Summary:

After a bad hit, Ilya insists he’s fine. After all, he's survived way worse than a concussion. Shane doesn’t believe him—and shows up anyway. Shane was wedged into the middle of the couch, his dad to his left, his mom’s feet tucked beneath her on his right. The Raiders game hummed through the living room, the volume a notch too loud, the voices of the commentators confident in that polished, charismatic way. His mom reacted a half-second ahead of the play like she always did, his dad chiming in here and there. Shane nodded when he was supposed to, smiled when they did, and kept his hands loose in his lap so no one would notice how tightly his fingers wanted to curl as he watched Ilya glide across the ice—fierce, effortless, commanding attention every time he came into frame. Midway through the second period, the Raiders finally managed to set something up in Ottawa’s zone. The puck moved back to the point, a quick pass across the blue line before a shot was fired through traffic. The shot was low and messy, the kind meant to create chaos more than score outright. The Ottawa goalie dropped into a butterfly and kicked the puck away with his pad, sending the rebound skidding into the crease. Ilya was already there, parked in front of the net, jostling for position with a defenseman, his back half-turned. The rebound hit him before he even had time to react—clipping the inside edge of his skate and redirecting just enough to slip past the goalie’s outstretched leg and dribble over the line. For a beat, the arena and everyone inside of it seemed confused. Then the horn went off, the goal light flashing as the puck settled in the back of the net. Shane watched Ilya turn in a slow, bewildered circle, stick lifted like he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d just done. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Shane’s dad groaned, already dropping his head back against the couch. “That’s not even skill. That’s just dumb luck.” His mom laughed, sharp and pleased. “Luck still counts,” she said. “You don’t get those goals unless you’re in the right place. Say what you will, but Rozanov is good at that. He’s always driving the net and causing chaos.” Shane nodded, keeping his expression neutral. “Yeah,” he said. “An ugly goal’s still a goal.” Shane kept his eyes fixed on the screen, but inside he was grinning. He could already picture it later—his phone propped up against the lamp on his bedside table, Ilya’s face filling the screen, hair still damp from his shower and pretending like the whole thing had been deliberate. He’d talk about the importance of positioning, about instincts, about reading the play, like the puck hadn’t bounced off his skate while he wasn’t even looking. Shane imagined himself leaning back on his bed, watching Ilya sell it with that infuriatingly smug face, the pause before the shrug, the way his mouth would twitch like he was daring Shane to call him on it. Obviously I meant to do that, Hollander, he’d say, completely serious. Shane would laugh, remind him of the replay, maybe even send him a link to the video. Ilya would protest, offended on principle, but secretly pleased. Shane felt the grin settle deeper in his chest, a quiet, private thing. He stayed still on the couch, expression carefully mild, already looking forward to later—when the game would be over, when the call would connect, when it would be just the two of them on opposite ends of the screen. It had been longer than he liked since the last time Shane had seen Ilya in person. A road trip that stretched on and on, cities blurring together, flights and back-to-backs stealing whatever gaps they might have had. Over a month now, which felt ridiculous to miss someone this much when they talked almost every day, but the distance had a way of changing the math. Calls flattened things. Screens cut Ilya down to the shoulders and face Shane already knew by heart. Their last time together had been quick, almost stolen. A night squeezed in between travel days, Ilya’s suitcase half-unpacked on the floor, the room smelling faintly of hotel soap and the cigarette Ilya swore would be his last. They’d ordered takeout, eaten it out of the containers, knees knocking under the sheets. Shane remembered the weight of Ilya’s arm slung over his shoulders later, the solid, anchoring heat of his bare skin, the way Ilya had gone quiet in that rare, unguarded way that meant he was tired enough to stop performing. Shane and Ilya had talked about getting together when Ilya passed through Ottawa—had lingered on the idea longer than either of them admitted out loud. Shane had stared at the map on his phone, thumb hovering, quietly calculating the drive. Two hours. Maybe a little more with traffic. Doable. Tempting. He’d been the one to shut it down. “Don’t be stupid,” Shane had said, fond but firm, even as part of him didn’t want to let it go. “I’ve got an early flight the next day out of Montreal. We’d barely get any time.” It had sounded practical. Responsible. Like the right call. He’d memorized that last night instead, like he’d known this stretch was coming—how Ilya fit against him, how steady he felt when he finally let himself rest. He’d stood in the doorway the next morning and watched Ilya pack with methodical care, all focus and muscle memory, like leaving was just another drill to get through. … On the ice, the noise blurred. Ilya’s ears rang in a low, persistent hum that followed him as he skated back into position. He shook his head once, subtle. The goal still echoed in the arena, teammates tapped his helmet. He grinned widely when he was supposed to, lifted a hand to the crowd that booed him, played the part. All he could think about was the shit Shane was going to give him later. The image came uninvited: Shane’s mouth tilting up, eyes bright with it, already lining up the jokes. Great move, he’d say. Really subtle. Ilya huffed out a breath through his nose and forced his focus back to the red line, the faceoff dot, the geometry of the ice. Thinking about Shane during a game was always a mistake.