Chapter Text
OCTOBER 2021
Shane had been really hoping he would get away with no one noticing.
He’d been strategic about it. He’d dressed quickly in his stall after the game, tugging his shirt collar just a little bit higher than usual. And he almost had it. He had been so close. But then Wyatt had sidled up next to him and it had been game over.
“You still on for visiting the kids at the rec centre this weekend?” Wyatt had asked as he threw his tie around his neck.
Shane nodded. “Yeah. Ilya and I will both be there.” He blushed a little, and hated himself for it.
He was still getting used to all this. Being out. Like really out. Not just hockey players gossiping behind his back out, or carefully managed press releases out. But casual, day-to-day, talking to his coworkers about his husband out.
He fucking hated that talking about Ilya was still hard for him sometimes. He knew – he knew! – that the team was aware they were together. Most of them had been to their wedding! Yet a stubborn, anxious part of his brain still screamed that saying “Ilya and I” was an invitation for trouble. A call for narrowed eyes and judging glares and sneering comments of, “Don’t you two hate each other?”
It was annoying. It was frustrating. It was a personal flaw that sometimes felt like it penetrated the very core of his being. He should not feel awkward mentioning his husband. Especially when talking to Wyatt, who was not only a confirmed ally but a genuine friend.
“Okay, great!” Wyatt said, oblivious to Shane’s internal turmoil. “Need me to text you the address?”
Shane shook his head. “It’s okay, I still have it from last time.” He moved to grab his deodorant from his stall. His hand met empty air. He frowned and turned to face the rest of the dressing room, his gaze immediately flying to where Ilya was chatting with Nick Chouinard. His husband was shirtless, which was not unusual, and applying Shane’s own deodorant, which… was also not unusual.
Shane turned back to Wyatt quickly, not wanting to be caught staring. The other man’s eyes were wide, and his lips were twisted up into a knowing smile. “That’s quite the bruise you’ve got there, buddy,” the goalie said.
A flush of embarrassment coursed through Shane and he cursed inwardly. It was the twist of his head that had done it. He had accidentally exposed the huge fucking hickey Ilya had given last night.
- - - -
Shane was halfway through his yoga routine when Ilya came to join him in their home gym.
Shane knew better than to practice in just his shorts if he wanted to get through the entire routine. Which was, of course, exactly why he was wearing them. And only them. Ilya was always weak for the combination of exposed skin, flushed cheeks and general flexibility. Paired with the three inch inseam and it was a lost cause.
He was deep in a forward fold, palms flat on the mat, when he heard Ilya's footsteps approaching. He straightened his back with intentional slowness. A moment later, large, warm hands were pressing into the dimples at the base of his spine, pulling him back against an already half-erect cock.
“You are looking very distracting today,” Ilya said as he pressed himself against Shane.
Shane let his head fall back on Ilya’s shoulder as an amused smile teased his lips. “What? I’m just stretching.”
Ilya kissed the sensitive spot behind Shane's ear. “I am thinking you are being distracting on purpose,” he countered as his hands slid from Shane's back to his hips. A moment later, Shane found himself with his back against his mat, and Ilya hovering overtop of him. His husband unceremoniously pulled down Shane’s shorts, and grinned when he found nothing underneath.
"Eager," Ilya said.
Shane helped him by kicking them the rest of the way off. "Someone is always impatient."
"Someone is not so good at hiding what he wants," Ilya retorted as he hitched one of Shane’s legs around his waist and pulled a packet of lube from his pocket.
Shane arched an eyebrow. "And you were just carrying that around with you?"
Ilya ripped the packet open with his teeth, then grinned at Shane. "Is aways important when I have such a sure thing," he said, squeezing the liquid onto his fingers and tossing the empty packet aside.
Shane glared and Ilya kissed his nose. "I will pick it up after."
Pacified, Shane relaxed as Ilya’s fingers began to open him. Ilya's lips found Shane’s neck, where he began pressing open-mouthed kisses to the faint layer of sweat there. Shane used to find it a bit gross when Ilya did this, but now he accepted that the other man just loved the taste of him.
“I’m ready,” Shane gasped out as Ilya bit him particularly hard. “Ilya, come on.”
"Such an impatient slut," Ilya said from his neck, and pressed deeper into him.
Shane groaned at the intrusion. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the careful way Ilya prepared him. It was its own kind of pleasure, and a distant, pragmatic part of Shane appreciated that Ilya always took the time to make sure he was ready. It was just that another part of him, a bigger part, wanted Ilya to be fucking him twenty minutes ago when he had first pulled on these shorts on and started his yoga routine.
He thrust against his husband. “Come on, Ilya. Please.”
Finally he got what he wanted. Ilya quickly pushed off his own shorts and slid into him with one smooth motion. After waiting just a moment for them both to adjust to the sensation, he began pounded into Shane with all his considerable strength, chasing his pleasure. The relentless rhythm had Shane throwing his hands back, bracing himself against the mirrored wall as Ilya took everything he needed from Shane, but gave everything he wanted in return. He was flying towards the edge almost immediately.
“Ilya,” he gasped, at a loss for other words than his husband’s name. “Ilya, Ilya.”
He managed to get a hand between them, to grab his dick, and soon he was coming, the wet heat shooting between them. Ilya bit down hard on the curve of his shoulder and Shane arched off the mat as his body was swept through the combination of pleasure and pain. A moment later, Ilya was pulsing inside of him with a groan.
Afterwards, as they lay together and caught their breath, Ilya propped himself up on an elbow to look at Shane. A chagrined look crossed on his face and he gently ran a finger down the line of Shane’s neck, ending at his clavicle.
“Moya lyubov,” he said. My love. “I think you will have a bruise.”
- - - -
At the time Shane had fucking loved it. Now, he slapped a hand on his neck, covering the mark. “I’d really rather not talk–”
“You get hit, Hollzy?” Bood broke in from the stall beside them. He leaned around the divider. “I didn’t see it. What’s the injury?”
Shane shook his head, his hand still on his neck. “No, it’s nothing–”
“I didn’t see anything either,” Evan said, crossing the room to crowd around Shane with the others.
“Guys, I promise you it’s nothing,” Shane said desperately. He could feel the heat of the blush that was starting to stain his cheeks.
“Let us see, Hollzy,” Bood insisted. He was using his assistant captain's voice now. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide injuries or play through pain just because you’re the newest member of the team.”
“It’s really nothing,” Shane said again. “I promise.”
“Then let us see, Hollander.” A Russian-accented voice joined the conversation. "Should not be a big deal, yes? If it is nothing.”
Shane glared at his husband, who had joined the semicircle of concerned teammates. Ilya knew exactly what he was hiding. But with his teammates waiting expectantly around him, Shane sighed and took his hand off his neck.
Bood whistled. “Whoa. Okay. I see why you were trying to keep that to yourself.”
Shane knew he was blushing furiously now, but couldn’t help it. The hickey was dark, sitting just above the curve where his shoulder met his neck. He had managed to hide it all through practice, but of course their sharp-eyed goalie had spotted it the moment he got close.
“Damn Shane,” Evan said, a laugh in his voice. “I have some concealer if you wanna borrow it.”
Bood looked at Evan with amusement. “Why do you have concealer?”
“Man, that stuff is great. Gotta little skin issue? Rub some on and boom, it’s gone. I swear women have been holding out on us. They’ve got some good shit.”
Bood considered this. “You think it comes in Shane’s skin tone though?”
Evan nodded. “Oh for sure, the shades have really been branched out, you know? Caitlin has separate types and colours just for different parts of her face. We could hit up a Shoppers right now and get Shane colour-matched by one of their makeup people in a minute.”
Bood looked impressed. “There’s a Shoppers like two blocks from here. Hollzy, what do you think? Want to head over now?”
Shane was done with this conversation. “No, please, it's fine. I’m fine. It’s fine. I don’t need concealer. Can we please talk about something else?”
“Other than Ilya’s need to mark his territory?” Bood joked, elbowing the tall Russian.
Ilya threw an arm around Shane, who just barely managed to hold back a flinch at the sudden, open contact. “I have already made my claim when I married him,” he announced to the room. “Everything else is just for fun.”
“Fun?” Troy said from his stall across from Shane. “Roz, you’ll be lucky if you’re not fined for damaging team property.”
A fresh wave of laughter erupted. Shane felt Ilya’s arm tighten around his shoulders. He was sure the gesture was meant to be supportive but it was just making his anxiety and embarrassment rise even higher.
“Is impossible,” Ilya declared to their laughing teammates. “My husband is not team property, he is my property. I do not share.”
“Oh my god,” Shane muttered. He wished, not for the first time in his life, that he could smash his way through the locker room wall and escape this situation. Instead, he tried to extract himself from Ilya’s grip, but his husband just held him tighter.
Wyatt shot Shane an apologetic look. “Sorry, bud. I didn’t mean to get them all jumping on you like this.”
Shane glanced at Ilya. His husband was laughing at something Bood had said, his smile wide and unguarded. He looked so happy. Shane knew he loved this. Loved the public declaration, the possessive marks, the team knowing exactly who Shane belonged to. And a part of Shane, the part that still got a thrill when Ilya looked at him with adoration in his eyes, loved it too. But the larger, more pragmatic part of him was deeply embarrassed and inexplicably afraid.
“It’s okay,” Shane sighed as he finally managed to extricate himself from Ilya’s hold. “It's not your fault.” He grabbed his jacket and pulled it on, yanking the collar as high as it would go.
Ilya, sensing Shane was reaching the end of his rope, turned to Evan. “What is this I hear about you DJing now, Dykstra?”
As Evan launched into a nuanced spiel about the upswing of country music in drum and bass remixes, the team finally began to disperse.
Shane bent down to tie his shoes and Ilya sat beside him, his voice dropping as he spoke for Shane's ears alone. “You are very cute when you are flustered, moya lyubov.”
Shane didn’t look up, and instead yanked on his laces. “You’re so annoying.”
Ilya’s fingers brushed against the back of his neck, just below the hairline. A small apology. “Yes. But you love me.”
Shane finally met his gaze. The smugness was gone from Ilya’s face, replaced by a devastating fondness.
“I do,” Shane sighed. He felt tired. Drained. His shoulders slumped.
Ilya looked at him intently. “I know,” he finally said. “Now let’s go home.”
- - - -
The hickey conversation, or rather Ilya’s pleased reaction to it, stuck with Shane over the following days. He was reminded, not for the first time, of Ilya’s words, spoken as they drove home together one night more than a year ago. “I would never stop showing you off, if I could.”
Well, he could show Shane off now, and he had stuck to his word. Shane was the frequent recipient of Ilya’s affectionate touches and casual kisses. He was the star of Ilya’s Instagram posts. The topic of his conversations. More than once, Shane had heard Ilya going on to their teammates about one thing or another he had done. “Shane made the most amazing chicken parmesan last night,” or “Shane lost terribly at tennis yesterday, he is a very sore loser,” or “Shane now knows three different Cardi B songs.” Even when Ilya was teasing him, it made Shane’s heart clench in his chest, to know his husband was so happy to speak about him. Would take any chance he could to involve Shane is every aspect of his life.
It was these thoughts that stayed with him as he scrolled through yet another directory of therapists online. Ilya was asleep in the bed, cuddled up behind him, a possessive arm thrown around Shane’s chest. Shane lay on his side with his phone, the brightness turned down low to not disturb his husband.
The night the team had teased Shane for the bruise on his neck, Ilya had tumbled them both into bed. He had ensured Shane was thoroughly satisfied, leaving him boneless and pliant on the sheets. Then afterwards, cleaned up and wrapped up in each other, Ilya had gently traced the bruise on Shane’s neck and said casually, so casually it must have been premeditated, “You know, therapy has helped me a lot. I am thinking it could help you also."
Shane had bristled at first. Had almost rolled out of bed and left Ilya there. He didn’t need therapy. The last thing he needed was another person prying into his personal life, thank you very much.
But then he had taken a moment to consider. Ilya had made huge strides since starting therapy. He was more patient. Calmer. More settled in himself. And their relationship was stronger for it. The least Shane could do was match Ilya’s efforts. If not for himself, for them.
And a part of himself, the part he was never fully able to turn off, the competitive streak that sat too close to the surface, didn’t like the idea that Ilya was excelling in an area where he was failing. Where he wasn’t even trying.
So Shane lay curled up in bed with his husband asleep behind him while he searched and searched. He was looking for someone specific. He wasn't sure who yet, but he knew he wouldn’t settle for anything less.
He filtered for those who specialized in LGBT issues, for those who specialized in anxiety, for those who specialized in the unique needs of high-profile individuals. He rejected anyone whose photo looked too stern, whose biography used too much jargon, whose website was too full of gimmicky language.
He finally landed on Dr. Wendy Park. Her profile picture showed a middle-aged woman with long dark hair and a warm smile. Her biography mentioned experience working with public figures. And what cinched it for Shane was the mention of “supporting clients through the anxiety involved with coming out to friends, family and the public.” It had felt like a sign.
- - - -
Now, only a few days later, he was already sitting in Dr. Park’s quiet, carpeted waiting room, feeling anything but sure about the situation. Really he felt like all the certainty and confidence he had about this decision had leaked out of him since he had sent his first email to Dr. Park, requesting this session.
He checked his phone for the fifth time. 2:55pm. Another five minutes until his appointment. He sighed. Ilya had promised to meet him afterwards with a treat (“It will be healthy! I promise.”) and a part of Shane wished he was here now. Or, even better, that he was with Ilya, away from this place.
But no. He had to do this. For himself and for Ilya.
The door across the room opened. Shane pulled his baseball cap down and looked at his phone as a woman bustled out the waiting room door. Then a warm voice called out. “Shane? I’m ready for you now.”
Shane stood. It was time to get past this. To leave all his anxiety and worry and pain and fear behind. He took a deep breath that did little to calm the frantic beating of his heart and stepped through the open door.