sucking slightly on Rozanov’s tongue, making him whimper.

“The room number. 824. I ask for it.”

Shane pulled back and stared at him, blinking a few times, trying to clear the fog. “Why?”

Rozanov grinned, leaning in closer to Shane’s neck and biting hard, making him cry aloud. 

“Because. I want to eat ‘24.’ I ate ‘24.’” He slid his tongue down, his teeth finding Shane’s clavicle, biting again.

Shane felt like he had just hit the ice. He pushed Rozanov’s chest hard, forcing him to use his arms to support his weight, leaning away from Shane onto the bed. He was still grinning.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, that’s so fucking stupid. Oh my god, what am I doing?” 

Shane moved to get off Rozanov’s lap, but Rozanov shifted quickly, his legs wrapping around Shane’s waist and pulling him back in harshly, forcing Shane to brace himself against the mattress, hovering over Rozanov. He scoffed and tried to get up, but Rozanov’s legs pressed him closer to his chest. He grabbed both of Shane’s hands and held them firmly against the mattress, fingers pressing little red marks into his wrists.

“Let me go,” Shane spat at him.

“No.”

“Fucking—no?”

“I say no.”

Shane was breathing hard, prepared to slam his head into Rozanov’s mouth, relishing the image of blood dripping down the crack in his lip.

“Rozanov. I have to go. I came here to tell you that this can—” His cut off slightly as Rozanov began to run a hand up Shane’s arm, drifting towards his shoulders and down his back.

He took in another shaking breath. “—this can never happen again. It—” Rozanov had reached his waist. “—it shouldn’t have happened the first time.” Ribs. “We could have gotten caught. It was—” Waist. “—stupid. So fucking stupid, I never—oh god—” Thigh. 

Rozanov tilted his head slightly, as if to better hear the little noises traitorously escaping Shane’s lips.

“Hollander, is just fun. Is nothing scary,” he said, moving his hand towards the base of Shane’s spine.

“No, it’s—”

“Hollander. Is fine. We will not get caught. We are very careful. We have same secret.”

Shane hesitated, trying to shove the hope blooming in his chest down towards his toes. “I…I don’t want to be doing this while playing serious hockey.”

Rozanov frowned. “We are playing serious hockey. And we can play together in league and then play more after game. Is good, no? Is good for me. Is good for you?”

Shane found himself nodding. Stop fucking nodding, he screamed at his head. He nodded faster. He could almost taste the image Rozanov was describing to him, savoring the flavor of dark hotel rooms, hurried hands, and small looks across the ice. 

Rozanov smiled at whatever eager look was currently on Shane’s face and leaned in closer.

“Is fun. Are you having fun?” he said in a low voice.

God.

“Yes,” Shane whispered, looking down at the slightly open mouth beneath him. Rozanov raised his eyebrows as if he wanted more. Shane sighed, his head swimming. “Yes. I am having fun. I—I want to have fun. With you.”

Rozanov grinned at him, a smile that might have appeared vicious to someone else but filled Shane with a humiliating feeling of endearment, as if he were looking at a child whose parent had agreed to buy him his favorite candy. Rozanov closed the gap between them, kissing him desperately and licking into his mouth. 

Shane collapsed into Rozanov’s body, letting them sink together, and rolled them over, wanting to feel the weight of Rozanov on top of him. He was rewarded for his efforts, Rozanov pressing him firmly into the mattress, letting it fold over the edge of his hips.

Shane’s hands glided across the skin in front of him, the blades of his fingertips pressing in, using the grooves to move faster. He lifted up his own shirt slightly, waiting for Rozanov to notice before passing. Rozanov accepted the puck, taking the shirt in his own hands and pulling it over Shane’s head. He paused, gently folding it and setting it on the nightstand before crowding Shane again, checking him into the bed. 

Shane wondered what would happen if he bit Rozanov’s ear. He leaned forward to try, and a moan dripped out of Rozanov’s mouth as his teeth scraped the lobe. Goal scored by number 24, Shane Hollander. Assist to number 81, Ilya Rozanov. Time of the goal: 9:32.

Rozanov pulled his hair hard, forcing him to break away. He heard himself gasp into the silent room. Penalty, targeting. Two-minute minor. 

He slid a hand downwards. Penalty, charging. Five-minute major. 

End of the first period. Hollander leads by one. Second period. Rozanov answers. Third period. Tied game. Overtime.

They flew across the ice.

Victory.

* * * * *

Lily: They are trying to kill me jane

Promise?

Lily: Nooo jane. You will be so sad if I die

Easier to win

Lily: Harder to score

Seriously?

Lily: Deadly

Shane set the phone down, pulling the towel off of himself and throwing on street clothes. The first week of training camp had been brutal. He would have liked to say that the first day of week two was easier, having settled into the motions, but it was almost harder now that he knew the torture they were going to be subjected to. At least he was enjoying texting Rozanov about it, who was experiencing similar cruelties miles away.

Another drafted rookie slouched down next to him, patting his shoulder as he went down. “Hey, a couple of us are gonna go grab drinks after this, you in?” Hayden Pike asked, his hand not leaving Shane’s arm. 

Shane shrugged it off and shook his head. “No, I’m good. I don’t drink during the season. And besides, my mom has me doing some kind of sponsor thing this afternoon. But thanks for asking.”

A voice across from him laughed. “Maybe you should take a page out of Hollander’s book, Pike. Maybe you’d actually be good at hockey,” Patrice Drapeau, an older veteran, teased.

“Fuck off,” Pike laughed, leaning over to finish tying his running shoes. 

Shane had always struggled to make friends on the many teams he had been on. He had never been the most sociable, and he couldn’t find it in himself to participate in some of the weird locker room idiosyncrasies and off-rink social activities. He pushed himself to match facial expressions and tones on the ice but grew weary quickly after doing it for too long, needing to recharge in a quiet, solitary room. 

On top of all of that, some kids just seemed to hate him. Whether it was because of his hockey skills or in spite of them, Shane was never sure, but he felt the weight of their glares nevertheless. He was pleased that after a week with the Metros, the careful avoidance had given way to friendly shoves and chirping as Shane walked a fine line between intimidation and sensitivity. 

He let his teammates tease him as he walked out of the locker room, hand raised in acknowledgment and a light laugh spilling from his lips.

He stepped into his car in high spirits, looking at his phone again.

Lily: They measure my body today

They didn’t do that last week?

Lily: They did. They want to do them again

Lily: They are all shocked. I am even bigger

Bullshit

Lily: Is true. Very big. Very big for my jane

Lily: How much you weigh?

About 190. Why?

Lily: I can bench press you

Lily: Should test next time

Fuck off Im not letting you bench press me

Id probably crush you anyway

Lily: Promise?

Shane chuckled, shaking his head and starting the car, letting the phone rest in the cup holder. He smiled as he drove along the streets that led to where his mom had told him the meeting was, following the directions on his little GPS attachment. 

His phone buzzed in the cup holder.

Shane glanced at it. Nope. He was not going to text and drive.

He kept his hands on the wheel, tapping along to a song that was playing in his head.

The phone kept buzzing.

Shane frowned. At a light, he picked up the phone and stared at his mom’s contact info filling the screen. She was probably calling to confirm that he was heading to the meeting. Rolling his eyes, Shane hit the accept button.

“Hey mom, I’m on my way over now. I’ll probably get there in like ten minutes.”

The phone was silent. Shane’s car sputtered slightly as it shifted gears.

The silence continued. He could hear only his mother's breathing through the speakers.

“...Mom?”

“Hey Shane, sorry. I just…are you alone?”

Shane felt like he had swallowed some hockey tape; the sticky strands stuck to the sides of his throat.

“Yeah, I’m in the car. Are you okay?” He hesitated. “Is Dad okay?”

“Yes, honey, everything is fine, it’s…well…”

She drifted off. Shane wanted to scream at her. He felt like she was holding a gun to his head, and he was shaking, waiting for the trigger.

“There’s…there’s some video online,” she breathed into the phone.

God no. God, please no. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.

“What video?” he said as if his lungs didn’t already know. As if his heart wasn’t already screaming at him to drive faster. As if his legs weren’t already twitching, ready to run.

Silence.

He heard the click of his mom’s tongue; the one she always made when she wanted to tell him something that she knew she shouldn’t

“Just say it,” he said, his voice breaking. He felt like he was watching himself from a distance, his head turning to look down the barrel.

His phone buzzed, and he let his eyes drift from the road to the painfully bright screen, seeing a text from Rozanov. 

Lily: I am so sorry shane.

Bang.

“It’s…it’s of you. You and Ilya Rozanov.”

Chapter End Notes

My sexting talents are wasted on straight women, gay men, and Shane Hollander 🙄

My inspiration for Ilya licking Shane in the middle of a game came from the rat king himself, Brad Marchand. The question is, if Ilya Rozanov was real (he is), how fast would the Florida Panthers try to add him to their rat pack? They've already shown they known how to poach a Boston captain...

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I had so much fun writing it. My beta reader left me a lot of comments that just said "ew" and "HOT" and "Holy fucking shit" so I'm gonna take that as an absolute win. Let me know your thoughts in the comments :)

Up next: the fallout and our first Ilya POV 😮

Chapter 3: You and me against the world, you were my man and I your girl

Chapter Notes

“Marleau, the shoe goes on foot after pants. You did not learn this from your mother?”

Marleau grinned at him, letting out a sharp laugh that Ilya relished.

“Rozy, the things I taught your mother would scare your tiny balls right back up.”

Marleau was easy. Coming from a large family, Marly had been conditioned to dish out as much as he could and as fast as he could to avoid being the first target. The thing Marly knew to do best was figure out a way to transform the bullseye sitting on his chest into an arrow that he could shoot right back. Give him enough ammo, and you're locked in for life.

“Ah, is not true. Balls never fall. Balls always there,” Ilya responded caddily, shoving the rest of his pads in his locker, a shiny nameplate nailed to the top. Ilya ran his fingers across it slowly, enjoying the feeling of the carved letters on his skin.

Marly cackled and ran a hand through Ilya’s hair, making the unruly curls stick up further. Ilya swatted his hand away, pushing the curls back down and sending Marly a quick glare. Nobody touched his fucking curls. 

“Rozanov,” a voice called from behind him. He turned to see the Boston GM, Don Hughes, standing in front of his coach’s office, the coach in question standing to the side of him, wearing a stony expression. Ilya hadn’t seen the GM since the day of the draft, when he had stood silently beside his father who took pleasure in detailing Ilya’s many flaws and the corrections he encouraged Hughes to try to knead out of him.

Hughes wasn’t a difficult person. Hughes didn’t want excuses or pleasantries. He only wanted a check in his pocket. And Ilya was a big fucking check, so the GM had been happy to smile at his father, offering simple pleasantries about how excited they were to have him on the team.

“Yes?” he said, glancing around at the other players, confused as to why he was now being singled out. Had Hughes finally decided to listen to his father, deciding he was more trouble than he was worth? That his talent for destruction didn’t add up to a profitable bottom line?

“We need to talk. Grab your stuff and follow me.”

A loud chorus of ‘ooo’s sounded around the locker room. “Looks like Rozy’s already been sent to the principal’s office,” Sebbin crowed. 

“Can’t believe it hasn’t happened earlier.”

“Think he’s gonna have to write lines?”

“Absolutely,” Marly snickered and gestured outwards as if he were running a pen across a long piece of paper. “I, Ilya Rozanov, will stop swinging my dick around.”

Ilya swung his bag over his shoulder, making sure to hit Marleau with it as he did so. “Do not be jealous, Marly, just because you have no dick to swing.”

Strutting out of the room behind Hughes, a handful of boos and gloves were thrown at him, and Ilya threw his head back with a snicker even though internally, he couldn’t help but disagree with Sebbin. He didn’t feel like he was going to the principal’s office. No, looking at Coach LeClaire’s grim face, he felt certain he was going to prison.

He was led into a crowded office on one of the higher levels of the complex, with tall windows that somehow did not let much light into the room. Tracking every movement the manager made, mimicking each breath and blink, Ilya and Hughes made their way to opposite sides of the desk and sat down. Coach LeClaire hurried into the small office as well, looking uncomfortable amidst the group of suited men that were lining the walls like bugs, waiting to buzz away at a simple swipe.

“Er,” Ilya began, glancing around the room at each one of the many men, cataloging the way their hands rested on phones and folders and computers. He ran through a list of crimes he thought could warrant this kind of gathering. “Is this about the car?” he tried.

“What car?” one of the men asked. It was the one whose face had a few scars from years of picking at acne. 

“So, is not about car.” Ilya stated, moving on to new possibilities. He had bought a rather shiny, rather yellow Porsche the other day. He had heard their communications director laughing about it and had started parking the car right next to the man’s silver Toyota Corolla, inching closer and closer every day. Said communications director was now fidgeting in the corner, not looking up from his laptop, which he was balancing on one arm.

“Rozanov,” Hughes began, giving him a hard look. Ilya studied the manager a little more closely, flipping through the lines in his brow, reciting the curve of his lip, memorizing the beads of sweat on his hairline.

Fuck.

This was serious.

“There’s a video of you on the internet.”

His mind ran through a series of images and memories all at once, his eyes narrowing and heart rate quickening. Cassie from the bar. A body shot off of Jessica. Sasha and a bag of coke. Flashing club lights. Shane Hollander on his knees. A sharp hand from his father and the tears that followed. 

The Boston manager flipped around the desktop monitor that had sat innocently only a moment before. Ilya watched in horror as two figures darted onto the screen, one with dark black hair and the other blond, running down a hotel hallway. He watched as the figures stopped in front of a door, one of them turning the other around and pressing them into a searing kiss, the other reaching up to grab at blond curls.

Fuck.

No.

No.

Adrenaline coursed through his body, making him nauseated. He heard a screaming growing faintly inside his head, mimicking the voices of old coaches and teachers. He had finally done it. He had done exactly what his father had always accused him of. He had finally ruined his life. 

Oh god.

He could never go back to Russia. He would never get to see the house he grew up in. The image of it floated desperately in his mind, despite the closets and shadows that he had always hated facing. He would never get to see his mother again. Would his brother even put flowers on her grave? Would his father?

He looked back at the screen. The flame that always rested at the edge of his vision blazed, and for the first time in his life, Ilya was afraid of who it had touched.

Oh god, Hollander. Hollander, who loved hockey. Hollander, who thought he loved control. He had ruined him too. Hollander would never see him again. He would never allow it, not now. He would never get the pleasure of memorizing another freckle, transcribing another surprised laugh or moan. He would never get to see the tape playing inside Hollander's head slowly peter out, watching it twist and tangle before stuttering to a stop.

A girl ducked her head into the office, and Ilya spun to her, begging with his eyes for help escaping, for her to throw him a nail file so he could gnaw at the iron bars lining the window.

“Sir, conference room B is now available,” she said instead.

Hughes looked back at Ilya with a long sigh, and Ilya could see the words of scouts and team reps running across his pupils, warning him of Ilya’s dangerous tendencies and disruptive proclivities. Hughes stood and gestured to the rest of the room to start moving.

“Come on, Rozanov. We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

Standing on shaking legs, Ilya walked out of the room, letting the press of bodies guide him. He allowed the entourage of suits to encircle him, not fighting against the chains they wrapped around him, guiding him towards his cell.

He quickly flipped open his phone, ignoring the disapproving glances of the guards around him. He knew his rights. He knew he got a phone call.

He texted Hollander before his brain could stop him, letting the guilt dripping out of his fingertips spell out the words he wanted to say.

I am so sorry shane.

* * * * *

An old man was reaching towards the pump, lifting it, screwing off the gas cap, and screwing it back on. He knew. There was a woman carrying a screaming child and yelling at another one behind her. She knew. The attendant was leaning up against the window, and Shane could tell by the movement of his shoulders that he was starting to doze off. He also knew.

Shane tried to focus on them, trying to keep his focus outward so that he wouldn’t implode and choke on the screaming, clawing hands within his chest. He could feel the water filling his lungs as he struggled to remain afloat, kicking his sluggish legs as hard as they would let him. Guess he shouldn’t have pushed himself so hard at practice. 

Instead, he tried to study the people outside his car window, but each observation only served as a reminder of what they could have seen. He hadn’t watched the video his mom had hinted at, not even waiting to listen to any kind of description before hanging up the phone and tossing it somewhere in his backseat. He almost felt relieved. It was the first time he hadn’t been exactly sure where his phone was in a year. 

So he didn’t really know what these gas station frequenters had actually seen nor what they actually knew. He pictured them knowing how perverted Shane was. How much he liked having Ilya Rozanov’s fingers in his mouth. How often he had let him control his body, manipulating his limbs at his own discretion.

He stared out the window some more. The sun was starting to set. When had it gotten that low?

Shit, he was probably late to that meeting. He turned his car on again for a moment before flipping the key back and letting it fall into his lap. Don’t be fucking stupid, he thought to himself. They’d probably already canceled it. He imagined his mom's meticulous spreadsheets, each little box and cell, cracking on the hardwood floor under their kitchen table.

He felt his head turn towards the backseat, almost reaching to search for his phone, which had not stopped buzzing since he had hung up, before he managed to jerk back towards the window. No. He wasn’t going to touch it. He didn’t want to see that message again and imagine the version of Rozanov who had sent a text like that, picturing the straight-backed, stiff imitation that he had heard trying to whisper passive and conciliatory words into his phone.

He wasn’t sure what he was going to do instead. But he wasn’t going to look at his phone.

He kept waiting for the panic attack to overwhelm him and send him to his knees, pressing them into the pedals of the car. His coping mechanism wasn’t that good; he could feel it simmering on the edges. But it hadn’t come yet. None of it felt real yet. It still felt like he was in the nightmare he had been having daily since the night of the draft, so he patiently waited to wake up.

The woman now had a third child. He had no idea where it had been hiding before.

He felt completely blank, like someone had removed most of his organs and laid them out on a dissection table for him to observe. Now, Mr. Hollander, most large intestines are approximately 1.5 meters. However, yours is about 1.7. Have you ever noticed this? Well, of course he had; his food always did seem to move extra slowly through his stomach, letting him feel every turn.

The gas station attendant was waking up.

Shane pushed his door open and walked quickly into the little store, heading straight for the counter. The teenager watched him approach, eyeing him warily.

“Uh, can I help you?” the attendant asked, scratching the back of his neck as if he needed something to do with his hands while Shane stared at him.

Shane looked down at the racks of candy below the counter. He grabbed three Snickers bars and placed them firmly in front of the attendant. The attendant hesitated, staring at the bars, before looking back at Shane. He shrugged and started scanning them.

After Shane successfully made it back to his car, slamming the door behind him, he displayed the three candy bars on his lap. He counted each one.

1. 2. 3.

He counted again. He counted a third time just to make sure.

The passenger door of his car opened, and Shane jumped back in alarm, the Snickers bars falling onto the mat below him. 

His eyes widened as he watched his dad lower himself into the seat, shutting the door behind him. His dad sighed, slapping his legs a bit before staring straight ahead, not speaking. Shane furrowed his brows in confusion. He didn’t know what to do, so he just copied the man beside him, turning to face the dashboard again.

Huh.

He was low on gas.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his dad moving toward him, an arm outstretched. Shane braced himself for a hug, a supportive pat on the shoulder, a disappointed tap on his thigh. But he watched the hand move past all of that, his back bent over to try to reach further below Shane. When the hand emerged, it was holding three Snickers bars.

His dad took Shane’s hand, pushing the fingers open. He deposited one of the bars in his palm, dropped another in his own lap, and placed the third into the cup holder between them as if offering it to some third, unseen entity. Casually unwrapping his candy bar, Shane’s dad took a large bite of chocolate, chewing slowly. He gave Shane a pointed look, glancing down at the bar in his own hand in an open invitation.

Shane’s hands shook slightly as he ripped open the wrapper. He wrapped his lips around the chocolate, feeling it melt immediately against his skin, leaving behind a sticky residue as he took a bite. He chewed slowly. He swallowed.

Shane immediately started crying. 

The sobs that he had been waiting for burst through, traveling through his too-long intestine and spilling out. He took a deep breath and let more of them out, the cries shaking his back. He let out loud gasps, feeling the rush of tears carving a path along his cheeks.

“Oh, Shane,” his dad said, collapsing over him, wrapping his body around Shane’s as best he could as Shane heaved forward into the steering wheel. 

His dad squeezed tightly as if wringing a towel, letting the water spill out of Shane’s eyes and mouth, rocking him back and forth. Shane continued to sob loudly, the taste of caramel and peanuts becoming diluted amidst the saliva and snot.

Shane wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that. 

Slowly, Shane shifted, gently pushing his dad off as if the action pained him, leaning back against the chair to look at the passenger next to him. He sniffled a few times, wiping his nose and letting the snot dry on the back of his hand.

“How—did—you—find—me?” he managed to gasp out, hiccupping in between each word.

His dad gave him a sad expression and reached up to stroke his hair. Shane leaned into the touch.

“Your mom called me. She gave me the address for your sponsor meeting, and I drove between there and the Metros practice facility, looking for your car. Took me a few times, you know. Didn’t think you’d choose here. The gas station across the street has way better prices.”

Shane gave him a wet laugh before letting his face crumble again, gasping loudly into the otherwise silent car.

“Aw, bud.” His dad brushed a hand across his cheek, wiping away at some of the fresher tears. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Shane shrugged and stared at the ground, still taking three short, stuttering breaths in for every one out. 

“Did Mom not come because she’s upset with me?”

“No, of course not.” Shane felt a thumb brush against his cheek again. “Shane. Your mom loves you so, so much. She loves you so much that she sent me to find you instead of coming herself.” He laughed. “She’s probably already set up a situation room in our house. Last I checked, she was pulling out the emergency binder dividers.”

Shane exhaled sharply. “Must be pretty serious then.”

“Meh. This kind of thing happens every day.”

“What kind of thing?” Shane said, peering at his dad incredulously, suddenly noticing that the bags under his eyes looked deeper. “The ‘finding out your son is sleeping with a man’ thing?”

His dad shrugged. “Sure. Happens all the time.”

Shane couldn’t help but giggle, his dad joining in a second after Shane. 

He let the laughter die in his mouth, leaving a bitter taste behind.

“I think my career is over, Dad,” he breathed out.

“Shane,” his dad said seriously now, his eyes staring into Shane’s, unblinking. “I know it feels like this is the end, but it’s not. It’s just…” He gestured vaguely, looking for the word. “...an adjustment.”

Shane hit his head on the back of his seat, letting the headache that had started to grow bounce around his brain a bit before settling in the upper left lobe. He wanted to believe him, he really did. But he had always known that this was what would happen. This is what he got for not thinking when on the ice, letting his body choose which direction to travel. He forced his head to fall to the right.

“I’m not gay,” Shane whispered after a moment.

“Okay,” his dad responded simply.

“I’m not,” he repeated, a little more sharply. He needed his dad to understand this. That it wasn’t something that Shane was stuck with, that this was a period of momentary weakness. He would do better. He could be better.

“Either way is fine by me,” his dad said calmly, taking another bite of his Snickers bar and humming as if it were the only thing that he really cared about in this moment. He paused after taking another bite. “How’s your boy doing, by the way?”

Shane frowned. “My boy?”

His dad gave him a confused look. “Your boy Ilya. Is he doing okay?”

“Oh, I, uh…I don’t know.” Shane wasn’t sure why he felt embarrassed by the admission, trying not to look his dad in the eyes. Why was he supposed to know how Rozanov was doing?

“Have you not talked to him?”

“No,” he muttered, his phone still vibrating damningly from somewhere behind him. His dad glanced toward the sound and let out a little hum, then looked back out at the gas station parking lot. It was empty now.

“Rozanov and I don’t really talk all that much,” Shane tried to explain, pointedly ignoring the long strand of text messages that would have filled his phone had he not carefully deleted all of them. Text messages didn’t count anyway. 

“Rozanov?” his dad asked.

“Yeah. Rozanov.”

“No, I mean you still call him Rozanov?”

Shane gave his dad a look. “I mean, what else am I supposed to call him?”

His dad shrugged, taking the last candy bar out of the cup holder, unwrapping it, and handing it to Shane.

“Have another candy bar, Shane.”

He did, licking the chocolate off each finger when he was done.

* * * * *

“Can you clarify as to whether you are or are not invoking Mr. Hollander’s morality clause?” Cheryl said, leaning in towards the phone on the table. 

Shane wasn’t sure how or when his mom had hired Cheryl as his lawyer, but he imagined he could find the answers in the blue colored section of the massive three-inch binder she had open in front of her.

“No, we see no reason to do that yet. That would get risky for us. Situations like this already get more air time than we would like. Invoking a clause like that would only spark greater scrutiny and attention. We don’t need any more eyes on the problem than necessary.”

‘Situations like this.’ ‘The problem.’ Shane wanted to take those words, carve them into a piece of rope, and strangle himself with it. Everyone was being so fucking polite, as if they weren’t all looking at him like a rogue rookie gone wild. As if they were also being polite behind his back. As if they hadn’t also read everything the internet had to say about him. He was a problem, and they were making sure he knew it in the most professional of terms.

“It was a singular event, and the Metros organization does not think that there is enough credible evidence to suggest that any activity conducted by either party would fall under the clause’s purview,” the Metros’ legal counsel responded, sounding almost disappointed. 

Cheryl was typing furiously on her computer, which Shane didn’t understand given that this whole conversation was being recorded anyway, her long nails clicking loudly against the keys.

“This is about balancing protection and privacy for the players with league reputation,” a voice from the phone called through. Probably one of the two representatives from headquarters who were using words like ‘decorum’ and ‘safety’ and ‘responsibility’ in place of what Shane could tell they wanted to say, which was, ‘You stupid fucking rookies. You haven’t even played a single game.’

“Will this affect their chances of making the team this year?” his mom asked, peering at them from above her glasses. He had almost smiled when she had flipped them out of their case. They were her ‘don’t fuck with me glasses,’ which he had only seen during his sixth-grade parent-teacher conference. And his seventh-grade conference. And perhaps also the eighth-grade one as well…

Well, he had never claimed to be very smart. The evidence was projected onto the big TV at the front of the room on a slideshow titled ‘The Hollander-Rozanov Situation.’ 

He wasn’t quite sure why he liked seeing it up there, though. 

Savard cleared his throat, leaning forward towards his mom. “I can’t speak for the group, but that’s usually a decision that’s entirely in the coach’s hands. I know coach was talking a lot last week about how excited he was to have Shane on the team, though.”

It sounded innocent enough. But Shane heard the uncertainty sliding in across the words ‘last week.’ Last week, Shane had been a young phenom, the future of hockey. This week, he was the potential end of it, putting the league at risk. He was a liability. He was a lawsuit breathing down the commissioner’s neck.

He was tired. He was so tired. The weight of disappointing an entire city, a league, his parents, and himself pressed across his shoulders until his legs began to shake. He knew he had to carry it. He deserved to carry it. Some small, traitorous part of him wanted to let his knees buckle beneath it. The thought alone sent another spike of panic through his chest.

God, Shane couldn’t believe his captain was at this meeting, sitting across the table and pointedly avoiding eye contact with him. Savard hadn’t looked at him this entire time, as if Shane would immediately drop to his knees if Savard so much as glanced in his direction, broadcasting to the room who he was and what he had done. As if they needed the reminder.

“Why are the coaches not here, then?” his mom questioned impatiently.

“Well, we thought it would be best to have Captain Savard join us today to address any questions concerning locker room dynamics, rather than Coach Theriault or another member of the staff. As far as who is let on the team and who is not, we really have limited say from a management perspective. There can be additional conversations about player concerns, but that’s not the focus of this meeting,” the Metros GM added stiffly.

His mom clicked her tongue. “Well, what is the focus of this meeting exactly?”

“We need to establish the path forward for continued participation in the league, specifically in regard to media strategy. Most of our concerns are focused on protecting the reputation, brand, and safety of the league and the teams,” the Metros PR manager responded with an overly flowery tone.

“And Mr. Hollander and Mr.Rozanov as well,” Cheryl added crisply, peering at the group from above her computer.

“Yes, of course,” an impatient voice sounded through the speaker. “Both players are important assets to the league, and we care about safeguarding their future. Especially in light of Rozanov’s visa status.”

That made Shane want to crawl under the table and rot more than anything else. He hadn’t known that Rozanov wouldn’t be able to go back to Russia until this morning, when his mom had casually mentioned it over their morning coffee as if it wouldn’t make him want to pour the scalding liquid all over his face, trying to burn out whatever had put him in this situation. He hated that he had done this to Rozanov. He hated that he hadn’t even known. He hated that he had spent an hour between 2 and 3 a.m. screaming and cursing at the Russian in his mind. Well. Not Russian anymore.

He knew Rozanov was on the other side of the phone. They had listed everyone who was on the call, so he knew. But Rozanov hadn’t said a word. Shane hadn’t even been able to hear him breathe, leaving his lungs oddly empty despite Shane’s own rapid (and honestly concerning) breathing.

“Yes, all of that is important. But to do that, we have league-mandated guidelines that we expect both parties to abide by to protect against future competitive integrity concerns and conduct visibility issues, and to ensure the stability of the PR solutions that both teams' managers put together. ”

“Guidelines?” Shane said softly into the room. The whole table turned to look at him, including Savard. Shane blushed. 

“And those look like what, exactly?” Yuna added tersely, drawing the attention away from Shane.

“Broadly, we’re looking at restricting all of their interactions. Outside of gameplay, association between parties would be prohibited. Any league events or activities that demanded closer proximity would require some form of supervision by management or someone approved by management. Additionally, compliance monitoring protocols will be implemented at the discretion of each organization.”

Shane blinked hard and glanced at his mom, who slid a hand onto his arm. Her hand shook slightly when she touched him, and Shane realized it was he who was shaking. He felt like someone had pricked a tiny hole in his lungs, and only now did he realize there was no air left.

“You’re not allowing them to see each other anymore,” she said in a quiet, stunned voice.

Eyes darted around the room awkwardly.

“We are encouraging them to abide by structured guidelines to protect player safety and team reputation,” the PR manager corrected hesitantly.

“And what exactly are we keeping the players safe from?” His mom spat back, receiving only avoidant eyes and nervous pen clicks.

His mom scoffed, shaking her head and glancing toward the ceiling. “Who exactly is going to follow them around, making sure they don’t look at each other for too long on their way down the tunnel?”

A person on the phone cleared their throat. “Ma’am, again, the time on the ice will be unregulated and unsupervised, with no additional rules beyond those expected of each player with regard to appropriate conduct with the opposing team. We are trying to ensure that players have a safe space to practice and play, so that nobody feels uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable? Uncomfortable with what?” his mom pressed, letting the tension simmer further.

Savard opened his mouth for a moment, shifting in his chair. “Well, ma’am. It’s just that we’ve never had someone like Hollander in the locker room. I think I can speak for a lot of the guys when I say that seeing what he did made them a little bit…uncomfortable,” he concluded, borrowing the word.

Someone like him.

Savard hadn’t even felt the need to clarify what he meant. It wasn’t one thing. It was everything. Every twitch of his mouth, every scar, every glance at his phone. He wanted to claw at every limb, sewing them all back into place. He felt like throwing up, ridding himself of whatever thing had burrowed into his stomach, poisoning him by degrees. 

“They didn’t do anything wrong!” His mom snapped, causing a few of the members to flinch and Cheryl to give her a quick warning look. Shane wasn’t sure he liked Cheryl.

“They did not. But again, for league and player protection, we have decided that these regulations are the best solution to the ongoing issue.”

“Failure to comply would require us to reevaluate our current position regarding contractual remedies,” another voice added.

“On what basis?” his mom almost hissed.

“Well,” a voice over the phone began. "At that point, we could no longer rule out invoking the morality clause."

The room froze. Shane melted into the table. His entire life was being held at gunpoint by a headless voice from a little black box lying in the center of the table and the word ‘morality.’

“I thought there wasn’t enough evidence,” Cheryl said slowly.

“Well, we haven’t figured out how the video was accessed nor who posted it,” the GM said, trying to hold back the sneer that was leaking into his speech. He turned to Shane, staring at him pointedly. “We don’t know how much more video exists, if any. However, we can assume that if there is additional footage, whoever leaked it has it. ”

The room turned to Shane with an unspoken question. Shane looked down at the table, letting his silence stand as confirmation.

Yuna sighed. “Let’s talk about the guidelines.”

* * * * *

Pending further review, both organizations have agreed to the following interim protocols:

• Neither player will initiate or participate in unsupervised in-person contact with the other outside of league competition.
• All league-sponsored appearances involving both players—including, but not limited to, promotional events, awards ceremonies, media obligations, sponsor functions, charitable appearances, and league conferences—will be supervised by designated club personnel.
• Neither player will enter the opposing team's locker room, training facilities, hotel floors, or designated team spaces without prior authorization from both organizations.
• During league travel, accommodations will be arranged to minimize unnecessary contact between the players.
• Club security and player services personnel may be utilized to facilitate adherence to these protocols where appropriate.
• Neither player will make public statements regarding the other, their relationship, or the ongoing matter without prior review by league communications and club representatives.
• Players are instructed to refrain from discussing the matter with teammates, media representatives, sponsors, or third parties except as authorized by club counsel.
• All interviews concerning the matter will be coordinated through each club's communications department.
• Both organizations reserve the right to review these protocols should additional information become available.

Shane heard voices around him, but despite trying hard to retune his brain back to the conversation, he couldn’t do anything but focus on the last point on the slideshow.

• Electronic communication between the parties is prohibited beyond matters of immediate necessity.

He stared at each letter.

He felt like he couldn’t read. Maybe those middle school teachers were onto something. Every letter seemed to blur on the page, dripping down onto the floor. 

He blinked at the screen. 

The buzzing in his head was getting louder; everything was muffled together, and his vision was getting smaller and smaller until he couldn’t see beyond the edges of the TV, the slides still glaring at him.

“———?”

What?

“Sh——”

“Mr. Ho———”

“Shane!”

He flinched hard, the chair rocking slightly from the momentum. His mom’s hand was on his shoulder, and she had turned him towards her, eyes darting back and forth across his face.

“I think we should take ten,” she called out to the room, lifting him up by the arm and dragging him out before she could get a response.

She guided him into the stairwell.

“Shane. Honey, you need to breathe.”

Had he not been? He looked at her in confusion. She was miming something, raising her hand and then lowering it. And then back again. He squinted at her, dazed, but let his chest follow the hand.

He gasped, suddenly choking on the influx of air. Leaning over the edge of the stairwell, he coughed hard, the sudden burst stinging his throat and causing his eyes to water. His mom rubbed a hand up and down his back.

When he had finally finished coughing, he turned and slumped down against the railing, feeling the metal poles behind him push against his shoulder blades. His mom matched his position across from him, sticking her heels out awkwardly.

Shane let out another haggard breath, which he was horrified to hear sounded more like a sob than another cough. He looked up at the ceiling, blinking quickly, determined not to cry. Not again.

“Oh, baby. I know,” his mother said softly, tapping a heeled foot against his own. He was wearing an old pair of dress shoes, and the heel was peeling slightly. He had meant to buy another pair to wear to his first game, but hadn’t gotten around to it yet. He wondered how long he would be stuck wearing this pair now.

Shane shook his head. 

“Mom?” he sniffled.

“Yeah, Shane?”

“I don’t know what to do. I…I’m sorry I let you down,” he said, his voice cracking at the end. He let his head drop, finally looking at her. Her eyes were shining with unfallen tears, mirroring the face he imagined he was wearing.

“Oh, honey. You didn’t let me down. You could never let me down,” she said, her voice laced with heartbreaking care. “And you’ll still get to play. They know you’re talented.” 

Shane took another shallow breath in, stuttering as he inhaled. He wasn’t good enough. Not enough to outweigh everything else. Not this.

She gave him a small smile, her voice breaking a little as she began to speak. “You’re gonna show them. You’re gonna be—” Her voice changed to a dramatic whisper. “—the greatest hockey player they’ve ever seen.”

He gave her the small smile back that he knew she wanted. 

“The greatest?” he stage whispered back.

She smiled fully now, tears falling slowly down her cheeks. 

She lifted her hands, cupping her mouth. “And there’s number 24! Shane Hollander.” She mimicked the crowd screaming, making loud, breathy sounds. “He scored a thousand goals last game, and he’s looking to make it a thousand and one! Can he do it, folks?”

It was a game they had played when he was a kid, late at night when he couldn’t sleep. He could remember so clearly his mom crouched next to his bed, the two of them giggling at hours his dad would have jokingly disapproved of. 

“He’s skating down the ice on just one skate!” Shane played along. “He’s nearing the goal! What will he do?”

“He shoots and— and— he scores!” his mom whispered loudly, crying slightly harder than before.

Shane let out a breathy laugh. He rolled his phone over in his pocket, turning it against the lining with his thumb. He hadn’t heard the buzzer go off.

“You know,” he added in faux seriousness. “I don’t think I’ll ever score a thousand points.” He felt the smile slowly slide from his face. “Especially not now,” he couldn’t help but add.

“Mm, you’re right. I don’t think you will.”

Shane looked at her, his eyes wide.

She smirked. “I think you’ll score a thousand and two.”

They sat like that for a while. Somehow, the promise of a thousand goals didn't quite quiet the noise in his head the way it had when he was a kid, and he still felt wide awake, all too aware of everything going on around him.

Then Yuna clapped her hands together, stood, and held out a hand to Shane.

“Come on, Hollander. We’ve got a game to win.”

Two hours later, Shane walked out with an empty phone and two fresh signatures at the bottom of a list of guidelines that seemed to burn straight through the orange section of his mom's binder.

* * * * *

“We’re not watching the Sandlot.”

“Why not? It’s a classic!”

“No.”

“Yuna—”

“I’m not watching a baseball movie.”

“Well, we’re not watching Miracle for the hundredth time.”

“At least the hockey is accurate. You know, they used real hockey players instead of actors. Except for—”

“—the goalie. I know, Yuna. I just think Shane’s had enough hockey for one day, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what you want me to do, David.”

“I want you to stop talking about hockey.”

“He doesn’t want me to stop talking about hockey! I am here to help him keep hockey.”

“He doesn’t need hockey, Yuna. He needs you. He needs us.”

“What, and you don’t think I’m there for him? I have spent the last forty-eight hours—”

Shane sighed loudly. He wasn’t sure if his parents thought that he couldn’t hear him from the bathroom, but without any real furniture, his apartment echoed loudly, carrying their conversation all the way to his place on the edge of the bathtub. 

His phone was open in his hands, drafting the same texts over and over again.

Are you okay?

r u ok?

Fuck you rozanov

This is all your fucking fault

Im sorry too

Fuck

Are you okay

Im so sorry ilya

He shoved the phone back into his pocket and marched out the door, his parents watching him with concerned expressions that poked through their friendly facades. His parents had decided to stay with him in Montreal for a while. They said it was to help with the many meetings the NHL had scheduled for him over the next week, but as he watched them haul air mattresses into his small, empty apartment, he knew it was more than that. He let them do it anyway.

He collapsed next to them, letting the smell of the newly unwrapped couch surround him.

“Did you decide what we’re watching?” Shane said, feigning nonchalance and grabbing a single piece of popcorn from the bowl his dad was holding.

His mom took a sharp breath, putting on the same smile she used to wear when talking to their next-door neighbor, Kathy. “We thought the Sandlot would be a good one. I haven’t seen it since we bought it,” she said, turning on the TV, the movie already cued up.

His dad poked his side. “Remember you begged us to buy it for you? I thought you were going to switch to baseball there for a while.”

Shane let out a small laugh. “No way, I’m too Canadian.”

The three of them sat there, letting the movie play in the background, laughing when they were supposed to, but the smiles reached none of their eyes. They were playing pretend for a while. Shane knew how to do that. He said the lines with the characters and let his dad tell the same jokes he did every time. He let his mom hold him tight, her arms wrapping all the way around him with his legs curling up into himself. He hadn’t felt this small in years.

Eventually, they all let each other go to bed, his parents taking the guest room. Shane’s own room had an actual bed that he had insisted his parents use, but they had assured him that they wanted him to have it. They said he deserved to keep his room.

So now Shane was staring up at the ceiling for the second night in a row, unable to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw flashes of the video, both from a screen and from memory. He tilted his head back until it could touch the headboard, hitting it softly.

He heard a buzz under the pillow next to him and groaned. He must have forgotten to turn off his phone. He wondered who it was now. His junior hockey coach? His neighbor growing up? His second-grade tablemate? Fucking Jessica again?

Shoving his hand beneath the covers, he ripped it out and looked at the screen. 

His eyes widened, and he almost dropped it trying to hit the accept button so quickly.

For a moment, he heard nothing.

Then, 

“You did not answer my text.”

Shane let out a shaky breath, pressing the phone closer to his ear.

“I…I didn’t know what to say.” He paused. “You didn’t say anything in the meeting.”

“Mm…I did not know what to say,” Rozanov repeated.

Shane hesitated, pulling his sheets further up his neck. “How are you?”

He heard a sigh over the phone. “Okay. Not good. Probably bad.”

“Is it awful?”

“Mm, yes. You?”

“Yeah.” 

He rolled over, facing the empty side of his bed, his phone underneath his face. He let his hand drift forward, allowing his fingers to run along the sheets.

“Shane, I am so sorry—”

“You’ve never called me by my first name,” Shane interrupted.

“Oh.” Rozanov took a sharp breath. “Yes. Sorry.”

“No, it’s…I don’t know. It’s just weird.”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize…not about any of it.”

There was another long pause. Shane could almost feel Rozanov slowly running a hand up and down his leg, relaxing the tendons that had been unconsciously telling him to run away all day.

“Is my fault, Hollander.”

Shane frowned. “…Well, we both got caught, so. We’re both suffering the consequences of bad behavior.”

“I do not understand words.”

“Oh.” Shane thought for a moment. “We did something we weren't supposed to do. And bad things happened.”

“Ah.”

Shane let out a long sigh. “Guess it won’t happen again. Since we’re not allowed to see each other.” 

He tried not to sound so disappointed about it. The guidelines were good. He understood rules. They were easy to file alongside all the other rules he'd spent years writing for himself. What was one more restriction? One more thing he wouldn’t let himself want.

He tried not to think about the fact that this conversation was already breaking one of those rules.

“Maybe we see each other anyway.”

Shane pulled his phone away, looking at it in disbelief before returning it. 

“That’s a really bad idea.”

“Why?”

“Why? We’ll get in trouble.”

“We are already in trouble.”

“Rozanov. No. I…” He hesitated, trying to lower his heart rate to keep pace with his breaths before continuing. “I’ve been dreaming about playing for the NHL my whole life, I…I can’t…”

The silence in the room felt unnatural, as if there should be a second set of lungs, a set of lips echoing around him.

“I understand.”

Shane frowned. “You do?”

“Yes. We will not see each other.”

He clenched the sheets a little harder. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Neither of them talked, the minutes passing by as if his team was up and they were passing the puck back and forth, just trying to run the clock down. Shane was trying to let himself focus on the puck, but all he could do was replay the day's events, running through every guideline, every pointed comment, every concerned look from his parents. Every moment dashed past his eyes, shifting faster than Shane could keep up with.

“You cannot sleep?” Rozanov asked, interrupting the onslaught of images.

Shane blinked. 

“No. Can’t seem to turn my brain off,” he said honestly.

There was a pause. “You want help?”

Shane frowned. “How would you help?”

“I can talk. You can listen.”

“About what?”

“You imagine hockey plays, yes? In your head?”

Shane shrugged even though he knew Rozanov couldn’t see him. “Yeah, I mean, doesn’t everyone?”

Rozanov let out an amused scoff. “Okay then, Mr. Hockey. Here’s the play.”

Shane felt his brain immediately lock in on every word, already sketching out the rink, collecting players on the side like chess pieces.

“You are in locker room shower. You are naked. You rub soap on your hard chest.”

Shane froze for a moment. 

Oh. That’s what they were doing. 

With that realization, he felt himself immediately relax. He knew how to do this with Rozanov. This was familiar; this was as easy as falling asleep. He could do this.

“Where are you?”

“No,” Rozanov said abruptly. “You do not talk. You listen. I am coach now. I am telling you the play.”

Shane stifled a moan before nodding in agreement, his hand drifting down his chest that felt slick with imagined soap.

“I am walking into shower with you. I see you. You look beautiful. I look at your strong arms and strong legs. I do not want to stop looking. I stand in shower next to you.”

Shane felt breathless, his vision fading in and out. 

He chuckled. “You are angry. You do not want me to stand so close. And I stand so so close. You are looking at my hair and my neck. You cannot look away from the cross on my chest.”

Shane felt Rozanov’s smirk from over the phone. “You stare. You cannot help but look. You know you should not, but you look anyway.”

Shane saw each movement in his head, squirming against the sheets, but slowly losing his ability to fight the exhaustion trailing up his legs and into the base of his lungs, slowing his breathing.

“I cannot resist beautiful hockey player. I have to touch.”

“Holy shit,” Shane couldn’t help but gasp out, slapping a hand over his mouth.

“I told you not to talk,” Rozanov whispered, and Shane shivered. He bit back the apology that rested on the tip of his tongue.

Shane could almost feel Rozanov leaning forward to whisper in his ear. He could see the picture so clearly; the choreography was as familiar to him as a well-practiced drill. It was an ease of physicality Shane never felt except when he was on the ice. He was slowly losing awareness of his arms as they sank into the folds of the mattress.

“You tell me to fuck off. I walk forward, and I put a hand on your leg. I press fingers into thigh and make bruises. I run hand through your hair and pull. Your head goes back and I see your neck. Is too pretty. Too pretty to not kiss. You grab my hair. You feel curls.”

Rozanov inhaled sharply. “I ask for your room number. You give it to me. You are sooo easy,” he drawled. 

“You cannot help but touch my arm. Cannot help showing me your room.”

There was a long silence after that.

He glanced at his phone, running his eyes over the name, making sure the call was still connected, before dropping it on the pillow next to him.

He let the screen light up the darkness of the room. From his own pillow, he could still read the little white letters, and he ran a finger across them in his head, imagining them shiver.

“What happens next?” Shane couldn’t help but ask, his words slurring with sleep.

He heard a hard exhale sound from the speakers.

“You broke rule again.” Another pause. “You will just have to use imagination.”

Shane let out a breathy laugh. “You’re…you’re such an…asshole,” he managed to get out, his tongue feeling heavier and heavier with each syllable. 

Rozanov laughed softly. 

“Go to sleep.” 

Shane heard Rozanov's soft breathing and found himself matching it, until he couldn't tell which breaths were his anymore.

“Will you dream of me?” Rozanov asked tentatively.

Always, Shane thought, his eyes beginning to blink closed, his lips parting as sleep stole the words before he could speak them. I always dream of you. It’s the one thing I’ve never been able to control.

He heard a small whisper sound from the phone, so quiet he could have imagined it.

“Jane.”

The phone screen went black, the caller on the other end having hung up, engulfing Shane in darkness once more. He let his mind wander, but the only thing he could remember was a wide expanse of pale skin and a gold cross resting in the hollow of a throat.

He rolled onto his other side and closed his eyes, sleep finally defeating him.

“Ilya,” he whispered to the empty room.

Chapter End Notes

My beta reader: "You know, I kind of missed the non-sex scene sex scenes. But I understand why it's not in this chapter."
Me: ...
Me: .......
Me: *completely changes the phone call scene*
My beta reader: ...well I'll be damned

And Snickers bars will continue to haunt every Shane Hollander narrative, as long as I have anything to say about it.

Thank you for your comments on the last chapter! Let me know your thoughts on this one. Sorry it's a lot more sad Shane 😔 (I am not sorry)

Chapter 4: But it's worse to know that I'm the reason you won't come home

Chapter Notes

Alternate chapter title: "Say what you want, but say it like you mean it with your fists for once"- American Teenager

CW: uhhh. So homophobia. For sure, homophobia. French slur. Abusive parenting (emotional and verbal). And some violence

...so this is gonna be 'a bit' angsty...

You come to Boston next week?

Jane )): Yeah. They said I’m playing the next few games so I think so

Jane )): You know, we're really not supposed to be texting

Is not hurting player safety

Jane )): It will hurt my safety

Texting will not kill you Hollander

Jane )): It’s not allowed

This is an immediate necessity

I learn word

Will die if you do not text. Is necessity

Marie let out a loud sigh, rolling over roughly in the bed before letting out another long snore, pulling Ilya away from his phone for a moment. He glanced over, running his eyes down her long, pale legs in appreciation. He had met Marie three weeks ago at a club Marly had introduced him to. He liked Marie. She was using him for good sex. So was he. He liked how much she liked her body. He had seen it when she was dancing, her arms moving along the curves of her hips and breasts. 

She didn’t want him to be anything other than sex, and she would have distrusted him if he had tried. So he slowly slinked out of bed, moving into the kitchen to cook breakfast for one.

He had finished his third fried egg by the time he felt his phone buzz again, a smile growing on his face. Right on schedule. He knew that Hollander would be unable to resist texting back. He just needed the opportunity to say no and for Ilya to push back so he could have someone to blame. He was willing to take the blame too. He was used to it by now. He could be other people’s wild, allowing them to finally become the people they’d always wanted to be.

Jane )): Sounds like a real threat to player safety

Jane )): I’m Hollander now? Not Jane?

Don’t need to hide hot boy anymore

Everybody knows somehow

Jane )): Wonder how that happened

Probably you moan too loudly and everyone hears

Jane )): Fuck you

He smiled again, unable to restrain the giddy smirk. He loved how quickly Hollander could lose control. How easy it was to get him to grind his teeth in barely contained rage, blush in obvious want, and cuss him out in a combination of both. The media had always seen a prim and proper role model hockey player, ready to inspire the next generation of gentleman hockey players. He had always enjoyed knowing the truth.

But now, he guessed, so did everyone.

He hated that they had that. Hated that they had this piece of Hollander that had always been his. They had done nothing to earn that embarrassed smile and those wandering hands. 

He shoved his gear into his bag, picking up various pieces scattered across his living room. Upon returning home after seeing the video, Ilya had dumped the bag out and thrown the various pieces around the room, screaming. His helmet still had a reasonably large dent at the very top, and the TV was still cracked from where it had hit.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he carelessly dropped the helmet into the bag, freeing his hand to draw it out once more.

Jane )): You’re going to practice today, right?

Staring at the text, he looked back at the gear with slight disdain. He had never loved hockey, not the way Hollander did, but he loved being good at it. He relished seeing the plays forming before they happened, understanding exactly where the opposing team’s winger was planning to pass, reading every telegraphed shift like it was printed right in front of him, no matter how small. 

He had always been accused of being mean on the ice, but he wasn’t. He was precise. He knew exactly which chirp would draw a penalty or result in an underconfident shot on goal. For most, it was a girlfriend who thought she was more desirable than her dumb hockey player boyfriend. Or a mother who had never been prouder of her son than of his money. A father who had instilled an unthinking aggression in his son from a young age.

Not Shane Hollander, though.

No, Ilya thought. Shane Hollander was special.

He was hungry for the chirp. Every muscle in Hollander’s body longed to be cut so that he could finally fly across the ice. He had seen it outside that tiny arena in Saskatchewan, the way his legs tensed, preparing to run. Hollander thought it meant he needed to run away. Ilya knew that it meant there was something he wanted to run toward. 

He couldn’t look away from it when he first saw him. He saw need. He saw desperation sloppily disguised under a thick Canadian coat of repression. Every stuttered word, every gasp made Ilya wonder if maybe Hollander didn’t want him. Maybe he needed him.

That and he hadn’t looked away from Ilya’s lips the entire time.

Yes. You too?

Jane )): yeah

Jane )): are you scared?

No

Jane )): yeah. Me neither

Walking out the door, Ilya tucked the phone into his pocket, holding his hand over it a bit longer than he should have. He knew it wouldn’t buzz again. But he imagined his phone vibrating in a consistent rhythm, matching the rapid heartbeat of a very nervous Canadian hundreds of miles away.

* * * * *

Glaring at the Raiders’ practice facility, Ilya sized up the enemy. He had parked further towards the back than he had wanted to. (Which upset him because he was still determined not to let the communications director know a day of peace. Especially since he currently held all the passwords to Ilya’s social media accounts and was refusing to tell Ilya what he had changed them to.) However, he wanted the extra distance to observe the entrants' attitudes without being seen, although his car wasn’t very covert. (And fuck the communications director for being right about that too.)

He stared at himself in the rearview mirror, running a hand through his curls, making them stick up more. Once they were properly disheveled, he took a long breath, solidifying his face. They would not break him. This would not break him. He had nothing except hockey now. He would not lose it to an ignorant, unthinking, and careless locker room. He wouldn’t lose it to a sheet of paper that tried to tell him what to do and what not to do.

He knew the guidelines were stupid. They were barely even legal, most of it written under the guise of maintaining the integrity of competition. But Ilya also knew that nothing would really happen to them if they broke a rule. They needed a show of power. Something they could point to and claim they'd fixed the problem. The guidelines were never meant to be followed. They were meant to scare them.

Both sides were playing a long game of bluff. Ilya didn’t believe it. But Hollander did. And Ilya would do anything to make sure the two of them could keep playing hockey the way they wanted to.

His phone rang, and he almost hoped it was Hollander, calling to ask if he was walking into the facility now, silently begging Ilya to help give him an excuse to go inside himself. He flinched when he saw the screen, seeing his father’s contact flashing at him. He declined the call and leaned against his seat, closing his eyes and taking a few measured breaths. 

After the first couple of calls, he had blocked his brother. There was nothing Ilya could do for Alexei anymore except listen to him scream and hurl slurs at him. But that hadn’t been why he blocked him. He had blocked him after Alexei had brought up their mother, telling him that she wouldn’t have killed herself if he hadn’t been a fucking—

He dug the heels of his hands into his face, pressing harder on his eyeballs than he could with his eyelids alone.

His phone rang again. Ilya had not blocked his father. He hadn’t been able to. He also hadn’t been able to answer a single one of the dozens of calls he had received from him since the video was released. He declined the call again.

Looking in the mirror one last time, he messed up his curls, which had flattened again.

* * * * *

He felt like he had been staring at the locker room door for hours. Maybe even days.

Shane shrugged the strap of his bag up, lifting it higher even though it hadn’t slipped a single inch since he had last lifted it one minute and twenty-three seconds ago. Walk into the locker room, Shane, he thought to himself. Just fucking do it. Nothing stopped you from going into the hotel room door you were never supposed to go through. Surely you can also go through the door you are literally contractually obligated to walk through.

He gave himself a three-second countdown.

3. 2. 1.

His feet didn’t move, the soles remaining glued to the linoleum, betrayed by the Reebocks his mom was still insisting he wear, even though they had voided his agreement with them. His mom thought it was a show of good faith. Shane thought it was embarrassing, a glaring symbol of everything he had carelessly tossed into a hotel room wastebasket.

He tried again.

3.

He stepped forward.

2.

His hand reached the wood and began to push.

1.

His phone buzzed. 

Fuck.

Leaning slightly away from the door, Shane glanced at it, holding it down at his waist. It was a text from his mom, wishing him luck and reminding him to take notes of any concerning behavior for Cheryl and for the union representative (not that they were going to do anything for him anyway).

Shane’s mom wanted to sue the league into the ground. But he didn’t have any accolades or wins to stand on. If he sued, he would just look like a stupid rookie who couldn’t handle the pressure of professional hockey and was making it everyone’s problem. 

Kissing a man was one thing. Suing afterward would be suicide. No team wanted a player who pushed lawyers and judges in between themselves and their teammates. If they sued, they might win. But Shane would never truly be able to play hockey again. 

They had compromised on Shane recording anything that went wrong.

Not that he was going to do it.

Shane couldn’t help but frown at her message now as he tucked the phone away. 

He had kind of hoped it was Rozanov. Closing his eyes, Shane could hear his voice echo in his mind. 

You are scared, Hollander?

Fuck you, he spat back and walked into the locker room.

* * * * *

He burst into the locker room, letting the door crash into the wall behind it, making one of Ilya’s fellow rookies jump. Pierce looked at him with wide eyes, his mouth hanging open, but then again, it usually was. Looking around the room, Ilya realized Pierce wasn’t the only one staring at him as if he'd returned from the dead.

Running a hand through his hair, Ilya strutted into the room, grabbing a loose hockey stick along the way and swinging it in front of him, holding it down near his waist. He ignored the stares and flung his bag into the stall that still bore his name, as if he had never doubted for a second that it would still be there. 

He quickly began removing his clothing, taking a little too long at each step, as if he didn’t see the way some of his teammates looked at him with disgust. He wanted them to stare. To see the hard lines of his arms and chest flashing before them as though he weren't ashamed. As though he weren't terrified of being naked in front of them. 

He felt the eyes following him. He heard the muttered slurs and whispered insults. He saw the teammates closest to him try, subtly or not so subtly, to take a few steps away from him. 

He ignored it all. 

With only the bottom half of his skins on, Ilya looked at his phone, his chest still boldly on display to the rest of the room, pretending to read a text and scoffing, tossing it back with the rest of his things. 

“What was that?” Mercer asked from beside him, looking a little horrified at himself for having let the words slip out. Ilya smirked and turned to him. He knew that Mercer could never resist a story. And Ilya was currently every gossip’s wet dream. 

He let out a loud, dramatic sigh. “Mercer, is so hard. Marie is so mad at me. She is crying because I left so early could not even go second round.”

It wasn’t true, of course, but again, Ilya and Marie were best together when they were using each other for something. Why not extend it from the bedroom? Ilya liked to imagine that she would be proud of him. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw St. Simone’s brow furrow in confusion.

Show time.

“Wait, Marie? Like a woman?” St. Simone asked.

Ilya turned and gave him a disappointed look. “I know has been so long since you talk with a girl, but has not been so long that you do not know girl names,” he said mockingly, eliciting a short laugh from Doyle, who slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle any further outbursts. 

“But…you’re gay,” St. Simone said, looking like just saying the word ‘gay’ was giving him a conniption. 

Ilya clicked his tongue. “Eh, no. Not gay. Bisexual. Can never choose. Must have both.”

Marly laughed loudly and slapped him on the back before quickly pulling his hand away, not letting it rest there as he usually did. “Should have known, Roz. You can barely choose between two women. Last time we were at Taps, he ended up just taking both home,” he said, calling out to the room which had started to relax slightly. 

Ilya caught the flicker of worry under Marly's grin. He was performing for the room, just as Ilya was. Ilya shot him a grateful smile. Thank God for Cliff fucking Marleau.

“It’s still fucking disgusting,” Sebbin muttered from the corner, forcefully shoving on his practice jersey.

“Yeah, well, that’s Roz for you,” Keating called out. “I mean, he put jam in his fucking tea the other day. And we’ve all seen the state of his locker.”

A couple of the players glanced over at said locker, measuring it up as if it held more answers for them. Ilya was glad to see that his bag had spilled open just as he had intended when he had left the zipper open. The bag of chips that his bag had hit when Ilya had thrown it, which had burst all over and spilled onto the floor, was admittedly not in the plan. But he appreciated it regardless.

“I mean,” Marleau started. “If you really think about it, fucking your rival is like the most Roz way to fuck with your enemy.”

Keating lit up. “Oh my god, remember that one time he slept with that guy’s girlfriend after he insulted his accent? Dude’s a mad genius.”

Ilya was suddenly very glad that he had gone out as much as he had in his first three weeks in Boston. Even he was slightly surprised by the sheer number of little stories they had.

“Surprised he hasn’t been caught for some stupid shit like this before,” Marly added with a cackle. “That’s on us for not giving him clearer things about what not to do. We’ll add that to the rookie manual for next year.” Marly held out a finger. “Number one, don’t get caught drinking and driving—”

“Number two, don’t tweet stupid shit,” Ellis added. 

“Don’t be fucking gay,” Sebbin yelled back, his voice still tinged with loathing, but at least he was sort of smiling now.

“And finally, don’t fuck Shane fucking Hollander,” Marly concluded, grinning hard.

Ilya gave him a stiff grin back and shrugged. “I am poor, poor Russian boy. They did not tell me not to do it.”

“Yeah, well, you should have fucking known, rook.” 

The room froze as O’Neill stood slowly. Their captain had been silent on the bench since they started talking.

He continued, “Roz. I thought you had very clear instructions from the league to not talk about this sort of shit in the locker room.”

Ilya gritted his teeth and tried to feign nonchalance once more. “Is not my fault I do not understand rules.”

That seemed to be the wrong response, though, because O’Neill walked closer until Ilya could feel his harsh breaths across his face, blowing through his hair.

"You better start to understand real quick, rook. We're a fucking team, and you've made all of us a laughing stock."

He pushed a finger into Ilya’s chest, and Ilya felt like it was burning a hole straight into his spine. Staring at the point where the finger pressed into his skin, Ilya's stomach started to burn, and every inhale felt like it was only adding oxygen to the spark blooming there. If he had thought the locker room had been silent before, it was nothing compared to this. 

“Get in line, Rozanov. You’re nothing to this league, not yet. Keep your head down if you know what’s good for you. Don’t fucking embarrass us again. Keep it out of the fucking locker room.”

He lifted the finger and began to back away.

“And don’t bring up your little bitch in this room again.”

Ilya seethed. “Do not call Marie a bitch.”

O’Neill cocked his head. “I wasn’t talking about Marie.”

Ilya couldn’t help but let out a sharp laugh, startling the Boston captain and a few of the players closest to him.

Now it was Ilya’s turn to approach his captain. He paused for a minute, glaring at him. He waited until he saw a small flicker of fear cross O’Neill’s face.

He raised his fist and punched him in the jaw. 

So much for his big plan.

* * * * *

“Again.”

They ran it again. Coach frowned at them.

“Again.”

They did it again.

“Again.”

“Again.”

“For fuck’s sake, Hollander!” 

Shane froze and turned to stare at Theriault, breathing hard over his knees. 

Theriault gave him a quick wave over, and Shane hurried to meet him off to the side, feeling his teammates' eyes on him as he went. 

Theriault stared at him for a moment, crossing his arms. “Why are you backing out?”

Shane frowned. “I’m not.”

Theriault rolled his eyes and pointed at the crease. “You used to stand here.” He pointed a little farther out. “Now you’re standing there.”

Shane fiddled with his stick, turning it over in his hands, feeling the grooves of the tape. “I still tipped it in. I’m still scoring.”

“Not good enough. You're giving Comeau too much room."

Shane couldn’t help but glance back at the defenseman whose eyes hadn’t left him, his face stormy. Comeau had been checking him harder than usual in practice today. Comeau also didn’t know that Shane spoke French, letting hushed insults roll off his tongue that Shane pretended to ignore.

Shane opened his mouth to respond, but decided against it, closing it sharply and swallowing down his own excuses, letting them settle at the bottom of his chest. He had been further away. He hated knowing Theriault was right, especially since he had been calling him over throughout practice, offering stern corrections while the rest of the rookies ran drills without interruption. 

Theriault looked at Shane’s silent countenance and sighed. “Pike!” he called.

Pike looked up from the other side of the ice and shot Shane a confused look before skating over and stopping a foot away from the two of them.

“Coach?”

“Do the net-front drill with Comeau and Mitty.”

Pike glanced over at Shane before giving a small shrug and skating over to stand in front of Comeau. Pike planted himself at the top of the crease, immediately absorbing a cross-check from Comeau. Comeau tied up his stick and leaned into his back, but Pike kept fighting for position until the shot came through. Shane could tell that Comeau wasn’t even really trying to prevent Hayden from sliding the puck into the net behind Mitty. 

Pike skated back to them with a small, proud smile. Shane bit his cheek, feeling the edges of the line he had created over the last couple of days. Pike had been pushed almost completely out of the crease. His stick had been too high, and he'd nearly missed the rebound. Shane could have listed half a dozen things Pike had done wrong.

Theriault turned to Shane. “See. That’s how it’s done.” 

He waved Shane back to the ice. “Do it again.”

Shane crouched down over the puck and looked up at Comeau, who grinned, showing every single one of his teeth.

So he got closer. He let Comeau shove his whole body into Shane, checking him hard, the force of it almost knocking Shane to the ice. He felt Comeau shove an elbow into his ribs and a shoulder into his jaw as he tried to get around him. Seeing a gap, he spun quickly, slamming the puck into the net. He couldn’t help but let out a relieved breath and turned to Theriault triumphantly.

Theriault wrote something down on his clipboard and gave Shane a hard look. Shane felt his brief pride slide to the ice, freezing beneath him. 

“Needs to be better, Hollander. Do it again.”

Shane did it again.

The rest of the practice went similarly, with Shane getting checked harder and harder into the boards by the veterans and some of the rookies who were taking their cues from the older players. Comeau was the worst of them. Comeau seemed to relish every rep, finishing each check just a little harder than necessary. His entire body ached from the impact of their hits and from the repeated disapproving comments from Theriault and other members of the coaching staff. 

He wanted to slam himself into the boards too. He had done this to himself. The shame of it twisted around each bone in his rib cage, pushing bile further up his throat, and he tried to not let it get the best of him.

Joining the rest of the team in the locker room, Shane made his way to his locker, eyes not leaving the floor. Not that any of the team would be looking at him anyway, not even daring to glance in his direction. They had made that clear when he had walked into the locker room that morning. After peeling his sweaty shirt off, feeling as if the action had taken a layer of skin with it, Shane grabbed one of the towels neatly folded on his shelf. 

He felt a body approaching him from behind, and he turned quickly to meet it. Savard met his eyes for a moment before immediately looking around at the rest of the guys in the room, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. 

“Hey, uh, Hollander. Why don’t you take a moment to…organize your things.”

Shane frowned at him, glancing at his perfectly organized stall, not a single glove or sock out of place. He turned back to his captain. “Er, is something wrong with it?”

Savard shifted from side to side. “I guess not. I…listen, Hollander, I just think everyone would feel a bit better if you waited to shower.”

Shane blinked at him, leftover sweat seeping into his skin, the dry residue starting to itch and burn. The feeling made his fingers tingle, his breath quicken. He blinked again.

“Of course.” He shoved the towel back into his locker quickly, not bothering to fold it again. “I’ll just, um…wait.”

Savard gave him a relieved smile, finally looking Shane directly in the eye. “Good idea, Hollander. Way to be a team player.” 

Reaching out a hand briefly, Savard looked like he was going to slap him on the back or offer a supportive fist bump, but Shane watched as the hand froze, then slowly turned into a quick thumbs-up. Savard hurried back to his locker, stripping off the rest of his clothes and joining the team in the showers.

Shane slowly lowered himself onto the bench. Staring blankly at the wall that separated the room from the showers, Shane could hear laughing voices echo across the tile, filling Shane’s head with a long buzzing. He slipped his dirty shirt back on, covering his naked torso. 

He barely noticed when his teammates started filing back in, towels tightly wrapped around their lower bodies. They were still joking and chatting, but there was an extra tension added in every laugh, every sneer, every not-so-subtle glance at the bench. 

After they had all finished, Shane waited another minute. Then another. Only when Savard gave him a little permissive nod did he peel off his shirt and pads, wrap a towel around his waist, and walk to the showers. 

As he walked past the players closest to the doorway, he heard one whisper something to another.

Comeau let out a sharp laugh. “Putain de pédé,” he called back.

Shane turned on the shower, letting the water blend with the tears running down his face, holding a hand tightly over his mouth to stifle any revealing noises. There wasn't any rambunctious chatter or loud laughter now. Every shift of his feet, every press of the soap dispenser, every shuddering breath rebounded off the tiled walls.

He tried not to imagine Rozanov walking into the showers with him. Tried not to imagine him holding him close, letting Shane bury his face in the crook of his neck.

No one was in the locker room by the time he came back out.

* * * * *

Ilya spent the rest of what should have been his practice time getting lectured by a wide variety of managers and HR representatives. He sat through each one, not speaking a word, trying to push the residual anger into his fingertips that pressed hard into the chair's arms. His legs had gone slightly numb from sitting for so long, but he was almost glad for the numbness, imagining it sinking into the rest of his body. He let the voices drift over him, at best barely listening to them and at worst, staring pointedly at the ceiling or out the window.

They would let him get away with this; he knew that. The team didn’t need another incident, not now. Although Ilya still knew that this was one of only a limited number of actions he could spend before he was in the red.

After they dismissed him, Ilya stormed into the parking lot, not looking back at the facility behind him. He clicked his keys, following the car's beeping before stopping cold in his tracks.

He felt the blood slowly drain from his face, and his body immediately straightened, pulling tightly at his spine, mimicking the posture of the man in front of him.

His voice shook as he spoke. “Papa, what are you doing here?” he said quietly in Russian.

His father sniffed and looked down at his car disapprovingly before stepping closer to Ilya. “You have not been answering your phone.”

Ilya blinked at him. His father had flown all of the way to Boston because he hadn’t been picking up his phone? He hadn’t ever even managed to make it to a single one of his hockey games.

Ilya dropped the bag onto the ground and let his hands fold behind his back, assuming a militaristic position while also picking at his cuticles. “How did you find me?”

His father glared at him. “How did I find you?” he hissed. “You don’t think I know my own son? You don’t think I know that of all the cars in the Boston Raiders’ training facility you are the only one who would have bought this stupid fucking car?”

Ilya flinched as he felt a drop of spit fly into his face. He had always known his father would hate this car. It was part of the reason he had gotten it.

His father scoffed. “You insisted on coming to fucking America to play hockey instead of joining the KHL like I told you to. I knew you would buy this car as well.” He laughed cruelly. “How is the American dream going for you, Ilya? Is it everything you wanted?”

“Papa—” Ilya began but stopped, remembering that it was best not to speak in these moments.

His father gave Ilya a scathing look before throwing his hands up into the air, gesturing around him. “God bless America,” he sneered. “Where my son can throw his life away, ruin his career, and fuck men. All at the same time.”

Ilya heard a gasp behind him, and he spun his head around to look. A number of his teammates were exiting the facility, practice bags in hand, frozen in front of the door. They were staring at the scene, wide-eyed. But none of them had gasped. No. That was Volkov, the only other Russian on the team, who had been very intentionally avoiding Ilya all day, not saying a word to him or anyone else. Volkov was looking rapidly between the two of them, and from his expression, Ilya could tell he knew exactly who the man across from him was. 

“Fucking look at me, Ilya,” his father spat, and Ilya slowly turned back towards his father, trying to tune out the presence of his teammates a few feet behind him. His father’s eyes flicked briefly toward the men gathered outside the facility. The corner of his mouth twitched upward. Ilya was shaking slightly, knowing what was about to happen. His father had always enjoyed an audience.

His father grabbed him by the jaw, yanking it down to meet his own, his cold expression seeping into Ilya’s skin, making him shiver. 

“You’re a disgrace. You’ve embarrassed me. You’ve embarrassed your mother—”

“Don’t fucking talk about her,” Ilya snarled, daring to meet his father’s eyes. The fire was back, and he could feel its heat starting to envelop him. 

Ilya’s father only laughed, pulling him closer. “You are weak. You got that from her.”

Ilya shoved him hard, and his father stumbled backward. He heard gasps behind him, but Ilya ignored them, unable to look away from his father. His father’s eyes narrowed as he took in Ilya’s heavy breathing and red face. 

“Look at yourself, Ilya. Do you think you’ve made her proud?”

His father straightened out his jacket and himself, then approached Ilya once more, looming above Ilya, who had gone still. Ilya stayed where he was. His shoulders curled inward. His eyes dropped back to the pavement.

“You are no longer Russian, Ilya. You were not strong enough.”

Ilya flinched hard as if he had been slapped, his face burning. He was shaking harder now, trying to hold everything in. Just a little bit longer, and it would be over.

Ilya’s father paused before taking a long, deep breath. 

“And you are no longer my son.”

He whipped his head up to meet his father's eyes. The eyes that had never been proud of him. The eyes he searched after every goal, every win, hoping that maybe this time they finally would be.

Ilya felt like he was breathing through a straw, his breath unwilling to enter any faster than the small hole would allow. 

“Papa—”

“No,” his father interrupted coldly. “Not anymore.”

He started to walk away, but turned back to Ilya, pointedly refusing to notice the tears that had begun to fall down his son’s face.

“You will not need to worry about rejecting my calls anymore. I will not be calling.”

And with that, his father got into an adjacent black car and slowly backed out of the parking lot.

Ilya’s mind was spinning, trying to process what had just occurred. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t. He couldn’t be completely alone. He had told himself that he was many times before, but this was different. This wasn’t just in his head anymore. This was real. 

No. He was going to come back. He had threatened Ilya with disownment before. He always made Ilya come back, even when he hadn’t wanted to. He’d always left a door unlocked or a spare key under a mat. He was coming back. He was—

The car turned onto the main road and sped down the street.

Ilya bent over and threw up onto the pavement.

Twenty-two hockey players stood twenty feet behind him.

None of them came any closer.

* * * * *

How was practice?

Lily: Fine. Yours?

Yeah

Fine

Lily: Good

See you on the ice?

Lily: See you on the ice

* * * * *

Receive pass.

Accelerate through center ice.

Enter with speed.

Tie up the defender’s stick

Reset.

Reverse the puck

Backhand.

Miss.

Curl back.

Slide it to the weak side.

Reset.

Fight through cross-checks.

Chip it out.

Open hips.

Stop hard.

Whistle

Reset

Face-off.

Kick it back.

Lose an edge.

Reset.

Reset.

Reset.

Reset.

* * * * *

Ilya was pissed. He shot the puck behind him, letting Doyle pick it up and follow him down the ice. Doyle slid the puck to Sebbin, who shot it back at Ilya. He slid the puck to his left, letting it glide against the boards, bracing himself for the hit he knew was coming. Sure enough, his body hit the glass hard, Comeau holding him there for a second longer than he was supposed to before skating off toward the puck. Ilya pushed off from the boards, rolling out his aching shoulder.

The fucking Metros had been targeting him hard all night, and not a single one of them had received a penalty for it. 

But he wasn’t pissed at them.

No.

He was pissed at the hockey robot that was now sitting on the Metros’ bench, staring blankly ahead. He skated past Hollander, trying to make eye contact, but his head didn’t move away from the center of the rink. 

He spat on the ice, letting his anger flicker further into existence, feeding it with every snide comment and every check. He had been fucking looking forward to this. After everything that had happened, he had put all of his energy towards preparing for this one game, letting each workout, each drill consume him. He hadn’t wanted to think, so he hadn’t, shoving thoughts further to the wayside with every late-night drive, every drink, every fuck. When that hadn’t worked, he had set his sights on the game.

It was just a pre-game. It wasn’t even his first one in the NHL; it was his second. But he had hated every moment of the first one too, speeding past quiet slurs and pointed glares. They had won. And it had been easy. It was so easy to bait people whose biggest fear was a homosexual hitting on them. All it had taken was a few winks, a few coy smiles here and there, before the Toronto team was falling apart, tripping over each other to get a piece of Ilya, leaving the goal wide open.

And now, as he hopped over the boards, letting another line head out onto the ice, he got to stare at the fucking hockey robot. This was Hollander at his most precise, his most controlled. And he was playing horrible fucking hockey. 

He was the only Metro actually attempting shots and putting goals on the board, but they were all so boring. Every check was questioned, every pass like it had been copied verbatim from a hockey textbook. Hollander was making all the right moves, but Ilya felt no pleasure in watching him play, not like he usually did. And he knew Hollander wasn’t happy either.

If only his coach would let him on the fucking ice at the same time as Hollander. He knew the coaches were purposefully separating them, cautiously watching every eager eye from the stands that was practically daring them to let them at it. His stupid teammates kept glancing between the two of them, as if trying to understand how it had all happened. Ilya ignored all of that. He needed to be on the ice. He needed to slap Hollander. He needed Hollander angry. 

Ilya watched as Hollander got slammed into the boards by St. Simone, inhaling sharply when Hollander stumbled briefly. He almost hoped the hit would knock some sense into him, but he saw the settings readjust as he processed the check before skating again.

The Metros were losing. Badly. Despite Hollander’s technically perfect play, the Montreal team was unable to stop Ilya, who easily skated around their players, many of whom were unwilling to touch him. Their passes weren’t connecting, and their players were distracted. And worse of all, their lines were unevenly matched, putting Ilya up against a series of mediocre players. He knew what they needed to do. They knew what they needed to do. They just weren’t doing it.

Ilya scored a third time and cursed. A hat trick? They let him get a fucking hat trick?

“Can someone fucking cover him?” he heard a player say.

Ilya turned towards the Metro bench and stuck out his hands in a taunting gesture as if to say, ‘And what are you gonna do about it?’ The players shot him dirty looks. One of them actually spat at him. But Ilya just raised his stick defiantly, pointing it at Hollander and raising an eyebrow. The outraged yells from both the bench and the audience grew louder, but Ilya ignored all of them, pushing back towards his own bench.

As he climbed over the boards, O’Neill grabbed his jersey, pulling him in harshly, causing Ilya to trip slightly and hit his knee against the bench. Ilya swore and glared at the captain.

“Fucking cut that out,” O’Neill hissed. “You trying to destroy your career?”

It would be worth it, Ilya thought bitterly as he slumped down onto the bench, shooting one last look at Hollander. 

A few more minutes passed, the Metros still unable to score, until Ilya felt the shift. The noise of the crowd started to escalate without anything exciting going on the ice. No, nothing on the ice. What was exciting was watching the Metros coaching staff slowly lean together before shooting the Raiders coaches a slightly worried look.

Ilya grinned.

He felt a tap on his shoulder, signaling his next shift, and got on the ice five seconds before Hollander did.

He circled Hollander like a shark as he glided towards center ice, his eyes not leaving the stiff figure who was skating out to meet him. The entire crowd held their breath as the two of them leaned over the face-off circle, both of their teams hesitantly skating over to join them.

Hollander refused to look up from the circle, so Ilya ducked his head to look under Hollander’s helmet visor. 

“Jaaaane,” Ilya tried. “Are you there? I have been so lonely all game.”

Nothing.

He frowned as the ref came over, shooting Ilya a look before dropping the puck. Hollander took it and sped off towards the Raiders’ goal. Ilya swore and chased after him, intercepting an attempted pass to Pike. Ilya held onto the puck for too long, waiting for Hollander’s body to check his own. The crush was not nearly as satisfying as Ilya had hoped, Hollander’s body heat leaving him all too soon. Although Ilya wasn’t convinced there was much heat in there right now anyway.

The Metros’ goalie grabbed the puck, stopping play. They skated towards each other for another face-off.

Ilya hit Hollander’s stick with his own. “Your team keeps looking at me like I will fuck you on ice. Should we do it?”

Hollander stared blankly at his stick.

Fucking nothing.

Why even come out on the ice? Ilya thought angrily. Why even bother to play hockey if you couldn’t even enjoy a second of it? Why was Hollander even putting himself through this? Why had they even signed that stupid fucking list of guidelines if not to help Hollander keep playing his stupid fucking hockey?

The puck dropped again, and Ilya shot it behind him. He watched as Hollander stole the puck from his winger and flew across the rink. 

Ilya let every ounce of rage in his body pour into his legs, pushing him faster and faster. He met Hollander sooner than he imagined Hollander was expecting and slammed him into the boards in front of him. Both he and Hollander crashed onto the ice, and Ilya heard the ref blow a whistle, calling a penalty. Ilya hadn’t even realized that Hollander had passed the puck.

Hollander slowly got up to his knees, breathing hard. Ilya did the same, glancing around at the players surrounding them. None of the Metros were even pretending to be upset about it, not even approaching Ilya to fight him over their rookie’s honor. Ilya turned back to Hollander and cursed. Hollander’s face was still blank, and all Ilya could see were those stupid fucking hockey tapes that Hollander always kept on the surface of his eyes, skimming past every missed opportunity, every flawed movement.

He couldn’t help himself.

He wanted to see his real eyes. The one that looked up at him dangerously through dark eyelashes in dimly lit rooms. The ones that had impossibly dragged over every inch of Ilya’s body with barely contained restraint. The ones that so obviously knew everything they wanted but refused to look at it for more than one uncontrolled moment.

Still kneeling on the ice and before the refs could reach him, Ilya leaned forward and grabbed Hollander’s jaw, pointing it up to look at him. 

He heard the crowd gasp. He felt a spray of ice shoot from a pair of startled skates as a ref stopped quickly. He saw their teammates' eyes staring at them in horror, unable to look away.

He leaned closer to Hollander, Ilya’s face inches away from his.

The entire arena froze.

“Shane,” he whispered. “Fucking wake up.”

Shane blinked.

Ilya held his breath.

Shane blinked again. And then his eyes focused, dark and unblinking, on Ilya's face.

Finally.

* * * * *

Shane stared at Rozanov. He felt something leave his body. He couldn’t tell what it was. He thought it might have been shame. He could barely think about the people around them as he felt it funnel out of him like oil, staining the ice around him black. 

Rozanov’s hand was cupping his chin, his fingers pressed into his cheeks. His hand was on his fucking chin. In the middle of a fucking game.

He had called him ‘Shane.’

In. A. Fucking. Game.

Shane’s heart was racing, threatening to fall out onto the ice. He glared at Rozanov, unable to look at anything else. He glared at his lips and his neck and his cheekbones and his blond curls. Shane wanted to throw him down onto the ice, hold him by those blond curls, and squeeze his head. He wanted to scream. He wanted to make Rozanov scream.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Shane spat at him, feeling Rozanov’s hands against his jaw move with every word. The hands didn’t move away.

Rozanov smiled at him softly, and every part of Shane’s body burned. He was breathing heavily as blood filled him, coursing through his cheeks and neck.

“Holy shit,” he heard someone whisper from beside him. Shane didn’t bother to look.

“Shane,” Rozanov whispered again, smile bright.

Shane punched him.

The noise of the arena flooded Shane’s system again, crushing into him and forcing him to exhale quickly. People on and off the ice were yelling. He felt hands grab at him, lifting him up from the ice. Shane furiously ripped his arms out of their hold, but they latched on again. Looking behind, seething, Shane was horrified to see an unimpressed referee. 

He felt the fight leave his body all at once, leaving him cold and shivering, and let himself get dragged to the penalty box. He glanced to his side, where a ref was guiding Rozanov to the box next to his.

Rozanov was laughing so hard that he needed help getting into the box, bending over and clutching the wall to hold himself up. He collected himself for a moment to look through the window at Shane, blood dripping down from his nose, before bursting into laughter again.

* * * * *

It was the first real laugh he had let out in weeks.

Chapter End Notes

😀😀😀😀

How are we all doing? Good? Cool cool cool

In my defense...I warned you...
Hopefully, the end was kind of fun to balance it all out.

I have never EVER said Shane and Ilya are good at communication.

I hope you enjoyed my little experimental section with 'hockey robot' Shane Hollander.

Also, many of you were concerned about the guidelines' illegality. I hope this chapter helped show why Shane wouldn't want to sue
Legally, you all are right; the guidelines would not hold up in court. But again, in hockey especially, there is a sense of "for the good of the team" that means that players take personal hits. Like smaller salaries for cap space. The NHL is really good at covering stuff up. All this to say, they could sue, but that would have significant ramifications on their ability to successfully play in the NHL just based on the culture, especially since they are rookies.

 
I love you all. Thank you so much for reading. I'm having so much fun doing a more psychological fic with all of my hockey/sex metaphors. Thanks for sticking with me 🥰

 

Also me writing: now what if I made Ilya use a hockey stick to represent 'swinging his dick around' again? yesss yessssss. It's perfect

 

Up next: the sluttiest little scene I think I've ever written (it's still very angsty)

Chapter 5: I'm so alone out here without you, baby

Chapter Notes

CW: uhhhh. Sex. Kind of.

It's going to get slightly worse before it gets better. I'm kind of realizing how angsty this fic is...I promise the next chapter will be better... for at least one of them... okay...

ALSO, if you saw me splitting up chapter 1 into two chapters (one with the poem thing and one with the rest of the chapter), no, you didn't. I've decided against it and just changed the chapter name instead. It looked stupid. I've changed it back.

“Jesus Christ, man. Hollander was a beast,” Marleau declared, flinging his gloves into his locker. 

“I’m gonna see his fucking backhand in my nightmares.”

“Maybe we should let Roz back on the ice with him. Just to distract him for a moment.” Hammersmith added. He got a couple of nervous laughs from the rest of the room, the players glancing at LeClaire’s office. 

LeClaire had laid into Ilya after their first game with the Metros. He hadn’t known that the Boston coach’s voice could get that loud. They had barely made it into the locker room before LeClaire had started screaming at him, telling him he was done in the fucking NHL. 

But here he was. Still in the fucking NHL.

The thing that the NHL couldn’t deny was that it made for excellent TV and even more excellent money. Even though he and Shane had not been put on the ice together since, ticket sales were through the roof as fans packed every arena the two teams played in just to get even a glimpse of what had occurred on the ice that day. To get even a glimpse of the dark looks and firm hands they knew must have been behind that closed hotel room door. They hadn’t been able to see it before. Not until Ilya had grabbed Shane’s face with too much care and Shane had stared back with so much desire.

Ilya couldn’t blame them, even if he could still hate them. He had watched the video countless times himself, looking for that exact moment when Shane melted into his hand, transforming into something deadly, something lethal. He looked like Ilya could have told him to do anything, and he would have (while also calling him an asshole the entire time).

He looked like sex.

And everyone could see it on a grainy YouTube video. (Some more than others. Some being Ilya Rozanov.)

“I don’t ever want to see that shit again, man,” Sebbin muttered, rather loudly.

“I kind of do. Hollander might actually kill someone next time,” Mercer called.

“Yeah, either himself or Roz,” Conners said, laughing.

“We’re not talking about this anymore,” O’Neill said gruffly, shutting the group up immediately, all of them shuffling back towards their lockers. “The league told us to shut the fuck up, so we’re all going to shut the fuck up.”

The league had indeed started doubling down. They sent Ilya weekly updates on ‘the situation,’ and he was never very far from Tom, his personal ‘security guard.’ At least not while he was in the arena. He couldn’t help but like Tom, though. Ilya wasn’t sure where they had found him, but Tom was… incredibly short. It was almost comical that they pretended to attach him to Ilya for his safety. He sometimes considered hiring someone to attack him just to see what Tom would do. He would probably collapse on the spot, shattering his very big, very circular glasses. 

Trying to look threatening, Tom would stand two feet away from Ilya during interviews. Ilya liked to pause for a little bit too long after being asked a question, just to make him sweat, but he always kept his answers up to league standards, carefully avoiding the many, many questions he was asked about Hollander. They had only barely started letting him talk to the press in the first place, and Ilya didn’t want to make things harder on Shane, who had been thrown into the media shark tank early on and forced to fend for himself against the angry jaws and gnashing teeth.

Now that they had played a few games against Montreal and were midway through the season, Ilya had noticed that Tom was becoming more relaxed. His pen clicked less, his eyes glanced in other directions, and the creases on his forehead had begun to smooth. (Although not entirely. You can only frown every single hour of every day for so long until those lines are there for good.)

It gave Ilya a bit of hope, which he hadn’t experienced a lot in the last couple of months. 

It made him hope that by next season, maybe they would stop looking. Maybe they would stop caring. Maybe Shane would too.

Ilya shuffled back to his own locker, picking up his phone.

You have plans?

Jane )): No

Do you want plans?

Jane )): No I didn’t mean I didn’t have plans

Jane )): I just mean that we’re absolutely not seeing each other

But I have not seen you in years

Have forgotten so many things

Forgot what color your eyes are

Forgot your nose scrunch

Forgot your moans

I miss the moans

Jane )): Rozanov.

Shane.

You have no plans. I know

Jane )): Stop Rozanov

Given that they had no ice time together, the only time Ilya ever saw Shane was from their respective benches. More shots than Ilya would like to admit may have been misses because Shane had dared to move slightly, adjusting his jersey or grabbing his water bottle. He would be leading the league in goals if it weren’t for Shane fucking Hollander.

They didn’t see each other after games. They didn’t see each other before games. And they barely saw each other during games. He had only played Shane three times, and Ilya felt like he was going crazy. 

He slept with more women, trying to muffle the noise that fogged his brain. And the women were nice. They let him take control for a little bit, letting him satiate their guilty pleasures and buried desires. As an extra perk, every girl he slept with was an extra minute that all of the Raiders added onto the amount of time they were willing to talk and interact with him, on and off the ice. So every girl he fucked meant more passes, more teasing, more wins. 

It was almost worth it.

Almost.

He stared at his text messages with Shane and imagined shrinking each letter and carefully placing it on a piece of paper, mapping out each one of Shane’s freckles. Shane Hollander no longer felt like a want. He was a need. And he was being deprived. He had started watching that stupid fucking YouTube video every morning just to help him feel like he could breathe again. 

But he knew that for every breath he took in, there was one less left for Shane. Every video replay added another ‘view’ to a count that already left Shane falling apart at late hours of the night, texting Ilya as a lifeline as if Ilya wasn’t the one ripping it from his hands.

Okay. I understand

I am sorry

Jane )): Please don’t apologize

He gazed at the name, at Shane’s guilty conscience all wrapped up in a few lines of text. He clicked on the contact information. His finger hovered over the block button. He tapped Edit.

He changed the contact name to ‘Shane.’

He changed it back.

He changed it to a heart.

He changed it back.

He felt Carmichael approaching him from the right and shoved the phone into his bag, packing everything else in a hurry.

“You got plans tonight, Roz?” Carmichael asked, leaning against the locker next to him.

Ilya shrugged. “Maybe I will go out to club. I do not know.”

“Oh, fun! Can I join? We can go to that place that we went to last time,” Carmichael said, now obviously putting on some kind of voice. Ilya wasn’t sure what. 

He paused, slowly turning towards Carmichael, studying his face. “Why do you want to go to same boring Montreal club again?”

Carmichael had insisted on going out with Ilya the last time they were in Montreal. Ilya couldn’t understand why. They rarely hung out in other cities, not even Boston. He claimed it was just because he loved this particular club and dragged Ilya along.

Carmy slapped him on the back. “I mean, it’s our spot, right? How could we not go!”

Carmichael was so fucking weird.

Turning back to his locker, Ilya threw his bag over his shoulder. “Mm, maybe. Maybe I just stay in my room. You can ask someone else to go.”

Carmichael’s face dropped, and his face scrunched up as if his brain was working hard to put enough words together to make a sentence. It was honestly exhausting to watch. Ilya gave Carmy a quick pat. There were too many concussions on this team.

“See you at hotel, Carmy.”

Carmichael gave him a hesitant wave in return.

He looked at his phone one last time, begging it to buzz. To ask him to come over. To ask him to stay.

Nothing.

He shoved it back in his pocket.

Maybe next season.

* * * * *

Shane, in an effort not to text Ilya his address, invited Hayden to come hang out with him after the game. While the rest of the rookies and other younger players still avoided him for the most part, falling in line behind the veterans, Hayden kept trying to make an effort. 

Amidst hard glares from their other teammates, Hayden consistently invited Shane out to team social events. Shane always said no, knowing that his presence would be more trouble than it was worth, but he appreciated the thought…mostly. Although he hated the way his teammates would look at him and even Hayden when Hayden would ask him in the locker room in front of all of them, shooting the two of them looks of disgust, as if there was something perverted about him just talking to another guy.

Sometimes Shane wanted to yell at Hayden to stay away from him. That he didn’t need to tie himself down to a sinking ship. Other times, he was just so glad someone was talking to him again that he selfishly enjoyed flaunting their friendship. 

“Dude, what are you wearing?” Hayden asked, strolling into Shane’s apartment and giving him a quick, appraising look.

Shane looked down at his own clothes and frowned. He was wearing sweats and a T-shirt.

“What’s wrong with this?” he asked.

Hayden groaned. “Shaaaane, I want to go out. We’re going out.”

“What! No. I thought we were going to play video games.”

Hayden gave him a look. “Shane. We just won a game against the Raiders. We’re not staying in and playing Chel again.”

Shane sighed, looking down at his feet. He could already hear the thumping bass, feel the crush of warm bodies, and see the flash of strobe lights, every sense caving in on him at once.

Shane shifted back and forth, rubbing a hand along his clavicle, pushing the stress from his hands into the motion. “You know I don’t like going out in public. Especially not in Montreal.”

Hayden gave him what Shane was sure he imagined was a supportive pat on the shoulder. “Hey, it’ll be fine, man. We’re almost halfway through the season, and we just beat the fucking Raiders! Everyone is over it by now.”

Everyone was certainly not over it. And everyone on the street and in every store seemed to want to make sure Shane knew it. Shane could feel their eyes follow him everywhere, analyzing every turn of hand, every step, waiting for the switch to flip. Waiting for whatever creature had emerged on the ice that day. 

Having watched the video himself, Shane could almost understand where they were coming from. He barely recognized himself. His posture changed. His jaw tightened. His eyes went dark. He hated it. He hated not being able to recognize his own body.

He hated that he couldn’t even find it in himself to be angry at Rozanov for what he had done. It was hard not to feel his fingers press into Shane’s cheek every time he closed his eyes. He didn’t regret the punch, though. He would do it all over again if it meant that he could touch Rozanov’s face again. He hated that too.

So he had changed his diet. The nutritionist had put him on something called a ‘microbiotic diet,’ and Shane followed it religiously, not allowing himself even the thought of eating anything that didn’t align with its core principles. He ran an extra mile every day. He stopped reading his hockey books. They were a distraction anyway, and he used the extra time to study more game tape, memorizing his opponents. He tried not to be disgusted with himself every time he threw on the Raiders’ games again. They were his opponents too. Even if he mostly studied Rozanov. Even if he and Rozanov weren’t on the ice together anymore.

He tried not to think about him; he really did. But if his days were getting more controlled, his nights were the opposite. After seeing the video of himself, staring at Rozanov on the ice, he had decided he needed an outlet. The monster within him needed to roam, needed to stretch its legs and breathe, so that Shane could carefully tuck it away during the daytime, locking its kennel tight. If he couldn’t contain it, the least he could do was manage it by carefully scheduling its appearances.

So it was during late nights that Shane would pull up whatever new TMZ photo had dropped. It had become ritualistic. He couldn’t sleep until he found the night before’s photo of Rozanov and some woman leaving a club or a bar or a party or a park or a car together. 

He would zoom in on her face, analyzing every feature, juxtaposing them with his own. He wondered how many procedures he would need to get his cheeks to be that pink, his eyelashes that long. Would he look good in that red dress? Could he walk in those heels? Would he cling to Rozanov as they walked, pretending that he couldn’t?

“Come on, Hollzy, it’ll be fun!” Hayden playfully hit his arm. “We’ll drink a little, dance a little. Maybe even dance with a girl,” he said, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

Hayden flinched, and his eyes went wide with panic. “I mean—or not a girl. You could also dance with a—”

“Hayden,” Shane said flatly.

Hayden winced. “Yeah?”

“You don’t have to do that.”

Hayden let out a sigh of relief and scratched the back of his head. 

“If you say so,” he said, shrugging as if he didn’t care. The sweat accumulating on his forehead said otherwise.

Shane sighed, taking in Hayden’s eager posture and carefully selected wardrobe. He had treated Shane well, all things considered.

“Fine.”

Hayden’s eyes lit up with hope. “Fine?”

“Yes, fine. Let’s go out. Before I change my mind.”

“Fuck yes!” Hayden yelled, turning to walk back towards the door. He only made it three feet before he stopped, planting his foot and turning to look back at Shane. 

“Wait, no. You need to get dressed.”

Shane groaned. “Come on, Hayd, I already agreed to go. Let’s not make this harder than it already is.”

But Hayden had already started shoving him towards his bedroom. “Buddy, friends don’t let friends show up to a club in grey sweatpants. Get back into your closet right now.”

Shane grumbled under his breath, but walked into his room anyway, shutting his bedroom door behind him so Hayden couldn’t see him change. 

* * * * *

“You need to tell Volkov to actually play with you. He’s missing too many easy passes because he keeps sending pucks to your wingers.”

“You don’t think I know that, Sveta?”

Ilya was thrilled that Svetlana was talking to him again. Not that he would ever tell her that, especially now that he had so much leverage over her. She hadn’t talked to him in months, unable to while staying in Russia with her father. The video was too fresh, the disownment too recent. It wouldn’t have been safe for her to be associated with him. He knew that, but she still felt uncharacteristically guilty, and Ilya was planning on letting her stew in that guilt for a while. It had sucked being so alone without even his childhood friend for comfort. And the apology donuts were too nice to give up yet.

“Some of your teammates are still scared to crowd Hollander outside checks,” Svetlana noted over the phone, trying to make her voice sound light, but she was obviously prying. “I thought your team was getting better.”

“They are,” Ilya said simply. Because they were. 

O’Neill was still a pain in his ass, but the rest of the team had slowly unthawed, almost back to the way they had been before everything. 

He continued to play chaotic, playing the mess. His father had been…a setback. For a horrifying moment there, Ilya had been worried the team’s opinion of him would transform into something nearing sympathy. Instead, he had let them think that his father was just being a typical father, uncomfortable with queer people and prone to arguments with his rambunctious and rebellious son. Only Volkov knew the truth of what had been said that day, and he had remained silent.

“Then why are they treating Hollander like he has the plague?” Sveta said, and Ilya could almost see her pointed expression through the phone.

Ilya sighed. “You know why, Sveta.”

“Explain it to me. Because it does not look like the typical team rivalry.”

He took a deep breath before speaking, feeling the weight of Shane’s shame and Ilya’s own guilt fill his lungs. 

“Because he does not sleep with women. I have made sure that they could see me take women home, but Hollander has not done any of that,” he said.

“Is he gay?”

“He says he’s not.”

“So he is.”

“Sveta, he’s—” Ilya broke off, not sure how to finish the sentence. How could he explain Shane Hollander to her? How could he tell her that Shane still flinched every time someone used the word ‘gay’ around him? How could he describe the way Shane skated when he was truly out of his own head? In those moments, those soft moments during a breakaway on the ice or when Ilya made him gasp, pleasure slipping from his lips completely unrestrained, he was the most beautiful thing Ilya had ever seen. Shane Hollander wasn’t great at hockey. He was magnificent. 

“—he’s trying,” he concluded.

Svetlana laughed, her voice bubbling over the speakers. “If this is his trying, I don’t know if I can handle his best. I mean that second goal tonight? Absolutely beautiful. I mean the precision…” she drifted off, obviously replaying it in her mind.

She was right, of course. She could not handle his best. Ilya had only seen it a couple of times and had immediately dived off the ledge, not looking to see where he would land. He knew eventually he would hit the ground. Maybe he already had. He still would have jumped.

“How are you doing, Ilyusha?” Svetlana pivoted.

“I’m fine,” he said sharply, hearing the exasperation in his own voice. He winced and braced for Sveta’s kind but relentless prodding.

“Ilya—”

“I know Sveta.”

“Do you.”

“Yes, I am fine—”

“You’ve been photographed with many women.”

“I told you, it is for Raiders. They need to see me with—”

“Not with that many women, Ilyusha.”

Ilya paced the length of his hotel room, placing one foot directly in front of the other. He let the silence speak for itself. Of course she’d seen the pictures. Even he had gone back and looked at them, reminding himself of the little things that had first drawn him to each woman. One girl’s big brown eyes. Another’s freckles. One’s jet-black hair. Another’s toned arms. One’s shyness. Another’s ruthlessness.

He had let them into his apartment, trying to fill the gaps in the tiling. But the cold kept leaking in anyway, through cracks he'd never let himself look at closely enough to patch. So he found more women. He let them fill his bed as if they could replace all the empty spaces left everywhere else.

They were using him, and he was using them. Ilya wasn’t sure why that didn’t feel like enough anymore. 

And Sveta saw it too. Saw the pattern between a string of seemingly random women that earned him praise from his teammates, favor with the league, and loneliness everywhere else.

“You know he’s seeing the pictures too, Ilyusha.”

“He is not. He would not allow himself to.”

“Mm, I don’t know. I’m not sure you know him as well as you think you do.”

There was a firm knock on the door, and Ilya glanced at it in surprise. His teammates rarely came by his hotel room, not wanting to remind anyone of a different hockey player standing outside another one of Ilya’s doors.

He swung it open, still holding the phone up to his ear.

“Roz! Come on, you said we were going out,” Carmichael cried.

Ilya gave him a baffled look in return. “Carmy, I am on the phone.”

Carmichael tensed, and he looked at the phone warily. “Uh, okay. With who?”

“Does not matter. I stay in tonight.”

He went to close the door, but Carmichael stuck his foot out, blocking it from shutting completely.

“Carmichael, what the fu—”

“Please, Roz. I really need this.” He looked up at Ilya with pleading eyes, his breathing speeding up. Roz had never seen this. This was something new. 

But he said he needed him. Or at least something close to it. Ilya had never been able to say no to that. Not when his brother had asked for his favorite toys. Not when his father had demanded obedience. Not when his mother had requested a simple glass of water from the downstairs kitchen, unable to get out of bed to get it herself.

“Okay, Carmy, okay.”

Carmichael almost fell to the floor with relief. Ilya shot another puzzled expression at the slightly older boy before saying goodbye to Svetlana. (And reminding her, as he always did, to practice safe sex. To which she responded, as always, that all sex was safe sex if it wasn’t with him.)

Quickly throwing on a leopard-print silk button-up, Ilya let Carmichael push him out the door, noticing as Carmy shot a not-so-subtle glance around his room, as if he was looking for something. Or someone.

* * * * *

Shane already regretted coming. It was exactly as he had pictured. The bass vibrated loudly, and he felt it crawling through his bones, putting him on edge. He felt too alert, too distracted. He couldn’t focus on just one thing, forced to focus on everything. Every body, every drink, every flashing light. 

Hayden shoved a ginger ale into his hand, and Shane was grateful that he didn’t try to pressure him into drinking. He didn’t want the already noisy sensations to start to blur together. If everything remained sharp, he could at least try to shuffle things into the correct places of his mind, organizing each sound and movement into something manageable.

He was also starting to feel itchy for another, more concerning reason. He hadn’t realized the extent to which he had trained his mind and body to flirt with the idea of Rozanov. He had figured that he had the addiction under control enough to be able to abstain for one night, but the withdrawal was starting to feel painful. He tried not to think about his computer waiting for him on his bed.

“Shane! Shaaaane!” Hayden yelled even though he was standing a foot away from him, waving him over. Shane flinched but made his way to Hayden’s side, where he was talking to two attractive women.

“Shane, this is Jackie and her friend Lily,” Hayden slurred, gesturing vaguely to the girls.

Shane’s smile froze when he heard the second name. He knew that he had done many, many wrong things in his life, but this just seemed cruel. What entity or deity did he piss off in a past life to deserve this?

“Shane, me and Jackie are going to go dance,” Hayden said, giving Jackie a little wink. She rolled her eyes at him, but she still took the arm he offered her. 

“You should talk with Lily, though. She’s really cool. She…well, she works as…” Hayden drifted off either because he couldn’t remember Lily’s job or because he was getting distracted, looking down at Jackie’s dress.

Lily laughed and stuck her hand out to Shane. “I’m a student at McGill.”

Shane took it and hoped it wasn’t too sweaty. “Oh, my dad went there.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” she responded. They stood there awkwardly, as if their two friends weren’t itching to run away from them.

“So, is it cool if we just…” Hayden asked Shane, his eyes wide and pleading. Shane rolled his eyes and took the glass from Hayden’s hand, which was threatening to spill all over Jackie’s shoes.

“Yeah, man. Go dance. Lily—” He flinched. “—and I will keep each other company.”

Hayden nodded seriously and looked like he wanted to hug him. “You’re my best friend, man. Thank you so much.”

Shane laughed and shoved him. Hayden grinned and let his hand drift to Jackie’s waist, pulling them both onto the dance floor. Shane watched them for a moment as they wrapped their arms around each other, swaying intimately to the loud music. They were completely offbeat. They didn’t seem to care.

“So, Shane, are you a hockey player too?” Lily asked from beside him.

He turned away from the dance floor. Without thinking, he took a long sip from Hayden’s drink and grimaced at the taste.

“Yeah, I am. Did you and Jackie not know we were hockey players?” he asked, almost curious. He hadn’t thought there were people in Montreal who didn’t recognize him. Not really even from playing hockey as much as his various internet scandals. Which was a sentence Shane had never thought he’d say.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t really watch hockey. Does that make me a bad Canadian?”

“The worst, probably. What’s next? Are you going to tell me you don’t like Tim Hortons?”

“Mm, more of a Starbucks girl myself.”

“Wow. I’m surprised you haven’t been deported.”

“They have my name on a couple of watchlists.”

Shane laughed, taking another sip. They continued making light conversation, talking about what Lily was studying in school and whether she enjoyed living in Montreal. They talked about what it was like playing hockey when Shane was young and whether he always knew he wanted to be a hockey player. Shane ordered her another drink and even one for himself. 

He kind of liked her.

Shane could feel excitement building. He kind of liked her!

He tried to take inventory of the little details about her. She had long, red hair and was rather short. She didn’t know anything about hockey. She laughed softly and blushed easily. Her skin was clear, and a silver necklace rested on her chest with a little heart pendant on the end. Every detail felt important, as if one of them might finally make everything click.

He could do this. He could maybe see himself dating her. He liked talking to her. She was funny. He felt himself repeating her name more times than necessary during their conversation, enjoying the feel of it on his tongue. If he dated her, maybe everything would be fine. Maybe it would all be normal again. Maybe he would be normal again.

Shane wasn’t sure why he felt a little nauseated. It was probably the alcohol.

“Wait, wait. You play for the Montreal team, right?”

Shane nodded. “Yeah, I was drafted here about a year ago.”

She gestured vaguely, as if trying to recall something. “Didn’t you guys have some kind of scandal? Something about a gay player?”

Shane felt all of the blood leave his face. He laughed nervously and drained the rest of his glass.

“Oh, yeah, I guess,” he said, trying to keep his voice even.

Lily didn’t seem to notice his shift in behavior and continued. “What ended up happening with that? Is he still on the team?”

Shane weighed the options in his head. He knew he shouldn’t lie, but he kept seeing the image of the version of himself that could date her. The version that could breathe in the locker room. The version that would smile at the stands and wave at his girlfriend from the ice, receiving teasing slaps from his teammates.

“Yeah, he is. He’s still on the team. He’s a rookie like me.”

Lily hummed and set down her glass with a contemplative expression. “How is he doing?”

"Fine," Shane said automatically.

Lily frowned.

"You've talked to him?" she asked.

Shane twitched and ran a finger along the rim of his glass. “What do you mean?”

The look Lily gave him was one of exasperation. “Well, I can’t imagine it’s very easy being gay in the NHL. Are you guys treating him okay?”

She paused, and her eyes were staring at him a little harder, measuring him up. “You aren’t giving him a hard time, are you?”

Shane felt like he was on trial, but he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to pass cross-examination. He fumbled over his words.

“No, I mean, he seems fine. Everyone is trying to handle it as best as they can,” he said nervously.

Lily cocked an eyebrow. “Handle it?” she repeated, squinting at him.

“Yeah, I mean…he’s a good hockey player, but…there’s never been a gay player in the NHL, so we’re all just…adjusting, I think,” he said, looking away from her and waving the bartender over to order another drink. His brain felt fuzzy. God, was he drunk already?

Lily shrugged, giving the bartender her order as well. “Just…just try and look out for him, okay? For me.”

“Why do you care?” Shane said a bit too harshly.

She sighed. “I don’t know. Just seems hard. It’s not his fault, you know.”

Isn’t it? Shane thought bitterly.

The bartender came back over with both their drinks in hand, and Lily took hers appreciatively and started chatting again, shifting the subject to her cat. As Shane took his own drink, he caught a glimpse of someone across the bar and frowned.

What was Ryan Carmichael doing here?

* * * * *

If Ilya had to be in this stupid fucking club, he was going to get laid. Carmichael had relaxed the moment they had walked in, immediately moving to the bar to get them drinks. He returned and handed Ilya a vodka, which he took gratefully. 

Carmichael began talking to a pretty woman next to them, while Ilya scanned the crowd for a target. His eyes ran past every blonde and brunette. He watched one woman dance before moving on to the next. One girl was talking to her friends, gesturing wildly, and laughing hard. No, not her. 

Ilya knew what he was looking for, and he hated himself for it. It was what Svetlana had already seen in the photos. But it didn’t stop him from separating each woman into little columns. Wrong-colored hair. No freckles. Too short. Too skinny. Blue eyes.

And then he saw her. She was standing a little separately from her group of friends, awkwardly sipping at her drink through the little straw. Shifting back and forth, her straight, jet-black hair moved softly from side to side. Her shoulders curled in, over her glass, making her look slightly smaller than Ilya could tell she was. Better yet, she was eyeing the dance floor, as if it were the last place she wanted to be, but her body kept drifting there unconsciously.

Perfect.

With Carmichael distracted, Ilya made his way across the room towards her. He heard her friends’ conversation lull as he got closer. As he stepped in front of her, her eyes widened, and her head shifted slightly to meet his eyes, her body slowly unfolding to her full height to better face him.

He grinned at her, and he enjoyed seeing a flash of danger flicker in her eyes.

He leaned in a little closer so that he could lower his voice. Her friends gasped at the movement.

“Would you like to dance?” he almost whispered before backing up slightly, giving her enough space to evaluate him and reject him if she needed to. Ilya knew she wouldn’t.

A slow, mischievous smile spread across her face. She turned to a gawking friend and passed her drink to them. Ilya held out a hand that she took appreciatively, letting him lead her to the floor.

Wordlessly, they began to move to the music. Ilya could feel her movements growing bigger, more salacious, and he let her turn their bodies toward the sideline. He knew she was performing for her friends—the ones who had let her sit on the outskirts of the circle. Who had probably dragged her to this club in the first place. 

He smirked and cheated out, letting his hands drift lower on her body, letting the dancing turn dirtier. 

Her hands drifted under his shirt, playing with the lines of his chest. Her fingers traced the lines of his ribs.

For one impossible second, he waited for rough fingertips and calluses that weren't there.

He suddenly felt cold, as if all the air had left his body. He blinked quickly, trying to return to the moment, but all he could think about and remember was the feel of another set of hands. He felt like screaming. He felt like crying. He felt like he was going to throw up.

Quickly, he leaned closer to the girl.

“Need to use bathroom,” he said hurriedly, trying to ignore the look of disappointment on her face as he stumbled away, taking in short, gasping breaths.

His heartbeat was pounding in his ears louder than the bass. 

What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he do this? Why couldn’t he stop thinking about Shane fucking Hollander?

He was dying, he was certain of it. Whatever fire had kept him alive all of these years had finally petered out, and he was now floundering in the darkness. Everything felt wrong, felt pointless. How could he have let himself get to this point? This point where he had nothing. Not his family. Not his home. Not even the boy he had inadvertently burned it all down for.

And it still felt fucking worth it. He still would do it all again.

He glanced up as he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. 

And then his heart finally stopped.

Because there, across the dance floor, almost as if he had manifested him out of thin air, was Shane Hollander. 

And Shane was dancing with a girl.

* * * * *

Shane started doing quick calculations the moment he saw Carmichael. If Carmichael was here, then other Raiders might be here. And if the Raiders were here, then—

He felt his body start to turn away from Lily against his will, his eyes slowly trailing across the room. His vision was the sharpest it had been all night as it scanned every person, every glass, every movement. His breath quickened, and his pupils dilated, soaking up every detail.

And then he saw him.

Ilya Rozanov was on the dance floor.

And he was dancing with a girl.

Blood filled his head, and it spun from the sudden rush. Shane swayed a little bit, his hands shaking with anger.

How dare he? How dare he be at this club? How dare he ruin Shane’s chances at normality once again? How dare he dance with someone? How dare he dance with someone who wasn’t—

Shane wanted to storm over to him and shove him, sending him to the ground. He wanted to punch him again and feel the familiar crack of bone. He wanted to walk out of the club and cry in his car on the drive home.

He needed to get it together. He had played on the ice with Rozanov tonight, and he had been just fine. He had been in control. He had performed every maneuver, every play correctly and with precision. His coaches were starting to trust him to make decisions on the ice, and his teammates were passing him the puck more and more each game. He was in control. He knew how to handle himself. It didn’t matter that Rozanov was here too.

Rozanov didn’t care about him. Shane had just been a fling. He needed to get over himself and get a fucking grip.

The words didn’t comfort him as he'd hoped; instead, they invited burning tears into the corners of his eyes. How dare he not fucking care? 

He took a sharp breath. 

“Are you doing okay?” Lily asked. 

He turned to her slowly, an awful thought creeping in. He could feel claws starting to emerge from his stomach, slipping through their cage. His anger was collapsing into something far more dangerous. 

He should really just walk away.

Instead, the club disappeared. He felt like he was back on the ice with Ilya Rozanov cupping his face, his hand slowly closing into a fist. Every temptation, every desire slammed into him, and he felt truly insane as he leaned closer to her.

“Do you want to dance, Lily?”

He leaned back to study her face, trying to summon the look he'd worn in the video. The one that had appeared whenever he looked at Rozanov. He forced himself to hold her gaze.

She grinned.

* * * * *

Ilya could hardly believe what he was watching.

He wasn’t sure who he was watching.

He blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of the image in front of him. Ilya had always assumed that Shane was a bad dancer. Shane had always been uncomfortable in crowds and self-conscious about his body, particularly when he wasn’t with Ilya. Ilya had always enjoyed drawing out the part of Shane that didn’t think about where his hands were going and what his legs were doing. 

But the Shane that he was watching now was different. The Shane he was watching now was oozing sex, moving his hips lewdly to the beat of the music. Every limb of Shane’s body was relaxed as he pulled the redhead closer, one arm dragging down the curves of her body onto her leg. The girl pushed her body back against his, grinding back onto him, and Shane mimicked the motion, leaning his head down closer to her neck.

And Shane was looking right at him.

* * * * *

Shane didn’t break eye contact with Rozanov as he slowly let his hand move up Lily’s body, running along her waist. He stared at Rozanov, imagining a straight line rather than the inward curve he actually felt. She gasped slightly and let her head fall back onto his shoulder, moving her hips deeper. Shane allowed his body to sway with the motion.

He smirked as Rozanov’s jaw dropped. 

He felt drunk on that expression. He wanted Rozanov to rush towards him. He wanted to make him squirm. 

He remembered a different dark night. He wanted to hear Rozanov gasp, and he knew what had worked before. Slowly, he moved his mouth to the place where Lily’s head was tilted back. Without moving his eyes away from Rozanov, he let his tongue trace the bottom of her ear before biting softly. The gasp he received in return was higher-pitched than he had expected.

He watched Rozanov’s eyes widen.

He placed his hand on her shoulder. No, Rozanov would want it lower. He moved it lower, dragging it along her arm as if he were feeling muscles there. She raised a hand and ran her fingers through his hair. Good, Rozanov liked doing that. He leaned into the touch.

Each additional movement became easier the further he drifted from the club. He felt like he was back in that hotel room, welcoming the way his brain quieted, leaving only a dark, eager feeling. 

Shane knew rationally that he was dancing with Lily, but as he whispered her name, he couldn’t help feeling as if he were kneeling on a dirty hotel carpet. He felt the same kind of vulnerability in allowing someone to push him down, forcing him to gaze upwards. The same power that came from Rozanov's desperate eyes and the way his mouth couldn't help but fall open as Shane leaned closer.

He should stop.

He wanted more.

He leaned closer. He let his mouth drift down her neck, lightly sucking there, his head still tilted out and his eyes unblinking.

Rozanov shifted suddenly, and for one brief moment, Shane thought he was going to walk towards him. Instead, he turned and stormed through the crowd, pushing people as he went, who gave him angry glares. 

Without thinking, Shane let go of Lily and followed in the path of destruction Rozanov had left behind, easily moving through people.

Rozanov pushed the bathroom door open and darted in. Shane followed. 

Rozanov had him against the wall before he could turn around. 

An arm was shoved up against Shane’s neck, forcing him to take shallower breaths. He felt the silk of Rozanov’s shirt brush against his throat, savoring the press of hard muscle. 

He let his anger consume him, making him shiver slightly as anticipation gathered at the base of his hips. He glared at Rozanov.

His eyes traced the hard lines of Rozanov’s face, every furious wrinkle, every clench of his jaw. It made him want to laugh. It made him want to yell at him. 

Who was he to get angry at him? What right did he have? Him, with his many women. With his performances splashed across every tabloid and gossip column. Rozanov, who dared to stare at Shane on the ice, forcing Shane to look at him. Who sent him countless texts that haunted his days and stalked his nights.

Rozanov, who Shane could not let go. Like his filthy cigarettes, Rozanov had lodged himself between Shane's teeth, lingering until Shane finally breathed in. And now he craved him. Now he needed another drag. Another poison. He wanted to choke on it.

“What are you doing?” Rozanov hissed at him, little bits of spit spraying onto his face. Shane felt every drop, but let them dry into his skin, not even trying to wipe them away. 

He pushed his face as close to Rozanov’s as he could with the arm holding him back. He let it press further into his throat, cutting off more air. Rozanov did not let up.

“I’m dancing,” he responded in a light tone, trying to hide the slight rasp that was emerging.

Rozanov let out a sharp, mean laugh. “You do not dance.”

“How would you know?” Shane spat back. He didn’t know Shane. He didn’t know what Shane did. He didn’t care. If he had, he wouldn’t have danced with that woman tonight. The woman who wasn’t Shane.

Rozanov’s eyes ran up and down Shane’s face, and he moved closer to Shane so that his legs now threatened to slot between Shane’s. 

Shane gasped.

“Stop it, Shane,” he whispered.

“Make me, Rozanov,” Shane whispered back, slurring his words. His hands were shaking violently, and his knees almost gave out.

Rozanov’s eyes flashed with anger, and he shoved Shane again, now finally pressing his knee against Shane’s leg. Shane groaned and tilted his head back, letting it roll against the tiles.

“I saw you dancing with that girl,” Rozanov said in a low voice.

“Did you? I didn’t see you,” Shane said cockily. Rozanov scoffed before pressing in further, making Shane gasp loudly, the sound echoing off the walls.

Shane shifted his head, daring to meet Rozanov’s eyes again. “What did you see?”

Rozanov moved his mouth closer to Shane’s and inhaled deeply. Rozanov smelled like sweat and perfume. It sent another wave of nausea down his spine. 

“I see you touch the girl. I see you kiss her. I see you bite her,” he said, his voice rough.

Rozanov paused for a moment, taking another breath in and shifting his leg, making Shane whimper. 

“I see her pretty black dress and red lipstick.”

Rozanov moved his head to the other side of Shane’s face, noses brushing for a moment as he passed.

“Is what you want, Shane? You want me to wear a pretty black dress and red lipstick? Then will you invite me over?” he whispered.

“I hate you. I hate you so much,” Shane almost sobbed, the words barely escaping his gasping lips.

“No, I do not think you do,” Rozanov said softly.

Shane was slowly losing his mind. He couldn’t tell where his rage stopped and the want began.

“Rozanov—” he gasped.

“Stop calling me Rozanov,” Rozanov snarled at him.

Shane cocked his head and peered at Rozanov through half-open eyes. He pushed himself forward, letting his head fall on Rozanov’s shoulder like Lily had done to him moments ago.

“What would you like me to call you?” he whispered, and the shiver that passed through Rozanov gave him just enough courage to ignore the numbness spreading through his fingers.

He edged closer, his lips touching the corner of Rozanov’s ear. He knew that this was the final play. This was the final move before he would get the pleasure of hearing the buzzer ring out in this dirty club bathroom. He felt the corner of his lips quirk up as he lined up, gearing up for the shot.

He let out a soft exhale.

“Ilya—”

The door to the bathroom slammed open, and they wrenched apart, breathing heavily. Carmichael stood there in the doorway, still holding the door, with his mouth open in shock.

“Holy shit.”

* * * * *

“Carmy, is not what it—” Ilya began, panicked.

“—looks like? Come on, Roz, really?” Carmichael finished, letting the door close behind him and running his hands through his hair. “Shit, Roz. Shit. Why did you have to do this? Shit.” 

Carmichael had started pacing the bathroom, not looking at either of them while he spoke rapidly.

“Fuck. Fuck! Holy shit.” Carmichael bent over, letting his hands rest on his knees. “Fuck, I have to report this. Fuck!"

Ilya frowned. “What do you mean report—”

The door opened again.

“Fuck,” Shane hissed and looked up at the ceiling, blinking quickly.

Hayden Pike walked slowly into the room, taking in the scene before him and assessing each person. 

“Um….Okay. I saw Shane walk in here and wanted to check on him, but…” he said, giving them all another look over. “Well…now I’m not sure what to say.”

Ilya was still looking at Carmichael, his eyes narrowing. “Carmy, what do you mean report?”

Carmichael’s face went white, and he stuttered for a moment, glancing at Pike as if for help. Pike looked just as baffled as Ilya felt.

Carmichael sighed and leaned against the sinks before putting his head in his hands. “Oh god, this is so fucked. I’m so sorry. I just—this is a disaster.”

“What is?” Shane whispered. Ilya looked back at him. He was pale and shaking slightly. He wanted to rush back over to him and feel his forehead with the back of his hand, holding him carefully, smoothing out every little quake. He didn’t.

“I—” Carmichael began, wincing slightly. “O’Neill told me to keep an eye on you. Specifically, when we were in Montreal. Just to make sure, you weren’t…you know…” Carmichael glanced at Shane, who shut his eyes with a pained expression.

Ilya blinked, feeling like he couldn’t understand English.

“What?” he said, his voice suddenly raspy.

Carmichael grimaced. “It’s nothing personal, Roz. I like hanging out with you, so it wasn’t a big deal. We really appreciate you on the team, and coach and O’Neill pulled me aside and gave me a rundown of, like, all the guidelines and everything. They said they just wanted to make sure you were mostly following them—”

“You spy on me?” Ilya spat at him. He felt like he had hit his head on something; his vision was swimming before him. The only clear thing was a very sickly, very horrified Shane Hollander.

Carmichael paled. “No! I…I mean…it wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?” he hissed.

“I…I was just trying to protect you. I was just trying to help.”

“I do not need your help,” Ilya spat at him.

Carmichael flinched. “I know that, man. I just…I was just doing what I was told.” He shifted back and forth, glancing over at Shane, and Ilya wanted to hit him for just looking in his direction. “I really do have to report this.”

“Whoa, wait. Hold up. Time out,” Pike said, waving his hands frantically. “We don’t need to report anything—”

“Hayden,” Shane gasped out, and they all turned to him. Shane only had eyes for Hayden, though. “Is that why you’re here too? Were you assigned to me?”

Ilya saw Shane’s eyes begin to glisten, and Ilya wanted to hit Pike too.

“What! No! Of course not,” Pike said with a horrified voice. “Shane, I would never, I swear.”

Shane let out a little sigh of relief, but the tension didn’t fully leave his body.

“That’s why Savard rooms with me on the East Coast,” Shane said softly to himself. “I always wondered…he always seemed so uncomfortable around me, so I couldn’t understand why he’d—” Shane broke off with a little sob, closing his eyes again, letting his head lean back onto the wall behind him.

None of them moved. Ilya barely breathed.

“Okay,” Pike said with a tone of finality. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Nothing happened. We were never here.”

Pike glanced around the room, making sure everyone was following him before finally landing on Carmichael. “And we’re not going to report anything. None of us knew the other would be here. This is one big—” He circled the air with a finger. “—mistake. Okay?”

Shane nodded firmly, his face still pale, but slowly gaining color. Ilya watched as Pike moved closer to him, placing a hand on his shoulder and rubbing it comfortingly.

“You okay, Shane?”

Ilya couldn’t help but stare at the point of contact. Shane nodded and gave his friend a grateful smile, relaxing. Ilya couldn’t help the burst of anger that spread through him, bouncing off of every finger.

He glared at Pike’s hand. Glared at the shoulder as the tension fell from it.

Pike turned to Ilya and Carmichael. His hand didn’t fucking move. 

“You guys should probably leave,” Hayden said with a grim expression.

“No,” Ilya said firmly.

Shane turned, finally looking at him, his eyes narrowing.

“No?” Shane repeated flatly.

“No. Do not want to go. I stay in club. You go.”

“What, you haven’t gotten the fuck you wanted yet?” Shane spat at him crudely, his eyes flashing dangerously. 

Pike shot Shane a shocked look. Carmichael’s eyes widened looking between the two of them.

“No, I have not,” Ilya agreed with a sneer. Ilya pictured the girl who was probably still on the dance floor. The one with bright red hair. The one that had her hands all over Shane. 

He looked at the knife in his hands, judging its sharpness and weighing it, letting it prick his thumb. He dug it in.

“There is a girl I like here very much.”

He watched as Shane’s face fell. He looked as repulsed and furious as Ilya felt.

“Fine,” Shane snapped, slamming the door open and walking out without looking back.

* * * * *

Shane’s vision was white with anger as he moved across the room. He knew that Rozanov was following him. He did not turn around to look. He always knew where Rozanov was. 

He found what he was looking for still swaying on the dance floor.

She caught his eye and lifted an eyebrow. Shane couldn’t even imagine what he looked like right now.

He approached her quickly and tried not to picture someone else’s ear as he leaned in closer.

“Would you like to get out of here?” he whispered, trying not to let the accented voice he heard in his head slip into his speech.

He felt her nod and slid his hand into hers, guiding her off the dance floor. He let them walk past the bathrooms as he guided her out, only allowing his eyes to drift over for a moment, taking in three shocked expressions.

He turned back towards the exit, moving his hand from Lily’s and wrapping it around her, letting it rest on her shoulders. And then, knowing that Ilya was watching, he let it drop to her waist.

As he left the club, he tried to ignore the slow dissociation creeping into his mind. Mechanically, he got into a taxi she must have called and gave the driver his address. Lily grabbed his hand while pulling him out of the car. 

He didn’t understand why the touch felt so unnatural and horrible now.

* * * * *

Kiss lightly.

Deepen the kiss.

Close the gap.

Touch thigh.

Don’t think about her black dress.

Move to bed.

Get hard.

Kiss neck.

Maintain pressure.

Get fucking hard.

Touch her breasts.

Adjust grip.

For fuck’s sake.

Don’t think about Rozanov.

Run your hand through her hair.

No. Reset.

Pull her back up.

Don’t think about Ilya.

Continue play.

Don’t throw up.

Don’t think about—

Help her undress.

Press into her.

Don’t think—

Move hands somewhere.

Kiss softly.

Don’t—

Lily.

Lily.

Lily.

Ilya.

Chapter End Notes

Did you think you knew where it was going 🤗? Gotcha.
Slutty, freaky Shane Hollander is my truth. That is my gospel. I will continue to preach the good word.

I've been listening to a playlist I made specifically for this fic. Had to make a new playlist called "House in Nebraska-Slut" for this chapter.

Hockey robot, meet sex robot.

I am sorry. But I am not that sorry. I promise this fic will have a happy ending.

The next chapter has a pretty significant shift in tone. I started writing this chapter, and the club scene completely took over in a way I hadn't planned. By the time I started chapter 6, I realized that detour was exactly what these characters needed. Our boys are growing. This fic is, at its core, a study in shifting from youth to adulthood and who we become in the process and the flaws we carry over.

So, I hope you enjoyed this! Thank you all for your comments. This fic is a freaking beast, and I'm really so grateful for all of you who have decided to join me during the progress section. It gives me strength to keep writing, it really does.

Chapter 6: Where you came and I laughed, and you left, and I cried

Chapter Notes

CW: depression
...sorry
But look there are jokes! there are funny parts this time!

Also, once again, thank you to my beta-reader Polli8. Thoughts and prayers to her during this trying time (there are rumors about Ferran leaving Barca).

Very funny Shane

You can come back now 

Shane

Why are you not responding

Shane

Fuck you Shane

Are you fucking her

I bet you are thinking about me

Fuck

Shane?

Okay I am sorry

Will do better

Just text me back

Shane

* * * * *

Shane woke up to an empty bed. He felt strangely calm despite the bile rolling in his stomach. He was almost resigned, as if he had accepted its constant presence. He wondered briefly if this was what lactose-intolerant people felt when they had the scoop of ice cream anyway.

He rolled over, shifting to grab his phone from the nightstand beside him. He squinted at it, eyes still heavy with sleep and hangover. 

Jesus Christ.

He had 14 text messages from Ilya. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he cared. He knew he cared so much it hurt. The thought drifted there, indistinct beneath the hangover and exhaustion. He didn't try reaching for it. He kind of liked being numb.

Slowly, he rose from the bed, letting his legs hang over the sides and putting his head in his hands. He felt old. When had he gotten so old? God, he wasn’t even twenty yet. When did everything get so heavy?

He heard a sound coming from somewhere outside of the room and stood, letting his back crack and knees groan on the way up. 

He entered the kitchen and found Lily squinting at an open fridge. He coughed slightly, announcing his presence, and she turned his way.

“Do you not have literally anything to eat in here?”

Shane shrugged and joined her next to the open fridge, peering in. 

Huh. He could have sworn he had more food in here.

“I was going to go grocery shopping yesterday, but I forgot,” he lied easily.

She gave him a pointed expression before walking toward the front door to slide on a pair of slippers he kept there. 

He frowned. If she was just going to leave, why did she have to take his house shoes? Was it payback for bad sex? He guessed he could understand—

“Are you just going to stand there, or are you coming?” she said, peering at him from beneath her brow.

Shane blinked at her.

“Where are we going?” he asked, making his way over to her and putting on a pair of respectable non-house shoes.

She tossed him his car keys that had been sitting in a bowl next to the door.

“We are going to go get McDonald's.”

Oh.

Shane must have made quite the face at that because she burst out laughing.

“Come on,” she said, grabbing his arm and guiding him out the door. “A little McDonald's never hurt anyone.”

Shane wasn’t sure about that. But he let her push him all the way into his driver’s seat, and he obediently started the car. 

They didn’t speak on the drive over, but Shane let her turn on the radio, flipping through the different stations before landing on classical. He had always assumed that classical music was relaxing, given that it didn’t really have words. But every meter they drove filled Shane with a greater sense of unease; the anxiety over what he had done was growing, and each street sign that flashed by seemed to evoke a new memory that left him mortified. And the loud crash of cymbals accompanied by harsh violins was not fucking helping.

By the time they pulled into the McDonald’s drive-through, Shane’s nerves had all returned from war. The war being too much alcohol and heterosexual sex. There was also a creeping sense of clarity drifting in through the door that the anxiety had left open on its way in.

He let her lean over him, calling out what he assumed was both of their orders. (Not that he was trying to fat-shame. She was just ordering a shit ton of food for one person, so Shane made some assumptions.) She didn’t even bother pulling out her purse when they reached the window. Shane wasn’t even sure she had brought it. He paid quickly, took the food, and maneuvered the car into a spot in the back of the parking lot.

Grabbing the bag from him, she began distributing the food, handing him a sausage-and-egg sandwich before taking a tray of hotcakes for herself. She opened the container and poured two whole containers of syrup onto the pancakes. Shane tried not to stare. Tried not to let his mouth water at the nauseating smell.

So he focused back on the sandwich she had given him, carefully unwrapping it, making sure not to tear the paper too much. He didn’t want to offend her or the food she had ordered for him, so he took a bite.

Holy shit, that was good.

He moaned a little bit and took another big bite, unable to help himself.

She laughed loudly, and he turned to her with a caught expression. He’d almost forgotten she was there between the second and third bite.

“God, where was this energy last night? This is the most turned on I’ve ever seen you,” she said, still laughing.

Shane froze and looked at her in horror. She was still smiling kindly at him as if she hadn’t completely blown up his morning with one sentence and a Sausage McMuffin.

“What?” he mumbled through a full mouth, embarrassingly, as crumbs spilled down his face.

She hummed and took a large bite of pancake.

“You were out cold this morning, you know,” she said, leaning closer to her food.

“Erm…I don’t—”

“Sooo cold. Dead to the world. I had a whole hour to myself.”

“What are you—”

“Shane. You know Google exists, right?”

Shane blinked hard before tilting his head back against his seat and looking up towards the ceiling. He slowly brought the sandwich to his mouth without moving his head and took another bite. The crumbs fell into his shirt.

Lily laughed again.

“Oh my God, Shane, put the sandwich down,” she cackled, pushing it back toward his lap.

“It’s really good,” he mumbled.

“Shane, look at me,” she said, putting both hands on his face and tilting it to look at her before lowering them. She reached into the bag and pulled out a hash brown.

 “So, Shane Hollander,” she said as if she had spent the morning memorizing his last name. Which she probably had. If only to Google him faster. She gestured at him with the hash brown. “You’re the gay hockey player.”

“I’m not g—” he started to say, but the words didn’t come as easily to him as they had done before. Somewhere inside him, there was a little lock around that last word. He had always assumed its presence was what made his stomach ache as much as it did. But now, it was allowing something to settle. 

“Shane,” Lily began with a slightly amused face. “I think you’re great, I really do. But, after last night, I really don’t think you should finish that sentence.”

Shane groaned and hit his head against the headrest, covering his face with his hands.

“Fuck,” he whispered, pressing his fingers in further, trying to stop the tears that were building.

“Shane, no!” she laughed, pulling at his arms. She tried to remove his hands, but after she succeeded with one, as she moved to the next, he would replace it.

She huffed. “Fine, you stay there and cover your face, and I’ll talk.”

He felt like he was going to die. He was certain that no one had ever been so bad at sex with a woman that they had to sit them down afterward and tell them that they were gay.

Oh God, he was gay, wasn’t he?

“Fuck Shane, you’re making me feel bad for being mad at you.”

“You’re mad at me?” Shane muttered into his hands. 

Fuck, of course she was. He’d fucking used her. He’d slept with her even though he knew that he didn’t really want to. Oh God, this was the end. He was the worst person ever. He probably needed to run away. Maybe some kind of monastery. Are there still eunuchs? God, he was so fucking—

“Okay, wow. Yeah, no, I’m gonna need you to calm down,” she said, her voice barely audible over the shouting in his head.

“I’m calm. I’m very calm,” he whispered.

She laughed again. She had a good laugh; Shane could admit that. He wished he could love that laugh.

“Yeah, you’re the picture of it, for sure.” She sighed. “Okay, well, you panic. You’re great at it. If I ever need to cast someone to play a panicked gay hockey player, you’re my first call.”

The comment startled him so much that he couldn’t help but laugh, the rush of air hitting his system and calming him down. Slightly. A bit.

She took a bite of a hash brown, and he peeked through his hands when he heard the rustle of paper. She took out a second tray of hotcakes. When the fuck had she finished the first?

“Well, as I was saying. I was going to be mad at you for lying to me last night about who you were. And then sleeping with me, of course. But—” she began, stopping to take another bite. “—then I saw a video of you punching that one guy, and I thought holy shit, this kid’s a mess.”

“We’re the same fucking age,” he grumbled, dropping his hands so he could look at her properly.

She tilted her head. She was still wearing an amused expression. 

“Yeah, I know. I’m a kid too. I make lots of mistakes, so I get it. For example, last night I had very mediocre sex with a gay man I met at a club because I thought he was cute, but also because I stared too long at my gorgeous friend Jackie dancing with your gorgeous friend Hayden and got a bit jealous.”

Shane frowned at her. “Jealous? Jealous of…of Hayden?”

Lily laughed even harder, wheezing slightly. Shane couldn’t help but smile too, even if he didn’t know what they were laughing at.

“No, Shane, not everyone is gay,” she managed to get out between breaths.

He smirked. “Except me, of course,” he said a little shyly.

She beamed at him. “Yeah, except you, of course,” she said in a slightly awed tone.

She sighed before continuing. “I just mean, I was jealous that a guy was interested in Jackie. Again. Like always. And you were so nice to me that I couldn’t help it. And you’re hot, so…”

Shane began to say something. He wasn’t sure what, but she shushed him before he had to figure it out. She put her food down, turned to face Shane fully, and grabbed both his hands, holding them across from her.

“Shane,” she said.

He tilted his head toward her, copying her posture. “Lily.”

“I am not upset that we had sex. I had a fine time, I really did.”

“I’m so sorry—”

“Shhhh, Shane. I’m speaking. Don’t interrupt me.”

“Sorry—”

“For fuck’s sake, Shane, listen. Do I regret last night? No. Do I think we should have sex again? Absolutely not. Do I think you should consider never sleeping with a woman again? For sure.”

Shane’s entire face went red. He was going to die in his car surrounded by McDonald's. Ilya would probably get a kick out of that, at least. He wanted to text him a photo.

“I have a feeling, and correct me if I’m wrong, that maybe things aren’t going so well for you right now,” she said softly.

Shane couldn’t help but look down at the McDonald's bag, blinking away a few tears. He really hated McDonald's.

“Am I right?” she asked.

“Maybe,” he whispered.

“Are people maybe not adjusting well in the locker room?” she said, using his words from last night.

“They’re…they’re trying.”

“Shane, they should be more than trying.”

He didn’t say anything. Just staring down, looking at where their hands were still connected. 

After a moment, Lily reached over and grabbed his phone out of his pocket, typing something before sliding it back in. While still bending over the console, she reached out and turned the car back on. She rested a hand on his knee, and he dared to look back up at her. She looked almost as distraught as he felt.

“I really need to get home so I can make it to my afternoon class, but you have my number, okay? I think we should hang out. I think you need some non-hockey friends.”

He wiped away a stray tear and looked at her. At her kind expression and her lips that twitched every two seconds as if they had just thought of another joke. He liked looking at her; he really did. 

“Okay?” she asked softly.

“Okay,” he whispered back.

He sniffled a little bit, straightened up, and put his hands on the wheel. They drove back to his apartment so that she could collect the rest of her things before making their way over to hers.

She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before opening the car door and declaring that she was leaving him the rest of the McDonald's and she would know if he hadn’t eaten it all.

She closed the door, and he reached into the bag and pulled out a hash brown, the grease spilling onto his hand. He ate it in two bites, licking his fingers afterward. 

As he watched her walk away, he couldn’t help but roll down his window and call out to her.

“Lily!”

She turned. “Shane!” she yelled back.

He felt a little breathless, like he had just scored the winning goal and was moments away from his teammates crashing into him.

“I’m gay!”

She grinned.

He couldn’t help but grin back.

After he pulled back into his own apartment complex, he took out his phone and stared at the contact she had added.

Lily - (XXX) XXX-XXXX

That was going to be confusing.

His thumb drifted across the screen until it found the edit button. He watched as his text messages shifted, the name next to them changing.

Ilya: Just text me back

Ilya: Shane

He read the messages, his finger grazing each one. 

Can we

I’m so sorry

Fuck Ilya I’m so sorry

We shouldn’t

You should leave me

I’m

I

He pocketed the phone without sending any of them, laying back and staring out the car window. He felt like he was back in that gas station after the video had been released. He wanted his dad. He wanted Ilya.

God, he wanted Ilya.

He waited for the shame that always accompanied that thought. It did come, but in a slightly different flavor. As if somehow, a hashbrown and sausage biscuit had changed the taste for good.

He saw flashes of the night before, and they looked different in the soft morning light. He saw Ilya’s tired eyes. He saw Ilya’s hurt. He saw him lashing out.

He wanted Ilya, but he shouldn’t. He couldn’t do that to him.

He hurried out of his car without responding to the messages.

* * * * *

It had been a month.

Shane had not texted him in a fucking month.

Ilya had always figured insanity would feel more energetic. All of the movies made it seem like he would start running around naked, climbing the bars of his enclosure, and screaming. 

Instead, it was quiet.

His insanity felt a lot more like living in that same enclosure, watching the walls slowly close in around him, not caring, almost longing for the pressure of being crushed. He kept peering around his room. It felt like the shadows were getting larger, looming over him. 

Probably because he was crazy.

He didn’t want anyone to know. He made his body go to practice, go out, drink, find another woman, and go home. And then he did the same thing the next day. And the next. And the next.

And then every night, he would open his text messages to Shane, pushing the screen upwards as if any swipe of his thumb might finally be the one to receive a response. He couldn’t help it if his thumbs slowly shifted downwards towards the keypad. Couldn’t help if he wrote hundreds of texts he would never send.

I miss calling you Jane.

I found a girl named Jane last night. I took her home. 

Made me sad again. Will not text her back. Just like you do not text me back.

Shane I miss you. 

I miss you so much it hurts

I know I said it was just fun

Is not fun

Is torture

Shane

He deleted all of them.

Everything felt so boring; he could hardly stand it. He couldn’t help but feel like a little wind-up toy slowly winding down, and he couldn’t remember the feeling of being new, right out of the package, all ready to go. He wasn’t sure his body knew how to do it anymore.

He bought three calendars from the store and marked each with the dates of their next two games against the Metros. He placed one in the kitchen, one in his bedroom, and one in the living room. No one ever came over. They wouldn’t see them.

By the time the first game finally came around, Ilya was actually excited to go outside. He felt like the sun was shining particularly brightly through the barrage of grey clouds trying to cover it. He let his teammates tease him more freely and darted around the locker room, slapping people on the back, asking them about their girlfriends, and laughing loudly. 

“Gee, Roz, what’s gotten into you?” St. Simone called when Ilya practically skipped out of the locker room into the tunnel, lining up for warm-ups.

“More like who have I gotten into, Sainty. Tell Deborah I say hello,” he yelled back, cackling.

“Now how the fuck does he know my mom’s name?” St. Simone muttered under his breath.

“Don’t question it, man. He knew the name of my first-grade crush,” Mercer said.

Ilya ignored them all, hopping back from one foot to the other, gearing up to step onto the ice.

He could tell the energy was spreading, and by the time the team had actually gotten out on the ice, Ilya was certain that they would win.

But then he saw Shane. And Shane didn’t look at him at first. He was distracted, waving to someone in the crowd. Ilya skated closer to make out who had caught Shane Hollander’s attention, expecting to see his parents. He stopped dead in his tracks, almost slipping on the ice, when he finally saw her. 

Red hair caught the arena lights.

Her.

The woman from the club.

The one with her hands all over Shane.

He wanted to be angry. He wanted to be angry so badly. Instead, something inside him simply gave way. Of course Shane would date her. It made sense. She was everything Ilya was not. She wore silver jewelry instead of gold. She sat in the stands for a hockey game instead of on the bench.

She was a girl. She was everything Shane had always dreamed of wanting.

He wondered if she had made Shane ignore his texts. Was she scanning his phone every night, making sure that Shane hadn’t texted his mistress? He bet Shane loved that. Bet Shane loved having another person keep him in check.

Tears stung at the corners of his eyes. He bet Shane was happy. He watched as some of the Metros nodded affirmingly as Shane waved to her, giving him slaps on the back when she waved back. Shane frowned as he looked away from her, glancing at the teammates surrounding him. 

Ilya wanted to melt onto the floor, wanted to feel his muscles atrophy and his bones melt until he sat in a puddle on the ice. Unfortunately, the ice was very cold. So Ilya kept re-solidifying, despite his best efforts.

The Raiders lost. Ilya played terribly. He didn’t look at Shane once.

He stopped sleeping with people. That’s when Svetlana came to check on him.

She pounded on his door for thirty minutes until he finally wrenched it open.

“Fucking go away, Sveta!” He meant it to come out as a yell. He could only muster up a mumble.

“Yes, and you’re really convincing me to leave with that tone,” she said flatly before barging into his apartment. He tried to stop her. He couldn’t.

“Jesus, Ilyusha,” she said, gazing around the place. 

Now that another person was looking at it, he couldn’t help but notice the sheer amount of take-out boxes that had started to accumulate in particularly odd places. Crouching down, she picked up a box of pizza that had somehow slid under the couch and held it up to him with raised eyebrows.

“Someone else put that there,” he said shyly.

“Who? The voices?” she responded.

“They haven’t figured out where the trash is yet.”

She gave him an unamused look before kicking off her heels, rolling up her sleeves, and moving into the kitchen, returning with a handful of garbage bags. He let her shove one of them into his hands, and the two of them made their way from room to room, Ilya more slowly than Svetlana.

If he could, Ilya would have screamed at her as he watched her shove his calendars into the trash with the rest of the takeout containers and napkins. It was okay. He would buy more calendars. 

But he hated that Svetlana kept uncovering the most desperate parts of him.

She picked up another bottle of vodka from the brand his father liked.

She pocketed a printout of a medovik recipe.

She gathered empty, red-stained soup containers one after another, opening each just long enough to catch the obvious smell of borscht before tossing it into the garbage. There were so many of them.

She didn't say a word.

That somehow made it worse.

When they had finished making his apartment slightly cleaner than it was before, Sveta hurried him over to the couch and turned on the TV, switching to the game. The Metros were playing Buffalo. Svetlana reached for the remote to switch the channel, but Ilya grabbed it from her before she could, turning the TV up louder and ignoring whatever look he could feel Sveta giving him.

Then Shane was on the screen. Ilya had forgotten that he could see Shane here. Forgotten he could see him on TV. He was already scanning the edges of the screen, wondering if he should buy a bigger one.

“Ilyu—”

“No.”

“Ilyusha, come on, this isn’t healthy,” she said, reaching for the remote. 

He pushed her away, a little harder than he meant to. She landed roughly against the pillows on the couch and glared at him.

“I don’t care,” Ilya said, barely looking away from the screen. He wondered if they would show Shane’s girlfriend. He wondered if she was wearing his jersey. He wondered if he should buy Shane’s jersey and send him a photo of himself wearing it. Maybe he would respond to that.

“This isn’t fair to him,” she said softly.

Ilya scoffed. Of course it wasn’t fair to Shane. Ilya was the worst thing that could have happened to Shane. If it weren’t for him, Shane would be centering first line by now, and he would have TV coverage that didn’t constantly contain whispers of Ilya’s name. Every time Shane scored, there was a brief pause after they read the assist. Like the broadcasters were bracing themselves to add an asterisk: fucked by 81, Ilya Rozanov.

 Of course it wasn’t fucking fair.

“He doesn’t know. He’s not texting me back. He has a girlfriend now,” he said simply.

“Ilya, stop it now. Your life does not center around him. This isn’t right—”

“Well then what does it center on, Sveta? Hmm? All I have left is him—”

“That’s not true,” she whispered, giving him a pained expression.

He almost laughed. It was almost comical how Svetlana thought this was a choice, as if his life hadn’t started orbiting Shane Hollander the minute he came and shook his hand in the Canadian snow. 

“Well then, who do I have? My father? My brother? My mother? Tell me, who?” 

She was crying now. He hated that she was crying. He wanted to cry too, but the tears had gotten lost somewhere in his body. Somewhere tied up in his mother’s gold cross and a strand of red hair.

“You have me! You have teammates who care about you, you have—”

“My teammates do not care about me,” he hissed at her, now standing. He wanted to sit back down immediately. He was breathing hard as if he had just come off the ice. “They like that I score goals. If I broke my leg tomorrow and ended my career, they would not call. They wouldn’t think about me for a second.”

“Ilya, stop it. Tom emailed me. Carmichael texted me. Marleau has called five fucking times—”

“Oh, I am sure he did,” he sneered. “I am not scoring high enough recently. I need to do better. More goals, Ilya. More goals. More, more, more—”

“Stop it, Ilya. You’re being mean. We’re here for you. I’m here for you, I’m right here—”

“You are not my mother, Sveta. Don’t pretend you are. My mother is dead, she—”

“Ilyusha—”

“NO! SHE’S DEAD. SHE’S DEAD, AND YOU’RE NOT HER.”

No one said anything as the words echoed off the cold wooden floors, settling in the back of Ilya’s throat. He wanted to choke on them, but there weren’t enough. So he said more words.

“What do you want with me, Sveta? I will not fuck you, so you might as well fuck off,” he said, waving his hand at her, as if shooing her away.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Svetlana grabbed her heels from beside the couch, shoved them carelessly onto each foot, and stood quickly. She didn’t stumble for one second as she stormed across the hall, flinging the front door open. He had almost hoped she would.

“I love you too much to let you talk to me like this,” she spat, slamming the door behind her.

Ilya slunk down onto the floor in front of the couch. He wanted to cry. He still couldn’t. Instead, he let the shadows grow longer and wrap around his legs, squeezing tightly. He let his head loll to the side, falling gracelessly onto the couch. 

He was glad Svetlana was gone. He was always going to burn up. He didn’t want her to be with him when he did. 

His father had always said that Ilya was a mess. But Ilya didn’t think that even his father expected it to be so contagious. Better to wrap it all up in one little apartment in Boston and let the plague doctors set the place on fire. 

Everyone always left him. It was good that they did. He didn’t want them to get sick.

With shaking hands, Ilya pulled the phone from his pocket. No new messages.

Ilya called his father.

The call went straight to voicemail.

* * * * *

Could we meet?

I want to see you

Fuck nevermind we shouldn't

I'm sorry I disappeared

Are you okay?

I can't stop thinking about you

Fuck sorry I’m trying not to

I'm sorry

I'm a mess

Did you know I'm a mess?

Lily told me I'm gay

Not you, Lily. Lily Lily

Although I think you both contributed

I miss your stupid texts

I miss the way you laugh

I miss the way you make me laugh

I miss you

I shouldn't

Can I call?

Fuck

Sorry

No

I shouldn't call

 

“Shane, you better not be texting Ilya again,” Kate called from somewhere in Lily’s kitchen.

“Please, Shane’s not actually texting Ilya,” Bryce said from Shane’s lap, where his head rested. Shane’s arms were laying on his shoulders, the incriminating phone in hand. “If Shane sent a single text, I’ll kiss him.”

“You already kissed him,” Lily said, laughing from the couch opposite them. 

Kate returned with a couple more drinks for everyone, passing them out before grabbing another ginger ale from the counter and throwing it to Shane, who caught it gratefully. 

It was strange to think about how quickly they had all gotten accustomed to him. Lily had started dragging him over to her place after he called her, crying, following a bad game against Toronto. He hadn’t known who else to call. 

He couldn’t call Ilya. His nighttime routines had shifted since the club. He still looked for photos of Ilya. Not to torture himself anymore. Just because he wanted to see him. He watched his games, taking note of every pass, every shot, every turn, analyzing them. Was he eating enough? Did that pass mean his teammates were taking care of him? Did that goal mean he was happy? 

Shane hoped he was happy. He hoped Ilya was dating one of those women from the pictures. He hoped that Ilya had found someone who didn’t have to care for him from behind a screen. 

So he couldn’t call Ilya.

He called Lily instead. 

His teammates had gotten a little better. Lily showing up to games started helping, but except for Hayden, they mostly avoided him. Some days were better. Some days were much worse. On the better days, Shane helped Lily study for her tests, showing her flashcards and bringing her coffee. On the worse days, Shane let Lily hold him while she talked about her professors, about her sister, about her love life. It helped. All the small things helped it all not feel so big.

On the worst night, the night after they played Boston, and Ilya refused to even look at him, they had lain in her bed, and Lily hugged him while he sobbed. Sobbed for what he’d lost. Sobbed over what he’d done. Sobbed for what he’d never get to do.

He had been worried that her roommates would avoid making eye contact with him. That maybe they, too, would have him shower when no one was there. But Kate already knew Shane’s drink was ginger ale. And Bryce had already begun stocking their fridge with it.

Shane had, in fact, already kissed Bryce. Lily had declared that it would be a good ‘kill two birds with one stone’ situation. Lily wanted Shane to try kissing another man, and Kate was determined to make Bryce bisexual. (Because she refused to continue living with a straight man after her breakup with her boyfriend, and if ‘Shane couldn’t turn him gay, nobody could.’)

Shane shoved his phone back in his pocket, blushing.

“Aww, so we’re not gonna kiss again, babes?” Bryce said, reaching up to pinch one of Shane’s cheeks. Shane swatted his hand away, and the two girls opposite them giggled. Shane wouldn’t have wanted to kiss Bryce again. Not that the first time was bad…well, it wasn’t great, but only because neither Bryce nor Shane seemed able to unclench their lips as they slotted together unnaturally. Bryce, on account of not actually liking men. Shane, on account of being Shane. And Bryce not being Ilya Rozanov.

Afterward, under a quilted blanket draped over him and Lily, he had wondered aloud if maybe he was only attracted to Ilya, not to men. Lily had hit him with a pillow. And then made him watch Pirates of the Caribbean, taking note of every time Shane looked at Keira Knightley versus Orlando Bloom. The whiteboard with the tally marks was still hanging on the wall next to the TV, the seventeen black marks all on the right glaring at Shane. 

“Maybe you should kiss Hayden,” Kate said, giggling and sipping her margarita. At least, it was Kate’s version of a margarita. Shane thought it might have just been the mixer (and hoped, with how much of it she had been drinking).

Shane wrinkled his nose in disgust, and Lily laughed.

“We’d have to pry his lips off of Jackie’s first. Could take days,” she cackled.

“Years,” Bryce stage whispered.

“Decades,” Shane finished, smiling and taking another sip of his ginger ale. He set the hand down and tried not to notice when it twitched towards his phone again. 

“Better start writing your best man speech now, Shanebug,” Lily cooed, and Shane flipped her off.

He blushed at the idea, ducking his head to try to hide the grin spreading across his face. Did they really think Hayden would make Shane his best man if he got married? Would Hayden make Shane his best man?

At that exact moment, Hayden and Jackie burst into the tiny college apartment, holding hands and giggling. As Hayden glanced around the room, found Shane’s eyes, and shot him a bright smile, Shane couldn’t help but think that he might.

“Oh, Jesus,” Bryce mumbled, turning his face into Shane’s legs. Shane patted his shoulder supportively. (Bryce had also recently broken up with his girlfriend. Lily said the apartment was cursed.)

All of Lily’s roommates were touchier than Shane was used to. At first, it had bothered him, and every little brush of the shoulder and momentary hug made Shane want to crawl inside his own skin and flip it inside out. But none of them had stopped, and now, it all just felt so commonplace that Shane couldn’t help but enjoy it. He didn’t have to think so much about where his hands went. Didn’t have to think about whether they were too sweaty or if they shook too much. Didn’t have to think about whether the straight man lying on his lap would be bothered by Shane touching him.

Hayden plopped down next to Shane and threw an arm around him, sticking out the other to guide Jackie onto his lap.

“Well, fuck me, then,” Kate grumbled, watching Jackie lean over and give Hayden a quick kiss on the cheek.

“What are we talking about?” Jackie asked, oblivious to her roommates’ reactions, settling back onto Hayden’s lap.

“Oh, just your wedding,” Lily said pointedly, glancing at Hayden’s arm around her waist. “Wondering if we should start buying our bridesmaid dresses now or later.”

“Bold of you to assume you’re a bridesmaid,” Jackie joked, stealing Bryce’s margarita. 

“Bitch, we both know I’m the maid of honor.”

“Mm, I guess Shanebug here needs to walk down the aisle with a girl he can actually touch without dying on the spot. And since you’re one of the lucky few…”

“Jackie,” Hayden hissed, his face going slightly red.

“True. If Shane Hollander can touch my breasts, I must be special,” Lily said with a laugh.

“Bold of you to assume I didn’t die on the spot,” Shane said flatly. The group laughed, and Shane couldn’t help but feel a small rush of pride. It was a nice feeling.

He wanted to text Ilya about it.

“Which brings us right back to Ilya Rozanov,” Lily sighed, throwing Shane a wounded look.

Shane flinched back, startled. Had he said that last bit out loud?

“What do you mean?” he asked nervously, suddenly feeling every inch of Hayden’s presence next to him.

“Ilya Rozanov. The man you’re willing to touch boobs for,” Lily responded with a smirk.

“Special, special man,” Jackie joked.

“I really don’t like when you say that about Rozanov,” Hayden murmured. 

“Hey, that’s your best friend’s husband you’re talking about,” Kate said, giggling. 

Shane blushed. He wasn’t sure if it was at the ‘best friend’ part or the ‘husband’ part. 

“Shane could do so much better than Rozanov,” Hayden retorted.

“Rozanov could do better than Shane,” Shane mumbled into his drink. 

Shane had to cover his face from the corresponding onslaught of boos and pillows.

“Nooo, Shane! You were doing so well! We had almost made it a full thirty minutes without you saying something stupid,” Lily groaned, and Shane flipped her off for the second time of the night.

“He’s a hockey player, what can you expect? Too many concussions on that ice, I tell ya,” Bryce called from below him.

“Nah, half of Shane’s concussions come from Ilya Rozanov pounding him into a headboard,” Jackie called.

That got her pillows and boos too.

“Jackie!” Hayden yelled, now redder than Shane had ever seen him. Shane was pretty sure his face was too.

“Come on, Hayd, he’s hot! Don’t be jealous of your good friend Shane, here,” Jackie joked, ruffling Hayden’s hair.

“I hate how much we talk about Ilya Rozanov,” Hayden whispered, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling. He was mumbling something under his breath that sounded a lot like ‘my best friend’ and ‘Boston fucking Raiders.’

“We are getting waaay too distracted, folks. We have a real, honest-to-God crisis on our hands,” Lily said suddenly, storming up from her couch over to Shane’s. She gave Bryce a look, and he immediately started whining.

“Oh, come on, Lily. When is Shane not in crisis? I'm comfortable,” he groaned.

“If someone had to move every time Shane thought about Ilya Rozanov, we’d never stop moving,” Kate said.

“I think it’s good,” Jackie said with a smirk. “Hayden has to move to play hockey. Without Shane’s dirty, dirty mind, he would just stand there with his stick looking stupid.”

“I don’t know why I even bother with you,” Hayden grumbled.

“Aww, you love me,” Jackie said, laughing and booping him on the nose.

Shane didn’t know what was worse: the fact that Hayden didn’t deny it or the fact that Hayden let himself get booped a second time.

“Ew, I don’t even want to sit next to you guys anyway,” Bryce said, slinking to the ground and letting Lily take his place.

Lily plopped down, throwing her legs over Shane’s lap, focusing her eyes on him. Shane squirmed a little under the scrutiny, looking around the room for a little bit of help. Hayden was too busy looking at Jackie, the traitor. 

Lily held out her hand, mimicking a microphone. 

“Now, Mr. Hollander,” she said in a terrible old Hollywood accent. “What is keeping you from texting Ilya on this very night? What seems to be the issue, old sport?” 

Shane rolled his eyes, but he suddenly felt more nervous than he had all night. He reached into his pockets to hide his hands but flinched slightly as his phone slid into his left hand. 

“Shane,” Lily said more softly in a normal voice. She tapped his head a few times. “I know you’ve got a thousand reasons just spinning up there. Just tell me one.”

He tried to hate that she knew that. But he was getting used to being unable to shield himself around her. Everyone had always said that sex and nudity were intimate and vulnerable. Shane disagreed. It was the after that was worse. The after, when the woman you slept with makes you buy her McDonald's before kidnapping you back to her tiny college apartment, forcing you to watch terrible movies and take "Am I Gay?" BuzzFeed quizzes until two in the morning. The after, when you leave the hotel room in another man’s sweatshirt because he thought you looked cold.

Sometimes he missed the mask. But sometimes, like tonight, he was just glad to be able to feel. It was in these moments that Shane felt like he could sit in his body without begging it to be something else. Without begging it to want something else.

Shane took a deep breath, glancing around the room. At Bryce on the floor. At Kate. At Jackie. At Hayden. All of them were looking at him like they cared about what he had to say. Like they wanted to know. He wanted to believe them so badly.

He sighed. “I don’t know. I just hurt him, you know? I keep hurting him. I danced with you to get back at him—”

“Hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” Jackie whispered to Hayden, who swatted her.

“Heterosexuality—Shane’s original sin,” Bryce added in mock reverence.

“Shut up,” Shane said, laughing a bit. “It’s just…I feel like there’s something wrong with me. I don’t…I don’t know. I just look at all of these photos of him with other women, and I know that he could have it all. He’s not gay like I am. He could actually get married and play amazing hockey and have everyone like him and respect him. And I would just be this little blip. This one-time mistake in his life. I just…” 

He broke off and looked at the ceiling, blinking hard. 

“He’ll never be my blip. I don’t get to have the mistake. I just…it’s just the thing that’s wrong with me. I will always be gay in hockey. But it’s best if I don’t do gay, if that makes sense. It’s better for me and for him if we just…stay away from each other.”

He couldn’t help but remember the lunches his mom used to pack for him in elementary school. He hadn’t thought anything of it when he opened little containers filled with home-cooked meals. But he had noticed as other kids turned towards him, peering into his lunchbox with wrinkled noses and confused expressions. He had seen what they had brought. His lunch was different.

It was one thing to be Asian. It was another thing to act Asian. Shane didn’t understand this for a while. He didn’t understand what was so horrible about something that reminded him of home.

So he started packing Lunchables.

It was easier.

He could do the same now. He could laugh at the right jokes. Wear the right clothes. Never look too long. Never stand too close. Never let anyone wonder. 

It would be easier. Rozanov would be better without him. And Shane would pretend that he was too. Pretend like he didn’t remind Shane of home.

He cleared his throat, letting his hands rub together as they rested on Lily’s legs.

“I mean,” he laughed slightly, trying not to betray the hurt that poisoned his words. “He doesn’t want to see me. He shouldn’t. Not after everything.”

The room was silent. Hayden’s arm was still around him, pulling Shane in closer. Lily’s hand made its way to his back and was rubbing there in slow circles. He tried to focus his breathing on those circles instead of on the corner of his phone pressing into his thumb. He pressed in harder anyway. 

“Damn it, Shane,” Kate said, her voice sounding a little teary. “You only made it another fifteen minutes.”

He was the first one to toss a pillow at her.

Chapter End Notes

See I told you there was going to be jokes.
Sorry that Ilyusha is going through it

This chapter was originally something completely different, but I just liked writing Lily so much (Rose Landry, meet Lily). I think it's important that both of them have this time apart (if only for the sake of pacing and plot). So sorry they don't interact in this chapter :(
Thank you all for sticking with me through this. Our boys have a lot of growing to do, but I think we're seeing the first signs of real improvement. Part II (starting at chapter 8) will delve much more into Ilya's arc and character, but I really like exploring Shane's journey of accepting that he wants something, that wanting something is not bad, and that he is not bad for wanting it. Again, this fic explores themes of what it means to desire something and the extent to which that desire makes people better and worse. To me, Shane's arc reflects a lot of what it's like to be queer in a strict religious setting (#relatable). The idea that one should control temptations and that one is purer for being able to do so is prevalent in conservative church teachings. Shane's relationship with his sexuality is similar. Shane has always assumed devotion and dedication meant control and restraint. So allow him grace while he deconstructs.

I think Ilya, in comparison, is a lot more worried about his relationship with the external (rather than the internal, like Shane). He's scared of himself and who he may become, whether that is his father or his mother. He's seen the people he originates from and doesn't know how to address the genetics he knows are deeply ingrained in him. Ilya notices people. He understands them. He doesn't understand his place with them and worries that he's been corrupted to the point that he will hurt them if he is more than a temporary participant in their lives.

They are both pushing each other away for different reasons and in different ways. Both think they will hurt each other. They are still drawn to each other and care about each other so much. And make each other better in the end. They just don't fully realize that yet.

Anyways. There's my long analysis.

I really do appreciate each one of you so much. Thank you for the comments. I'm doing this for the love of the game, of course, but the encouragement along the way is very nice to see.

p.s. I changed the format for Shane's unsent texts in the last section. He didn't send any of those. lmk if you think I should do the strikethrough there too (just wanted to make it easier to read).

p.p.s. my favorite line, not that it matters, is this one: Shane couldn’t help but look down at the McDonald's bag, blinking away a few tears. He really hated McDonald's.

p.p.s. my apologies to my friend Bryce. I'm sorry that I used your name and made you straight in this fic 😔

Chapter 7: Where you told me even if we died tonight, that I'd die yours

Chapter Notes

CW: homophobic language and continued internalized homophobia

But! fluff at the end so woot woot

Ilya played the games they wanted him to. Well…at least the ones on the ice.

He went out on the ice every day without fail, racking up more and more points as the season went on. The analysts had started to talk about him like they used to. He was back to being the young Russian phenom. The words left a bitter taste in his mouth every time he heard them. They didn’t think they were taunting him, but they were.

More points meant more cameras, more interviews, more photos. He sat for all of them. Tom didn’t even have to worry about him mouthing off. He barely spoke outside press conferences, so his sound bites during them were tame. Ilya didn’t understand why Tom was shooting him worried glances anyway.

He relived every moment on social media at night, scrolling through countless photos of himself, staring at his unsmiling, unrecognizable face. The communications director had given him the passwords to his accounts again. He had written the password down on a piece of paper and handed it to Ilya, nervously mentioning that he had bought a new car, adding that if Ilya was looking for him in the parking lot, he'd be in a different spot now. Ilya wasn’t sure why he wanted him to know. He wasn’t sure why he had given Ilya his personal phone number in case he wanted to chat.

Before he knew it, they were playing their last game of the season against the Metros. No one shot him curious or worried glances. They just let him onto the ice. Tom wasn’t even in the locker room, watching him to make sure he was following the rules. He was in the stands with his family. He had introduced them to Ilya. Ilya didn’t remember much about his kids, other than that his youngest son was twelve. Ilya hadn't realized how young twelve really looked.

They lined up in the tunnel, most of the guys fidgeting and shaking out their legs. Ilya stood completely still, staring down at the tape on his stick. He hadn’t done a good job wrapping it.

Marleau shuffled next to him, but Ilya didn’t lift his head.

“Roz, are…are you okay?” Marleau asked quietly under the noise of their teammates. “We’re all a bit worried about you.”

Ilya said nothing and picked at the corner of a strand of tape.

He didn’t talk on the ice. He let his body move without him, passing the puck to St. Simone, accepting a pass from Volkov, and taking a shot on goal. It was fine. It was work. He was good at it. He was fulfilling a physical need.

He tried not to notice the little parenthesis that Shane had drawn next to his mother’s name on his hockey stick. The one Shane had started drawing a year ago, apparently convinced Ilya had never noticed. He tried not to be endeared by the habit Shane hadn’t dropped yet. He tried not to be devastated when Shane used the stick to wave at a small group of people sitting in the crowd, who all waved back at him. The redhead even blew Shane a kiss. Ilya watched Shane catch it and tuck it into his chest.

The Raiders were up by one in the third period. Ilya had scored or assisted on all of the Raiders’ goals. 

The Metros sent out Hollander to meet him for the face-off. It was the first time they had been on the ice together since Shane had punched him. He wanted Shane to punch him again. He hoped it hurt.

If Shane tried to say something to him as they met at center ice, Ilya didn’t hear it. 

He didn’t even look up at Shane as he knocked the puck back and sped down the rink.

The final buzzer rang through the arena, and his teammates patted him on the back. Ilya glanced over at the Raiders and Metros coaches on the sideline, noting their visible relief. 

Everyone was smiling. Even the Metros, who had lost. He watched as the Montreal Captain skated towards Shane and gave him a little thumbs up, and a few of the guys gave Shane a firm nod (except Pike, who tackled him, their helmets clashing). Shane had scored or assisted on all of their goals, too. 

They were proud of him. Proud of him for scoring. Proud of him for growing up.

The two teams even lined up for handshakes, which never happened in a regular-season game. 

Everyone seemed in good spirits, teasing each other lightly as they went along. Everyone was smiling.

Ilya masochistically let himself look up at Shane as he shook his hand.

Shane wasn’t smiling.

Ilya wasn’t either.

* * * * *

The rookie of the year award went to Vincent Lemaire.

Shane clapped politely at the table next to his parents. His mom reached under the table and squeezed his leg. He turned, meeting her concerned expression, and gave her a little nod. He was mostly just happy to have been nominated. 

He glanced at Ilya, who was sitting at a table next to an older man wearing circular glasses. The man leaned over to whisper something to Ilya, patting him on the back comfortingly. 

He wished he could go over and sit next to him. He just wanted to rest his head on his shoulder for a little bit. He understood why he couldn’t.

It was the same reason why he hadn’t texted Ilya. The same reason why the awards were disappointing for them both.

Ilya should have won. Shane should have won. Despite everything, both of them had managed to have record-breaking seasons. It hadn’t been enough. Everyone knew why they hadn’t won. Everyone knew that Lemaire hadn’t even touched their stats. Shane wished he could say he was surprised.

As the awards ceremony passed, his name still uncalled, Shane couldn’t help but feel a little relieved that they had finished the season. The award would have been nice, and they would have deserved it. But they had made it. They had done one full season as queer men in the NHL. And now they were sitting at tables with their peers wearing fancy tuxes. 

Shane wasn’t at Ilya’s table. But he felt like he was. He felt like they were looking at each other and quietly smiling, as if they were the only people in the room, having their own little awards show. And the award for gayest, messiest rookies goes to Ilya and Shane, he heard a voice call in his head. He imagined giving a little speech. Thanking his parents for always being there. Thanking his team for maybe getting used to him. Thanking his Lily. Thanking his other Lily. Ilya probably wouldn’t thank Shane in his speech.

Ilya kept his face toward the stage. Shane kept his eyes on Ilya’s back, noticing the slope there that hadn’t been there before. Shane had never seen Ilya look so young.

The awards section of the ceremony finally ended, and Shane and his parents made their way with the rest of the crowd to the afterparty. He let them press glasses of ginger ale into his hand, flanking him on either side as they chatted charitably to various players, representatives, owners, and management. Even though none of the other players’ parents were following them around, Shane allowed both of his parents to stand next to him, watching as their eyes darted accusingly around the room. He understood it was for their own sake as much as his.

His dad was shoving a third ginger ale at him when Scott Hunter cautiously approached them. 

“Hey, Hollander,” Hunter said awkwardly, shifting his eyes back and forth between Shane’s parents. Shane almost spat out his drink.

“Hey! Mr. Hunter! Oh, uh—these are my parents, Yuna and David.”

Shane couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face as he watched Scott Hunter shake his mom’s hand, then his dad’s, and introduce himself. Of course, his parents knew who Hunter was. If they didn’t know him from seeing him play Shane on the ice this season, they certainly knew him from the hockey poster that Shane had kept in his room growing up. Okay, maybe it was two posters…okay, maybe they were both still hanging in his room at their house.

Shane eagerly stuck out his hand towards Hunter. They had never talked on the ice and had never seen each other off of it. Shane could hardly believe they were talking now.

Hunter glanced at the hand, giving it a small shake before quickly dropping it. Shane felt his smile start to drop, too. 

“I, uh—” Hunter looked at his parents again, taking time to glance at anyone behind them. “I just wanted to say…you’re a good hockey player and…I know this year has probably been a lot but…Well, I wanted to say…”

Hunter kept looking around them instead of at Shane, continuing to stammer. Shane felt his heart start to sink. His mom placed a hand on his shoulder from beside him.

Hunter looked ready to run.

“It’s okay, Mr. Hunter. I get it,” Shane said, trying to keep his voice from falling to a whisper.

Hunter let out a long breath. “You do?”

“Yeah, it’s cool,” Shane said, blinking rapidly. He was not going to cry in front of Scott Hunter.

Hunter let out a little relieved laugh. Shane gave him a weak smile in return. Hunter glanced around again, and Shane almost yelled at him that no one was watching. That no one cared that he was talking to the gay rookie.

“Okay, good. Good to see you, Hollander,” Hunter said before hurrying over to another group down the bar.

Shane watched as the group parted slightly, revealing a beaming Lemaire, still holding his plaque. Hunter turned towards Lemaire instead of the other well-known, established hockey players surrounding him. He watched as Scott patted him on the shoulder, holding his hand there, congratulating him on his award. 

Shane guessed he was wrong. He looked at the award in Lemaire’s hand and the close-knit group of bodies. At the wandering hands and firm handshakes. People still cared a lot.

“Shane,” his dad said softly behind him. Shane turned toward both his parents, who wore identical looks of concern.

“I’m fine,” Shane said quickly, his voice wobbling.

“Oh, Shane—” his mom began.

“I think I’m just going to go get some air,” he rushed out, pushing between them.

His vision blurred as he blinked tears away from his eyes. He hurriedly wiped away the few that fell. 

He squeezed himself through a door marked ‘exit’ and could now hear his breathing echo around him in the stairwell.

“Fuck,” he whispered, wiping away more tears. 

He should have known. He wasn’t sure why he was crying. He’d already accepted that this was always how it was going to be if he wanted to play hockey. His teammates were always going to be slightly worried that he was staring at them, always wondering what was going on in his brain that was incomprehensible to them. He was never going to be normal. He was never going to have the wife. The kids. The career. This was what he got. It was just how he had been born, and he could accept that. He was fine with it.

But it fucking hurt. It hurt to see Scott Hunter look at him like that. Like he couldn’t wait to get away from Shane. Like Shane was a box on a checklist for him to feel like a good person. He’d acknowledged the poor gay boy and could now move on and enjoy his night.

Shane was crying in earnest now. He couldn’t stop.

He was gay. And he couldn’t help but hate it. He couldn’t help but wish Lily had just agreed to date him so that this thing he loved so much would stop hurting him. He wished she would just marry him. They could go to award shows together. He could introduce her to Scott Hunter. They could have a quiet little house together. 

But Lily didn’t even live in a quiet apartment. And she never would have allowed Shane to do that to himself, even if he begged her to.

He should be happy. He should be fucking grateful. They had let him keep hockey. They had given him a team that treated him as best as they knew how. He was selfish and greedy for wanting more. This was his lot in life. This was what he got.

And yet he still wanted more.

He wanted to go to practice and then go home to a man. He pictured the man filling the space in his bed that Shane had unconsciously started to leave empty, always sleeping on the left side. He pictured that man holding him when he fell asleep and teasing him for reading boring books. He pictured him loving Shane’s stupid glasses. He pictured blond curls and a little smirk.

He cried harder. 

He needed to get out of here. He didn’t want someone to wander into the stairwell and find a rookie crying so hard he could barely stand up. They would probably think he was crying because he hadn’t won.

They wouldn’t even be wrong.

He let his body carry him up a couple of flights of stairs until he reached the rooftop, then shoved the door open and let the warm air flood his gasping lungs.

Slowly, he made his way over to the edge of the building, peering across the city at the perpetually bright signs and lights. He wondered how they could shine so brightly amid so many other lights. Amidst the darkness. 

He glanced over the edge, watching the cars drive by. He wished they looked small to him, but everything seemed so big and shockingly close that it was hard to see anything clearly.

“Is not worth jumping over,” an accented voice called behind him.

Shane spun around, his breath catching in his throat. Ilya was there, an unlit cigarette between his lips. He was here.

Shane ran his eyes along Ilya’s figure. Along his face. Along each eye. He looked beautiful. He looked tired. 

His curls were messier than usual. Shane liked it. It made him look young. It made him look a bit wild.

“I wasn’t going to jump,” he said softly, begging Ilya with his eyes to come closer. 

He did. 

Every step closer Ilya took towards him felt painful. Shane knew it was another step he would have to watch as he walked away.

Now that he was in arm's reach, Shane couldn’t help but pluck the cigarette from his lips, studying it before tucking it in his pocket.

“Was going to smoke that,” Ilya mumbled. 

Ilya moved next to him, peering over the ledge. He turned toward Shane, who was now lit up by the city lights, and inhaled sharply, grabbing his face.

“Ilya, what—”

“You are crying,” he said quietly, pushing tears away from beneath his eyes, rubbing slightly too hard, as if the action would wipe away some of the blotchiness from his cheeks as well.

“It’s nothing,” Shane muttered.

“Is not nothing,” Ilya said seriously. 

Shane leaned into the feeling of Ilya’s hands on his face, taking a deep inhale of his cologne.

Ilya moved closer, tilting Shane’s head back and forth to inspect it. Their chests were almost pressing against each other.

“You are not hurt,” Ilya said factually, his breath landing on Shane’s lips.

“No, I’m not hurt,” Shane whispered. It felt like a lie.

His breath was still coming out in small gasps. Ilya gazed at him, and Shane felt suddenly drunk on the attention. His eyes searched Shane’s hungrily, and Shane was certain no one had ever looked at him this way. He had missed being so desired. He had missed the way Ilya’s eyes bounced too quickly back and forth. 

Shane looked at Ilya as well, studying every feature, every new wrinkle. He didn’t just need him. He wanted him. He lifted his hand and ran his thumb along the line forming around Ilya’s mouth, trying to smooth it out with little success. They had gotten so old.

“Shane,” Ilya whimpered, running his hands up and down Shane’s face.

“Ilya,” he breathed out, leaning forward.

Shane Hollander was going to kiss him.

He was going to kiss him.

And Ilya was going to let him.

Slowly, their lips touched. Shane had expected the usual hurried hands and furious desire. He expected Ilya to devour him, for him to take as much as he wanted.

Instead, he felt the soft graze of lips moving slowly along his own, as if Ilya was savoring him. Shane forgot to breathe until Ilya exhaled against his mouth, and he tasted the air from Ilya’s lungs. He felt like he was being consumed by small brushes of lips and soft sighs.

Shane ran his hands through Ilya’s curls, sighing as he felt the strands run along his fingers. He had missed the feeling so much. He hadn’t realized his memory wasn’t living up to the actual experience.

Shane pulled away, letting his head rest against Ilya’s. Both of them closed their eyes, inhaling the other. 

Shane felt tears on his cheeks, and as they reached his mouth, he realized they didn’t taste like his own. There was something about them that was distinctly Ilya.

“You’re crying,” he whispered into the air between them.

“Yes,” Ilya said simply.

“Why?”

Ilya laughed ruefully. It was Shane’s turn now to reach up and wipe away Ilya’s tears, letting his fingers run along his jaw and enjoying the feel of rough stubble scraping against his fingertips. When had Ilya’s scruff gotten so long?

Shane was surprised when Ilya leaned into the touch, seemingly melting into the palm of his hand. Ilya had never been the pliable one. That had always been Shane. Shane felt a power similar to the one he had felt in that club in Montreal, but it scared him this time. 

He felt as if he were holding something fragile, something undeniably his. Something he could mold and shape however he wanted. He worried about inadvertently holding on too tight, leaving behind rough fingerprints or broken glass.

“You do not know, Hollander?” Ilya asked softly.

Shane frowned but continued to move his thumb back and forth across Ilya’s cheekbone, letting the slow tears melt beneath his touch. 

“Know what?”

Ilya sighed.

“I missed you. I missed you so much,” he whispered, letting his hands seemingly unconsciously drift to Shane’s lapels, running a hand along them, as if he was assuring himself that Shane was still there. That he wasn’t going to run away.

“I missed you too. So much,” Shane said quietly.

Shane moved his hand to trace his fingernail along the bone under Ilya’s brow, moving down to his cheek and then his jaw. If this was the last time he got to feel him, he wanted to memorize it. Wanted to be able to sketch it later when he had nothing left but an overheating computer and an empty bed.

“You…why didn’t you just call up your other people?” Shane asked, trying to sound sincere. Like the suggestion didn’t kill him. Like he didn’t despise the other people for having what he couldn’t. Like he didn’t hate knowing that he was easily replaceable in Ilya’s life and that he should be replaced.

Ilya blinked at him, his face contorting into an expression Shane couldn’t place. He pulled away, and Shane immediately missed the warmth. The absence allowed a few cold truths to sink in, like the fact that they were on a rooftop in public, where anyone could see them. Like the fact that Shane needed to finally end things. That he needed to let Ilya go. Shane folded his arms in on himself, and he watched Ilya squint at him suspiciously.

“Other people? What other people?” he asked slowly.

“You know, like,” Shane gestured vaguely. “All the girls.”

“All of the girls,” Ilya repeated, emphasizing each consonant.

“Did you stop seeing them because I was jealous? You didn’t have to. That was my problem. I’m sorry if I made you feel like you couldn’t see other people,” Shane said softly. He was giving Ilya an out. A way to leave him.

Ilya let out a soft, cold laugh. “Yes, all of these other people. Have so many people. Fill my house with all of these people,” he sneered. 

Shane blinked at him. He didn’t understand. Was Ilya trying to hurt him? Was he trying to make him feel bad about the club? 

It was working, Shane thought bitterly, as the shame that always sat near his heart began making its way into his lungs.

“Did you really miss me, Shane?” Ilya said in a low growl.

Shane gawked at him. “Of course I did!” he sputtered. 

Shane had always missed Ilya. Even before he had ever really had him. Ilya hadn’t created a hole in his life; he had revealed it. He didn’t understand what Ilya was insinuating.

“You, with your girlfriend. How do you miss me?” Ilya spat.

“My girlfriend?” Shane asked, now completely baffled.

“Yes. The one at the club. The one you dance with.”

Shane flinched. “I’m sorry about her. I really shouldn’t have done that—”

“Done what? Dance with her? Show her off? Let her go home with you?”

Shane looked down at the ground, trying to take deep breaths to calm himself down. It wasn’t working. Ilya should be mad at him for that. He should yell at him. 

“Yeah, I know, it was stupid and shitty and jealous of me—” 

“Is that why you bring her to the game? To make me feel bad? Good job. I feel bad,” Ilya nearly yelled at him.

Shane was stunned. “I’m so lost. What game? Why do you even care—”

“You have not texted me in three months,” Ilya spat at him.

Shane felt the guilt slam into him, but he couldn’t help but feel his own anger starting to bubble over. Why was Ilya pretending like he even cared? Why was he pretending like Shane wasn’t just a fun curiosity gone wrong? 

“You know we’re not supposed to text each other,” he said curtly.

Ilya let out a loud, cold laugh. “That never stopped you before, Shane.”

“It’s the rules.”

“Those rules are not real!” Ilya yelled, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation.

“Of course they’re real!” Shane yelled back. “What the fuck do you think Carmichael was?”

“Shane,” Ilya began, giving him an incredulous look. “What would they do if you do not follow rule? They slap you on hand? Tell you to not do it again?”

Shane scoffed. “My teammates would stop talking to me again! Some of them won’t anyway. They could take away my ice time. Just because you don’t care about that doesn’t mean I don’t. There are no rules for Ilya Rozanov. You do whatever the fuck you want.”

“I care. But I just know what to care about and when.”

“But you won’t care about this? You won’t care about the rules that are the reason we’re still in the league? The reason you can stay?”

Ilya laughed, leaning towards him, seething. “Those rules were made up to mess with your crazy head! You like rules so much, it was easy to blame your problems on them,” he spat at him.

“Blame my problems on?” Shane said incredulously. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, you love to say is not your fault. Is not your fault you get in trouble. Is not your fault the world does not love you,” Ilya hissed, shoving his finger hard into his own chest, creating a loud thump. “Is mine. Is all my fault.”

“I never said that.”

“Did not have to, Shane. I see it. I know.”

“You think I blame you for all of this? You think I don’t blame myself?” Shane spat, pacing back and forth across the roof. “God, Ilya. It must be so nice just waltzing in and deciding you’ve got everything figured out. You can just walk into a hotel gym and know exactly what the other person wants. You know exactly what you should do,” he couldn’t help but sneer.

“See! You do blame me! You blame me for kissing you in the gym, but you kissed back, Shane. You ruined my life too.”

Shane flinched hard and felt his body turn cold. He ran his hands through his hair, cracking the gel he had put in it hours before.

“You don’t think I know that!” Shane was yelling now, and the tears were back. Ilya looked a little startled, but Shane continued. “You don’t think that every day I think about what I dragged you into? You don’t think it’s killing me? You don’t think that every time I watch you on the ice, I can’t help but think about what I did to you? Everything I cost you?”

Shane slammed his hands into his own chest. “It was me! My fucking fault! My hotel room!” he sobbed.

He shook his head, turning away from Ilya. “I get it. You hate me. I hate me too. Go and marry a gorgeous woman and make a perfect family with her. I’ve seen a couple of repeats in the news. Are any of them keepers?”

Ilya laughed, and the sound sent a shiver down Shane’s spine. “Yes, you must think it is so easy. Easy to move on. Easy to go get girlfriend. Where is your girlfriend now, Shane? Did you ask her to stay at home so you could fuck me without feeling guilty after? Go text her, go—” 

“What fucking girlfriend, Ilya?” Shane yelled, spinning back around to look at him, absolutely baffled. “I’m fucking gay. I don’t have a girlfriend! I don’t get to have a girlfriend. I don’t get to bring girls home like you do every single day of the week.” 

Ilya’s eyes widened, but he said nothing in return, his mouth opening and closing as if he couldn’t find the right words. Shane moved closer to him so that their faces were inches apart. They were both breathing hard. 

“I don’t get to have the awards. I never will. I get this. I get stupid one-night stands, and I get fucking guidelines!” he yelled.

Ilya let out another horrible laugh, and he looked at Shane with a disbelieving expression, as if he was disgusted with him.

“This? This is why you are crying? Because they did not give you a fucking award? Do you want me to get on my knees and suck your dick? Is that enough of an award for you?” Ilya sneered.

“Oh, fuck you, you are unbelievable. I’m not crying because of the fucking award. I was crying because everything fucking sucks!” Shane yelled. “I don’t know if you noticed, Ilya, but nobody will fucking touch us. They won’t even fucking look at us!”

“You think I care if they look at me? I don’t.”

“Of course you fucking care! You’ve always cared if people look at you!”

“No, I have only cared if you look at me, Shane.”

Shane let out a wet laugh, stepping closer to Ilya and gesturing around him wildly. “Well, I’m looking, Ilya. I’m always fucking looking. You got me. I can’t stop fucking looking.” Shane shook his head. “And because of that, I will always be the fucking ‘fag’ who ruined his life. Who will never win the award. Whose teammates won’t even shower in the same fucking room as him.”

“It doesn’t matter, Shane!”

“Of course, it fucking does! It matters to me—”

“Yes, because you care about so much. You care about what league thinks about you. About what teams think about you—”

“What’s so wrong about that?”

“Because I see you! I see how you react to every comment. To every look. And you are focused on the wrong thing. Is like you are always waiting for the check and you are not looking at the goal. Not looking at the puck. You are so worried about getting hit—”

“And you’re too focused on the goal that you’re missing the game! I don’t want to just play one game. I want to play all of them.”

“Is just fucking hockey, Shane! Is not everything. Not for you”

“It’s not just fucking hockey! It’s what we are, Ilya! We are hockey. Everything between us is hockey. We are the game,” Shane yelled, gesturing between them.

“No, Shane. You are not. You still don’t fucking see it! You have your family. You have your home. You have wonderful fucking parents, and you cannot even look past your team and past hockey to see that. You think you lost something, Shane? I lost everything! I have no people in my house. Is just me.” Ilya shook his head, turning away from Shane and moving closer towards the ledge. “You use all of these rules so that you can feel sad, but you have your home, Shane. Go fucking home,” Ilya said quietly.

“I don’t want to go home.” Shane couldn’t help but whisper.

“Why, Shane? Why not? Your parents are there—”

“But you’re not.”

They both froze. Ilya turned back toward him, his face transforming into one of grief. They were breathing heavily with tears still running down both of their faces. 

“Shane,” Ilya whispered. “I do not know what you want with me.”

Shane laughed wetly, running a hand down his face. “I don’t know either, Ilya.”

Ilya looked up at him, body shaking, trying to contain his sobs.

Shane took a deep breath, wiping the snot off his nose and smearing it on his pants leg. He would probably regret that later. He couldn’t find it in himself to care now.

“I want you,” Shane sobbed, as if the admission was slowly driving a knife into his chest. “I want you so badly it hurts. It fucking hurts all the time. And I want you to run as far away from me as you can.”

“Shane—” Ilya whispered again.

Shane ignored him. “I’m a fucking mess, Ilya. You said it. I’m crazy. I got us into this situation, and I can’t stop hurting you.” Shane took a shaky breath in. “I…I’m horrible, Ilya. I didn’t text you for three months because I knew I needed to end things with you, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It…I was selfish, I know. I can’t help it. I can’t control it.”

Shane looked up at the night sky, trying to find the stars, but saw none. 

He took another gasping breath before continuing. “You’re the one thing I’ve never been able to control, Ilya. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“I do not want your control.”

Shane dropped his head to look at him, his eyes widening. Ilya stepped forward, dragging his feet as if he were a child about to admit that they had cheated on a test or broken a window.

“I like the mess, Shane. I think I like it a little too much.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“We’ve never even seen each other in the morning, Ilya,” Shane said, gesturing around him pointedly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me you like me. You don’t have to lie to me. I’ll be okay.” Shane tried to carve a soft smile into his face. It came out more as a grimace. “I care about you so much, okay? I tried not to, but I just can’t help it. You deserve someone better. Someone real. Someone who can stay,” he said softly.

Ilya reached up to run his thumb across Shane’s freckles, making him shiver.

“Is so beautiful,” Ilya murmured.

Shane let out a soft sob. No one else called him beautiful.

Ilya pressed closer, cupping Shane’s face softly, as he had done on the ice. 

“Shane,” he began quietly. “You say you should leave me alone, but is not true. Is me who should leave you alone.” Ilya’s voice got smaller, as if he was struggling to get the words out. “I think about you every day, Shane. Cannot stop. Is like obsession. Is dangerous how much I think of you.

“I am the one who is crazy. Is my fault you did not win award. You are such a beautiful hockey player, you should have won. But I am too obsessed. I do not know why I keep texting you. Is like I cannot help it.”

Ilya pulled his hands away from Shane and gestured to the door to the staircase. “I ruined your life, and I do not even regret it. I would kiss you again. I would get caught again. I would go downstairs and kiss you in front of camera right now,” he said with a painful laugh. Ilya threw his hands up, gesturing wildly. “And that’s crazy, Shane! I should feel bad. I should feel terrible. Should stop me from sleeping, but it does not. I stay awake because I want more. I want to call you and text you all the time. 

“You should stay away from me, Shane. I will ruin your career. Burn you.”

Neither of them said anything for a while. Shane could hear the noise from the crowded street float up onto the roof. He heard cars speeding down the road, girls giggling loudly, men yelling. How appropriate that in this city full of shows and performances, Shane felt, for the first time, like he wasn’t performing. Maybe Ilya wasn’t either. 

He thought about glass awards and medal trophies. Shane had always wondered what his legacy would look like. He had always yearned to be remembered, his discipline and talent engraved in metal and in the memories of millions.

He wasn’t so sure about that now. He thought maybe one memory was enough.

He thought about a piece of paper with two signatures on the bottom. 

He kind of liked how they looked next to each other.

“So you should leave me alone. And I should leave you alone?” he said slowly.

Ilya sniffed, straightening his suit and pressing his curls flatter. 

“Yes,” Ilya said firmly.

Shane walked toward him, watching as Ilya’s eyes widened. He reached up, pushing his hand through Ilya’s curls, ruffling them.

He let his hand drop, admiring his handiwork. They were a mess. They were perfect.

“And if we leave each other alone together?” he breathed.

Ilya’s lips slowly parted, his eyes searching Shane's. “Is a terrible idea. Will hurt you. Will get you in trouble,” he whispered.

Shane shrugged. “I’m already in trouble.”

Ilya laughed. Shane grinned. He wanted to hear him laugh all the time. He would break rule after rule if it meant he could keep hearing that laugh.

Ilya looked at Shane, admiring him but not touching, as if he didn’t want to ruin the picture. Shane blushed from the attention.

Ilya smiled softly. “Want to see you in the morning,” he said.

“Yeah?”

Ilya nodded seriously. “I think your freckles will look beautiful in the sun,” he said simply.

He stared at Ilya and couldn’t help but feel as if he was looking at that same sun, basking in it. The Las Vegas heat slowly warmed him, as if he were waking up from a long slumber.

He was reminded of a cold day in Saskatchewan. He wasn’t shaking anymore.

“I think…maybe we should start over,” Shane said softly

Ilya frowned. “Start over?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

Shane smiled and stuck out his hand. “Ilya Rozanov? Shane Hollander.”

Ilya smirked, taking his hand, but he didn’t drop it after he shook it, rubbing his thumb along the back of Shane’s.

“You are an awesome player to watch,” Ilya remarked.

“Yeah, I am. I’m gonna win all the awards, just you wait.”

“Impossible. I will beat you.”

“You’ll try.”

Ilya giggled, and the sound made his shoulders loosen, and an ache started to soothe. He felt his cheeks fill with warmth. Only Ilya could make him feel this way.

“Can I get your number?” Shane asked with exaggerated shyness.

“Mm, are you going to text me every day?”

“Maybe. Maybe I need to work on my English.”

“Ah, I am great teacher. I will teach you. Starting now.”

“Starting now?”

“Yes,” Ilya nodded seriously. He was rocking Shane’s hand softly, letting it swing carelessly between them like they were kids holding hands on a playground. 

“First English lesson. Word is boyfriend,” Ilya said softly.

Shane blushed. “Boyfriend,” Shane repeated quietly.

Ilya frowned. “You do not like?”

He shook his head. “No…I do,” he said hesitantly.

“Then what?”

He shrugged. “I’m just getting used to it.”

Ilya smirked. “Mm, might be hard for you. Is very gay,” he teased.

“Well, I’m pretty gay, so.”

“Wow, pretty gay?” Ilya said mockingly.

“Yeah. This beautiful guy once kissed me in a hotel gym. Haven’t looked back since,” Shane remarked.

“Not even once?”

“Nah. I played it pretty cool.”

Ilya burst out laughing, and Shane joined him. He was suddenly struck by how ridiculous it had all been. How absurd it was to have made out in a hotel hallway. How unlikely it was that they would have gotten caught. They could have gone years without anyone knowing. But they hadn’t. They had gotten caught. And now they were laughing on a rooftop, asking each other to stay anyway.

He wondered if this was what little kids felt when they had crushes. Shane had never understood his peers and classmates when they chatted and giggled about them. He had always said he was too busy and too focused on hockey. He had always taken pride in knowing what he wanted, in being mature for his age.

Now he still knew what he wanted. But he also wanted to drag Ilya behind the school and give him a quick kiss, then blush and run away afterward. He wanted to write their names side by side in his math notes and draw a little heart around them. He wanted to see their names carved into the tree in his backyard instead of on a trophy.

"So…” he began, furrowing his brow as if he were thinking. “Boyfriend." Shane smiled. "Hmm. It’s kind of…fast, don’t you think? And doesn’t it, I don’t know, sound kind of young?"

Ilya grinned at him and shrugged. "We are very young,” he said.

Shane shrugged back. “I guess we are.”

“Yes, we are.”

Suddenly, the end of the world didn't feel quite like an end. It felt like a beginning. In the middle of an apocalypse, Shane had somehow managed to glimpse a future.

He had spent his whole life trying to avoid mistakes. Trying to avoid trouble. Trying to avoid becoming the kind of person who ruined everything. Trying to grow up.

He had flirted with danger, with risk. But as he looked at Ilya's face, suddenly more boyish beneath that enormous grin, he couldn't find it in himself to regret maybe falling in love with it along the way.

After all, he was quite young.

What was so wrong with being a little bit careless?

With one hand still holding Ilya’s, Shane used the other to draw a cigarette out of his pocket, the one he had taken from Ilya moments earlier. He put it between his lips. 

Shane gave Ilya an expectant look, letting his tongue slide across the white paper.

Ilya stared at him, barely breathing as he drew out a lighter from his pocket.

He leaned closer to Shane and lit the end of the cigarette. Shane tried to take a long breath but ended up coughing and gasping. 

Ilya cackled and plucked the cigarette from his lips, letting it fall to the ground and stomping it out.

“What the fuck was that?” Ilya asked, giggling.

Shane felt like he was about to hack out a lung, crouching over from the force of it.

“I don’t know. That was probably stupid. Fuck,” he said between coughs.

Ilya grinned at him, patting his back supportively. “You know. You are not supposed to smoke here.”

Shane rolled his eyes, looking up at Ilya from where he was hunched over.

“Okay,” he said softly.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

* * * * *

The morning light filtered in through Ilya’s window, landing gently on Shane’s face.

Ilya smiled. His freckles did look better in the sunshine.

Ilya had slept longer than he had in months, wrapped up in Shane’s arms, his hands gently brushing through his hair. 

But now that he was awake, he never wanted to sleep again. He didn’t even want to blink or look away from Shane for one second. 

Shane was a horrible sleeper. He had gone to bed flat on his back, taking measured breaths to relax each limb. After he had actually fallen asleep, though, his arms started to stretch across the bed while his legs took up too much space, one draped over Ilya’s leg and the other hanging off the side of the mattress. He drooled onto his pillow, muttering under his breath every once in a while.

Now, Shane was curled up with his legs pressed close to his chest, clutching at more blanket than he needed after stealing it from Ilya’s side of the bed.

Ilya loved it. He hadn’t known this about Shane before. He loved knowing it.

The sun finally hit Shane’s eyes, and Shane groaned, throwing an arm over them, trying to fall back asleep. Ilya noted the puffy eyes and tear stains that hadn’t quite disappeared from Shane’s face, and something in his chest twisted, quiet and sharp, before he let it go.

Ilya leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on that arm, watching Shane’s lips start to quirk upwards in a smile.

Shane lowered the arm slightly and squinted, peering over at Ilya.

“Good morning, moy solnyshko,” Ilya said teasingly.

“Mmm, no. I’m going back to sleep,” Shane groaned, throwing the comforter over his head.

Ilya laughed and buried himself under the blankets as well so that he could see Shane. The light was now softly filtering in through the white sheets, letting a soft glow spread over Shane’s face.

“I thought you always got up early,” Ilya teased, reaching a hand out to wipe some of the dried drool off Shane’s face.

“I do. I always wake up early. I’m great at it,” Shane grumbled.

“Mm, yes. I can tell. You are great at everything.”

“Perfect, actually. Didn’t you know?”

“Oh, I know,” Ilya said with a soft smile.

Shane groaned, putting his hands over his face, but peeking at Ilya shyly.

“Fuck you, you made it sweet again. Fuck.”

“You do not like sweet?”

“No. It’s confusing. I keep expecting you to tell me you’re going to fuck me so hard I cry.”

“Do not have to. Will happen no matter what.”

Shane laughed and let his arms push the covers so that he could drape his arm over Ilya’s waist.

Ilya had always thought a lot about death. Especially after his mother had died. He had wondered where she was. What heaven looked like. Sometimes he thought about it so much he couldn’t bear not being there with her.

As he looked at Shane, still blinking away sleep amidst the white hotel room sheets, he thought that it might look like this. He wouldn’t mind if it did. He wouldn’t mind it at all.

“I probably should go,” Shane said, his arm running up Ilya’s, letting his fingernail glide along the surface, making Ilya shiver.

“Mm, no, should not go. Should stay.”

“You’re going to have to explain to my parents why I’m not flying back to Montreal with them.”

“Okay. I will. Will also get rental car to drive you.”

“All the way to Montreal?”

“Yes. Good road trip”

“It’s pretty far.”

“Well then, you better get up.”

Shane smushed his face into the bed with another groan, and Ilya laughed, peeling the covers off of them and pulling Shane up.

They got ready together. They showered together, and Ilya let Shane run soap through his hair, showing him how to scrunch it in. He also sprayed Shane in the face a couple of times. Shane tried not to laugh at that, but he could see the grin on Shane’s face itching at the corner of his lips. Shane sprayed him a few times as well and swore that the soap that got in Ilya’s eyes was accidental.

Afterward, he handed Shane some of his own clothes, which Shane took without saying anything and threw them on. Ilya took Shane’s suit that was hanging over the chair and folded it into his suitcase. Shane could get it later, so he wouldn’t have to carry it back to his own room.

They stood together by the doorway, neither wanting to touch the handle.

“You’ll text me when you get back to Boston?” Shane asked, shuffling back and forth.

Ilya shook his head, and Shane’s eyes widened. “No, I think I will wait three months.”

Shane shoved him lightly, laughing.

Ilya admired the crinkles that formed next to Shane’s eyes. He hoped he would always get to see them. He hoped he would get to see them settle into Shane’s face as he aged, marking him permanently.

“I will text,” he whispered.

“And I’ll see you in Montreal in two weeks?” Shane asked, his eyes scanning Ilya’s for confirmation.

They had discussed it for a while last night, tangled up in each other and the sheets. It was enough time into the off-season that most people would have stopped looking.

He pulled Shane in for one last kiss. Shane hummed softly into it.

They broke away, smiling at each other.

“See you in two weeks, Shane,” Ilya said, opening the door for him.

Shane looked around the hallway before stepping into it, allowing himself one last look at Ilya.

He gave Shane a little wave.

“Watch out for cameras. I hear they are everywhere in these hotels.”

Shane laughed, and Ilya let the door close in between them.

He stared at it for a moment before he felt his phone buzz in his pocket.

He pulled it out.

Shane )): Good morning Ilya

Ilya smiled.

Good morning Shane

Chapter End Notes

Hey, you guys!! Sorry, this took me a little bit to post. I had to rewrite the fight three times, so here we are.

This officially marks the end of Part 1 (Boys) of this fic. I'm excited to open the next chapter with Part 2 (Men). Although it might take me a second to write because now I need to go add to all of my character sheets to make sure everyone is evolving and maturing in ways that make sense haha.

There are a lot (and I mean a lot) of callbacks to earlier chapters, so let me know if you caught them. There's the repeated first kiss dialogue from chapter 1. The "good morning" text reflects the "goodnight" text from chapter 2. There's the use of "careless" in reference to the little poem thing at the beginning of chapter 1. The "we're already in trouble" from chapter 3. And obviously the reversal of their first meeting. There are a couple of others too, but I let them stand for themselves.

edit: wait I want to talk more about my favorite callbacks because they made me giggle writing them. "He kind of liked how they looked next to each other" refers to Shane liking how their names looked on the PowerPoint in chapter 3. "No one else called him beautiful" is a reference to the texts received in chapter 2. And finally, I tried to write the warm Las Vegas sun as a parallel to the cold Saskatchewan from Chapter 1 (and Shane now recognizing that the effect it's having on him is Ilya, not the weather). Obviously, I don't expect anyone to remember these, since those chapters were posted a while ago.

Basically, I like circles. It was thoroughly fun to loop back around.

There are also a lot of repeated little images. Like Ilya's hair being used to represent his relationship with chaos and his father (pushes it back when standing next to his Dad in chp 1. Messes it up purposefully in chapter 4 to project an out-of-control image to his teammates. Shane messes it up in this chapter).

I have a note in my notes app that says something like "Shane = food. Uses words like devour, consume, drink, thirst, hunger" and "Ilya = fire. He burns people. His hair is ablaze. etc." which I also thought was fun. Shane is also written to be a little more internal (constantly thinking about his body), while Ilya is written to be external (constantly analyzing people and studying them)

Okay I'm done with this edit. I just thought it was super fun to include and wanted to talk about it more haha

 

I hoped you guys enjoyed the little full-circle moment. I hope the fight turned out well, haha. It was genuinely quite hard to write.

See y'all in the next chapter! Thank you all so much for being here. This fic is my baby, and I'm so glad that you guys are supporting me while I write it.

<3 Ivy

Chapter 8: PART II: Men

Chapter Notes

Welcome to part 2!

Time jump: Fall 2013
(Please don't be mad at me about the time jump lol. My house, my rules)

Also important reference for this chapter:

STAR WARS Episode 6—
Princess Leia: "I love you"
Han Solo (said seriously): "I know"

Men are often told they are owed something. And they are not. They are not owed forgiveness. They are not owed the chance to repent. They may kneel at the foot of their bed, praying to God to give them back their childhoods. Their love. Their mothers. Their homes. 

But doors do not have to be opened. Even if the air inside grows stale, no one is owed entrance. No one is owed peace. Men may beg beneath their lover's porch light, screaming at them to let them in, promising better behavior and better treatment. They may plead for more nights, more silent moments to gaze upon you. More time to memorize the features of your face, every mark and freckle. 

You do not have to give it to them. They are owed nothing. 

But some of them, the lucky few, get it anyway. 

How foolish we are in the face of a few truly desperate men.

* * * * *

Shane )): You better have remembered my fucking hoodie Ilya

Shane )): You’re not allowed in my car if you left the hoodie

“Stop it,” Tom said harshly.

“No.”

“Ilya,” Tom warned.

“You cannot make me. I do not want,” Ilya sneered in return, tucking his phone away.

“It’s the rules.”

“Do not care.”

“You always fucking do this. Just let it go!”

“No.”

“For fuck’s sake, Ilya!”

“Still no.”

“You slapped it, so now you have to put down two cards. I don’t care if it ‘looked like a four.’ It’s not a fucking four,” Tom snapped.

“This is discrimination,” Ilya sighed, dropping a few of his sparse cards onto the tray table.

“How?”

“I am so old. I cannot see,” Ilya said with a sigh, leaning back into his seat.

“I’m older than you by twenty years,” Tom responded flatly.

“Yes, and we can all tell.”

“Oh fuck you, I look great,” Tom said, putting another card down.

Ilya wasn’t sure whether Tom was still required to go on the team flight to Montreal. He was still hired as Ilya’s ‘security guard,’ but he and Ilya mostly just spent their days together chatting. He assumed that Tom was still sending semi-regular updates on him to someone in the league, but Ilya had once read one of the emails after Tom left his computer open when he invited Ilya over to his house. It read ‘All good over here. He scored a great goal against Buffalo last week, but it’s Buffalo, so it’s not like it was hard.’ So Ilya wasn’t really worried. Especially not when Tom had set a plate for him next to his son Sam and served him a large portion of pasta.

Ilya had the sneaky suspicion that Tom might just like flying with him. He always brought a card game or a headphone splitter with a downloaded movie. He always showed Ilya photos from the hike his family had taken recently and asked when Ilya would finally join them.

Every once in a while, Tom would march into the locker room with a phone up to his ear and ask him if he had seen Shane Hollander recently. Ilya didn’t even have to respond anymore. His teammates had gotten so used to it that they had come up with responses of their own.

“What! What is this?” Mercer would cry. “Scandal! Roz, where were you last night between 6 and 11 p.m.?”

“How could you even ask him that?” Marleau would exclaim in mock outrage, placing a hand on Ilya’s shoulder. “He was with me the entire night, I swear! I swear on my mother!”

“Yeah, you also swore on your mother that you’d never text that stripper again, Marly,” Carmichael would crow.

“And I didn’t!”

“This is not what she told me when I saw her at 8 p.m.,” Ilya would say, smirking.

The locker room would always resolve in friendly banter and light shoves. Tom would just roll his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m just going to say no,” Tom would say, turning to speak into the phone again while walking out.

Ilya continued laying cards down until Tom saw another double and slapped it. Ilya groaned as Tom took more of the cards. 

“Jesus, Cap, he’s demolishing you,” Carmichael said, peering over the seat in front of them.

“Fuck off, Carmy,” Ilya said lightly as Tom began the next round.

“I thought you were more of a euchre man, Tom,” Carmichael asked.

“Ilya couldn’t handle euchre, Ryan. Ilya can barely handle Egyptian rat screw. I’m going to have to demote him to Uno,” Tom teased.

“Nah, we played Uno last week at Cap’s house. Marly’s ears haven’t been the same since.”

“You all should learn to respect your captain,” Ilya grumbled, laying down his last card and swearing.

“Maybe be more respectable,” Connors teased from the row across them, and Ilya flipped him off.

This was Ilya’s first season as captain. O’Neill had retired last year, and LeClaire had said Ilya was the natural successor. Ilya still couldn’t quite believe it. Still couldn’t believe they trusted him to lead them.

Tom packed up the cards, and Ilya pulled out his phone, lifting the collar of Shane’s hoodie over his nose, snuggling further into it.

Shane )): Did your plane take off late? 

Shane )): I’m looking at the tracker online and it says it’s on time but the other flights are all arriving late

Shane )): I guess it doesn’t matter. I’m already in the lot anyway

Flight does not land for thirty minutes

And then is another fifteen minutes to hotel

Why are you there so early

Shane )): Always good to be prepared

I think you are obsessed with me

I think you missed me

Shane )): You wish

Shane )): See you soon. I’m in the same spot

See you soon

If Ilya had ever been honest with Tom about his relationship with Shane, the emails might have looked quite different. They might have said that Ilya was in love with Shane. That they had been together for two seasons now. That Shane knew which side of the bed Ilya slept on. That Ilya knew Shane would steal that space by the time the sun rose. That they texted each other every day, even when they were angry at each other.

But Tom didn’t know. Ilya didn’t want Tom to have to decide between his job and Ilya. He also wasn’t sure he wanted to know which one he would pick.

They had decided to keep the list of people who knew as small as possible. It included Shane’s parents, Svetlana, Hayden and Jackie Pike, Marleau, Lily, and Lily’s roommates. 

Ilya had wanted to hate Lily. He really had. But the first time Ilya met her, she stuck out her hand for him to shake and dramatically apologized for fucking the love of Ilya’s life with sad violin music playing on her phone. So, unfortunately, despite his best efforts, Ilya liked her immediately.

He felt his phone buzz again, and he risked another peek at it.

Shane )): Goddamn it your flight is delayed

He smiled and turned back to Tom, who was pulling out another game from his bag.

Tom studied his face as if he were looking for something specific. He glanced down at Ilya's phone, and Ilya quickly shoved it in his pocket.

"Are you okay, Ilya?" Tom asked softly.

Ilya gave him a little smile. "Of course. I always am."

Tom gave him a look, his concerned expression never quite fading. "It's always nice to go back to Montreal, isn't it?"

Ilya shrugged. "If you say so, Tom."

Tom patted his arm, giving it a little squeeze before displaying the game he had pulled out. “Want to try this one? Sam said he thought you’d like it," he said lightly.

Ilya nodded, smiling, and watched as Tom started laying out more cards.

* * * * *

Ilya couldn’t stop smiling as they pulled into the hotel parking lot. He was the first one to get out of his seat when the bus finally parked, almost hitting Connors with his bag as he flung it over his shoulder, who yelled at him in protest. 

It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was the ugly black car Ilya knew would be parked behind the building. 

The first few times Shane had come to pick him up, Ilya had found him lying down on the floor in his backseat. Shane had blushed and grumbled that he didn’t want anyone to see him out of the non-tinted front window while Ilya had giggled and made fun of him for weeks. The teasing didn’t stop Shane from repeating the behavior the next eight times either. Now that they had been doing this for a while, Shane had gotten more comfortable with just hunching over the wheel in a baseball cap and sunglasses.

Sometimes Ilya wished that Shane would do it again just so he could see him awkwardly climb up from the carpeted floor. He wanted a picture of it so bad, but Shane and Ilya didn’t take photos. Well, other than the polaroids they took with the camera Yuna had bought them last year.

Other times, Ilya remembered how they had yelled about it. How the image of Shane, curled up in the back seat, started to gnaw at him like a tiny rock stuck in his shoe that he hadn’t realized was bothering him until it did. How Ilya had accused Shane of being ashamed of him. That he wasn’t hiding because of the fact that their relationship was still secret, but rather because Shane thought Ilya wasn’t good enough for him.

And Ilya wasn’t good enough for him, so he would have understood.

He still wanted the picture anyway.

It was even easier to sneak away now that he was captain. Before, he and Marly had always made sure to room together so that he could sneak out when he wanted to. But now, with his own room, it was almost comically easy for Ilya to grab his room key, fling his bag into the room that he knew would go unused, and hurry down the stairs to the back lot.

Ilya’s cheeks hurt from smiling too much by the time he reached Shane’s black car. He hurried over, throwing the passenger door open and slipping inside the car. Shane, who had been hunched over, slowly uncurled himself, grinning at Ilya.

Ilya drank in his appearance, reaching out a hand to cup his cheek.

“Wow, a Raiders hat?” Ilya remarked, giving Shane’s cap a little tug.

Shane blushed and adjusted the hat. “I figured no one would suspect Shane Hollander to be wearing Boston merch.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Yes, because you famously have no connection with Boston.”

Shane’s cheeks burned even brighter, and Ilya couldn’t help but pinch them before lowering his hand to Shane’s knee.

“I would have worn something else, but all of my other hats have mysteriously disappeared from our house,” Shane said flatly.

Ilya tsked, opening his bag and throwing on his own hat. “You are so irresponsible, Shane. Always putting your things in the wrong place.”

Shane glanced over at him while starting the car and laughed upon seeing the Metros hat covering Ilya’s blonde curls. 

Ilya let Shane float through conversation topics as they drove home. Shane asked him if the bakery next to Ilya’s house had finally closed their doors, and Ilya told them that they hadn’t. (He didn’t mention that the reason they hadn’t was that Ilya had given them a large sum of money. He didn’t want to lose the one place that would entice Shane into eating a chocolate croissant.) Ilya asked if Lily was still dating Jim. (She was, unfortunately.)

Ilya knew Shane had a little list in his head of everything they were supposed to talk about. Every minute felt important, every second purposefully wasted or used. He liked letting Shane check off his boxes, watching his eyes run from one topic to another, making sure he didn’t regret the little time they had together.

Ilya loved this part of coming to Montreal. These twenty minutes were when they got to be together in public, surrounded by other metal cars that didn’t care who they were or what they were doing, unless they were taking too long to go after the light turned green or hesitated before taking the unprotected left (which Shane always did).

It beat the twenty minutes back when they would drive in silence. Those twenty minutes where Ilya tried not to cry as he gripped Shane’s hand as hard as he possibly dared without hurting him. 

Sometimes, he wanted to grip so hard that Shane’s hand could never fit with anyone else’s again. He wanted to mold it to his own so that anyone else who dared to touch him would know that it wasn’t their place to do so.

They pulled into their driveway, and Ilya leaned over the center console to indulge himself in a long kiss, protected by the hedges that grew around the house. Technically, the house was in Yuna and David’s name, but Shane and Ilya had paid for it.

“Hi,” Shane whispered into his mouth as he pulled away, keeping his head against Ilya’s.

“Hi,” Ilya breathed back. “Did you miss me?”

Shane shook his head against Ilya’s forehead, letting it roll back and forth.

“No. How could I? Everything is cleaner when you’re gone.”

“Mm, I do not think it is me. Is the other man you bring to your secret house.”

“No, Martin would never.”

“Oh, his name is Martin now? What happened to John?”

“He couldn’t handle me. Couldn’t handle all this,” Shane said, gesturing to himself.

Ilya laughed and leaned into kiss him again, humming happily as Shane pushed himself up to climb over into Ilya’s seat, straddling him and deepening the kiss. He let his hands wander under Shane’s shirt, running his fingers down each bone in his spine. 

Eventually, Shane broke the kiss, sitting back and gazing at Ilya adoringly. Ilya never knew how to handle being loved so deeply by Shane. He’d always been desired and wanted. He knew what it was like to have people undress him with their hands and their eyes. He still didn’t quite know how to handle someone looking at him like they wanted to wrap him in sweaters and blankets to keep him warm.

“Come on, you said you’re making dinner, and I’m starving,” Shane said, pushing the door open and climbing off him.

Ilya followed him out, grabbing the small backpack he had brought with him. “Did you buy the ingredients I sent you?” 

Shane shot him a flat look. “Yes, although I still don’t know how Timbits are a ‘crucial ingredient’ for whatever you’re making.”

“Is a basic ingredient in Russian food. You would not understand.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I guess I wouldn’t understand how Canadian donuts are a staple in Russian cuisine.”

Ilya patted his back as they made their way into the house. “Is not your fault. It is the Canadian school system.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Shane said, laughing as he kicked off his shoes and placed them in the rack next to the door. 

Ilya copied the movement, placing them in the empty space that was always his. He took off his coat, hung it on the right side of the closet, and pushed ahead of Shane into the kitchen. He paused when he looked at the windowsill.

He turned to Shane with a questioning look. “You bought a plant?”

Shane glanced over, pulling out the box of Timbits from a bag resting on the counter and popping one in his mouth before carrying another over to Ilya. Ilya unconsciously opened his mouth, letting Shane rest the little donut between his teeth before gesturing back to the plant.

“Mm, Jackie gave that to me. Apparently, Hayden bought it for her, thinking she’d like it, but she said they had enough kids at home and didn’t need another one.”

Ilya reached out to run a hand down the vines that threatened to spill into their sink. “Is not your fault she has so many kids.”

“Technically, it’s not hers either. I don’t think they asked for twins.”

“I am not surprised they did. Probably they have sex too many times, and she could not help but have more than one baby.”

Shane shot him a flat look and started pulling out the rest of the groceries from the bag. “Yeah, unlike you, who is practically a virgin.”

Ilya reached over, grabbed his mug from the drying rack, and filled it with water. “Of course I am, Shane. I am a man of God. Would never even touch a woman without being married to her.”

Shane glanced over at him, setting a small bag of flour on the counter before walking over to him and running a finger down his clothed chest, hooking it on his mother’s cross and pulling him closer.

“How about a man?” Shane asked with a smirk.

“Hmmm,” Ilya asked, pretending to think, but leaned closer and placed a hand on Shane’s waist. “I guess is okay.”

Shane smiled and pulled him in for another long kiss, pressing him into the counter behind him. Shane ran his hands back and forth along his hips before slowly moving them up to run his fingers through his hair. Ilya responded in kind, deepening the kiss and letting his hands slip down, letting them rest on Shane’s lower back.

“Careful, Shane,” Ilya mumbled between their lips as Shane began to slip a leg between his own. “Would not want to have twins, too. Not after the first accidental kid.”

Shane pulled away and frowned. “What kid?”

Ilya gave a pointed look towards the plant, and Shane laughed and smacked his ass.

“Come on,” Shane called, walking away from him towards the bar stools on the other side of the counter. “I wasn’t kidding about being hungry.”

“I was hungry too,” Ilya muttered but let Shane go, taking another sip of water from his mug before making his way around the kitchen, pulling out a couple of bowls and a cutting board. 

As he passed, he tilted his mug, letting the rest of the water fall onto the potted plant.

* * * * *

“How is Hayden as captain?” Ilya asked, chopping up the second onion and sliding the pieces next to the dill. Its scent was slowly filling the kitchen.

Shane glanced at him, looking over the top of his computer, squinting at him slightly. Ilya only shrugged, pretending like he was only making conversation. Like he always asked about Pike. Like he always used Pike’s first name. 

Shane tilted his head and shrugged back. “He’s doing well. The team seems to be adjusting to him. The rookies seem like him a lot, too.”

Ilya slid the knife along the cutting board, letting it drag along the grooves. He tried not to be too obvious as he began chopping the onions into ever finer pieces, enjoying the feel of slamming his knife into something. 

“Do the rookies not like you?” he asked casually.

Shane let out a sharp exhale through his nose, busying himself with his computer again.

“Don’t do that, Ilya,” he said firmly.

“Do what? I do nothing!”

Shane raised his eyes again, giving him an unimpressed look.

Ilya sighed. “Well, tell me about Comeau, at least. Is he giving you trouble still?”

Shane paused the video he was watching, giving Ilya a hard look. “He hasn’t given me trouble in years. We’ve talked about this. I’m not rehashing it.”

Ilya set the knife down. “Shane,” he said slowly. “We said we were not going to lie to each other.”

Shane shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and Ilya’s eyes tracked the movement. Comeau had always been a problem, even if he had started to hide his dislike of Shane behind small remarks about his appearance or dating life, scoffing at news headlines that complimented Shane’s discipline and technique. Maybe it wasn’t as blatant as it had been, but Ilya knew that it was still there, resting on every barbed look, flubbed pass, and missed block. (Ilya had also spent a few hours memorizing every French slur he could think of, just in case.)

And Shane knew all of this too; he just didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. 

And so they kept having this argument. Where Ilya begged Shane to make it a big deal or even just perform for the crowd, pretend to ask a girl out, laugh with the rest of the team at their stupid jokes.

But Shane refused. After a long fight with Ilya over it at the end of last season, Shane had decided to officially tell the Metros that he was gay, without telling Ilya he was going to do it. 

The Metros had made Pike captain over the summer after Savard was traded to Las Vegas. 

Ilya would never forgive himself for that fight.

“Hayden’s doing great,” Shane muttered, focused back on the screen in front of him.

“Hayden is not studying game tape during dinner time,” he replied, reaching over to fold the computer closed.

Shane sighed and shot him an annoyed look, but didn’t reopen his computer, so Ilya was going to take that as a win. “He’s the best option,” Shane said, looking down at the massacred onions laid out on the cutting board.

Ilya glanced down at them too, the juices from them starting to leak over the cutting board edge. “Other than you,” Ilya said hesitantly, scooping the mush up and throwing it into the large metal bowl with the rest of the ground meat.

Shane took a deep, calming breath, the sound of it making Ilya’s shoulders start to tense. They sat there in silence as Shane tried to wind down, forcing Ilya to wind up. He often felt like they were carrying the emotions the other person didn’t want to feel, passing them back and forth. When Shane became resigned, Ilya became angry. When Ilya laughed, Shane finally let himself cry.

Maybe that was what it meant to love someone. Ilya wasn’t sure.

Shane moved around the island, staring at the two bowls Ilya had been working with. One contained a large amount of meat filling and the other a round ball of dough.

“Tell me to do something,” Shane said, turning on the sink to wash his hands before analyzing the spread in front of him, pushing up his sleeves.

Shane didn’t want to argue. So Ilya wouldn’t press the issue. Instead, he handed him a rolling pin and nodded to the dough.

“You can roll it out,” he instructed simply, reaching into the meat to squish the ingredients together.

Shane did as instructed. Ilya tried to stay focused on his own task, but he let his eyes drift over to Shane’s arms as they pushed into the pin, kneading the dough flat.

“What are we making?” Shane asked, clapping his hands together to shake off some of the excess flour.

“We are making pelmeni. Is a dish my mother used to make,” he responded, turning to the now flat dough and taking out a little cutter, pressing it in to make the circles. “She taught me how to make them when I was young. We used to talk in the kitchen and make them together.”

He pushed the bowl of meat between them and demonstrated the appropriate amount of filling to place in the center of each circle. 

“This was always the hardest part,” Ilya added as he moved to try to connect the dough to form the proper shape.

He frowned, looking at the little lump, the edges coming undone a bit. 

It certainly did not look like the ones he and his mother used to make.

He tried again, but the dough was sticking together in weird places. Ilya cursed, ignoring Shane’s worried expression, grabbing a second circle to try again. That one didn’t look right either, and the stuffing was spilling out of one of the corners.

Maybe it was the amount of stuffing that he was using.

He reached forward into the bowl, grabbing more meat and grabbing a third circle when Shane grabbed his arm, stopping him from folding it in. Ilya hadn’t realized how fast his breathing had gotten.

“I do not know why I can not remember it,” Ilya said with a nervous laugh. “We may have to eat little blobs.”

Ilya felt like crying a bit. Fucking onions.

Shane slowly slid his hand down Ilya’s arm, sliding the meat and dough out of his hand and looking at them for a moment. Shane hummed and pinched the corners together, making little waves at the top and folding the dough in on itself.

After he was finished, he held it up proudly.

Ilya blinked at it.

“Does not look like pelmeni,” he said slowly.

Shane shrugged, moving on to do another one the same way. “No, but it’s meat inside dough. It’s basically a dumpling. And Yuna Hollander has had me folding gyoza since I was six, so—” He held up another odd-shaped pelmeni. “I figure it’ll hold just fine.”

Shane went to grab another circle, but this time he moved slower, looking over at Ilya to make sure he was paying attention. Ilya grabbed a circle himself and started copying the motions. 

He was left with a very non-pelmeni-shaped piece of pelmeni in his hands.

But it held all the filling perfectly.

Ilya couldn’t help but smile. He felt like his mother might have laughed at it, a light, happy sound that always filled every space she was in. Now that he thought about it, she had never been very good about folding the dough either, always ending up with bits of separated but cooked pelmeni that they had to just scoop together to eat.

Maybe he had always learned it wrong. Maybe she had never really known the proper way either.

They worked together to fold the rest, their arms pressed against each other. Their shoulders bumped as they pinched each section, and their hands brushed as they reached for the same piece. And if their pinkies sometimes hooked together instead of merely touching, well…Ilya really didn’t mind so much.

* * * * *

They ate while curled up around each other on the couch, the TV humming in the background. Shane didn’t usually like to eat while lying down, but he always let Ilya convince him to do it at least once while he was over. Shane had always had a hard time saying no to him. 

Besides, Shane enjoyed being able to sit across from Ilya, letting their legs tangle between them. Or allowing Ilya to nuzzle into his shoulder, his blonde curls tickling at Shane’s jaw. Or resting in the position they were now, with Ilya’s arms wrapped all the way around him, holding him close enough that Shane could feel Ilya’s heartbeat. 

He wished he could time it with his own. Ilya always seemed to be moving a half a beat off. Sometimes, it felt like Ilya was ready to bounce around, speaking rapidly and energetically interacting with everyone around him. Other times, Shane noticed Ilya stumbling through their house as if he were stepping through molasses. His eyes seemed to dim, pausing for too long before moving or changing directions. It was in those times that Shane thought Ilya’s heart might be moving a little slower. Resting at a rate Shane hadn’t ever reached and couldn’t really understand.

Shane turned back to the movie right as Princess Leia got knocked off her speeder on Endor. They had worked through all of the Star Wars movies with Shane’s parents last Christmas. Shane and Ilya often found themselves rewatching episode six. Probably because they had both seen it enough times by now that they didn’t really need to pay attention to the screen, preferring to pay attention to each other. To small touches and small conversations.

It wasn’t the best of the Star Wars films, but they had both decided it was their favorite one. Ilya said it was because he loved the Ewoks. Shane said it was because he liked seeing Vader’s redemption arc. But Shane only said that because he knew it was Ilya’s actual favorite part. And he was pretty sure Ilya was doing the exact same thing, but Shane couldn’t help but be a little endeared by the harmless little teddy bears. Even if everyone else said they ruined the movie.

“Hey,” Ilya whispered into Shane’s hair, breath drifting through each strand and making him shiver slightly.

Shane pulled back so that he could look at him. “Yeah?” he whispered back.

Ilya grinned. “Can you tell me you love me?”

Shane sighed and rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help the grin that started to spread on his own face. “I love you.”

Ilya nodded seriously, but kept smiling. “I know.”

Shane tutted and shook his head. “No, try it again. I love you.”

“I know.”

“It really doesn’t work if you keep smiling.”

Ilya groaned, running the hand that was resting on Shane’s hip back and forth. He scrunched his face together in an exaggerated frown.

“Okay, I am ready,” he said, taking in a few sharp breaths.

Shane tilted his head and smiled at him. He lifted his hand, cupping the side of Ilya’s face, his fingers spreading back until they brushed the edge of his ear.

Shane often couldn’t believe they had gotten here. He couldn’t believe he got to sit here with Ilya, just watching a movie. Sometimes, he remembered what it had all cost him. The life he had imagined for himself at eight years old, late at night with his mom, was never going to be the one that was realized. But this felt better. He had always wondered what it would be like to have thousands of people watch him, remembering every flashy stick maneuver or impossible goal. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted someone to observe this part of his life too. How much more he cared about having someone who was there to watch him watch movies. Who knew all of his favorite lines. Who knew which parts they could talk over.

He stared at Ilya’s face. Ilya was always talking about Shane’s freckles, but Ilya also had an impressive scattering of dots and moles across his skin. They were harder to pin down than Shane’s were. Every time Shane thought he had noticed them all, he saw another one. They liked to shift and move, as if never truly comfortable in the place they had started. 

He didn’t remember there being quite so many when they had first met, but maybe he hadn’t been paying enough attention. He sometimes wondered if Ilya had loved Shane’s freckles so much that a few had decided to appear on him too.

“I love you,” Shane whispered.

Ilya’s face split open into a grin, and he giggled. Shane swatted him, and Ilya laughed. 

“Nooo, Shane, I almost got it,” Ilya exclaimed, pulling the blanket up further around them.

Shane burrowed himself into Ilya again and felt Ilya’s hand begin to run through his hair, drawing little circles. 

“Han Solo would be so disappointed in you.”

* * * * *

Ilya slammed Shane into the boards, grinning as he lodged his stick in between his legs, grappling for the puck. He grinned even wider when Shane twisted out from under him, anticipating that Ilya would try to shift left. 

Shane sped back around the goal, flinging the puck towards Pike. Ilya knew he would do that too and was on Pike before he was able to swing the puck back to Boiziau. He braced for the hit that he knew was coming as he slid the puck to Hammersmith.

Shane checked him hard, trying to stop the path of the puck, and swore as it slid away from him.

Playing against Shane never got old. Ilya felt like every time they hit the ice together, he was re-experiencing their life. Each pass was familiar. Each stolen puck. Each shot on goal. He got flashes of past games, competitions, and hotel rooms. He loved knowing exactly where Shane was thinking about going, and he loved knowing that Shane knew what he was thinking, too. They played as if they had spent hours studying each other’s game tape, memorizing the moves that would frustrate or thrill each other.

Hockey had never felt this good to Ilya. It had always been fun, but now it felt intimate. He almost wished they could be the only two players here. Wished he could only play with Shane for the rest of his life.

He couldn’t help but smile as he and Shane got on the ice for another face-off together.

Shane didn’t like it when Ilya talked to him on the ice. He had tried a few times over the years, chirping like he did everyone else, but it hadn’t been worth the glares that felt too real and the silences that leaked into their house afterward. Ilya would rather have the silence here at the game.

But he did tap his stick three times as he approached Shane. Ilya looked at him through his visor and saw Shane’s lips quirk up in a small smile. Shane tapped back. Three times.

Play continued, Shane and Ilya almost passing the puck to each other with how quickly the turnovers were happening. 

Ilya watched as Shane sped off in front of him, and he hurried to catch him, admiring the way Shane’s legs ground into the ice beneath him, allowing his legs to pump forward. He was a faster skater than Ilya was, not that Ilya would ever tell him that. Ilya always felt like he was trying to catch up to him. Like he was always moving and thinking at a speed that Ilya didn’t always understand. 

He reached with his stick, trying to grab the puck, but accidentally hooked Shane’s leg, causing him to trip a little bit. Ilya groaned when he heard the ref's whistle, stopping play.

“Oh, come on! I did not trip him. Hollander is a clumsy skater!” Ilya declared, skating over to the ref, who gave him an unimpressed look.

“Come on, Rozanov. He hasn’t even called the penalty yet,” Pike said flatly, joining them, the white C shining from his chest.

Ilya couldn’t help but glare at it, rolling his eyes. “Is because I know what it looks like. Is because I have played hockey for so long. I know it must be hard for you to understand, rook,” Ilya said, patting Pike on the shoulder.

Pike shoved the hand off. “Fuck off, Rozanov. A rookie?” he responded, lifting an eyebrow. “I must be pretty talented to be Captain my first year,” Pike joked.

Ilya inhaled sharply. “I would not say that, Pike. I would not call it talent,” Ilya said harshly, causing Pike to flinch.

Ilya watched as Pike’s eyes flicked towards Shane. “Yeah, I know,” he said quietly. 

It almost sounded like an apology. Ilya didn’t forgive him, though. No matter how much he liked Jackie and Jackie’s kids.

“You are lucky Shane makes you look good,” he muttered, watching as Pike dropped his head, looking at his skates.

“Come on, Rozanov. Get in the box,” the ref called, assigning him a two-minute minor.

Ilya shot Pike one last look and stepped off the ice, letting the attendant close the door behind him. At least now, he got to watch Shane play for a little bit without being surrounded by his teammates. Somehow, it kind of felt right to feel closest to Shane when he was completely alone. He guessed that was the defining thing about their relationship. That it only existed in dark corners and behind locked doors. Always in a penalty box. He wondered if their time would run out. 

He watched Shane score on the power play and pump his fist in quiet celebration, shooting Ilya a quick glance, letting the smile carry over from his goal. Ilya tried to fight the smile that threatened to edge its way onto his own face. He was such a beautiful player. He deserved more. Ilya knew he wanted more.

Ilya’s time ran out, and he left the box, almost feeling as if he had left a bit of Shane behind, sitting patiently on the bench. Waiting for the moment he could come out on the ice again.

The game ended with another win for the Metros. Ilya took his post next to the gate, giving each teammate a little fist bump and an ‘I love you.’ It used to make a few of them uncomfortable. That’s why Ilya had kept doing it. Now, he just received eye rolls and a couple of sarcastic ‘I love you’s back. It was just ‘Roz being Roz’. 

When they played Montreal, Rozanov always said it a bit louder, hoping that the words would travel across the ice so that a certain Canadian forward would hear them too. 

They wouldn’t get to see each other after the game. Ilya’s team was headed straight to the airport. Ilya had tried to convince Shane to meet him in a storage closet somewhere in the facility for one last kiss. But Shane had said no. Shane never wanted the last kiss. That was fine, though. Ilya knew it was because he wanted the next one instead.

They were the last two players to get off the ice. Neither of them could help but give each other one last look before walking down their separate tunnels.

Ilya was silent as he got on the plane back to Boston. Unlike the rest of his teammates, Ilya didn’t immediately shove his headphones into his ears, preferring to look at the little runway lights flickering outside his window beside the plane. He liked imagining that one of those little lights was Shane, walking back to his apartment, and ritualistically flipping on all of his lamps. 

Sometimes he didn’t understand why he was leaving. Sometimes he hated Boston. Sometimes he hated Montreal too.

He watched as the lights disappeared as they soared higher into the night sky, a familiar weight starting to find its way back into his heart. Every time Ilya flew, he couldn’t help but notice how much dark there was. All the city lights and glowing signs seemed so much smaller from the plane. 

When the flight attendant passed, he ordered a ginger ale. He took a picture of the drink after she handed it to him, sending it to Shane. Shane sent back a photo of him and Jackie, a bottle of vodka between them.

Shane )): Jackie wanted to play never have I ever

Shane )): So far she’s only asked about our sex life

And how drunk is “I will try anything once” Jackie now?

Shane )): absolutely wasted

Shane )): Lily is pretty drunk too

Shane )): I think Hayden is hiding in the bathroom

And how drunk are you?

Shane )): getting there

Shane )): Although I’m starting to make a list of things we should try

I am going to send Jackie flowers

Shane )): Wow

Shane )): You’ve been gone for one hour and you’re already hitting on another woman

Will send you flowers too

Shane )): Are you flirting with me Rozanov?

Always

Shane )): I miss you

Shane )): Text me when you get home

Okay

I love you

Shane )): I know

Ilya smiled softly, tucking the phone away and turning back to the window, trying not to notice the lines that were sinking into the face staring back at him. Tom plopped down loudly beside him, patting him on the back. 

“Good game today, kid,” he said, settling into the seat and rubbing Ilya’s back.

Ilya shrugged. “We lost,” he said softly.

Tom gave him one final pat and a sympathetic look before digging through his backpack.

“Well, it looked like you were having fun out there,” Tom responded quietly, pulling out his iPad and headphone splitter. 

Ilya pulled out his own headphones and put them in.

“Is this a ‘Tokyo Drift’ flight or a ‘When Harry Met Sally’ flight?” Tom asked, clicking on his downloaded movies.

“‘When Harry Met Sally’, I think,” Ilya said, sinking lower into his seat so he could stick his feet out further.

Tom started the movie, placing a hand around Ilya’s back and ruffling his hair. Ilya couldn’t help but lean into the touch. For the most part, they were both silent as they watched the screen.

“I love this part,” Tom said as they watched Harry run through the streets of New York. “Always a sucker for a bit of romance.”

“Kind of stupid,” Ilya responded, stealing one of Tom’s Swedish Fish. “He did not really have to run. He knows where she lives.”

Tom shrugged. “We all do stupid things when we’re in love. And that’s not really stupid at all.”

* * * * *

Ilya sighed as he pushed open the door to his house. He glanced around. At the dishwasher he knew was full of clean dishes. At the row of coats hanging in the hall. At the house shoes Shane always kept here.

He hadn’t gone to his Boston apartment. He couldn’t manage it. He knew Shane would hate knowing he was here. Would hate knowing Ilya was taking a stupid risk by spending more time here than in his empty apartment. Not that the house wasn’t also empty, but even with the extra space, Ilya always felt a little less alone here.

Although sometimes the house felt so big. Sometimes he felt like he was drowning in every square foot Shane had so diligently sought to obtain for them.

He slipped on Shane’s slippers and wandered into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of vodka from the freezer and throwing his phone down on the counter. He poured himself a glass and made his way into the living room, lying down and turning on the TV, letting the soft chatter overwhelm the silence. 

Slowly, the energy and tension from the trip oozed out of him until Ilya felt like he had fully sunk into the couch, unable to move. He wanted to take another sip of vodka, but couldn’t. His hands just felt so heavy all of a sudden.

He reached over with one arm and grabbed the sweatshirt Shane had folded next to the couch, pulling it over his head, and continued to lazily watch the TV. 

He hadn’t even bothered to turn the lights on, just sitting in the dark between the screen hanging in the living room and the one that was glowing behind him in the kitchen. 

He heard his phone buzz. He made no move to grab it, but glanced over the back of the sofa towards the soft light. It was probably Shane. He wanted to go over and read the text. He wanted to tell Shane he was home. He couldn’t. He kind of felt like he was still on the plane, watching the light grow further and further away.

Chapter End Notes

woo part 2! woo!

There was some fluff, though! Although it was not completely fluffy... did you think I was done with angst? hahahahahahaha the joke is on both of us.

I love a cryptic little prologue. My favorite thing. It was actually written at the exact same time as the prologue for chapter 1. So trust that everything is going according to plan (😅).

Sorry for the gap between last chapter and this one. Part 2 is a little harder to write because I don't get to do as many slutty little scenes 😔. And because my beta reader is trying to escape me by fleeing the country (she's on vacation). I'll track her down eventually (we've chatted every day).

Fun fact: the pelmeni scene was inspired by my own experience (whoa. A self insert?? From promised_ivy??? We’re shocked. It’s shocking. She would NEVER do that. It’s never happened before). But my mom makes pelmeni and she taught me how to make them too. Trust that my pelmeni never look very pretty but they get the job done.

Also, I keep thinking that my years of experience in the Marauders fandom didn't affect me at all.
Also me: makes Lily a redhead and immediately names her 'boyfriend' James
(I changed it to Jim when I realized, so obvi it's all fine now)

Anyways, I hope you like this chapter! I'm really excited to write the next few chapters, so hopefully you'll enjoy them

Thank you for your comments on the last chapter, as always.
They're together! Woo! woo.
woo...

Love ya! Uh! (The sound is included in the message )<3

Chapter 9: And I lie to her and say that I'm doing fine

Chapter Notes

CW: homophobic slur

“Come on, Hollzy! Fucking beauty out there,” J.J. crowed, slapping him on the back as they headed back into the locker room. 

The Metros were on a win streak that continued with their victory over the Admirals. Shane liked playing against the Admirals. They were a relatively inoffensive team, although he still got a slightly sick feeling in his stomach every time he lined up to face off against Hunter. He really did try not to think about what people thought about him anymore, but it was hard not to when a Vegas defenseman would stare too long. Or when a Washington forward would glare a little too earnestly. Or when Scott Hunter would give him a little nod of acknowledgment.

It was fine. He had made his choice. He had Ilya.

However, every once in a while, he would feel a little bit of the weight of that decision. Sometimes, he would crawl under his covers, hidden from the lights in his bedroom, and Google images of Ilya. He would stare at him as he joked and teased his way through his interviews, the “C” shining at him from his chest, mocking him.

Or like today, when the excitement in the air from both the Metros and the Admirals was palpable, caused by the announcement of an Olympic team roster. 

“Last game before Sochi, Cap!” Berkes called, slapping Hayden on the back. “How you feeling?”

Hayden grinned brightly. “I’m feeling good,” he said excitedly. “I’m so worried I’m gonna forget something though. Jackie keeps looking through my bag and adding more things.”

“Isn’t she going with?” Stedlund asked.

Hayden shook his head. “Nah, she wanted to, but the twins are a little too young still.” 

“Can’t believe you’re not going, Hollzy,” J.J. said, shoving his pads into his locker.

The easy noise of the room dropped a register, a tension settling over the room. Hayden’s smile had slid off his face, and he was fidgeting with his helmet.

Shane shrugged. “Yeah, well, they had enough centers, so. We can’t all go, unfortunately,” he said in what he hoped was a light tone.

He saw Comeau turn to whisper something into Drapeau’s ear, who snickered, glancing at Shane. Shane only rolled his eyes. 

“Probably for the best though, right?” Berkes said, pulling off his skates. “I mean, Russia’s not great to gay guys, right?”

Hayden scoffed. Shane shot him a little glare, but Hayden only waved him off. “Shane wouldn’t have been the only gay Olympian there. There are a number of queer women attending.” 

Shane couldn’t help but roll his eyes, smiling to himself. Since becoming Captain, Hayden had taken it upon himself to become, as Jackie once put it, ‘the biggest ally to ever ally.’ Although Shane partially blamed her since she was the one throwing on Drag Race every weekend. Hayden claimed that he was trying to be a good husband by watching it with her, but he had a sneaky suspicion that he might just like the show, having caught him a few times watching the show on road trips, muttering under his breath about ‘a lack of creativity’ and ‘people who thought they could win by just doing the splits.’

But it also meant that Hayden would often spout off little facts to the rest of the players. They weren’t very well received, but at least everyone did seem to be more comfortable with saying the word ‘gay’ out loud now, without the added tension. It was just a word that existed.

Which was especially helpful when Shane had come out. No one had flinched when he had used the word in the middle of the locker room, standing before them as if he were on trial, waiting to be judged by his peers. Most had just shrugged and moved on.

He had wanted to come out. He felt like he needed to. There were so many lies in his life still, and they kept gnawing at him. His secrets sometimes felt suffocating, rather than comforting. Shane loved his and Ilya’s two houses, but he couldn’t help but feel like every pair of eyes, every camera, every online article was creeping in through the windows they were trying to seal so tightly.

Sometimes he felt like they were running out of air. Sometimes he felt like he needed to open up a window. 

And so he had come out, and he felt better. He hadn’t told the world, because the open air could feel suffocating too sometimes, but he had told his team. Telling his team basically meant telling the whole NHL, and Shane knew that. But at least the window was open. At least the house felt a little bigger now. 

He worried Ilya felt the same way, but Ilya had told his team he was bisexual from the very beginning, and none of them seemed to mind anymore. And it was different. The other NHL players looked at Ilya like he had made a wrong choice. They looked at Shane like there had never been a right one.

But he couldn’t help but feel like there was something Ilya wasn’t telling him. Maybe his house felt too small, too.

“Well, sure, Cap, but those athletes didn’t get their star player banned from the country,” Berkes said, giving Hayden an annoyed look as if Hayden was being purposefully naive.

“I don’t think it was Hollzy’s fault that Rozanov can’t go play for Russia,” J.J. said flatly.

Shane tensed as he always did when his and Ilya’s names were thrown together. Even after all of these years, he could still sense the feeling of unease that filled every broadcast announcement, every interview, every lineup when their names were haphazardly pushed next to each other. 

It wasn’t that Shane thought that anyone cared about it as much as they used to, but they would never forget. It kind of felt like when he would bring up a topic that he knew that he and Ilya had fought over before. They weren’t going to have the argument again, not right away. But both could still taste the bitter images and words they had thrown at each other.

Shane also tensed because he knew that J.J. was wrong. It was Shane’s fault Ilya couldn’t go back to Russia. It was Shane’s fault that he had to abandon his home. The best Shane could do was try to help make a new one, even if it was still split across two different countries. 

He sometimes wondered if Ilya missed it. If he missed living with people who dreamed in the same language that he did. Shane had been trying to learn Russian for years, and he was getting better, but he didn’t know if he’d ever be fluent enough to understand all the things going on in Ilya’s brain. 

But sometimes he felt like he could know every language, and still not understand Ilya. Shane always dreamed of him. It didn’t mean he was fluent.

“Still wish you could be there, Shane,” Hayden whispered to him from the locker beside his own. 

Now down to his skins, Shane dropped to the bench, pulling out his phone to text Ilya a bit. He knew he had some time before he would head to the showers. Hayden had repeatedly told him that he shouldn’t wait anymore, but it was just another battle that Shane was simply too exhausted to have. He always felt like he was bleeding out on one front or the other and didn’t care to add more just because Hayden wanted him to. Or because Ilya wanted him to.

“It’s fine, Hayd. Really. I’m excited to watch you,” Shane said simply.

Hayden sat down next to Shane in his skins as well. Hayden usually waited to shower with him. 

When the locker room had mostly emptied out, Hayden leaned over to look at Shane’s texts.

“When’s he coming in?” he asked.

Shane glanced up from his phone, eyes darting quickly around the room, confirming that they were the last two there. “Wednesday.”

Hayden nodded slowly. “Well, that will be nice at least.”

“Yeah, we usually don’t get to see each other for very long during the season. I’m looking forward to it. And we’re still planning to have everyone over to watch the finals, which I know Ilya is excited about,” he responded, smiling at another text from Ilya.

Hayden read it as well, and his face scrunched up. “Ew, man.”

Shane laughed quietly. “That’s what you get for reading my texts.”

“Oh come on, it’s right there! How was I not supposed to see that? And you’re just smiling sweetly as if he just professed his love for you instead of sending you fifteen eggplant emojis.”

Another text came through, and Shane smiled even brighter, making Hayden groan.

“Jesus Christ, man. I need to go bleach my eyes.”

“Hate the player, not the game, Hayden,” Shane teased.

Hayden gave him a look. “Trust me, I am hating the player. I am hating the player very much.”

But as Hayden gave him a soft smile, stripping off his shirt and grabbing a towel as the rest of their teammates started filing back in, Shane really didn’t think Hayden hated him at all.

* * * * *

“Did you grab the paper towels?” Shane called from the kitchen.

“Do not need them,” Ilya called back, shoving a large handful of popcorn into his mouth. 

Shane walked into the living room with a large roll of paper towels and an unamused expression. “You’re not allowed to wipe the butter on the couch.”

He gasped. “Shane, I would never! Never. I am trained very well,” he said with a wink, making Shane blush. 

He loved when Shane blushed. Somehow, the red coloring always started on the tips of his ears before traveling across his face to his nose. He loved that he still had that effect on Shane. That Shane hadn’t gotten tired of him.

Shane gave him a flat look. “So you’re going to wipe them on your pants?” he asked, nodding at Ilya’s outstretched hands, shiny from the grease. 

Ilya shook his head slowly. Then slowly he lowered both hands to brush along his sweats.

Shane groaned. “Oh my God, just use the fucking paper towels,” he said, throwing the roll at him.

Ilya caught it, tearing off the pieces that had gotten stained already by catching it, knowing that Shane wouldn’t like it if he left little fingerprints all over the roll. Sometimes Ilya wanted to leave them anyway. He had taken up the habit of pressing a hand into the window next to the door, leaving an imprint behind. Shane started noticing it, wiping it off and giving him an annoyed look. Ilya kept doing it. He wanted to leave his mark all over Shane and their house.

Shane plopped down on the couch next to Ilya, throwing an arm around him. Ilya leaned into the touch, resting his head on the crook of Shane’s shoulder. He allowed his head to lift up and down with Shane’s breaths, enjoying letting someone else move for him.

The Russia-Latvia game was in full swing. And Russia was losing. Badly.

He wondered if his father was watching. He wondered if he was grumbling about the flailing team. If he was thinking about Ilya. If he wished he was there, if only to play good hockey.

Latvia scored again, and Ilya couldn’t help but groan.

“They are moving like headless chickens, Shane,” Ilya grumbled. “They are not working together.”

“Yeah, it’s not great,” Shane agreed. “If you were there, they would be doing much better.”

“I do not know. I do not think even I could make this team good.”

“Wow,” Shane said sarcastically. “Not even you?”

Ilya shook his head, his hair getting pulled as it got caught in Shane’s shirt. He almost wanted it to pull harder. To hurt more. He wanted to tie the strands to Shane’s fingers so that he couldn’t move. So that he could tie himself to Shane in more ways than he already was.

“No, not even me. Not even best hockey player ever.”

“I don’t think they let Canadians onto the Russian team.”

“Shane,” Ilya gave him a look, slowing down his words. “I am not Canadian. I know is hard to understand because I look so good in red and white, but I am still not Canadian.”

“No,” Shane agreed, smirking. “But I am.”

Ilya smirked back, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, you think you are the best?”

“Obviously.”

Ilya shook his head, grabbing more popcorn. “Is not true. I have more cups than you.”

Shane gave him a confused expression. “You don’t have any cups.”

Ilya hummed. “Well, maybe not now. But I will have one at end of the season. And you will have none.”

“You fucking wish, dude,” Shane said, swatting his leg but leaving it there afterward. 

Ilya smiled and looked for his paper towel to wipe his hand, but it was now all the way on the coffee table, and Ilya didn’t feel like leaning forward to grab it. He slowly lowered his hand towards Shane’s pants, hoping he wouldn’t see. He did, and he swatted it again.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Shane said.

Ilya shrugged, staring at the napkin that was now even further away somehow. Miles and miles away, really.

Slowly, he lifted his hand towards Shane’s mouth, giving him a little wave. Shane turned his head, giving him an unimpressed look, but Ilya saw the little glimmer in his eyes. Without taking his eyes off Ilya, Shane leaned forward and licked his palm all the way up to the tip of his fingers.

Ilya smirked.

Shane leaned forward and kissed him hard, pushing him down onto the couch. He tasted like popcorn. Pulling their legs onto the couch, Shane moved to slot his leg in between Ilya's. Ilya gasped into Shane’s mouth, grabbing him by the waist and pulling him in as tight as he could, leaving little fingerprints on Shane’s hip. 

Ilya could hear the announcer talking about the weak Russian defense.

He couldn’t help but agree.

* * * * *

In the end, they didn’t watch much of the game. And the couch hadn’t stayed very clean, its leather marked by oily prints. Shane cleaned them all off with a little rag while Ilya picked up some of the little spilled pieces of popcorn. 

Ilya couldn’t help but stop and stare at the screen after depositing the popcorn in the trash, watching some of the post-game coverage. He knew a lot of the Russian players. He had the urge to text a few of them, offering his condolences on their loss and subsequent removal from the medal contention. It was embarrassing for them. Embarrassing for Russia. Ilya knew the feeling.

Shane stopped and stared at the screen as well before turning his attention to Ilya. “Are you okay?” he asked softly.

Ilya nodded. “I am fine.” He sighed, looking back at the screen, watching the clips from the game, every attempted shot, every successful goal. “I wish we were there.”

“Yeah,” Shane whispered.

“Is not fair to you. You should be there,” Ilya said firmly. Because it was unfair. Shane had no government to be worried about. No disowned family to haunt him. It was just good old-fashioned discrimination. And it was Ilya’s fault.

“Maybe we should play hockey,” Ilya suggested, reaching for Shane’s hand and grabbing a few of his fingers, letting them loosely link together.

Shane frowned. “Where would we play hockey?”

Ilya shrugged. “Do not know. Maybe a lake? Is cold enough, yes?”

Shane gave him a puzzled look. “We…we can’t go outside. It’s too public. You know that.”

Ilya rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Okay, so we find rink. We can get private session.”

Shane looked baffled. “And how do you think that will work out? I make the reservation in my name, and then the two of us show up? And we just say that you happened to be in Montreal and wanted to join?” he said sharply.

Ilya could feel the tension start to settle in the room, and suddenly all the furniture seemed sharper, the corners looking more dangerous, as if they’d cut him if he fell.

“Maybe,” he snapped. “Maybe we tell them this. Maybe we tell them nothing.”

“Oh, and I’m sure that will really go over great. I’m sure no one will have any questions. I’m sure the facility will be camera- and phone-free, and we’ll just walk in and out with no problem,” Shane said sarcastically.

Ilya threw up his hands, letting Shane’s fall from his grasp. “I don’t know, Shane. You just say you want to play hockey. I try to help us play hockey.”

“I didn’t say that. You said that. I just agreed. And I am playing hockey. Just not this week. And that’s fine,” Shane responded, crossing his arms in front of him tightly.

“Oh, is fine?”

“Yes. It’s fine.”

“Is fine when players treat you badly? Is fine when they do not tell you to join Olympic team? Even though you are the best player in the league,” Ilya said, exasperated.

“I thought that was you. I thought you were the best player in the league, Captain,” Shane said harshly.

Ilya flinched. 

Shane was right, of course. He knew that. But sometimes he wanted Shane to yell at him, because he wouldn’t yell at anyone else. Ilya wanted him to yell at the world. To scream at them. But he wouldn’t. 

Ilya sometimes wondered if Shane didn’t fight the league because he was too busy fighting Ilya here at home. It never seemed to stop him from doing it—from yelling lies at him. From yelling truths. It was just that sometimes, he felt like he needed to scream just to fill their empty houses with noise, trying to make the space feel a little smaller so he didn’t always feel like he was drowning. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. It was in times like this that Ilya couldn’t help but remember the way his parents had yelled at each other. Maybe they too were haunted by houses that were too big.

He felt every strand of his father’s anger and mother’s sadness creep into his heart, as he carefully moved closer to Shane, his head lowered.

“I am sorry,” Ilya whispered.

Shane sighed, reaching forward to wrap his arms around Ilya. Ilya let his limbs hang loosely by his side as he was pulled in, his arms swinging lightly with the motion. 

“I’m sorry too,” Shane whispered back, holding him tightly. 

They stood there for a moment, Ilya slowly melting further into Shane’s body, allowing himself to melt into the crooks and spaces of him. He wondered if, when people looked at him, they could see the shape of Shane. He hoped they did. He was worried about what shapes they would see instead if they didn’t.

Shane sniffed slightly before pulling back to look at him. “I think I know how we can play hockey.”

Ilya frowned. “How?”

Shane smiled.

* * * * *

“Okay, so this basket is my goal, and that basket is your goal, yes?”

“Yep,” Shane said, tossing his broom back and forth in his hands, a smile spreading onto his face. 

Shane watched as Ilya frowned at his own mop. “Why do you get the broom and I get mop?”

He shrugged. “My game, my rules.”

Ilya scoffed. “Is not your game. Is hockey.”

“Yeah, exactly. It’s my game.”

Ilya smirked. “Okay. Game on, Hollander.”

Shane smacked the soccer ball, pushing it across the hardwood floor, now clear of couches and coffee tables, which were all pushed against the far wall. He turned his body as Ilya pushed into him, feeling him crowded up against his back. He tried to push the soccer ball around Ilya, but Ilya used the mop to smack it to the side of the room. Both of them slid on their socks over to the ball, smacking each other’s fake sticks out of the way as they went. 

It wasn’t hockey. It wasn’t even close. But Shane loved it. The weight and disappointment weren’t gone, but now it was lingering in the corners, stacked between the furniture they had moved so that they could play.

Ilya hip-checked him out of the way.

“Penalty!” Shane called, shoving him back.

Ilya scoffed, but paused to look at Shane, the soccer ball rolling innocently between them. “What penalty?” he asked.

“Charging,” Shane said simply.

Ilya gave him a flat look, pushing the ball towards him. Shane caught it with his broom, handling it back and forth. 

“Shane,” he said. “How is that charging?”

Shane shrugged. “I don’t know. Just felt illegal. Had to call something.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Oh, and what felt so illegal?”

Shane stepped closer to him, taking the soccer ball with him and letting it roll into Ilya’s legs. “It was distracting.”

He leaned forward, giving Ilya a long kiss.

Shane loved kissing Ilya. When he was younger, he had wondered if the feeling would ever not excite him. If he would ever not feel completely helpless, desperately spiraling with each flick of the tongue and soft exhale. And it had gotten less exciting. There wasn’t anything novel anymore, but he enjoyed it even more. Enjoyed the comfort, the familiarity. Enjoyed the moment of peace and safety. He liked having someone else’s mouth tied so tightly to his own, changing the taste of everything he ate and the shape of the words that rolled off his tongue.

Just as Ilya moved to deepen the kiss, Shane knocked the mop out of his hand, letting it clatter to the floor, before smacking the soccer ball to the left. He twisted out of Ilya’s grasp and pushed the ball towards the laundry basket up against the wall, sinking it in.

“YOU CHEAT!” Ilya yelled, grabbing Shane by the waist and lifting him up.

“Hey! Put me down, Ilya!” he yelled, laughing.

“Never!” Ilya cried back before walking over to the couch and throwing him down on it. He crowded Shane, kissing him hard, the broom still clenched in Shane’s fist. 

Ilya pulled back and grinned. “You have to stay here in penalty box. Two minutes.” 

Shane sighed, reaching his free hand to run through Ilya’s curls. “A whole two minutes? All by myself?”

Ilya nodded firmly, his weight pressing further into Shane. “Yes. Must sit here and be quiet. Need to learn lesson. Must be a punishment.”

“That’s too bad,” Shane said. “I might have to kiss the attendant while I’m here, though.”

“You would kiss another man?” Ilya asked with a gasp. “I cannot believe you. Who is the attendant? At least tell me he is not as hot as me.”

Shane sighed. “I don’t know. He’s pretty hot…”

“I will kill him, Shane. Show me to him now.”

Shane reached forward, grabbing Ilya’s shirt and pulling him for another kiss. Ilya hummed happily into it, the vibrations tickling his nose. He wrapped his hands around Ilya’s back, enjoying the familiar feeling of muscle and bone. 

“So? He’s pretty hot, huh,” Shane mumbled into Ilya’s mouth.

“Mm, yes,” Ilya said, pulling away with a grin. “I understand. You must run away with him.”

“Maybe I will,” he responded, smiling back. “But first, we have a game to finish.” Shane twisted out from under Ilya and stood up, stretching out his hand. “Come on, Roz. My two minutes are up.”

Ilya grinned and took the hand, letting Shane pull him up. 

They played for a while, each of them calling out little announcements as they went. 

“Shane Hollander makes his way down the ice, gracefully avoiding the defensemen.”

“Rozanov is looking for someone to pass to. Can find no one. Is okay. He is the best. He will shoot, and SCORE!”

“Hollander has consistently been the best player on the ice, but he is outdoing even himself tonight.”

“Rozanov is taking hard check from other team. They are bully. They are trying to kill him.”

“Goalie interference. Rozanov is trying to kiss the other player. We’ve never seen this tactic before. It doesn’t seem to be working.”

“Will work. Is working. Hollander is going down hard.”

“Penalty! Foul! Cheat!”

“Is not cheat. Is best strategy. Rozanov has such good hockey IQ.”

“Oh please, you’re not even trying to score—”

And if they ended up making out on center ice? Well. The announcers didn’t report that. 

* * * * *

“ILYA!” Lily cried as she stepped through the doorway, flinging herself onto Ilya, wrapping him in a hug.

“Hello, twin!” Ilya called back as per usual. 

She detached herself from him, poking at the corner of his eye. “You look tired, Ilya.”

He rolled his eyes. “Just because I do not wear makeup today means I must look tired? This is so not feminist of you, Lily.”

She rolled her eyes and shoved him lightly before handing him a bottle of wine. 

Ilya glanced at it before looking back at her. “What is this? We tell you not to bring anything, so you bring shitty bottle of wine?”

Lily shrugged, patting him on the back. “Well, that shitty bottle is just for you and Shane. I owe you one for stealing a bottle from you last time.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You stole our five hundred dollar bottle of wine, and now you are giving us a fifteen dollar bottle from gas station?”

“Yep!” Lily said cheerily, kicking off her shoes and handing Ilya her coat, which he hung. “I’m so thoughtful this way. Make sure to let it air out before you use it though. I think it might be slightly toxic. A wine as good as this,” she said, flicking the bottle, making a small clang, “needs to breathe.”

“Wow. You are so generous,” Ilya said flatly.

“I know, right. Hey, is everyone else here already?” she asked, hooking her arm through his and walking towards the living room.

“Yes, you show up five minutes into game. Everyone else has been here for a while.”

He let her guide him into the living room, following the noise of loud chatter. Bryce and Kate were hovering near the snacks, chatting in giggles and hushed tones. Shane had already shushed them twice to keep it down so that he could hear the TV. He could tell that Yuna was seconds away from shushing them a third time, as she leaned closer as well, eyes carefully tracking each player on the ice. Shane had certainly not gotten his obsession with hockey from David, who was not so subtly playing sudoku on his phone.

“Lily!” Svetlana called from the couch, standing up to greet the other woman with a hug. “You’ve missed so much. Shane is so disappointed with you.”

Shane waved vaguely at the two of them, his eyes not leaving the screen. Ilya moved to sit next to him, wrapping his arms around him.

Lily settled next to Svetlana, grabbing at a bowl of chips from the table and throwing her legs over Svetlana’s lap. “I didn’t know you were going to be here, Sveta,” she said, shoving a handful of chips into her mouth. 

Svetlana rolled her eyes, brushing some of the crumbs off of Lily’s face. “Yes, Ilya said he missed me so much that he just had to pay for my flight here. He didn’t want to be overrun by Hollanders and Hollander’s lovers.”

He had indeed paid for Svetlana’s flight to Montreal. And it was because he missed her. But it was also because he felt guilty about not having responded to her last few texts. He didn’t know why it sometimes felt so painful to open the thread and type out little messages in response to little ‘how are you’s. Sometimes it felt like if he responded to one of those texts, then he wouldn’t be able to do anything else for the rest of the day. It felt easier to just buy the plane ticket somehow.

“Oh come on, Sveta,” Lily said, giving Ilya a little sad look. “Bryce only kissed Shane once. It didn’t even mean anything.”

“Lily,” Bryce hissed from behind him.

Ilya froze, slowly turning to look at a very pale-faced Bryce in the kitchen. 

Bryce laughed nervously. “Oh, come on, Ilya. It was just one kiss! It was years ago, and it didn’t even mean anything.”

“It didn’t mean anything,” Ilya repeated slowly. For the first time since the game had started, Shane had pulled his attention away from the game and was trying to push Ilya’s head back towards the TV with his index finger pressing into his cheek. Ilya didn’t look away, only glaring at Bryce slightly more.

Bryce gulped. “I mean…obviously it meant something. But like, friendship! Platonic love!”

Ilya kept staring, not saying a word. Kate took a step away from Bryce, her eyes wide and her hand over her mouth, trying to stop herself from laughing.

“It was just a silly little kiss between friends! I’m not saying Shane’s not hot or any—”

Bryce froze as Ilya slowly tilted his head.

“Okay,” Bryce said finally, nodding quickly. “I’ll just go kill myself, okay?”

“Good idea,” Ilya said flatly, letting Shane’s finger finally guide him towards the screen. 

Shane gave him an unimpressed look. “You done?”

“No. How many men have you kissed?” he asked, wrapping his arms slightly tighter around Shane.

“Three if Kate finally gets her way,” Jackie said, holding a bouncing Ruby on her lap.

“Don’t fucking bring me into this, Jack,” Kate called, moving from the kitchen to sit on the floor in front of the TV, holding out a toy to a crawling Jade. 

“What do you mean?” Ilya asked.

“Don’t—” Kate began.

“Kate wants Shane to kiss Hayden. She thinks it would be fun to watch,” Jackie said, smirking.

“No!” Kate yelled, looking wide-eyed between Jackie and Ilya. “I just think Hayden has latent bisexual tendencies that haven’t been explored!” 

Ilya gave her a cold look, and Kate picked up Jade, placing her between Ilya and herself.

“Great, Jackie,” Bryce hissed. “Now Shane’s not going to have any friends anymore. I hope you're happy.”

Ilya shrugged, leaning back into the couch, pulling Shane with him. “No. Is fine. I think you are right, Kate. But do not think Shane should kiss him.”

Jackie gave him a puzzled expression. “Who should kiss him instead?”

Ilya smirked. “Me.”

Jackie cackled, and Shane let out an outraged cry next to him and smacked his arm hard. “What the fuck, Ilya!”

“Now, I would pay money to see that,” Kate muttered from the floor.

“As much fun as this conversation is,” Yuna said dryly from beside David, “Canada just scored.”

“Fuck,” Shane hissed, shoving Ilya lightly with his shoulder, but then using the movement to cuddle further into him. “Stop fucking distracting me.”

“Language,” Jackie and Yuna called at the same time. Ilya rolled his eyes. Mothers.

He turned back towards the TV, watching as the Canadian team piled onto Hayden, slapping him on the back, including Marleau, who gave Pike a dramatic kiss on the helmet. Hayden was grinning wildly, giving the cheering crowd a little wave of acknowledgment as his team separated from him.

“Can’t believe I missed Hayden’s goal,” Shane grumbled as they played the replay, all of them watching as Hayden slid the puck in between the American goalie’s legs.

Ilya couldn’t help but imagine Shane there, wearing red and white and jumping on Hayden in excitement. He could tell from the stiff silence in the room that he wasn’t the only one thinking it.

“Is very rare event for him,” Ilya muttered. 

Shane gave him a pointed look. “Be nice, Ilya,” he whispered, his eyes looking briefly around the room at his friends and family. 

Svetlana was also looking at Ilya, a little too knowingly. Ilya only shook his head at her. She reached over to grab his free hand, giving it a little squeeze.

The second period started without either team scoring again. Ilya kept glancing at Shane to see how he was handling it. He was glad they could have Shane’s other team here with them. The one that didn’t let him down. The one that did their best to pass to Shane and block hits. But they could only block the ones they knew about. The ones they could see coming.

Both Svetlana and Shane leaned into him, pressing in tight for different reasons. Although as Shane whispered a little ‘are you okay?’ to Ilya during a commercial break, Ilya wasn’t sure if they were so different after all.

He started noticing that every once in a while, when Ilya looked at Shane, Shane was already looking back at him, as if he were the one who needed checking in on. As if he were the one watching his own country betray him on national television.

The Americans finally tied the game at the end of the second with a goal from Scott Hunter. Jackie scoffed as they panned to one of the players who spat furiously onto the ice.

“I can’t believe they let Dallas Kent go to Sochi. He’s literally a rookie,” she said.

“Yeah, and he’s a terrible center. Sure, he may be good in Toronto one day, but in the meantime, he has way too much growing to do to be called up to the Olympics,” Yuna said from the far side of the couch, tsking judgmentally as Kent yelled at one of the defensemen.

“Yes, and he has a fucking mouth on him,” Ilya grumbled, ignoring the glare Shane shot him.

Yuna frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing. He just chirps a lot,” Shane said, pinching Ilya’s elbow, making Ilya squirm.

Yuna squinted, seeing the interaction. “No, what does it mean?”

“Nothing! He’s just an asshole,” Shane said, his voice getting a little too loud. Lily’s eyebrows raised, and Bryce coughed slightly into his elbow.

“I think play might be starting—” David tried to say before Kate interrupted.

“What, does he just swear a lot? I’m confused.”

“Yes,” Ilya said. Shane was breathing heavily into his ear, each exhale acting as a warning. “If you think that saying ‘fag’ is swearing, then yes—” He gave Shane a pointed look, Shane’s eyes flashing angrily. “—he does swear a lot.”

The room stilled, and Bryce swore under his breath. Yuna inhaled sharply.

“He’s calling you that during games?” she asked, her face pinched.

“No,” Ilya said, grinding his teeth slightly. Shane squeezed his thigh tightly. “He does not call me this during game.”

Heads turned toward the man next to him, who turned bright red. The hand on Ilya’s thigh was now painful.

“Fucking drop it, Ilya,” Shane hissed.

“Shane—” David began.

“It’s not a big deal!” Shane exclaimed, pushing himself out of Ilya’s grasp so that he could stand, collecting some of the trash and soda cans that had started to fill up the coffee table. Ilya leaned forward so that he could grab his own can before Shane could take it. Shane gave him a pointed look.

“It’s not a—”

“It is a big deal, Shane. Is a big fucking deal.”

“No,” Shane said firmly. “It’s not.”

“What, because it happens all the time?” Ilya spat. Svetlana poked him in the side. He ignored her.

“No, that’s—”

“Because you hear it during game. But you also hear it in locker room.”

“What, like you don’t get it too?” Shane hissed, ignoring the wide eyes of the group.

“No. Not like you do. They know not to. They know my team will support me.”

“My team does too—”

“No,” Ilya spat. The TV was showing Pike’s face again. “They do not. Do not even block hits well—”

“I can handle myself out there, Ilya. I’m not a fucking child,” Shane said sharply, moving towards the kitchen, arms full of trash. He threw it into the garbage can, making a loud noise that startled Jade, who started crying. 

“Shit,” Kate said quietly, picking up Jade and trying to rock her back and forth to soothe her.

“Shane—” Yuna began softly as Shane walked back into the living room.

“I’m fine, Mom,” Shane responded harshly.

“Yes, and you look so fine,” Ilya said sarcastically.

“Ilya,” Shane barked, standing at the front of the room, crossing his arms. “Bedroom. Now.”

Ilya glared at him. “No,” he said, sinking further back into the couch, “I am watching game.”

“Ilya,” Shane repeated, his eyes darting around the room at their uncomfortable guests.

Ilya grumbled, but finally flung himself from the couch, storming down the hall into their bedroom, Shane close behind. Shane slammed the door behind them.

“You’re fucking embarrassing me out there,” he hissed.

Ilya scoffed. “Oh, I am embarrassing you? I am always embarrassing you.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Shane said, his voice shaking slightly.

“Is like I said. Do not want to skate in public with me. Do not want anyone to see. I embarrass you,” he sneered.

“We’re still fucking on this?” Shane asked incredulously. “You know why we can’t fucking do that. That can’t be what’s really bothering you.”

“And what is really bothering me, Shane?”

“God if I fucking know, Ilya. I don’t know what’s up with you. You keep moping around—”

“Oh, I am the one moping?”

“Yeah. You are. I don’t know what’s going on with you.”

Ilya breathed heavily, feeling the weight of every sleepless night in Boston pressing in on him. His heart was racing. He felt energy that he hadn’t felt in months. “You want me to tell you? I have told you. I am upset because you will not stand up for yourself. Is because you let league bully you—”

“Really,” Shane said flatly. “Really, that’s why you’re upset. You're upset because the fucking league isn’t kissing my feet like they’re kissing yours.”

“No, is because you do nothing! You do not yell at them. You yell at me!”

“Because they’re not the ones bringing up shit in front of our family. In front of our friends.”

“They are your family, Shane. Your friends. They deserve to know.”

Shane scrunched his eyes in confusion, sputtering. “They’re your friends and family too, Ilya.”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “No, Shane. They are yours.”

“Is that what this is about?” Shane asked in disbelief.  “That you didn’t get to invite as many people? Fine,” he spat, “Who else would you have liked to invite?”

Ilya seethed. He said the first name he could think of. “Tom.”

“Tom?” Shane yelled, laughing cruelly. “Tom,” he said pointedly, “your fucking guidelines person.”

“I thought guidelines didn’t matter, Shane.” Ilya mocked.

“You’re fucking exhausting sometimes, Ilya,” Shane said, throwing his hands up in frustration and running a hand through his hair. 

Ilya’s heart sank. He always knew Shane was getting tired of him. Tired of the secrets. He hated hearing it out loud.

“I do not know what you want from me,” he said harshly, trying to cover up the hurt he knew wanted to leak through.

“What do I want from you?” Shane snapped. “I want you to stop bringing up shit we can’t control. I want you to stop arguing with me in front of everybody. It’s fucking humiliating—” Shane took another deep breath, his chest rapidly rising and falling. “—and I want you to stop acting like a fucking child,” he spat.

He wanted to scream at Shane, telling him exactly what he was feeling. What he had been feeling for months every time he found himself in a quiet, dark room. What he felt the second he closed Shane’s car door. He wanted to yell the truth. He wanted to scream things he didn’t mean. He wanted Shane to hurt the way he hurt. He wanted their scars to match.

“Fine,” he said furiously. “I will stop embarrassing you. You want me to leave?”

“I didn’t fucking say that—”

“Fine. I will get out of your house.”

“For fuck’s sake, Ilya—” Shane began. But Ilya didn’t hear the rest of it as he flung open the door to the bedroom. 

He marched down the hallway, ignoring the audience that was sitting quietly in the living room as he passed them. Ignoring the TV that was now muted. He moved toward the front door, grabbing his coat from the hook. He flung it open, storming out into the snow, and slamming it behind him. 

The cold air hit him like a hard check, and Ilya felt as though the air had been knocked out of him. As if he had left his lungs behind him, behind the closed door. He stood on the stoop, looking out at the driveway, filled with parked cars. He started shivering violently, pulling his coat on and folding his arms to try to trap more heat in. 

He didn’t have anywhere to go. Not really. He was in the middle of Montreal at his secret boyfriend’s secret house. He thought again about the house in Boston that always felt too big. Too many rooms. Too many empty spaces. It reminded him of when he was a child, trying on his father’s suits only to find that it was still too big for him, drowning in pressed fabric and black buttons. He wondered when the world had gotten too big for him, too. 

He stood just beyond the point where the roof stretched over the pavement, letting the snow drift onto his shoulders, dusting his curls. 

He didn’t want to go. Not really. He never did.

He sat down on the front steps. Shane had shoveled them before everyone had come. He hated knowing that he was sitting in the space Shane had made. 

The door opened behind him.

“I do not want to talk, Shane,” he said, running a finger in the snow bank next to him, making little swirls.

He felt someone sit next to him. He glanced over, expecting Shane or even Svetlana.

It was David. 

“I do not want to talk to you either, David,” Ilya mumbled.

David nodded. “Okay,” he said simply.

He reached an arm around Ilya, pulling him closer by his shoulder until Ilya was leaning against him. He moved a hand into Ilya’s hair, brushing it gently. 

Ilya heard a small sob escape him before he felt the tears slowly run down his cheeks. He was still shivering, but David’s body heat was leaking into him, warming him.

They sat like that for a while, just letting the snow fall around them, leaving little imprints on the porch. David didn’t pull away for a second, continuing to run his hand down Ilya’s head and shoulders.

Ilya sniffed. “We should probably go in. Do not want you to freeze,” he said, but made no move to get up first.

“I’m okay. Are you okay?” David asked softly.

Ilya shrugged. “I am Russian. Is not that cold.”

David hummed. “Just because we were raised to handle the cold doesn’t mean we have to. Doesn’t mean we should,” David added when Ilya let out a harsh shiver. David patted him on the back. “Okay?”

Ilya slowly nodded. “Okay,” he whispered.

The two of them made their way inside the house. David let Ilya take off his coat and hang it up before resting his hand back on Ilya’s shoulders. They made their way past the dining room and kitchen where most of the group was sitting around the table, chatting a bit too loudly and all wearing similar faces of unease. Svetlana gave him a concerned look that Ilya just shook his head at.

David guided Ilya back into the living room where Shane was sitting next to Yuna. Both of them were curled up in a blanket, their feet resting on the coffee table in front of them. Shane glanced up at Ilya with red eyes before looking back down towards his hands that were fiddling with a loose thread, wrapping it around his fingers. 

Ilya sat a few inches away from Shane, and David took a seat beside him. Ilya glanced up at the TV that was still playing softly.

They were watching the post-game coverage. Ilya wondered how much of the actual game Shane had been able to catch. He hoped he had gotten to see what he had wanted. What he had been looking at the screen so intently for.

The Canadians had won gold, and Ilya smiled sadly as he watched them put a medal around Marleau’s neck, who was grinning brightly. 

He heard a long, shaky inhale to his left. Still staring at the screen, Ilya placed his feet on the coffee table next to Shane’s. 

He slowly dragged his foot closer, closing the inches that were still between the rest of their bodies.

He nudged Shane’s foot three times. He waited.

Shane’s foot twitched before tapping his back. Three times.

Chapter End Notes

heyyyyy. How y'all doin'?

Besties, I apologize. We are cranking up the angst again. Which means that I will have fun, and you all will have less fun. But don't worry. I have planned a slutty little scene for the next chapter...although it might get pushed to the chapter after.

Speaking of which...check out the new chapter count...hehe...stick with it folks! We are cranking out chapters now. We are hustling and bustling, don't even worry.

My beta reader made me rewrite the entire first section of this chapter 😭. She texted me the words "nuke it." And I did indeed "nuke it."
I don't know how to feel about this chapter overall lol. Kind of anxious about it. Kind of nervy. I reserve the right to make edits after publication lol

Hang in there! If you need some fluff to read after this, you are always welcome to read any of my other works (because I really only know how to write Ilya and Shane one way, so their banter is always going to sound similar in everything I write even if I try to make it different lol).

Thanks for reading and commenting! <3

Chapter 10: Where the world was empty save you and I

Chapter Notes

"Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene"

Remember when I said I liked circles?...

I saw a dog today that looked like you

Ilya: did you take picture?

Ilya: Please tell me you take picture

I couldn’t

I was running past it

I didn’t have enough time to take a picture

Ilya: ((((((((((((((((

Ilya: ((((((((((((((((

Ilya: ((((((((((((((((

Well that’s a little dramatic, don’t you think

Ilya: No

Ilya: Not dramatic enough

Ilya: Do not text me again if its not a picture of dog

Ilya: Or you

Picture of Shane smiling and sitting on his couch

Ilya: Good boy

Wow. Okay.

Don’t forget to delete that

Ilya: I know.

Okay.

Ilya: I saw a dog today that looked like you too

Oh yeah?

Ilya: Yes. It ran to me in the park and tried to bite my dick off

Ilya: Is so like you

Fuck you

Watch what happens next time my teeth get near your dick

Just watch

Ilya: Down boy

“Are you texting Ilya?” Hayden asked as he turned out onto the road in front of Shane’s apartment complex. Shane was starting to resent the building a little bit. It was in a good location, and the space would only grow in value over time; Shane had made sure of that. But he sometimes felt as if he were in a big glass box, hovering above the real world, surrounded by the rigid, grey pieces his decorator had added. 

He couldn’t really explain why it had started to bother him. He had owned the apartment for years now. But it just had this particular smell. All buildings had a distinctive scent, ones that he was often reminded of at odd times throughout the day. There were towels that reminded him of his grandparents' house. Hallways that smelled exactly like the sixth grade. Summer afternoons that reeked of yearbook signing day.

But his home growing up never smelled like anything. Homes never did. It was just too familiar to be distinctive.

The Boston house didn’t have a scent. The Montreal house didn’t either.

“Yeah,” Shane responded. Hayden’s car had a distinctly young child smell about it. Probably from the back seats that permanently contained crushed goldfish in between the cracks.

Hayden and Shane often carpooled to games. For starters, Shane’s apartment was on the way to the arena, and for another, Shane often spent the night at their house after games anyway. Jackie liked to keep an eye on him. Players rarely antagonized Shane anymore, but Shane knew that it helped ease enough people’s minds that he kept doing it, and kept ignoring the texts that he knew Jackie would send while he lay on the couch watching TV with Hayden. To his mom. To Lily. To Ilya.

He didn’t need to care about it. But they did, so he let them.

“How are you two doing?” Hayden asked, glancing at him briefly before turning back to the road.

Shane shrugged, placing his phone flat down on his thigh and looking out the passenger window. “We’re fine.”

He could feel Hayden trying to look at him, catching the quick turns of his head in his peripheral vision.

“Are you…are you guys still fighting?” Hayden said awkwardly, his voice cracking at the end as if the words didn’t really want to come out at all.

Shane shot him a flat look. “We weren’t fighting.”

“That’s not what Jackie said.”

“We’re fine. Jackie’s exaggerating.” And they were fine. The game in Boston had gone well. Well, the Metros had lost, but the before and after were nice. Neither Ilya nor Shane had brought up anything they had talked about during the Olympics. Nor really any of the arguments that had plagued their relationship for the past two years. 

It wasn’t either of their faults. It was just the cards they were dealt, and at the end of the day, the house always wins.

Just don’t forget to delete the messages okay?

Ilya: Shane. I will.

Ilya: I always remember.

Okay.

They pulled up to the arena, grabbed their gear from the back of the car, and walked inside, chatting casually about the team. A couple other players were already in the locker room, talking loudly and throwing on their gear. Zach Griffen, one of their rookies who also happened to have the stall next to his, was already there as well, and Shane joined him on his left, pulling his stuff out of his bag.

Griffen turned towards him, fidgeting slightly, throwing his stick back and forth between his hands. He usually tried to make small conversation with Shane here and there, but it had been ramping up the last few weeks. 

“You excited for the game, Hollander?” Griffen asked nervously.

Shane shrugged, taking off his game day suit and hanging it carefully in his stall. “I mean, yeah, but I’m mostly concerned with trying to make playoffs this year,” he said.

“With the way you’ve been playing? I think we’ve got this,” Griffen responded.

“Let’s not jinx it,” Shane said, sitting down on the bench to tie his skates.

Griffen sat next to him on the bench, his body pressed against Shane’s, and Shane turned to him, giving him a confused look. 

Griffen hesitated, glancing around them. “I just…I wanted you to know I think you’re a great player. The best, really.”

Shane blinked at him. “Thanks, Griff. That, um, that means a lot.”

Griffen nodded seriously. “I think…well, I think a lot of younger guys here have been watching you play for a while, and it’s uh…well, it’s really inspiring, I guess.”

Shane raised an eyebrow. What exactly was so inspiring about what he had done? All he had done was play decent hockey. Well, that and he had moved from one secret relationship to another. He hadn’t talked to the press. He hadn’t spoken out. He hadn’t fought, as Ilya always reminded him.

He used to wonder what kind of role model he would be before…well, everything had happened. He often pictured young boys watching him, analyzing his moves as Shane had done to so many hockey players, imagining themselves in Shane’s place, dreaming of becoming like him. Now, he couldn’t help but think about those same kids watching him, feeling a bit let down. 

“Inspiring?” Shane asked.

Griffen swallowed, eyes darting around the locker room quickly. “Yeah. I thought it was pretty fucking inspiring. I know a lot of the other players on other teams feel the same.”

“You’re talking to other players about me?” Shane asked, taken aback.

“I mean…you’re Shane Hollander,” Griffen said with a shrug. “When aren’t people talking about you?”

Griffen got up to continue getting ready, shooting Shane one last firm nod. Shane wasn’t sure he knew what Griffen was referring to. Had he heard people talking shit about Shane and felt the need to stand up for him in private? He didn’t like thinking about what hushed conversations were happening in the corners of locker rooms that he wasn’t in. Well, other than the obvious ones.

A couple of other players gathered around a phone, loudly discussing whatever they were watching. Shane frowned, listening in on their conversation

“I mean, look at that shot. That’s fucking insane,” Gangon called, pointing at the screen.

“He looks like a totally different player,” another player responded.

“Something definitely lit a fire under his ass, that’s for sure. I think he’s gunning for the cup.”

“We’re all gunning for the cup, Mitty.”

“Not like that. Not like he’s doing.”

“Jesus. Rozanov’s fucking insane.”

* * * * *

Ilya was still flying down the ice by the time the buzzer went off, signaling the end of the regular season and clinching the Raiders’ spot in the playoffs. Marleau crashed into him first, before the rest of the Raiders joined.

“Let’s fucking go, Rozy!” Marleau screamed, knocking his helmet. 

The energy and anger from the game had yet to completely leave his body, and the residual tension pooled heavily in his stomach. He had felt like his body was on fire since the Olympics ended, every breath in only fueling the flame. He couldn’t be bothered to worry about whether he was burning himself out because all he could think about was the next game, the next victory. The next moment he could prove himself.

It was a pleasure to burn.

“Holy fuck, we’re going to win. Holy fuck!” Sebbin cried. They had just beaten the number-one-ranked team in the league by three points.

“Hey, do not say this. Is bad luck,” Ilya called back as his teammates slowly started to detach themselves from him. He felt powerful under their adoring gazes.

The group clamored back into the locker room, pushing and shoving each other, the excitement of the game still coursing through them. Ilya couldn’t help but love this feeling. He loved being connected with so many other people. He liked believing they were all experiencing the exact same thing, each of them unable to think or talk about anything else. He wondered if this was how cults started. Maybe they, too, just loved not having to think about anything outside the shared experience. Maybe they joined because life was too much to bear on their own.

“Yo, party at my place!” Marleau yelled to the group, who cheered in return. He clapped a hand on Ilya’s back. “That means you too, Roz.”

Ilya hummed. “Sorry, I cannot. Have so many more important things to do,” he said, stripping off his clothes.

“No, come on, Cap. You’ve gotta come!” Mercer called.

“Come on, Roz. What else are you gonna do? Just mope around your apartment?” Marleau asked with a soft expression that was a little bit too sincere for Ilya’s liking.

Yes, Ilya thought bitterly as he packed up his things. He had big, big plans to call his boyfriend, who would probably not answer the phone because he went to bed too early, before lying on the carpeted floor, staring at the ceiling and wondering what it would be like to walk on it.

Ilya sighed. “Fine,” he responded, receiving loud cheers and a few excited pats on the back. Now that he thought about it, the carpet had started to feel a bit itchier these days.

So he let his team corral him from the room, guiding him into whoever’s car he was now in. He tried to stay focused on what his teammates were saying, but without the adrenaline of the game, his mind began to drift back into its familiar numbness. He tilted his head, leaning against the pane of glass separating him from the streaks of light flying past them in the dark night. 

He felt tired. He felt so fucking tired. He wondered how anyone ever really did anything. He was probably just lazier than most people, like his father had always said. He thought about Shane. He thought about everything that Shane deserved, trying to siphon energy from the anger that was always there. He felt a little guilty for using Shane once again to try to make himself feel better, but maybe they had always used each other. Maybe Ilya didn’t know how to care about people without using them.

By the time most of the team had strolled into Marleau’s house, Ilya had made a decision. He was going to get fucked up.

He grabbed a bottle of vodka that Marleau always kept on hand for him and poured himself a generous glass, draining it quickly before pouring another one. As the night went on, Ilya felt himself getting more and more drunk, his mind slowly drifting from one thought to another until it couldn’t really think much anymore. Just as he had intended. Some of the guys were playing loud music, and Ilya found himself slowly swaying to the beat by himself in the kitchen while the rest of the team was crowded around the TV playing Chel or gathered elsewhere chatting.

“Whoa, Roz. You doing good there?” Marleau said as he entered the kitchen where Ilya was once again picking up the bottle of vodka and taking a large swig.

Ilya nodded. The room was spinning a bit too much with each movement of his head, so he stopped.

“You told me to come party. I party,” Ilya slurred.

He could see that Marleau was frowning, but he wasn’t sure why. The other man plucked the bottle out of Ilya’s hands when he went to take another sip, and Ilya whined, grabbing at it.

“Dude, you’re drunk,” Marleau said.

Ilya gave him a pointed look. “Wow, really? I had no idea,” he responded sarcastically.

Marleau glanced around the empty kitchen before leaning closer to him. “Is everything okay, Roz? Do you need to go home and call Hollander?”

Ilya blew a little raspberry and shook his head again. He kind of felt like the world was falling over. Or maybe it was just Marly’s house. He decided he didn’t like the house very much. It didn’t feel right. There wasn’t a plant on the windowsill above the kitchen sink.

“Do not need to call. I am fine! I am at party. I am dancing,” he said, moving his body side to side to show him. 

Marleau just watched as he swayed, fiddling with his own phone in his hands. “Maybe I’ll just give Hollander a call myself—”

“Nooooo, Marly. Dance with me,” Ilya whined, grabbing both of Marleau’s hands and forcing him to sway to the loud music in the room next to them.

Marleau sighed but let himself get moved to the beat. He gave Marleau a little spin, giggling as he did so. Marleau just rolled his eyes, giving Ilya a soft smile. He pulled Ilya in closer, wrapping him in a firm hug. Ilya tried to throw his arms around him as well so that he wouldn’t feel as small as he did, but he found himself sinking into the embrace, sniffling slightly as they continued to sway.

“I worry about you, man,” Marleau said, his face still resting on Ilya’s shoulder as he patted him hard on the back with his fist.

“Do not need to worry. I am great. We won the game,” Ilya said simply and shrugged his shoulders underneath Marleau’s arms. 

Marleau pulled back and studied his face. It was odd to see so many thoughts going through the hockey player’s mind. Ilya wasn’t sure he enjoyed the scrutiny. He wondered what he saw. Ilya squinted, trying to study his own reflection in Marleau’s eyes.

“You’re thinking about the game? That’s all?”

Ilya nodded firmly again, scrunching his face up to show his seriousness.

Marleau grinned at him, pulling away and slapping him on the back a few times. “We’re gonna fucking win it, Rozy. I can feel it,” he said.

“If you say so, Marly,” Ilya responded. He let Marleau grab his hands this time, and now he was the one being forced to dance.

Ilya couldn’t help but think about the cup. About each engraving that wasn’t Shane’s. Ilya wondered about the rings they wouldn’t get to share. 

He started imagining Shane dancing here with him instead of Marleau. He let his drunk mind cast his silhouette onto Marleau’s form, changing the curves and lines until they were familiar and warm. He held Marleau’s hands tighter, trying to keep the image steady. 

He wanted to dance in the kitchen with Shane. They never had. He didn’t know why not. Shane didn’t really listen to music anyway, but Ilya was sure he would dance with him if Ilya asked. Shane usually did. Despite their many disagreements, Shane was still quite pliant to Ilya’s little wishes and desires. 

Sometimes Ilya wondered if he was solely burning away the pieces of Shane that made him different from Ilya. Sometimes he noticed Shane using little words or phrases he hadn't known before meeting Ilya, and Ilya knew they were from spending time with him. He was often endeared by Shane’s little imitations. His little accented ‘okay’s or slips of Russian here and there. The little parentheses that Shane had started to let invade his text messages. He didn’t want to be able to see the other parts of himself in Shane, too. The ones that made it hard for him to get up in the morning and to fall asleep at night. There was so much he had already ruined for Shane because of his own selfishness. He had taken Shane’s possible awards, his possible wins, and hid them beneath their two houses, alike in the secrets they were built on.

Ilya had changed Shane. And Shane had changed Ilya too. He couldn’t help but look for Shane in everyone. As he looked at Marleau dancing across from him, he noticed the similarities in the way he moved his arms, as if he was conscious of how long they were, trying to keep them close to his chest. Shane would have done that. He saw Shane in Tom’s brown eyes. In his soft, breathy laugh. Someone would make a joke, and Ilya thought that Shane wouldn’t have told that joke. He would have said something funnier. Something softer. 

He didn’t know it was possible to miss someone as much as he always missed Shane. He thought he understood when he lost his mom what it meant to long for someone. To yearn. And then he thought he knew when he didn’t have Shane. When he was just a name in his phone who wasn’t responding. He hadn’t. It hurt so much more to miss someone who was sitting right next to you, snoring on your shoulder. It didn’t feel manageable. It felt desperate. It was no longer a yearning for what once was but for everything that might be. He didn’t want Shane’s yesterdays; he wanted his tomorrows.

Marleau glanced over at Ilya and froze. 

“Roz—” he said quietly.

“I’m fine,” Ilya said, his voice cracking. He lifted his hands to his cheeks and felt tears there, wiping them away hurriedly. He stared down at his feet, kicking the imaginary dust away. “I just miss him,” he admitted softly. He was probably too drunk.

Marleau approached him hesitantly before finally throwing an arm around his shoulder and guiding him into the guest room that Ilya sometimes stayed in. 

“Why don’t you call him and go to bed, okay?” he said, setting Ilya into a sitting position on the bed.

Ilya thought he was nodding, but found his head tilting towards the pillow. Marleau set his phone beside his hand, gave him another pat, and moved towards the door. 

“Just give me a holler if you need anything, okay man?”

Ilya said nothing but let his fingers run over his phone, feeling the ridges of the sides and letting his fingerprints draw little smudges into the screen. He let his fingers sketch Shane’s name as if it would force the screen to light up with his contact info.

He didn’t call him. He didn’t want to wake Shane up. He had already cost Shane enough hours of rest. Instead, he just stared at the phone resting on the pillow next to him. If Ilya squinted, he felt like he could see black hair and a freckled back, facing away from him instead.

He whispered to the phone. He told the phone he missed him. That he hoped he was doing okay wherever he was. He told the phone that they had won their game. He told the phone he was better than it at hockey. He told the phone he was sorry. He told him he loved him.

Ilya fell asleep muttering sweet nothings that sounded a lot like eulogies. He wasn’t sure what he was mourning, though.

* * * * *

Shane should have gone to sleep hours ago, but he was lying on his bed, once again looking through videos of Ilya’s game. He wished they didn’t have so many games at the same time, so he could truly enjoy watching Ilya while he was playing. He wanted to be able to send Ilya texts during the game, teasing him for little mistakes and admiring his victories. He wanted to sit with him through the losses too. But Shane would take just being able to celebrate Ilya’s victory late at night, replaying his final goal and watching his teammates jump on him.

He smiled at the same time Ilya smiled. Shane set the computer on the pillow next to him and lay down, forcing him to watch the screen sideways. He kind of liked looking at Ilya from a different perspective, though. 

He thought about calling Ilya, but Shane knew that he was supposed to be asleep and didn’t want Ilya to worry about him because he wasn’t. He assumed Ilya had probably already gone to bed anyway, or at least Shane hoped he was. As he looked at the computer, he couldn’t help but think that Ilya looked a bit tired underneath the celebration. He imagined the figure on the screen transforming into one next to Shane, and he wanted to reach out and touch golden curls, wrapping his fingers loosely around them. 

Shane fell asleep, his computer still playing softly in the background as a sideways Ilya once again scored the winning goal.

* * * * *

“Dlya tebya, mama!” Ilya cried as he lifted the Stanley Cup over his head, tears not so subtly streaming down his face. He skated around the rink, taking his turn with the cup, yelling proudly. As his eyes found another camera, he couldn’t help but add, “Dlya tebya, moyo solnyshko!”

He knew Shane would be watching. He had promised him he would be watching. He hoped that Shane could hear the little words meant for him through the screen. 

He passed the cup onto Marleau, who took his turn parading it around the ice. The families began to file onto the ice, and Ilya grinned and skated over to Svetlana, wrapping her in a firm hug.

“Ugh, you stink, Ilyusha,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears.

He grinned and squirmed a little more in her arms, rubbing some of his sweat onto her. She cried out in disgust and shoved him away, but laughed as she did so, her face still wearing a wide smile. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders and let him lean his head onto hers.

“We won, Sveta,” Ilya whispered. 

“You did so good. So fucking good, Ilya,” she whispered back.

He could hardly believe it. He couldn’t believe he was here. He couldn’t believe he had won. They had awarded him the Conn Smythe award. He couldn’t believe that either.

Ilya pulled Svetlana closer to him, trying not to pretend she was someone else. Trying not to notice the curves where there could have been muscle. The differences in height. The feeling of tight curls that replaced the tickle of short black hair.

Having handed the cup off to another one of their teammates, Marleau skated over to Ilya, crushing him in a hug.

“You fucking did it, Roz,” he mumbled into Ilya’s neck, squeezing him tightly.

“We fucking did it,” Ilya corrected.

Marleau pulled back, grinning. “Nah, man. This was all you. We did it for you,” he said simply before skating over to his parents and giving them both big hugs.

The rest of his teammates tackled him, and Ilya let them pat him on the back and fluff his hair. He could almost forget everyone who wasn’t there, with just the sheer number of people who wanted to congratulate him specifically. Almost.

They dragged their celebration from the ice into the locker room, spraying each other in champagne, the sticky substance coating Ilya’s face and arms, clinging to his overgrown playoff beard. It was one of those moments you knew you needed to write down because your brain was having a hard time remembering it even in the moment that it was happening. It was one of those moments where you were so happy you couldn’t help but feel sad about something. 

After a while of screaming and crying from the Raiders, when the champagne had run out and the plastic tarps were torn down, Marleau found him again, throwing his arm around him.

“Where are we going?” Roz yelled at him over the noise of some of their teammates who were still yelling loudly at each other.

Marleau shrugged and gave him a pointed look. “I think we’re all pretty tired. We have the whole week to celebrate. Probably best if we go home.”

Ilya scoffed and raised an eyebrow. “Okay, funny joke. Where are we going?”

“Not a joke, Roz,” Marleau said seriously. “You should go home. Go make your phone calls.”

Marleau winked at him before marching over to Ilya’s locker and grabbing his bag, throwing it at Ilya, who only shrugged in return. He was quite tired. And Marleau was right: most of the celebrations would happen later, on days they hadn’t just spent hours playing grueling hockey.

So Ilya went home by himself. He drove in silence, going five under the speed limit, enjoying the feeling of slowly guiding the car down the familiar roads. Driving in Boston was always kind of a pain, with cars pressed up against each other, fighting for gaps. But if you drove just slow enough, ignoring the congestion and letting yourself be carried by the cars around you, it almost felt comforting. It was almost nice knowing how many people could all be driving in the same direction. It made him feel like he wasn’t going the wrong way.

He kept replaying the same phrase in his head over and over. He had won. They had won. He couldn’t help but smile every time he thought it. He wanted to call and tell everyone he knew. Well, really, he wanted to call Shane, who was back at home in Ottawa with his parents. Ilya wondered if they were still celebrating. If Yuna had cheered a little bit too loudly like she was prone to do while watching hockey (especially Shane’s games). If David had opened up the special bottle of vodka that he only brought out on special occasions.

He wondered if Shane had cried. If he was disappointed that it wasn’t him.

He drove to their Boston home rather than his apartment. Not that he really expected to go back to the apartment. He hadn’t been there in weeks. There was probably a thick layer of dust over the counters he didn’t use, the books he didn’t read, and the bed he hated sleeping in. He only really used it anymore to host teammates, but sometimes he hated that too and wanted to show them the place he actually called home even if it was usually too dark and too empty.

Although it wasn’t very dark now, Ilya thought as he pulled into the driveway, looking at a couple of the windows that were lit from inside, the glow reflecting on the metal of the car. Ilya frowned. He didn’t remember leaving lights on. He was usually careful about that.

A thought entered his mind. He tried pushing it out, but the hope had already made its way into his heart, causing it to race with excitement. He flung open his door and hurried towards the front of the house, leaving his bag and gear behind him in the unlocked car. His hands shook as he shoved his keys into the lock, almost dropping them in the process. He fell through the entrance, stumbling slightly before his legs caught him and his eyes found the figure at the end of the hallway. The figure grinned at him.

“Shane,” he breathed before running towards the man, crashing into him.

They clutched each other tightly, both trying to pull the other closer to them. Shane pulled back for a moment to leave kisses all over Ilya’s face before finally meeting his lips. Ilya pulled Shane closer, lifting him up slightly and kissing him hard.

“You’re here,” Ilya whispered as he pulled away for a moment, letting their foreheads rest together.

“I’m here,” Shane said, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s neck and hanging there alongside his mother’s cross.

“You said you were not coming. You said it was too risky,” he said, worried that the reminder would break the illusion, forcing Shane to fade into thin air.

Shane leaned forward and kissed him again, running a hand through Ilya’s curls. “I could never miss this,” he said. “You’re always worth the risk.” Shane moved his hand to the side of Ilya’s face, cupping it and brushing along the long hairs that were growing there. 

“I’m so proud of you, Ilya,” Shane said, continuing to run his hand along Ilya’s jaw, his thumb brushing against his cheekbone. Ilya leaned into the touch, letting himself feel as if he were valuable. As if he were a trophy to lift above someone’s head and kiss. 

Ilya kissed him again, dragging the two of them over to the couch where they fell on top of each other. Shane kept trying to congratulate Ilya. Ilya kept trying to take off more clothes. “You were beautiful out there—” Ilya took off Shane’s jacket. “I knew you were going to win, I knew—” Shirt. “I love you so much—” Socks. “I’m so fucking proud of you—” Pants.

Shane’s hands got tangled in his hair and the chain that hung around his neck. Ilya got tangled up in everything else. Every limb, every gasp, every moan. He sometimes wondered if he had traded one addiction for another. If by quitting smoking, he had placed something else between his teeth, wrapping his lips around it and refusing to let go. He wondered what would happen if he was ever forced to stop. If his body would shut down if he went one day without breathing some of Shane into him.

They lay on the couch for a while afterward with Ilya resting on Shane’s body, his head propped up against his chest, peering at the other man’s face. Shane’s chin was slightly red from exposure to Ilya’s playoff beard, and Ilya reached up to run his fingers along it, trying to soothe it back to its normal coloring. Shane tilted his head, looking at Ilya and smiling softly, shivering beneath the light touches.

Shane lifted a hand and poked Ilya’s beard. “It’s gotten so long,” he said.

Ilya reached a hand upward to join Shane’s, holding the hand against the beard, the hairs tickling at his skin.

“I am sorry I did not shave,” he said.

Shane shook his head. “No, I kind of like it. It shows how much you went through. How many games you had to play.”

“Yes, but you do not like the texture.”

“I like you.”

Ilya giggled, laying his head against Shane’s chest and looking up at him sideways. “You can like me and not like the beard.”

Shane smiled and rested his hands on Ilya’s back, drawing a little ‘81’ with his fingers. He spelled something on Ilya’s upper back, but Ilya couldn’t tell what it was. It didn’t feel like ‘Rozanov.’ Ilya wondered if Shane had brought his own jersey with him. He would have enjoyed wearing it around the house just so that Shane could know he was on his team.

“Okay, so maybe I don’t like it,” Shane said.

Ilya nodded, pushing himself up off of Shane. “Okay, I shave it.”

Shane tried to pull him back down, but Ilya just shoved his hands away, standing up. “I didn’t mean right now,” he said, exasperated. 

“No, no. I must. My boyfriend hates it. It must leave immediately,” he cried, hurrying towards the bathroom, Shane following close behind. 

Ilya reached into a drawer, pulling out his clippers and his razor, setting them on the counter. He reached for the clippers but felt a hand take them from him. He turned to see Shane holding the clippers and giving him a look. He moved towards the counter, pushing himself up so that he could sit on the marble and pulling Ilya between his legs.

“What are you doing?” Ilya asked, his eyes drifting towards Shane’s mouth and leaning forward. Shane indulged him in a brief kiss before pulling back and tilting Ilya’s jaw back and forth, assessing the task in front of him. He draped a towel across his lap and pulled Ilya closer between his thighs.

“I’m shaving,” he responded, flicking on the clippers, causing them to buzz loudly, the sound echoing off the bathroom tiles.

Shane slowly ran the clippers across Ilya’s beard, his hand not leaving his face as he did so, little ringlets falling into his lap. Neither of them talked while Shane worked, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Ilya relaxed, letting his weight sink into Shane as he worked. Ilya took the time to gaze at Shane, drinking in every detail. He tried to count Shane’s freckles but kept getting distracted by Shane’s eyes, which were looking at his jaw with such loving concentration, as if he loved that part of Ilya as much as he loved all of the other parts. It almost made Ilya believe that Shane loved his flaws as much as he loved his talents. 

Once Shane had finished with the clippers, he grabbed the can of shaving cream from beside him and began lathering it onto Ilya’s face, drawing little swirls as he went. 

“I wish I could have been there. When you won the cup,” Shane said, leaning over to wash the rest of the shaving cream off of his hands and grabbing the razor.

“You were there, I think,” Ilya responded. “In my heart. I believe that.”

Shane hummed and very slowly ran the blade across Ilya’s cheek. Ilya did his best not to flinch. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Shane. It was that he didn’t trust himself to stay still enough to avoid getting cut. 

Shane dipped the razor into the water, cleaning it off before moving to the other side. “How did it feel?” he asked

“How did what feel?” Ilya responded.

“Holding the cup,” he said simply, his eyes not moving from Ilya’s jaw.

Ilya thought about it. He thought about hefting the weight above his head and circling the ice to a roaring Boston crowd. He thought about his teammates around him, passing the cup to each other. He thought about Svetlana and Marleau. He thought about Tom cheering from the seats Ilya had given him and his family. He thought about shaking hands with the commissioner as they awarded him the Conn Smythe. He thought about years spent hiding.

“Almost as good as holding you,” he said softly, 

* * * * *

“And the Hart Memorial trophy goes to,” the announcer said before pausing to open up the envelope. “Ilya Rozanov.”

Shane was the first one to clap, his parents on either side of him joining in quickly and loudly. All three wore matching expressions of shock. Shane watched as Ilya stared at the stage, eyes wide and blinking hard. Svetlana pulled him up, gave him a hug, and pushed him towards the stage. The crowd rose to their feet, cheering loudly as Ilya made his way to the front, receiving slaps on the back as he went. The applause continued long after Ilya finally approached the mic, holding the award, his hands shaking.

Slowly, the crowd sat back down, Shane being among the last of them, his eyes not leaving Ilya. Ilya stared at the award, then at the crowd, and back at the award. His eyes were watering.

“Wow, I, uh…I do not know what to say,” he began, his voice shaking. Shane wished he could be up there with him, holding him. “I did not think I would win, so I did not prepare a speech.”

The crowd laughed at that, but Shane knew that he wasn’t joking. Neither of them had written anything for the Hart award. While they were both nominated, they had both assumed it would go to the LA winger instead. It didn’t seem like the rest of the audience was under this same impression, though, as they smiled up at Ilya, who was shifting awkwardly underneath their gaze.

Ilya stammered for a bit, and Shane watched him try to find the right English words through his emotions. “I…I want to say that I am very grateful that you are giving this to me.” He glanced around the room before looking directly at Shane, who froze under his gaze. “I want to just take time to thank my team. I could not have done any of this without them. This is a team sport, and I would not be here if I did not have them. I love my team. And I wish I could give them this award,” he finished, finally tearing his eyes away from Shane. He muttered a few more thanks to his coaches and to the rest of the room before walking off the stage to another burst of applause.

Shane was so proud of him. He was so fucking proud of him. Shane wanted to be the one to welcome him back, holding him as tightly as Ilya was now holding the trophy, as if it would run away from him if he loosened his grip. He felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He wanted to take a thousand pictures of Ilya on that stage, framing them and placing them throughout his house. He wanted to put Ilya on his fridge, on his walls. On his ring finger. 

As the crowd stood to make their way to the after-party in the adjoining room, Shane hurried through a side door and down a hallway that he knew led to the area behind the stage. He knew it was probably a little risky, but he wanted to see Ilya anyway. He slowly opened the stage door and hid behind a long black curtain, finally spotting Ilya, who was still shaking hands with a few people who were talking animatedly to him. Ilya was just slowly nodding in return, his eyes continuously darting to the award in his hand as if his name would fall off the award if he didn’t look at it for long enough. 

Eventually, an assistant came and relieved him of it, carrying it away for safekeeping, and the men surrounding Ilya made their way offstage, not noticing Shane. Ilya was the last one to leave, and Shane quietly reached out a hand, giving the bottom of Ilya’s suit jacket a little tug.

Ilya spun around, grinning when he saw Shane. He rushed forward, crushing Shane in a hug and kissing him firmly within the folds of black curtain.

“Not here,” Shane muttered into Ilya’s lips, pulling away quickly. There wasn’t anyone back here anymore, but it didn’t mean they didn’t need to be careful.

“You came back here first,” Ilya said, running a hand along Shane’s cheeks. 

“I can’t properly congratulate you here,” Shane responded, raising his eyebrows.

Ilya rolled his eyes but took Shane’s hand and led him out the side door and into an unused hallway. They hurried down the hallway together, giggling as they went before Shane caught sight of a bathroom door and tugged Ilya’s hand in its direction. He went to open it, but suddenly Ilya turned him around, kissing him hard. Shane threw his hands into Ilya’s hair before letting himself fall back, pushing them both through the door.

“Ilya,” Shane breathed into Ilya’s mouth. “Someone could see us.”

Ilya pulled away, looking back toward the bathroom door and locking it. He ducked his head under the stalls, checking for occupants before crowding Shane up against the wall, kissing him desperately, their suits wrinkling in the process.

Shane pulled away first, pressing his forehead against Ilya’s. “I’m so proud of you, Ilya,” he whispered.

Ilya let out a shaky breath, taking Shane’s hand in his. “You are?”

“Always. I’m always so fucking proud of you.”

“Always,” Ilya said in a doubtful tone. “Even though I sometimes smoke?”

Shane hummed. “Lungs are overrated.”

Ilya pulled back, placing a finger on his chin as if he were thinking. “Even though I still bite my nails?”

“Fingers are overrated.”

“Even though I eat too much McDonald's?”

“Hearts are overrated.”

Ilya let out a breathy laugh, rubbing Shane’s thumb with the hand that was still intertwined in his. “Are you actually okay with the smoking?” he asked.

“Mm, not really,” Shane responded, still smiling.

Ilya shrugged. “Okay, I will quit.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Is true every time.”

“Liar,” Shane said with a smirk.

Ilya tilted his head. “Only for you,” he said softly.  “I’m sorry you did not win,” he added quietly.

Shane shrugged. Thinking back to the ceremony, Shane found that he wasn’t envious of the award as much as he was of the cheering crowd. The ones that had learned to accept Ilya and wanted him to win. 

“It’s fine. I’m so happy you won. I can’t believe it,” Shane replied, trying to force a smile, happy to find that for the most part, it came easily to him.

Ilya frowned. “Is not fine. You were a better player this season. You deserved to win.”

Shane shrugged. “You deserved it too.”

Ilya let out a long exhale and brought his hand up to cup Shane’s face. “You deserve so much, though. I wanted you to have this.”

“Ilya, we’ve talked about this. I have everything I want,” Shane responded, resting his hands on Ilya’s waist and looking at him seriously. It wasn’t entirely true, but he needed Ilya to know that between hockey and this, Shane would have always chosen this. He knew what he had been getting into. Loving someone always demanded sacrifice anyway. This was just Shane’s.

“I want so much more for you,” Ilya whispered.

“Yeah? Like what?” Shane asked. He thought about what else he could want, imagining their two houses. Imagining their friends gathered in one of them. Imagining a wedding.

It wasn’t the first time Shane had considered marrying Ilya. They were too young for it, but he smiled thinking about Ilya standing across from him in a tux not too dissimilar from the one he was wearing now. 

“Like you being captain. Like you winning the award,” Ilya said softly, looking slightly guilty. “You would be such a good captain.”

Shane shrugged. “It’s okay,” he whispered.

“It’s not—”

“It is,” Shane said firmly. He stared at Ilya’s pained expression, wishing he could smooth it out. He often wished he could reach into Ilya’s body and pull out everything that made Ilya feel guilty or sad, fixing it if he could. But he also didn’t want to change a thing about him. Maybe that was selfish of him.

He was happy for Ilya. He wanted them to focus on that. Shane smiled and reached up, adjusting Ilya’s bowtie that was already straight. “So,” he began, looking at Ilya through his lashes. “You have the award, Captain.” He smirked at him. “What else would you like for your special day?”

Shane’s teasing tone caught in his throat as Ilya’s expression changed, his head tilting downward and his eyes fixating on Shane with more intensity. Ilya slowly reached for Shane and turned them around so that Shane’s back was up against the bathroom wall. Shane began to melt into the touch, but Ilya squeezed him firmly, forcing him to remain upright. He leaned forward towards Shane, his mouth drawing near Shane’s ear. 

“I want,” he whispered, “You to tell me to get on my knees on this filthy bathroom floor and suck your dick.”

Shane’s eyes widened, and he gave Ilya a baffled look. “You…you know we’re still in public, right? We can just go back to one of our rooms.”

Ilya slowly shook his head. “No. I do not want. You said I get a reward. I want this.” Shane glanced around the empty bathroom, and Ilya sighed. “Shane. The door is locked. There is no one here. It is fine. No one is looking for us yet, so we have some time.”

Shane shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “I don’t—”

“Shane,” Ilya said seriously, leaning closer to Shane’s face until they were only an inch apart. “Tell me to get on my knees.”

Shane couldn’t help but whimper slightly, his head swimming with desire. Now that Ilya had put the picture in his mind, he couldn’t help but replay it over and over. With one final glance toward the bathroom door, he closed his eyes and leaned back until his head hit the tile behind him. “Get on your knees,” he whispered. 

“No,” Ilya said, and Shane’s eyes whipped open, staring at him in confusion. Ilya tilted his head, his lips parted slightly, breathing hard. “You are going to have to ask better than that.” He paused before leaning forward to whisper in Shane’s ear once again, making him feel weak at the knees and forcing him to grab onto the wall behind him for support. “Tell me what to do, Captain.”

He pulled away and looked at Shane meaningfully. Shane felt powerful as he met Ilya’s gaze.

“Ilya,” he said firmly. Ilya grinned. “Get on your fucking knees.”

Ilya slowly slid down to the floor, his hands running along Shane’s hips and legs as he did so. He looked up at Shane through his brow, and Shane couldn’t help but run his hands through Ilya’s hair, pulling his head further back, causing Ilya to moan. Ilya reached up towards the belt loop of Shane’s pants, pulling out the leather strap and unhooking it, the sound of the metal echoing loudly in the bathroom.

Ilya paused at the button, his fingers tracing the metal circle, looking back up at Shane. “What comes next, Shane?” he said cavalierly as if he wasn’t making Shane’s hands shake.

“Please,” Shane gasped.

Ilya smirked, shaking his head. “No, Shane. That’s not right. What comes next?”

Shane let out a long exhale and pulled Ilya’s hair harder, making him whine. “Suck my dick,” he said softly.

Ilya grinned and flicked his finger, finally releasing the button.

“Yes, Captain.”

* * * * *

“Hey, Roz! How was your summer?” St. Simone called when he spotted Ilya walking down the hallway of the training facility towards the locker room. 

“It was good,” Ilya said honestly. It had been more than good, really. He and Shane had spent the majority of the time at their house in Montreal and Shane’s parents' cottage. He had enjoyed just relaxing with Shane, with the only people they were worried about seeing them being Shane’s parents as they snuck little kisses. Although Ilya didn’t think they would have minded that much anyway.

It was always in the summertime that Ilya felt like he and Shane were happiest. He wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe it was the distance from hockey. Maybe it was just the amount of time they got to spend together, bathing in the sunshine. All this to say that Ilya felt like he had come back with just a little bit less darkness inside him than he had gone there with. 

“Are you ready for the season?” Ilya asked, pushing the door to the locker room open and enjoying the sound of excited voices washing over him.

“Fuck yeah! We’re gonna win another cup,” St. Simone said, smacking him on the back enthusiastically.

“Not if you keep skating like you have been,” Marleau called from where he was already situated in front of his stall.

Ilya let the chatter continue around him, smiling as he unpacked his bag. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt like this was going to be a good season. He was going on to his second year as captain with a cup under his belt. His team liked him, despite all the reasons not to. He and Shane were doing great. He might even sell the apartment this year, and let his teammates finally see his house even if he didn’t tell them that it was Shane’s too.

“Hey, Ilya? Can I talk to you for a sec?”

Ilya turned toward the voice and saw Tom waiting anxiously in the doorway. Tom, who usually sort of swayed back and forth on his feet as if he was never quite comfortable standing on one or the other, was holding himself completely upright as if somewhere between his office and the locker room, his legs had finally frozen into place. 

“What is it, Tom?” Ilya said firmly, his eyes scanning over Tom’s posture again and again. Something was wrong.

A long pause ensued as Tom and Ilya looked at each other. Long enough that the chatter in the room started to die off as his teammates took in his tone of voice, noticing that their captain, who prided himself on speaking loudly, was standing silently in their locker room. Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya could see that their heads were swiveling from Tom back to him back to Tom. But Ilya’s head didn’t move. He kept his eyes on the man across the room.

“It’s…well, something has come up,” Tom said, his voice cracking at the end.

The room had completely frozen, each person now hanging onto Tom’s words as closely as Ilya’s was. Connors laughed nervously. “What, did you get in trouble already, Cap?”

Ilya just shook his head and looked at Tom with panicked eyes that he saw reflected back at him. In all his years with the Raiders, Ilya had never seen Tom look like this. He looked like there was a gun being pointed at him.

“What is it, Tom?” Ilya whispered, the words barely audible.

Tom glanced around the room, his eyes shining with too many tears. “Ilya, why don’t we go talk in my office?” he said softly.

Ilya felt like his legs were going to give out. The room started spinning, and he felt an arm grab his own, holding him up. Ilya turned to see Marleau looking back at Ilya with a matching expression of panic.

“Tom, just say it,” Marleau said gruffly.

Tom stared at Ilya, who nodded at him. Tom took a shaky breath in.

“Ilya, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice made loud by the contrasting silence of the room.

“Please,” Ilya gasped out. He wasn’t sure what he was asking for. 

“There’s a video online of you and Shane going into a bathroom together at the NHL awards.”

Ilya fell to his knees.

Chapter End Notes

Dun Dun Dunnnnnnn (to quote my beta reader)

I told you I liked circles. And if you couldn't tell, I still love a good little reveal.

Sorry for the long delay! If you want to hear my tales of woe, here they are. Basically, I'm visiting my parents for a while, which means I have been very literally writing under cover of night. Or crouched at the kitchen table under my mormon parents' watchful eyes. I'm so Shane Hollander "I don't want to lie to them. More than I already have" coded right now. If anyone has any other half-truths I can tell them about what I'm working on, lmk in the comments.

My other excuse for my longer-than-usual gap is that writing is hard, man. UGH. Tough stuff. I felt like my brain went to mush. Trying to figure out how to make it work again.

Anyways, I'm trying to think of other things to tell you. The little Romeo and Juliet quote in the beginning notes was meant to be a little hint/reminder of the two houses of it all. I might be going back and editing a bit of chapter 8 to try to make it clearer, but Shane and Ilya have two houses. And I liked the idea of two houses and the Romeo-and-Juliet-ness of their relationship and whatnot. Also, the plant on the windowsill is a reference to Shane and Ilya's plant from chapter 8. And the scene where Ilya takes off one item of clothing after another while Shane is trying to compliment him is written in a way that references a moment in chapter 2 that was like three sentences long and forgettable. But it's still a reference, so I'm adding it.

There are some other circles but those are a little more obvious I think maybe (running through the hallway giggling chp 1, dancing and imagining someone else chp 5, Shane looking up Ilya late at night, etc.)

There are a lot more "filler" moments in this chapter, but hopefully the reason for that all makes sense in the end. Don't worry, we have much more plot to get through...

Also, one of my favorite bits here is the “how did it feel / holding the cup” bit in reference to episode 2 mlh awards in Vegas (obviously as well as the “if you want me to get on my knees on the filthy bathroom floor and suck your dick you are going to have to ask nicer than that”). But I unslutified that line! I made it sweet! Made of fluffy! One might even say this is a Vegas fix-it fic. One might even say this is the fluffiest, least angsty fic ever (you know. If one was a liar)

Thank you all for sticking with this! This fic is my baby, so I'm always excited to see you all here
<3

Chapter 11: 'Cause you were the only one I was never scared to tell I hurt

Chapter Notes

CW: discussions of blood and injury

...I'm sure you all know by now that I like to use the canon scenes, right? With a bit of a twist?....

-

"There is a house in New Orleans / They call the rising sun / And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy / And God, I know, I'm one"

Brace, brace, brace. Head down, stay down.

Brace, brace, brace. Head down, stay down.

Ilya was on a plane. And the plane was crashing.

“Roz, buddy. Are you okay?” he heard a voice say distantly. Another passenger?

Had Ilya noted his emergency exits? He wasn’t sure. Why was the plane crashing? Had they hit something? He felt like he remembered a loud bang, an explosion of some sort. 

Place the mask over your mouth and nose, like this. Pull the strap to tighten it.

Where was his mask? He felt like he couldn’t breathe. Probably because he didn’t have his mask on. Was he supposed to help someone next to him?

He could remember a plane that he and his mom had been on a week before she had passed away. The one with all the turbulence, that tossed them around so hard that Ilya still had a small bruise on his hip at the funeral. He remembered her clutching the cross around her neck before also reaching over to grab his own hand so that she could pray with it as well. Ilya had felt the edges of the cross cut into his palm painfully as his mother clenched it between her fists, muttering to God. He had wondered if the pain meant God would listen better. If maybe he could hear them better in the sky.

“Ilya, I’m going to need you to calm down,” a different voice said.

Calm down? The plane was crashing. He felt something shake him, and he reached for the armrests, but found another pair of hands instead, holding his own tightly. He guessed that was okay.

Place the mask over your mouth and nose, like this. Make sure your own mask is secure before helping people around you.

Who was the person around him? There was someone. Someone was on the plane with him. Who was on the plane with him?

“Ilya, breathe with me. Can somebody get him some water or something?”

Shane.

Shane was on the plane with him. He didn’t have his mask on. Why wouldn’t he have his mask on? They needed to get off this damn plane. 

Life jackets are located below your seats.

Smoking is strictly prohibited on the entire aircraft, including the bathrooms, for the duration of the flight.

Ilya pictured Shane smoking on a Vegas rooftop, the smoke making him cough and heave. He wasn’t allowed to smoke here. Shane was going to get in trouble. He needed his oxygen mask. He could use Ilya’s. Ilya didn’t mind. 

Brace, Brace, brace—

Place the mask—

Smoking is strictly—

Brace—

He needed to tell Shane he loved him. He needed to tell him about the life jackets. He needed to tell him he would always be with him. He needed Shane to breathe—

Ilya gasped as water hit his face and he coughed a little bit, his eyes focusing in on the locker room around him. Tom was kneeling in front of him, holding both of his arms and glaring at Carmichael, who looked guilty as he held a dripping water bottle.

“I said get water, not splash him with water,” Tom snapped at Carmichael.

Carmichael shifted awkwardly. “I mean it worked, didn’t it?” he said, gesturing at Ilya, who was still blinking water out of his eyes. 

Tom gave him an unamused look before returning his attention to Ilya. “You with us, Ilya?”

Was Ilya with them? He still felt like he was on a plane, soaring miles above them, the lights of the city growing closer and closer as they dived towards the ground. He still felt like he needed to text Shane.

Shane.

“Where is my phone?” he heaved, trying to rise to his feet but stumbling as the blood rushed to his head, causing his vision to blur slightly and his legs to wobble. Marleau, who still had an arm around him, steadied him and rubbed his back comfortingly.

“Why don’t you just sit for a moment, Cap?” Marleau said, guiding him back towards the bench.

Ilya tried to push his arms away, but found himself easily wrestled onto the wooden planks, his limbs betraying him. What was the good of all of these muscles if not for this moment? Why couldn’t he push them away?

He tried to stand back up, but he was quickly pushed back down by the combined effort of Tom and Marleau against his stupid, good-for-nothing legs. 

“I need to text Shane,” he croaked, his throat throbbing with each syllable. 

“Okay, we’ll text Shane in a moment. We’re focusing on you first.”

Put your own mask on before assisting others.

Ilya brushed the thought from his mind. Whoever made that rule had never truly been in love. Ilya would always put the mask on Shane first.

“Ilya,” Tom said firmly, crouching in front of him. “Breathe.”

Ilya blinked at him for a moment before inhaling, causing a rush of air he didn’t know he was missing to fill his lungs, forcing him to cough for a moment. 

“What happened?” Ilya managed to wheeze out between coughs, Tom’s hand rubbing circles on his knee. Ilya could tell that tears were falling from his eyes, but he couldn’t tell if it was from the sharp intake of air or something else.

Tom let out a long sigh, his hands not leaving Ilya. “There was a video that somebody published. I don’t know who. It’s from an anonymous account.”

Ilya blinked, a flood of memories flashing in front of his eyes, each one more incriminating than the last. Hallway. Bathroom. Door. Belt. Knees. He saw Shane looking down at him, his hands pulling his head back, exposing his neck. Oh God. They had been so stupid, hadn’t they? They had always been vulnerable. Ilya shouldn’t have stopped protecting his neck.

“What does it show?” he whispered, his eyes focused on Tom’s as if they were reading off the stenographer’s notes citing the exact moment where Ilya had incriminated himself.

“It’s really not that bad,” Sebbin said from the side. Ilya turned towards him as Sebbin continued watching the video on his phone, his fingers scrolling through comments. A couple of his teammates were looking over Sebbin’s shoulder. “See, you’re just holding hands here—oh. And now you’re kissing. Well that’s—”

“Damn, Roz. You’re really going at it,” Connors said, leaning over to rewind part of the video.

“Well. At least it’s hot,” Hammersmith noted.

“Ham. Really?” Marleau said from beside Ilya, giving Hammersmith a pointed look.

Hammersmith looked up at the two of them with an incredulous expression. “What? Am I not allowed to say that? Am I not allowed to say that it’s hot? Fine. Then it’s not.”

“Well, don’t say that,” Mercer muttered from his locker, his own phone in hand. 

“Well, what should I say then, Mercer?” Hammersmith said loudly, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Sorry about the video, Cap, but at least it looks like you were having fun.”

“You’re a fucking idiot, Ham,” Mercer responded flatly.

“Maybe you should just shut up, Hammersmith,” Marleau added.

Hammersmith muttered something under his breath and kicked at a stray hockey stick.

This was not the reaction that Ilya had been expecting. He needed to get it together. What had he done last time? Pretended everything was fine? Performed flamboyant heterosexuality? He saw the scripts floating in his head, but couldn’t grasp at them properly, not while Marleau was still patting his back and Tom was still crouched in front of him, holding his knees steady. 

He could do this. He had to. For Shane.

He stood up slowly, waving off the hands that tried to stop him, staring at the room that was now all silently looking back at him. He threw his hands out to the side, as if he had just finished his big scene on stage and was waiting for his applause. The effect would have been better if his hands weren’t shaking as much as they were.

“Is nothing,” he said loudly, his voice trembling. He cleared his throat. “Is just a prank. It is funny, yes?” 

No one said anything. Marleau lifted an eyebrow. Sebbin scoffed. Tom put his head in his hands.

What had he done last time? Oh, yes. He had waltzed into the room and quite literally swung his hockey stick around. He reached down to grab the stick that Hammersmith had kicked, but his hands were shaking so badly that it fell to the floor, clattering loudly. He heard a couple of winces around him and decided to just leave the stick there.

“Is that what you’re going with?” Connors said nervously, giving a panicked look to the rest of the room, who just shrugged in response.

“Yes. Is what happened. Is just a prank. We got you good,” Ilya said, with a loud laugh that made Marleau flinch.

Connors nodded slowly, eyes still darting around at their teammates. “Yes…” he began hesitantly, “Good one. You got me good, for sure…”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Roz. A prank? Really?” Sebbin asked.

“Yes, Seb. It’s funny. Laugh,” Connors hissed, pinching Sebbin in the side, which resulted in Sebbin giving him a loud smack on the hand.

“I’m not fucking laughing. It’s not fucking funny,” Sebbin snapped back.

Ilya paled. That’s right. Sebbin had said he had found it disgusting last time. God, he couldn’t believe this was happening to them again. He saw an unlit cigarette. A Snickers bar. A club in Montreal. A sheet of paper with two signatures at the bottom. He didn’t want to do it all again.

But they had survived it once. He just needed to get back into character. For Shane.

He took another long breath in. “Seb—”

“Roz, you’re not fooling anyone,” Sebbin said flatly, looking around the room for confirmation that Ilya was horrified to see him find. 

Ilya felt like his heart was about to fall out of his chest, as if the plane had just taken a sharp dive. “It’s not what it—”

“—Looks like?” finished Carmichael, fiddling with his gear. “Cap. We’ve all known for years.”

Ilya blinked. He frowned. 

“Know what?” he said hesitantly. 

“About you and Hollander,” St. Simone responded. 

Ilya squinted at him, remembering that first video. The one of them running down the hallway hand in hand. “Yes, I know that everyone knows Shane and I hooked up before we were rookies,” he said sarcastically. “So what?”

“Ilya,” Tom said softly, and Ilya turned to him. Tom tilted his head, giving him a soft expression. “They mean they knew about everything else.”

Ilya stared at him in confusion, trying to process the words. With each blink, he felt like he was watching a slideshow pan from one image to the next, showing pictures of Shane and him together. Pictures that they had hidden so carefully in little color-coded folders. 

Everything else?

And then he understood. They knew. They knew about the twenty-minute car rides between hotel parking lots and their houses. About late-night movies and long stares across the ice. They knew that Ilya had made a home that they had never been to. They knew about carefully rehearsed lies that no one had ever actually needed him to tell.

Ilya couldn’t help the little sob that escaped him. He searched Tom’s eyes, looking for some kind of deception there, but found none. He turned quickly to the rest of the team, scanning them. They weren’t lying.

Panic and grief clawed at Ilya’s chest as he turned back to Tom, whose tears had finally fallen, slowly creeping beneath the rim of his glasses and down onto his cheeks.

“You knew?” he whispered.

Tom nodded slowly. “I knew, Ilya. I always knew.”

“It’s kinda the worst kept secret in the NHL,” Sebbin said flatly. 

“Um, for the record, I didn’t know,” one of the rookies called from the back of the room, raising a tentative hand.

“Yeah, well, you’d have figured it out real quick, Feller,” St. Simone said. “I swear to God, playing Montreal is like watching the beginning of a porno.” 

“I mean, there are fucking group chats,” Connors muttered. 

Mercer spun to look at him, frowning. “You didn’t tell me there were group chats.”

“That’s because you’re not allowed in them.”

“What! Why not?”

“You’re too much of a gossip.”

“I am not!”

“Then how come Clark knows I slept with Margarette?”

“Everyone knows you slept with fucking Margarette.”

“Yeah? Gee, I wonder how that happened.”

“I swear to fucking God—”

“Can we stay on fucking topic?” Sebbin hissed at the two of them. 

They muttered some apologies to Sebbin and to Ilya before continuing to mutter insults at each other. Ilya felt like he had gone crazy. What the fuck was going on?

“You knew the whole time, and you didn’t tell me?” Ilya whispered to Tom, who sniffled slightly.

“I just…” Tom began, “I wanted you to be able to tell me when you wanted to,” he finished quietly.

Ilya stood very still. His mind was filled with so many words, and he could hardly understand them. He tried to translate the words I always knew into Russian, but it made no more sense there. He squinted, trying to look at Tom more carefully, but everything was floating there too, tears starting to fall more urgently from his eyes.

He let out a harsh sob, and Tom rushed forward, pulling Ilya in and letting him fall into his arms. Tom held him tightly, and Ilya let his hands move to Tom’s shirt, clutching it with white knuckles. He looked over Tom’s shoulder and found Marleau standing awkwardly behind them.

“Did you know that they knew?” Ilya asked him quietly.

Marleau’s lips flattened into a slight grimace. “I…I suspected. But I didn’t know for sure.”

Ilya let out another stuttered breath. “Why…why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. And then quieter, “Why were we keeping it secret?”

Tom pulled back and wiped some of Ilya’s tears away. “Because he couldn’t,” Tom said softly. “And because you had to,” he added.

Had they? The reasons didn’t feel as concrete as they had mere hours ago. There had been guidelines, but Ilya had always known those were a bit meaningless. How had he missed the rest of it? He guessed they had been a good distraction. He guessed that somehow that sheet of paper had covered up the rest of it. The story where they could have both just lived. 

“Ilya,” Tom said softly. “The league wanted you both to keep it private. They wouldn’t have wanted you to be open. Not even to the other players. This isn’t your fault. It was just bad luck.”

Ilya stared at him for a moment before turning to look at the rest of the room, his teammates shifting guiltily. “You all knew? And you…you kept it a secret?”

“Of course,” Sebbin said, his face still stony, but now his seriousness looked different. “You’re our teammate. It was just…a part of you, I don’t know.” He looked around the room for some support.

“I thought that you knew that we knew, Cap,” St. Simone remarked, scratching the back of his head. “I mean, you always leave us when we’re in Montreal. And you haven’t even looked at anyone else in years. I don’t know…felt pretty fucking obvious.”

“Just seemed like something we weren’t supposed to talk about. Not even really with each other,” Connors said. “Plus, Hunter would have probably threatened to sic Price on us again if any of us ever said anything. Not that we would,” he added quickly.

Carmichael cleared his throat. “Guess we should have talked about it more.”

A small sound escaped Ilya’s lips. He wasn’t sure if it was a laugh or another sob. He felt like the walls were crumbling down. His mask had fallen to the floor, cracking on the tile, broken beyond repair, and the curtains had closed, marking the end of his performance. 

He had always prided himself on knowing people. On knowing their quirks, their little habits, their weaknesses. As he stared around at his teammates, he wasn’t so sure he had ever known them. Or maybe he did. Maybe somewhere deep inside of him, he had always known that they would react this way, but had never dared to believe it, knowing it would hurt too much for it to not be true. 

Beside him, Marleau clapped his hands together. “Alright. So. The video is out. The public knows.” He turned to the rest of the group. “What’s the plan? What’s our next step?”

“Unfortunately, that has already been determined for us,” Tom said in a dark tone. Ilya turned to him, confused. Tom sighed. “Roger Crowell is coming to Boston.”

* * * * *

Shane hung up the phone and stared at it for a while before looking out the window towards the Metros training facility. He reached over and grabbed the water bottle sitting in the seat beside him, taking a long swig of it. The plastic part felt a little bit off in between his teeth. The bite marks in it didn’t totally fit his mouth. He held the bottle out in front of him, looking at it. 

Huh.

He had taken Ilya’s water bottle. Shane thought it might have been the same one Ilya had used in the hotel gym all those years ago. He took another long swig.

His mom had been the one to call him with the news, which he thought was appropriate considering she was the one who had done it last time. Oh God, last time. He kind of felt as if he were walking through a dream he had once had as a child. He blinked his eyes really hard and looked out the window again.

Nope. He was awake. Same old training facility.

His mom had yelled over the phone. Not at him, of course, but he was slightly afraid for the general public. The loud clicking of her fingers over the speaker told Shane that she had already started drafting God knows how many emails to whoever she felt like needed to face her wrath. She wouldn’t send half of them. He worried about the other half.

He felt like he should be crying. Why wasn’t he crying?

He opened his phone, googled his own name, and clicked on the video. He watched as two figures ran down the hall together, hands holding each other tightly. He smiled at the same time that video-Shane did as Ilya pulled him into a long kiss before they stumbled into the bathroom. Video-Shane looked like he was having fun. Video-Ilya did too. 

It was so fucking stupid of them. He couldn’t help but let out a little giggle. How had they not thought about the cameras in a hotel hallway? The giggles started to multiply. What a couple of fucking idiots. He laughed harder, and now the tears actually were coming out, just not in the way that Shane had expected them to.

He rewound the video and watched it again. Had they even changed a bit since they were eighteen? He had always assumed they had grown up, that they had learned something.

He wiped some of the stray tears from his eyes, feeling a bit hysterical. He watched as a few of his teammates entered the facility, talking and gesturing wildly. He saw Comeau get out of his car, his face hard as he flung his bag over his shoulder. He saw Drapeau meet him at the door, shoving his phone in Comeau’s face, talking animatedly. He saw Griffen snap at the two of them and head inside. He saw Hayden get out of his car, scanning the area before looking at his phone and typing out a quick text message.

Shane’s phone buzzed.

Hayden: Shane I’m so fucking sorry

Hayden: Are you coming to practice?

Hayden: Theriault is probably going to want to talk to you

Hayden: Want me to say anything to the guys?

Shane watched as Hayden tucked the phone in his pocket before marching into the facility, following the rest of the players.

None of this felt real. Or maybe it did feel real, but it just didn’t feel like it mattered. As his mom had repeatedly said on the phone, there wasn’t much more that they could actually do to him. Maybe investigate him for tampering and find nothing. Maybe keep him from winning the trophies he wasn’t going to get anyway. Strip him of the “C” that he didn’t have.

Why the fuck had they been keeping it a secret? It had made so much sense at the time. It had even made sense a few minutes ago. Suddenly the sheet of paper with a long list of rules seemed so stupid. It was just paper. Why hadn’t he just lit it all on fire?

He watched as the last teammate entered the complex and typed out a quick text to Hayden.

No it’s fine.

I’m coming in

He got out of the car and grabbed his bag from the back, slamming the door behind him. He didn’t even really feel nervous. He guessed that when the worst thing happens, there is nothing really to be afraid of anymore. He felt lighter than he had in years, the dread of discovery slowly leaking out of his shoes onto the pavement with each step he took towards the entrance.

He felt the same adrenaline he did when the clock would run down on the final period with one goal short of a win.

He counted the final seconds in his head.

3

He flung open the door.

2

He marched down the hallway

1

He stepped into the locker room.

The room went silent as Shane entered. He didn’t stop to look at them as he walked over to his locker, setting his bag down and taking out the necessary items for practice. He stripped off his shirt before looking around at the still frozen room.

“Did something happen?” he asked calmly, folding his arms and looking at each of them. He heard a giggle from the corner, but Shane didn’t turn. His eyes locked in on Drapeau and Comeau, glaring at him across the room.

“Hollander,” Comeau spat.

Shane raised his eyebrows. “Comeau,” he said flatly.

“Couldn’t stay away, could you?” Comeau sneered. “Just couldn’t help but continue to suck his dick.”

Shane stared at him for a moment. Nobody moved. Shane shrugged.

“Yeah,” he answered simply before turning back to his locker and throwing on his skins. He heard another stifled laugh and glanced over to see Griffen next to him, his hand over his mouth. Shane shot him a wink, and Griffen grinned.

“Hollander,” a voice said sternly behind him. Shane turned to see Theriault standing angrily outside of his office. Theriault crossed his arms. “I think we need to talk.”

Shane considered the suggestion before turning back to his locker and putting on the rest of his gear. The team watched as he leaned over to tie his skates. A couple of other players followed suit, a few steps behind Shane.

When Shane was finally fully dressed, he walked up to the now seething Theriault. Shane tilted his head, staring at the man. He glanced down at his coach’s iPad to see a familiar list of rules pulled up.

“Maybe later, coach,” Shane said. “We have practice right now.”

Shane ignored Theriault, whose jaw dropped slightly, and marched out onto the ice. He smiled when he realized that he wasn’t alone, hearing the sound of skates hit the hard surface behind him. 

The rest of the players eventually followed suit, a few of them still shooting Shane dirty looks. But enough of them looked at least resigned. And a few looked almost…happy. Griffen was laughing next to Berkes. J.J. was skating a little faster, patting Shane on the back as he passed. Hayden just observed the scene, taking stock of each player and their behavior. Shane watched as Theriault came out of the tunnel, leaning over the edge of the boards and studying him. Shane shrugged at him. What were any of them going to do about it, really? Theriault sighed and started calling out drills.

As they stepped off the ice at the end of practice, all sweaty and panting hard, Theriault waved him over again. He leaned closer to Shane, talking in a low voice.

“You know they might suspend you, right?” he said.

Shane shrugged. “Maybe.” Shane glanced at the rest of the Metros before giving Theriault a meaningful look. “It would make it harder for us to win, though.”

Theriault raised an eyebrow. “You think we need you to win?”

Shane couldn’t help but think about Ilya. He thought about him on his knees before him. He thought about the video of them holding hands, running down the hallway together. He needed to text him. He needed to see if he was okay.

“Yeah,” he said calmly, stepping off the ice. “I do.”

He followed the rest of his team into the locker room, stripping off his sweaty gear. He didn’t want them on his body for a minute longer. Hayden looked over at him, a question written on his face. Shane just peeled off the rest of his clothes and threw his towel over his shoulder, walking towards the adjacent showers. 

For a moment, everyone froze again, but as he had earlier in the day, Shane just went about his business, stepping under the hot water and running his hands through his hair. Soon, the chatter began again, echoing loudly off the tiles. Shane smiled to himself. He kind of liked the noise. He had almost forgotten what it felt like. Hayden stepped into the showers, joining him on his left. Hayden had always been a good winger.

* * * * *

The NHL Commissioner sat across from Ilya at Tom’s desk, rotating slowly in his chair back and forth. Ilya had sat in this chair many times over the past few years, but suddenly it felt like he had never been here. Like he didn’t know the names of the children in the pictures that rested on the desk. Like he didn’t know that Tom always kept a pack of gum in the top drawer. 

The assistant they were waiting on walked into the room and handed them both a cup of coffee. Roger Crowell took a sip of his, so Ilya did as well. There wasn’t nearly enough sugar in it for Ilya’s taste. Crowell took another sip. Ilya did too.

Crowell placed the cup down with a sigh. “Well, Rozanov. We’ve got quite the predicament on our hands.” Crowell gave him a soft smile, and Ilya felt a chill run down his spine. “Ilya—do you mind if I call you Ilya?”

Ilya found himself nodding, but he cursed himself internally. He did mind. He minded very much. He didn’t want his executioner to be the last person to say his name. That right belonged to Shane.

Crowell smiled again, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ilya. I like you. You’re a good player.”

Ilya stared at him and frowned. He couldn’t find the trick in the words. “Thank you,” he said simply, setting the cup of coffee down on the desk. He couldn’t bring himself to drink any more of it.

“I’m serious!” Crowell crowed, leaning back in his chair. “You’re exactly the kind of captain Boston needs. You’ve got a passion about you, son. I admire that about you. But—” He paused, clicking his tongue. “This Shane Hollander business, it’s…” Crowell let out a small chuckle. “Yeesh, it’s a tricky one.”

“I am not going to stop,” Ilya said seriously.

Crowell laughed and wagged his finger at him. “See!” he proclaimed. “That’s the kind of spirit that I’m talking about. Never could stay out of trouble, could you, Ilya?”

Ilya shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Crowell let out a long sigh and leaned forward, pushing his coffee cup further to the side so that he could interlace his fingers on the desk in front of him. “Here’s the thing, Ilya. You’ve got a lot going for you. You’re a great player. You're our MVP, for Christ’s sake! Our Stanley Cup Captain!” He raised his fists, as if in triumph. “Everyone knows the kind of guy you are. Chaotic on and off the ice. That’s your brand. That’s what the fans like best about you.” 

Crowell reached down beside him, pulled out a laptop, opened it, and began typing, glancing up at Ilya a few times. “You can take a couple more hits,” he said with a final click of his keyboard. Crowell pushed the laptop aside and leaned closer to him. “But Hollander?..." he sighed, "Well…I’m worried about him.”

“Worried?” Ilya asked hesitantly.

Crowell nodded. “You know, kid, this isn’t a good look for the league. We’ve got things to think about. Sponsors. Fans. They’re not happy. Not happy one bit. Now,” he lifted his hands, gesturing outward. “You know I hate to do it, but I’ve got to think about the money. You and this Hollander business, now that’s bad money. It would have been fine if you had followed the guidelines. Hell, it was fine for the two of you to just keep it secret, but now that it’s all out there in the open being talked about again, well—” he laughed to himself. “Well, then we’ve got a problem again.”

“We can keep it a secret again,” Ilya said even though he didn’t feel so sure about it anymore, but he was willing to grasp onto the safety line being offered if he had to.

Crowell hummed. “I’m afraid it’s a bit too late for that. People are going to keep looking now, no matter what. I mean, they were looking before, but now?” He let out a long, low whistle. “Now, they’re never going to stop.”

Ilya stared at him. “And this is…bad money.”

Crowell snapped his fingers and pointed at him. “Yes. Exactly. I knew you'd get it.”

“But we are not going to stop dating. We love each other,” Ilya said slowly. It was kind of weird to admit it so openly to someone else after all of these years.

Crowell gave him a pointed expression, his lips flattening into a hard line. “Well. You’re not listening to what I’m telling you, Ilya. This is a money business. We want to protect the reputation of the teams. Of the league. And you’re good money. You can take the hits. But Hollander…” Crowell shrugged. “I’m not sure how many more hits he can take.”

“Why not? He is a good hockey player. The best probably,” Ilya responded. 

“Oh, he’s good for sure, but he lacks that—” Crowell gestured vaguely, “that hockey spirit sometimes.”

Ilya frowned. Shane was all about hockey. Everything Shane did was hockey. “I do not understand.”

Crowell tsked. “Let me put it this way. You’re a captain. Hollander is not. You sell jerseys at higher rates than most other players. Hollander does not. And listen,” Crowell put his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m not saying he’s not a hell of a player, but he always had some disadvantages when it comes to playing hockey. It was always best for him to stay away from extra scandal. Doesn’t make him look good. Works for you. Not for him. It’s not his brand.”

Ilya thought over the commissioner’s words. There was a piece in the puzzle he was missing. Something that was going unspoken that Ilya didn’t feel like he was picking up in his internal translations. 

“What kind of hits would he be taking?” he asked carefully, using Crowell’s words. 

Crowell hummed and reached over to his computer, turning it around so it could face Ilya. Ilya’s eyes widened as Crowell clicked on the first file in the displayed folder. A video started.

Ilya watched himself walk onto the roof of a hotel, bright city lights shining in the background. He watched as Shane turned around to meet him. He watched them kiss.

“I don’t understand,” he whispered. His hands had gone numb, and his heart was pounding furiously in his ear, making him feel ill.

Crowell only exited the video and clicked on the next one. 

It was another angle of the roof. They were yelling at each other now.

Click.

He watched them enter the Vegas hotel room together. He watched Shane leave in the morning.

Click.

A car pulling into a hotel parking lot. Ilya getting in.

Click.

A car pulling into a different hotel parking lot. Shane getting in.

Click.

Another door.

Click.

Another parking lot.

Click.

A house in Boston.

Click.

A house in Montreal.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Tears were slowly creeping down Ilya’s cheeks. He saw their life flash before his eyes with each passing video. 

“What do you want from us?” he whispered, his eyes still focused on the screen that was now showing Shane and Ilya exiting the bathroom at the NHL awards, Ilya’s hair in slight disarray. 

Crowell slowly closed the laptop, breaking him from his stupor. “I want you to manage this so that it stops being my problem,” he said calmly. He stood up, tugging at his suit jacket and grabbing his bag from the floor, shoving his laptop into it. He walked around the desk to where Ilya was still sitting, unable to move. He patted Ilya on the shoulder, giving him a smile. “Okay?”

“How do you want me to manage?” Ilya asked, staring up at the man next to him. He had never felt so small.

“Oh,” Crowell began, making his way toward the door. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out, Captain.”

* * * * *

Hey I just tried to call you

Is everything okay?

How are you handling it all

Ilya: Sorry I cannot answer right now

Ilya: I am fine

Ilya: Are you okay?

Yeah

I’m okay

I really am

I thought I wasn’t going to be

But it was bound to happen eventually, I guess

Ilya: Should not have happened

Ilya: I am so sorry Shane

It’s not your fault

I’m kind of glad it’s out in the open

Seems like everyone already knew anyway

Wonder how that happened

Ilya: Probably I make mistake

Ilya: I was not careful enough

Ilya: I should have listened to you

Last I checked, there were two of us in that video

It really isn’t your fault

How are you doing

Ilya: I am fine

Really?

Ilya: Yes

Ilya: Team is being good

That’s good

Can I call you later?

I miss you

Ilya: Yes

Okay

I love you

Ilya: …

Ilya: I will call later

* * * * *

They hadn’t suspended Shane. They hadn’t done anything, really. Shane had watched some hushed conversations happening in Theriault’s office where different people would turn to look at him from the window, as if Shane couldn’t see them through the pane of glass. He could relate to them, though. It was easy to think you were invisible when hidden behind a barrier, even if it was transparent. 

So now he was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. For his mom’s collection of ammunition to be released on officials and businessmen who wanted to harass him. For someone to tell him he was done in the NHL. For Commissioner Crowell to come knocking at his door, even though he knew that would be absurd.

But it hadn’t happened yet, so he continued to play. There had been a few changes here and there, but nothing as extreme as his nightmares had sometimes imagined. People started to stare at him on the street again. His mom had taken over his social media, so he didn’t even bother to look at what the silent street people might allow themselves to spew at him, weaponizing the anonymity of a blank profile picture and an open comment section. But some of the changes hadn’t even been bad. He was getting a lot of texts from different players in the league. He didn’t have most of their numbers saved, and most of them left their name off of their texts, but he was floored by just their mere presence in his phone.

On top of that, the locker room had shifted. A few guys still made comments under their breath, taunting him, but it didn’t even seem all that different from what they had done before. From what Shane could gather, he wasn’t sure he and Ilya had ever been very good at keeping their relationship secret. However, the biggest change was with the rest of his teammates. Somehow, Shane’s nonchalant attitude had started to spread. Griffen spoke louder, rolling his eyes at remarks from some of the veterans and even calling them out at times. J.J. stood a little taller, patting Shane on the shoulder more often and ruffling his hair. Andropov was skating better and passed the puck to Shane more often. Berkes started showing Shane pictures of his family, including many photos of his sister. After a brief period where Shane had been worried Berkes was trying to set them up or something, Berkes finally showed him a photo of his sister and her girlfriend, carefully tilting the phone away from their other teammates.

It felt like maybe keeping the secret had hurt more people than just Shane and Ilya. There was something freeing about being more open, and that feeling seemed contagious. He wondered how much better at hockey the league could be if everyone didn’t feel like they had to guard their secrets as well as the goal.

The only thing was that Ilya had been acting a little weird. Shane guessed that was to be expected given everything that had happened, but his phone calls seemed to be getting less frequent. His texts seemed to be getting shorter. But Shane was probably just overthinking things like he usually did.

It was their first game following the leak, and the Metros were set to play the Toronto Guardians. Music was playing loudly in the locker room as Shane shoved his feet into his skates, carefully tying the laces. Usually, he listened to music on his headphones, trying to get in the right mindset, but this time, he didn’t mind just listening to whatever Laine had decided to throw on the speakers. 

Shane wasn’t thrilled to have to face Kent so soon after the leak, but he was pleased to just be playing hockey. He headed down the tunnel with the rest of the team, bracing himself for whatever reaction the crowd decided to give to him. For the most part, he was met with the normal cheers for the home team. As he warmed up, though, he managed to catch a glimpse of six girls high up in the audience, holding a large pride flag. Shane waved at them. Some of their neighbors looked at them with disgust, but they stood and waved back, cheering loudly.

On the other side of the rink, Shane spotted a large group of people, all wearing his jersey. He grinned and gave them a wave as well. Looking up from her phone, Lily caught his eye and screamed, jumping to her feet loudly and hauling her boyfriend up with her. She unfolded a sign that read ‘We love you 24!’ and started jumping up and down, the posterboard lifted above her head. She turned to whack the rest of their friends, who also stood and held up their own posters. Jackie rolled her eyes at them but lifted one of Ruby’s hands so that she could wave back at him. Yuna was crying. David was crying even harder.

The arena may not have been full of people wearing his jersey, but it was full enough for Shane. Turns out he never needed a crowd cheering his name, he thought, grinning as he lined up with the rest of his team, taking turns shooting pucks at their own goalie. He hoped Ilya was watching from Boston. He wanted to be able to imagine Ilya sitting in the open seat next to Yuna, holding his own sign. It probably would have said something inappropriate. Shane would have loved it.

He turned to head back towards the bench when he saw Dallas Kent staring at him from across the rink. Shane smiled at him and gave him a wink, and Kent spat on the ice in front of him. 

Hayden skated up behind him and gave him a pat on the back. “Let’s fucking win this one.”

Shane turned to him with a smirk and gave him a little salute. “Aye, aye, captain.”

The intensity of the game began with the first drop of the puck, with the Metros taking hits left and right from the opposing team. Shane pushed all of his anger and his joy into his skating, moving sharply around players and passing the puck hard to his teammates, who snapped it right back to him. It was more uncontrolled than Shane was used to feeling on the ice, but he felt as if he was flying, addicted to the easy feeling of his legs grinding against the smooth surface. He kind of felt like he was playing hockey on the lake next to his childhood home in the middle of winter, given how careless some of his movements felt. It almost felt fun.

He spun around one of the players, slapping the puck towards the goal as he turned, and listened to the satisfying thunk of the puck hitting the back of the net followed by the sound of the buzzer. The Metros were officially ahead.

He laughed as a few of his teammates collided into him.

“Let’s fucking go, Hollzy!” Hayden screamed into his ear, giving him a dramatic kiss on the cheek. “Fucking beautiful.”

“Ilya’s going to kill you for that one, Hayd,” Shane yelled back, grinning. It was the first time he had said Ilya’s name out loud on the ice. 

“Worth it, dude. Holy shit, you’ve been holding out on us!”

Shane just shrugged at him and let Hayden give him one last helmet tap before skating off. Play continued, and Shane couldn’t help but keep a soft smile on his face as he skated. He also couldn’t help but look over his shoulder more than he usually would. For some reason, he kept looking for Ilya on the ice, gearing up to pass him the puck. He would love to play with Ilya. He wondered if they could now. Maybe they could go to that lake next to his house and just skate together. Shane would like that. He imagined it would be the best hockey he’d ever played.

Staring ahead at the goal, Shane sent a blind pass to where he knew Hayden was waiting on his left. It was then that Shane felt a sharp shove from behind. Suddenly, he saw the ice in front of him approaching him rapidly. He felt the first slam of the cold surface against his arms as they reached out automatically to catch himself.

And then the world went black.

* * * * *

Ilya was on the couch wearing Shane’s jersey, which Svetlana, who was on the other side of the couch, had teased him endlessly for already. He had ordered it a few weeks ago, but he hadn’t taken it out of its wrapping until now. He had wanted to steal one of Shane’s, but Shane never brought his jersey home. Ilya wanted the jersey before it was handed to the equipment manager for cleaning. He wanted it to smell like Shane’s sweat, the collar still slightly damp, leaving a sticky residue on him as he slid it over his head. 

But he would take the ordered jersey for now. He had also ordered one hundred other Shane Hollander jerseys yesterday. How’s that for jersey sales?

It had been a few days since Crowell had spoken to Ilya, and he felt like his head was still spinning with threats unsaid and videos that kept repeating over and over. He kind of wanted the videos. He felt sick for even thinking it, but they were of him and Shane. How could he not want every piece of Shane for himself?

The words ‘manage it’ loomed over him like a grey cloud. His team had pestered him extensively, begging him for information on the meeting, and even Tom had asked calmly when they were done battering him with questions. He said nothing to anyone. Not Svetlana. Not Shane. This felt like his thing to carry. His thing to fix. Shane was already determined to carry his own cross on his back, dragging it up the hill to crucify himself in Ilya’s name. Ilya could carry this. What was one more secret?

He watched as Shane wove between players on the TV in front of him, listening to Svetlana make an appreciative noise as Shane took another impressive shot on goal. He looked glorious, even amidst the long stares and frequent glares of the other players and even the crowd. He was smiling brightly, with all the innocence of someone who didn’t know that somewhere on Roger Crowell’s computer rested a folder with dozens of incriminating videos. Ilya wasn’t sure if they would be the nail in Shane’s coffin. He also knew he didn’t want to find out. He didn’t want to discover what else the league could take from Shane.

Shane was such a beautiful skater. He was strategic, and explosive, and dynamic. He was everything that dramatic hockey movies tried to depict, exuding the energy of a main character whom you can’t help but root for.

Ilya wondered at what point in his life he had stopped loving hockey and just started loving Shane. It might have been when he first met him. He had never been as obsessed with the sport as Shane was, but he found himself checking scores more often, memorizing statistics, and watching replays simply because he knew Shane would do the same.

So as he replayed the videos in his mind, he couldn’t help but think of every additional hockey achievement he had cost Shane. Rookie of the Year. Click. Captain. Click. MVP. Click. Sponsors. Click. The Olympics. Click. Click. Click.

The league had always known about the two of them. Shane and Ilya had always assumed that the first kiss was the reason Shane had been undervalued by the league, but perhaps it was the next one. And the one after that. And the one after that. What could Shane have been if Ilya had just left him alone? He’d never really know.

The horn sounded through the speakers, marking the end of first period. Svetlana stood up from the couch and turned to him.

“Do you want something from the kitchen while I’m there?” she asked him.

Ilya thought about it. “Maybe just a ginger ale.”

Svetlana gave him a pointed look, her eyebrow raised. “You hate ginger ale,” she said flatly.

Ilya shook his head. “No, it's my favorite. I love it.”

Svetlana rolled her eyes but walked into the kitchen, coming back with a Coke in one hand and a ginger ale in the other. Ilya took the can she passed to him, cracking it open and taking a long sip, trying to hide the grimace that slowly spread onto his face. He didn’t know how Shane could stand it. It tasted almost as boring as Shane was. He took another sip. By the time he finished the can, it would probably grow on him.

“Your boy is doing well,” Svetlana remarked, lifting up her own drink.

“He always does well,” Ilya responded.

“Not like this. This is something new.”

She was right, of course, but Ilya wouldn’t tell her that. Not when he was thinking about rows of trophies with Shane’s name on them all falling to the floor. He imagined Shane standing across from him, the broken metal and glass scattered between them, just smiling and looking at Ilya. He imagined Shane walking towards him, not caring that his feet were getting cut, the blood slowly pooling next to the cracked plaques with his name on them.

Ilya and Svetlana were both watching the screen as Shane sent a particularly impressive pass to Pike.

Ilya felt his heart start to sink before his brain could process what was happening on the screen. Dallas Kent was approaching Shane at a dangerously high speed for someone who was nearing a player who didn’t have the puck anymore. The video seemed to slow as if waiting for Ilya to do something, to intervene. He let out a pained sound.

They both watched as Dallas Kent skated out of his way to slam into Shane’s back, sending Shane forcefully to the ice. They both gasped.

“Oh my God, Shane!” Ilya yelled, standing up to move closer to the TV as if it would bring him physically closer to Shane. 

Dallas Kent was yelling something at Shane’s motionless body before Hayden Pike slammed his fist into the side of his face, sending Kent to the ground as well. All around, fights were breaking out, and the camera panned between the paired-off players.

They panned back to Shane, who was still lying flat on the ice. Why wasn’t he getting up? Why wasn’t he moving?

Ilya felt dread start to build in his chest, and suddenly, he felt like he was twelve years old again. He looked at the screen and saw Shane. But then he blinked, and the body began to transform into his mother’s, her blonde hair strewn across her face and her arms reaching out towards a bottle. He blinked and saw Shane reaching for the hockey stick that had fallen to the ice with him.

He saw pelmeni shaped like gyoza, the dough separating in the boiling water.

He saw a plane crashing. He saw Shane not wearing his oxygen mask. Ilya clutched at his mother’s cross.

“Svetlana, why isn’t he getting up?” Ilya sobbed, tears falling rapidly. Still sitting on the couch, Svetlana’s face had turned a ghostly pale, looking between Ilya and the screen.

“Ilya, he’s going to be okay—”

“You don’t know that. Does he look okay? Does he?” Ilya cried, gesturing wildly at the screen. The medics were rushing onto the ice. Ilya watched as they circled Shane’s body, carefully placing a neck collar on him. The TV announcers weren’t saying anything about his actual condition. “Is he alright?” he screamed. “Fucking tell me!”

He heard Svetlana approach him from behind, but his eyes didn’t leave the screen as Shane was lifted onto a board. “Come back to the couch, Ilya,” she said softly, placing her hand gently on his shoulder.

He shoved the arm away. Finally, he saw a twitch of a hand, barely noticeable on the television, but Ilya’s heart finally started up again with that small movement. He had barely even noticed that it had stopped beating. He wondered how long he could have lived without a beating heart, roaming the earth like a vampire, unable to look at himself in the mirror over the guilt of what he had done. Over all the life he had sucked from others.

“He’s okay, Ilya,” Svetlana said gently.

“He’s not okay,” Ilya spat in return, whipping around to look at her. “Look at him. Look at what happened.”

“He’s okay. The announcers are saying—”

“Oh, and the announcers must know,” he said sarcastically. “He is fine. But what about the next game? What about the game after that?”

“Stop it, Ilya—”

“He is not fine, Sveta! He was just lying there! He wasn’t moving!”

“He was moving! He was moving there at the end—”

“No. He wasn’t. He was just lying there on the tile—”

“You mean the ice?” Svetlana asked sternly, giving Ilya a look that he didn’t want to interpret.

“Yes,” he said. “I mean the ice.”

“Ilya—”

“Sveta, don’t—”

“He’s not your mother.”

Ilya sighed, wiping away some of the tears that he had let run all the way down his neck. “I know that.”

“Do you?” she asked sharply.

Ilya pushed past her, ignoring her calls behind him, and walked into the small bathroom in the adjoining hall, closing the door behind him and leaning over the sink. He pulled his phone from his pocket, googling Shane’s name and looking for updates, but he found none. He threw the phone onto the counter and clenched the porcelain, looking up at himself in the mirror.

As he had gotten older, he had begun to see pieces of his father start to emerge on his face. He saw some of the same hard lines forming that he had always been scared of as a child. He stared at the image of his father. He looked at the figure’s hands, seeing the fist that had driven his mother to leave him. 

He looked down at his own fists, noticing the similarities. He couldn’t help but feel like he had been the one to send Shane to the ice, his knuckles appearing almost bloody in the aftermath, as if cracked from the hit. He heard a voice in his head telling him to ‘manage it.’ Ilya began to rub furiously at his hands, trying to scrape the blood off. He couldn’t.

Chapter End Notes

I'M SORRY. I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY

I know y'all by name, and I know which one of y'all (plural) is about to crash out. So I apologize 😅

I always have so many things I want to tell you all in the author's notes, but then I get to actually writing the author's note, and I'm like...if I only I had anything to say...

I want it on record that I don't just have, like, a fetish for angst and outings. I am just deeply fascinated by the concept of post-apocalyptic-type scenarios. What do we do when the worst thing possible happens? Who do we become? How do we find meaning in a world that has inherently lost the meaning we originally assigned to it? I think that's why I enjoyed the Harry Potter fandom so much. I really liked reading eighth-year fics where you now have a bunch of characters trying to figure out who they are now that everything that was designed to give them purpose is gone. For Shane and Ilya, the equivalent situation, to me at least, is: what do we do when all the secrets we built come crumbling down? How do we react when we realize those secrets never had any truth to them anyway? Again, it feels almost like religious deconstruction to me. How do you find meaning when you no longer have a belief system to easily guide you through life? What do you do when you start to believe that the "house of the Lord" never had any walls in the first place, and everyone else was able to see through the thing that you were somehow unable to. This is not a diss on religion in any way. Just my own experience.

Anyway, I referenced another Shakespeare play. A little bit of Macbeth here and there never hurt anyone (well...except that it is quite angsty...)

Also, I forgot to point out/mention, but all the chapter titles are lyrics from the Ethel Cain song "House in Nebraska." I don't know why I haven't mentioned it before, but better late than never.

Anywho, thank you for reading once again! I'm glad you all seem to be as invested in this as I am.
All I have to say to you now...is brace for impact

Chapter 12: When really I'd kill myself to hold you one more time

Chapter Notes

This chapter makes a really important reference to Chapter 8. I think you'll mostly be fine if you don't remember it, but I just thought I would let you know now (I'll tell you what it was in the endnotes too)

-

Credit: The fic "Crimson Rivers" as inspo for the opening scene, Eklund's goal against the Bruins (number one goal of the year woot woot), that one clip of Mitch Marner passing Auston Matthews the puck and Matthews stepping over it, and the crossword hint on the August 8 NYT Midi

-

CW: Angst. For real. Angst.
Also, there are a few metaphors that, upon reread, are a little darker than I meant them to be. Know that I will not have Ilya consider suicide at all in this fic. He is depressed, self-hating, and self-sabotaging, but not suicidal. It's just a particularly dark metaphor for self-sabotage

-

Matthew 12:25: Every kingdom divided against itself is brought to desolation; and every house divided against itself shall not stand

“Broken collarbone and a concussion, out for a couple of weeks, but…could have been worse,” Shane finished, grinning dopily at Ilya. Shane could tell he was still a little bit high, but not so much that he wouldn’t remember all of this later, so he didn’t mind. Besides, the little bit of floatiness still resting in his head made Ilya’s hair look more like a halo, the light from the window refracting off of the curls. He looked like an angel. Shane vaguely wondered how long he would be able to stay down on earth with them.

“You are okay?” Ilya said softly, taking a seat next to his bedside that Shane’s mom and dad had left open for him while the two of them occupied the chairs on the other side of him.

“Okey,” Shane repeated in a vaguely Russian accent, giggling afterward. Ilya didn’t laugh at the joke. If anything, his lips twitched further downward. Shane didn’t like that. He wondered if his dad could Google some good jokes for Shane to tell Ilya. Shane wasn’t allowed to look at his phone, but maybe his dad could whisper them into his ear so that he could repeat them to Ilya. He thought Ilya would laugh at that.

Shane was so happy Ilya had flown in. By his appearance, Shane suspected he had gotten on the first flight out of Boston. He looked a little tired. A little sad. Shane hoped he had been able to sleep a bit on the plane. He hoped he hadn’t been too worried about him.

“Hey, Ilya,” his dad said, not looking up from his newspaper, a pencil between his lips. “Three letters. ‘To love and to cherish? Sounds good to me!’ Any ideas?”

His dad was fond of asking Ilya if he knew the answers to the daily crossword puzzles. Shane knew that his dad probably already knew all the answers, but he was always one to try to include the people he cared about in even the small parts of his life. He had asked Shane to help him with four across mere moments ago, despite the fact that Shane was still not entirely convinced that his dad hadn’t spontaneously sprouted a third eye in the middle of his head. 

“I do,” Ilya whispered, running his thumb over Shane’s hand that he had grabbed at some point. Shane smiled with the touch, enjoying the familiar callus rubbing against his own. He liked knowing that even with his eyes closed, he would always know what Ilya’s hand felt like by the rough patches of skin that were unique to him.

“The internet is really blowing up, Shane,” Yuna remarked, scrolling through her phone. Shane knew she must have been really worried about him to not have brought her computer to the hospital. She hated working on her phone, preferring a bigger screen. “A lot of people are angry at Kent, calling for his suspension.”

Shane waved his hand dismissively. He had meant to move his right one, but instead, he moved his left one, taking Ilya’s hand, which was still interlaced with his, with him. “We all get our bell rung eventually,” he said, but now he was distracted by Ilya’s arm, which was now closer to his eyes. He stared at all the little freckles and moles. He wanted to get a marker from the nurse and connect them all to see what kind of constellation they would make. 

Shane had liked constellations a lot as a kid, enjoying the myths associated with them. He had never wanted to be the hero, but he liked looking up to them, admiring their victories. He used to wait until his parents went to bed before sneaking outside onto the back lawn to lie on the grass and stare up at the sky. 

Shane liked to imagine that maybe Ilya’s arm would show Perseus saving Andromeda. Or maybe, he thought, giggling to himself, it would be Ursa Major. The bear.

“What is funny?” Ilya asked softly, placing his other hand on Shane’s thigh.

“The stars,” Shane said, sighing. Okay, maybe he was higher than he thought. “We should go look at them.”

Ilya frowned. “It’s bright outside. You would not be able to see them.”

Shane tsked, squeezing Ilya’s hand tighter, and bringing their hands to his chest, resting them there. “You have no imagination.”

“I don’t know,” Ilya said quietly. “I think I can imagine many things.”

Shane wasn’t sure what he meant, but Ilya was probably right. He was so smart. People often got distracted by the blond curls, thinking they were the most important thing about Ilya’s head. But he had a beautiful mind. Even if Shane had a hard time understanding it.

“Can you teach me Russian?” Shane asked, peeking at Ilya through squinted eyes. For some reason, they were hard to keep open.

His dad laughed from the side. “I’m not sure you’ll remember anything, Shaney.”

Shane blew a raspberry at him, and his mom and dad both laughed. Ilya still didn’t, though, simply looking at Shane, his eyes watering slightly.

Shane lowered his head, looking at Ilya through his eyelashes, batting them. His mom was still laughing at him, but he ignored her. “Pleaaaase, Ilya.”

Ilya sighed. “What would you like to know?”

Shane thought about it. “I love you.”

Ilya smiled sadly at him. Why was he sad? “You already know that one, Shane.”

Shane giggled, nodding his head. “Я тебя люблю,” he said confidently, grinning at Ilya.

“Good job,” Ilya whispered, a single tear falling onto his cheek. Shane reached up to wipe it away, but he misjudged the distance slightly, and his hand missed, landing on Ilya’s necklace instead, his fingers loosely holding the chain. Shane twirled it between his fingers until Ilya softly removed his hand from it, placing it back on the bed. “What else do you want to know?”

Shane clicked his tongue. He wanted to pick the best phrase. The best one to know. 

“How do you say ‘I’m going to fucking win’?” 

“Language, Shane,” his mom reminded him without looking up from her phone. Shane sent her a little glare that she couldn’t see. 

He turned back to Ilya, waiting on the answer. Ilya seemed to be struggling to tell him. Maybe he didn’t know how to say it. Maybe it had been too long since they had had a win. Shane felt like that was all going to change now, though. 

Ilya stared at him for a moment. “Я не хочу, чтобы мне пришлось тебя оставить,” Ilya whispered. [I don’t want to have to leave you]

Shane frowned. “That’s too long.”

“Well then you should not have given me a long phrase.”

“But that’s what I want to know how to say,” Shane whined. Ilya let out a breathy laugh, and Shane grinned. Finally. “I’ll just try to remember how you said it in my head. It will be easy,” Shane said, tilting his head to better stare at Ilya’s face. “Your voice is always in my head. Fucking annoying sometimes.”

Shane shifted in his bed. He wondered if he scooted over a bit further, if Ilya would lie down with him, curling up around him. Although the image of Ilya in a hospital bed made him sad. He hoped Ilya never got hurt. But if he did, Shane would probably get in the bed with him. At least then they could be hurt together.

“I want to do another phrase,” Shane said.

“Okay,” Ilya replied.

Shane nodded. “How about, ‘I’m going to fucking kill you’?”

Ilya took a deep breath. “Ты меня убьешь,” he said, letting Shane’s hand go to run a thumb across Shane’s cheek. [You are going to kill me]

“Hope next time we play, you decide to show up?”

“Я не хочу, чтобы ты снова пострадал.” [I don’t want you to get hurt again]

“You’re a terrible hockey player?”

“Надеюсь, однажды ты поймешь.” [I hope you understand one day]

“I want to play together?”

Ilya just stared at him, his chin wobbling a bit. Ilya gave his hand another squeeze. Three times.

“мне очень жаль.” [I’m so sorry]

* * * * *

Shane was going to be out for six weeks. That was six weeks that Ilya got to play hockey while Shane sat on his parents’ couch, not even able to watch on the TV. Just another six weeks Ilya had stolen from Shane.

He hadn’t ended it yet, even though he knew he needed to. He wasn’t strong enough to. Between every text he sent to Shane was a message that had gone unsent. Messages that he hoped would drive Shane away. Messages that were designed to cut.

But every time he tried to send them, he saw Shane sprawled out on that ice, blood pooling from his body, staining the cold surface. He would look down at his feet, imagining a pair of skates, the blades coated in thick blood as if they had run over Shane in their desperation to play hockey. 

He kind of hoped that if he started drawing away, Shane would eventually let him go. Maybe if he got enough distance from Shane, he would eventually forget that Ilya was there. He would sit at the dinner table with his parents and laugh with them, saying things like, "Oh my God, do you guys remember Ilya? Ilya? Who’s that? Oh, he’s that boy I once kissed. I used to love him. Did you really? Yeah, I once bought two houses with him, too. Oh, how funny. I barely knew him, really.”

Ilya was a coward. He didn’t want to have to be the one to sever the tie between them. So instead, he was slowly trying to stretch the string, thinning it until it was barely noticeable. Not that Ilya would ever not notice it. He imagined that even the thin thread could still be the noose he could use to hang himself.

He waited a few more minutes before texting Shane back. He tried to increase that time every day. He let his responses grow shorter during their phone calls, using various excuses to end them early. It didn’t help that Shane now had so much time to talk while he recovered. It made him feel like he was being tempted, every free moment taunting him with the urge to call Shane just to see how he was doing. Just to hear his voice.

They were playing the Admirals the week after Shane’s injury, meaning Shane was cleared for additional screen usage, and Ilya knew Shane would be watching the game. He hated that it made him want to perform better, to impress Shane. He hated that it made him want to blow a kiss to the camera.

His teammates had started guarding him a lot more carefully since Shane’s hit, much to Ilya’s annoyance. Not that anyone had tried anything, but the Raiders didn’t seem to want to take their chances, each one of them taking turns standing too close to Ilya or rushing to take hits meant for him. He wished they would just let them hit him. He wondered, if he was hit, if he too would break his collarbone. As he ran a gloved hand over it, he thought about how it had started feeling more fragile, as if it was carrying an additional ache.

For some reason, his teammates, who had lined up in front of him for warmups, had cleared a path so that Scott Hunter could approach him more easily from his side of the rink, staying behind the center line.

“Hey, Rozanov,” Hunter called.

Ilya glared at his teammates as they backed away even further. “Hunter.”

“How are you holding up?”

Ilya turned to him, raising an eyebrow, which made Hunter flush. “Why do you care?”

Hunter shifted awkwardly from one skate to the other, glancing around at his teammates. “I just,” he began slowly, “I just want to know if there’s anything you need. Anything at all, I could—”

“You could do what?” Ilya asked, skating as close to the red line as he could without going over it so that Hunter and he were face to face. “You could make another rookie cry?”

Hunter gave him a confused look. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“What could you do, Hunter?” Ilya asked sharply.

“I—I don’t—” Hunter stammered. “I don’t know. I could…I could…” He took a deep breath, looking towards the audience as if he were looking for someone specific. “I could text people. Talk to some of the players. Let them know I support you two,” he finished before looking down at the ice as if disappointed in himself. Ilya knew the feeling.

“I do not need your texts,” Ilya spat, pushing away from Hunter back towards his team, who were not so subtly looking between the two of them.

The Raiders beat the Admirals 2-0. It didn’t even really feel like Hunter was trying to play, his mind drifting in the opposite direction of the puck. As the teams lined up to head off the ice, Ilya couldn’t help but turn to tell him as much.

“Next time we play, I hope you decide to show up, Mr. Hunter,” he said mockingly.

For the first time that game, Hunter smiled quietly to himself. “Mr. Hunter, huh?” he said, with a little chuckle. He gave Ilya a kind expression that Ilya disliked immediately. “You know, you’re starting to sound like him,” he said softly, as if it was something admirable. 

Ilya almost smiled, hearing Shane’s laugh echo in his head. He felt like if he laughed now, the sound would be almost identical, hitting all the same beats together. But then he heard Crowell’s voice. He saw Shane looking behind him on the ice, not noticing the hit that was directed right at him.

He thought about the string between them, tied around the rib that covered Ilya’s heart, pulled so tight, he thought it might crack.

“Go away, Hunter,” he muttered, marching off the ice, not looking behind him.

* * * * *

“I can’t believe you’re making the guy with one working arm do this,” Shane grumbled.

“It’s your left arm that’s hurt. Stop your whining and complaining and get back to work,” Lily said, wiggling her right hand at him. 

Shane rolled his eyes, but he took the hand, setting it on his knee and grabbing the nail polish applicator from beside them. The two of them were sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor in front of Shane’s parents’ TV with a game on in the background. Neither of them was paying much attention to the game. It was just Buffalo and Seattle after all.

Shane started with the thumb because it was the biggest, so he figured it would be the hardest to mess up. He bit his tongue as he used the brush to spread bright red polish on the nail. He immediately got some onto the side of Lily’s finger.

“You’re grabbing too much polish. You need to swipe some of it off on the bottle,” Lily said, using her other hand that she had painted herself to wipe away the offending red drips.

“I don’t know why you think I’m going to do better than you would do with just your left hand,” Shane said with a sigh, starting on the next finger, making sure to pick up less polish. “You know, my mom’s going to kill us if we get nail polish on her rug.”

“Well, you’d better not spill any, then.”

Shane glared at her but continued painting. Why were fingers so fucking small?

They sat in silence as Lily let Shane work on her nails, staring lazily at the TV.

“How’s Jim doing, by the way?” he asked as he moved to work on the ring finger.

“Jim? Jim who?” Lily asked, not turning away from the TV. Shane gave her a long look until she finally sighed and spun her head towards him. “I think we’ve broken up again.”

“You think?”

“Well,” she said, leaning over to scrape another streak of misplaced red polish from her finger. “He told me we were done. Like done done. But he’s said that before.”

“Sure.”

“But I think he meant it this time. My texts won’t go through, so I think he must have blocked me. Honestly, I didn’t know he had it in him,” she said, sniffing a bit, her lips downturned. 

“Did he give you a reason?” Shane asked.

Lily shrugged. “Something about me being too invasive and clingy. Can you believe that? Me? Invasive?”

“You would never,” Shane said flatly. “You’re so aloof and standoffish.”

“I’m classy like that. No one knows what I’m thinking. I’m mysterious.”

“Oh, yes. So very,” Shane said sarcastically making Lily cackle.

She sighed. “Anyways. How is your love life? Is the video still causing problems?”

Shane paused his painting. “Mm, I don’t know. I don’t think so. My mom says she’s handling all the public-facing stuff. And nothing seems to have really changed in the league, so…”

“Except Kent being an asshole.”

“Kent’s always been an asshole. At least now he’s a suspended asshole,” he said. “Have you noticed any problems? Like online and stuff?”

“Mm,” Lily hummed. “My problem is that I can’t stop watching it.”

“Pervert.”

“No, no. It’s just that you look happy in it. That’s all.”

Shane smiled and started painting her pinky, which was a disaster waiting to happen. “I was. I am, I think.”

“And Ilya’s doing good too?”

Shane froze for a moment, trying not to think too much about the phone that was silently resting in his pocket. Ilya didn’t have a game today, but he said he was hanging out with Marleau and a couple of other teammates, so Shane didn’t expect to get a phone call from him for a bit, even if he wanted to.

“I think so,” Shane said slowly before sighing. “I don’t know. I just feel like…” 

Lily raised her eyebrows. “You just feel like what?”

Shane took a deep breath. “I don’t know. He’s just not texting me first. And he keeps saying that he’s hanging out with people, which I am really happy about. But I think he might be ignoring me. And sometimes,” Shane hesitated, looking around the house as if his parents would magically appear, “he can be a little mean.”

Lily winced. “Mean? Mean how? Are you guys fighting again?”

“No, nothing like that. He’s just been making little jabs about how boring I am. And usually it feels fun, but…” he drifted off.

“It’s not feeling so fun anymore?” Lily asked softly.

Shane shook his head. “No. It kind of feels like he means it.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t, Shane. He really loves you.”

“Yeah, I know. I just worry that that’s not enough. I worry that the video finally proved to him that I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

“I don’t think he thinks that.”

“I don’t either. Not really. But he’s still just off, I don’t know,” Shane muttered, rolling the nail polish brush between his fingers.

“Have you told him this?” Lily asked.

Shane shook his head. “No. I don’t want to put more pressure on him. He’s already going through enough. I don’t want to make him feel like he’s being a bad boyfriend.” Shane shrugged. “And I guess he is on the road right now, so maybe I’m just more aware of it because I’m not as busy.” Shane smirked at her. “I guess I know how the WAGs feel now.”

Lily giggled. “You’d make a good trophy husband. You’re certainly hot enough for it.”

“I knew you only kept me around for my body.”

“You’re just a piece of ass to me, Hollander.”

Shane laughed, but the sound quickly died in his throat as his mind returned to Ilya. He thought about him sitting by himself in empty houses, empty hotel rooms, empty rows on airplanes. He wished he could sit with him. He wasn’t sure why Ilya was so resistant to the idea of him coming to Boston to heal there, even if Ilya was on the road for most of Shane’s recovery time. 

“Anyways, he just seems a bit weird,” Shane continued.

“He is a bit weird.”

“Well, then, weirder than normal. And he’s not talking to me as much, which makes me feel weird too,” he said, putting the brush back into the bottle. “But maybe I’m being invasive and clingy.”

Lily laughed and lifted her hands to admire Shane’s messy work, blowing on her nails.

“You can just take it off when you get home. Make Kate do it or something,” Shane said with a wince as he spotted some polish that had drifted below the nail.

“Never!” Lily exclaimed. “These are special nails. They were done by a famous hockey player.”

“More like infamous,” Shane said, screwing the cap on the bottle and glancing at the screen to check the score for a moment. 

“Shit,” he heard Lily say, and he turned to look at her. Her eyes were on a spot next to him, and he followed her eyeline.

“Shit,” he repeated when he saw what she was looking at. There were a few blood-red drops on the carpet. He hadn’t even noticed. “We’re dead,” Shane whispered, his eyes not leaving the stain.

“Quick. Break your other arm,” Lily hissed back, and Shane whacked her.

* * * * *

Shane )): Are you headed back from the game?

Yes I just left the arena

Shane )): Don’t text and drive

I am not

I am sitting in my car

Shane )): Okay good

Shane )): You’re going to the house, right?

Yes

Why?

Shane )): Oh I was just going to DoorDash you some food

I can make food

Shane )): I know

Shane )): I’m going to order you some anyway

Okay

…

Shane?

Shane )): Yeah?

…

Nevermind

Ilya pulled into the driveway of their house in Boston and turned off the car, just sitting there for a moment. He pictured the food Shane had ordered for him growing cold on the front steps, resting in the porch light, but he couldn’t find it in himself to get out just yet. He stared at his car visor, blinking away a few tears. He felt more emotional than usual. Usually, his feelings dulled until he could hardly sense them there, but recently, he had started to feel like his whole body was too full of emotions just waiting to simmer over, bubbling out from the corners of his eyes. 

He blinked a few times, trying to clear his vision, but his eyelids felt heavy with exhaustion. He hadn’t been sleeping well recently. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Shane crashing into the ice. He heard a voice telling him that Shane couldn’t take another hit. 

The radio turned off, and the lights in the car faded to black as Ilya continued to sit idle in his car, the keys still hanging uselessly in the ignition. He let the stillness swallow him up, and he took a few deep breaths. He kind of wanted to turn the car back on and speed down the road, driving as fast as he could in whatever direction. 

When he finally got out of his car and approached the front door, he noticed that there wasn’t any food on the welcome mat. There was, however, a light on inside the house. Ilya’s hands shook as he slowly placed the keys inside the lock, pushing the door open. 

At first, he saw nothing, and he almost let himself hope that he had just left a light on earlier that day. But then he saw a face poke out behind a wall, smiling at him. Shane ran to meet Ilya. Ilya didn’t move, but he let Shane crash into him, wrapping him in a hug. Ilya couldn’t help but hug him back just as tightly, clutching at Shane’s shirt. He hated himself.

“What are you doing here?” he muttered into Shane’s neck.

“I came to bring you food,” Shane said, pulling away to look at him, brushing back his hair that was still wet from the showers at the arena. 

“Ah. You are unemployed, so you became DoorDash driver? Makes sense,” Ilya said, nodding.

Shane laughed and smacked his arm playfully. “Come on,” he said, pulling Ilya’s arm. “Let’s eat while it’s still warm. You took a while to get here.”

“I am a slow driver,” Ilya said, letting himself get dragged to the kitchen, where there were a couple of takeout containers from Ilya’s favorite Italian restaurant.

“Since when?” Shane asked, bemused, opening the boxes and carefully placing the food onto two plates that had already been set out.

“Since always. You must not know me very well,” Ilya teased, taking a seat at one of the barstools.

Shane looked at him for a moment before turning back to his food, cutting off a piece of chicken. Ilya swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. The chicken parm he shoved in his mouth tasted like cardboard.

“You know what I didn’t know,” Shane said after a moment.

Ilya twirled some pasta onto his fork. “What?” he asked, shoving the pasta into his mouth.

“I didn’t know that there was going to be a ‘For Sale’ sign in the front yard,” Shane said calmly.

Ilya choked on his food, coughing hard. He had forgotten about the sign. Shane patted him on the back a few times while Ilya worked to clear his airway. He reached for Shane’s ginger ale, taking a long gulp from it.

“I thought you didn’t like ginger ale,” Shane said softly.

Ilya shrugged, taking another sip. “It is growing on me.”

They sat there for a moment, Shane still rubbing circles onto Ilya’s back even though the coughs were long gone.

“So,” Shane said. “You’re selling the house?”

Ilya shrugged as if it was a decision he had made lightly. As if watching the ‘For Sale’ sign get hammered into the lawn didn’t make him feel like they were actually stabbing it into his chest. 

“I thought I would just use my apartment,” he said quietly.

Shane frowned. “And you didn’t think that was something you should tell me?”

Ilya grabbed a napkin crumpled on the counter and tore off little pieces. “The house is in my name. Not yours.”

Shane gawked at him. “This…this is my house,” Shane asserted weakly. 

Ilya shrugged again, hoping his nonchalance would only anger Shane more. Come on, Shane, he begged internally. Yell at me. Tell me that you can’t believe I did this. Tell me I’ve gone too far this time. Tell me you could never be with someone so selfish. That you deserve better. “No. Is not. It is mine, and I want to sell it.”

“We picked it out together,” Shane said a bit louder this time.

“Okay? So? I paid for it, Shane. I want to live in the apartment. It is closer to the practice facility," he said as if that explained it all. 

Shane just slowly nodded, as if he understood. “I guess that makes sense. I just wish you had told me,” he said weakly, taking another bite of his food and chewing slowly while assessing the different household items that he could see from where he was sitting. “I haven’t seen your apartment yet. If it’s closer and all that, then I guess we can just move there now.”

He turned to smile at Ilya as if he had fixed it for them. Ilya tried to smile in return, but it probably came out more as a grimace.

“Yes, good thinking,” he whispered. After a moment of continued silent eating, Ilya spoke again. “Why did you come here?”

Shane paused, a bite of food hanging precariously from his fork. He set it down before it fell. “I…I thought it would be a fun surprise. It’s not like I’m doing anything in Ottawa.”

“Yes, but you can play in a few days,” he continued.

“I mean contactless, but yes, I can go to practice soon,” Shane responded, frowning.

“Well then, you should go,” Ilya said, grabbing his now empty plate and walking it over to the sink, making sure to rinse it, just like Shane always preferred, before setting it in the dishwasher. He didn’t look at Shane as he started to load some of the other dishes that had accumulated in the sink.

“Go?” Shane asked from behind him. He turned towards him, leaning against the counter.

“Mm, yes. To play hockey,” Ilya said firmly.

Shane pushed his plate away from him, the ceramic scraping against the marble. “I…I thought you’d be happy to see me,” he said, his voice cracking at the end, and Ilya’s heart broke a little bit more, which he hadn’t thought was possible.

He couldn’t do this. Not now. Not when Shane had brought him food. Not in the home that they’d worked so hard to build together.

Ilya quickly moved around the counter to where Shane was sitting, slightly curled in on himself, and hugged him, holding him tight to his chest. Shane wrapped his own arms around Ilya, pulling him closer. Ilya knew that this was one of those moments that he would always think about for no reason. One of those unremarkable moments that carried so much emotion that couldn’t even be described, but would stick with him forever.

A tear ran down Ilya’s cheek that he knew Shane wouldn’t be able to see from where he was burrowed into Ilya. “I just want you to be able to play hockey,” Ilya said quietly.

Shane laughed a bit, the sound muffled by Ilya’s shirt. “I am playing hockey. They won’t be able to keep me down for long.”

Ilya pulled away for a moment to lean down and kiss him as tenderly as he could, his hands moving to cup Shane’s face in his hands as if he were drinking from something precious where some of it would slip between his fingertips if he didn’t hold them together tight.

“You know,” Shane said, breaking the kiss with a soft smile that threatened to choke Ilya. “Under all of these clothes, I’m not wearing anything at all.”

Ilya couldn’t help but laugh. Shane was so funny. People missed that about him. “Wow. Nothing at all?”

“Nothing. Just for you, baby,” Shane said, grinning.

Ilya swallowed a guilty sob that threatened to emerge and took Shane’s hands in his own, pulling him off the stool. “Well then,” he said. “Would be a waste to do nothing about it.”

Shane lifted his arms, wrapping them around Ilya’s neck and pulling him in for another kiss, more desperate this time. Ilya didn’t care if he was kissing too hard or slotting his mouth too far into Shane’s. If this was the last gulp of air that he got to take in before he slipped under the waves, then he was going to take the largest one he could, even if it made the guilt worse later. Even if it made him despise his own lungs.

Ilya lifted Shane up, pulling his legs around him and carrying him the length of the hallway to their bedroom, setting him down gently on their bed. He crowded him, trying to run his hands across every part of Shane’s body, taking note of every curve, every bump. He felt a bit panicked with how many details there were to memorize. He had had so much time to do it, but now he was cramming for the exam the night before, angry at himself for leaving it to the last minute. How many ribs did Shane have? How many freckles? How long was his small intestine? Was his big toe longer or shorter than his second toe? He could never remember them all, but he was determined to try his best.

He ran his tongue along Shane’s neck, relishing the shiver he got in response. Shane’s hands ran along his back, and Ilya hoped he would claw at him with his fingernails, leaving marks there. Ilya leaned back for a moment just to remove his and Shane’s shirts before pressing into Shane again, kissing every part of him that he could.

When he was young, he hadn’t understood why his mother loved church and God as much as she did. What had God ever done for them? She dragged him and his brother to church as many weekends as she could, and Ilya spent the services staring at the ceilings, admiring the gold foil and paintings. He hadn’t understood what about being in that gaudy church had made her want to pray to God more.

He kind of got it now, he thought as he knelt at Shane’s feet, dragging his pants off of his legs. There was something about being around something so beautiful that it made you want to worship. To bow before the altar and pretend like the beauty could love you too.

Shane pulled Ilya up from his knees, kissing him hard, sighing into the movement, as if he were satisfied. Ilya wasn’t. He didn’t think he ever would be.

“Why are you crying?” Shane whispered, his fingers reaching up to tap Ilya’s cheeks, brushing away a few stray tears.

He had to end it. Shane never would. They both just loved each other too much. Shane loved Ilya too much to go. Ilya loved Shane too much to stay.

Ilya ran his hands along Shane’s arms, taking a deep breath to try and steady himself. “I am just sad we lost the game.”

Shane gave him a sad smile and kissed him gently. “You’ll win the next one.”

* * * * *

Something was wrong with Ilya.

Shane had stayed the rest of the week with Ilya before returning to Montreal to begin practicing with the team again. It was good, but it felt like they were always on the verge of an argument that Ilya was trying to goad him into having. Like selling the fucking house? What the fuck was he thinking?

Shane was trying to be patient and stay calm, but it was growing progressively harder to do so the more reclusive Ilya became, even when Shane was sitting right next to him. Silences during meals and movies felt sharper, as if they were both balancing on the edge of a blade, waiting for it to slice one or the other of them. When the silence faded into conversation, the words felt pointed, carrying an additional weight and meaning that Shane didn’t know how to interpret. 

Ilya’s calls and texts weren't just becoming infrequent; they were becoming nonexistent. For the first time since the roof in Vegas, Ilya forgot to text Shane one day, breaking their streak. It shouldn’t have felt as serious as it did, but Shane couldn’t help but feel like Ilya had broken a vow.

At least Ilya was in Montreal now. At least now Shane could talk to him in person. He had almost hugged the team doctor yesterday when they had officially cleared him for play. They were scheduled to play the Raiders that night, and Shane would have hated to miss it. Despite everything going on, he was excited to be with Ilya on the ice without the secrecy of their relationship looming over them. He smiled to himself thinking about all the chirps he could try on Ilya that he hadn’t been able to over the years.

Shane tapped on the steering wheel of his car as he waited, humming along to the tune of the song that was playing. Shane generally didn’t listen to a lot of music, but he knew that this was one of Ilya’s favorites, and he always tried to make a point of knowing at least the melody, even if he gave up on knowing all the lyrics long ago.

He was parked at the front of the hotel this time, right outside the entrance in the little roundabout area. He was also in the driver’s seat, sitting up straight, instead of hunched over in the back. It felt nice. 

He glanced at his watch and frowned. Ilya was usually quick to leave the hotel. They didn’t have much time before the game, but Shane had wanted to grab lunch. He thought that they could try that new restaurant on Avenue du Mont-Royal. 

Fifteen more minutes passed. Shane frowned and pulled out his phone, checking the flight information again. They had gotten in on time, and Shane could clearly see a large tour bus parked on the other side of the lot.

Hey where are you?

I’m out front

Did you go to the back?

Shane drove around the parking lot to their usual spot, parked the car, and let it idle for a moment. He grabbed his phone again.

Okay I moved to the back

Unless you want me to go back around

Just let me know

He waited for another fifteen minutes before calling Ilya. It went straight to voicemail.

He pulled up his contact for Marleau and opened their texting history, which was admittedly pretty minimal.

Hey Marleau, is Ilya with you?

He’s supposed to meet me right now, but I can’t get a hold of him

Cliff Marleau: …

Cliff Marleau: Uh he told me to tell you to drive back home

…

What?

Cliff Marleau: Yeah I don’t know man

Did he say why?

Cliff Marleau: No

Cliff Marleau: I don’t know he’s acting strange

Can you just give me your guys room number and I’ll come up?

Cliff Marleau: …

Cliff Marleau: he told me I’m not allowed to

…

You. A grown man. Are not allowed to tell me your room number?

Cliff Marleau: Sorry Hollander

Tell him to fucking text me back

Shane shoved his phone into the cup holder, glaring at it. What the fuck was Ilya’s deal? What, he had decided to text Shane less often, and now he was actually fucking ignoring him? Shane had a sinking feeling in his stomach that he was doing his best to ignore, and he grabbed his phone again, violently and with a harsh huff.

I don’t know why the fuck you aren’t texting me back

We promised we wouldn’t do this Ilya

We said we would always text back

Fucking nothing. Not even a little bubble to suggest that he was typing or a little line that said “read.” 

Shane stayed in the parking lot for hours until it was time to head to the game, just staring out the window, waiting for Ilya to text him or call him or come out to the car. He noted the time and simply turned on the car, grateful that he had left his bag in the back as he drove out of the lot towards Bell Centre, still seething.

At least Ilya would have to see him during the game.

Shane arrived at the rink, his brain still muddy with barely contained rage, closing his car door behind him with a slam. He stormed into the facility, not looking at anyone as he passed. Eventually he made it to the locker room, but he wasn’t really sure how. He hadn’t been focused on where he was going as he walked, just letting muscle memory drag him down the halls.

The first person he saw as he walked in was Berkes, who frowned at him. “Where’s your game day suit?” he asked, taking in Shane’s appearance.

“I’m trying out a new look,” Shane muttered in response, flinging his bag into his locker and tearing off his clothes. He was probably going to get fined for not dressing up. Not that the outfit was bad or anything. In fact, Shane had gotten Lily’s advice on it, wanting to look good for his and Ilya’s potential public date.

The rest of his teammates kept glancing over at him with worried eyes, but Shane ignored them, just focusing on pulling on his gear. He skipped his usual pre-game routine and just sat on the bench after he finished getting dressed, his knee bouncing up and down.

“Shane,” Hayden asked, bending over towards him. “You okay?”

Shane just gave him a sharp nod and went back to moving his knee, staring off into space. Shane didn’t understand. He felt like his brain was working in so many different directions, but he couldn’t find the throughline, the one that made all of this make sense. Was it the videos? Was it his team? Was it Shane?

Maybe it all had gotten too hard for Ilya. Maybe while Shane had been recovering, he hadn’t noticed Ilya’s own hurt, silently growing and festering in the corner.

Or maybe, Shane suddenly thought, Ilya was doing something fucking stupid.

It didn’t matter anyway. He needed to fucking cut it out, whatever he was doing, or at least just talk to him. Shane felt like he was back in Lily’s old college apartment, staring at a strand of unsent messages, wondering about the ones being typed out on Ilya’s phone.

They stepped on the ice for warm-ups, and Shane ignored the rest of his team, immediately heading for center ice. He put his hands on his hips and waited as the Raiders came out, circling around their half of the rink. He watched as Ilya came onto the ice, not even glancing over at Shane.

“Ilya,” he hissed as Ilya passed quickly. He still didn’t look at him.

Hayden approached him, stopping next to him, looking back and forth between the Metros and the Raiders players who were starting to notice that something was going on. “Uh, Shane? What are you doing?”

“Trying to talk to Ilya,” he said, not turning to look at him, his eyes not leaving the words “Rozanov” on the back of Ilya’s jersey.

Marleau glanced at Ilya before skating over to join them, looking nervous. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?” he said in a faux light tone. A buzz rose from the crowd as people turned to their neighbors, asking them what was going on.

“Tell him to get his ass over here,” Shane spat, and Hayden winced beside him.

Marleau grimaced, looking at Ilya again, who was taking a few shots at the goal. “I uh…I don’t think I can do that.”

“What the fuck is going on, Marleau?” Hayden asked.

Marleau looked at him with a panicked expression. “Fuck if I know, man.” He turned to Shane. “Did you guys fight or something?”

Shane scoffed. “No, he just won’t talk to me.”

Marleau frowned, and all three of them shifted to observe Ilya as if they could learn something about the man hidden by layers of hockey pads and armor, just by looking at him. 

“Maybe just give him some time. Might just need to cool off about something. I’ll get him to talk after the game,” Marleau said, giving Shane a nod that Shane didn’t return.

Shane joined to his team to finish warmups, ignoring the frightened look Mitty gave him when he slapped the puck a little bit too hard at him. He went through the motions, never not aware of where Ilya was on the ice, glancing over every other second to see if Ilya was finally looking at him. He never was.

They made their way off the ice, and Shane and Ilya stepped toward their respective gates at the same time. Shane took one of the pucks that was sitting next to the door and passed it to Ilya. Ilya just stepped over it and walked down the tunnel.

By the time the game began, Shane had made a decision. He approached center ice again, this time for the face-off, tracking each of Ilya’s movements as he joined him.

“Ilya Rozanov,” he whispered as he leaned over the dot, his eyes not leaving Ilya’s downturned face, which flinched slightly upon hearing his name. “Will you disappoint them?”

Ilya finally glanced up at Shane, confused. Shane couldn’t help but give him a concerned look, taking in the dark bags and the little bloodshot corners in his eyes.

“Ilya, what—” Shane whispered.

The puck dropped, and Ilya wordlessly slapped it back to Carmichael. The game continued, Ilya skating close to Shane but very obviously doing his best not to touch him. Well, as best as he could given that they were playing a contact sport.

Shane furiously sped back and forth across the ice, barely even passing the puck as he cut through players. Ilya stole the puck from Berkes, and Shane skated quickly, checking Ilya hard into the boards. Ilya kicked the puck over to Marleau, but Shane stayed on him, holding him against the glass.

“Get off me, Shane,” Ilya grunted as Shane pressed harder.

“Oh, so you do know how to talk,” Shane spat back.

He heard a whistle blow behind him, and a ref grabbed him, forcing him off Ilya, and called the penalty. Shane marched over to the box, slamming it shut behind him as he leaned forward to watch the game. He saw Ilya turn to look at him sitting in the penalty box, appearing as if he were slightly ill. Through the glass, they stared at each other for a moment before Ilya took a deep breath, lifting himself up and lining up for the power play.

The Raiders scored their first goal of the game before Shane rejoined his team. 

Shane spent the next two periods chirping Ilya relentlessly, just trying to get any reaction out of him, but if Ilya was stoic before, he was now completely stone-like, his face unmoving. Shane scored a goal. Nothing. Shane scored a second goal. Still fucking nothing.

“Jesus, Hollander,” Comeau muttered after the second almost impossible shot, taken while also falling to the ice, twisting around in the air to see the goal.

Shane ignored him, simply heading to the bench to wait for his next shift. He didn’t watch the game, electing to look down the line at Ilya on his own bench instead. 

“Hollzy,” J.J. whispered, trying to pull his attention back to the game.

“No,” Shane responded, trying to analyze every single one of Ilya’s movements. Not that there were any. Shane never had Ilya’s ability to read people, but he would be damned if he didn’t try now. Shane was starting to get a terrible feeling that perhaps Ilya was trying to do something stupid. Something he thought was brave.

The two of them got back on the ice again for another face-off.

“I think there’s still time for a hat trick,” Shane said, leaning over. “Should I do it now or wait until the last second? The last second is more fun, but…”

Ilya just breathed. Shane was glad he at least was doing that.

Shane ended the game with a third and final goal, hats raining down around him, his teammates trying to celebrate with him nervously, but everyone on the ice knew something was wrong. The buzzer went off, announcing the conclusion of the period, and Shane stormed off the ice, down the tunnel. When he got to the locker room, he grabbed his skates, unlacing them and ripping them off his feet. The rest of his team slowly joined while Shane removed the rest of his gear. After he was just in his skins, he grabbed his phone from his bag, slamming his fingers down on the screen.

We need to talk

Message could not be delivered.

Shane stared at the text, the words swimming in front of him.

Ilya?

Message could not be delivered.

He opened Lily’s contact information and shot her a quick message. The text sent just fine.

Shane’s jaw dropped, and he stared, frozen, at his phone. In his head, he saw a young Ilya holding out his phone, asking for his number. He saw the image of himself asking Ilya for his number two years later, asking him to start over, asking for forgiveness.

Shane threw the phone into his locker, hitting it hard against the metal and causing a loud clatter that silenced the entire room. 

“Shane—” Hayden began, but Shane turned and shoved past him, storming out of the locker room.

* * * * *

Ilya felt like he was going to be sick as he quietly stripped off his gear, placing them carefully into his stall. His teammates were barely talking, each one of them giving him nervous glances.

“Hollander was on one today,” Mercer whispered from the corner, and Carmichael smacked his arm.

“Dude, don’t,” he warned.

“Don’t what? I didn’t even say anything,” he protested, and Carmichael smacked him again, glancing over at Ilya. Ilya said nothing in response and just continued to sit on the bench, staring at his phone that was resting in front of him in his locker.

He heard yelling outside of the locker room, and the team turned to each other, confused. Mercer walked a little closer to the door to try to hear better, but at that moment, the door slammed open, crashing loudly into the wall behind it.

Shane walked into the room, his face red, breathing hard.

“You fucking blocked me?” he yelled.

A few people gasped, and someone let out a quiet “holy shit.”  Ilya noticed the almost imperceptible shift of bodies, creating one long empty space between him and Shane. 

Ilya sniffed, trying to look at anything but Shane but finding himself drawn back to the furious, dark eyes across from him. “Go away, Hollander,” he said softly.

Shane scoffed. “Ilya. What’s going on? What—”

“I told you to leave,” he repeated, leaning over to move his skates neatly into his locker. 

Shane stammered for a moment, glancing around at Ilya’s teammates, looking for the joke. “I’m not just going to leave! You fucking blocked me! You—” 

“Shane. I want you to go. Please go,” Ilya said softly, each word carving itself into the back of his hands, the blood dripping onto the floor.

“Roz—” someone began from the side.

“No, I’m not going to fucking go. I’m staying right here, Ilya. I’m right here. Just tell me what’s going on,” Shane said, tears starting to fall from his eyes, gasping between words just to get them out.

Ilya tried to hold back his own tears. He couldn’t cry, not yet. Or this would never work. And it had to work.

“You blocked me,” Shane said, his voice small.

Ilya took a deep breath and shrugged. “So what?”

Shane laughed cruelly, the sound of it cutting straight to Ilya’s chest. “So what?” he hissed. “So fucking what?”

“Yes, Hollander. What do you want?”

“Ilya, I don’t understand. Just fucking talk to me,” Shane gasped out, running his hands through his hair.

Ilya sighed, leaning back onto the bench. “I think we had a good run, Hollander, but I don’t know.” He stared at the floor. “Maybe it is time to grow up.”

“Stop fucking calling me Hollander,” Shane spat, moving closer to him, past his pale-faced teammates, towering over him. Behind him, Hayden Pike slowly opened the locker room door, his eyes widening as he took in the scene.

“What would you like me to call you?” Ilya asked quietly.

“I know what you’re doing, Ilya. Fucking stop it. I’m not fucking stupid.”

Ilya looked at Shane, at his red eyes and even redder cheeks, the color obscuring his freckles. “What am I doing?” he asked quietly, still not getting up from the bench, letting Shane loom over him.

“You’re trying to push me away. You—” Shane broke off to take in another sharp inhale. “You’re trying to make me think that you don’t care, but I know you, Ilya. I know you fucking care.”

“I don’t care,” he said, his voice wobbling ever so slightly. Get it together, he thought to himself, glancing away for one second to look at St. Simone and Connors, who were both staring slack-jawed at him.

“Bullshit, Ilya!” Shane screamed, flinging his arms out in frustration. “I don’t know whatever dumb fucking thoughts are convincing you that I’d be better without you, but you’re fucking wrong. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. So just fucking stop it.”

“I am not doing anything,” he said, peering up into Shane’s wide eyes. For a moment, he let himself memorize how they looked when Shane cried. “I just don’t want to see you anymore, Hollander,” he continued with another shrug.

“Stop calling me Hollander,” Shane said quietly, his chest stuttering as he tried to take another breath.

“Shane,” he corrected, looking seriously at him. “Is okay. It was fun. We had fun, yes?”

“I’m not having fucking fun, Ilya,” Shane sobbed, stomping his foot on the ground as if he were a child. “This isn’t fucking fun. We can work this out. We can—” he reached out, resting his hand on Ilya’s face, but Ilya just pushed it away. Shane let out a pained sound, folding his arms in on each other, and holding himself. 

“You want me to fight the league? You want me to burn it all down?” Shane whispered, rocking slightly. “Well, I don’t want to fight the league; I want to fight with you. And I want to go home with you at the end of the day. I want to keep our houses.” He unfolded his arms to run a hand down his face, wiping furiously at his tears. He pointed angrily at the ground. “This is what I’m fighting for, Ilya.”

“I am sorry, Shane,” Ilya said quietly. “It is for the best.”

“This is cruel, Ilya. Please stop it,” Shane sobbed quietly, shaking his head. “I love you.”

He saw the knife in his hands, shaking as he held it. He saw Shane lying there on the ice, having drunk the poison willingly. He turned the knife around towards himself.

Time slowed down for a brief moment, allowing him one extra moment to stare at Shane’s freckles, at his hair, at the way his eyebrows pushed together, at the teeth that had never been broken despite years of hockey, at his lips that Ilya had kissed so many times before.

He tried to remember them all, but with every flick of his eye, he found himself forgetting the detail before.

He just didn’t have enough time.

“I know,” he breathed, his face completely still.

Shane let out a wet laugh, backing away from him as if he had been hit. Ilya supposed he had. “Good job,” he said with a gasp. “It almost sounded like you didn’t care that time.” 

Ilya said nothing as Shane looked up at the ceiling, his tears glistening in the bright light. He looked like he was praying. 

After a moment, Shane snapped his head back to look at Ilya, his face resigned. “Fine,” he whispered, but he might as well have screamed it with how loudly it rang out in the locker room, causing multiple people to flinch. “Don’t bother to unblock me.”

Shane turned and marched out of the locker room, still crying, his tears shining on the rubber flooring.

“How could you?” Hayden whispered, staring at Ilya with unbridled shock, before following after his friend.

None of the Raiders moved; they barely even breathed. Marleau had tears running down his face that he didn’t bother to wipe away as he looked at Ilya, horrified. 

Ilya finally stood up from the bench, the shaking of his legs almost causing him to fall over. None of his teammates moved to catch him as he stumbled over to a trash can in the corner, his socks slipping on the tile. He grabbed the corners of the can, clenching it as hard as he could to try and hold himself upright. He leaned over and threw up.

He heard a sob escape his throat, and he couldn’t help the loud gasps and cries that left his body, shaking as he braced himself on the can. Marleau and Carmichael walked over, rubbing his back comfortingly, but Ilya just cried and cried, his heaves echoing loudly in his ears.

“Oh, Ilya,” Marleau said softly.

The door to the locker room opened next to them, and the three of them all glanced to the side as the assistant coach walked in, baffled by his reception.

For a moment there, he had thought Shane was going to come back. He turned and threw up again. 

Chapter End Notes

*throws hands up in the air* Yeah, okay I know

reference from chapter 8:
STAR WARS Episode 6—
Princess Leia: "I love you"
Han Solo (said seriously): "I know"

This chapter was planned months ago, to be honest with you. The last scene was the first one I thought of when I planned this fic. So... unfortunately...they are in a not-so-great place...and it was always going to happen 😬😬😬.
I apologize for being evil. (Are people born Wicked? Or do they have Wickedness thrust upon them?)

Okay here are all of the notes I decided to jot down while writing:
1) I'm really scared for you guys to read this chapter haha. Every time I publish something, I feel like someone is holding my first-born captive, and I just sit in a corner, rocking like "oh my gosh what if they hate it. They hate it. I knew it."
"Get a hobby" everyone said. "It will help with your anxiety" everyone said. Is lie, liar told me that.

2) you guys sometimes my brain makes stuff up. Mind you, I’ve read The Long Game. But somewhere my brain thought irina died in a bathroom. Turns out she absolutely didn’t?? Do you know how many fics I’ve written under that assumption??? Anyways.

3) I listened to really really sad music the whole time I was writing this. But then I saw Slayyter's performance at Lollapalooza. So know that at least one paragraph was written while listening to "Crank it" at max volume. The rest was just "Cigarette smoke" on repeat

4) also the scripture in the beginning note isn't me being religious. Just me including another pretentious "house" quote

5) There are a lot of little references in this chapter. Shane being in the penalty box (chapter 8). Shane asking Ilya to stop calling him Hollander (chapter 5). A lot of the end scene reflects the end of chapter five in the bathroom actually. Ilya throwing up after a loved one leaves him and thinking they might come back (Chapter 4 with his father). And of course, the "I love you" "I know" from chapter 8. All of these references are evil and I once again apologize for them

6) Okay buckle in because this one is more vulnerable.
You guys seemed to like my little thoughts and writing thoughts last time, so I have decided to tell you some more. But know that it is overly sentimental and probably pretentious (as I am prone to be)

Ilya’s thoughts about memorizing Shane come from my thoughts about sometimes wanting to memorize my mom. I lost my aunt a few years ago, and she was just wonderful. But sometimes, it's kind of hard to remember what her voice sounded like. And now when I’m with my mom, I can’t help but try to memorize her voice, so that when I lose her, it won’t be as hard to remember it. But sometimes I feel a little panicked because I try to list all the memories I have of her and find the list is shockingly short. So sometimes I feel like I’m mourning her already. I’m mourning all the meals I can’t remember her making in the first grade and all the drives I know we must have taken to get to swim practice. And sometimes I wonder why I spent so much effort trying to remember my own life when I could have been remembering hers.

Okay, sentimental thinking over

I will see you all in the next chapter

Thank you for enduring all of my angst <3

(also if any of you are looking at the chapter count a little nervous, know that I am too. Know that there is a very high likelihood that thing gets bumped up to 15 *throws computer out of the window*)

Chapter 13: I still wait at the edge of town praying straight to God that maybe you’ll come back around

Chapter Notes

Important info:
- The Freedom Trail is a free tour in Boston where you can follow a trail of red bricks around the city and see different historical sites (mostly American Revolutionary War sites). Bunker Hill is the last stop on that tour.
- Orthodox Russian Funeral rites usually last for about 40 days (until the person's spirit finally leaves)
- We are all going to pretend the Ted Lindsay award doesn't exist

-
Warning (not a content warning): It's a really long chapter. REAL long

-
Inspo credit: The book "Song of Achilles" (wow a fic author using Song of Achilles? It's never been done before. How original and unique (\sarcasm))

-

"Well, y'see, we keep looking for home, but we keep finding this pit, so I just thought that if we looked for this pit, we might find home."- Winnie the Pooh

I can’t believe you blocked me

Fuck you

You’re a coward

I don’t understand why you did it

Sometimes I don’t know if I ever understood you

…

I miss you

Lily took me to McDonalds today. We haven’t done that in years

I got your usual

I don’t know how you eat that all the time. You’re a professional athlete

I feel like my throat is all clogged up

Although maybe that’s from something else I don’t know

Anyway

Fuck you

And I miss you

And I shouldn’t have eaten the McDonalds

Messages could not be delivered

* * * * *

When Ilya was nine years old, his mom gave him a bunch of books on Greek mythology and told him to read them. Looking back, Ilya thought she might have wanted him to have some heroes to look up, to inspire him to be something great.

Ilya had devoured them eagerly, reading before early-morning hockey practices. He would often get to the rink earlier than necessary just so that he would have enough time to sit in a corner by himself, looking at pictures of Hercules and Jason, admiring the golden curls that looked so similar to his own.

He liked to imagine himself as the hero, charging off to battle. He thought about Achilles, picturing himself raining vengeance down on Troy and fighting with the power the Gods bestowed on him. He thought about returning to his father carried in on his shield, having brought honor to his family. 

He had understood, even then, the price of victory and the virtue of sacrifice. That was what it meant to be brave. 

He wasn’t delusional. He knew he wasn’t a hero. But he understood them. What hero was ever truly happy?

* * * * *

I saw your game against San Francisco

You need to tell Connors to stop cheating for the offense

And St. Simone needs to finish his checks

You were fine

 “Was not fine Shane I scored two goals!”

Well call me when you make it three

Get it?

Call me?

Ha. Ha.

You look tired though

I keep telling you not to look at your phone before bed but you never listen

The blue light is still terrible for you

“Yes yes I know Shane. But look at this dog! It is so cute Hollander oh my God”

Well maybe we can get a dog

And then you don’t have to look at your phone in the middle of the night

Messages could not be delivered

* * * * *

It had been one month since Shane had left Ilya. Ilya would say they had broken up, but he didn’t really feel all that separated from Shane. He was still devoted to him, even if they didn’t see each other. He still didn’t sleep with anyone else, even if Shane wasn’t sleeping with him. He didn’t even really talk to anyone else, preferring to talk out loud to the Shane-like ghost that was still living in the Boston house that he couldn’t bring himself to sell, walking around, making sure the dishes got done and making sure Ilya got fed. Shane’s clothes were still being worn, and Ilya would find them in the dryer, making sure to fold them nicely and put them back in Shane’s side of the closet. 

Shane still reminded him of his mother. He felt similar to how he had in the months after her passing, when he had cried a lot at first but then just had to keep living knowing she was gone. It felt numb and weird, and he was confused why the world hadn’t drastically changed now that Shane was no longer with him. The stores stayed open. The flags still flew at the top of their poles instead of half-mast. The only thing that had changed was Ilya, who had started coming home with flowers, placing them in a vase on his and Shane’s table. The flowers died too quickly. He bought new ones. 

No one knew what to do with Ilya. His teammates would not so subtly stare at him during practices and games, waiting for something to happen, but nothing ever did. They invited him to team hangouts, so he went, quietly sipping beers in various backyards and corners of houses. 

Tom invited him to dinner, so he went, listening to Sam chatter about his first year of high school and how marching band was going. Ilya even went to one of Sam’s performances, sitting on the metal bleachers, huddled up in the five blankets Tom’s wife Cheri put on him. Sam waved at them from the field, and they all waved back. Ilya’s hand was still stuck in the blanket, so it waved along with the rest of him. The band was terrible. 

On the fortieth day after Shane’s departure, Ilya came home from another game they had lost, filled a glass of vodka, and set it on the table with a piece of bread, as was Russian tradition. He then filled a glass for himself and sat opposite the little display. He drank his vodka and stared across at the undrunk glass. Shane wouldn't have drunk it even if he were there.

Ilya sighed and set his own glass down, reaching over to the chair next to him and pulling on Shane’s black sweater.

“Well, Shane,” he began, clearing his throat. “Has been forty days, so I hope your spirit has left me. I do not want it anymore.” Ilya fiddled with the sleeve of the sweater, finding a hole Shane must have made. He stuck his thumb through it. “I think is good that you are gone. You are playing very good hockey.” He took a deep breath and downed his glass, setting it down carefully on the coaster. Shane was always reminding him to use it. “I hope you are in a happier place.”

He stood from his chair and leaned against the table, not looking at the opposing glass. “Is fucking good hockey, Shane,” he muttered before marching away into their bedroom. 

And Ilya guessed Shane’s spirit must have really left because the dishes stopped getting done. 

* * * * *

I went to the house the other day

I’ve been staying at my apartment

I forgot about the plant

It died

I’m sorry

I’m going to buy a new one

Messages could not be delivered.

* * * * *

“We’re going out,” Svetlana declared, tossing him a baseball cap from the top of his dresser. It landed gracelessly next to him on the bed that he was lying on. Ilya had almost put on shoes, but bending over and tying the laces was just so exhausting that he had accidentally ended up bending the other way, staring up at the ceiling. 

“I don’t want to go to the club,” Ilya murmured, sliding his hand over to grab the cap and put it over his face. He really didn't want to go out, his body sluggish and his brain foggy. He was probably coming down with something, but then again, he felt like he had been coming down with something for months now. He also didn’t want Shane to see the photos of him dancing and drinking, knowing that it wouldn’t even make him jealous, just worried and sad. He was infuriating in that way. 

“We’re not going to the club, idiot, it’s 2 p.m.”

“I don’t pretend to know what you do, Sveta. I don’t judge. If you want to go clubbing in the middle of the afternoon, that’s between you and your male stripper,” he responded nonchalantly, ignoring the shadow that fell over him and the image of Svetlana that appeared through the tiny, little holes at the top of the baseball cap. 

“Come on, Ilya. You can’t just stay in this horrible house. It’s time to go,” she said, ripping the cap off. 

Ilya groaned but got up and tied his shoes. “Where are we going?”

An hour later, Ilya was bundled up in his thickest coat in the middle of Boston, stepping around slushy piles of snow. 

“Sveta, what the fuck?” he hissed at her as another gust of air blew right through all of his layers, making him shake. “What the fuck are we doing?”

“I told you. We’re doing the Freedom Trail,” she said, brushing some of the snow lining the sidewalk and gesturing to the red brick line that marked the path for the famous Boston tour. 

“I do not feel very free.”

“Come on, Ilya, this is a famous landmark.” She gestured to the church next to them. “Many famous Americans are buried here.”

“Yes, and there is about to be another dead American here,” he added dryly, teeth chattering together. 

“I hope that’s not a threat. You’ll regret it if it is.”

“I’m not talking about you, I’m talking about me.”

“You’re not an American.”

“I have the visa.”

She rolled her eyes before typing something on her phone and marching down the street, following the red bricks. Ilya groaned and hurried after her, his arms still folded around him. He let her guide him to various churches and memorials and a square where he thought some people might have gotten shot if the signs were to be believed. 

As Sveta seemed absorbed in taking notes for some reason, Ilya had plenty of time to imagine showing Shane all of these same sights. He liked the idea of pretending to be really excited by Paul Revere's house and watching Shane try to be equally as enthusiastic while yawning or checking the time whenever he thought Ilya wasn’t looking. He wondered how long he would be able to stare at one plaque, reading it as slowly as possible, before Shane finally snapped.

He was grumbling to Shane about how cold it was when Svetlana thrust his second cannoli of the day into his hand. 

“Okay, Sveta. I give up. What are we doing?” he asked, exasperated. When it was clear that Svetlana wouldn’t talk until he ate the cannoli, giving both it and him a pointed look, he sighed and took a large bite. It was quite good. Shane would have both loved it and hated it, and Ilya would have loved to watch him fight that war with himself. 

“Now was that one better or worse than Mike’s?” she asked seriously. 

Ilya scoffed. “Svetlana. It is sugar. It all tastes the exact same.” He shoved the rest of it in his mouth as if that proved his point. “What are we—“

“I’m having a guest next week, and she wants to see Boston.”

Ilya blinked at her in shock. Absentmindedly, he licked some of the cream off of his lips. “You…” he began slowly, “You have a girl coming.”

She tsked and handed him another cannoli. “Don’t be weird, Ilya.”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

She scowled and took the cannoli from him. He frowned. He kind of wanted it now. “She is not my girlfriend.”

“But you made me walk around Boston in the middle of December for her.”

“Yes, I wanted to see what was worth seeing.”

“You’re going to drag your girlfriend around Boston in the middle of December?”

Svetlana frowned. She glanced at her phone, which Ilya could now see had a bullet-pointed itinerary. “Maybe we should just stick to the art museums,” she muttered. 

“Sveta,” Ilya said, smirking at her. 

She sighed and stuffed the rest of the boxed-up cannolis into her purse. “What?”

“Who is coming?”

She sniffed and looked off into the street as if she were cooler than she was and didn’t need to look at him when talking to him because she didn’t care even a little bit. “Lily,” she finally said. 

Ilya’s jaw dropped. “Lily?”

“Yes,” she said, turning to walk quickly down the street.

Ilya ran a little to catch up with her, almost slipping. “Lily? Like…Shane’s Lily?”

“Oh, so you do know how to say his name,” she huffed, still seemingly trying to walk away from him. 

“Sveta!” he yelled, feeling more energetic than he had in weeks. “This is crazy! How long has this been going on?”

“Nothing is going on.”

“She is coming to Boston! I want to see her. I must question her intentions with my best friend.”

Finally Svetlana froze and turned to him with a guilty expression. “She…” she winced. “She doesn’t want to see you.”

Ilya’s heart sank, and the two of them stood there looking at each other in the snowy Boston street. Ilya shivered. The cold had reached his insides now, too. 

“Ah,” he said softly. 

“Ilya—“

“It’s fine. I understand.”

“It’s just that—“

“I know. 

“—you broke her best friend’s heart.”

“I said I know, Sveta! Fuck!” he snapped, kicking at some of the ice on the ground and watching it skid across the street. 

Neither of them said anything for a while, just letting the wind and snow whip around them as if it didn’t bother them. 

Ilya sniffed and shoved his hands into his pockets. “So. Should we check out an art museum?”

Svetlana clicked her tongue as if she wanted to say something but thought better of it, pulling out her phone. “Yes. The Isabelle Stewart Gardner Museum looks promising.”

Ilya nodded, sniffing away a few tears that had somehow appeared during their conversation. “Okay, so let’s go there.”

Svetlana looked at him, her eyes sad, before linking her arm through his and leading him down the street. “You know, I think you’re going to like this one. There was a heist and everything.”

Ilya grinned. “Ah. Are we going there to scope it out for when we rob it?”

“Of course,” Svetlana responded, returning the smile. “No one ever expects the same place to be stolen from twice. They’ve probably let their guard down by now.”

“Stupid Americans. They’ll never see two evil Russians coming.”

“They won’t suspect us for a second.”

The two of them marched along the sidewalk with a bit more confidence than they deserved, still arm-in-arm. 

“How many paintings did they steal?” Ilya asked. Not because he cared about knowing, but because it seemed like something Shane would have asked. 

“I think thirteen,” she answered, before giving him a knowing look. “Shane is playing very well right now,” she said after a moment. 

They turned the corner, and Ilya shrugged. “He always plays well,” he muttered. 

Svetlana hummed. “Maybe. But I think he’s going for the cup.”

“Everyone’s going for the cup,” he said. 

“Not like he is,” she said simply before letting them walk in silence the rest of the way. 

Inside the museum, Ilya saw a drawing of a boy that reminded him of Shane. He took a picture of it. He would have to remember to steal it later. It was probably worth something. 

* * * * *

What the fuck are you doing at bunker hill?

Message could not be delivered.

* * * * *

They had another game with the Metros before the year ended. Ilya didn’t sleep for two days before the game, roaming around the house instead, picking up little objects, moving them to different places. He knew he was inadvertently collecting all of the pieces of Shane, but he did it anyway. A receipt from the bakery next door that Ilya knew Shane had gone to in order to buy Ilya a cinnamon roll found its way into his coat pocket. A book Shane had been reading ended up on Ilya’s nightstand, the bookmark still sitting in between the pages. A pair of shoes found their way onto Ilya’s feet even though they were slightly too small and crowded his toes. 

By the time Ilya actually walked into the Garden, he was both exhausted and jittery, like a student who had pulled an all-nighter for a test they were woefully unprepared for and probably wouldn’t pass. Ilya probably wouldn’t either.

When he got out on the ice, both the Metros and the Raiders were eerily silent, and Ilya noted that both sets of players seemed to be glancing over at each other, anxiously waiting to see what would happen. Ilya almost smiled. The rivalry seemed to have reached a stalemate, having found some camaraderie in their collective tragedy. Connors looked at Boiziau and shrugged. Carmichael was trying to mouth something to Griffen. Marleau and Pike were standing next to each other on either side of the center line, chatting. Marleau laughed and patted Pike on the shoulder, who gave him a grin in return.

Shane stood furthest from him, sliding a puck back and forth, tracing something Ilya couldn’t see on the ice. Ilya couldn’t help but freeze upon seeing him. Despite everything, just being able to look at Shane was like taking a breath of fresh air. His heart ached with all of the love he felt for him, and he almost skated over to tell Shane all the things he had been telling him in his head. All of the whispers late at night, the songs he had skipped knowing Shane wouldn’t want to listen to them, the meals he had eaten despite knowing Shane would disapprove.

By the time they lined up for the faceoff, Ilya had half a mind to beg Shane to take him back. To tell him he loved him and plead for his forgiveness.

But as he glanced up to say the words, his tongue refused to move. Shane was already looking at him, scanning his face. For a brief, almost unnoticeable moment when the puck dropped, neither of them went to grab it. Neither of them even moved, both of them focused on each other’s eyes. Ilya had never seen brown eyes look so blue. 

Shane slapped the puck back to Pike, and the game officially began. While neither team chirped the other, the Metros didn’t hesitate to slam Ilya into the boards, harder and harder as the game progressed. By the time the second period had ended, Ilya’s ribs ached, and his shoulder throbbed. He rolled his arm, glaring at Boiziau, who glared right back. It was almost amusing to see the Metros finally rally together to protect Shane. Guess they just needed the right enemy. 

During a commercial break, Pike skated up to Ilya a little nervously. Pike had been one of the few players that didn’t seem to be targeting Ilya. 

“Hey, Rozanov,” he said, glancing around him.

“Pike,” Ilya muttered.

“Shane’s been playing really good lately.”

Ilya scoffed, leaning against his stick. “Yes. I have noticed.”

“But he’s not doing so good. Have you noticed that?”

Ilya said nothing, staring down at the ice and scraping it with the edge of his skate until Pike went away. Of course he had noticed it. But Shane was winning. That would be enough for him, eventually.

Overall, the game itself was rather anti-climactic. The Metros won, which wasn’t surprising given their current track record. None of the Raiders had even been able to keep pace with Shane as he darted furiously across the ice, taking shot after shot at the goal. Shane didn’t seem too happy about the win, though, as he skated toward the rest of his teammates as the buzzer sounded, accepting their pats and nods with a solemn expression. 

Ilya lined up next to his team’s gate, robotically giving each of his teammates their usual fist bump and “I love you.” St. Simone approached him at the same time that Shane approached his own gate, glancing over at Ilya, who froze, the words sticking to the back of his throat.

Shane gave him a sad smile before walking off the ice, leaving Ilya to stare at the space he had left.

“It’s okay, Roz,” St. Simone said, shaking Ilya out of his stupor. “You can tell me next time.”

He patted Ilya on the shoulder and walked off the ice. After a moment, Ilya followed him down the Raiders tunnel, trying to keep himself from running down the one adjacent instead.

* * * * *

That game fucking sucked Ilya

Fuck

Fuck this hurts

I’m so fucking pissed at you

…

I’m at bunker hill right now

I don’t know why you came here. It’s really boring

And you said I was the boring one

Messages could not be delivered.

* * * * *

“Come on, Ilya, you can’t give a fourteen-year-old an iPad,” Tom said as he pulled Ilya into the kitchen to help him carry the assortment of dishes into the dining room. 

“Is Christmas, Tom,” Ilya responded with a shrug as he grabbed the large plate of ham.

“That is not a good enough reason. It’s way too much money.”

“Good thing I am very rich,” he teased, turning away from Tom and into the dining room where Cheri, Sam, and their eldest, Grace, who had gotten back from college a few days earlier, were sitting and talking loudly. 

Ilya didn’t usually care very much about the Western Christmas, but he had celebrated it a few times over the last few years with Shane, learning the Hollander family traditions. He wondered if David had started the new puzzle Shane was guaranteed to have bought him. He wondered if Yuna had started baking cookies and if Shane had indulged himself in his first one yet, or if he was still trying to pretend like he wasn’t going to have any this year.

He had already been preparing to celebrate the holidays alone in his and Shane’s house, a bottle of vodka in one hand and a TV remote in the other. But he hadn’t been able to stop himself from eagerly accepting Tom’s invitation, leaping at the opportunity to celebrate Christmas anywhere else, even if it did feel like a slight betrayal to Shane. 

So he had hung around with Tom’s family, sitting quietly as they read the Christmas story out loud and passed around gifts. To his surprise, everyone except Grace, whom Ilya had only ever met once years ago, gave him a present. Sam gave him a new two-person card game. Cheri gave him a Raider’s blanket that she had sewn herself. And Tom gave Ilya one of his favorite fiction books with a long note inside the cover. Ilya was glad he had come prepared with a variety of luxury gifts that still didn’t quite feel like they measured up, despite the high cost.

Tom and Ilya finished setting the table and joined the rest of the family. When passed to him, Ilya made sure to fill a good portion of his plate with green beans, remembering the Christmas before when Shane had taken it upon himself to place them on his plate.

“Nooo, Shane,” Ilya had whined, and Shane had scooped more onto his plate. “I do not want to eat the beans.”

“Your entire plate is just different shades of beige,” Shane had said flatly, holding the bowl out in front of him.

“Shane!” Ilya had gasped, looking to David, who was laughing from the kitchen. “Your Dad worked hard to make all of this delicious beige food.”

“Yeah, and I worked hard to make the beans.”

“We must have different definitions of ‘work hard’. My English must not be so good,” Ilya had grumbled.

“Oh fuck off, they’re great,” Shane had said, dumping an extra serving on his plate out of spite.

Ilya had frowned at it and tried not to point out that Yuna and David avoided the green beans when the bowl was passed to them, both of them giving him evil smiles. 

“Can I have the beans again?” Ilya asked Sam, who had turned to pass them to his mom. Sam nodded and returned the bowl to Ilya, who grabbed an extra serving, crowding his mashed potatoes.

Tom nodded towards Ilya’s plate. “Really making sure to get that extra portion of greens, huh, Ilya.”

Ilya shrugged. “I am a professional athlete. I always eat healthy.”

“Yeah right,” Sam muttered. Ilya kicked him under the table, and Sam kicked him right back. 

He shoved the green beans into his mouth and gave Sam a pointed look. Sam rolled his eyes and went back to pestering Grace about her new boyfriend that she refused to talk about. Ilya took another bite. Cheri’s recipe involved a lot more butter than Shane’s.

“So, Ilya,” Grace said hurriedly, ignoring Sam, who was still pestering her for answers, and trying to change the subject. “Why aren’t you up in Montreal with Shane?”

“Grace!” Cheri exclaimed, her fork scraping loudly against her plate. 

Grace looked around the table, slightly panicked as she took in her parents’ wide eyes and stern expressions. “What? Was I not supposed to ask that?”

“Oh my God, Grace, just shut up,” Sam hissed.

“Don’t tell your sister to shut up,” Cheri said firmly.

“Well, what if she needs to shut up?”

“Is okay,” Ilya finally said, hands up in surrender. “Is okay,” he repeated, making eye contact with a worried Tom, giving him a nod. He turned back to Grace. “Shane and I broke up.”

Grace dropped her fork, and it clattered loudly against her plate. “What?” she almost yelled.

“Grace—”

“You broke up?” she said as if she couldn’t help herself.

Ilya shrugged. “Yes. It happens.”

“No! But you guys were so—” she cut herself off, swallowing hard. “I mean—” she looked around at the rest of the table as if she couldn’t understand why they weren’t reacting as well. “Why doesn’t the internet know this?”

Ilya frowned. “I do not know. I think the whole league knows it, so I do not know how everyone does not know.”

“It’s not exactly a fun bit of gossip,” Tom muttered, stabbing his fork into his ham.

They all sat in silence for a bit just stabbing at their food. Ilya’s green beans were starting to taste a little too healthy, and he grabbed a roll from the basket, tearing little pieces off.

“We just thought you two were back to being more private. You guys just seemed so good together. Everyone thought so,” Grace said quietly after a moment, ignoring the second round of glares she received from her family members.

“Everyone did not think this,” Ilya responded with a scoff.

“I don’t know. Seemed like a lot of people did. You guys were really cute,” she finished, shoving food into her mouth without looking up at her parents.

“Does not matter,” Ilya said, turning his head towards Tom, who gave him a sad look. “It is for the best.”

He went to take another bite of bread, but the chewing was a bit mechanical. He wasn’t really hungry anymore. He must have filled up too quickly on green beans.

He returned home with multiple containers of takeout and a sweater that wasn’t his, balancing it precariously in his arms. Upon approaching the front porch, Ilya was surprised to see a little package waiting for him.

Stepping around the package, he shoved his keys in the door, haphazardly opening it with his elbow, and set the containers on a side table. He returned to the stoop, picked up the package, and examined it.

His stomach dropped when he saw the address.

Montreal.

With shaky hands, he tore off the tape. Three items fell out of the small box.

The first was a group of polaroids, all tied together with a rubber band. The top one showed Shane and Ilya snuggled up together, asleep on the couch in matching Christmas pajamas Yuna had bought for them.

The second was a pair of socks with different kinds of dogs printed on them.

The third was a note.

Ilya,

Mom made some copies of the polaroids, and I thought you’d want to have some. 

I hope you like the socks. I almost went with a pair of hockey-themed ones, but I thought you’d like the dogs better.

I hope you stay warm. It looks cold in Boston.

Shane

* * * * *

Did you send me these hockey books?

I hope you did

I’m going to pretend like it was you. I know you saw them on my list

They look great

I’ll let you know my thoughts when I finish them

Also did you know that mom and dad don’t like my green beans?

Anyways

Merry Christmas Ilya

Ilya: Merry Christmas Shane

Oh my god

Ilya are you there?

Ilya my call isn’t going through

Messages could not be delivered.

Fuck

Fuck you Ilya

Fuck you

Fuck

…

Merry Christmas

Messages could not be delivered.

* * * * *

When Ilya was thirteen, he tried his first cigarette. And it wasn’t that he had thought it looked cool (it did) or that he was peer-pressured into it (he was). It was just that Mikhail Ivanov was the one who had offered it to him.

Mikhail had a boyish charm and laughed at inappropriate times, and the teachers at school hated him. He was always flinging himself around the classroom, his limbs flying in every which direction, seemingly unable to not knock things over. He always tried to drag others with him, and he was usually successful. If Mikhail was in a particularly antsy mood, he could rally the whole class into a state of unruliness, and no one would learn anything except that pencils thrown with particular strength could stick to the ceiling and chairs stacked on top of each other did not make for sturdy climbing structures.

Ilya couldn’t help but admire him. Admire the way he bent the rules so freely to his own will, seemingly uncaring about the consequences or disapproving faces. Ilya had never felt that free. He had always cared a little too much about the faces. So he couldn’t help but feel drawn to Mikhail. And Mikhail let him follow him around the school, playing shadow until the teachers could no longer recognize the two of them as distinct people, which was why Ilya began to get in trouble too. 

And then he felt free because he too no longer cared about the cold glares of his teachers, preferring the proud grin Mikhail would sometimes send him. It made him forget about a lot of things. That grin meant he could forget his critical coaches and the snide looks from the neighbors. He could sometimes even forget that his father would never look at him like that, with raw approval. He could even forget that his mother wouldn’t either. Sometimes.

So it wasn’t that he wanted to smoke. It was just that Mikhail was the one offering the cigarette, his fingers outstretched, holding a stick that he had already put between his lips and taken a long drag from. Ilya had watched him do it. 

They had kissed once behind the school at the same spot that he had offered Ilya his first cigarette. It was short, and neither of them had spoken about it afterward, choosing to light another cigarette and share it between the two of them instead.

When Mikhail had moved away without saying a word to Ilya, Ilya found himself smoking more. 

Ilya had stopped smoking for the first time since he was thirteen when he had seen Shane do it on that rooftop in Vegas. He hadn’t needed it anymore.

But now, as he watched Shane race down the ice, his face angry, scoring another goal against Edmonton while Ilya sat on his couch, wrapped up in a sweatshirt that Shane had left there, he couldn’t help but pull out a box of cigarettes, lighting one and taking a long drag.

He knew Shane would hate the smell of it in the house and on his clothes. He watched Shane climb over the boards and sit on the bench, staring blankly at the ice. Ilya finished the cigarette, lit another, and smoked that too. Ilya imagined Shane coming to yell at him for it.

* * * * *

I found an unopened box of cigarettes in your nightstand

I’m going to burn them

I have a fire pit now and everything

…

Wait do you think it’ll make the house smell like cigarettes?

Fuck

Okay I won’t burn them

Yet

…

I smoked one

I almost threw up it was terrible

Don’t know why I did it

I’ll probably die of lung cancer now

There goes my hockey career

…

It tasted like you

You when you were younger at least

…

I’m still fucking pissed at you by the way

Just in case you thought I wasn’t

…

Okay I tried another one

I did throw up this time

I’m throwing them away. Fucking disgusting

Messages could not be delivered.

* * * * *

Their last regular-season game was against the Metros because some higher power was punishing Ilya for his sins. The Metros led the conference and were slotted to play Tampa in the first round of the playoffs. Boston, having secured a wild card spot, would play them in the second round if they made it that far.

Both teams fell into their usual routines, neither too concerned with the outcome since the points couldn’t change their playoff positions. Shane was still playing his hardest, fighting for every pass, every goal. Ilya wasn’t. Ilya was just going to be happy to get off the ice so he could sit in the hotel room that Marleau was forcing him to share with him. At least he knew Marleau wouldn’t say anything when he made them stay in and watch “Antique Roadshow” for a few hours after the game, neither of them paying any attention, just staring at their separate walls in silence.

At the end of the game, Shane skated over to him as he stood near the boards, causing both teams to go completely still, staring at the two of them with their undivided attention. Ilya would have rolled his eyes at them if he wasn’t also completely absorbed with the man in front of him.

“Hey, Ilya,” Shane said, still breathing hard from the match. He grabbed a bottle next to Ilya and squeezed the water into his mouth. Ilya squinted at the Raiders logo on it. He was pretty sure it was his bottle. Shane set it down with a frown, giving Ilya a bewildered look. “Did you add grape to this?”

Ilya blinked at him. “It has electrolytes,” he said without thinking.

“Huh,” Shane said, examining the bottle. He shrugged, squeezing some more water into his mouth. “I don’t like it very much.”

“It was not for you,” Ilya mumbled. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Marleau trying to decide whether he should skate over and intervene. 

Shane sighed, looking at the rink and pretending like he didn’t notice the mass of people leaning closer, trying to hear what was going on. “I guess I’ll see you in the playoffs.”

Ilya shrugged. “Maybe.”

Shane raised his eyebrows. “Not feeling good about your odds?”

“Never tell me the odds,” Ilya said automatically, and Shane huffed out a laugh.

“I like that Han Solo line better,” he said bitterly. He turned to skate toward his own bench, but paused, looking back at Ilya. “I’ll leave the porch light on.”

Ilya furrowed his brow. “Why?”

Shane tilted his head. “Just in case you feel like coming home.”

With that, Shane walked off the ice, heading down the tunnel. 

“What was that?” Marleau asked, joining Ilya at his side.

Ilya stared at the spot where Shane had just been. “I…I have no idea.”

“Maybe you should go.”

Ilya shook his head. “No, bad idea,” he responded, stepping off the ice through his own gate.

Marleau followed closely behind. “Why is it a bad idea?”

Ilya muttered under his breath, “I don’t know.”

As he followed his team down to the bus to drive them back to the hotel, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket, and his heart raced with the irrational hope that it was Shane reminding him that the spare key was in a little box hidden in the bush under the window. 

It was an unknown number from Toronto. 

Ilya frowned but stepped away from his team, signaling them to keep going without him.

“Hello?” he said, accepting the call.

“Ilya! It’s Commissioner Crowell.”

Ilya almost dropped his phone. He almost wished he had.

“Commissioner,” he began, glancing around to see how close the bus was in case he needed to make a run for it. It was close enough. “What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to congratulate you on the season! You guys sure played your hearts out.”

Ilya wasn’t sure how that was possible.

“Thank you, sir.”

“No need for the sir, Ilya,” Crowell said with a laugh. “You did good out there. Hollander has had a hell of a season too,” he continued, “thanks to you.”

“He played a good season by himself,” Ilya corrected.

Crowell chuckled again. “That he did.”

“And jersey sales are up?”

“Jersey sales are up,” Crowell confirmed. “You both did very well.”

Ilya nodded firmly. “Shane is a great hockey player. I hope the rest of the season will show that.”

There was a bit of a pause over the phone before Crowell hummed happily. “You’ve done good work, Ilya. I’m sure the awards will go where they need to go.”

Ilya let out a sigh of relief, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. “That is good.”

He could feel Crowell smile over the phone, his gums clicking as they displayed his teeth. “Glad we’re in agreement. Congratulations again, Ilya. Can’t wait to watch you in the playoffs.”

With that, Crowell hung up the phone, and Ilya made his way to the bus, tears now slowly falling. He brushed them away quickly before his teammates could notice them and found an empty row to sit in, throwing the hood of his sweatshirt up above his head.

He closed his eyes, imagining the Montreal house, picturing the coats hung on the rack, the shelves stocked with food, and the kitchen windowsill with a plant on top of it. He thought about holding Shane and dancing in the kitchen even though they had never done that. 

He forced the vision of himself to pull away from Shane, kissing him once on the cheek before walking to the front door and stepping outside. He turned off the porch light as he left. 

* * * * *

Goodnight Ilya

Don’t stay up too late

Messages could not be delivered.

* * * * *

“Roz, I love you, but this is so fucking stupid.”

“What is stupid is that you are not wearing your hood.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Marleau hissed before pulling his hood back over the ballcap on his head, pushing his sunglasses further up. “This is the least inconspicuous thing we’ve ever done”

“This is why it will work. It is so obvious it is not obvious,” Ilya responded, pulling his own hood further over his curls and slouching further in his seat, staring at the ice. 

“I really don’t think that’s how that works,” Marleau mumbled, shoving more popcorn into his mouth. “We should have worn the wigs.”

“I am never wearing that wig, Marly.”

“Aw, but you would look so cute as a brunette,” Marleau said, leaning over to pinch Ilya’s cheek. Ilya swatted his hand away.

The two of them watched as the Metros skated onto the ice for the fourth game of the series against Chicago. Ilya had bought tickets for the rest of the games in the series as well, but he didn’t think he would need them, not with the way Shane had been playing. He had carried his team through three rounds of playoffs already without seeming to tire, but Ilya knew better. He saw the way Shane was pouring every ounce of himself out on the ice, his legs starting to lag and his right side compensating for the injury Ilya knew he must have on his left. Ilya hoped that he would finally get the rest he needed when it was all over.

Was it stupid to come and watch Shane play? Yes, probably. Was he probably going to wake up to a photo of him and Marleau hunched over in the stands plastered all over the internet? Also yes. Did he want to see Shane lift the cup that he knew was already somewhere in the building?

He smiled as he watched Shane go through the exact same routine that he always did during warm-ups. 

Yeah, he really did.

“Jesus, dude,” Marleau said under his breath, “at least try to be subtle about it.”

“What?” he said airily, not taking his eyes off Shane, tilting his sunglasses down so he could see better.

“You’re fucking hopeless, man,” Marleau sighed, reaching over to push Ilya’s sunglasses back up his nose.

The game began, and Ilya couldn’t help but scoot towards the edge of his seat, his arms bracing himself on his knees.

“Come on, Shane,” he whispered under his breath as Shane flew down the ice on a breakaway. When Shane scored the first goal of the game, Ilya jumped to his feet with the rest of the crowd, screaming loudly. “YES! FUCK YES, SHANE.”

A man in front of them turned around to look at Ilya, and Ilya blanched. He tried to signal him with his covered eyes to look back at the ice. The man, who Ilya now noticed was wearing a Hollander jersey, smiled at him, giving him a little salute before facing back away from him, cheering loudly. 

The next two periods were just as nerve-wracking despite Montreal’s lead, and Ilya didn’t stop himself from continuing to outwardly root for the Metros, yelling at the refs with the rest of the crowd. He hadn’t spent much time watching hockey like this and found himself enjoying it. He enjoyed cheering Shane on as loudly as he could.

It was when there were five minutes left of the third period that it truly hit Ilya. Montreal had a two-goal lead and three wins already under their belt. Shane was going to win the Stanley Cup. 

He leaned forward as Shane spun on the ice, carefully dodging one of the defenders. He saw it in the way Shane was playing, too, the moves becoming quicker and more excited, slightly sloppier. Ilya felt his heart race to meet Shane’s, remembering how it felt only one year ago, and he knew that Shane knew it too. Shane knew he was going to win. He was letting himself believe it.

Four minutes, and Chicago pulled their goalie.

Three minutes, and the entire Metros bench was on its feet, players bouncing anxiously against the boards.

Two minutes, and Ilya stood too, gripping Marleau’s sleeve. The rest of the crowd joined.

One minute, and Shane crossed the blue line, smacking the puck towards the empty net before stopping, closing his eyes, and tilting his head towards the rafters.

By the time the buzzer went off signaling the end of the game, Ilya was openly sobbing. As the Metros threw their gloves and helmets in the air, crashing into each other, Ilya jumped on Marleau, who was screaming with him while also trying to prevent Ilya from getting snot on his shirt. He was failing.

Ilya watched as Commissioner Crowell and other league affiliates walked onto the ice, carrying out the cup. Crowell handed the cup to Pike, shaking his hand, and Pike lifted it above his head, screaming to the crowd. He did his lap, then skated straight to Shane. He carefully placed the cup into Shane’s hands, and Ilya watched as Shane’s body shifted to take the weight from him. Pike wrapped his arm around Shane, giving him an awkward and sweaty hug before shoving Shane forward to take his lap.

Ilya couldn’t help but cry harder as he watched Shane lift the cup above his head, yelling something Ilya couldn’t hear. Skating toward Ilya’s section, Shane stopped to pull the cup down to kiss it, turning it awkwardly in his hands as he scanned the rings.

He froze when he saw it. Shane hadn’t kissed the normal spot on the cup. He had shifted it a little bit over to the right so that he could aim for the most recent metal ring where Ilya knew his own victory from last year was engraved. 

Marleau put a hand on Ilya’s shoulder as his breath hitched. “Shit. I think your man just kissed my name.”

“You fucking wish, Marly,” Ilya heaved between his continued small sobs. Marleau squeezed his shoulder a little tighter. 

* * * * *

ILUA WE WONM

WE FJCKIMG WON

Why aernt you here ((((

I wamr ro kiss you on the ice

i m kissing yiu in my head

Messages could not be delivered.

* * * * *

When Ilya was nineteen, he kissed what he was pretty sure was the love of his life in a hotel gym. He’d liked to say that he hadn’t looked back. But he had looked back many, many times.

* * * * *

Shane was sitting a few rows in front of Ilya in a new suit, his parents beside him. Ilya smiled to himself, remembering seeing Shane in a different suit at their first NHL awards show, the fabric almost drowning him. Not because it was too big or anything, but because Shane just didn’t seem to fit the well-tailored suit he had been wrangled into. He hadn’t fit the image people were trying to put on him.

Now, he seemed more confident, the tux hugging the angles of his body so that it emphasized his build rather than hiding it. The suit embraced Shane’s size instead of trying to make him look bigger than he was, and as a result, he’d never looked taller.

Shane had already won the Art Ross Award, which was a given since he had scored the most points in the regular season. A forward from Colorado had beaten Shane for the Rocket Richard by four goals, but the real prize was at the very end of the night.

Ilya and Svetlana, who had joined Ilya as his plus one, applauded the winners as they went on stage, accepted their awards, and gave short, simple speeches thanking their team and the association. Ilya was nominated for a number of awards, but he didn’t expect to go home with anything this year. This wasn’t his year; it was Shane’s.

This felt like the resolution to one of the tales he read in his mother’s book, when the hero finally comes home and realizes what all the fighting was for. Years of hiding and secrecy so that Shane could finally step on that stage, the league finally standing to applaud him. Ilya was happy that it all finally meant something. That he had burned Troy for a reason, now able to witness Shane get to go home with all the spoils of war that he deserved. There were so many moments in his life that his pain had felt pointless. Moments that had been the result of a vengeful God or of his own poor decisions. This time it felt like he was bleeding for something real.

Shane returned from backstage after finishing his media obligations following his Art Ross win, working his way through the crowded row, awkwardly pushing past players and their family members, pausing only to receive a congratulatory pat from Pike, who had been nominated for a leadership award. As he moved, he glanced up, making eye contact with Ilya. For a brief moment, it was just them, and Ilya got a glimpse of the Shane that had been on that roof so many years ago, telling Ilya that he was going to win all the awards. He gave Shane a soft smile that Shane returned half-heartedly before quickly sitting down, rejoining his parents.

The night continued with long commercial breaks, skits that were as painful to watch as ever, and speeches that ran long, none of them delivered by Shane or Ilya. Ilya clapped and grimaced through it all.

Finally, Ilya watched as Commissioner Crowell walked out on the stage, holding the envelope that carried the name of the MVP winner. He stepped up to the microphone with his usual smile, clearing his throat.

“The Hart Memorial Trophy is awarded annually to the player judged to be the most valuable to his team during the regular season. This year’s three finalists are…”

The screen behind him changed, displaying the three players.

“Eric Sullivan, Houston Drillers. Shane Hollander, Montreal Metros. And Ilya Rozanov, Boston Raiders.”

The screen played a few clips of the three of them, and Ilya rolled his eyes at his own, watching the sullen and vacant version of himself score a mediocre goal. The clip they chose for Shane was one Ilya had watched many times, mostly late at night when no one was around to see him softly cry to goal compilations. 

The camera panned to the audience, focusing on the three nominees, and Crowell smiled as he opened the envelope.

“And the winner of the Hart Memorial Trophy is…”

Ilya smiled widely as Shane stood, the audience applauding around him, and Ilya joined in the standing ovation. 

But then Shane turned to him and clapped.

Ilya frowned, watching Yuna and David do the same.

Wait, why were so many people looking at Ilya?

He glanced up toward the screen, seeing his own face reflected back at him, and his stomach dropped along with his jaw.

“No,” he whispered. 

Next to him, Svetlana grabbed his arm, nudging him towards the stage, her eyes wide. “Ilya, go,” she hissed.

“No, I did not win,” he said back, panicked, but she only shoved him again until he stumbled out into the aisle. He straightened himself, glancing around at the smiling but concerned faces. He saw players he had known for years all giving him a knowing look, but Ilya didn’t know what they meant by it. He had no idea what was going on.

As if in a trance, Ilya made it to the stage, taking Crowell’s hand that was stretched out in front of him and the award being handed to him. Crowell patted Ilya on the shoulder as he moved out of the way of the microphone.

“I—I thought—you said—” Ilya stuttered.

“Congratulations, Ilya,” Crowell said with a large smile. “You deserve it.”

“No, I do not. You have made some kind of mistake,” he rushed out, but Crowell merely guided him to the podium.

The trophy in Ilya’s hand suddenly felt too heavy to hold, as if it was trying to drag Ilya down to hell. He sweated under the stage lights, his eyes scanning the crowd in panic, unable to land on anything concrete. Everything was just a blur of faces and suits.

He didn’t understand what had happened. He didn’t understand where he was. He felt like he was having a heart attack.

He tried to take a deep breath, the sound of it reverberating loudly through the microphone. “I do not know what to say,” he found himself saying automatically, his voice shaking. He set the trophy on the table next to him so that he didn’t accidentally drop it. “I did not think I would win, so I did not prepare a speech.”

He slipped his hands into his pockets, trying to find something, anything. Perhaps a previous version of himself had written down a speech and slipped it into his suit. 

His hands found two slips of paper, and he pulled them out eagerly.

From one pocket, Ilya pulled out a receipt from the grocery store where Shane had bought the dill for Ilya to make pelmeni.

From the other pocket, Ilya pulled out a list of guidelines with both their signatures at the bottom, scribbled in their nineteen-year-old handwriting, that Ilya had stolen from the orange section of Yuna’s binder years ago because he had kind of liked how the names looked together. 

In a world where all they had was the deeds to two houses, neither of which contained both of their names, Ilya was always searching for another thing, another piece of Shane. And the list of guidelines had been the only document with both of their signatures. 

It was just another one of the pieces of Shane that he had shoved into pockets and drawers and bags so that he could selfishly always have a piece of Shane with him. Although admittedly, Ilya didn’t remember moving these two. Maybe, somehow, ghost Shane had done it in between doing the dishes and leaving his sweatshirts on the couch. 

He blinked, clearing his vision until he was able to make out the Shane that was actually in front of him, beaming at him proudly. Ilya frowned at the image, expecting it to go away, but Shane was still there. Still grinning at him with admiration. Suddenly, he saw the image of Mikhail reflected onto Shane, that same grin that made him stop caring about anyone else.

He stared at Shane and then at the trophy, sitting complacently on the stand, the silver reflecting in the stage lights. He looked back at Shane, smiling at him brighter than anything else in the room.

And then, at the age of twenty-four, Ilya Rozanov realized he was wrong. 

He saw Shane, and he saw one of the heroes he had always admired and dreamed of becoming. Perhaps his mother hadn’t given him all those heroes so that he could be one, but so that he could choose better idols. Better men. Maybe she wanted him to understand that he didn’t need to save her. Maybe she wanted him to be saved.

He wasn’t the hero. He was just a man who had thrown on someone else’s armor, going to battle in their place, calling it love. He pictured his younger self, standing in front of his dad, ready to take the hit meant for his mother. He saw himself, staring at Shane in the Raiders locker room. Except Shane hadn’t wanted Ilya to save him. Neither had his mother.

Ilya couldn’t help but laugh, glancing between Shane and the trophy. The audience shifted uncomfortably, trying to laugh along, but none of them knew what the joke was. 

He looked at Shane, who was still smiling at him as if there was nothing Ilya could do to him that would truly make him go away. He hadn’t left him, not even for a second. What a stubborn ghost he was. Ilya was so tired of trying to push him away.

He rested the paper out in front of him on the podium, staring at it for a moment while the audience watched on in uncomfortable silence. He looked at his own signature at the bottom and shook his head in disbelief. After everything, he still hadn’t learned. He hadn’t learned that the rules weren’t real.

And so Ilya gripped the mic, picturing himself wearing Shane’s jersey so that he would know Ilya was on his team. He had one hundred of them to choose from.

“Shane could not be here tonight,” Ilya began. The audience frowned, looking around at each other in confusion. Whispers started to fill the room, and Ilya could see some of the cameramen in the back glancing around at each other, wondering if they should keep filming. The only person who looked unfazed was David, whose mouth was slowly cracking open into a wide grin. “So I am here to accept the award for him.”

“Rozanov,” he heard someone hiss to the side of him, but Ilya ignored it. If they wanted to stop him, they would have to drag him off the stage. And as he now would never forget, there were cameras everywhere in these hotels. 

“Shane would first like to thank his parents, Yuna and David,” Ilya continued. “They are the best parents. Yuna bought Shane his first pair of skates and was the first person to skate with him on the ice. David was the first person to give Shane a hockey stick. So Shane would not be here if it wasn’t for them.”

He glanced down at the Hollanders who were all looking at him with different degrees of shock. He grinned at them before continuing. “Shane would also thank his team. I do not know why, and they do not deserve it, but Shane would do it because he is perfect,” he said with an exasperated sigh, receiving a mixture of laughs and gasps. Ilya looked across the room, making eye contact with Hayden, who rolled his eyes, but whose smile and tears betrayed him. “He would say that he could not have done it without them, even Pike, who tried his best to make them lose.”

Hayden laughed and mouthed the words “fuck you” before wiping at his eyes.

“He would also probably thank his friend Lily,” Ilya added. “For being there when so many people were not there.”

Ilya took a deep breath before continuing, turning his attention back to Shane, whose eyes were wide and glassy. “Shane might also want to thank me, but he would be wrong for this. I love him very much,” he whispered, “even though I do not say it as much as I should.”

Ilya picked up the piece of paper in front of him before quickly glancing at his side, finding a seething Crowell who looked as if it was taking everything in his power not to tackle Ilya to the ground, cameras be damned.

He cleared his throat, lifting the page to the audience and waving it slightly. “This is a list of rules Shane and I were supposed to follow. And I feel terrible,” he said, giving Crowell a mock frown before turning back to the group. “I must now confess that I have broken so many of these rules. I have—” he paused to read from the paper. “Participated in unsupervised in-person contact with Shane Hollander. I have arranged for maximum contact between myself and Shane Hollander,” he paused to wiggle his eyebrows suggestively, receiving a handful of laughs from the players and a bright blush from Shane. 

“And I have communicated electronically with Shane Hollander for many matters not of immediate necessity,” he continued. “Although I should have done it more,” he added, his voice cracking at the end. Shane’s chin started to quiver a little bit like it always did right before he cried. Ilya remembered that about him.

“Which is why,” he said with a fake sigh, looking sadly at Crowell. “I do not deserve this award. So I must give it to my good friend, Shane Hollander instead.”

He turned back to the audience. Many people stared at him slack-jawed, and a few administrators and representatives hurried out of their seats, whispering loudly to each other or into their phones. He smiled. It was kind of fun to watch it all burn.

He folded the piece of paper, running his finger across Shane’s name at the bottom, before giving him one last smile. 

“He deserves it. We owe it to him.”

And with that, Ilya stood back from the mic. There were a couple of nervous giggles from the crowd, and Ilya was pretty sure he heard a not-so-quiet “what the fuck.” Ilya couldn’t help but laugh and gave the crowd a little mock bow, receiving a few catcalls and cheers. That seemed to break the ice, and more players began applauding him. Some people glared at him, but a large portion of the audience seemed amused by his performance. A few looked a little awestruck, a little emotional. Hayden Pike was the first to actually stand, and Ilya flipped him off, which he was probably going to get fined for.

Ilya’s eyes fell on Shane, who was still sitting, just staring at Ilya, his eyes still glistening with unshed tears. Ilya gave him a shrug and began clapping with the rest of the crowd. Shane slowly stood, looking around him for a moment before pushing past his parents into the aisle. 

Instead of heading for the stage, Shane hurried to the back of the room, ignoring the eyes that followed him, pushing the door open and walking through it, disappearing from sight.

Ilya turned to follow him, only to be met by a red-faced commissioner. “How dare you. How fucking dare you,” Crowell spat.

Ilya smirked, tilting his head. “Did I not manage it good enough?” 

“You’re done in this league. You’re fucking done—”

Ilya ignored him, simply prancing off the stage, his arms swinging as he walked. A couple of players cheered him on as he strolled down the aisle, but he kept walking, past Shane’s parents and past Svetlana, who would probably kill him for abandoning her later. But no matter.

He had a hockey player to catch.

He was almost jogging by the time he reached the door, hurrying out, the sound of the crowd dimming behind him. He started sprinting down the halls of the hotel, which was probably pretty stupid because he knew where Shane was. He didn’t have to run. But he heard Tom’s voice telling him everyone does stupid things when they’re in love, and he decided to run a little faster.

He hurried up the stairs until he found the door he was looking for, shoving it open and stepping out onto the roof.

Chapter End Notes

You guys!! Look how fast I got this next chapter out. Woot woot!

I'm not sure what to say. Usually I jot down author notes while I write because I love using and abusing my author notes powers so much (and because I'll only remember what I wanted to say after publishing).

So here are some random thoughts:

1) I'm dedicating this chapter to my sister who absolutely ATE it while we were biking today. We're in the middle of the mountains (so you all should really appreciate my dedication to writing with very, very limited wifi) and decided to be adventurous (big mistake) and bike down a very steep trail. It did not end well for her. Mind you, she's fine. But she did scrape up her hands, which is now making it very difficult for her to finish reading her Drarry fic (thoughts and prayers to her during this trying time).

2) I have a playlist that I listen to while writing, and I thought it would be fun to tell you all the songs that are on it in the order I listen to them, from most frequent to least frequent (there were some others that I removed after part 1 and some that were added specifically for part 2, but for the purposes of this list, these are the ones that were there the whole time). As you can see, it REAL sad and it REAL heavy on the Ethel Cain
- Televangilism - Ethel Cain
- House in Nebraska - Ethel Cain
- Sparks - Coldplay
- Cigarette Smoke - Olivia Rodrigo
- Waco, Texas - Ethel Cain
- Keep the Rain - Searows
- Sun Bleached Flies - Ethel Cain
- Savior Complex - Phoebe Bridgers
- Man of the Year - Lorde
- Not a lot, just forever - Adrianne Lenker

3) Sorry for not including any big Shane POVs. But you see...he was blocked so... (ha ha)
(I'm not joking, that is actually the very real reason why there wasn't a Shane POV. I'd love to say it was an artistic choice, but a large part of me just thought it was kind of funny)

4) Don't AT me for re-using the dog socks from "Ten Easy Steps to being a Good Boyfriend" and the 40 days thing from "On Time Zones"...I ONLY HAVE SO MANY IDEAS. I'M DOING MY BEST, BUT MY BRAIN IS ONLY SO BIG. That and I really like death+love metaphors 🤷‍♀️

5) I usually really do try my best to respond to comments on this fic (because I love this fic and love that you all love this fic too. It's my favorite thing). But last time, it took me two full Ted Lasso episodes to respond to them all, so I had to choose between publishing the next chapter asap and responding to comments. But know that I read them all multiple times. I will try to respond to more of the comments for this chapter 😅. But know that my response to most of you for chapter 12 is: I am so so sorry for the pain I have inflicted on you

Hopefully this chapter works to resolve some of that angst. I really really hope you guys enjoy this chapter. So many of you have so much trust in me, and I have no trust in me at all times haha. So, am I scared to post this chapter? Yes. I am deeply, deeply terrified

There are callbacks in this chapter, but I've decided not to tell you most of them hehe ☺️
Except for one
Chapter 7: "He imagined giving a little speech. Thanking his parents for always being there. Thanking his team for maybe getting used to him. Thanking his Lily. Thanking his other Lily. Ilya probably wouldn’t thank Shane in his speech."

 

p.s. Yes I know it says there is only one more chapter. There will most likely be two, but I am literally going to decide whether or not to split it into two at the last possible second (no change in actual material. Just a change in the splitting of it all). So I'll try to publish them at the same time haha (unless my beta-reader kills me. And then they will not be published at the same time)

Chapter 14: I thought that you were so beautiful, it was love, I guess

Chapter Notes

"My house of stone, your ivy grows / And now I'm covered in you" — Taylor Swift, "Ivy"

Shane was lying down on the roof, the ground pressing a bit painfully into his back and probably creating wrinkles in his suit that he would regret later. He wasn’t sure how he ended up on the ground. He had come out here hoping that the fresh air would help clear his mind of all the dangerously hopeful thoughts that were starting to make a home there, but then his legs had started wobbling, and he had felt the inexplicable urge to be horizontal as soon as possible.

So here he was, staring at the sky, his arms cushioning his head. And because he was already ruining his tux, he decided to bend one leg and throw the other over, resting his shoe on his knee and probably making his pants even dirtier.

It didn’t really matter anymore. Nothing much mattered at all, it turned out. Shane was pretty sure the world had ended at some point, and he had decided he still cared about it despite its nonexistence. Perhaps it had even ended twice. The first time was when the first video had been released. Then Shane had found a new world, and that world ended too with one careless press of a button on a phone. He should have left, but he never could have abandoned his whole world, not really, even if it was no longer there. It was weird to think that somewhere, downstairs in front of a crowd of people, his world was trying to come back to him.

What was he supposed to do? There were so many books and movies that had tried to prepare him to survive an apocalypse. What was he supposed to do if the apocalypse was really over?

He heard a door open behind him and dress shoes tapping loudly on the ground. Shane didn’t turn to look to see who it was as the sound started getting closer. He knew who it was. He had heard those footsteps in his head for the last few months, pacing outside of his room just waiting for the right moment to come back in.

The figure crouched down, joining Shane on the floor, wiggling his body until they were only a few inches apart.

“Found you,” Ilya said.

“So you were looking for me.”

“Mm, no,” Ilya corrected. “I just came out here to get some air. Maybe see the view.”

“Well,” Shane said, gesturing to the empty sky above them. “Here’s the view, I guess. Check it out.”

Ilya hummed, and Shane finally glanced over at him. Ilya was looking up towards the sky, his cheeks still red with adrenaline and his hair sticking out in funny places. He hadn’t gelled it down like he tended to do when he went to fancier events, still using the pomade his father had always made him use. Shane wondered if he had gotten rid of it. Shane had never liked it. 

Ilya was sweating, as if he had run all the way here, which Shane would understand because he had run up here too, hurrying to find a place he could breathe again. And he was breathing now, his chest rising and falling with Ilya’s. 

“So what are we looking at?” Ilya asked.

What had he been looking at? He thought about the sky above him and the world lying next to him. “The stars,” Shane responded.

“Ah.”

Shane turned back to the sky, which would have been black if not for the orange-ish hue caused by bright city lights reflected on it. With how many neon signs, street lights, and flashing buildings there were in Las Vegas, it was impossible to see the stars.

Ilya pointed up at a spot in the expansive empty night sky. “I think I see Orion.”

“No, you can’t.”

“What! Is right there, Shane. You must have no imagination,” Ilya teased.

“No, I mean Orion is a winter constellation. It’s summer.”

“Oh,” Ilya muttered. He sniffed loudly as if holding back tears. “I wish I saw the winter stars with you.”

Shane said nothing in return, but he stared longer at the spot where Ilya had pointed. He squinted at it a little bit. The smudge of light did kind of look like Orion, now that he thought about it.

“So what can I see?” Ilya asked quietly. He crossed one leg over the other so that his foot hung right next to Shane’s, gently touching his shoe with his own.

Shane closed his eyes for a moment. He felt a rush of peace that he hadn’t felt in a few months, and tears started to build along the rim of his eyelashes. He wanted to reach out and pull Ilya’s body on top of his, so that his weight could press him into the roof, keeping his spirit grounded and present. He wanted to touch him everywhere. But he also just wanted his foot to barely graze Ilya’s, savoring the small touch.

He pointed to the right of where Ilya had outlined Orion at another blank spot. “Hercules is right there.”

Ilya’s head tilted toward Shane’s outstretched arm so he could follow the finger. “I do not see it.”

Shane circled his finger around the area. “Right there.”

“I still do not see it.”

Shane sighed, causing Ilya to snicker before he cut himself off abruptly as Shane grabbed his arm, which had been previously resting on the ground next to him, running his hand along it until he reached Ilya’s fingers. Ilya swallowed loudly as Shane rearranged his limbs until only the index finger was sticking out and directed it toward the sky.

“There,” Shane whispered, his hand shaking slightly as he used it to move Ilya’s in the same circle he had made himself. “That’s Hercules.”

“Oh,” Ilya said softly. “I see it.”

But Ilya wasn’t looking at the sky. Shane could feel Ilya’s eyes now gazing almost painfully at the side of his face. Shane had wanted Ilya to look at him so much recently that actually getting the attention was almost as overwhelming now as it was from the stage. 

“You’re not even looking at the stars,” Shane whispered, still looking at the hand that he was holding and using it to gesture to the black sky.

“I am.”

Shane snorted and lowered their hands, but he let his fingers continue to rest slightly entangled with Ilya’s, laying them on the ground. He dropped his head so that he could look at Ilya, their noses almost brushing as he did so. 

“That’s so fucking cheesy,” Shane said, his breath hitching as they finally met each other’s eyes. Ilya’s eyes were as blue as ever, so blue that Shane felt like he could see the sky in them. Maybe Shane was looking at the stars now too.

“Is it working?” Ilya asked with a smirk.

Shane shook his head, but blushed as he did so. “No. It’s not working.”

“That is too bad.” Ilya stared at him for a moment before nodding towards a spot above them. “How do you know where Hercules is?”

Shane shrugged, his suit shifting awkwardly underneath him. “I got really into constellations and mythology when I was a kid. I used to read a lot of stories.”

Ilya lit up. “Oh, me too,” he said excitedly. “I used to wake up early to read books about him.”

Shane raised an eyebrow. “I would stay up late to read. And so I could look at the stars.” Shane turned back to look up again, imagining he was nine years old again, sneaking outside to find Orion. Perseus. Hercules. He imagined a young Ilya tapping on the window, convincing him to sneak out with him instead. “Maybe we were reading them at the same time with the time zones and everything.”

Shane heard Ilya shift to look up as well, his thumb brushing against Shane’s. “I like that. I think we did.”

“I think we did, too.” 

They stared at the non-visible stars for a moment, and Shane admired their shoes, still tapping together. He could almost see their black dress shoes turning into a pair of navy Skechers and a pair of black-and-white Converse.

“Hey, Ilya,” he whispered, still looking at the shoes.

“Hey, Shane.”

“I’m still really fucking angry at you.” 

“I know.”

“Good.”

Ilya took a deep breath in, and Shane felt his hand tense beneath his. “Would you like to yell at me?” he asked nervously.

Shane thought about it for a second. “Maybe in a little bit. We’ve yelled at each other a lot.”

“Ah, okay,” Ilya responded slowly. Ilya’s hand only got more tense, though, and Shane could tell he was holding his breath just slightly, as if the next one he let out would result in a bunch of words spilling out that he didn’t want to.

“Ilya?”

“Yes, Shane.”

“Would you like me to yell at you?”

“Yes,” Ilya said quickly, nodding erratically. “Yes, I would like it very much.”

“Okay,” Shane said with a small laugh. “Fuck you.”

Ilya’s nodding stopped, and he turned to Shane. Shane adjusted to look at him, too. Ilya was giving him an expectant look.

“Is…is that all?” Ilya asked carefully.

“Do you want me to say it again?”

“Maybe. Maybe it would help.”

“Hmm.” Shane lifted his hand from Ilya’s to place it on Ilya’s face, feeling him lean into it. “Fuck you.”

Ilya let out a wet laugh, his chin wobbling. “You do not want to say anything else?”

“No, I decided I don’t want to.”

“Why?”

Shane smiled at him, sitting up just enough to pull Ilya’s pant leg up a bit before lying back down. “Because you’re wearing the socks I got you for Christmas. I saw them on stage,” he said simply, nodding at the now visible socks and admiring a particularly cute pug.

“They match my suit,” Ilya muttered, and Shane laughed until Ilya joined in, giggling a bit hysterically.

The laughter slowly faded, leaving them both a bit teary. Shane suddenly felt more overwhelmed than he had sitting in the crowd next to his parents, watching Ilya call out for him on stage. But this time he didn’t want to run away from it. He finally slid his hand firmly through Ilya’s, holding onto it tightly as if Ilya would fall into the sky if he let go. 

“You know,” Shane began, trying to sound casual, “I texted you every day.”

Ilya sat up abruptly, leaning over to look at him, his eyes wide with panic. “What?” he asked weakly. 

“I texted you. I didn’t miss a day,” Shane repeated. 

Ilya’s face fell, his eyes darting back and forth between Shane’s. “Why…” his voice cracked as he tried to clear it. “Why did you do that?”

Shane sat up too, and he could feel tears slowly starting to fall onto his cheeks, matching the ones that were beginning to shine off of Ilya’s. “Because,” he said, his voice shaking. “Because I wanted to talk to you. And because I promised I would.”

Tears finally started to leak from Ilya’s eyes, and he ducked his head to try to hide them from Shane, but the dim light illuminating the rooftop made them shine a little more brightly than they would have otherwise, twinkling amidst the darkness. “Oh,” Ilya whispered in a weak voice. 

Shane reached out with both hands, cupping Ilya’s face on either side and forcing him to stare back at Shane, tears now landing between his fingers. They looked at each other, just drinking the other in as if they couldn’t believe the other was real. As if astounded by the other's very existence. As if grateful that somehow all the atoms and stars in the universe had lined up just right to create the person across from them. 

A harsh sob left Ilya’s mouth, and his face finally fully collapsed, crying. Shane immediately moved his hands into Ilya’s curls, pulling his head into his chest and holding him there, feeling the tears wetting his shirt. Ilya’s hands were also gripping the shirt tightly, and Shane almost smiled knowing that between the tears, wrinkles, and dust, he was truly ruined.

“I am so sorry, Shane,” Ilya hiccupped.

“I know, Ilya. I always knew,” Shane said softly, running his hands repeatedly through Ilya’s hair, trying to soothe away some of the gasps. Moving his hands to Ilya’s back, Shane replaced them with his head, resting his chin on Ilya. “I really didn’t like it though,” Shane whispered into the curls. 

Ilya sniffled, burrowing himself in further to Shane and turning his head so that his ear was against Shane’s heart. “I did not like it either,” he breathed. 

“Why did you do it?”

Shane felt Ilya’s body shrug underneath him. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“It was a horrible idea.”

“Yes, I know this now.” Ilya took a deep breath before pulling away, so that he could look at Shane. “Crowell has all of these videos of us.”

Shane frowned. “What videos?”

Ilya sighed, still catching his breath from crying. He reached up to wipe tears away from one eye while Shane wiped the other one. “They are of us at our houses. Picking each other up from the airport. Kissing on the roof,” he finished, glancing at the ledge of the roof as if the two of them might still be standing there, wondering about the fall. 

Shane blinked at him. “Okay…so he has videos. That’s…something we can handle, I think.”

Ilya looked up, shaking his head. “I think he is going to leak them now. I tried to stop it.”

Shane thought about what would have happened if they had leaked. What would happen when they did leak. It just didn’t feel like it would matter all that much. If it meant he got to keep Ilya, he would have filmed the videos and released them himself. 

“That was stupid of you,” Shane said after a moment.

Ilya nodded, seriously. “Yes, I am very stupid.”

“I’ve been trying to tell you for years.”

“I should have listened to you. Would have saved me a lot of trouble.”

Ilya turned to him, both of them smiling and sharing the joke. 

“Maybe we were always trouble,” Shane teased.

“Yes, I think so,” Ilya responded, grinning. “Probably.”

“So should we stay away from each other? Stay out of trouble?” Shane asked, a little more seriously.

Ilya shook his head. “No. I think this would hurt too much. I do not think we can. I do not think we deserve that hurt.”

Shane shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe we deserve it. I don’t think we owe it to ourselves to be together.”

“No?” Ilya whispered nervously, tears falling a little faster.

“No. But maybe we owe it to each other.”

Ilya let out a wet laugh, reaching a hand forward to trace the side of Shane’s face, running along the curve of his ear and his jaw, making Shane shiver. Making him feel delicate. Making him feel like something deserved. Shane held his own hand up, cupping Ilya’s face, and pressing his thumb into his neck so that he could feel his pulse.

Shane always knew he would forgive him. He always knew he’d find his way back to him. He just loved him so much; it made him a little crazy. It made him want to cut off a lock of Ilya’s hair and put it in a stupid heart locket that he would never take off. It made him want to tattoo fingerprints on every part of him that Ilya touched, although he imagined Ilya wouldn’t stop until his skin had turned completely black with ink. It made him want to quit hockey. It made him want to never quit hockey, pushing his aging, wrinkled body across the ice until they dragged him from the rink, his skates scraping against the floor behind him.

Shane took Ilya’s hand in his and held it against his chest, lying back down on the roof and pulling Ilya down with him so that they could look at the stars that weren’t there.

Ilya pressed closer to Shane so that the sides of their suits touched each other all the way down to their toes. They stayed like that, neither of them talking.

After a while, Ilya pointed to the sky. “A shooting star, Shane. Make a wish.”

Shane let out a breathy laugh, but said nothing in return. He just squeezed Ilya’s hand three times. Ilya squeezed it back. Three times. 

“Should we start over again? Like we did last time?” Shane eventually asked.

Ilya thought about it for a moment. “No.”

“No?”

“No,” he turned his head toward Shane and grinned. “I think we should get off this fucking roof.”

Shane laughed, but he leaned forward, standing up and pulling Ilya with him. Hand-in-hand, they moved towards the stairwell. “My hotel room or yours?” Shane asked.

“Neither,” Ilya responded. Shane turned to him, confused, and Ilya grinned. “I think we can do better than that.”

* * * * *

“I really don’t have anything for a club.”

“That is why you wear my shirt. You will look so hot no one will know what to do. Except me, of course. I will know what to do.”

Shane stared at the shirt Ilya had just handed him. “This is just a black tank top,” he said flatly.

Ilya nodded furiously, his hands moving down Shane’s chest as he unbuttoned the white shirt he was wearing. “Yes, exactly. Your arms will be out. They will ask you to cover up, will be so distracting.”

“I seriously doubt they will ask me to cover up,” Shane said, but he finished pulling off the button-up, replacing it with Ilya’s top. 

Ilya let out a long whistle, his eyes scanning Shane’s body, admiringly. “Oh my God, Shane. I am so happy this is an open carry state.”

Shane frowned. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Your guns. I am so happy you can have your guns out.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Shane said, smacking his arm lightly and yelling in protest when Ilya grabbed said arm, running a hand along it. He rolled his eyes when Ilya reached the top, pulling him in and placing a kiss on his shoulder, then his neck. He then closed his eyes as Ilya moved to his jaw, his cheek, his nose, and then finally his lips, sighing into the action.

It wasn’t their first kiss of the night. Shane wasn’t sure what number they were on, but each one still came with the same rush of nerves. They didn’t feel like the kisses of two people who knew the other would stay unconditionally. They felt like two people still asking, desperate for the answer to be yes.

“What are you going to wear?” Shane asked as he broke the kiss. Ilya placed one final short kiss on his lips before walking back over to his suitcase, digging through his clothes. 

“I have the perfect thing,” Ilya said cheerfully, before pulling out a piece of royal blue fabric.

Shane stared at it, blinking rapidly. He couldn’t quite believe what he was looking at. “No.”

“What! Is perfect!”

“You’re not wearing that out.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Ilya. You’re not wearing my jersey. How is that even appropriate for a club?”

Ilya opened his mouth, then closed it and turned toward the jersey he was still holding, frowning. Then suddenly, he grinned a little maniacally before reaching into his bag, rummaging around. 

“Oh, come on,” Shane exclaimed as Ilya drew out a pocket knife, flipping it open. He threw on the shirt and started to cut off the bottom. Shane’s protests stopped abruptly when Ilya finished, the jersey now cropped right above his pants, revealing his lower stomach. Shane blinked at it a couple of times.

“Oh,” he said weakly.

Ilya grinned. “Oh,” he mocked. “I think is better now.”

“How do you even have that jersey?” Shane asked, his voice still barely audible. 

Ilya swayed over to him, his walk cocky and infuriatingly slow. “I bought it. Don’t worry, I have another one, so is okay to cut this one.”

Shane laughed, but he pulled Ilya in slightly closer by the bottom of the now shortened jersey. “Aww, are you a fan? You have two jerseys?”

Ilya paled slightly. “Yes. I have two jerseys. Is so embarrassing of me.”

“You’re obsessed with me,” Shane teased.

Ilya grinned, shaking his head rapidly. “Yes, I am obsessed.”

Shane smiled as he leaned in to kiss him. After all, the feeling was mutual. He let his hands slowly move along the jersey until they reached Ilya’s face. He pulled Ilya’s face closer, dragging his lips further into his own, softly licking into his mouth, humming happily. Neither of them accelerated the movement, preferring to trade lazy kisses as one would right before falling asleep. 

“We do not have to go. We could stay here all night,” Ilya whispered against his lips. 

Eyes still closed, Shane moved to kiss the corner of his mouth, moving his lips over until he felt the bump of Ilya’s mole, kissing there as well. He continued to mouth at Ilya’s cheek and down his jaw, languidly sucking at each new patch of skin. Ilya’s breathing grew quicker as he went, and his hands pressed almost painfully into Shane’s waist. 

“Okay, Shane. I am going to have to keep you here. Lock the door. Tie you to the bed. I am sorry, but it is what has to happen,” Ilya said, moaning as Shane reached Ilya’s other ear, nipping at the lobe.

“Kinky.”

“Desperate,” Ilya corrected.

Shane pulled away, ignoring the hands that reached out to pull him back, swatting them away. 

“Shaaane,” Ilya whined as Shane crossed the room, only turning back once he reached the door.

“Ilya,” Shane echoed with a smirk, opening the door to the hotel room and walking out. 

He only made it two steps into the hallway before a hand grabbed him, pushing him back up against the now-closed hotel door. Shane laughed as Ilya attacked his lips again, kissing him furiously. Still giggling, Shane responded eagerly, sliding his fingers through Ilya’s hair. Ilya was shoving him against the door so firmly that he was lifting Shane up slightly, forcing him to stand on his tiptoes.

They were so absorbed in each other that they didn’t hear the footsteps approaching them until they were directly next to them.

Someone cleared their throat, and both of them broke away quickly, staring at each other with wide eyes. Slowly, they both turned to face whoever it was. Shane could feel Ilya’s heartbeat race even faster than before, which he hadn’t thought would have been possible. They were met with two amused expressions.

“Well,” his mom began flatly. “Do you think they made up, David?”

“You know, Yuna. I’m starting to see why they keep getting caught,” his dad said, grinning at the two of them.

Shane groaned and buried his face in Ilya’s shoulder, his head bouncing slightly with Ilya’s growing giggles.

“You think we would have raised them to know better,” he heard his mom say, exasperated.

“I don’t know. I seem to remember a bedroom door at your parents’ place that spontaneously unlocked.”

“You and I both know you were supposed to be the one to lock that door,” his mom hissed.

“Wow, is genetic,” Ilya mock-whispered to Shane, still laughing.

Shane poked his head up with a sigh, finally stepping away from Ilya but grabbing his hand and holding it firmly between them. He saw his parents glance down at where their hands met.

“So what do we have here, Shane?” his dad asked playfully, nodding toward Ilya. His mom's face had started hardening into something more protective and skeptical. Shane pulled Ilya slightly closer to him, holding his hand tighter.

“Um,” Shane began hesitantly, glancing toward Ilya. “This is, uh, Ilya Rozanov?”

His dad laughed, and his mom rolled her eyes, her strict composure almost cracking. 

“Thank you for the introduction, Shane,” his dad teased, stretching his hand out toward Ilya, who shook it. The two of them grinned at each other. “We missed you at Christmas, Ilya,” his dad said, pulling back. “Shane’s so much worse at sorting puzzle pieces by color.”

Shane scoffed, but Ilya grinned at his dad. “I am sorry I left you with Mr. lilac and lavender are the same color,” he said, pointing his thumb at Shane. “I will not leave again.”

“You better not, Ilya,” his mom said almost threateningly, pointedly ignoring the looks Shane was trying to give her. Ilya nodded his head seriously. “Nice jersey,” she added with a smirk.

“Thanks!” he said, beaming. “I always wonder what it would be like to be a Metro. I hear they are the best team in sport.”

“Better than the fucking Yankees,” his mom responded.

His dad gestured toward the hotel door. “Are you two going in?”

“No,” Ilya responded, pulling Shane in closer and wrapping an arm around his waist. “We are coming out.”

“I think you mean going out,” Shane said.

“No, I mean coming out.”

“Bit late for that,” his mom said, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe,” Ilya said with a shrug, turning to look at Shane with a grin. “But I think we will do it anyway.”

With that, Ilya guided Shane, who was happy to follow, down the hallway and past his mom and dad, who yelled, “Be safe!” and “Have fun!” respectively.

The minute they got to the place Ilya had chosen, Ilya dragged him to the bar, ordering them both drinks. He shoved a glass in Shane’s hand containing what obviously wasn't Shane’s usual ginger ale.

“What’s this?” Shane yelled over the crowd.

“Is our drink!” Ilya responded, eagerly pushing the drink closer to Shane. “Is a Moscow Mule. Is ginger beer and vodka. Is so us.”

Shane rolled his eyes but took a sip, grimacing at the taste. He glanced across from him, where Ilya was drinking it as well, a matching expression on his face. 

Shane laughed. “You don’t even like it!” he exclaimed, moving to pull the glass away from Ilya, who just hugged it tighter towards himself.

“No, I do. I love it,” Ilya said firmly, taking another long drink to try and prove it but started coughing violently. 

Shane laughed harder, some of the drink spilling as he finally managed to wrestle it away from Ilya and order new drinks for both of them. He handed Ilya his vodka before settling into his own beer.

Shane could feel a number of eyes and spectators starting to turn their way, but he tried to ignore them, taking a seat next to Ilya at the bar. He rotated so that their legs were intertwined, admiring the way Ilya’s face lit up with a smile at the touch.

“So,” Ilya began after taking a sip of his drink and resting his other hand lazily on Shane’s thigh. “Tell me what is new with you.”

Shane huffed a laugh, shaking his head before actually thinking about it. What was new? He thought about winning the cup. He thought about finally lifting the trophy he had dreamed of getting since he put on his first pair of skates. 

“I went to an animal shelter the other day,” he said instead. “I think there’s a dog there that you would like.”

Ilya’s face brightened, and he leaned in eagerly. “Oh my God, Shane!” he almost yelled, “Did you buy a dog? Please tell me you bought a dog.”

Shane laughed. “No, of course I didn’t buy the dog.”

“What!” Ilya said, outraged. “Why ‘of course’? This is so mean of you, Shane. Why did you even bring up a dog that I cannot have?”

“I wasn’t going to buy a dog without you. Besides, you’re the one that wants a dog, not me.”

“This is such a lie, Shane. I know you secretly want a dog so much. Is your greatest desire.”

“Yeah, my greatest desire is to have a dirty animal running around my house peeing on everything.”

“At least you are admitting it. Why is the dog like me?”

“Well, he was handsome, tragically misunderstood, blond.”

Ilya let out an offended noise, pressing a hand against his chest. “Is this all you see me as?”

Shane smirked, taking another sip of his beer. “Well,” he said, “he also started sexting me right after I left the shelter.”

Ilya let out a loud cackle. “Ah, that does sound like me.” He grinned at Shane before letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Never mind, we must get a different dog. This dog is trying to steal my man.”

“Your man?”

“Yes, my man. My old, old man.”

“I’m one month older, Ilya.”

“Yes, exactly. So close to retirement already.”

“You’ll be the same age as me in a week. Happy early birthday, by the way.”

“Happy late birthday,” Ilya echoed, sobering up slightly. “I am sorry I missed it. I will make it up to you.”

Shane smiled sadly, resting his hand on top of Ilya’s. “You can make it up to me by admitting that we’re the same age.”

Ilya’s lips quirked up, and he ran a thumb across Shane’s. “Not until next week. Then we will be old together.”

Shane rolled his eyes but said nothing in response, enjoying the picture of an old Shane and Ilya. He thought about their houses slowly filling with new clothes, dusty hockey gear, and medications. He imagined their bodies starting to fall apart, both of them doing everything they could to hold the other up for as long as possible. Shane realized that over years of being together in secret, he had never allowed himself to really imagine the end. It hadn’t felt like a life that was possible to maintain. He hadn’t realized how much tension was caused by always existing on a tightrope, knowing that the only way to get off was by falling.

They were both smiling contentedly, their fingers brushing against each other as they continued to hold their individual drinks, neither really bothering to drink from them anymore. Shane watched as Ilya glanced towards the dance floor, at the couples that had finally begun to settle into their partners of the night, awkward conversations becoming successful endeavors and tentative match-ups. He could see the yearning look that was beginning to emerge in the corners of Ilya’s eyes. After a moment, he hurriedly turned back toward Shane, pointedly positioning his body away from the dance floor, smiling at him as if everything he wanted was right in front of him. But Shane didn’t mind that he wanted more. Shane wanted to give it to him.

And so he leaned closer to Ilya, giving Ilya time to mimic the motion. Shane smiled as he moved his lips next to Ilya’s ear.

“Would you like to dance?” he whispered.

Ilya shook his head, backing away. “No. I am good here. It is very loud on the dance floor, and you know how I feel about loud sounds,” he said, gesturing dismissively at the crowd.

Shane laughed and stood up off the stool, holding his hand out toward Ilya, who looked at it in surprise. “I think you’ll be fine,” he said.

Ilya grinned and grabbed Shane’s hand, letting him lead him past the mess of bodies to the middle of the floor. Once there, he turned back to Ilya, hesitantly.

“I, uh. I don’t actually really know how to dance,” he said nervously.

Ilya laughed, grabbing onto Shane’s hips and pulling him in. “But I have seen you dance! You did a pretty good job.”

“I don’t know how I did that. I just kept looking at you and wasn’t really thinking,” Shane said, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s neck.

Ilya smiled softly and began to maneuver Shane’s hips back and forth with the beat of the music. “Okay. So then keep looking at me. And don’t think.”

They danced together, mostly just swaying back and forth in each other’s arms, but Ilya threw in a couple of spins and tried to dip Shane at some point, which Shane responded to by immediately dipping Ilya as well. Ilya did it a lot more gracefully, making sure to point out to Shane that he had pointed his toe out and everything, like a real dancer. Neither of them could stop giggling.

When the beat picked up, they jumped with the rest of the crowd, and Shane grinned as Ilya screamed all of the words. Shane tried to pick up parts of the chorus but eventually gave up, just focusing on nodding his head and moving with everyone else. He would have folded his arms in on himself if Ilya had not insisted on holding both of Shane’s hands, shifting them both back and forth with the music. It was awkward and unnatural. And it was the most fun Shane had had in months. 

Even though the tempo didn’t slow, Shane and Ilya found themselves in each other’s arms, once again slowly rocking to the song. Over Ilya’s shoulder, Shane spotted a girl staring at them, holding her phone up, recording them. 

Shane froze, his eyes not moving from the camera lens, thinking about what Ilya had said on the roof, thinking about the videos on Crowell’s computer. His breathing grew faster as his mind replayed his rookie season, the last two years, the last nine months. But then he felt Ilya let out a relaxed sigh, the air brushing gently against the hair on the back of his neck, hugging him tighter. 

Wordlessly, Shane began to smile at the camera and raised a hand, giving it a little wave before settling back onto Ilya. He hoped the video would be online tomorrow. He wanted to save it.

He looked away from the girl, tucking his head into Ilya’s neck and enjoying the little vibrations crawling across his neck from Ilya humming along to the music. He let out a deep breath as Ilya pulled his arms around Shane tighter, and Shane ran his hand across Ilya’s back, feeling the letters of his own name at the top of the jersey.

Maybe this was what you did when the world ended. Maybe you just went outside. Maybe you danced.

* * * * *

There were so many moments in Ilya’s life where he felt unlucky. How unfortunate to have lost his mother. How unfortunate to have lost everything else. Sometimes it was his fault. Sometimes it felt like a cruel play the universe demanded he participate in.

But as he pushed Shane into his hotel room, kissing him desperately with Shane’s hands inching under the jersey that bore his name, he couldn’t help but feel lucky, as if all those unlucky things finally had a purpose. Or maybe they didn’t, but at least he got to pretend as if they did now. Shane would probably still be angry with him in the morning, remembering cruel words and worse, months of silence, but that was the morning.

He pushed Shane towards the bed, savoring the laugh that Shane let out as he hit the mattress, bouncing from the force of it. He quickly followed, lying on top of Shane and kissing him again, running his hands up and down Shane’s waist. He ground into him, swallowing the soft moans that began to escape Shane. As he dug in further, Shane gasped, and Ilya realized that so many of the gasps that he had let out himself when he woke up in the middle of the night, sweating from whatever thought or terror had awoken him, had sounded an awful lot like Shane’s. He had known Shane had been keeping him from sleeping. He hadn’t realized the extent to which Shane had also been making sure he woke up. 

He leaned back to take off Shane’s jersey, folding it neatly on the nightstand next to them. He moved to remove the tanktop Shane was wearing and folded that too, placing it on top of the jersey. 

Ilya watched as Shane’s eyes hastily ran across his chest, admiring Ilya while also taking note of the moves he wanted to make next, like he would while watching game tapes. Ilya had never been truly able to get those tapes to stop playing in Shane’s head, but now he liked watching him analyze every movement, every action. 

Shane leaned forward to wrap an arm around his neck, pulling him back in to kiss him.

“Hollander scores again. Plus-minus is zero. Tied game,” Ilya muttered into Shane’s mouth.

Shane let out a breathy laugh, not pulling his lips away, nipping at his bottom lip. “When did you score?”

“Got you into the hotel room,” Ilya said with a gasp as Shane thrust up into him.

“That goal is under review,” Shane said before moaning loudly as Ilya unbuttoned his pants, pushing his hand beneath the fabric. “For fuck’s sake, just take the pants off, Ilya,” Shane panted as Ilya began to move his hand faster.

“Ah, but that will be another goal, Shane. Minus one for you.”

“Oh my God, just—” Shane began before flipping the two of them, grabbing at the waistband of Ilya’s pants and pulling them off while Ilya laughed.

“Penalty, Shane. Offsides,” he said, turning them back over and removing Shane’s pants too.

“The fuck it was. My side isn’t on my back.”

“Should be. You look so beautiful like this,” Ilya said with a smirk, running his hands down Shane’s chest to make his point before moving to kiss down the same path.

He licked and bit at Shane’s skin until his mouth finally reached his target, and he looked up at a now panting Shane. “Shot on goal.”

Shane whimpered but shook his head. “No, it’s going to go wide,” he breathed, his hands clenched almost painfully in Ilya’s hair.

Ilya grinned and moved closer. “No, I do not think so.”

Shane gasped as he took the shot, and Ilya smirked. Another point for Ilya. 

As Shane’s breathing grew quicker and his hips jerked, Ilya pulled off and gave Shane a pointed look.

“No, please—” Shane gasped.

“Shane. Your time on ice is not looking good. Very low for you,” Ilya commented.

“Oh, fuck off, you’re absurd.”

“Shane. Your team is counting on you. Can you go another shift?”

“Fuck you,” Shane panted, before looking down at Ilya, assessing the game. He groaned and flopped his head back against the pillow, exasperated. “I can do another shift.”

“Are you sure? I do not know if you—”

“I swear to God, Rozanov,” Shane said, grabbing a laughing Ilya up into another bruising kiss. Shane wrapped his legs around him, pulling him in closer and drawing groans out from both of them.

As he pushed further into Shane, he thought, not for the first time, that he’d spent years fighting Shane for a puck when it had always just been another way of holding on to him. 

Eventually, stuttered breaths turned into deep ones, and they rested against each other, both slightly sticky from each other’s sweat. 

“I think I won,” Ilya said with a sigh, his arms still hooked around Shane’s waist.

“No you fucking didn’t!” Shane exclaimed.

“Of course I did, Shane. I am the best in the league. MVP,” Ilya said, giggling as Shane swatted at his back, letting his hand rest there afterward.

“No, you’re not. Someone gave me the award instead,” Shane teased.

“Ah, well. You deserve it.”

“So you admit that I won?”

“Never.”

They continued to lie on top of each other, both of them grinning. After a moment, Ilya pulled away slightly so that he could stick out his hand toward Shane.

“Hey, Shane,” he said.

Shane glanced down at the hand being presented to him. “Hey, Ilya.”

“Good game.”

Shane laughed loudly before taking the hand in his own, shaking it firmly. “Good game.”

* * * * *

Light slowly streamed through the window, waking them both. Ilya’s mouth tasted bitter from not having brushed his teeth the night before, and the room smelled slightly musty. Shane groaned and threw the comforters over both of them to block the sun a little better. 

Ilya ran a finger along Shane’s eyebrow, moving down the side of his face to his cheek, watching as Shane’s nose scrunched up from the touch.

“That tickles,” he muttered, his eyes still closed.

Ilya only hummed and did it some more, running his nail along the dip of Shane’s lips and drawing a little swirl in his chin. Eventually, Shane cracked open one of his eyes.

“Good morning,” Ilya whispered.

Shane took a deep breath, blinking a couple of times. “Good morning.” He rubbed at his face before staring at Ilya with a slightly sad expression. “You blocked me,” he whispered.

Ilya swallowed hard. “I did.”

“I won the cup, and you weren’t even there.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Shane nodded solemnly before turning to face upwards, pulling the comforter off and letting the sun hit them both. “I’m still angry about it.”

Ilya leaned over, grabbing his phone from the nightstand. He turned his phone on and flipped open to his contacts, Shane moving to rest his head on his shoulder, watching him. He found Shane’s name and tapped Unblock. Both of them stared at the phone.

“I don’t think that worked. I think I’m still angry.”

Ilya took a deep breath, throwing the phone down on the bed. He shifted so that he could look at Shane. “Want to go get breakfast?”

Shane thought about it for a moment before shrugging. “Sure.”

They got ready slowly, with Ilya tossing Shane a pair of sweats and a t-shirt from his suitcase that were a little bit too big for Shane. It made him look impossibly cute, although Ilya would never tell Shane this. They chatted as they made their way through the hotel to the breakfast buffet, ignoring the few hockey players they passed who seemed unable to not stare at them.

They found a table and loaded up two plates. Ilya carefully maneuvered some pieces of his bacon onto Shane’s primarily egg-filled plate, which Shane rolled his eyes at but didn’t push back. They made light conversation, not really talking about anything important, focusing more on criticizing the quality of the breakfast selection. “I mean, we’re athletes. Is this the best they’ve got?” Shane complained, poking at his food. Ilya agreed wholeheartedly while drenching another batch of pancakes in syrup.

Shane stared at Ilya’s plate judgmentally before sitting back in his seat, thinking. “Do you really think Crowell is going to leak those videos?”

Ilya felt a familiar dread begin to pool in his stomach, and he stabbed at his pancakes more forcefully, leaving tiny holes in them. “I do not know. Probably. Maybe not.”

They sat there quietly. Ilya’s pancake was starting to look less and less like a pancake by the second.

“We don’t have a lot of videos of the two of us,” Shane said after a moment.

Ilya shrugged. “Polaroids do not do video.”

“Could be nice,” Shane said, smiling at him. “To have some videos.”

Ilya grinned back. “Could be nice,” he copied.

Shane glanced down at his phone and swore. 

“What is it?” Ilya asked, moving another sausage to Shane’s plate that he ate without thinking. 

“I think I missed my flight.”

Ilya froze before glancing at his own phone. He blinked as the minute changed. “I did not think it was so late. I think I missed mine too,” he said, tapping on the screen as if the time would change.

Shane opened his phone and scoffed. “Looks like my parents left without me. They sent me some later flight times.” He frowned. “Although it looks like they sent this to me last night. I hadn’t even missed the flight by then,” he mumbled.

Ilya unlocked his own phone, navigating to the messages he hadn’t looked at, having received a slew of them from various teammates after the awards last night. “Svetlana left too. She says I owe her coffee for abandoning her.”

Shane raised an eyebrow. “Only coffee?”

“And I need to buy a car from her.”

“Ah. That sounds more like her. Don’t get another flashy sports car, you have too many of them,” Shane said, flipping through more messages.

“Impossible, Shane. You cannot have too many. Can never have enough.”

Shane sighed but didn’t say anything else, his fingers moving across his phone rapidly as he texted Yuna. 

“You know,” Ilya said after a moment. “I could probably buy a car here instead. I think I could make it so Svetlana still earns commission.”

“Why would you buy a car here?” Shane said, looking up at him, confused.

Ilya shrugged. “Maybe we don’t need to fly home. Maybe we can drive instead.”

Shane set his phone down on the table, thinking about it. “That’s a really long drive.”

“We have lots of time. We still have a lot to talk about.”

Ilya watched Shane think about it, picking up his napkin and twisting it around. He could see Shane sorting through schedules that would have to be shifted, obligations that would have to be rearranged. Then his face changed, and he turned back to Ilya, resolved.

“Okay,” he said softly.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, let’s do it,” Shane said, standing up from his chair. “You’re right. We have lots of time.”

They made plans to meet back in the lobby in an hour after getting ready. In the elevator, they pressed their separate buttons and watched the numbers climb.

Ilya kept glancing over at Shane, enjoying the little bits of evidence from the night before. The baggy eyes. The clothes that weren’t his. The messy hair. He would look away when Shane would glance over at him too, turning right back towards him the second Shane looked away. Shane rolled his eyes, and Ilya just smirked.

Four floors away from the one Shane was supposed to get off at, Ilya pulled out his phone and sent a couple of texts. He heard Shane’s phone buzz in his pocket, but Shane made no move to pull it out.

“Are you going to answer those?” Ilya asked.

Shane looked over at him, an eyebrow raised. The elevator door opened, and Shane stepped out, looking back at Ilya.

“Nah,” Shane said, grinning before darting off down the hallway. 

Ilya laughed and watched as the elevator doors closed. It rose two more stories to his floor, the doors reopening, before he felt the phone buzz. 

I had fun last night

We should do it again some time

Shane )): How about right now?

Shane )): I think I can squeeze you in

He smiled, shaking his head, and stepped back into the elevator to hit the button for Shane’s floor.

You will

You will squeeze me in so tight

Shane )): I hate you

No you looove me

I know it

…

Shaaaane 

Messages could not be delivered.

Chapter End Notes

I think this was probably a lighter ending than you might have expected. I think Shane is right. I think they've yelled at each other enough for now.

I have decided to have two farewell notes for this fic (because I'm self-absorbed, love to talk, and have some things to say).

This chapter will be my sillier farewell. The next chapter will be disgustingly sincere (*shiver*). So brace yourself for that.

First! Important announcement. I am probably going to, at some point, take these fics out of the series. Don't worry, the fics will all still be here. They probably just won't all be grouped together in the chaotic way I have them now.

Okay now onto the first official goodbye. I've decided to give it to you in a series of apologies (these are all meant to be taken as a bit of a joke. Please do not try to refute these apologies in the comments by saying things like "noooo, I thought it was great! Don't apologize for this!" I will only accept comments that further criticize me. You've been warned)

 

So without further ado, I apologize for...

- not including any smut. I think you and I both know there were many moments that should have had smut. Especially for a fic named after an Ethel Cain song. It's just that I have a deep fear of being struck down by God, even if I'm not religious

- okay I am also sorry for lying about why I didn't write smut. I have no fear of being struck down. It's just that I have a big mouth and gave my username to so many of my friends, and I don't think I could look them in the eyes knowing they read my smut

- okay I am also sorry for lying in my apology about lying about the smut. I have truly said heinous things to all of my friends. They know who I am. I have zero shame. I tried to write smut, but I am so so very bad at it. It looked something like this: "And then they like kissed...and fingers went in places. Those places being holes...and shirts came off...and *whispers* dicks went in. And sex was had, the end." So obviously that couldn't be included

- For twitter stalking a lot of you. I just thought it was kind of funny not to respond to posts about this fic, but then my beta-reader told me I might be being unethical by just observing the posts and not responding. And then I had a long crisis about whether it was or was not ethical to even look at posts about this fic and it was a whole thing. If any of you want to come say hi on twitter though, my username is @promised_ivy (how creative). Don't worry, I too wish I was on tumblr. It's just that I wasn't allowed to use it for so long (see above for fear of being struck down by God), and at this point I just have no idea how it works. I am just barely learning how Twitter works so work with me here

- Not paying enough attention to the side characters. Who knows what Berkes says at any given time, really. Not I. Let's not think too much about it

- Overusing body metaphors

- Overusing metaphors generally

- Maybe making part 2 better than part 1. It wasn't intentional (although my beta-reader said she likes part 1 more. food for thought)

- Spelling Bell Centre wrong. In my defense, I was just spelling it like I saw all the other fics spelling it and then suddenly there was a great shift and EVERYONE seemed to know it was Centre and not Center. No one sent me the memo (see above explanation about being new to twitter)

- Mentioning Ilya's curls again in this chapter. I'm sorry for bringing that up during these troubling times

- Overusing the words "stare", "grin," and "couldn’t help." It’s just that as I stared at the thesaurus looking for another word for grin, I couldn’t help but just use grin again.

- Not really including the player's association or Yuna schemes. I think you and I both know that there would have been more legal fights and pushback. I just don't know how to write it. I wish I could say it was a choice, but I fear it was an obligation.

- Not including social media reactions. I know many of you wanted to see how the public was reacting. I have written some for you here. I hope that makes up for it:
@basicgenerichockeyfan what the fuck is going on????

- Using metros instead of voyageurs because it was easier to spell

- Using NHL instead of MLH because I thought it sounded more mature. Mistakes were made

- Making some of you think that I thought your comments were hate comments. I never thought they were hate comments. I just like apologizing for the angst instead of responding with a bunch of devil emojis. Know that many of you almost got devil emojis. I'm just not good at nailing the tone in the comments section sometimes

- Once again writing a really long author's note

I love you all dearly and I will see you in the final "chapter"

Chapter 15: PART III: But I still call home that house in Nebraska

Chapter Summary

The epilogue

Chapter Notes

IMPORTANT: I'm posting chapters 14 and 15 at the same time, so if you didn't read chapter 14, go read that first

-

This is for you, my dear readers on the other side of the screen. The friends I’ve never met. I hope that you have someone to care for you on both sides of the phone. I hope your houses are filled with people. With answered texts. With potted plants. With dancing.

Men always think they’ve changed. They look at who they once were and who they’ve become, and they see growth. They measure themselves against walls, marking their height with pencils, shaky hands, and feet slowly stretching higher on tipped toes. Standing back, they gesture towards the marks and proudly show off how tall they’ve become. But behind pencil marks and wrinkled faces, there is still that young boy who asked his lover to be his boyfriend on the roof of some hotel. There is still that young boy who nervously approached his supposed rival just so he could shake his hand. And so I see those boys hidden behind brown eyes, behind blue ones. Because I want to. 

We’ll let them play pretend, though. Let men pretend at being heroes, at being stars. Let them pretend that they’ve changed.

But are they really so different? Boys and men?

* * * * *

One year later

The First: How Scott Hunter Opened the NHL’s Locker Room

Ainsley Hayes

Tue, September 13, 2016, 11:36 AM EDT

As we head into the 2016-2017 season, the NHL enters a period of uncertainty unusual for an institution of its size and rigid cohesion. With the recent resignation of NHL Commissioner Roger Crowell after significant missteps during the Collective Bargaining Agreement renewal, the league faces unprecedented changes, and many are left wondering at the root cause of this destabilization. Many people have claimed that it is the fault of antiquated administrations, more concerned with saving money than maintaining the league’s integrity. Others are pointing fingers at corrupt officials and greedy managers. Increasingly, however, attention has turned to the players’ association, which emerged from negotiation with more leverage than it has held in two decades, and to a shift in locker room culture that many say made this leverage possible.

In this time of shifting player opinions, there have never been more eyes on the New York Admirals captain Scott Hunter, who recently came out at the close of the 2015-2016 season and is widely described as the league’s first openly gay player. Prior scandals involving other players have been characterized differently, but Hunter is the first to have made a public statement.

“It’s a relief to receive as much support as I have,” Hunter said. “And with a changing administration and greater support from the association, I hope that the NHL has become a safer, more accommodating place for all players. Everyone deserves a place in hockey, and I am not the first to feel like they didn’t.”

Several players have come out since Hunter’s announcement. Montreal left wing Zach Griffen, San Jose defenseman Bryan Talbot, New York goalie Eric Bennett, and Boston’s new defenseman Ryan Price have all confirmed their sexuality publicly in the past year. 

“Obviously, a lot of players have been afraid to come out,” Griffen said. “I mean, it was (expletive) terrifying watching how the league treated guys like me. I know coming into my rookie season, I never would have thought I would ever come out. But then, you know, the obvious happened…and with Hunter coming out as well, it just seemed like the right time.”

Crowell’s resignation was announced as a decision to pursue other opportunities and spend time with his family. It followed his release of surveillance footage of two players, obtained during his tenure and distributed without their consent—an act that drew criticism from the association and several club executives and is understood to have accelerated his departure. The footage concerned Montreal’s Shane Hollander and Boston’s Ilya Rozanov. 

Rozanov reposted each video on Twitter with added commentary (see more here). Hollander did not respond, though he later posted a video showing the pair sitting together by a lake, a gold and silver ring between them. Hollander and Rozanov were not made available for further comment.

* * * * *

“Have I ever told you how much I hate Ilya?” Hayden asked, shoving his helmet into his locker.

“Many, many times. Yes,” Shane responded, stripping off his own gear and combing his hair back with his fingers.

“Well, I hate him. I don’t think my ribs will ever be the same,” he said, wincing as he tried to bend over.

“So does this mean we don’t have to babysit for you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, no. There’s no way you’re getting out of that. Jade and Ruby have been asking about ‘Uncle Ilya’ nonstop. I think they’ve made him a card and shit.”

“Aww, I think they love him more than you,” Shane teased before pulling out his phone to shoot Ilya a quick text.

“Yeah, them and everyone else in my fucking life,” Hayden said with a pointed look towards Shane’s phone. Shane just rolled his eyes before setting the phone down and continuing to undress.

“Great fucking game, Hollander,” Berkes called out from his corner of the room.

“Yeah, big woop. Call the press. Hollzy tried to kill the Raiders again,” Griffen yelled back, sarcastically.

“Yeah, you’d know all about the press, wouldn’t you, Griff. When’s your next photoshoot?” J.J. said with a laugh.

Griffen gave him a playful shove. “Don’t be jealous, J.J. Although, they keep missing my good side.”

“You don’t have a good side,” J.J. said flatly.

The two of them began arguing loudly, pushing each other back and forth across the locker room until it escalated to them throwing towels at each other. Hayden rolled his eyes and grabbed one of them out of the air.

“For fuck’s sake, just head to the showers, idiots,” he yelled at them, shoving the towel at a laughing J.J.

“Okay, Dad,” J.J. said.

Griffen smirked at the two of them. “Hot.”

J.J. threw the towel at him again, and Hayden sighed. “Honestly, they are worse than the kids,” he commented to Shane.

“I wouldn’t underestimate Ruby and Jade. Especially when I saw their favorite uncle buying glitter the other day,” Shane said, throwing his backpack over his shoulder and giving Hayden a knowing look. “And I don’t think the Raiders have any craft nights planned.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Hayden whispered, his eyes wide.

Shane only laughed and headed towards the locker room door.

“Oi, Hollander!” Taylor called out, and Shane turned back toward the group that had yet to head to the showers. “You going to see your man?”

Shane smiled, ignoring the scoffs that sounded in otherwise silent corners of the room. “Yep. I’ll tell him you said hi.”

Taylor huffed. “Yeah, right. Tell him he still owes me fifteen dollars,” he said before turning to make conversation with Laine. 

Shane rolled his eyes but made a note to remind Ilya as he strolled out of the Metros locker room and down the hall. He made his way towards the visitors’ locker room and poked his head in the door.

“I cannot believe it! Is so embarrassing. Cannot look Shane in the eyes tonight. You were supposed to sweep the leg, Connors,” he heard Ilya yell from around the corner.

“Pretty sure that’s illegal, cap.”

“What is illegal is that you let me lose to my fiancé. Is like you do not care about my dignity,” Ilya moaned.

“Didn’t realize you had any left,” Shane said as he walked further into the locker room, receiving a barrage of welcoming yells. 

“Oh thank God, Shane,” Marleau cried, shoving Ilya at him, who let out an offended cry. “Please take him off of our hands.”

“Oo, sexy,” Ilya said, wrapping his body around Shane and ignoring his protests and attempts to shove him off. “Want to be in your hands only.”

Shane finally managed to push him away. “You stink,” he said flatly.

“You love it,” Ilya said before trying to rub his sweaty hair onto Shane’s face, resulting in him getting shoved again.

“I fucking don’t,” Shane said, taking Ilya’s bag from him and carrying it next to his own. “Ready to go?”

Ilya smiled softly at him. “Yes, I am ready.”

“Okay then.” Shane nodded towards the rest of the Raiders. “Say goodbye to the rest of your loser team.”

The Raiders booed him, and Ilya moaned, turning back to Connors and gesturing to Shane. 

“See! I told you he is the worst when he wins.”

Connors rolled his eyes. “We’ll get him next time, and then you can be an even sorer winner.”

“As long as you promise, Connors. Remember. Sweep the leg. Go for his weak ankles,” Ilya said, grabbing Shane’s empty hand to drag him out of the locker room.

“My ankles aren’t fucking weak, fuck you,” Shane said as they hurried down the hall, both of them still dressed in their compression gear. 

“They are so weak, Shane. Cannot believe you are standing upright. In fact,” Ilya said before turning to Shane seriously. “I think you are about to fall.”

“What the fuck does that—Ilya!” Shane cried as Ilya lifted Shane over his shoulder and began marching out of Bell Centre. “Put me down, you asshole,” Shane yelled but couldn’t help but laugh.

“Never!” Ilya said, hurrying down the hall a couple of steps before he was forced to lower Shane to the ground.

Shane turned to a panting Ilya. “Aw, did you get tired?”

“I played whole game, Shane! I worked so hard.”

“Really? I could barely tell.”

“Oh, who is the asshole now?”

“It’s still you,” Shane said, continuing to laugh. He reached for Ilya’s hand again, leading them both out of the facility to where Shane’s car was parked. 

They kept talking about the game as they drove away from the arena, teasing and praising each other equally before moving on to familiar topics.

“I am just saying, Shane. It is crazy.”

“His job was always technically a security guard.”

“Yes, but now Tom is a real one. I am worried about him, Shane. I am worried bad guys will see his small glasses and small body and think he is an easy target.”

“Good thing he’s a good security guard.”

“That was always a made-up title, Shane! You are not listening to me. You are not listening to my concerns for his safety.”

“How often do people even rob art museums anymore?”

“You never know, Shane. Maybe I will rob an art museum and prove you wrong.”

“Well, make sure to go when Tom is working. I hear he’s an easy target.”

“See, Shane, even you hear this. Everyone knows he is going to be attacked. Is common knowledge,” Ilya said, fiddling with the glove compartment, its latch nearly worn through. He pulled out the little keychain Shane kept in there, spare keys to both houses on the same ring, and turned it over in his hand before putting it back.

“Uh, huh,” Shane said, reaching over to close the compartment again. “Speaking of which, are we still doing dinner with him when we play in Boston?”

Ilya nodded emphatically. “Yes, Tom will not shut up about it. I think he will kill me if we do not.”

“I thought he was weak.”

“Yes, but he has this sad face he gives me when I do not do what he wants me to. I think he must have learned it from you,” Ilya said with a sigh, leaning back in his seat.

“Impossible,” Shane said, turning to smirk at him. “I would never give away my secrets.”

They finally pulled into the parking lot, both of them pulling on their winter gear and grabbing the skates they had only just taken off after the game. The lake was already filled with people, and Ilya and Shane dutifully made their way over to a bench next to it, pulling on the skates. Ilya finished tying his skates first, but he waited at the edge of the ice for Shane to join him.

“Do not worry, Shane. I will hold your hand the entire time so you do not fall,” Ilya said, holding out said hand to Shane as he wobbled over to him, his legs still slightly numb from the full game of hockey.

“You fucking wish,” Shane responded, shoving the hand away and stepping onto the ice.

“Shane, there are children present,” Ilya scolded as he hurried after him. When he caught up to Shane, he linked their arms together.

Really, both of them were exhausted from the game, their feet moving much less gracefully than they had before, stumbling slightly as if they didn’t spend most of their lives on the ice. But they both held on, pressed together, neither quite sure who was holding up whom.

They joined the rest of the couples, families, and lone skaters, circling around the lake. Shane noticed a few people glancing over at them, but everyone left them alone.

In the corner, two boys were playing hockey, shoving each other roughly as they tried to steal the puck. Ilya giggled as one of them attempted to slam the puck toward the other side of the rink, overbalanced from the force, and went sprawling.

Shane swatted at him. “Don’t laugh at the kids.”

“But Shane, it was funny!”

Shane rolled his eyes as Ilya laughed again as the boy tried to get up and fell back down a second time, cursing loudly. Shane hooked his leg around Ilya’s, pulling it backward. Ilya squealed as his legs flew out from under him, saved from fully hitting the ice only because Shane still had hold of his arm.

“Not so funny now, is it?” Shane said, but couldn’t help but laugh himself as Ilya looked up at him, glaring.

Shane bent over, laughing harder as Ilya tried to get his feet under himself, only to catch a particularly bumpy patch of ice, losing his balance again. Ilya gave up trying to stand up, instead shoving at Shane until he too slipped, falling on top of Ilya on the ice.

“Ilya!” Shane yelped, pushing himself to his knees and brushing snow off of himself. He looked over at Ilya, trying to muster up a stern expression but breaking the second he saw Ilya’s grinning face.

“You’re so stupid,” Shane sighed, standing up.

“You tripped me first!”

“Don’t laugh at kids then.”

Ilya blew a raspberry, waving at the kids dismissively before standing back up. “They are fine. Look at them.”

Shane glanced over and saw both boys back on their feet, having returned to play. “They aren’t that good,” Shane noted as one of the boys missed the puck in an attempt to take it back from his friend.

“Shane,” Ilya said seriously. “That is so much worse than just laughing at them.”

“What! If no one corrects them, they’ll never learn.”

“Shaaaane, they are just kids! Let them be kids,” Ilya said, linking their arms again. “Come on, skate with me.”

Shane let Ilya lead him back around the rink, their feet moving in time together, crossing one over the other. A happy satisfaction settled in Shane as they kept skating. It all just felt so tender, so easy. Sometimes, he thought about quitting hockey forever so that he never had to skate with someone who wasn’t Ilya. He watched Ilya’s curls shine in the streetlights illuminating the lake as he turned to beam at Shane.

“You look like you are thinking about something,” Ilya said, pulling them both to a stop and brushing nonexistent dust off of Shane’s face, letting the other skaters move around them.

Shane tilted his head, trying to remember if he had in fact been thinking about something. “I was thinking,” he began, “about how much I want to go to bed.”

Ilya let out a sigh of relief. “Oh thank God, Shane. I am so tired. Is so hard being the best in the league.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Shane teased, and Ilya gave him a little shove. Shane laughed and swept some excess snow off Ilya’s coat before skating towards the bench. He froze as he looked up, causing Ilya to almost collide with him.

“Why are you stopping? I was so excited for sleep,” Ilya whined, swerving to avoid him.

Shane smiled and pointed up towards the sky. “It’s Orion.”

Ilya squinted at it. “I don’t think so. I think you are imagining things,” he said before grabbing Shane’s arm to drag him towards the sideline as Shane laughed.

“Probably,” Shane said, following Ilya off the ice.

They stripped off their skates and took each other’s hands, walking back to the car that would take them home, the stars shining brightly behind them.

Chapter End Notes

My dear readers,

I find myself almost at a loss for words trying to describe my appreciation for you. I have found myself feeling embarrassingly romantic about you all. I once had a professor ask me if it was possible to love someone you have never met. And I told him I didn’t think you needed to know anything about a person to feel some sense of love for them. After all, so many parents really know nothing about their children. But would we say that they didn’t love them? I don’t know. But how can I not be a little endeared by the barista who wears square glasses and a ladybug pin? How can I not care a little bit about the mother doing makeup on the train, her kids asleep on her lap? How can I not smile fondly at the man who makes sure to step exactly on the white lines as he crosses the street? Is that love? I once again don’t know. It sometimes feels like it. But all this to say, know that I have, at the very least, fond (and uncreepy) feelings for you all, even though we have never met and never will, and even though I never really knew you.

There have been many times in my life that I have wondered what the point of living for myself was. What does a life mean if there is no one to witness it? Did that life even exist? To reference a recent fic I read, I often feel like Schrödinger’s person. Both there and not there, but no one really knows either way without looking at me.

I am a pathological self-inserter. In the fics that I have written, I have placed so much of me. My bad. Let it be known that the “art” (generously) can almost never be separated from the artist on this here ao3 profile. So many little things are just me and my thoughts. And it meant everything to me to just be able to write it down. To get it out of my own head so it would stop sounding so loud there. What surprised me was how much it meant to me for people to read it, and for you to say that it was something worthwhile.

August has ended, so the amount of writing I can produce will probably decrease significantly. But I thank you for the summer. I don’t know if I could have done it without you. Thank you for making the days warmer and the nights brighter.

This isn’t a goodbye by any stretch of the imagination. And yet, given my deep love of eulogies, I wanted to write you all a bit of a eulogy for the end of summer. Now. What makes a eulogy? Well, the ancient Greeks delivered eulogies in a very specific way. There are two parts. First, epainesis, where you praise the ancestry, country, and government of the country from which the dead originate. Second, parainesis, where you praise the dead and give advice on what we should learn from them.

So without further ado, here is my very pretentious eulogy to you all for a dying summer (meant to be read in an old man British accent):
My friends, my fellow fanfic fiends, lend me your ears. The summer has fallen in all its glory on the battlefield, and here we stand, feasting upon its spoils. Oh, what a great summer it was. Twas a summer that reminded me of all the summers past. The ones that I spent writing silly stories with my elementary friends. The ones that I spent making videos for fandoms that no one but my Google Drive saw. Indeed, the very summers where I learned how to be creative.

And it could not have existed without this beautiful ao3 platform upon which we are all weary travelers, looking for some reprieve. Sometimes finding it. Sometimes not. But hopefully even the most pessimistic soul found a line that made them think a little more. Care a little bit more. Have a little more passion, even if for something so small in the grand scheme of things.

And summer could not have been what it was without you, dear reader. Thank you for giving me a chance. Thank you for bearing with me as I went back and reread my favorite books, actually trying to pay attention to how they formatted dialogue and worded actions. Thank you for letting me overuse the words “wondered,” “felt,” and “imagined” (it’s just that I wonder, feel, and imagine so many things). Thank you for letting me grow. Thank you for sticking around. Thank you for making me feel a little bit more alive, even just by observing me live this one small part of my life.

And now we must learn from the dead. We must do as summer would want us to do. We must keep creating and reading stupid fics. Sad fics. Romantic fics. And perhaps we may stumble upon something beautiful. Something worthy of our worship.

Summer was wonderful. Let us make summer proud by being a little kinder. Let us feel a little more romantic about each other. Let us share a little more of our lives with one another so we can learn to live them a little better. A little easier.

We owe it to each other. We owe it to ourselves.

Thank you again. I hope to see you on the next adventure. Thanks for making this one unexpected. Thanks for making this one fun.
Love,
Ivy