Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Shane

"Promise me that if something like that ever happens to me and I can never play again…"

"We'll always love you, sweetie," his mother says with a gentle hand on the back of his head.

"I'll put you down like a dog," Ilya assures him at the same time.

Shane looks at Ilya and tries to fight back a smile. "Thank you."

"You two shouldn't be talking like this," Yuna sighs in annoyance and points at the TV. "These accidents happen and they can be a lot worse than that."

"I'll take him to a nice place and put a pillow on his head. He can choose a place, even," Ilya argues.

"The cottage, right by the lake," Shane says, closing his eyes.

"Don't joke about killing my son," Yuna looks past Shane at Ilya.

"He wants me to do it," Ilya says, exasperated..

"What about you? What are we going to do with you, if you get injured before retirement age?" Yuna asks.

"No worries," Ilya shrugs. "I will kill myself."

"Jesus fucking christ," Shane lets out.

"You know what? This isn't the time to start restructuring our last will and testament. My car is pulling up right now. I trust I'll see both tomorrow morning. Breakfast downstairs." They walk Shane's mother to the door of their hotel room and with each step Shane takes, his gut becomes more and more twisted. As soon as the door shuts behind her and Shane and Ilya are alone in their hotel room, Shane glares at him.

"It was a joke," Ilya sighs, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "I would not do that to you."

"I don't care about the killing me part-"

"The other thing," Ilya interrupts. "I know. I would not do that to you."

"It shouldn't be about me-" 

Ilya mutters something in his mother tongue. Here we go again, Shane deciphers. At this point he is quite familiar with a few phrases. "You can talk about wanting death all you want, then?" Ilya asks.

"Fine, then we'll both stop. Joking about it. We can always talk about anything."

"Joking is fine," Ilya says, mocking Shane’s inflection.

Shane has been biting his tongue for the last couple of weeks. Ilya has been struggling for months now. As dark as his humor can get and as much as Shane can appreciate that most of the time, Ilya just hadn't been himself for months. Or at least this was a part of him that Shane didn’t know. There was no one single reason to point to but there were probably hundreds of compounding reasons. After a dramatic first two months of the season, Ilya was fighting his way back with a completely new team. Their relationship was going well - Shane thought so and Ilya had assured him of it. But Shane had no choice but to feel responsible for this in a way. He had convinced Ilya to go to Ottawa. The team was in far worse shape than he thought it was. The media attention the switch got was harsh. A record breaking signing fee for abysmal results. Commentators saying that the Centaurs wasted tens of millions on a man who barely delivered. It was incredibly harsh and unfair. Shane couldn’t imagine leaving the Metros, downgrading and trying to start at zero with a disjointed team at this point of his career. Between the two of them, this was a challenge that really only Ilya could take on. 

And part of him wished that it was actually about him. At least that way he could try and fix it. Do something - anything - to bring back the energetic and curious boy he had fallen so deeply in love with. And to the outside world he was still that. But Shane had noticed. All their conversations had become shorter. Bedtime earlier, earlier than Shane's even. Barely finished his meals. Barely made an effort to do anything other than go to practice and show up for his games.

Shane had noticed all of these things, but only made a point of saying anything about it when he overheard Ilya arguing with his new coach at the Centaurs about how he didn't want to do anymore fucking interviews - not before the game, not after the game, find a new fucking puppet already. And it wasn't that Ilya couldn't be frustrated with the media every now and then - everyone was. But Ilya usually liked it. He was good at it, naturally charming, quick, smart. Shane had asked him then and there why he didn't want to do the interviews. Ilya had responded with something that took Shane far too long to process. "I don't want to do anything anymore."

Talking about their feelings has been a work in progress their whole relationship. But Shane learned that talking about how in love you are with each other is truly a walk in the fucking park compared to talking about this. Emptiness, desolation, loneliness. It was devastating, not only to know that he couldn't help, but the reality that Ilya was going through it at all.

And despite it not being about him, it still hurt a lot. It hurt to find out that Ilya had been seeing a personal sports psychologist for two months before he told Shane about it. It hurt to find out that Ilya had been taking medication for his depression for about the same amount of time and that Shane had to find out when he found the bottle neatly placed on his kitchen island - with all the other bits and pieces Ilya had left in his weekend bag to be washed by Shane’s housekeeping service. Four receipts, two hotel room keycards, the actual credit card he uses all the time, two Starbursts and a half full prescription bottle of Zoloft. Shane was still thinking about it when he had come home that evening from his practice. "I lost my card again," Ilya said, like he just remembered, when Shane suggests they should order something to eat. 

"Oh, it’s on the counter," Shane says. He had somehow also forgotten about the credit card, despite Shane’s aggravation by the fact that the man has lost his credit card three times already this year. "Did you cancel it already?" 

"Was it in my bag?" he asks, not moving to go grab it. "I knew it."

"So you didn’t cancel it," Shane rolls his eyes. "I told you, when you lose-"

"You told me, you told me," Ilya placates him. "But I knew it."

Any other day Shane would press the issue. Instead he says: "You left some other stuff in your bag, too."

He watches Ilya’s face change from his neutral expression to a frozen one, something dawning on him. He does get up this time, swiftly and with purpose heading towards the kitchen. Shane hears the pills clattering as Ilya must have picked up the bottle and put it down again.

After a moment of silence, Ilya asks from behind him: "You know what it is?"

"Yes," Shane says. He stands up and joins Ilya in the kitchen. He pretends it doesn’t hurt when Ilya takes a big step back as Shane approaches him. "Why didn’t you tell me?" he asks.

"You’re a doctor now, too?" Ilya scoffs.

"No, just your partner, I thought," Shane bites back. He knows he shouldn’t be getting defensive here. This isn’t something to be defensive about, and maybe he’s asking the wrong questions here, maybe it doesn’t matter why he lied or that he lied at all. There are more pressing issues.

Ilya runs a hand over his face, rubs at his lips, clearly feeling trapped in this moment, trapped in this conversation that he obviously didn’t think he’d be having on this Tuesday evening. Shane says: "I need to know that you’re okay."

"Do people who are okay, do they take this?" Ilya asks, grabbing the bottle off the counter again.

"So you’re not?" Shane asks, his stomach somehow dropping even further. He takes a step closer and to his endless frustration Ilya moves to the other side of the kitchen island.

"I am fine. Fucking psychologist tells me to take them so I take them."

"Your team psychologist prescribed these to you?" Shane asks. 

"No. He sent me to another."

"And you went?" 

"I went."

"For what?" Shane asks, even more confused about this whole thing that he was before. It's feigning ignorance, maybe. Maybe because he doesn't want this to be happening, maybe because he wants Ilya to just tell him himself, without Shane having to guess and infer.

"They looked for CTE. Put my head in the machine. They found nothing. They say maybe it's genetic. So they gave me this."

"They put your head in a fucking machine? When? What?" 

"I said there was nothing."

"I just... I don't understand why you wouldn't tell me any of this, after all this time. I was right here-" 

"You don't want depressed fucking loser, okay? No one does."

That was almost four months ago, at the very start of the season. Ilya had struggled all summer, Shane now knows. Stupidly, he hadn’t put two and two together earlier. Now, in this New York hotel room, Shane is biting his tongue. He wants to say: You've been doing so well lately, but I worry about you everyday. 

"Forget it," Shane sighs. "You can joke about whatever you want. You’ve… I feel like you’ve been doing a lot better."

"Me? No, I’m the same."

"You’re not," Shane states. "Two months ago I couldn’t even convince you to have lunch with my parents. Now you’re doing this whole family weekend with us and you haven’t even locked yourself in the bathroom once. And we were with them last weekend, too."

"They’re family, it’s whatever," Ilya shrugs.

"It’s not whatever," Shane says, snaking his arms around Ilya’s waist. "Maybe next week you can go out with some guys from your team…"

"You make me sound like an anti-social loser."

"You’re not anti-social," Shane teases, before capturing Ilya’s lips with his own, just gently. "I think my mom likes you." 

"No," Ilya shakes his head. "You are her perfect angel. She puts up with me for you."

"You make her laugh. Not a lot of people can do that."

"Hm."

"I’m just trying to thank you, I guess. For being here with us. New York is a lot. During Christmas time, it’s insane."

"I like it." 

"I hate it," Shane scoffs.

Ilya pushes the hair out of Shane’s face. "I’ll show you a nice place." 

"Where? The bed in this hotel room?" Shane chuckles.

"Also very nice, but no," Ilya grins.

It is cold, very much so. Christmas is just a few days away and Shane’s mom had chosen this weekend to do her Christmas shopping there. They had been out all morning and afternoon. Shane’s dad had retreated to his hotel room in the late afternoon while Yuna had joined Shane and Ilya in theirs to watch some highlights of the month, among them a lot of horrific injuries. Shane’s mom and dad had very pointedly made dinner reservations for two for that evening. 

So now Shane and Ilya are roaming the streets of New York on their own on this winter night. Shane tries not to think about how he’s following around the man who is probably the most notorious hockey adversary this city has ever known. "It’s so much colder than in the daytime," Shane says, bumping Ilya’s shoulder with his own. "Not too late to turn back, you know."

"Almost there."

"Really?"

"No, one hour walk."

Shane complains half heartedly. He grabs the hood of Ilya’s sweatshirt and pulls it over Ilya’s head, just in case. The walk is good for them regardless. Neither of them had practice yesterday and neither of them was able to convince the other to go to the hotel gym that morning after they had checked into the hotel. At least the walk would relieve them of some pent up energy and help them get to sleep later tonight. At some point, Shane almost forgets that they are on their way to a specific location at all. He is enjoying their steady stride, the low pressure conversation about how many gifts is enough for Shane’s grandparents. No such thing as enough, if you ask his mom. Shane tends to agree, just feels like they could have gotten a lot of these gifts online rather than manoeuvring through bustling, loud stores during the busiest time of year in one of the busiest cities in the world. But that’s just him.

And then Shane is suddenly following Ilya into a warmly lit shop, and he’s engulfed in the absolutely wonderful smell of freshly baked goods and coffee. "Those look amazing," Shane says, nodding towards the croissants and pastries behind the glass counter, each one like a small piece of art.

"Taste even better," Ilya says with a flirty wink that Shane hasn’t seen in a while. It sends tingles all through Shane’s body, down to his toes, heating him through and through. He is clearly not paying attention, because the next moment Ilya is handing him something buttery and flaky, demanding for him to take a bite out of it. Shane does as he’s told. Not just to avoid an argument. He is actually starving and the croissant smells of almonds and sugar. He takes another bite and then one more, before he hands it back, only for Ilya to swap it out with half a chocolate croissant. Shane is going to deny it at first, but when it touches his hand it’s warm and gooey. "Jesus Christ," he sighs. "Are you trying to fucking kill me?"

"Maybe make you live a little," Ilya snorts. He orders four more pastries and two warm pastrami sandwiches that Shane is actually looking forward to the most. They scarf them down right there at the counter in about three minutes. And maybe it’s because of how hungry he is, but it’s one of the best things Shane has eaten in a very long time.

"Nah, it’s on the house man."

Shane looks up to see Ilya try to pay for their food and the middle aged man behind the counter refuses the money. "Not my team, but you know."

"That’s not good business," Ilya chuckles and puts the hundred dollar bill he’s been holding up in the tip jar. 

"That was nice," Shane says when they’re satiated and back on the sidewalk.

"I told you, I’ll show you a nice place."

"It was very nice, thank you," Shane says earnestly.

"You’ll thank me later," Ilya smirks.

Shane isn’t exactly keeping time, but he’s pretty sure they half their time on their way back to the hotel. Ilya makes Shane drop off the extra pastries in Shane’s parents’ hotel room. They’re not back yet, but his mother texted him that they’re about fifteen minutes away.

When Shane catches up to Ilya in their own room, he kind of expects Ilya to be naked already, to be waiting for him, sitting at the edge of the bed stroking his cock, maybe…

And well, Ilya is in bed. Just fully clothed, head on two pillows, seemingly sound asleep. Shane only sets one foot into the suite’s bedroom, and Ilya startles awake, lifting his head off the pillows. 

"I’m sorry," Shane chuckles. "I thought I was going to thank you."

"I fell asleep?" Ilya asks, turning onto his back and propping himself up on his elbows. 

"I’m tired, too. But not so tired I’d get into bed with all my street clothes on," Shane says, shedding his jacket and toeing off his shoes at the same time.

"Okay, hurry or I’ll fall asleep again," Ilya says, spreading his legs comically wide on the bed. 

Shane laughs and shakes his head. "I’m going to take a shower first. If you can stay awake for like ten more minutes…"

Ilya groans in agony as Shane enters the bathroom. And when he comes out, Ilya has stripped down to his underwear, but looks so deeply asleep that Shane can barely find it in him to be disappointed. He feels bad for having to even jostle him around to get under the covers and Ilya, sleep drunk or maybe even sleep talking, says: "I’ll do it… we can do it…"

Shane doesn’t say anything, just turns the lights off, and watches the man’s face quickly relax as sleep takes over again. Blonde curls framing the absolute work of art that is his face. Aside from everything, Shane is sometimes just stunned at the fact that he got someone this beautiful to be with him.

The next morning Shane is up early. They had agreed the day before that they'd go to the hotel gym early enough to be mostly alone in there. It's six a.m and the idea of startling Ilya awake doesn’t sit well with him. At home he would have done it. The routine of it all was supposed to help him. But as he gets out of bed himself, it is uncomfortably cold. So he goes alone.

And when he gets back, Ilya is still asleep. So instead of hopping in the shower immediately, Shane switches his gym shoes to his running shoes, puts on the warmest sweatshirt he can find in either of their bags and heads to the streets. The gym was nice, but this, this feels good. The ice cold air on his skin and in his lungs. Getting warmer and warmer the longer he's running.

Shane is about half an hour into his run when he feels a bump on his shoulder and watches a broad shouldered man brush past him. It takes a second for him to figure it out - and a moment for him to glance down at an unmistakably plump ass for him to pick up his pace to catch up. When he does, Ilya slows down again, until they come to a full stop. Ilya doubles over, hands on his knees, panting and laughing. He has the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over messy curls. 

"You're an idiot," Shane laughs with him. "What, you came after me in a full sprint all the way from the hotel?"

Shane had always admired Ilya’s sheer athleticism. They are both athletes, professionals, obviously, and Shane knows many more. But Ilya is one of the few whose athleticism comes through in almost everything he does. Stamina unmatched, builds muscle like it’s nothing, naturally coördinated in everything he does. His body just does what he wants it to do when he wants it to, seemingly with little effort. And of course Ilya works hard, too, sure, but they all do. Shane had thought this the very first time he saw Ilya on the ice. He was so naturally good that Shane thought he could probably do any professional sport and succeed to a point. If Ilya grew up playing more soccer than hockey, he’d be a soccer player. If he grew up doing gymnastics, he’d have a few medals in that by now. Apart from it just being impressive in general, Shane also thinks it’s just incredibly fucking hot. 

And it’s not just Ilya’s own body. It’s the way he manoeuvres Shane, too. Knows exactly where to grab him, where to push him, where to hold him, how to lift him…

Ilya straightens up, hooks his arm around Shane's neck and pulls him closer. He presses a kiss to Shane's already sweaty forehead and says: "You said we'd go together."

"I didn't want to wake you up."

"Since when, huh?" Ilya teases, not letting him go. They are now practically chest to chest, noses almost touching. It makes Shane nervous. Central Park is by no means deserted. Not even at subzero temperatures at seven in the morning. There is one blurry video of them circulating online, five blurry pixels that have haunted Shane for almost six months now in which it looks like they are about to kiss - if you can even agree that it’s them. Hayden has done everything in his power to scrub it off the internet, but there is just no way to make it disappear entirely. They don’t actually kiss in the video. They are both wearing baseball caps, neither is wearing anything recognizable - but there has been enough speculation to send Shane into multiple panic attacks in the last six months. Not getting handsy in public is one of the things they agreed to.

"Looked like you needed it," Shane says and then puts a forceful hand between them. "I don't need them calling me Horny Hollander," he says. "Come on."

They stop by a juice bar near the hotel to grab a couple of severely overpriced protein smoothies before heading back to their room. While they're in the elevator, Shane is already mentally preparing himself to shove Ilya right up against the door when they get in. But while they're in the hallway walking up to their room, Ilya gets a call from his team manager. He visibly considers just shoving the phone back into his pocket, but Shane tells him to answer it. He hadn't really considered that the call might be forty-five minutes long, honestly. So by the time Ilya is done, Shane is already showered and dressed, and they have four minutes to go before they are supposed to meet Shane's parents downstairs for breakfast. They make it down to the restaurant just ten minutes late (Ilya reminds him there is no actual schedule, these are his parents, they are just eating breakfast, try being normal.) 

"How was dinner?" Shane asks as he scoots in.

"It was wonderful. Great wine," Yuna starts. 

"The food," David adds. "It was good, but you know those tiny portions."

"Yeah, those pastries were a godsend, honey. We finished all of them last night," his mom says, putting her hand over his.

"Ilya got those for you, actually," Shane corrects. 

"Leftovers," Ilya shrugs when Yuna and David look at him.

"No, we had some at the café and he got extra to bring back. He made me put them in your room."

"This is too much detail," Ilya tells him bluntly. And while that might be true, Shane also doesn't want to gloss over the fact that it was actually a very nice thing he did.

"Thank you, Ilya," Yuna says, hardly disguising the surprise in her voice. "That was very sweet."

"They were great," David says. "So you guys went out last night, too?"

"Just went for a walk, got something to eat and walked back, really," Shane says. 

"Sounds nice," Yuna says.

"It was," Shane replies. "I guess not every corner of this city is a hectic nightmare."

"I'm glad you guys had a good time. I was already afraid you weren't really going to get to relax much. You know, your dad and I were thinking, for the summer..."

Shane is zoning out at a counter at a jewelry store later that morning, when his mother scoots in next to him and says, in a hushed tone: "You know, if you haven't gotten him a gift yet, there might be something here for him."

Shane stares at her. It's not that crazy of an idea, but somehow it still catches him completely off guard. "You think I should buy him jewelry?"

"You know him better than I do, honey. He wears some and gold looks good on him."

It’s not just Ilya. Shane has never really known what good gifts are even supposed to be. He has sent his mother a bouquet of flowers and a cheque for every birthday and mother’s day since he was eighteen. The cheques have gotten a little bigger over the years. But it’s still playing pretend. His mother has access to all his funds and there is no one he trusts more with it. His mom buys all their gifts for his dad and other family members.

Ilya has money and he spends it however he wants to. When he mentions wanting to buy something, he’ll have it a few days later.

While Shane stayed in the quiet jewelry store with his mom, Ilya and Shane’s father went to get coffee across the street, and instead if coming back immediately, Shane could see them through the window, sitting on the small heated patio and sipping their coffee. Shane has no clue what they could possibly be talking about. But if he could trust anyone to fill any silence, it would be Ilya. At least, that used to be the case. And Shane quietly feels hopeful that he is steadily finding that side of himself again.

When Shane’s mom and dad are stuck at a tailor for a while, getting his dad fitted, Shane and Ilya wander down the street only to find an ice rink set up square in the middle of a busy shopping street. It’s not very big and riddled with children scooting themselves forward with the help of a little skating aid.

"That’s cute," Shane says.

"Skate rental, twelve dollars," Ilya reads aloud from a board placed on the street with a big red arrow pointing towards a little shack.

"No, come on. If people are going to recognize us, it’s going to be at an ice rink."

"Oh, Mr. Rolex wants to be invisible, now? Mr. Calvin Klein? Mr. GQ interview?" 

"Are you done? Come on. There’s just kids playing."

"With terrible form. They need your help."

"Come on."

Ilya doesn’t budge. In fact, he heads in the direction of the arrow. Shane feels like stomping his feet for a second. There really are a lot of people around and as he said, despite them not really being recognized that often, this is exactly the type of place where they would be recognized. And the streets are hectic enough as it is. It’s a bad idea, all around. 

And the skates are terribly uncomfortable and dirty. He considered staying off the ice and letting Ilya do a lap on his own, but he was quickly called a bunch of Russian names that Ilya reserves for when Shane is being well, boring.

"Ten minutes," Shane hears a mother tell an excited little boy sitting on the bench opposite them, putting on his little skates. 

He turns to Ilya and says: "Ten minutes."

All of it seems kind of pointless. Shane used to love these types of ice rinks. He’d jump at every chance to get on the ice anywhere, really. One of his earliest memories is putting on a pair of bright orange skates at the Ottawa mall with his grandmother when he couldn’t have been much older than four years old. These days, going at a snail’s pace and dodging wobbly children at every ten feet is kind of… aggravating. But Shane glides past them, hands in his pockets, hood up. After a few laps, and seeing people around them genuinely having fun, he would almost go as far as to say that it is actually kind of nice.

"You need to bend your knees. Don’t look at your feet, look ahead."

Shane turns around and sees Ilya coming to a full stop right next to a mother with two little girls, each pushing an aid. He watches the woman do a double take, and Shane thinks here we go. But when all she does is smile at him brightly and tuck her hair behind her ear, Shane remembers. Aside from the whole professional athlete thing, Ilya usually just sticks out by having a face like that. Even here, wearing black from head to toe, three layers deep, with the hood of his sweatshirt up, he’s still got that face. Shane does a lap around the rink and when he passes them again, Ilya is exaggerating his skating stance while the two kids and the mom all mimic him. Shane catches his eye for a second and rolls his eyes immediately when Ilya winks at him.

He does another lap and this time he notices a boy staying right on his tail. One lap, two laps, a third. And then he appears at Shane’s elbow, beaming up at him with huge brown eyes. He is a little older than Shane first thought he was. Maybe fourteen or fifteen.

"Uh," the kid stammers when Shane notices him. 

"You good?" Shane asks.

"No, yeah, I mean-" the boy trips. Shane catches him just in time and helps him straighten himself back up. 

"You gotta try looking ahead," Shane offers up.

"No, for sure. I’m usually better than this. I uh… I don’t know. I’m from Buffalo. Our school has a hockey team," the boy rambles.

"Oh yeah," Shane chuckles despite himself. "Are you on it?" 

"I can't try out until next year. But I'm going to. I'm...like... a huge fan..."

"Of hockey?"

“...of yours."

And here's the thing. Shane has this part rehearsed. "Oh, well, nice to meet you, man," he says, offering his hand. The boy grabs it eagerly and it makes Shane chuckle a little. "What's your name?"

"Uh, Kangmin. My dad and my sister are huge fans, too. They're never going to believe me when I tell them I met you. They're going to be like 'There is no way, he's Canadian'."

"Oh yeah? Well, if you want, we can take a picture so you can prove it to them," Shane offers.

"Really? That would be awesome!"

Shane doesn’t mind taking a picture with someone or taking a moment to talk to a fan. Things get uncomfortable for him when he starts to notice phone camera’s not so subtly being pointed at him from a distance. That’s when he starts getting in his head, when the anxiety starts gripping at his chest. Thankfully, he doesn’t need to convince Ilya that it’s time to leave and he also doesn’t need to convince him to take a cab back to the hotel instead of walking the distance again. 

When they finally get back to their hotel room, the first thing Ilya does after kicking off his shoes and shedding his jacket, is grab the room service menu off the desk by the door. Shane is suddenly starving too, as soon as even the mere concept of a meal enters his mind. It’s far past the usual time Shane eats his lunch on a regular day, and he’s been on his feet since six a.m. "Their salmon is good. I had it the last time I stayed here."

"All the food in this city and you want the hotel room salmon?" Ilya questions him.

"It comes out of the Ritz Carlton restaurant. It’s good, I promise." 

"Hm. And what about this New York cheesecake?" 

"I haven’t tried it."

"Have you ever in your life ordered dessert when I’m not around?" Ilya asks, taking out his phone and putting in the room service number.

"When I was a kid, probably."

"Dessert is for children, yeah?" Ilya snorts and hands Shane the phone.

"Honestly, yes." Shane orders them both the salmon and tacks on the cheesecake at the end, but when the food arrives there are two dessert plates on the tray. "I didn’t order the chocolate cake," Shane tells Ilya as he grabs the receipt where it is indeed also absent.

"Maybe they thought you made a mistake, ordering one tiny piece of cake for two grown men." They eat their food with the last few laps of a Formula 1 race in the background.

"Did you have fun?" Ilya then asks him.

"Hm?"

"On the ice, today."  

"I guess. When too many people start paying attention, I just get in my head about it. What about you? You looked like you were having fun." 

"It was okay." 

"It’s crazy how kids just always love you." 

"Kids want to play. You play with them, they love you." 

"Hayden’s kids are obsessed with you, too. They met you once and now I can’t set foot in that house without them asking why I didn’t bring you."

"I’ll go next time." 

"Really?" 

"Hm. Maybe. Probably not, but not zero chance. Maybe if Hayden is not there. Just the mom." Ilya hasn’t forgiven Hayden. He doesn’t ever bring it up himself, but when Shane brings Hayden up for any reason, Ilya has yet to utter a nice word about him. And Hayden… well, he tries at least. Shane had taken a leap of faith that summer. While Ilya was getting acclimated with the Centaurs, Shane had confided in his two best friends that he was gay. They had been nice about it, Shane didn’t mind some teasing, he was used to that regardless. And their initial kindness had made him a little braver. He told them about Ilya and their kindness disappeared like snow in the fucking sun. Why him, why him, why him. Shane was actually getting so sick of it. His parents had asked the same question and it irked him even then. They don’t know him. Sure, Shane might have an almost ten year head start at getting to know Ilya, but at the very least he had thought that his two best friends would give Shane’s judgement the benefit of the doubt. Instead they treated him like he was risking his entire career for a hot piece of ass. Like he was being manipulated by him, like he wasn’t thinking, like he hadn’t agonized about this decision for years and years. They didn’t know all of that. 

Hayden had at least tried. He invited them over for dinner, which was also how Shane found out that he had already told his wife Jackie about them. Shane hadn’t explicitly asked him not to, so maybe that was his fault, too. So in the spirit of making allies and not enemies, as his mother called it, he convinced Ilya to go with him. Jackie was perfectly sweet all night, the kids were entertained by Ilya’s antics, and Hayden was, well. Hayden. This was also the birth of the infamous five pixels in which Shane and Ilya almost kiss. It’s a tough one. Hayden is Shane’s friend, it was an oversight, Shane forgave him for that. But Ilya was in that video, too. He was almost outed, too. He never cared for Hayden. And on top of that, it was Ilya who had to talk Shane down from the worst panic attack he had ever had when the video first appeared. They were up all night. 

While Hayden’s reaction seemed annoyingly clueless. J.J.'s reaction was more hurtful. Shane had always appreciated him a lot as a friend. J.J. always made sure Shane was included, made sure to always ask if Shane wanted to go out with everyone, even when he knows Shane isn’t going to. He knew when to push for Shane to bond with the team and when to let it go. And besides himself, J.J. is probably the most competitive and hungry player in their team. It’s not unimportant for Shane. And maybe that is why the sheer mention of Ilya Rozanov can send him into a tirade. Tirades Shane just can’t ignore anymore. That’s his boyfriend, after all. And Shane feels trapped sometimes, when J.J. goes off on Ilya  when there are other players around, knowing damn well that Shane can’t defend him. They have had arguments about it, ending in an agreement not to bring it up again. They’ve broken that agreement a few times already.

Shane and Ilya finish their meal and Ilya painstakingly admits that the salmon was good, as he puts their plates back on the tray. Shane watches him put the slice of cheesecake in the mini fridge and bring over the chocolate cake instead. It has some kind of caramel sauce drizzled over the top and Shane can see a couple of flecks of sea salt on it. Ilya breaks into a corner of it with a fork and holds it up to Shane’s mouth. "Have one bite, before I finish it all."

Shane takes the bite, because from the way Ilya tells him to and the way he looks at him, it’s pretty clear this isn’t so much a question as it is an order. And it’s good. Really fucking good. The caramel sticks to Shane’s lips, which he licks off. "You know we’re not actually on vacation, right? I had way too much sugar already yesterday."

"It’s okay. If you lose next game, you just apologize to your team for having two bites of chocolate cake three days ago," Ilya tells him, dangling the fork in front of him again. "You can even tell them I put it in your mouth."

"They already love blaming you for everything that goes wrong with my fucking team," Shane snorts and takes the bite. "You’re a Russian spy, did you know that?"

"And what is my mission? To fuck you so good Montreal wins two cups in a row?" Ilya puts an arm around his shoulder and pulls him back to rest against the back of the couch. Shane closes his eyes, and while it feels like he’s just resting them for a second, when he opens them again, he is lying down on the couch with his head on Ilya’s thighs. Ilya has a warm and heavy hand resting on his chest, the TV volume low. Shane closes his eyes again for a moment. He threads his fingers with Ilya’s on his chest. He feels like he could doze off again, but the need to stretch takes over. He sits up straight and grabs his phone off the coffee table. Six o’clock. He slept for an hour.

"Mom made reservations at eight," Shane reads the text he got from her a little over an hour ago. Ilya nods, also absently scrolling on his phone. "I was kind of looking forward to staying in tonight," Shane adds.

"She made reservations, so we have to go," Ilya tells him, and then:  "I’m going to the gym now. Be back before dinner.” He unlatches himself from where Shane was very much heavily leaning on him.

"Oh," Shane says. "You’re going right now?"

"What? If it’s busy, I’ll come back."

"Nothing. Go. Be back in time to get ready, too," Shane tells him. He doesn’t tell him that he was like two seconds away from shoving his face into Ilya’s crotch just now. Ilya stripping down naked in the middle of the room as he’s changing into his gym attire also doesn’t help. He passes by Shane on the couch and presses a kiss to the top of his head. "Are you going to touch yourself while I’m gone?" Ilya then teases into his hair. "Or will you wait all night for it?" 

"Asshole," Shane breathes out.

"You can do it now, if you don’t lose your… appetite for tonight," Ilya says.

"When have I ever lost my appetite?"

Ilya moves to leave and as a reflex Shane catches his wrist. "Come on," he says despite himself. "The gym can’t wait for like twenty minutes?"

"Funny. I thought this wasn’t a vacation? Does it only matter when you fall behind?"

Shane rolls his eyes at him and lets him go.

For someone with a reputation of being an absolute menace on the ice, Ilya really knows how to be the most charming person in the room when he wants to be. And Shane doesn’t see this side of him often. Well, he knows he can be charming, obviously, but the little time that they do get to spend together, they usually spend alone together. Shane doesn’t see him interact much with people just out in the real world, doesn’t really ever hear him hold full conversations with other people, doesn’t really get to see how people react to him outside of the hockey world, ESPN or the occasional twitter thread Shane can’t resist clicking on (and immediately clicking out of when his own name shows up).

From their Polish cab driver who recognizes them as soon as they get in, to the girl checking their coats at the restaurant who Shane catches mouthing ‘Oh my god’ at her coworker as she turns around. Ilya doesn’t always engage, but when he does, it’s just a perfect interaction every time. And when he doesn’t, his neutral expression is so stone cold and intimidating, it doesn’t invite any sort of interaction at all.

It still happens to Shane sometimes that he thinks Ilya looks angry or upset, only for his entire face to change and open up when Shane talks to him. Not as unapproachable as he seems, and if he approaches first, it’s pretty much up to you not to fall in love with him.

Tonight, all three people at the table have clearly failed at that. 

Shane’s dad, a tennis enthusiast, is deeply impressed by all the tennis players and other athletes Ilya has met over the years. It could have gone either way. Shane had found out about a year ago that Ilya Rozanov was a liar who did in fact read the New Yorker. He had been reading it for years to improve his English. His English is near perfect now, so Shane can only assume that at this point he reads it (secretly, on his phone) because he enjoys boring editorials about politics and culture. Not to mention that the last three times Shane got into Ilya’s car and tried to turn on the radio, NPR came on. Ilya argued that he listened to it in the States, again to improve his English, and also argued that they had a lot of sports programming. Shane teased him that the boring peg fit the boring hole. Ilya didn’t get that one.

Shane’s mom, all business, interested in the logistics of Ilya’s move to the Ottawa Centaurs last year in the most expensive free agent signing in the history of the MLH. The deal was so massive, and a conclusion to an all out bidding war so intense that it overshadowed Hayden’s stupid video. At least on ESPN. Online, discussion was about fifty-fifty. There were even rumors about it being some kind of PR stunt. How it helped anyone, is anyone’s guess.

Still, the deal skyrocketed Ilya onto the Forbes list for top 100 highest paid athletes of all time. It had the criticism of him during the almost comically rough start of the season so much harsher, always mentioning the price that was paid for him next to each failure. But the Centaurs are currently getting their money’s worth at least. When they finally did start winning, Ilya got the credit (‘You know what they say about Russians and their ways of whipping athletes into shape.’ ‘Rozanov must be taking no prisoners during practice.’ ‘Who is really in charge in Ottawa? Coach Wiebes or Ilya Rozanov?’). Now, the team has never played better. Their games have never had more viewership, and from January onward every single home game has been sold out for the rest of season.

And that is unique to him. The unique pull of Ilya Rozanov. It’s why he has been on the MLH billboards and ads since his rookie season, without being skipped a single year. It’s why they put him on the cover of the videogames. Hockey fans notoriously can’t agree on much, but one thing everyone seems to have settled on is that if Ilya Rozanov is involved in any way, it will be a good time no matter what. It’s why Shane knows his own signing fee won’t break the record when it comes to it. When it comes to this type of popularity, Shane will always lose. He can be ahead in most stats, be considered number one in the league by multiple metrics, but Ilya will always have him in sheer fan attraction. It’s something science has yet to crack, a charisma that just can’t be grown in a lab. 

Shane chimes into the conversation every now and then when he is asked a question, but mostly he just listens and tries not to ruin it. He watches Ilya’s lips move, watches him smile and laugh and easily dodge or stay vague about personal things, without letting the vibe collapse. 

And he looks good, too. Soft, black turtleneck that only just fits around his chest and shoulders, loose around his waist. His necklace catches the light of the candles on the table every now and then, and so do his blue eyes. Green, sometimes. With brown flecks in certain lighting. But Shane would never go into corny details like that about someone’s eyecolor. Not out loud, at least.

But Ilya looks so good, it makes Shane realize something. They haven’t had sex since they got here. Sure, they only got here yesterday morning, but they’ve had time, they’ve been alone, and moreover, they were apart for over two weeks before this trip. It’s the whole reason this trip came to be. Shane had already promised his parents to do this, before it became clear that it would be the only free weekend they had that month. Thus, Yuna suggested he invite Ilya to go with them. Shane was honestly surprised when he agreed.

"When did you meet all those athletes?" Shane asks as they watch his parents’ cab take off towards their hotel, just outside of the restaurant.

"Going out when they’re in Boston or I’m in their city. Sometimes they message me, sometimes I message them. You could do it, too, if you reach out.”

"No, I couldn’t. If I embarrassed myself in front of Naomi Osaka, I would… you know," Shane tells him. "Thank you, again, for being here."

Ilya takes a step towards him, mischief on his face. "I hear your words, but I am not feeling how grateful you are." And then he says: "Be honest with me. Are you still hungry?" 

And Shane doesn’t really need to think about it. "I think I am hungrier now than I was before we had dinner." Shane might be particular about his meal planning, very particular some might say, but he does eat. He burns up to five thousand calories a day on a regular practice day and it literally takes buckets full of greens, protein and whole grains to replenish that. The meal they just had was beautiful, but three courses were gone in about two bites each.

"Good, good. You buy me a New York pizza slice and then we go to bed," Ilya decides.

"So you don’t want to go to the Sweetgreen right across the street? I pretty much live off those on the road."

"And you will eat many more of those when you are on the road," Ilya says. He grabs Shane’s hand for just a few seconds to lead him down the sidewalk and then lets go again. Shane doesn’t say anything. He can’t keep being annoying about every little touch and every inch of space between them. Shane gets sick of his own neuroticism about it, he can’t even begin to imagine how annoying Ilya must think it is.

They follow the first enticing smell into a tiny but seemingly bustling pizza shop. The older man looks up at them as they enter - immediate recognition. Before they even exchange words, Shane turns around and decides to wait just outside, by the door.

"I thought Boston sent your ass up to Canada," he hears the older man say with a chuckle in Ilya’s direction.

"I’m here as a tourist today," Ilya responds seamlessly.

"Well, I usually charge tourists extra…"

The door closes and Shane doesn’t hear the rest. It takes about ten minutes before Ilya emerges with two massive and piping hot cheese pizza slices. It is easily the best thing they’ve eaten all day and for Shane it might even be the best thing he’s had in months.

All in all, Shane concludes that night, New York is still a sensory nightmare for him. He has been there before, to play and just on trips like these with his parents. Ilya had told him once that it was one of his favorite cities to play in, and he now understands why. It does suit him, the abrasiveness, the loudness and unpredictable nature of it. But most importantly, Shane enjoyed seeing Ilya getting out of his own head a little bit.

It’s late when they get back to the hotel. Their flights back are early in the morning and Shane has committed to being at practice that afternoon. But unlike yesterday, Ilya doesn’t fall asleep while Shane is in the shower. In fact, he comes into the bathroom with his toothbrush in his mouth and watches Shane rinse the day off of him. He’s wearing what is probably the last clean sweatshirt between them, a massive black Boston crew neck from multiple seasons back, that Shane is pretty sure was in his own closet for a while, too. He has opted for no pants, apparently. Thick thighs stretching black boxer briefs to their absolute limits. The previously meticulously styled curls are messy again; and Shane knows that it is as simple as Ilya taking off or putting on a shirt, for his hair to go back to falling wherever it wants to.

Shane is the one naked and dripping wet, and he still feels like Ilya is the one who exudes sex. Just standing there, brushing his teeth. When Shane turns off the water, Ilya hands him a towel and then turns around to rinse his mouth with the hotel mouth wash. He leaves the bathroom before Shane is done, and this is the moment where a tiny inkling Shane has ignored all day becomes a full blown suspicion.

By the time Shane leaves the bathroom, Ilya is in bed already, covers pulled up to his chest, eyes on his phone. Shane puts on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, gets into bed and crosses his arms. 

"What is going on with you?" Ilya asks, because unlike Shane, Ilya doesn’t need forty-eight hours to figure out something is up. All he needs is about five seconds, apparently. He lifts one arm and Shane nuzzles in right under it. Ilya’s body is so warm that Shane immediately has to fight to keep his eyes open. "Nothing," Shane says.

"Nothing? This worried face is nothing?"

"You’ve been avoiding me," Shane finally says.

"I’m avoiding you," Ilya repeats in a tone that might as well have just called Shane full on crazy. He pulls away from their embrace so he can look at Shane’s face. "You’re serious?" 

"I’ll say it differently," Shane sighs, rubbing at his eyes. God, he is actually so exhausted and that pizza is hitting him like a ton of bricks. "You’ve been avoiding being alone with me in this room. I don’t think we’ve ever spent this much time in a hotel room without you trying to fuck me through the mattress."

"First of all, you are tired. You were falling asleep in the cab coming here and barely had your eyes open in the shower. That is the only reason I’m not fucking you right now until this bed breaks," Ilya says and then after letting Shane process that for a moment, Ilya looks at him and asks: "So you didn’t like it, then?"

"What?"

"Going out with me like that. On these dates, or whatever. You don’t like it?"

Shane has known Ilya for ten years. He doesn’t think the word ‘date’ has ever left his mouth in this context, ever. "You mean when we went out this weekend?" 

"It’s okay. You don’t like it, we don’t do it. I don’t want you having a panic attack over this."

"Stop, obviously I liked going out with you. This weekend was great. I was just confused why you kept wanting to go out, when we could just be here together."

"Every time I see you, we are in a dark room together. Your house, my house. And I like what we do there. But my therapist says going out will help with feeling normal."

"Oh." Shane processes this for a moment, and Ilya waits for him to do so, one eyebrow slightly raised. "Well," Shane then starts. "Does that lady know that I’m stupid as hell and I can’t even wear new gloves without feeling like a stranger in my own body for two days?" 

"Yes, you are all we talk about."

"Really?"

"No, why would we? I have a dead mother and father." 

"Right. Listen, you know you can talk to me about those things too, right? I’m not a therapist, but I want to know what’s going on with you too." 

"I know."

"And I’m not like you. I’m not very good at noticing what’s going on or why…"

"Yes, yes, I know," Ilya says and pulls Shane back into his embrace, pressing a kiss into Shane’s still damp hair. "I have noticed that you never know what is going on."

"Shut up, asshole," Shane chuckles. "You’re the one tricking me into going on dates with you. Desperate loser."

"Is true. I am a desperate loser for you," Ilya sighs dramatically.

Shane can think about it a bit more clearly the next morning, and he really does regret the sudden wave of insecurity and discomfort he had felt the night before. Ilya had been sweet to him, and Shane for no good reason at all, had questioned his intentions. He gets up first, about half an hour before his alarm is set to go off. Ilya stirs when Shane leaves the warm nest, but doesn’t wake up immediately. He goes to the bathroom, packs both their bags, and puts them by the door. He notices Ilya’s phone on the floor next to his side of the bed, barely at ten percent when Shane picks it up, so he puts it on the nightstand and plugs it into the charger. He orders breakfast to be delivered to the room in half an hour, and then gets back in bed, lying down on his side, propped up on one elbow. Ilya is already peering up at him with one eye.

"Morning," Shane says.

"Hm." 

Shane’s alarm goes off. Ilya tries to pull the covers over his head. "No," Shane chuckles and turns the alarm off on his phone. He then grabs the covers. "Your flight leaves before mine. Come on."

"Hm. Tell me about the boarding time," Ilya mutters and Shane simultaneously feels a hand running up his thigh before getting a firm grip on his ass.

"You should know your own boarding time," Shane says, scooting a little closer so that they are pressed flush together. 

"I know it. I like hearing you talk about boring stuff."

"Your boarding time is ten-thirty. And I ordered you oatmeal and fruit for breakfast," Shane says. He reaches down and cups Ilya’s half hard cock through his boxers.

"More," Ilya says.

"Uh, I just realized that I forgot my glasses at home. Now it’s going to be kind of annoying to read my book on the plane."

"Oh, fuck. Tell me what you’re going to order on the plane."

"It’s a short flight, so probably nothing," Shane says. "Are you ready to cum yet?"

Ilya laughs at that. He moves on top of Shane, between Shane’s spread legs.

And yes, spending time with Ilya out in noisy and crowded New York was fun, all things considered. But there is something about this, about Ilya’s hands under his shirt, Ilya’s mouth on his neck, his heavy and warm body, the dim lights and the only sound being their breathing, their kissing. It is beyond comfort. It is the safest Shane has ever felt. 

Ilya helps him take his sweats off, leaves them haphazardly on the floor which Shane finds vaguely distressing, but then immediately forgets about when Ilya starts trailing promising kisses down his chest and stomach. He takes Shane’s cock into his mouth and rubs his thumb over Shane’s dry hole. Ilya spits on it, which is a wild thing to do, even for him, this early in the morning. 

Shane had already packed all their stuff away, but was smart enough to keep their toiletries bag close-by. Ilya grabs Shane’s off the nightstand, digs through it with one hand and retrieves the lube.It has only been the two of them for over a year and a half now. Over the years Shane had never wanted to risk it and Ilya never brought it up. He knows Shane can be overly careful, overly particular and Ilya had never pushed or even wondered, not out loud at least. And honestly, Shane also never considered how different it would be. He had never had sex without a condom, not with anyone.

Turns out, it was different. Shane didn’t know he could still develop such a strong preference for something so simple, so late into their sexual relationship.

And maybe he had imagined it, but aside from himself, he could see Ilya’s face contort in pleasure, in ways Shane hadn’t seen before. Reaching the edge just a little bit quicker… Shane had been thinking about it a lot over the last two weeks. That first time Ilya fucked him without a condom, him pulling out at the last second, and streaking Shane’s stomach. And while Shane was certainly no stranger to being covered in Ilya’s cum, it felt different that time. The time after that, Shane told Ilya he didn’t need to pull out - again, a sensation he hadn’t been familiar with, and now keeps coming back in all of his fantasies while he’s jerking off on the road.

Ilya doesn’t fuck him until the bed breaks that morning. It is much gentler than that, as it usually is between them in the mornings.

Ilya says goodbye to Shane’s parents in the airport lounge, where Yuna says: "We’ll see you in a couple of days, right? Shane told you we do Christmas with his grandparents in Ottawa. My dad is a massive hockey fan. He would love to meet you."

"Sounds good, thank you," Ilya says and Shane is again a bit surprised by that. While Shane and his parents are heading home to Montreal, Ilya’s flight is to Los Angeles. He plays there tomorrow morning on the 24th and is scheduled to fly back to Ottawa the same evening on an eight and a half hour connecting flight. He would arrive home at midnight. It’s a schedule from hell, and Shane knows all about those. The idea of committing to Christmas with another family is one that would never even cross Shane’s mind. He’s exhausted just thinking about it. 

Shane says goodbye there too, a bit more privately, he hopes. They are still in full view of everyone in the lounge but far enough away that he doesn’t think anyone could hear them. 

"I’ll see you soon," Shane says. "The whole Christmas thing… you don’t need to worry about it, if you need a day. I know it’s a lot."

"Your mom wants me to go, so I go," Ilya shrugs. "I have to go now. Be nice to them," he says nodding towards Shane’s parents at another table. "And be nice to yourself," he adds with a more pointed look.

"Yeah, you too," Shane says. He moves before he can think, really, and pulls Ilya in for a hug. Ilya has enough sense for the both of them at that moment to give him a friendly pat on the back, making Shane laugh. “Okay, horny Hollander,” he says.

On Christmas eve, Shane watches Ilya’s connecting flight in Chicago get delayed once. Then delayed again. And then at midnight it gets a departure time of two a.m. "Jesus fucking Christ, dude," Shane says. "Merry fucking Christmas."

Ilya manages to let out a chuckle at that through the phone. "Ah, I don’t think I’m making it to your grandparents house." 

"Yeah, no shit," Shane snorts. "You’re going to be sleeping all fucking day." 

"Maybe better this way. No annoying questions about where is your mother, where is your father, where is your family." It sounds mostly lighthearted and Shane is notoriously bad at reading even facial expressions let alone a subtle change in tone of voice. But he hears the exhale at the end. So tired, in more ways than one.

"I’ll pick you up from the airport later tonight," Shane decides.

"No. There is Uber all night."

"Doesn’t matter. I can-"

"I’m saying no," Ilya says forcefully. "You play in Dallas on twenty-six. You should already be asleep."

"I know, but-"

"I’m serious," Ilya says, indeed dead serious. "You wanted to be top scorer again this year, right? Win MVP?  No showing up to Dallas with jetlag."

"Okay, okay. Jesus Christ. It just feels so stupid. I’m in Ottawa for actual Christmas and I might not even see you at all. That means we don’t see each other until the new year."

"Yes, very unlucky." Another exhale. "Go to sleep, please. I am not alone. Whole team is here." 

"Okay. I love you. Text me when you arrive."

"I will. Love you, too," Ilya says and in the background Shane hears the beginning of an "Ew, Rozanov, what the fuck-" before Ilya hangs up. And at least that is a comfort, that Ilya seems to have team mates who were more than excited to have him on the team. Shane gets one more text from Ilya fifteen minutes later that reads: i know i said i wont kill myself, but i lost my airpods so goodbye. It has Shane smiling at his phone. Weirdly enough with that last message, Shane has less trouble falling asleep.

He wakes up the next morning with another text from Ilya sent at six-thirty, letting him know that he finally got home.

Shane tells his mom that morning that Ilya is not going to make it due to the whole flight debacle. The three of them spend Christmas at his grandparents’ house every year, in the home where Shane’s mom grew up after they moved to Canada. Her father, Shane’s grandfather was transplanted to the Ottawa office of the architectural firm from Kyoto over forty years ago now. His mom was about ten. He has heard the stories of his mom and grandfather getting into hockey together to learn English and for them to have something to talk about at work and at school. Shane is actually pretty sure his grandfather is more into baseball these days.

Out of everyone, his grandmother was the only one who never really seemed to give a shit about Shane’s career. She was proud of him, obviously. Shane receives weekly messages explicitly telling him that. But she has always been far more worried about all the possible injuries he could incur on the ice. At the same time, she was the one who would pick Shane up from school and take him to hockey practice most afternoons when his parents were working. Her English is less fluent than his grandfather’s and the little Japanese that Shane does speak and understands is thanks to the many afternoons and weekends he spent with her. His grasp of the language has only gotten worse over the years, with him visiting his grandparents less and less and his grandmother’s English getting better and better. He does realize with a pang of guilt, that he has been visiting more in the last six months since Ilya moved to Ottawa. He wished that he could say he had taken that initiative all on his own, but it was Ilya who looked at him like he was crazy not to when he was contemplating it during one of his earlier visits this year.

"So it’s true then," his grandmother says, pouring two cups of coffee. "You’re gay."

"Mom," Yuna says.

"Well, he doesn’t tell me anything," she says, nodding at Shane whose face suddenly feels so hot, he might as well combust on the spot.

"Grandma, I’m not going around telling everyone."

"So it’s a secret?"

"No, not exactly," Shane tries to explain. "We’re just not being public about it."

"You and who?"

"I told you about him, mom," Yuna sighs. "He is also very high profile. No matter how unfair it is, this could potentially ruin their careers. It’s good to be cautious now." It sounds harsh coming out of his mother’s mouth like that, but these are Shane’s talking points being repeated at him. Yuna had been the first to suggest just coming out publicly as soon as Shane came out to her.

"Sounds like this career is ruining his life,” his grandmother says. “Why be gay-"

"Grandma, please," Shane sighs, rubbing his eyes.

"You’ve made enough money, sweetheart," she then pivots. "Enough for you, for your parents, grandparents and whoever may come after you."

"It’s not just about the money," Yuna argues. "Shane is one of the greatest athletes of his generation. It’s unfair to ask him to give that up. For anything." Again, Shane’s own talking points. So harsh.

Shane grabs his coffee off the counter and leaves the kitchen. He can’t say that he thought him being gay would not come up at all, but for it to happen at eight in the morning, as he’s still blinking sleep out of his eyes, is a bit much. He had given his parents explicit permission to tell them, however they wanted. Shane wasn’t interested in having another personal coming out moment anytime soon.

He joins his grandfather in the living room instead, already neatly dressed in a crisp dress shirt and perfectly ironed pants. He is currently replaying last night’s LA - Ottawa game on the TV while he’s sitting on the living room floor, near the Christmas tree, wrapping gifts with an unmatched precision.

"Isn’t it a bit late to still be wrapping gifts?" Shane asks, joining him on the floor.

"Your grandmother keeps finding more gifts she bought throughout the years and forgot about," his grandfather says fondly. "She’s very happy you’re here, you know."

"I’m happy I’m here too, but you guys shouldn’t be buying me gifts," Shane says.

"It’s just small stuff. Extra neck pillows, because you fly a lot. Balms for sore muscles. That kind of stuff."

"That’s very nice. Thank you."

His grandfather looks at him, then takes a deep breath and looks at the TV. "Did you watch yesterday’s game?" 

"I did."

"They say Ottawa is on track to have their best season in the team’s history."

"They are doing a lot better now, yeah," Shane says, averting his eyes. 

"He seems very arrogant," his grandfather then says and Shane is thankful, suddenly, that Ilya just had a horrible night and couldn’t make it.

"He’s not like that, grandpa. Not all the time. It’s for the fans, to get people excited."

"I still think it’s cocky," his grandfather says. "We could all do with a bit more humility."

"Sure, I’ll give him the feedback," Shane chuckles. 

"I thought I was going to get to give him the feedback myself?"

"His flight got delayed last night. He only got home a couple of hours ago," Shane explains. "He needs a day to recover."

"I see. This would be his first Christmas with us, and he cancelled it?"

"You are being way too hard on him." 

"Did you hear this? Your son in law is sleeping in, instead of being here, where he was invited," Shane’s grandpa says, looking up at where Shane’s dad just entered the living room.

"That sounds like a crude retelling," David says. "His flight was delayed by like five hours. If his schedule is anything like Shane’s, he’ll be on another flight within the next couple of days. They need time to recover so that they can perform. He’s a sweet kid, by the way. And you can tell from a mile away that he’s crazy about Shane. That’s all that matters, right?"

Shane is more than happy to let his dad scrap this one out with his grandfather and goes back to the kitchen. "She wants to see a picture," Yuna says. "Do I just google him or do you have a good picture of him on your phone?" 

"I don’t keep pictures of him on my phone." It’s true. Shane doesn’t keep them on his phone. He has a hard drive with about five hundred pictures of him and them together at home, though.

"Okay, well," Yuna says, typing away on her phone. "Why does he give every post game interview with his shirt off? In all these pictures he’s either in his gear or shirtless.”

"Oh my god, mom," Shane says, but he is suddenly very aware of why Ilya’s therapist wanted him to go out more instead of staying holed up at home or in hotel rooms. "Oh, I remember," Yuna then says. "I took a picture of you guys at the restaurant in New York. You guys looked so good. I took it on your dad’s phone. Go grab your dads phone." 

"Fine. For the record, I’m strongly considering dad’s side of the family for next Christmas," Shane says. At least there he’d have cousins to divert attention to every now and then. Shane goes back into the living room. "Can you send mom the picture she took of me and Ilya in New York?" David hands Shane his unlocked phone wordlessly. They’ve switched the TV to old baseball highlights. The season ended months ago.

Shane looks for the picture himself, and okay, this is actually one of the best pictures he’s ever seen of Ilya. Fully capturing how handsome he looked that night, a genuine smile that reaches his eyes. And he’s looking at Shane in it, rather than at the camera. Yes, Shane is in the picture too, looking just fine, looking as he always does.

He sends the picture to his mom, himself and after contemplating it for a second he sends it to Ilya too, from his own phone. Shane walks back into the kitchen, just in time to hear his grandmother say: "What a surprise, a white man. I wonder who he got that from?"

"That’s… uncalled for," Yuna says.

"Shane, you look very handsome in that picture.”

"Thanks, grandma." 

"Send it to me." 

"Are you going to post it on Facebook?" Shane asks.

"I’ll crop your friend out first."

"I don’t think so, no," Shane says and bites away a laugh at her calling Ilya his friend.

They all drop it for the most part for the rest of the morning. Every twenty minutes or so, his grandmother puts a perfectly wrapped gift in front of him for him to unwrap. Socks, gloves, resistance bands, tiger balm, heating pads, hot water bottles, neck pillows. All very thoughtful gifts that Shane will definitely need at some point in time in the next year. Around one in the afternoon, Shane gets a response from Ilya to the picture of them together in New York. 

С каждым днем ​​ты становишься все красивее.

Shane knows it’s going to be something outrageous, and as he runs it through Google translate, it definitely proves to be. You become prettier and prettier every day.

He’s not even aware that he’s smiling at his phone like an idiot until he looks up to find his mother looking at him. "I’m guessing he’s up," she says. Shane puts his phone in his pocket. "I’m going to make a phone call outside."

He puts on his shoes and jacket and sits down on the bench on the front porch. He calls Ilya.

"Hmm."

"How are you feeling?"

"Bad. How is your day with your family?"

"Bad."

"No, why?"

"Grandma asking me why I’m gay."

Shane waits for Ilya to stop laughing. "So," Shane then continues. "Do you have any food at home?"

"What home? I live at different shitty American airport every night."

"We’re not even halfway through the season, Ilya. You can’t be falling down this hole already. It’ll just make it harder to get out of it." Shane is more than familiar with the frustration that comes from being on the road for weeks on end. 

"It’s too much, sometimes." 

"I know, you’re right. You had a really shitty night last night. Did you take a shower yet? You know it makes you feel better."

"When I take them with you, yes."

"Take a shower, eat something. You have those frozen smoothie bags in your freezer, right? You should make one of those."

"Hmm. I want to go back to sleep."

"I’m sorry, you can’t," Shane says softly. "You’re going to fuck your sleep schedule up even more and it’s not going to make you feel better in the coming days. You told me that too, last night."

"I know. I’m just being a lazy piece of shit."

"That’s the last thing you are. Go, go be good to yourself," Shane urges. 

"Wait, what did you tell grandma when she asked why you’re gay?"

"Oh, I showed her that picture of you."

"Ah, and what did she say?" Ilya asks, amused.

"Disappointed that you’re white." 

Shane has to wait for Ilya to stop laughing again. "Can’t wait to meet her," Ilya then says. 

"I can. And my grandpa is even worse, by the way. He’s like the nicest man in the world, doesn’t even care about the gay thing, but he came out swinging saying he hates you, with a list of reasons why." 

"Good. I like that. He wants me to prove I’m worthy of his perfect angel. Is normal." 

"Is it? Sounds kind of crazy to me."

"Maybe to boring westerners. They don’t care about old people."

"Well, if you’re that confident, I can’t wait for you to change his mind one day," Shane smiles to himself.

"First step is you go be with them. Don’t let them think I’m keeping you away," Ilya says. "I will shower now."

"Okay, I love you."

"Love you," Ilya says. Shane doesn’t go back inside immediately. He sits out there for just a little bit longer, sits with the bizarre idea of Ilya not only meeting his parents, but also his grandparents, and him acting like it’s completely normal. As annoying and uncomfortable as this morning has been, Shane feels nothing but loved by everyone in that house. He by no means enjoys confrontation to the extent that Ilya does, but if he has learned anything in his career it is to at the very least see the difference between real criticism, or in his family’s case worry, and people just being assholes. 

Shane is twenty-eight now. Beyond fully grown. One of the most, if not the most famous active hockey player in the league. He went from being a prodigy full of promise to constantly having to fulfill them. All of his mistakes are now fully his own and they have been for a while. No excuse of being young, or inexperienced or naive. It shouldn’t feel like an out of body experience to imagine his boyfriend meeting his grandparents. It shouldn’t feel so absurd to call Ilya his boyfriend, even just in his head. But this is the first time that this is happening for Shane. At twenty-eight. In a different life, he might have gone through this with two or three boyfriends already. He would have dated as a teen, he would have had a real boyfriend in his early twenties and maybe none of this would feel this lonely and uncomfortable now.

Shane’s dad cooks an amazing braised beef for their Christmas dinner, something Ilya would have definitely loved. He says as much while loading the dishwasher while his dad is making coffee and David nods towards the neatly portioned leftovers on the counter. "You should go bring him some. Grandma and grandpa are going to fall asleep soon anyway."

"Really?" Shane asks.

"Of course. Go get ready. I’ll pack this up for you."

Shane is sitting outside in his dad’s Volvo in record time. While still in the driveway, he googles if any electronics stores are somehow still open after seven p.m on Christmas day. He didn’t actually expect much, but ironically, there is still a store open at the airport and he doesn’t even have to pass security for it. It’s an hour round trip. Maybe a bit longer in the heavy snowfall. Shane should really not be driving without his glasses in these conditions. 

He is a bit too wrapped up in his new mission, because about an hour later, he’s already driving into the garage of the apartment building with Ilya’s spare key fob when he realizes he didn’t even call Ilya to tell him he was coming. Shane calls him once on his way towards the elevator, but gets no response.

Shane likes the penthouse apartment, though it’s not as impressive as Ilya’s old house in Boston, with the massive yard and tree covering. Ilya is still renting, he moved in just a week before the season started, and now, four months later, there was still an entire room that was just filled with boxes.

It’s where he finds Ilya, who startles halfway out of his skin when Shane appears in the doorway. 

"Блять," he curses, dropping an unlit cigarette from between his lips, and grabbing at his chest. "You’ll fucking give me a heart attack."

"I tried calling you," Shane chuckles. "You okay?"

"Fine," Ilya says and reaches a hand out, which Shane takes. "What are you doing here, huh? You okay?"

"I’m good. My dad sent me over with some food," Shane explains. "What are you doing?"

"Is your dad an angel? I’m starving," Ilya says.

"I left everything in the kitchen. Were you unpacking?" Shane asks, picking the abandoned cigarette off the wooden floor.

"Just looking for something," Ilya shrugs and leads Shane out of the room and towards the kitchen with him. 

It’s nice and toasty in the apartment. Ilya, bare chested, in track pants and cozy slippers, devours the whole meal standing up at the kitchen counter, doesn’t seem to care to heat it up. "Looks like I should have come earlier. Did you not eat anything?"

"Nothing was open, got distracted," Ilya shrugs.

"Well, you can sit down and eat and I can go find what you were looking for in those boxes. What did you need?" 

"Not important. I can find it tomorrow," Ilya waves his fork around dismissively. 

"What is it?" Shane asks again.

Ilya hesitates for a second and then seems to wisely decide that deflecting again won’t work. "Some old photos." 

"In like a photo book or did you just throw loose photos into a random box when you were packing?" Shane asks, though he already has his suspicion.

Ilya is full of surprises, though. "I don’t know if they’re in the boxes. Maybe in a bag, in a jacket. I don’t know. I was packing fast. We don’t have to look now." 

"It was clearly on your mind," Shane says. "How about I start with the boxes and you look through those bags and jackets?"

Ilya puts his plate in the sink. "It’s already late. Come to bed with me, and I’ll look tomorrow," he says, turning around and crowding Shane against the counter. He takes a kiss, their first of the night, which Shane feels himself melt into. He kisses him back, hands roaming over Ilya’s bare chest. It’s very tempting to just go with it, to give in and just be warm in bed for the rest of the evening. He presses a kiss to the side of Ilya’s mouth. "Tell me about the pictures."

"Pictures of my mother," Ilya finally cracks, leaning his forehead against Shane’s. "I was stupid, just throwing them anywhere…"

"Look, there aren’t that many boxes left. We can go through them quickly and it won’t be on your mind anymore."

Ilya puts his hands on Shane’s shoulders, rubbing at his tense traps. "You came here to feed me and do my chores?" 

"Nice, right? And yet I’m feeling a lot of resistance."

Shane finds them almost immediately. In the second box he opens, he finds a bunch of mail, notebooks, other papers, many in Russian. Scattered among them are a few glossy photos, which Shane lets Ilya pick out himself. 

"We really have to talk about how you pack your stuff. This is the deed of sale of your house in Boston," Shane says, looking through the rest of the documents.

Two pictures emerge, all of a young blonde woman with thick blonde curly hair running down her back. Her smile is so familiar to Shane that he actually feels his heart skip a beat. "Jesus," Shane says. "The two of you could have been twins. You look so much like her. Your eyes are exactly the same." 

"You think?" Ilya asks, examining the picture himself. "In this picture she is about my age now. Two years before she died. Look." He hands Shane another picture with the same woman and the same mountains, but squatting down this time, so that a boy with his own shaggy head of curls and the exact same smile could wrap his arms around her shoulders from behind. "God, I can already tell you were a nightmare as a child," Shane shakes his head. "Why haven’t you framed these?"

"I would take them with me sometimes," Ilya says. "But you’re right. It’s safer that way."

"And you can make copies or put them on your phone. We did that with a bunch of old pictures my grandparents have. Wait, what’s this one?" Shane asks, as Ilya pulls one more picture out of the box. He gets a fond smile on his face, one that Shane didn’t necessarily expect. "We were still in school here," he says, handing Shane the picture of Svetlana and him, looking no older than maybe fifteen. They have their arms around each other’s shoulders, lit cigarettes dangling from their lips, clearly trying to look tough in front of a big brick building, a school maybe. "These two kids were a real fucking problem."

"You guys look like you’d have loved bullying me in high school," Shane snorts. He tries to shake away the discomfort. Svetlana is Ilya’s oldest friend, he has made it clear that she is important to him, that she means more to him than any of the family he has left, even. The fact that he used to sleep with her… well. It’s Shane’s job not to be insecure about that tiny little fact. He won in the end, he has to remind himself. Ilya chose him, he never had these romantic feelings for her. Shane has to believe that. 

"Thank you for helping me find these," Ilya then says.

"Yeah, of course."

"And merry Christmas or whatever."

"Oh my god, I almost forgot," Shane gasps and sprints back to the kitchen. He snatches the little paper bag off the counter where he left it and hands it to Ilya who has followed him into the kitchen. "Merry Christmas or whatever."

"I don’t do this Christmas, I don’t need a gift," Ilya says, opening the bag. He lets out a loud and surprised ‘Ha!’ as he takes the AirPods out of the bag, and then says, "But I did need these. Thank you."

"No worries. It was literally life or death, so." 

Ilya puts everything down and gently cradles Shane’s face as he kisses him, starting with one peck and then another, before Ilya kisses him open-mouthed, deep and hungry. "I have no gift for you," he breathes into Shane’s mouth. "So you tell me what I can give you."

"Anything I want?" Shane asks, arousal reaching every part of his body. 

"Are you going to surprise me?" 

Shane gets onto his knees right there. He tugs Ilya’s track pants down, the only item of clothing he’s wearing. Ilya steps out of the pants, kicks them further away, and just like that Shane has him fully naked, looking godlike in the dimmed golden lighting between the kitchen and the sprawling, open living room. Shane reaches one hand up, cups Ilya’s chest and with the other hand he grabs Ilya’s hip, digging his fingers into the flesh of Ilya’s ass. Shane sighs, superficially running his lips over the shaft of Ilya’s half hard cock. "You look like a god," Shane says, more to himself than for Ilya to hear. He takes Ilya’s cock into his mouth, feels it thicken and lengthen with every second as he moves his tongue over the shaft. Ilya curses and grabs the back of Shane’s head. And this is what Shane wants, something he hadn’t really asked for and maybe something Ilya might not initiate in fear of hurting him. 

"I want you to fuck my mouth," Shane tells him, glancing up. "And don’t stop until you cum." 

"Jesus fucking Christ," Ilya exhales, wiping the saliva off the side of Shane’s mouth. "Are you sure?"

Shane nods and is ready to open his mouth again, when Ilya says: "Take your clothes off. Get comfortable."

Shane shakes his head and inches forward towards Ilya’s cock. "I want you to use me like this." 

Ilya nods, catching onto Shane’s fantasy here. Shane wants to focus on Ilya’s body, wants to worship it on his knees. Ilya grabs Shane’s right hand, and plants it firmly on his thigh. "If it’s too much, you tap me here," he tells Shane who responds with a quick nod before swallowing Ilya’s cock whole again. Ilya grabs the back of Shane’s head again and thrusts into his mouth carefully. Never pushing in too deeply, never pulling out fully.

"Fuck, Shane," Ilya moans, locking eyes with him, so gone with lust. Shane opens his mouth wider and tries to relax his throat the best he can. His own cock is throbbing painfully, straining against the metal buttons of his jeans. He tries to hold out for as long as he can, but hearing Ilya moan, watching his chest heave and his face contort on pleasure makes it impossible. Without breaking contact, Shane pops open the buttons of his jeans and pulls his own cock out. He groans around Ilya’s cock when he finally gets to stroke himself. It only takes a few strokes, because as soon as Ilya warns him that he’s close, there is just no holding out. Shane sucks him dry, keeps going until Ilya decides to pull out of Shane’s mouth. He’s still delirious from his own orgasm when Ilya kneels down in front of him and kisses him deeply. He then hands him a paper towel roll, but gently wipes Shane’s chin off with a loose paper towel himself. "I don’t deserve you," Ilya tells him. 

"You’re a dream," Shane responds stupidly, because it’s all he can think at that moment. 

After a quick shower and changing into a pair of Ilya’s track pants and a grey sweatshirt Shane is pretty sure he left there himself, he gets into bed with Ilya, intending to say goodbye under the blue light of the tv, showing the same old baseball highlights his grandfather was watching earlier. "I can’t believe I came all over myself and now I have to go back to my grandma’s house," Shane says. 

"No, it’s not good to drive right now," Ilya says. "Too much snow and you don’t have your glasses."

Shane gets up again to pull back the grey blackout curtains covering the floor to ceiling windows in Ilya’s bedroom. "Jesus Christ," Shane lets out. The visibility is pretty much zero. It had gotten much more intense since his drive over and Shane thinks this might be the most that has fallen in weeks. Shane gets back into bed and grabs his phone to send his dad a text, only to find his dad already texted him. Too risky to drive, so stay at Ilya’s if you can and be safe.

"Tell him the food was good and thank you," Ilya says. 

Shane leans back against the head board. He closes his eyes for a moment, a wave of gratitude washing over him that they can have this moment. If Ilya had still been in Boston, they would never have had this night. "My grandma said that maybe I should just quit hockey altogether rather than try to keep this whole thing a secret until retirement." 

"Hm. Simple solution," Ilya chuckles. "Did they give you a hard time?"

"A little bit. I feel like I should be able to deal with this stuff better by now."

"It’s just private," Ilya then says.

"I think I’m having trouble with where the line is. We had such a great time in New York, but I was still in my head about it the whole time. And if your therapist thinks we should be going out more or whatever, then I need to work on that somehow." 

"Maybe with your own therapist, then."

"You know, I know you’re joking-"

"Am I?"

"But if anyone on the Metros found out I’m going to therapy, with all this other bullshit going on, they wouldn’t let me live it down." 

"Who cares what they think? They’re fucking assholes. And when you leave, they will never recover. Bunch of dead fucking weight. Ungrateful dogs," Ilya says. 

"Okay, relax," Shane says. 

"May they never win a cup without you again for as long as I am alive," Ilya says. "And that alone is a reason for me to keep living until I am a hundred years old." 

"Jesus Christ. You’re so dramatic. I don’t want to leave the Metros." 

"You are too nice to them." 

"I need to win this year," Shane says. "I need to win the cup and MVP. If I fuck up the vibes now, it’s a lost cause."

"I have thought about it. I don’t think you are going to win MVP. It’s going to be me." 

"Fuck off," Shane snorts. 

"I’m serious. Ottawa comeback story is too good. You will win other awards, maybe." 

"No, I am winning MVP. But you should keep up the good work. Maybe you’ll win asshole of the year. Again.”

"When we win and you are desperate to sign with Ottawa, will you live here with me or with your parents?" 

"Shut up. If I ever move to Ottawa I’m buying an actually nice house and maybe you can move in with me. Something like your house in Boston, with a full gym. I miss that place."

"I see. So, this house. Have you found it already?"

"Right now I really only have one goal. I need the cup. And you have one goal. Making sure your weird ass team makes the playoffs."

"We will make the playoffs," Ilya says confidently. "The cup could be ours, too.” 

"In your fucking dreams," Shane snorts. "What you’ve done with them is incredible as it is. If you make the playoffs, that’s a miracle. If you get top four? Never before seen comeback in the history of our sport. You would be a legend."

"And if we win?"

Shane shakes his head. "Then I have to start believing in fucking magic. Or that you use KGB tactics on your team mates to get them in line, like they said on Fox Sports."

"I told you, that one is real. And we play to win no matter what, so you better be ready."

"I’m always ready."

Shane set his alarm for five a.m. His flight to Dallas isn’t supposed to leave until noon, but with the heavy snowfall, who knows how long the ten minute drive to his grandparents house might actually take, let alone the drive to the airport after that.

But as soon as he wakes up, he reads the texts from his coach that there is no air travel out of Ottawa or most of Canada for that matter. Shane responds that he has seen the message, before muting his phone entirely. He spoons Ilya’s sleeping form from behind and falls back asleep for another five hours. It’s definitely too long. Shane can’t even remember the last time he slept for ten hours, but they must have really needed it. 

And of course they do. The season is absolutely kicking their asses this year. Ilya practically already drained from whipping his new team into shape. Shane is still feeling weird about Hayden and J.J. knowing this about him. And on top of that, being apart from each other, now that they have each other, is harder than it has ever been. 

"Are you up?" Shane mutters against Ilya’s shoulder. 

"Hm," Ilya responds. 

"Do you have coffee?"

Ilya groans loudly, but drags himself out from Shane’s embrace and out from the warm nest that is Ilya’s bed. Shane rubs his eyes as he hears the soft whir of the coffee machine in the kitchen activate. He grabs his phone and lets his parents know about the cancelled flights. Ilya returns with two mugs of coffee and hands Shane his. "No game?"

"No game," Shane says. "It’s terrible."

"Such a shame," Ilya sighs dramatically, getting back into bed and pressing a kiss on Shane’s jaw. "So many disappointed fans."

"Tragic, and I mean that," Shane says, taking the first sip of his too hot coffee with his eyes closed.

"I have to go get you some food, too," Ilya then says, with a pat in Shane’s bent knee. "And after, we go to your grandparents’ house." 

"Really? You want to go today?"

"I have rested and I don’t look like shit anymore. Perfect time to make a good impression. Don’t look so stressed. I’ll be a good, perfect Canadian boy."

"Right, so exactly who I fell in love with," Shane says dryly. 

They arrive around one in the afternoon, after driving by three separate specialty stores for Ilya to find a very specific bottle of liquor, because Shane disclosed, foolishly, that his grandparents enjoy whiskey from time to time.

Shane really doesn’t know why, but he is far more nervous for this meeting than he was for Ilya meeting his parents. Maybe not the very first meeting, during which he had an actual panic attack, but any of the official ones after that. So when Ilya suggests they shovel the snow on the driveway first, before they go inside, Shane doesn’t mind the delay. His dad, the true professional Canadian, has two snow shovels in the trunk of his car, so they don’t even have to open the garage. With the two of them, it doesn’t take long, and by the time they’re done, Yuna greets them at the door with a warm smile.

"Come on, while the coffee is still hot," she says, ushering them inside. They shed their wet coats, gloves and shoes at the door and Yuna gives Ilya a hug. Shane doesn’t get one, he notices, but when Ilya moves on to greet Shane’s dad, she turns to Shane and puts a warm hand on his back. "I told them to be as normal as possible." 

"He’ll be fine," Shane says and he’s sure of that. Selfishly, he is more worried about himself getting overwhelmed with this whole thing. 

"So you are Shane’s friend," he hears his grandmother say. Shane finds them at the kitchen table, Ilya already with a mug of coffee. Shane pours himself one.

"His close friend, yes," Ilya responds and Shane doesn’t miss the amusement in his voice. "I know him from work." 

"Ah, I saw your picture, but what was your name again?" 

"I’m Ilya."

"And where are you from?"

"Moscow, Russia."

"How long have you been here?"

"Nine years in America, six months in Canada." 

"Ah, so you’re American?"

"No, I don’t think so," Ilya says, cracking for the first time in this sudden game of rapid questions. 

"How old were you when you came to America?"

"Eighteen. I came for work."

"Your English is very good."

"Thank you," Ilya says, genuinely surprised. 

"When I came to Canada, English was very hard, because I could not work. I still have problems sometimes," she admits.

"Sounds perfect to me. Much better than sounding like a stupid American or boring Canadian."

Shane watches as his grandmother smiles. "You are very handsome," she says.

"Grandma," Shane finally interrupts.

"We’re talking," Ilya says.

Shane rolls his eyes and turns to his mom in the doorway. "Some people just have it easier," she says with a shrug.

"Yeah, no shit," Shane snorts.

"So you’re the boyfriend," Shane’s grandfather says. He’s sitting on the couch in the living room with Shane’s dad and gets up when Ilya and Shane enter the room. "I barely recognize you without the massive number on your back." 

Ilya shakes his hand. "Shane tells me you’re a Metros fan. You watch Ottawa, too?" 

"Hard to avoid in this city. They had your face on every billboard for months after you signed."

"That would be annoying for a Metros fan, yes," Ilya chuckles. "Especially when we started so bad this season." 

"Well, you’ve certainly turned it around…"

And it truly is like magic, how quickly and seamlessly Ilya pulls that compliment out of Shane’s grandfather. And Shane knows his grandfather is a very sweet man at the end of the day, but he figured he’d put up a little more of a fight after his comments from yesterday.

"I have to apologize now," Ilya says. "We are going to win tonight. It will be embarrassing for the Metros and they will hate me more than ever." Shane tries to ignore him, but he can’t fight a smile. Ottawa hasn’t won a game against the Metros in over ten years. Maybe even twenty. Some say there are no actual records of a win. Shane was certainly not going to give one away today. 

But Ilya is looking at him, and he seems… different. Or rather, very familiar. The crooked and arrogant smile, the glint of mischief and determination in his eyes. Shane had not seen that in him all season. He is still reeling with it when the puck drops.

"What an unbelievable showing from the Centaurs this evening in their hometown. Ilya Rozanov proving to be worth every last penny that was spent on him, making history here by crushing the Montreal Metros six to two with a double hat trick from Rozanov. The Metros started strong, but what happened in the defense there?"

"Rozanov was just unstoppable this game, my god. Absolutely gorgeous showing. Just a pleasure to watch."

"And the rest of the team showing up the way they did. Things are really coming together for the Centaurs. If they keep this up, who knows how far they’ll come. The playoffs have suddenly become a real possibility for them."

"What the fuck was that about," Hayden says, when it’s just him, Shane and J.J. left in the locker room. They’re already dressed and ready to go back to their hotel room. Shane has other plans obviously. "Rozanov was like a man possessed. I haven’t seen him play like that all season."

"That team might be dogshit, but that fucker still got it," J.J. says and then looks at Shane. "He cleared you three drops in a row, like you were a nobody."

"He had a good night," Shane says. "If you try to blame me for this-" 

"Don’t worry. He cleared me and I’m not even sucking him off."

"Watch your fucking mouth," Shane snaps at him, already off the bench. Hayden pushes him back down.

"Relax, I’m just chirping," J.J. says, no heat behind it. "Your boy ripped through all of us tonight, okay? What am I supposed to do, ignore it? Never talk about you and him?"

"Sounds good to me," Shane says. "Your problem with me and him is getting fucking pathetic."

"Shane, come on," Hayden starts. "He’s just kidding."

"Forget it," J.J. then says. "You get this fucking touchy every time anyone brings him up. If that’s how it’s going to be, you should have never fucking told us about him in the first place."

"Sorry for thinking I could trust a fucking friend. Every time he comes up, you act like a fucking asshole. I’m supposed to just let that go?"

"Yeah, I’m the one on your fucking team, no?"

"You sure as fuck don’t act like it," Shane bites back. As captain Shane tries to be the last to leave, especially after a loss. Tonight he leaves both J.J. and Hayden behind, because it’s fucking close enough.

He thinks Ilya won’t be home for another couple of hours. This was a massive win for them, so big even that Shane can practically feel MVP slipping through his fingers. He lets himself be aggravated and resentful about the loss until he lets himself into Ilya’s apartment. There he tries to shake it off. The loss. J.J. being an asshole. Hayden doing nothing.

To his surprise Ilya comes home just half an hour after him.

"Here already?" Ilya asks, with the most annoying smirk Shane has ever seen on him. "Come on, don’t be mad. I warned you before.” He puts a brown take out bag in Shane’s lap. Shane opens it, yet to say a word, because he can’t yet trust himself not to be resentful out loud. Shane takes out the two salads from Shane’s favorite place in the city. Grilled chicken salad, extra chicken with the dressing on the side.

"Forks," Shane says and Ilya obliges. Shane takes three bites and then finally feels good enough to say: "You were good."

"Thank you," Ilya says around a bite of his own salad. And then: "You were slower."

"Than usual? Maybe I didn’t sleep well last night."

"No, slower than me. Let’s see what they are saying about us-"

"No. Fuck no," Shane laughs, and grabs the remote out of his hand. "I’ll watch it tomorrow, alone. I’m not in the mood for more tearing down right now. The city is celebrating like they already won the cup. I heard fireworks on my whole drive over here. My grandpa is texting me about it."

"This is a very good night for Ottawa," Ilya laughs. "They will get used to us winning more often."

Shane sighs and looks at Ilya’s open face. "Congratulations. This is actually massive for the team. And for you. A double hat trick against the best player in the league."

"Who’s that?" Ilya asks. 

Shane rolls his eyes again, and finally feels it for real: more than disappointment, more than resentment. He feels pride. He doesn’t want to jinx it. Doesn’t want to conclude: see, all better now! Depression cured, let’s fucking go! 

He lets himself be warmed by Ilya’s genuine happiness and pride in himself that night and silently hopes this can last forever for him. 

"So, did they give you a hard time?" Ilya then asks.

"I don’t want to talk about it." 

"What, I made sure to spread out, be everybody’s problem, slam everyone.”

"They didn’t say anything," Shane says. "I just… I don’t know how to talk to them about you. J.J. and Hayden. Every time you come up, I just freak out." 

"So what I’m hearing is I’m slamming them harder next time," Ilya says.

Shane gets a text from J.J. that night, right before he wants to get into bed: whatever I said, I don’t want you to think I’m trying to be homophobic or something 

Shane hesitates. He could ignore it. Try to shake this whole fucking night off and start fresh tomorrow, with everyone. But he’s pissed still, pissed that he lost, pissed at J.J. and pissed at Hayden for some reason. 

Then stop talking about me sucking dick and stop being an asshole if that’s even possible for you, he texts back. 

Fine, but you’d think you’d be used to assholes, J.J. texts, and then immediately after: because of R, not because of the gay thing. 

Shane puts his phone away. There is only so much he can expect. When Ilya comes out of the bathroom and back to bed, he presses one kiss against Shane’s jaw and one against his shoulder and then lays his head down on his pillow. "You okay?" Ilya asks.

"Yeah, fine," Shane says and lies down too. "Just thinking about what I’m going to do to make everyone forget about your performance today."

"Which performance? During the game, or just now when I made you cum on my cock?" Ilya leers. 

"This is so annoying," Hayden says, right as the game ends and they switch from the ice to the in-studio commentary. "How did he do it again?"

Shane keeps his mouth shut and shrugs. He had gone to Hayden’s house to watch the last game before All-Star weekend started. Hayden hadn’t made the cut, unfortunately.

"He must be running those practice drills like the fucking navy. Even that goalie was doing crazy work. And everyone knows their coach is a pussy."

"Yeah, I don’t know. They’re killing it lately," Shane says flatly.

"He hasn’t told you anything?"

"Like what?"

"Like he got some new type of doping that makes the entire team a well oiled machine."

"Oh, shut the fuck up," Shane says. Shane doesn’t know what Ilya is doing. Not because he hasn’t asked, but because Ilya made it clear that their practice program is private and that he’s the last person who is going to leak it. Even to Shane. No, especially to him, someone who could and sure, would use any information obtained consensually to destroy any other team given the chance. All he knows is that Ilya is taking it beyond seriously all of a sudden. The real switch happened after Christmas. He is always in the gym when Shane calls him on the road, always just coming out of a team meeting or going into one, always yelling instructions into the distance. He has even cancelled a few of their planned phone calls for whatever team issue came up. One thing is for sure, Ilya Rozanov is serious about making the playoffs. They have now completely caught up from their losing streak in points.

Shane’s role as team captain is completely different. They have a coach and an assistant coach who do all the yelling and pointing and directing. All Shane does is lead by example and think about game play.

He’s not sure he could do it any other way. He’s not interested in telling people what to do, he’s not a motivational speaker. He’s been told he is a steady, calming energy in the locker room. Someone people can rely on on the ice. That was it. He is strongest on the ice. That’s where he wants to be.

There are plenty of stories about Ilya’s rousing locker room speeches from his time in Boston, and all of it seems very credible to Shane. 

"One thing is for sure. Ottawa is getting their fucking money’s worth now," Hayden says.

It’s been another two weeks since Shane and Ilya were anywhere near the same city. The All-Star Game is in Montreal this year, starting in just two days. Ilya should be on his way up from Detroit right after this game, arriving tonight. For the second time in their career Shane and Ilya will be on the same team. The last time had been one of the highlights of his career, for entirely selfish reasons. He won, with Ilya by his side. It was going to be different this year. Last time there were no rumors. This time there are.

They went back and forth for a while about where Ilya would stay. Does he just stay with Shane? Does he book a hotel room to avoid suspicion and then come stay with Shane? Does he just stay at the hotel all weekend? It would be safer.

But the chance to be together for five nights in a row? That might not happen again until this summer. So in the end they not only decide that Ilya will stay with him, but he’d also fly in a day early, so that they’d have an extra night together. There are four different flavors of ice cream and a brand of the vodka Ilya likes in Shane’s freezer for the occasion. Shane is still nervous about it. There is going to be a lot of press at each one of the events, be it on the ice or off it. Shane and Ilya both have sponsored events and photoshoots to attend. Shane managed to keep himself away from any meet-and-greet type event, while Ilya made it known he’d rather do a fan-event than anything else. Shane feels kind of bad in hindsight. While he’ll be taking pictures in front of the Gatorade wall in a conference hall, Ilya will be meeting with youth league players from several high schools from all over Canada.

"They want you, obviously," Ilya says when they talk about it that evening on Shane’s couch. They turned on the fireplace. The TV buzzes in the background. Ilya has been watching Survivor apparently. He poured them both some chilled vodka after dinner. He's on his second glass, Shane has yet to get beyond his first sip. "These are mostly Montreal kids. I am their enemy. Which is fun also, for me and them, but they want you."

Shane had initially vetoed all fan events with his agent. He feels bad about it, but he had done some early in his career, and it was mostly grown men who showed up already half drunk and always wanted to hold onto him for some reason when taking pictures. It became overwhelming for him after about ten minutes and then he’d have another hour and a half to go. Meeting young, local hockey players on the ice for a couple of hours actually sounds like it would be fun. "Even if I decide to do it, we can’t do it together," Shane says.

"Why not? We are team mates here. Irina foundation made this happen in the first place.”

"Ilya."

"Okay, you do it alone, then. They want to see you."

"But you’re way better with this sort of thing. If it’s just me, it’s going to be super boring for them."

"Okay, then we do it together." 

"No, that’s a bad idea."

"Shane."

"Sorry. You just do it on your own."

"It’s not a PR event," Ilya tells him. "Maybe some pictures, but nothing for TV or anything. It makes sense for both of us to do it."

"Look, it does sound like more fun than taking pictures in front of the Gatorade wall."

"Then do it with me. You can still take pictures for Gatorade after,” Ilya says. "Or I’ll ask Scott Hunter to do it. He never has anything to do."

"You’re obsessed with him," Shane says.

"These are his last years on earth. I like to do nice things for him," Ilya says.

Maybe Ilya still expected Shane to come and maybe Shane was wishywashy about it until the last second. In the end, he doesn’t go. He’s disappointed in himself, too, but there are some risks they just shouldn’t be taking right now. 

Instead, Shane does a couple of interviews at the main event hall with J.J., and he makes sure to mention the Irina foundation in it before the so-called Gatorade Gala that evening. As Shane was getting ready for it, he wondered what time Ilya would show up and if they could manage to be back home by ten. Shane wears a black suit he’s never worn before, one he got tailored a while back but never had an occasion for. A black suit is a black suit, Shane had always thought, but Ilya convinced him that having it tailored to fit him perfectly, and thus adding another thousand dollars to an already absurdly expensive suit, was worth it. Shane could do nothing but believe him, because Ilya always looked obscene in any formal wear Shane had ever seen him in over the years. 

Shane takes all the pictures that are expected of him before entering the actual party with J.J. He takes out his phone immediately once inside and the only reply he gets to the question what time Ilya will be there is that he will be late.

When Ilya does finally show up, Shane understands why he’s late. He has to actually look away, pretend he doesn’t see it. He must have gone out, looking for something to wear, because Shane doesn’t remember him bringing a suit with him when he flew in last night. He’s in an asymmetrical, deep dark gray suit, shoulders to waist forming a perfect triangle. To top it all off he isn’t wearing a shirt under it. It doesn’t actually show that much skin, but certainly more than any other guy in here, with Ilya’s cross perfectly centered between his collarbones. He seems to have gotten his hair trimmed and styled too, barely any shorter but every curl in its designated place. Shane put mousse in his hair that afternoon and pushed it out of his face. That was as far as his preparation went for all of this. Shane wants to smell him, suddenly, wants to know what cologne he chose to finish this whole thing off.

"At least we can trust him to give a fucking show," J.J. says.

"Shut the fuck up,” Shane sighs. 

"I didn’t even say anything bad. Looks like he showed up with Hunter and Vaughn," J.J. says, nodding in their general direction across the already bustling ballroom. This has Shane’s head snap up in their direction as well, right in time to see Hunter and Vaughn walk up to them, and Ilya behind them finishing up a conversation with an old team mate from Boston.

Shane and J.J. shake Hunter and Vaughn’s hands and exchange general greetings until Ilya joins them. Ilya shakes J.J.'s hand first, not even a smile exchanged between them, and then in what feels like a somewhat unnatural move, he shakes Shane’s hand as well. He gets it, it would be strange if he didn’t, but Shane is certain he is failing to keep a straight face during it. This is only made worse when Shane looks down at their hands, and he sees the unmistakable glimmer of a golden Rolex on Ilya’s wrist, which as far as Shane is aware, Ilya does not own. Shane wants to grab his wrist, to pull up his sleeve and confirm that Ilya took the liberty of opening Shane’s watch box and picking it out. Shane never wears the gold one. He liked the sleek design, liked how it felt on his wrist but ultimately never felt like gold jewelry made sense on him. The brand had given him a few to choose from that year, and maybe the gold had reminded him of a certain someone. Shane barely wears any of them, actually, preferring his smartwatch for when he’s working out. He does usually grab one for an event like this, but he didn’t even think to do that tonight.

"They tried to give him a shirt in the store and he didn’t want it," Hunter says, thumb pointing at Ilya’s chest. 

"Looks better this way, no?" Ilya says. “In the store everyone agreed this looks better.” 

"It’s literally freezing outside," Vaughn says.

"You guys went shopping together?" J.J. asks. 

"Hunter looked like shit. Beard was horrible,” Ilya says.

"At least we clean up well at the end of the day," Vaughn says. "They argued for like an hour about which part of the beard is part of the playoff beard and which part could get trimmed." 

"The neck should be clean, always," Ilya says. He then looks at Shane suddenly. "At least you look good." 

"Me?" Shane says, looking down at himself. "I don’t even remember what I’m wearing." 

"Looks good, good tailoring," Ilya says and Shane feels himself being singled out. Physically. One moment he is standing with them in a group, and the next Ilya has him alone, multiple feet away from all of them. Shane actually has no idea how he does it so seamlessly.

"No drink?" Ilya asks him. 

"You look good," Shane says, despite himself. "Smell good, too."

"Thank you. I was waiting for that," Ilya says with a sly smile. They reach the bar and Shane orders a ginger ale. Home by ten. Ilya takes a sliver of vodka.

"Is the watch mine?" Shane asks when the bartender leaves to get their drinks.

Ilya finally pulls up his sleeve to confirm it. "Will you be mad if I say yes?" 

"No. It looks good on you. Flashy stuff like that is more your thing anyway."

"Ah, so I can have it, then?"

"I didn’t say that." 

They get their drinks and Shane beats Ilya to tipping the bartender first. Ilya rolls his eyes and adds his fifty on top of Shane’s hundred. The bartender looks between them in surprise. "Most of these guys are assholes," Ilya explains motioning at the ballroom behind them. "May not be as good rest of the night." 

When the bartender leaves Ilya takes Shane in from head to toe. “Why are you so tense?” he asks. 

Shane doesn’t answer and turns away from him, to look towards the rest of the room. "I’m leaving at nine-thirty."

Ilya makes a show of looking at the watch on his wrist. "Okay. We talk to some people and leave in one hour." 

"We can’t leave together," Shane says.

Ilya mutters something in Russian, his infamous Not this again. And then: "This is getting tiring."

"I’m sorry, but-" 

"It’s fine," Ilya says flatly, standing up straight. "I’ll see you at home."

"Ilya." 

He walks away and gets stopped for a conversation by a group of people just a few feet away. Shane sees the tension in his shoulders. Annoyed. Pissed, even. 

Shane sighs to himself and goes looking for J.J. again. “What’s up with you?” he asks, when Shane plops down next to him at the other side of the bar. “Let me guess, he’s being an asshole.”

“I’m the asshole.” 

“I believe that, too,” J.J. then says. “What did you do?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“If you say so.”

He only catches glimpses of Ilya for the rest of the night, but Shane sends him a text right before he leaves to let him know that he’s going. Shane is home by ten as planned, and Ilya turns up an hour later. 

He walks right past Shane on the couch and heads up the stairs to Shane’s bedroom. Shane follows him up and sits on the edge of the bed, watching Ilya strip off his suit jacket and kick off his shoes. He takes the watch off and puts it on the dresser. 

"Look, I’m sorry, okay?" Shane finally says. 

"For what? For being too embarrassed to even be seen getting in a car with me?" 

"I’m not embarrassed. Everyone at that event knows us, Ilya. The rumors are loud enough as they are."

"The rumors of what? Of me leaving the Raiders behind and moving to another fucking country to be closer to you? But driving home together is too much for you? That’s why I have to stand in the freezing cold, waiting for a fucking Uber to follow you home?" 

Shane is stunned for a moment. "I…"

"You what? You didn’t think about that? You didn’t mean it like that?" Ilya snaps. He grabs a towel out of one of Shane’s drawers and slams the drawer shut. He enters the bathroom and slams that door, too.

Shane doesn’t remember the last time Ilya was this mad at him. They’ve argued before, a lot even. About this specific thing, too. But Shane doesn’t think he’s ever had this level of anger directed towards him. Frustration reaching a boiling point, spilling over and by the time Shane notices, it’s too late.

The rumors of what? Of me leaving the Raiders behind and moving to another fucking country for you? But driving home together is too much for you? 

Shane doesn’t move. He sits there on the edge of the bed until Ilya comes back out of the shower, towel around his waist.

"I, uh, really didn’t think about that and I really didn’t mean it like that," Shane says weakly. And then more forcefully: "Ilya, I’m so sorry. It was a fucking asshole thing to do."

"Whatever. You were right," Ilya says, digging through Shane’s drawers again. "I should have gone to a hotel." He finds a sweatshirt and one of the few pairs of shorts Shane owns that will fit him. He puts them on, not sparing Shane even a glance. 

"Don’t be like that. Obviously I never wanted you to go to a hotel. Ilya, I really didn’t mean to upset you like this. Ilya."

He finally looks at him, no less angry than before. A string of Russian follows, far beyond anything Shane could hope to understand, though he’s pretty sure he hears a few familiar curses in there, just spoken much faster and well, as intended rather than sounded out for Shane to repeat. "That’s not fair," Shane says. 

"And what’s fair? Everything in English?" 

Shane is clearly getting his ass kicked in this argument, regardless of which language they’re having it in, so all he can do is apologize again. This time he gets up and rests his hands on Ilya’s shoulders so that he can look him right in the eye. "I shouldn’t have left you there. I’m sorry. I get weird about these places where everyone knows us. I get in my head about it and it makes me an asshole. Forgive me." Ilya answers the kiss that Shane tentatively presses to his lips.

"And I’m not embarrassed by you," Shane feels the need to say. "You were the hottest person there by a mile. In a sane world, everyone would be jealous of me, even for just being seen with you." Shane feels Ilya’s shoulders relax under his hands, just a little bit.

"Do you know how cold it is outside?" Ilya says flatly. 

"I’m sorry you had to wait for an Uber. Will never happen again." 

"You’re making fun of me now?"

"No, I wouldn’t dare," Shane says. He presses his thumb against the deep frown between Ilya’s  eyebrows in an attempt to smooth it out. It doesn’t work. "Waiting for an Uber. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. And you had no shirt on, because you wanted to look good for me. I take responsibility for that, too."

"You really think it’s funny now? Scott Hunter was feeling sorry for me, offering me a ride to his hotel. I wanted to kill myself."

"To his hotel?"

"He thought I stayed there, too."

"Last I checked, he hated you," Shane says.

"Many people say that. Like it’s in their contracts or something." 

Shane lets his hands down. "Look, yes, I’m joking now, but I know I fucked up tonight."

Ilya steps away from him, at least not as angry as he was five minutes ago, but not completely back to himself either. Shane watches him search through his duffel bag in the corner of the bedroom and come back up with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "I better not hear anything from you," he tells Shane as he passes him out of the room.

"I’m not saying shit," Shane says.

Shane hears the balcony door crack open downstairs in the living room. He gets into bed, not tired enough to actually go to sleep. In fact, he is wired, thoughts racing through his head. Imagine? Imagine that after all of this, Ilya just gets sick of him? Imagine he just decides to break up with him? He could. The only thing keeping him here is their love for each other. Love fades, or so he’s heard. Shane hasn’t experienced that yet. In fact, he has only become more and more infatuated with Ilya as the years went by and it has grown exponentially since they chose each other.

Shane tries to shake the creeping panic attack off. This is the last thing he needs right now. To make this all about him and his own insecurities. He takes a couple of deep breaths, presses his palms to his eyes and waits. He’s mad, but he’s not going anywhere. He put on your clothes. He is sitting in your home. He’s not going anywhere. He’s not going anywhere. He’s not going anywhere. 

"Hey." Shane feels a tug on his wrist. Ilya’s hand feels ice cold on his skin. He lets his hands down and sees Ilya standing over him. The scent of cigarette smoke trailing in after. "You okay?"

"Yeah, no, I’m good," Shane says. "You?" 

Ilya lies down on the bed, on top of the covers. "Perfect," he says wryly, not looking at Shane. And then: "I shouldn’t yell. I’m sorry."

"It was barely that," Shane responds. "Don’t worry about it." 

"I overreacted."

"No, you didn’t."

"It was too much. You want to be more private. For good reason. I know this. I agree. Sometimes you just…"

"I get too paranoid. I’m sorry I ruined your night." 

Ilya makes a face. "How do you even ruin the Gatorade Gala? I had no expectations it would be good."

"Well, leave it to me, I guess," Shane says. 

Ilya then gets up, gets under the covers and pulls Shane against his chest. Shane melts instantly and then yelps and practically jumps a foot in the air when Ilya shoves two ice cold hands under Shane’s shirt.

It sets a weird vibe for the rest of the weekend. At least for Shane. The pictures of Ilya at the event go more viral than anyone could have possibly predicted, so there are cameras pointed straight at Ilya for the rest of the weekend. And worst of all, one of the most viral tweets to come out of it is one of Ilya’s pictures with the text Has anyone checked on Horny Hollander? And while they’re at it, check on Horny Hunter too. Bro was OGLING. 

And before they even know it, the weekend is over and they both have flights to catch to the opposite sides of the country. 

"So, New York," Shane says. It’s Sunday night and they’re both packing their bags. Ilya is leaving that night, Shane the next morning. Shane is excited for a change. He’s headed for L.A. It’ll be nice to be out of subzero temperatures, even just for a day or two. He just wished they had a better week behind them. "Are you flying out with Scott Hunter or are you on a different flight, or what?"

"Same flight. I made sure I’m sitting next to him." 

"Why?"

"Piss him off before the game tomorrow," Ilya shrugs with one shoulder.

"Right. So maybe some of these guys actually have a good reason to hate you," Shane says as if it’s the first time he even considered it, as if Shane hadn’t had a million reasons to hate him over the years. Mostly bad ones, but reasons nonetheless.

"They will all have a very good reason this season," Ilya says.

"My guys are still not over losing to Ottawa for the first time. If you win in New York tonight, you’ll have a target on your back for the rest of the season," Shane says. 

"How I like it." Ilya zips his suitcase up and looks at Shane. "Two weeks?"

"Two and a half," Shane says. "You think you’ll have forgiven me by then?"

"I forgave you and there was nothing to forgive," Ilya says. "You should forget it, please."

Shane wishes it was true. They haven’t been arguing for the last few days. Instead, Ilya refused to talk about it altogether and Shane didn’t feel like pushing. But the discomfort was palpable, even for Shane who is usually last to feel an energy shift. Shane might be oblivious to a lot, but he is about as obsessed with Ilya as he is with hockey. It means that he is quickly learning to read every micro expression on Ilya’s face. And for someone so expressive, it’s certainly not an easy feat. The body language is a little easier to read. The tight shoulders, the nervous leg, the rolling of the neck, the hand reaching up to the necklace. 

Ilya doesn’t leave relaxed that night, Shane knows that for sure. 

Ilya

The summer before Ilya joins the Centaurs is the second summer in a row he doesn't return to Moscow. He hasn’t seen or spoken to his niece in over a year. He doesn’t know how much she grew this time and he doesn’t know how appropriate it would be to contact her. So for now, he doesn’t.

The summer is hectic with his contract ending and the Raiders still trying to get him to stay, confused by his decision. It’s harder than he thought it would be. Ten years, they gave him. People came and went, but plenty stayed for long enough to see him go from an annoying rookie to what he is now. He had no good reason to give them for why he was leaving, and could only tell them that he was grateful for his time there and that he wished them the best. In private Marleau said something along the lines of ‘this Montreal girl better be worth it’ and Ilya didn’t deny it this time. He felt he owed his friend at least that much.

And it wasn’t just his own team. Boston was a massive city for sports. He liked connecting with guys from the Red Sox, the Celtics and the Patriots. He liked meeting athletes from other teams when they were in Boston for their respective sports. Svetlana lived in Boston. She was and is his closest and oldest friend, now hundreds of miles away. Even when they lived closer, they weren’t much for texting or calling. They connected physically. In bed sometimes, but usually just over some drinks or watching a game. Again, Ilya doesn’t know what to do about it. Doesn’t have the energy to figure it all out at the same time.

And Ottawa… Well, it’s a city.

The physical move is annoying, too. He is moving to another country again, with different work laws and regulations for different types of visas. Ilya gets the contact information for some Canadian lawyers from Shane’s parents, so that he can forget about that at least.

And then the Centaurs. When he starts, he hates everything about them. The facility is outdated, the jerseys are ugly, the coach is too nice and the players are too shy. But many of them are still very young, still very hungry and Ilya took advantage of that during the practice sessions they had in the month leading up to the season. One month was not going to be enough. He figured they would just bomb this season, and hopefully get enough practice during this season to be great next season.

That was what he had intended, but he doesn’t know what comes over him. He knows the coach, a man with little to no wins to his name. Ilya doesn’t like to undermine anyone, but they are headed for humiliation and he just could not let it all play out the way it did four years ago, at the Olympics. He was older now. Far more confident as a captain than he was then. So he puts them all to work, puts himself to work. Leadership. There is no team. Only your leadership. His dad was a fucking asshole who never won anything, let alone did he know what it meant to get a group of ego driven men in their early twenties on one line to achieve a common goal. But at the very least Ilya could draw one lesson from the many lectures about his failures over the years. He could do with taking this more personally. He is at the head. If they lose, he loses the most. If they win, he wins the most. He might as well earn that, either way. 

Ilya knows something is wrong with him then, when everything he does feels like he’s doing it on autopilot. When his head feels like it's always dunked in lukewarm water, barely able to hear what is going on around him unless he actively forces himself to come up for air. Eat, sleep, practice. Do it all over again. And again. 

But he comes up for air, sometimes. He comes up for Shane Hollander. 

Shane Hollander would never admit it, but Ilya knows that the man is attracted to success, to high achievements. Far too nice to admit that just any average person would never make it onto his radar. They all win and lose, even Shane Hollander, but Ilya thinks there must be a tipping point somewhere, where if Ilya stops performing, if Ilya stops challenging him, that the hunger in Hollander’s eyes when he looks at him would eventually diminish.

Ilya thought he had gotten pretty close to it. Ottawa started off as a joke of a team. For Ilya’s career, it made no sense. His father would have been humiliated. Why join a team that has never won anything?

The only saving grace, the only thing that would make this make sense, was for the signing fee to be record breaking. He was afraid for a while, irrationally so, that teams would barely show any interest in him at all. But he knew the weight that his name held. Knew how much fun commentators had mentioning him, knew how fast his Boston jerseys sold out every season. 

The Ottawa offer was bizarre. Almost ten years into his career and Ilya still thinks it’s ridiculous how much money these North-Americans like to waste on men playing games. But if anything, it made it so that the move wasn’t a complete downgrade in his career. 

The team was a far greater disaster than Ilya thought it was. In the pre-season practice sessions he spent most of his time learning people’s names and trying to figure out why there was barely any cohesion in the team. Turns out, none of them had even been on the same team for more than two seasons. Ilya knew some of them from a season here and there in Boston, but bouncing around from team to team, how do you even make time to give a shit about anything? And one thing was also obvious, they were not getting paid like Ilya was. He was the first big name, recognizable beyond his own city and beyond the sport. But they were hungry. Management was different, willing to invest. Players were ready to fight. And the fans… Well, they were loyal. 

Of course, once the season started, the news didn’t report that the Ottawa Centaurs lost. They reported that Ilya Rozanov lost. Rozanov’s losing streak. Rozanov’s regret. Rozanov humiliated. 

The coach made Ilya see the therapist. It was his first actual order, one that Ilya chose not to question. Everyone knew he wasn’t doing well, that he wasn’t himself. He asked his sports psychologist to refer him to one who spoke Russian. It was just a joke at first, but the psychologist took it seriously. A woman with an expensive office, in her sixties, no accent. Born in Moscow, moved to Ottawa as a child. He goes in sceptical, sure, but what else is he supposed to do? He doesn’t want to feel like this anymore. He doesn’t want to show up for Shane or his new team like this anymore. 

It took almost half a season of losing seventy-five percent of the games and Ilya starting antidepressants for the headlines to finally change. Rozanov bites back. Rozanov’s revenge. Rozanov singlehandedly crushes Metros. 

And obviously he did not do any of that singlehandedly, but the headline is the headline. He is glad to get the clips and articles from the rest of his team mates in which they were mentioned by name and praised. For some of them it was the first positive press they had ever had. Does Ilya feel like himself again? Sometimes. And then more often. And then sometimes he wakes up feeling like none of it matters at all. But that feeling fades away again, the medication being a lifeline he didn’t know could be so impactful.

And on the other side, Ilya has Shane Hollander. A man who does not need any external motivation or lessons in work ethic. He is filled to the brim with it. Every morning and every night and all throughout the day. The only time Ilya has seen Shane slow down is during the summer, all his edges softening, most of his rules forgotten. As soon as the season starts, the rigidity returns, the routine, the diet, the serious man, back to work. But while Ilya is struggling, Shane calls him every day. Never skipping one, even when Ilya texts him that he’s fine, had a great day, even. “This is for me,” Shane tells him. “I want to hear your voice.” 

Ilya wants to keep winning for this new team. It’s his job, maybe it’s in his nature. But also because in Ilya’s head Shane Hollander can not have a boyfriend who is a loser. Ilya won’t allow it. Even if all he sees in Shane’s eyes when they are together is love. All the time. So much of it.

Shane balks at the idea of ever leaving the Metros, but if he ever did, the best player in the league would need a good reason. If Shane were to move to Ottawa one day, Ilya needs to build that team up to something great. No one else needed to know this. No one else could know this. Shane would play his role perfectly. He would make the playoffs, he would win, or make top 4 year after year and that is all that was necessary for a successful transfer. Maybe within the next five years. The Centaurs need to stand out by that time.

So Ilya’s job is a bit more complicated, even if he seems to be the only one who thinks so. Okay, that might not be entirely fair. He took this task upon himself and there is no one who can help him. There is nothing Shane can do but hold up his own part of the bargain. Ilya can’t say too much, can’t talk to him about the issues or even progress he has with individual players. He also can’t distract him with his own issues, he’s got a therapist for that. 

Ilya is no stranger to loneliness, but there is a certain frustration that comes with having someone so close, so deeply buried in his heart, who simply has never felt what he has felt. Not the loss of a parent he loved, not the loss of a parent he resented, not the loss of a brother who has resented him his entire life. Not the loss of the streets he grew up in, the sky he grew up under. And Ilya would never wish it for anyone, so why burden him with it? 

And to say that Shane Hollander is completely unburdened is a silly oversimplification that Ilya actively has to push out of his mind. He sees him, twisted up over his own sexuality, trapped in this ivory tower built miles high with expectations, results, money. A man who clearly enjoys sex more than any other indulgences, but who thinks he shouldn’t for some reason. Too afraid, too trapped to explore this. He still risked it all, though, to get what he wanted. Time after time. Hotel room after hotel room. Just risking it all.

Ilya has wondered at one point if Shane would have still chosen him if he was given the chance to explore more, kiss more strangers, fuck more men. He doesn’t think it would have mattered, in the end. There is a determination there, in Shane Hollander, that goes far beyond convenience. Their relationship is serious to him. His commitment to them is serious. 

But he is also a man who decided he would try to sleep with a woman for the first time at the age of twenty-six, so who is he to say? To Ilya it was a move so unserious, a move perfectly designed to hurt him specifically.

But yes, Shane is a man with an image so rigid, that the idea of him being seen getting into a car with Ilya Rozanov paralyzes him somehow. And maybe this is just something that Ilya on his turn simply can’t understand. He has been hated from the first day he came to the United States, at seventeen years old. Alone. He could understand some English back then, but could only speak a few sentences himself. He made sure his gameplay spoke for itself. What he got for it in return, in true stupid American fashion, were people calling him an arrogant asshole, including people who he used to look up to before joining the league, like Scott Hunter. But even then, at that age, Ilya was used to much worse verbal abuse from his own coaches and his own father. He got along fine with his team, that was the most important thing. 

But Shane Hollander was molded at that same age, to be a perfect poster boy. His mother curated his image, but Shane was certainly not unwilling. At least not back then. Shane probably regrets some of the deals he made with brands over the years. It made him more famous than the average player in the league, and while it must have seemed exciting at the age of eighteen, nineteen, twenty, now at the age of twenty-eight, Shane wants nothing less than to be recognized. And they are hockey players, not in the NBA. They only really get recognized in very specific places or by huge fans. For the most part they can live their normal lives and be interrupted once or twice a day for a picture. Ilya doesn’t mind it.

But Shane is the one who made sure the two of them came together like this. He is the reason that they can now look each other in the eye, see the amount of love there and lean in rather than look away.

The All-Star games are weeks behind them now. The pictures of Ilya on the red carpet are still circulating and Shane’s frustration about it is amusing. Ilya wanted to look good, of course. He also needed more attention for the Centaurs one way or another. With sports, it’s easy: you do anything outside of the norm and fans as we as commentators will talk about it for days. Looking just a tiny bit sexy was enough to do it. The players who show up to these events all put on the same suit, for every event. It’s easy to stand out. So Ilya did. If they put ‘Ottawa’ or ‘Centaur’ anywhere in their comments and reporting, he considers it a win.

It’s late. Shane flew into Ottawa a night before the rest of his team. Ilya sees him get out of the airport double doors, spot Ilya’s car immediately and head straight for it. He puts his suitcase in Ilya’s trunk, before getting into the passenger’s seat. 

“Hello,” Ilya says. To his surprise, Shane leans over to him, presses a quick kiss to his lips and then pulls him in for a hug. “I missed you a lot,” Shane tells him, muffled against Ilya’s shoulder. “It feels like forever ago.” Ilya hugs him back, not perfect in the front seats of his car, but something at least until they get home.

Two weeks without sex. It’s not the end of the world. Some months they get naked on FaceTime more than in the same room, but it is what it is. When Ilya started his antidepressants, he had read horror stories from people who lost any and all appetite for sex. It sounded awful. Not just for himself, but for Shane, too. Sometimes Ilya thinks that the only time Shane really gets to clear his head entirely is while they are having sex. And maybe Ilya does too. Regardless, Ilya is grateful that neither the depression nor the medication took this away from him. From them. This thing that connected them when they were just boys, really.

Not boys anymore. Men now. Men who share meals, clothes, showers, beds. If they could share more, they would share more. But for now, this is what they have, he thinks, leaving wet openmouthed kisses along Shane’s jaw and neck. More than Ilya ever thought he’d have. 

He’s positioned between Shane’s legs already, knees gripping Ilya’s hips, their thighs streaked with lube. All Ilya has to do is push himself in, seek that tight welcoming heat, and god, he wants to. But he wants Shane to be needier first. Wants him to buck up his hips like he’s doing now, trying to get some friction by rubbing his cock up to Ilya’s stomach. 

Ilya knows it’s time when he feels Shane’s nails dig into his shoulders. “Come on,” Shane whispers, his hot breath tickling Ilya’s ear. “Come on. Put it in.”

Ilya nods. He takes Shane’s mouth with his own and with one hand positions the tip of his cock up against Shane’s sleek hole. He presses the tip in, feels Shane’s mouth fall slack open against his own, a groan escaping. Ilya pushes in further, waits for Shane’s squeeze around his bicep, signaling him that he needs to start thrusting. It’s the closest to a flow state Ilya could ever be. Fully entranced by every way Shane reacts to him. Heavy breathing, soft swearing, hips meeting him with every thrust, chasing Ilya’s mouth with his own for a kiss, and then another. 

“Turn around,” Ilya tells him, giving Shane just enough space on the bed to do as he’s told. As much as he loves looking Shane in the eyes, there is something so intensely and selfishly hot about watching his own cock enter him, again and again. He also watches Shane squeeze his eyes shut and disappear into pure bliss as Ilya fucks into him, picking up the pace with every thrust as he feels the orgasm building in his belly. He braces himself with one hand on Shane’s hip and reaches around with the other one for Shane’s rock hard cock. Shane covers Ilya’s hand with his own, as he strokes him. 

They cum as close together as they possibly can, and collapse back into bed, on their sides, still connected. Shane reaches back to hold him there until their breathing evens out. Ilya isn’t ready to move yet, arm over Shane’s chest, nose shamelessly buried deep in Shane’s hair. Shane’s fingers dance over Ilya’s arm. “I miss you,” Shane then says.

“I’m here.” 

“I miss you all the time,” Shane continues. “Think about you all the time. I don’t know how some of these guys do it with wives. Kids.” 

“We’re together now, no? We can be sad about not being together when we’re not together.” 

Shane snorts at that and nods. 

They have to get into the shower eventually and Shane doesn’t want to share today (‘I need to actually shower, get the airplane off of me’) which is also a not so subtle hint that Ilya should probably change his sheets before Shane comes back to bed.

He does so and then finds himself hovering in the kitchen. There is a pack of cigarettes in his junk drawer. He wants one, really wants one. As a teenager and in his early twenties, Ilya used to smoke every day. He had managed to quit entirely for about two years, yes, because he got sick of Shane’s disapproving looks or sometimes even hostile comments. These days, he has one maybe twice a week. He likes one with a drink, which he barely indulges in these days because of his medication. He likes one when someone really pisses him off. And he really likes one after sex. It’s one of his favorite things, honestly. Not hanging out of a window, not freezing outside on a stupid balcony, but inside in his own room, because who gives a fuck?

Well, someone gives a fuck. Pretty important someone, too. It’s a distant memory, smoking in bed. He represses the urge, goes back into his bedroom and finds some clothes for the both of them to sleep in. His own shower is quick, just to get rid of the sweat he accumulated in the last hour or so.

“I just don’t get why I have to be ‘Horny Hollander’. Why aren’t they calling you out?” Shane complains, as soon as Ilya comes back into the room. Shane is back in bed, fresh sheets and all, wearing his glasses and chewing on the string of his hoodie with his phone just inches away from his face. 

“Is funnier if it’s you,” Ilya shrugs, getting into bed and leaving no space between them. “Extra scandalous if serious Shane Hollander wants Ilya Rozanov’s cock. What are they saying now?”

“They’re just posting horny stuff about you and calling me horny under it.”

“Are you still complaining about having a sexy boyfriend? What else? Too rich? Too funny? Too loyal?” 

Shane chuckles, puts an arm around Ilya’s shoulder and pulls him against his chest. He puts his phone away. “I’m not complaining about any of that. Some of these people talk about you like you’re not even a real person. It irks me.”

“It irks you?”

“Is that a new one? It irritates me.” 

“Okay, so what did they say that irks you?”

Shane sighs heavily and grabs his phone again. He reads out loud: “There is no way that Canadian boy knows what to do with all that. Ilya Rozanov needs to stop playing his little game of soccer or whatever and come eat my pussy until I black out.” 

“Wow, wow, wow,” Ilya laughs. “Tell her I don’t do that anymore.”

“What?”

“Eat pussy. And tell her you’re not a boy.”

“Is this how you want us to come out? In a reply to an extremely horny twitter user telling her that you don’t eat pussy anymore and that I am a man, not a boy?” 

“Sounds perfect. It will get even more attention than Scott Hunter.”

Shane squeezes Ilya’s peck as a way to chastise him, and puts his phone away again.

The headlines that follow their game that week don’t help anything. Hollander submits to Rozanov two games in a row. Rozanov brings Metros captain to his knees. Rozanov has Hollander over a barrel.

The Centaurs eliminate the Admirals, qualifying themselves for a top 4 position no matter what. Ilya does not have it in him to tell the team not to celebrate yet. This is so far beyond what any of them expected - it fills his heart with a euphoria he hasn’t felt in months. On a whim, he skates up to Scott Hunter on the ice, pulling his own jersey over his head. Scott looks at him in disbelief first, but cracks quickly and takes his own jersey off. Ilya doesn’t know exactly what it is with Scott Hunter. He finds him endlessly amusing, finds annoying him endlessly amusing and even more so since his public coming out. The initial reception to it was alright, but in the weeks that followed more and more conservatives started calling it the destruction of the last institution where men can be men and boys can be boys, who do boys really have left to look up to anymore? 

Ilya didn’t know what to do about it except make a point of not avoiding him and better yet, being seen with him where possible. He even considered posting a semi-ironic story to his Instagram at some point saying: Scott Hunter is not special, we all suck a dick from time to time. Shane didn’t think it was a good idea. 

“You’re a menace, you know that?” Scott says, pulling Ilya’s jersey over his head, helmet discarded long ago.

“Is what they tell me,” Ilya grins.

“But I appreciate this,” Scott then says earnestly. “I really do.”

“Okay, loser,” Ilya says. The crowd wakes up again, and a deafening applause rings through the stadium when Ilya lifts Scott’s arm into the air. 

Ilya thinks he could have done it. He was so close to writing history for himself, for this team. He could have done it, had he not landed on his knee halfway through the game and felt it shoot all the way up to his hip. He keeps going, but slower than before. Because the coach doesn’t have the balls to pull Ilya out of the game, he scores one more goal with the injured knee, but they lose two to three to Montreal in the semifinal. Shane skates up to him after the last whistle. Ilya is standing on one skate, alleviating his painful knee from his weight as he’s leaning against the railing near the box. “You good?” Shane asks. His  hair is wet with sweat, sticking to his forehead. His cheeks are red and his freckles always look so prominent on the ice. Maybe it’s the lighting, maybe Ilya is just imagining things. 

“Could have been worse,” Ilya says. “You?” 

Shane’s face breaks out in a huge smile. “Fucking phenomenal. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Ilya smiles back. “Almost there.”

Shane gives him a curt nod. “Get that knee checked out before you go home tonight.”

Ilya thinks he is going to skate away and join his team after that, but instead Shane moves closer to him with some hesitation on his face - and then hugs him. “Players do this all the time,” Shane justifies softly. “I’m not giving you my jersey, though.” 

Ilya passively watches Shane’s post game interview in the locker room on the big screen as he is getting his knee taped up. And then one reporters asks a question that has Ilya’s ears ringing:

“Ilya Rozanov really gave you guys the works this season. Did you expect the rivalry between the two of you to stay so strong after his transfer?”

“No, yeah, Ottawa did great. We all know Rozanov is a beast and there’s a lot of great talent in that team that got a chance to shine this season thanks to him. We got them when it mattered, but If Rozanov doesn’t get MVP this year, I don’t know who will.”

The locker room erupts in loud childish hollering around him and he shakes his head at the ceiling, willing the heat to leave his face.

The finals are in L.A. Ilya is invited by the organization. Shane doesn’t hesitate and says that yes, he wants Ilya to be there. So Ilya goes. He dresses down, wears his baseball cap and sunglasses and actually tries not to attract any attention that could result in any Horny Hollander comments. Shane’s parents are there, too, of course and in an ideal world Ilya would be sitting with them. Instead, Ilya sits next to his own plus-one.

Scott Hunter was not invited by the organization to be there on his own, so Ilya convinced him to come with him instead. They are sitting right behind the L.A. goalie, in perfect view of any camera that might be interested in panning towards him. Ilya had trained himself not to react to anything Shane Hollander related over the years, so he should be fine if Shane scores. At least he hopes so.

“So,” Scott Hunter says, as they’re nearing the buzzer with two to two. “What are the chances of one of those guys calling you up onto the ice when they win?”

It shocks a laugh out of Ilya. “Zero,” he responds. “Maybe if I was a smoothie maker or something like that.” 

“Right. Instead you’re Ilya Rozanov. Not exactly the guy you bring back home to mom and dad. Let alone… It’s bad enough as it is for me. I can’t imagine what it would be like dating the fucking Lionel Messi of hockey down there,” Hunter says nodding towards the ice. And this actually makes Ilya laugh, hard and real and Scott Hunter laughs with him.

“But I’m not, of course,” Ilya then says, casually. 

“Of course,” Scott rolls his eyes. “That man is definitely not jumping down everybody’s throat every time your name comes up.”

“I don’t even know who you’re talking about,” Ilya waves away. “But it’s bad, huh? For you. After everything.”

“Let’s just say I’ve never been more excited thinking about retirement.” 

“It’s time for you.”

“Look, I’m glad I did what I did. Just know that they don’t let it go. Reporters, team mates. Executives. A lot of them just cannot let it go. They treat you differently. And turns out most straight guys just aren’t buying jerseys with a gay guy’s name on it.”

“Right, I would never want a gay guy on my back,” Ilya says.

Scott snorts and shakes his head. “You’re going to get yourself on one of those lip reading pages.”

“Good. I said I would never.”

It’s a tough loss. In overtime, by one single point and with questionable calls throughout the game. Ilya hates this more than anything. Watching Shane leave the ice defeated, disappointed and dejected, and not being able to be anywhere near him.

Shane doesn’t fall into his arms until over two hours later. Dropping his bag at the door of the hotel room and walking with his head down.

Shane hides his face in Ilya’s shoulder when his eyes start getting wet. Ilya holds on to him tightly, presses gentle kisses to the top of Shane’s head. 

“I don’t know what I could have done,” Shane says flatly, head still down. “We were so close. I thought for sure… I really thought…” His voice cracks. “Fuck, I don’t want to cry about this all night. I know someone has to fucking lose. This time it’s us. I just…”

Ilya forces Shane’s head up and wipes away the wet corners of his eyes. “Sometimes it ends like this, even if you do everything right, okay?” Ilya says. 

Shane gives him a curt nod and then pushes his face back into Ilya’s shoulder. “This just sucks so fucking bad. When I get this close, I need to win. I could already fucking taste it.”

“Come,” Ilya says, squeezing him tightly. “Shoes off. Sit down with me.”

They end up on the couch where Ilya has to convince Shane that this is not the time to rewatch the entire game and take notes. They have all summer for that. Instead, Ilya orders the sushi Shane likes to get when he’s in L.A. While they eat, he lets Shane rant about the game. Sadness becomes frustration, becomes anger, becomes exhaustion and acceptance, until he can eventually even crack a smile when Ilya jokes and calls the Metros too greedy anyway. 

In their rookie year, Shane had angrily shouted at Ilya once: “All you do is beat me.” They had yelled more back and forth, beyond idiotic to be doing something like that at a public event where people were actively looking for them all night. But they were nineteen, and they were stupid and they were making out five minutes later and yelling again after. 

But that statement, no, accusation, always stood out to Ilya. All you do is beat me. It was a skewed reality. Ilya did beat him. Often. But not all the time. They were nipping at each other’s heels constantly. But at that time, in their rookie year, Shane didn’t see it that way. If Shane didn’t win every single thing, it meant he was losing. That attitude dissolved over time, because anyone in a competitive sport would go insane if they kept that up. But it did indicate to Ilya that this supposed rivalry wasn’t actually just for show. It was real for Shane on a personal level. Beyond the Metros and the Raiders or any narrative for entertainment. Just as two players in the league, Shane was keeping score. So Ilya did too.

They head back to Ottawa after that, where they can finally, after a grueling season, relax.

Well, that’s the plan. About a week after the finals, he wakes up in the middle of the night in pain. Ilya's knee is swollen to twice its original size. He makes an appointment with his sports doctor first thing the next morning to check for tears and fractures. Yuna insists on driving him to his appointment and on waiting so that she can drive him back, too. The doctor is annoyed with him, pointedly tells him that it is very obvious that he overexerted after the initial injury and that the injury is worse because of it. This makes Yuna give him disapproving looks as well. He gets crutches, a knee brace, ibuprofen and a new appointment in a week. 

“No fucking way. Are you okay?” Shane asks, getting off the couch when Ilya follows Yuna into the apartment on the stupid crutches. Does it hurt less when he uses them? Yes. Does it look fucking stupid? Yeah. 

“Fine. Knee sprain,” Ilya says.

“Could be a partially torn ligament, the doctor couldn’t tell. He has another appointment next Friday,” Yuna says. “Shane, I have to run. Look after him. And remember, you have a phone call in… right now.” 

“Wow,” Ilya says. “She was so nice in the car. I guess it’s different when her real son is here.”

“I have to trust that the two of you can keep each other on track a little bit. Shane, you should be ready.” 

“Go, mom. I’m ready. The agent said she’d do most of the talking,” Shane insists. 

When they’re alone, Shane finally lets his fingers graze over the thick, red and sensitive flesh around Ilya’s kneecap. Shane’s fingers just feel cold on the tender skin. 

“If it’s actually torn ligaments, that’s bad,” Shane says. “Did they make X-rays?”

“Yes, looked fine,” Ilya says. “It doesn’t even hurt.” That is a blatant lie. He took some Ibuprofen earlier, and he didn’t notice a difference. 

It’s only been a week since the Stanley cup final and while Shane still has a bunch of work to do for his brand deals, Ilya has slowly but surely seen him slip into what can only be described as Vacation Shane. Vacation Shane wakes up at seven-thirty instead of six a.m. Vacation Shane eats a slice of bacon with his eggs on toast. Vacation Shane eats one scoop of ice cream at night and leaves the dish in the sink instead of in the dish washer (this happened once and Shane washed it by hand in shame the next morning). Vacation Shane eats carbs with every meal. Vacation Shane also wants to go on vacation. He shows Ilya pictures of Italian mountain sides, lakes and cities. Vacation Shane is also so horny, Ilya is pretty sure it’s what caused his knee injury to come back like this. Vacation Shane does not want to make phone calls and attend meetings.

“I don’t get why you don’t get hounded like this,” Shane says, scrolling through a long list of unopened emails on his phone. “At some point you’d think Hugo Boss and Calvin Klein would know what’s good for them.”

“They have you, why would they want me?”

Shane rolls his eyes at that. “You could be like, an actual model though.”

“Are you dumb?” Ilya blurts out. “And you think you’re what?” 

“I don’t know. Famous enough. Representation enough.” 

“And you think Calvin Klein will put some ugly Asian boy on those posters, because they are just trying to be nice?”

“I didn’t say ugly,” Shane objects. Ilya doesn’t get it. Shane isn’t necessarily insecure about his looks. He shies away from most compliments. He never liked the freckles (insane), but besides that Ilya hasn’t heard him complain. Ilya himself has never been above using his looks to get something he wants, couldn’t care less. Shane barely seems aware that this is a possibility for him. And it certainly is. Thick, black hair. Perfectly smooth skin. Perfectly symmetrical face, sharp nose, deep dark brown eyes, full lips. And the freckles turn an already beautiful face into what is truly the most gorgeous man Ilya has ever seen. He had only grown more handsome over the years. Tall enough, hard body where it needs to be hard and perfectly soft and plump where it needs to be. Every inch of him can have Ilya entranced at any given moment, whether they are in bed together or he’s alone in a hotel room on the road.

So yes, Ilya understands why these brands want Shane Hollander. 

“You’re not even interested in knowing what kind of offers you could get?” Shane then asks. 

“They gave me eighty million dollars last year. Why would I still read emails?”

“Eighty million? ESPN said it was one-twenty.” 

“After tax there is not much left.”

“Fuck off. They’re going to have fun speculating about this injury if people see you walking around on crutches.”

“It’s not a bad injury. One week and I’m fine.”

“I don’t know. Knee injuries can get really bad if you don’t let them heal completely. Some athletes keep having problems for the rest of their careers. God forbid if you actually need surgery.”

“Who needs ESPN when I have you speculating in my house?” 

Shane stops himself, shakes his head a little bit and says: “I’m sorry. You’re going to heal perfectly fine, obviously.” 

“Obviously,” Ilya repeats, right as Shane’s phone lights up. “There’s your call.” 

“Shouldn’t be long. We’ll have lunch after this, okay?” Shane says, already walking into the other room with his phone.

There is a tennis match on TV that Ilya doesn’t care too much about, but the remote is all the way on the other side of the couch, so he settles in for it anyway. As his attention quickly drifts away again, he notices something on the dresser under the mounted TV. Two framed pictures that were definitely not there when he left that morning. Shane had been talking about them framing the pictures of Ilya’s mother for six months now. Every time he was over and found them somewhere scattered at random, he mentioned it again. Shane was right, of course. He should have done it a long time ago. Years ago, before Shane told him to. But Ilya had lied to Shane’s face when he asked him why he hadn’t framed them, back in December. Ilya had said that it was because he took the photos on the road with him. Nothing was further from the truth. He only ever took the pictures out when it was time to feel all his pain all at once. He doesn’t know why he does it, why he sometimes gets the urge to feel his grief for her all over again, like on the day she died. Maybe it forces him not to forget her. Maybe it’s a punishment for himself, for having the nerve to feel any semblance of happiness, without her. With the knowledge of how much she suffered. Why does he get to be wealthy now? Why does he get to hear crowds cheering him on and chanting his name? Why does he get to be loved? And why does she not get to witness any of it? He will never know if he grew up to be the type of man she would have wanted him to be. If she would have wanted him to remain close to his brother. If he differs enough from his father for her to still love him as an adult.

When his therapist first started talking about him forgiving his mother, Ilya got defensive. Angry, even. There was nothing to forgive. She was sick, a victim, she would never do that to him. He just happened to be affected by it. Do you feel any resentment towards her at all? she had asked him. No, he had lied in that moment and then cried about it alone in a dog shit hotel in St. Louis, Missouri. It made him nauseous. It made him feel absolutely disgusted with himself, to center himself in what was his mother’s last act of true despair. And it wasn’t sudden. At the age of twelve, Ilya had already considered that his mother might try to hurt herself at some point. His father had been cruel through it all. Called her useless and lazy when she couldn’t get out of bed for weeks on end, told her that her children might be better off without her, if she was going to act like this. Ilya spoke up to him once, only to say that he was being too hard on her, and his father, twice his size at that time, slapped him so hard across the face that he knocked Ilya’s head against the wall. Ilya resented his dad, yes, but he never found it in himself to fully hate him. It tore him to shreds watching him deteriorate over the years, mostly from a distance. Looking back, his father had been very sick and unstable for a long time, far before the dementia became noticeable. And maybe Ilya could have done something sooner.

So no, Ilya never wanted to resent his mother. If anything he wishes that he could have done something there, too. Anything. Tell her that they could run away. Tell her that she could run away alone, if that is what she wanted. If that would have saved her. 

But the conversation has been running through his head for months. Have you thought about forgiving her? No, he hadn’t thought about it. For what? For leaving me behind, alone, in a world that was too awful and too cruel for her?

Maybe he does selfishly resent her for the little things. For not sticking around to drive him to his stupid doctor’s appointment. For not sticking around to meet the person that he will spend the rest of his life with. For creating two worlds that will never cross: one where she is his mother and one where Shane is his lover.

When Shane returns from his call, Ilya has his eyes closed and his leg elevated on a couple of couch pillows in an attempt to get some actual rest and get rid of the awful feeling in his belly at the sight of those pictures. His eyes flutter open when Shane enters the room. 

“You okay?” Shane asks immediately, hovering over him. “Do you need a new ice pack?”

“No, come sit down,” he says. 

Shane walks around the couch to sit next to him, making Ilya rest his legs on Shane’s thighs. “Are Scott Hunter and his boyfriend still together?” Shane then suddenly asks.

“Huh?”

“Are Scott Hunter and his boyfriend still together?”

“How would I know?” 

“Aren’t you friends now?” 

“That’s too much.”

“Well, you posted a birthday message for him on Instagram yesterday. Just a cool picture of the two of you on what was probably the worst day of my life.”

“Oh yeah,” Ilya says, and it even pulls a little laugh out of him now that they seem to have arrived at what Shane is actually bothered by. Ilya had done that. He had posted a candid picture of the two of them that was taken at the Stanley Cup final last week, sitting next to each other in the stands, in conversation. He had added the caption ‘he keeps getting older, how does he do it?’ He had done it on a whim while he was waiting in line for a coffee yesterday morning and saw a random NHL fan account announce that it was Hunter’s birthday. He thought it was funny, figured it was in line with his little personal mission to keep Scott Hunter relevant. 

“You don’t think they could get the wrong idea?” Shane then asks. 

“Who? Scott Hunter and his boyfriend? Or you?” 

Shane looks unamused. 

Ilya isn’t exactly in the right mindset to have this conversation with Shane right now. He should have probably done it much earlier, somewhere around the All-Star games, but he might have been in an even worse state of mind back then. Ilya needs Scott Hunter to stay successful. If Shane sees Hunter being shunned and ignored by the league, if Hunter is shut out and forced into retirement, there is a chance that Shane will never want to risk it. Ilya is in no hurry. He doesn’t need a Scott Hunter-style coming out gesture. What he does crave, intensely and more with every passing day, is for them to be able to do more normal things together. He got a small taste of it in New York. He thought Shane enjoyed it for the most part, even if it did get overwhelming to him at some points. 

“Anyway,” Shane says. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Did you see the photos? I went to the drugstore this morning and they had a bunch of frames. Figured we put it off long enough.”

“Yes, it’s nice, thank you,” Ilya says. Because it was a very nice thing for Shane to do. Any other thing Ilya feels about it, is his own problem. “You didn’t put up the picture with Svetlana?” 

He gets a pretty intense glare in return, that Ilya should have probably anticipated. He’s not his sharpest self at that moment.

“No,” Shane says. “That one is still in the junk drawer in the kitchen where you left it. Excuse me for drawing a line at putting up a framed picture of your ex-girlfriend in your home.”

“My knee is hurt, Hollander. Why are you getting mad at me?” Ilya deflects. Shane rolls his eyes at him, but his fingers graze over the skin visible through Ilya’s knee brace. “This looks really painful.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“You should probably keep ice on it.”

“There’s been ice on it all morning.”

“What about lunch, you thought about what you want?”

“Uh, no,” he says and he feels himself cracking at the amount of questions. He’s really not having a good day. “You decide, please.”

 “Are you sure you’re okay?” Shane then asks, reaching over to touch Ilya’s face. “You seem distracted, I don’t know.”

“Just tired.”

“You woke up in pain last night. They must have given you some stronger pain killers, right? At least to get to sleep.” 

“They said they don’t mix well with my other medication.” 

“Oh. That fucking sucks.”

“Hm.”

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have hassled you about the Scott Hunter thing if I knew you weren’t feeling well.”

“I feel fine.”

“You don’t need to keep saying that.” 

Sometimes Ilya thinks he liked it better when talking to Shane felt like talking to a wall. Every effort to connect bouncing off of him, voluntary or not. These days Shane likes to stare at Ilya’s face like he’s trying to read his mind and sometimes it feels like he’s getting pretty close. Ilya shouldn’t be surprised, though. Still, it never stops feeling mortifying to be seen by him like this, past depressive episodes hanging so heavy and dark between them. Shane trying to reach through it. 

And it’s not the worst it has ever been, and Ilya thinks the vague dread in the pit of his stomach will make place for something else soon enough. So he puts on a smile and grabs Shane’s shoulder, massaging it. “You know what helps me sleep?”

“We could go for a drive,” Shane suggests. “The cottage might be too far for now, but getting out of the city could be nice.”

“Cumming real hard,” Ilya says.

“Oh. Yeah, I think I can make that happen for you.” 

“Can you? You will have to do all the work. And you are on vacation, so…” He touches Shane’s ear.

“I can compensate for an injured player,” Shane says. “Can you hop your way towards the bedroom?” 

It’s a real lesson in self control. Shane rides him, nice and steady at first. And then he’s teasing, sinking down on Ilya’s cock completely, staying there and stroking himself, dark eyes locked with his - he knows what Ilya wants, too. To fuck the life out of him. To press him into the mattress with his entire weight and fuck him until they ruin the sheets again.

Ilya starts moving unconsciously, grabbing Shane’s hip, moving his upper body to turn them around, change positions. Shane pushes him back down. “Don’t move,” he tells him, planting both his hands, large and heavy, on Ilya's chest. Ilya nods stupidly, kissing Shane back hungrily when he leans down. 

“Is this what it’s going to be like,” Ilya pants into his mouth. “You’re going to use me like this?”

“And you’re going to fucking like it,” Shane says, through a breathless smile.

He is, yeah. “God, fuck,” he curses, curling both arms around Shane’s waist as he rolls his hips down on him, sliding on his cock, again and again. Ilya is fighting against the brace on his knee regardless. His toes curl while he cums, shooting a dull pain up into his knee that he can easily ignore. Shane cums into Ilya’s happy trail, which is a fun thing that has Ilya’s head spinning for minutes after. 

Shane doesn’t get off. They stay there, warm and sweaty for a while. Shane curling a few strands of Ilya’s hair around his fingers, gently. 

“You know I’m the luckiest man alive, right?” Shane says, big brown eyes painfully soft, just inches away from Ilya’s face. “I can’t even imagine a life without you anymore.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Ilya says. “Ты – вся моя жизнь. Я живу только ради тебя. You are my whole life.” I only live for you, he doesn’t add. 

Ilya must have dozed off after that, because when he opens his eyes again, the sun isn’t as high in the sky anymore. The first thing he thinks about is his knee, the dull ache is still there and it feels hot again. Shane is still in bed with him. Still naked, but with his glasses balancing on the tip of his nose, book in his hands. Ilya feels lighter, somehow. The fog in his head is gone, the dread that lives in his stomach seems so far away, pushed to the side by butterflies and, well. 

“I’m hungry,” he announces.

“Good. Mom told dad about the knee. He brought a whole tray of lasagne like half an hour ago. It’s still hot.”

“Why? Does he think they’re going to cut my leg off soon or something? Did the doctor tell your mom I am going to die from this sprained knee?”

“He’s just being nice. You stay here, I’ll grab us some,” Shane says, getting off the bed. He puts on the pair of shorts he left folded on the dresser. Ilya is distracted by the curve of his ass and thighs for a second, and then snaps to. “Stay here? You want to eat on the bed?” 

“We’re changing the sheets tonight anyway,” Shane says.

“Am I going to die, really? I ate one chip on the bed last month and you yelled at me for twenty minutes.”

“We’re changing the sheets, like I said.”

“I see. This is my special treat for being a sick boy. You give the dog a nice day before you shoot it in the head.” 

“I’m not going to shoot you in the head. Sometimes people are just nice,” Shane calls back, already out of the room and halfway to the kitchen.

Ilya knows that. He has never been comfortable being treated like a patient, not for his physical injuries or otherwise. But Shane has this in him; the care, the softness, the worry. He doesn’t react well to it being rejected either, so Ilya concedes in these moments. It’s far from the worst thing in the world.

Shane comes back from the kitchen with two plates and a new icepack for Ilya’s knee. Ilya eats his lasagna in bed while Shane eats his sitting on the edge. “Maybe we should go for a drive after this. It’s so nice out, still.” 

“Ah, you’re going to shoot me in the head while we watch the sunset? Okay. If we get ice cream first, I won’t resist.”

It’s the first time Shane drives Ilya’s car. They like going on drives like this. It’s not a bar or a restaurant, but it’s not their respective apartments either.

It’s also the first time Ilya sits in the passenger’s seat of this car, specifically. He said goodbye to the flashy sports cars when he left Boston. He still thinks he’ll go back to one, one day, but a car that flashy proved not to be very convenient for a daily driver. Boston fans would recognize it and the weirdest ones would follow him. It happened enough times for Ilya to not want to risk it anymore in Ottawa.

But that doesn’t mean he has to drive an ugly car, obviously. The Lamborghini Urus is an SUV, which makes Shane respect it more. It’s black, understated. But at the end of the day, it’s still a Lamborghini, and still turns heads here and there. It’s the interior that Ilya likes the most. It makes every other car he gets in feel like a wasted trip: he could be sitting in his own car, with soft, comfortable, heated seats, perfect air conditioning and even a ceiling that lights up with stars for some reason. Ilya has just enough room to keep his leg straight if he pushes the passenger’s seat all the way back.

“Okay, it does drive nice,” Shane admits when they’re on the road. “It’s very smooth.”

“It’s not fifteen years old.”

“Twelve. And twelve years is not that old. You know, I saw these pictures of people doing road trips in Northern Italy. It looked really beautiful,” Shane then says. “I know we can’t really do it this summer, but I would love to do that with you one day. Maybe next summer.” 

“Why not this summer?” Ilya asks. 

Shane turns his head to look at him. “We didn’t plan for it, obviously.” 

“You want to go, we can go. Visa processing with Russian passport takes maybe two weeks. Maybe I can pay to get it faster.”

“No, we can’t. You know we can’t. A trip like that takes weeks of planning. We can’t just show up there.”

“Hm. Yes, we can. We have money.” 

Shane turns to look at him again, a small smile on his lips. “Next year,” he says. “We can try to plan ahead and go for like three weeks.”

“Whenever you want,” Ilya says and reaches over to take Shane’s hand in his own. 

They park at a little rest stop along the river where Shane used to often stop with his parents on the way up to the cottage. It’s a mostly wooded area, with benches and picnic tables scattered on green patches. It’s a pretty nice summer evening, people are out, kids are playing in the grass.

“I used to love the way the trees smell here,” Shane says. 

“Not anymore?”

“Can’t really smell them with the windows up.”

Ilya rolls his eyes at that. “And you want them to stay up?”

“There’s a lot of people here,” Shane says. 

Ilya reaches up on the ceiling of the car and presses the button that first collapses the shade control, and then retracts the entire glass panel of the panoramic roof. 

“I didn’t know it could do that,” Shane says. 

“Lots of nice cars do that.”

“Do you smell that? The pine trees are so strong. It’s like we’re at the cottage already,” Shane sighs. Apart from the scent flooding in, it’s the sound, too. The river shloshing in the distance, birds overhead.

“Parks around Moscow smell like this, too,” Ilya offers.

“Really?”

“Hm.” 

“Do you miss those places?”

“Sometimes yes.”

“What do you miss the most, from back home?”

Ilya shrugs, but simultaneously knows he is being too dismissive. Shane does this sometimes, shoots rapid questions at him like it’s an interview, but Shane is trying to talk to him, to understand him, to know him.

It’s easier for everyone if Ilya just says he doesn’t miss any of it and never wants to go back, that it never even crosses his mind.

“There’s this bakery near where I used to live. Every time I left the apartment in the morning, I would smell the bread they were making. And the family who worked there, they were there my whole life. Even when I left and came back, they always knew me. Not from hockey or anything, just from the neighborhood. Things like that. Restaurants I used to go to, people I would run into.”

“Yeah. Of course, you had a whole community of people there, apart from your family. Knowing you, you were being a menace in that bakery every day.” 

“She would give me one free cookie,” Ilya suddenly remembers with a shock, like it was buried so deep and suddenly shot to the forefront of his mind. “Every time I bought bread or something to take home, she would give me one cookie. Chocolate chip. She said it looked like me, with my, how do you call them? Birthmarks?”

“Your moles?” Shane says, eyes growing huge. “That is the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.” 

“She even gave me one last time, when my dad died,” Ilya remembers. He had pushed those memories so far away, for some reason. He almost forgot that not every moment there was horrible. Shane reaches over and puts his hand on Ilya’s cheek, thumb grazing over the most prominent beauty mark there. “You’re sweet like one, too, you know.”

“I thought I was asshole of the year.” 

Shane shakes his head. “No.” His eyes flutter down to Ilya’s lips, the start of a dangerous game they have been playing for years. Shane leans in anyway, kisses him, long and slow, hand moving into his hair, tongue teasing out and before Ilya knows it, they’re just making out. For once, he has to be the person with some sense and pulls away with a little laugh. “These windows are not tinted like that,” Ilya says, wiping at the corner of Shane’s mouth.

“Sorry. I got carried away,” Shane says, looking a bit embarrassed, but not really sorry at all.

Shane gets them pretty bad coffee and pretty bad ice cream from the gas station nearby. They stay there that evening until the sun sets far away, across the river and over the tree tops.

The awards are a week later. By that time, Ilya can do without the crutches. Most of the time, the pain isn’t that bad anymore, but the flights from Ottawa to Vegas were uncomfortable. When he gets to his room, he takes a shower first thing, like some kind of pavlovian response. He puts on something comfortable, turns on the a.c, pours himself a drink and pops a couple of chocolates into his mouth. At least he always gets the nice suite for these award shows.

Shane doesn’t need to knock. Ilya had slipped him the extra card key in the lobby after checking in separately. Yuna and David were there, too. They were already mumbling, annoyed, about how silly it is that the four of them can’t have dinner together that night. 

Shane gets on the bed with Ilya, smelling like oranges from the soap and shampoo he uses at home as opposed to the hotel soap and shampoo Ilya just used. Even for two nights, he refused to leave it behind.

“This room feels familiar,” Shane says, looking around. “Have we been in this…” Shane trails off.  Ilya looks around. Could be. He had been in hundreds of hotel rooms. Most of them were not nearly as nice as this one. “Maybe we’ve been here before.”

Shane gets off the bed without a word. He disappears into the living area of the suite for a moment and Ilya, confused, hears a chair being dragged across the floor. Shane places it right in front of the bed. He looks up at Ilya and then sits in the chair. “Do you remember?”

Yes, Ilya remembers. Ilya had been crushed at the Olympics that year. He had also won the cup that year. He had won MVP that year. He had also been a complete mess that year. “I remember,” he says.

“Take off your clothes,” Shane commands. 

Ilya doesn’t need to be told twice. He pulls his shirt over his head. He hooks his fingers over into his sweats and underwear to pull them down simultaneously.

“Stop,” Shane then says, sounding like a strict teacher, and Ilya freezes. “I want you to touch yourself over the pants. Get hard for me like that.” 

Ilya sits back against the headboard and spreads his legs. He cups his cock through his sweats, already feeling the heat rising all over his body. “Like this?” he asks, massaging himself through the fabric.

Shane doesn’t answer. He is staring intently at Ilya’s body. Watching his hand move, mouth slightly open, until the imprint of the full length of Ilya’s cock is clearly visible through the grey sweats. 

Shane’s eyes finally flutter up to look at Ilya’s face. “Show me,” he says, voice deeper than normal.

Ilya shakes his head, still stroking. “You first.”

Shane huffs out a laugh and then takes off his shirt. 

“More,” Ilya says and starts scooting his waistband down. Shane gets off the chair now, track pants sliding down his legs. He steps out of them and directly onto the bed, one knee at a time. He helps Ilya get rid of his sweats and underwear, and presses a kiss on Ilya’s stomach. Ilya acts fast. As much as he wants to have his cock touched in any way possible, he has priorities. He lays Shane down on the bed, scoots down and takes Shane’s cock in his mouth, his own cock snug in his hand. “Fuck,” Shane curses. “Fuck, Ilya. You look so…”

Ilya sucks his cock until he cums and then presses sloppy wet kisses on the inside of Shane’s thighs until his breathing evens out a little. Ilya then gets up, straddling Shane’s hips as he starts stroking himself. Shane pushes his hand away and takes over. He scoots closer and takes Ilya into his mouth. He doesn’t need much, just a moment in that perfect wet heat, just a flash of stretched pink lips and big brown eyes, is enough for him to spill. 

Shane grabs both his hands and pulls Ilya on top of him, as he lies down on the bed. Shane has one hand in Ilya’s hair, gently running his fingers through it. Ilya closes his eyes. 

“Don’t fall asleep,” Shane says.

“Hm.”

“You’re meeting your friends in an hour.”

“Who cares about them?” 

“You do. When you’re not fuckdrunk like this,” Shane says. Ilya lifts his head off Shane’s shoulder and kisses him, slow and long. Ilya could stay like that forever. Warm skin, soft lips, gentle tongue, their smell of sex with a hint of oranges, the only sound coming from their breathing and their kissing. 

Then Ilya’s phone buzzes loudly on the nightstand. Shane pushed at his chest gently, smile playing on his lips. “Check it. Before they come looking for you.”

Ilya gets dressed slowly. He waits for Shane to be fully dressed, too, and then says: “You should come.” 

“Where? To the bar?”

“Yes. Your team will be there, too, no?”

“I think so. I saw some messages.” 

“So you should go. I will not bother you there. I promise,” Ilya says.

“I was going to stay here and watch back the final one last time,” Shane says and when Ilya looks at him, Shane is one hundred percent serious. 

“No,” Ilya decides. “Definitely not. You will go down to the bar and have one drink with your team and your friends.”

“Ilya.”

“I will not bother you. Other side of the room all night,” Ilya assures him. “Put on your shoes.” 

The massive, fancy hotel bar is reserved for the players that night. It’s already busy when Ilya shows up. He is barely in the door when an old team mate from Boston pulls on his arm to get his attention. Shane said he’d come down ten minutes after him, so Ilya watches the entrance until he finally shows up. He finds Hayden at the bar quickly and that is when Ilya relaxes. He catches up with Marleau for a long time, makes time to annoy Scott Hunter a little bit and introduces the Ottawa players who haven’t been to many of these events to as many people as he can. He ends up at the bar with Scott Hunter and Carter Vaughn and Vaughn, being the sociable guy that he is, turns around and tries to bring Shane and Hayden into the conversation. 

“I was just saying, how pissed would you be if you won the cup and as captain, you don’t get MVP.”

“It will happen this year, so we’ll see how pissed Clark gets,” Ilya says.

“You haven’t won it yet,” Scott Hunter says.

“No, it’ll go to Hollander. For consistency. The most boring team, ten years in a row. All thanks to him,” Ilya says, so much for not bothering him. But he is sitting right there, so close. Looking at him. The idea of not addressing him at all seems so silly to him.

“Ah, back to ancient beef,” Vaughn says.

“No, It’s going to Rozanov,” Shane says. “Even if it’s just for getting Ottawa fans to turn their TV on for once in their life.”

“That’s your hometown, turning their TV on for me,” Ilya fires back. He shouldn’t. He already broke a promise not to engage with Shane at the bar. Shane turns on his barstool to face him and Vaughn who stood between them is behind him, suddenly.

“They don’t know any better. If you’ve never won anything, third place feels like first.”

“Remind me, what place did the Metros get this year?”

“Because of bullshit calls,” Hayden interrupts. “Don’t even start. That shit still pisses me off.”

“Ah, don’t be a sore loser, Pike,” Vaughn says. “Who needs a refill?” Ilya looks at the bottle of beer in Shane’s hands, barely a sip taken out. Shane is still looking at him, though, so Ilya asks: “Have you ever had a Moscow mule?” and of course he’s doing the one thing he is not supposed to do, again. Flirt with Shane Hollander where people can see him. But what is he supposed to do? He rarely sees Shane out like this. The other guys have moved on already, chatting loudly at the other side of the counter. 

“I don’t think so,” Shane says, tapping his fingers on his beer bottle. “What is it?”

“Cocktail. Some vodka, ginger beer, lime.” 

“I don’t really like vodka.”

“Yes. That’s why. People with bad taste mix it with a bunch of bullshit,” Ilya says, leaning on the bar. He motions at one of the bartenders to come over. “Two Moscow mules, please,” he says.

“You would do that to your vodka?” Shane asks. And that smile is a Shane Hollander flirt, if Ilya has ever seen one.

“It’s shit vodka anyway,” Ilya shrugs. He then leans forward and lowers his voice. “So… you come here often?” 

“Fuck off,” Shane huffs, turning away from him as his cheeks turn pink.

“My bad,” Ilya then says. “Are you taken?”

Shane fiddles with the bottle for a second and then caves. He lowers his voice and says: “I have a boyfriend.”

“Not a smart man, leaving someone so beautiful here alone.” 

“You shouldn’t be flirting with someone who is taken.”

“Why not? You don’t want to be tempted?”

Shane snorts: “I wouldn’t be.”

“Am I not your type?”

“I just don’t pick up strangers at bars.”

“I see,” Ilya says. “Where do you pick them up?” 

“I don’t.” 

“I don’t believe you.”

The bartender puts two copper mugs with napkins in front of them. Ilya pushes Shane’s drink closer to him. “I think you like being bad more than you want to admit.”

Shane ignores him, picks up his drink and puts the straw to his lips. “It’s good,” he says, looking genuinely surprised. “You can barely taste the vodka.”

“That could be dangerous for you. It doesn’t taste strong, but…” Ilya takes a sip of his own. Yuck.

“You hate it,” Shane laughs, breaking character completely.

“It’s too sweet.”

“I like it, honestly,” Shane says, taking another sip. “Why am I just learning about this?”

“Probably because your stupid boyfriend doesn’t take you out enough.”

“You don’t know where my stupid boyfriend takes me.”

“Where is he now then?”

“He’s close.”

“Hm. Would he be mad, seeing you flirt with another man like this?”

“Livid. You’d be in danger.”

“I see. Can you keep a secret from him?”

“Depends. How big is this secret?”

“Big. Could cost me my life.”

“You’d risk your life for a night with me?” 

“It’s always more fun when it’s dangerous, no?”

Shane bites his lip, feigning hesitation. “I can keep a secret,” he then says.

Ilya finishes the drink. It’s still early. They were just blowing each other in his room a little over an hour ago, but his body is absolutely roaring to go again.

“Penthouse 1,” Ilya says, unnecessarily, but he is committed to this bit.

When Shane enters the room, he stays at the door. “Nice room.”

Ilya walks up to him, crowding him against the door, and touches his face. He watches Shane fight a smile. “This boyfriend of yours…”

“Yeah?” Shane says.

“You’d risk all that for one night with me?”

“Depends. What do you have to offer?”

Ilya takes Shane’s hand and places it between Ilya’s legs, cock straining against his jeans. “This,” he says, voice deepening involuntarily. Shane, shameless as he is, rubs at Ilya’s crotch. “And this.” Ilya kisses him, tongue first.

Shane scratches his throat when they break apart. His hands come up to Ilya’s hips as he looks Ilya in the eyes. “You need to make it worthwhile if I’m going to risk it all.”

“Oh, I will,” Ilya says. And it’s a good thing they got each other off earlier that evening, because with this build up, Ilya would probably have burst through his pants, watching Shane strip completely naked. Ilya strips down too, feeling suffocated by every inch of fabric on him at that moment. He lifts Shane up, right under his ass. “Your knee…” Shane starts as he holds onto Ilya’s shoulders and wraps his legs around his hips. 

“Sssh,” Ilya says. “You don’t know about that.”

He brings them to the bed, gets between Shane’s legs and grabs both his thighs from under him, doubling Shane over. “Does your boyfriend ever eat you out?” Ilya asks, running a finger over Shane’s dry hole. Maybe he’s going a bit fast now, but fuck it.

Shane shakes his head. “You would do that? The first time?”

“My only chance,” Ilya says. He presses a kiss to the back of Shane’s thigh and then scoots down lower. He ignores Shane’s aching and dripping cock for now, and instead presses his mouth right up to Shane’s hole, flicking out his tongue. 

“Oh my god,” Shane breathes out. “Fuck, Ilya.”

“You don’t know my name,” Ilya reminds him. “Get on your stomach.”

Shane stays put for a moment, staring at Ilya with eyes so hungry it makes him dizzy. Shane has one hand on the base of his cock when he finally turns around, showing Ilya the perfect thick curvature of his ass, the dips in his back, the muscles in his thighs. Ilya buries his face in Shane’s ass like his life depends on it, eats him out until he has to come up for air, until Shane is loud, until his thighs are trembling and his toes are curling. Ilya then uses his fingers, uses so much lube Shane’s ass is glistening with it.

“It’s enough,” Shane pants, getting on his knees on the bed. “Fuck me, please.”

Ilya gets behind him, Shane’s back resting on Ilya’s chest. He presses his cock between Shane’s ass cheeks. “Who?” Ilya then asks, grabbing Shane’s face from behind. “Who is going to fuck you?”

“You,” Shane responds. “Ilya.”

Ilya pushes into him and gives Shane’s shoulder a light bite. “Ilya who?” he asks. 

“Oh my… Ilya Rozanov,” Shane says. “Fucking fuck me, please, Rozanov.” 

And Ilya’s willpower simply doesn’t extend beyond that. Shane doubles over, clutching at pillows, burying his face in them, smothering some moans and letting others echo through the room, mixing with Ilya’s own groans and pants until they collapse into each other completely.

It takes a while before they’ve caught their breath again, lying side by side, glistening with sweat and lube. “So…” Shane says still just the tiniest bit breathy. Ilya turns to look at him. “Where’s your accent from?”

Ilya laughs, cramping his knee. 

The bed is in bad shape, but there is a set of extra sheets in the closet and Shane takes it upon himself to change them after they shower. When they’re back in bed again, with the TV on this time, Shane says: “I, uh, have a gift for you.” 

“For me? Why?” Ilya asks, wracking his brain to figure out if he is forgetting something.

“It’s early,” Shane says. “And it’s not really that special or anything. Your birthday is next week, but I didn’t want to wait until after the awards, so…” He reaches into his bag next to the bed and comes back up with a green Rolex box, designed to hold one single watch.

“Don’t laugh,” Shane warns. “I know you want to laugh. And before you even ask, yes, I got it for free. But that’s not the point.”

“Okay, okay, show me,” Ilya says.

“Like I said, it’s not that special but-” 

Ilya grabs the box out of his hands and opens it. It’s the gold watch Ilya wore for the Gatorade gala, months ago. He had done it on a whim, wanted something of Shane’s close to him, maybe. “You said I couldn’t have it,” Ilya reminds him.

“Take it out, turn it around.”

Я люблю тебя уже 10 лет - S.H 

“I thought of buying you a new one, but I don’t know. This one was more personal. And this summer will be…” 

“Ten years,” Ilya says, running his thumb over the words etched on the back casing of the golden watch. I have loved you for 10 years.

“I know we joke about it, but it’s true,” Shane says. “For me at least.” 

“For me, too. But…”

“But what? They didn’t misspell it, did they? I was so scared they would-” 

“No. But from now on, when you get me a gift you need to tell me so that I can get you a gift,” Ilya tells him sternly.

The actual award show is the next night. Ilya and Shane don’t leave the hotel room until they have to. Shane wears the exact same tux he wore three years in a row. Ilya puts a shirt on this time, but forgoes the tie or bowtie. He leaves the top few buttons unbuttoned, enough to just almost be inappropriate. And he wears his watch, of course.

When Ilya’s name is called out as the winner of this year’s MVP, he doesn’t have a speech prepared. He has never written one and he isn’t about to start now. Instead he keeps it very short: “Thank you, Ottawa. Sorry to everybody else. The Centaurs will be even better next season.” And Ilya can’t help but laugh when he hears the distinct voices of his team mates erupt with cheers, before the rest of the audience joins in.

When he leaves the stage with his little trophy, he has a strange moment of deja vu to the first time he won it, the year he won the cup. His father had called it too little, too late. No cup and no award could make up for being humiliated at the Olympics in his homeland. 

Ilya stands backstage for a while. What he really wants is to go outside. Smoke a cigarette. Get out of these clothes. Cool down. This dark corner is the next best thing. People shuffle around him, getting ready for the next award, and then the one after that.

“Congratulations,” he hears from the side and looks up to find Shane Hollander standing a few feet away, holding a gold envelope. “I think that if you didn’t win this year, there would have been riots.”

“I would have rioted, yes,” Ilya says.

Shane looks around. There are people everywhere, working on production. Shane still takes a step closer to him. He takes a deep breath and then softly says: “You deserve that thing more than anyone has ever deserved it. The results speak for themselves, but I saw with my own two eyes how hard you worked this year. You did great, Ilya. I’m so proud of you. You don’t even know.”

And Ilya can’t describe how hard it is not to kiss him in that moment. He doesn’t know how to react, otherwise. He has no words ready for something so loving, so sincere.

“Mr. Hollander,” one of the production people calls out. “You’re up.”

Shane nods and taps the envelope against his palm. 

“I love you,” Ilya says, finally. 

“Sssh,” Shane says with a finger up to his lips as he walks away and towards the brightly lit stage.  

Ilya wipes at his burning eyes, before finally moving and heading back to his seat.

Chapter Text

Shane

Shane doesn’t think they’re going to make it. Ilya and him. With every day that passes, it becomes less and less likely that they are going to be able to keep this secret all the way until their retirement. Shane isn’t planning on retiring before thirty-five, at the earliest. Six more years? How are they going to last six more years like this?

The summer went by too fast. Shane has never struggled this much with getting into the right head space at the start of a new season. He wasted two weeks in Vancouver and L.A. working on brand deals. Then Ilya was in New York for a week, doing promotional material for the league. They spent weeks working on the camp. Shoved somewhere in the middle there was one week at the cottage with just him and Ilya. One week. And it already feels like a lifetime ago.

The camp was a success, mostly thanks to Shane’s mom who put about a year of preparation into it. He knows he had fun doing it, he also knows that he was wound up so tight, so deep in his own head about every single thing that could cause this to blow up in their face, he barely remembers the things that were fun about it, now that it’s over. But they were all over the sports news outlets. All over the Ottawa and Montreal local news. All over social media. “Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, the unlikely duo teaming up to shine a light on mental health and suicide prevention as well as offering space for children from low income households to be trained by some of the greatest hockey players in the world.” 

Maybe it was a bad idea. How could he have ever thought that it was a good idea to begin with? All it did was attract attention to them as a pair. He doesn’t think there have ever been more headlines with both their names in it. In hindsight, Shane thinks it might as well have been the dumbest idea anyone has ever had. They should have just let everyone think they hated each other, right? If the goal was to avoid suspicion-

But that wasn’t the goal, Ilya reminds him, quietly while Shane is sitting there, at the edge of the bed with his head between his knees, barely able to breathe. The main goal was for them to have more time together, remember?

Ilya is kneeling in front of him and Shane reaches out, hugs him tightly. He balls his fists into Ilya’s shirt and Ilya holds on to him, hands gliding over Shane’s back, large and soothing. “I’m so sorry,” Shane sighs into his shoulder. “I thought we’d have more time.”

“We’ll have more time,” Ilya assures him. “So much time you will get sick of me, okay?”

When? Shane wants to ask. Six years from now? Ten?

He’s off to Montreal tomorrow. A wave of anxiety had washed over him while he was packing his bags. He hadn’t slept in his Montreal apartment in almost three months. He was excited for the season to start, he really was. He wanted to get back on the ice. He already had a plan for practice, knew exactly what he was going to work on, what the team needed to work on.

And then he got overwhelmed with just how much stuff he had accumulated in Ilya’s apartment. Practically all of his clothes. All of his gear. New and old. Why and when did he bring all of this stuff here? And why was he getting so pissed at the idea of having to pack all of it up and unpack all of it again when he’s back in Montreal?

Alone.

He was going to be alone again. His parents wouldn’t be ten minutes away anymore. Ilya… Ilya wouldn’t be with him anymore. Even during the camp, as hectic and stressful as Shane thought it was, the whole reason he got through it without crashing and burning in the middle of it, was because Ilya was there with him at the end of every night and at the start of every morning. He tried not to think too much about that paradox. Ilya’s proximity being the reason Shane was constantly stressed and  Ilya being there being the only reason he got through it. At least at the end of the day they could be together, go to bed together, fall asleep together.

And why had he gotten used to that so fast?

He would have to get used to falling asleep alone again. No broad shoulders to rest his head on before dozing off. No warm body to press up against during cold mornings. No soft conversations in the dark about their future, about what type of house they’ll one day live in. No arguing about who was going to get up first to turn the coffee machine on. No random kisses on the back of his head throughout the day. Or on his shoulder. Knee. Ankle. Whatever part of his body was closest to Ilya at any given moment, Shane learned to expect a little kiss on it.

Instead he’d be back to sharing hotel rooms with Hayden or J.J. Back to seeing Ilya through a screen more often than in real life. Back to weeks of not being touched at all. Back to pretending to the rest of his team that he’s straight and pretending he’s not head over heels in love with their worst enemy.

And what about Ilya? How was Shane supposed to know if Ilya was having one of his bad days? It was hard enough for him to feel useful to Ilya in those moments when he was there with him physically. It was hard enough for Ilya to talk to him when they could both see what was happening. How was Shane supposed to make sure, at the very least, that he was still eating on those days? That he wasn’t smoking a whole pack in a day? That he wasn’t turning off his phone to avoid people entirely? That he was taking his medication, not drinking too much, keeping his routine and doing all the things his therapist recommended? 

The closest Ilya got to discussing anything about his depression over the summer was telling Shane that he would sometimes get weird dreams if he forgot to take his medication at night. It was also the first time Shane considered that that could happen. That Ilya could forget, and that he must have forgotten multiple times for him to notice that him having weird dreams was linked to that. It had led Shane down an incredibly anxiety filled rabbit hole of reading about what could happen when Ilya’s specific medication wasn’t taken as prescribed, all the possible side effects of the medication on its own, including increased suicidal thoughts. It had scared him so much that he demanded Ilya’s phone after that and put a nightly alarm on it to remind to take his medication on time.

“I need to finish packing,” Shane says, eyes still closed and forehead pressed against Ilya’s shoulder.

Ilya gently forces Shane to sit up straight so that they can look each other in the eyes. “You’re finished,” Ilya tells him. “If you need any of this I’ll bring it next time. It’s good to leave some clothes here, no?”

Shane lets himself be guided into the shower after that, lets Ilya help him out of his clothes, lets himself be pushed under the hot stream before he finally feels himself come back into his own body, with the most beautiful man in the world looking at him with worried eyes.

“I’m good,” Shane assures him, though he can barely even convince himself with that. “Come in here.”

He wakes up the next morning with an hour left before his alarm goes off. He slinks out of bed, careful not to stir the sleeping man beside him. He quietly packs the rest of his things, leaving behind a few clothes. Ilya stirs awake when Shane goes to put them away in Ilya's closet.

"It's still early," Shane whispers. "Go back to sleep."

"Are you leaving now?" he asks hoarsely, dark silhouette sitting up in bed.

"No. No, I'll wake you up before I go."

Ilya rubs at his eyes before throwing the covers off of him and flinging his legs over the side of the bed. He has Shane in a bear hug from behind within seconds. "You were going to flee in the middle of the night, weren't you? And what if I keep you here like this, huh? You think you can escape like this?"

"I'm not trying to," Shane chuckles, barely struggling at all. Ilya smacks a loud kiss onto his cheek from behind and then lets him go. Ilya leaves, entering the bathroom. Shane goes into the kitchen to finally make their coffee. The machine whirs awake right as the first beam of sunlight enters through the blinds at the other side of the open living room.

Ilya joins him right when the machine quiets down again. He hops onto the counter, eyes still a little heavy with sleep. He accepts the cup Shane hands him. Little bit of milk, one sugar.

"What time are you leaving?"

"I was thinking around eight, but maybe I should go earlier if I want to beat rush hour traffic a little bit."

Ilya nods and then gets that expression on his face like he wants to say something. Or like he wants Shane to say something. 

"What?" Shane asks. 

"Nothing.”

“What?”

“Do you want me to go with you?"

"Go with me?" It dawns on him slowly. Embarrassment creeps over him like a wet blanket. "Is this because of last night? I freaked out for like a second. I feel fine now."

"I want to go," Ilya then says. "Help you unpack. Fuck one more time in your Montreal bed and then I come back again tomorrow morning."

"Come back how? On the train?"

"Rent a car, maybe."

"Ilya, I don't need a chaperone back to my own house."

"You don't need one, no. But maybe you want your boyfriend who you like very much to go with you."

"And that's a good enough reason for you to drive up and down for four hours?"

"What other reason would I need?"

“Renting a car in Montreal and leaving it in Ottawa is going to cost a fortune.”

“I have so much money.”

"Ilya..."

"Is okay. You don't want me to go, I don't go. You want me to go, ask nicely."

"Oh, I'm the one asking now?" Shane lets out a chuckle and puts one hand on each of Ilya's thighs, tips of his fingers stopping short at the hem of his boxer briefs. 

"If you don't want me to go, it's okay too. I'll stay here alone,” Ilya says, covering one of Shane’s hands with his own, sipping his coffee with the other.

"You don't think it'll just be harder to say goodbye after that? It has to happen eventually."

"Yes, but then it will happen tomorrow and not today."

"And what are people going to say when they find out Ilya Rozanov was in Montreal for one day, the same day Shane Hollander came back to the city for training?"

"They will think we are very good friends."

"What about Hayden and J.J.? I told them we'd have dinner after the team meeting today."

"Hm. Were you not planning on coming back home after dinner with Hayden and J.J.?"

“And your meeting tomorrow is pretty early, too.” 

“Twelve-thirty is reasonable.”

“Do you actually want to go or are you just worried because I freaked out last night?”

“Probably both.” 

“Fine.” 

“Oh? All out of problems? Ask me nicely then.”

Shane takes a deep breath but he can’t keep the stupid smile off his face. “Will you please come to Montreal with me today?”

“I don’t know. I will have to see if I have time.” 

It’s another bad idea, probably. For all the reasons he had already voiced, but there is another reason that presents itself during the drive.

Ilya wants to talk about it.

It’s actually something that Shane was afraid might happen when Ilya told him he was seeing a therapist. What if he thinks Shane is a lost cause now? What if his patience runs out? What if he decides that their careers are not worth all of this time in the closet? What if he thinks Shane is a coward for keeping them in there?

“I feel fine, really,” Shane assures him when they finally exit Ottawa and get on the highway, eyes strictly on the road. “Like I said, I was just thinking about how fast this summer went by. I was hoping I’d be here when you close on a house, at least. And that we’d have enough time to go back to the cottage, even just for a few days.” And these are all true things. Still, it feels like he is leaving so much out that it might as well be a lie.

But when Shane glances over, Ilya’s face visibly softens. “I will not buy a house until you see it,” he says.

It’s one of the things that Shane has been the most excited about during the summer. Ilya finally decided to look for a house to buy. It drove Shane absolutely insane that he couldn’t go to any of the viewings with him, but Ilya took plenty of pictures and videos, per Shane’s demands. First, Ilya had just asked Shane for his advice, citing the whole real estate fetish again. And it was true, more or less. Shane wasn’t interested in being an actual landlord, but he had learned a lot about home building and real estate as a whole when his cottage was being built. So giving advice on that side of things is actually fun for him. But then Ilya started asking him what kind of bathroom he personally wanted. What kind of kitchen he personally wanted. How many bedrooms does he think they need? He wasn’t being very subtle about what this meant for them. Ilya wanted this to be their home. Both of theirs. It had flooded Shane with so much warmth and excitement, he could barely describe it. In a perfect world, Shane would build their forever home from the ground up, too.

“But is that all this is about?” Ilya then asks. “This will be a big season for both of us, after last year. Lots of eyes on Ottawa. Lots of eyes on the two time champion.”

“I don’t see why it would be any different than last year. Except that this year I’m going to be a three time champion.”

“You said that last year.”

“This time I’m serious.”

“Yes. Last year was very unserious for you,” Ilya says and while he sounds playful, when Shane looks over at him again, he still looks far more serious than Shane is comfortable with in this moment.

“Maybe… Maybe we can talk about it later,” Shane finally says. He can keep repeating that nothing is wrong, but at this point it is useless. “I don’t really want to think about all of it right now.” All of it. Because there is so much, he barely knows where to begin.

They get to Shane’s apartment a little after eleven, not having been able to avoid traffic at all, really. His team meeting with the Metros and management isn’t for another few hours, so they have enough time to put his things away and for Shane to attempt to get rid of some of the dust that has accumulated on every surface of the apartment since he’s been gone. 

“Half of these clothes are mine, Hollander,” Ilya says when Shane pokes his head into the bedroom where Ilya is hanging a nice, black cable knit sweater onto a hanger. 

“You clearly don’t know how to take care of them,” Shane says, taking the sweater out of his hands. “You’re supposed to fold wool, not hang it. It’ll stretch out.”

“Ah, it’s better in your hands then? What about this one?” Ilya holds up the faded grey Boston Celtics hoodie that Shane has been sleeping in for weeks if not months now.

“Come on. I wear that way more than you do.”

“And this?” Ilya digs out a very nice black leather jacket lined with lambs wool, that still has the frankly obscene price tag on it. 

“You said it looked better on me.”

“Now I know why you didn’t want me to come with you. You didn’t want me to see how you robbed my house.” 

“I thought we shared everything.”

“You don’t even like the Celtics.” 

“You don’t wear that one a lot.”

“I wore it before you started wearing it.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. It’s mine now.”

Ilya groans dramatically. He lets all the clothes fall out of his hands and back into the open suitcase on the floor of Shane’s bedroom. Shane might have snapped at him a bit too hard when he tried to lift the suitcase onto Shane’s bed earlier.

Ilya wraps both of his arms around Shane’s waist, pressing their hips together. “Okay, I’ll make you a deal.”

Shane has been with Ilya long enough to know that they usually both win in these deals. “Oh?”

“I make you cum first, I keep it. You make me cum first-”

Shane’s phone buzzes violently in his front pocket, pressed between them, startling them both. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Shane says and Ilya lets out a chuckle. He leans in, but the phone buzzes again and then again. Shane begrudgingly digs it out of his pocket.

“If that is who I think it is…” Ilya starts. 

“It’s Hayden.” 

“What a suprise.” 

“He texted me, too. He wants to know if we're still on for tonight.”

“Okay, text him back so that I can explain the deal to you.” 

“The deal was very clear. Maybe I should cancel dinner, though. I might be back too late and I can catch up with them tomorrow…”

Ilya practically licks those last few words out of his mouth with a kiss so lewd it makes Shane hot all over in a matter of seconds. “If you cancel, they’ll say I’m keeping you hostage,” Ilya says.

“They don’t need to know you’re the reason.”

“You said you didn’t want to lie to them anymore.” 

The words pull Shane out of it, out of the soft and warm space of flirting. Back to… whatever it is he’s feeling now. Cold. Annoyed.

He pulls himself out of Ilya’s embrace.

“Hey,” Ilya says, but Shane ignores him. He leaves the bedroom and calls Hayden back downstairs in the living room. 

“Hey, bud,” Hayden answers. “Just checking in. Are you back home yet?” 

“In Montreal, you mean? Yeah, I got here about an hour ago. I’m still in the middle of unpacking, but we’ll catch up after the meeting, okay? Did J.J. pick a restaurant yet?” Shane asks, sitting down on the couch.

“Since management hired a new nutritionist , J.J. wants to wait to see the new meal plan before he picks a restaurant. Aren’t you proud of him?” 

“When did he start giving a shit about what the nutritionist has to say?”

“Never. And neither do I, but you were definitely going to bitch about it, so. Nice, right?” 

“Fuck you. And I already got the meal plan two weeks ago.”

“What? How did you manage that?” 

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll text it to him.”

“Cool. Also, I’m pretty sure he’s bringing the girl he met this summer. Can’t wait to see what he bagged this time.”

“Don’t say ‘what he bagged’. What are you, twelve?” Shane snorts.

“Whatever, there’s no way this is going to work out anyway. It’s like his third girlfriend this year. He’ll have another one by Christmas.”

Shane doesn’t get into it. He doesn’t want to think about how many girlfriends of his peers he has played nice with in the last ten years or so. He doesn’t want to dwell on the fact that he’s been in a real, committed relationship with Ilya for two years now and what an absolute disaster it would be if he decided on a whim to bring Ilya to this dinner that they had planned for just the three of them.

“Say that to his face, if you’re so sure,” Shane says, and then: “Look, we’ll catch up later. I’m still in the middle of something.”

“Alright, bud. I love you. We’re going to fucking kill it this year.”

Hayden hangs up before Shane can respond to that and Shane lets his phone clatter onto the coffee table in front of him. Ilya saunters into the room and sits down next to Shane with a longsuffering sigh.

“Don’t do that,” Shane says.

“Do what?”

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not mad at you.” 

“Who are you mad at then?”

“I don’t know, okay? At everyone. Maybe at you too. You can’t just call me a liar like that.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“Sometimes it just feels like something horrible could happen at any second and everything we’ve worked on since we were getting scouted as children, is just going to disappear,” Shane then blurts, staring at the coffee table. “I hate walking around with this feeling, but I just can’t get rid of it.” He feels Ilya’s hand coming to rest on the back of his neck, thumb rubbing soothing circles on his skin.

“And what is this horrible thing that will happen?” 

“I don’t know. I really don’t know, Ilya. I just fucking hate that it’s hanging over us like this all the time.” 

Ilya reaches over with his other hand to grab Shane’s, intertwining their fingers. He brings Shane’s hand up to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of it. “Do you think people have suspicions?”

Shane snorts. “You know they do.”

“Not really. No one sees us do anything that friends don’t do.” Ilya presses a kiss to Shane’s t-shirt clad shoulder.

“People think it’s weird that we’re even friends,” Shane sighs, tilting his head to give Ilya access to his neck. “And that’s not true. That second picture of us almost kissing is fucking everywhere.”

“Hm. They want to know why someone so serious and professional like you would ever be friends with an evil whore like me.”

“That article was dumb. All of Florida was defending you in the comments.” 

Ilya then pulls Shane closer, wrapping both his arms around him, bringing him back to the warm and safe space Shane wants to live in forever. “Listen,” Ilya then says. “You love me, right?”

“Fuck off.”

“And when we are not together, it’s not good.” 

“Hm.”

“So we are going to be together no matter what, no?”

“Yes, obviously.”

“Okay, so then people are also going to notice something no matter what. And I am not going back to leaving through the back door.”

“No, Ilya, I don’t want you to,” Shane feels the need to assure him.

“And if all they see is an almost kiss, then that’s just what friends do at the gas station. Very normal close friendship between two men.”

“Two pictures of us almost kissing in public is fucking crazy, though.”

“The first one was in Hayden’s yard, not in public. You should have killed him for that.” 

“But the other one was our own fault. And at least Hayden’s video was blurry. They got us in 4K pumping gas, forehead to forehead.” 

“It was six in the morning. Friends do weird stuff at that time.”

Shane lets out a laugh, despite himself. “Look, I don’t like feeling this paranoid either, but sometimes these feelings creep up on me and I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t like how it feels like I’m lying to everyone, but telling the truth… I just feel like it’s going to get so much worse. Like I won’t be able to handle what comes after. What if it ruins us, even? What if we don’t even have each other after?”

He’s rambling, but it is the closest to speaking the whole truth he has come so far. Shane looks up to see Ilya examining him, worry still etched on his face, but there is a small smile there too.

“I don’t think you will let it happen,” Ilya says .“You’re very stubborn and you have decided that we are going to be together.”

“I decided that, yeah. All on my own.”

“You decide and I follow.”

“I want us to decide together,” Shane says, and the earnest look on Ilya’s face hurts a little bit. Shane reaches up to graze his thumb over Ilya’s cheek. “But there’s not much for us to decide right now. We need to focus, both of us, on starting the season off strong.”

Ilya chuckles at that, turns his head to press a kiss to the hand Shane has on his cheek. “Fine, let’s change the deal then,” he says. “The first Ottawa - Montreal game is in three weeks. Winner will get the Celtics sweater.”

“It stays here until then,” Shane responds immediately.

“No, I need something to wear when I go home tomorrow,” Ilya argues. “It stays with me.”

“How do I even know you’ll let me have it when I win?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, fine,” Ilya sighs dramatically. He cradles Shane’s face with one hand. “New deal again. Last one to cum keeps it until the game.”

“Or we could just flip a coin.” Most of Shane’s words are swallowed up in Ilya’s kiss. A very purposeful kiss, one that tells Shane very early on that he might not win this one. He rarely wins these games, though he’s argued before that he has an inherent disadvantage because Ilya likes to come up with them on the fly. He might also put up more of a fight if the whole premise of the game wasn’t Ilya simply going I’m going to make you cum as hard as possible. 

Shane lets it happen. Lets Ilya lead him back into the bedroom, lets Ilya take over entirely. Shane accepts the unspoken offer of not having to think at all for a little bit, the offer of pure unfiltered sexual pleasure. 

Shane’s body had changed just a little bit over the summer. They worked out together most days. Shane had always found weightlifting to be the most boring part of any of his workouts. He preferred cardio and he above all he preferred on ice training ten times over either of those. And yet, he couldn’t deny that lifting with Ilya for these few months did do something to his body that he liked. Annoyingly, Ilya might be a better fitness coach than the fitness coach for the Metros. As much as he likes teasing Shane for anything and everything, he also says things like you have perfect form, Hollander, and look at your legs, Hollander, do you know how good they look? and Don’t worry, you can lift more. I won’t let you hurt yourself. All of these small things that make him blush like a fucking idiot. In return Shane is pretty geeked seeing Ilya’s hip and knee flexibility widen by like an inch, thanks to a few yoga poses Shane managed to get him into and keep up with. 

Shane also tried to figure out what exactly Ilya was doing in the gym to get his ass like that, but unfortunately it seems mostly genetic that every spare ounce of fat that stays on his body, goes solely to his ass.

Shane has been lean his entire life, and he knows Ilya-  no, he knows people are attracted to him. But this summer might have been the first time in his life where he looked at his own body in the mirror and thought beyond what it could do for him on the ice. He thought damn, I am pretty fucking hot actually. His arms and chest had gotten a little bit bigger, and his legs and ass had also been getting more defined. Ilya was only one size bigger than him, but the gap was closing. 

Shane had gone shopping once that summer. Rose was in L.A. when he was there for a photoshoot and she convinced him that he needed a bunch of new shirts that he really didn’t. But it was just something to do to pass the time together, so he didn’t mind following her around from store to store for an afternoon.

Shane doesn’t need any of it, really. He didn’t need that stylist years ago and he doesn’t need the nice clothes now. He is an athlete at the end of the day. He is pretty much always going to the gym. It’s his job. When he did get the stylist he was going out with Rose, going out on dates, being photographed with movie stars. When he goes anywhere with Ilya, the whole point is to be as inconspicuous as possible. Trying to actively look hot certainly has the opposite effect. Still. The idea of maybe one day dressing up nicely and going out together is… nice. Maybe with his parents again, like they did in New York. Or maybe just the two of them, one day.

He had let his hair grow out, too. Not on purpose, really. Everytime his mom mentioned his hair was getting long, he took a mental note to made an appointment for a haircut, and by the time he thought about actually making that appointment, it felt like a waste of time. Why waste a morning of afternoon going to a barbershop when he could be in the gym with Ilya or making lunch with Ilya or having sex with Ilya? 

Besides, Ilya seemed to like it. His hair parts in the middle now, just a couple of long strands falling over his forehead and Ilya’s hand are in it all the time. It certainly makes it more unruly. Now both of them are fixing their hair every thirty minutes or so because the other person can’t keep their hands off of it.

Along the way, Shane had decided that he would definitely get that haircut before the season started. That didn’t happen. Maybe because he was short on time in the end, and maybe because Ilya scrunched up his face and started whining everytime Shane brought it up.

Ilya doesn’t need to be seduced, Shane knows that. But it is certainly fun to see his face change when he for whatever reason thinks Shane looks particularly good, or when Shane makes the first move, the way Ilya’s expression goes from neutral to turned on in a split second is so fucking hot every time.

But this, this is what Shane wants right now. What he needs, maybe. To be served. To lie on his back and for Ilya to blow him, eat him out, work him open and fuck him slow, making it last, orgasm building up and making him more desperate for it with every passing second.

Ilya pulls out when Shane gets close, replaces his cock with three fingers and lets Shane spill inside his warm mouth.

Shane closes his eyes tightly. He stays like that until he feels the bed dip beside him. He opens his eyes to find Ilya watching him, fondness on his face making Shane stupidly shy for a second. Ilya presses a kiss to his forehead, and Shane turns his head up to press one on his lips, too. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Ilya tells him. “But I did win.”

“No, this one doesn’t count,” Shane argues.

“Yes, it does. Keep your head in the game next time.”

“I fucking hate you,” Shane sighs. “Like actually. Fuck off.” 

He watches Ilya get off the bed, pull on his boxers and then grabbing the Celtics hoodie where it is strewn on top of Shane’s barely unpacked suitcase. “It’s kind of cold, no?” 

“No,” Shane says. “In fact, you’re sweating. At least take a shower before putting that on.”

“Why? It’s my sweater, it’s my sweat,” Ilya says. 

“For three weeks,” Shane reminds him. 

“We’ll see.” Ilya pulls the sweatshirt over his head. It’s not as big on Ilya as it is on Shane, but still roomy and comfortable. Ilya is still a little red in the cheeks, eyes bright and practically sparkling in that moment. Shane has this thought about ten times a day, but the man is just so fucking beautiful. Everybody knows it, everybody sees it, but secretly Shane believes that nobody actually gets it, nobody actually understands exactly how beautiful he is. Not like he does. Not when they can’t see all these moments, when it’s just the two of them. And Shane would protect these moments with his life.

Shane spread his arms. “Come back to bed for a little bit.” 

Ilya doesn’t hesitate and nestles into Shane's arms. Shane presses a kiss to his forehead and runs his fingers through his hair, right up until he’s in danger of being late for his meeting if he doesn’t get out of bed.

He is exactly on time, which for him is actually ten minutes late, since Shane prides himself on being at least ten minutes early to prepare fr any and all team meetings. But Shane is excited about it. He feels better than he did yesterday and better than he did earlier today. The meeting is only about an hour long, discussing meal plans, off ice workout schedules, schedules to get their physicals and other logistical information that Shane has already read multiple emails about. He had contacted the nutritionist two weeks ago so that he could start preparing early. Thankfully she was nice enough to go over everything with him over the phone. He felt kind of silly explaining to a professional who worked for the team that his personal nutritionist, who had worked with Tom Brady, mind you, had given him a far more restrictive plan. Now, Tom Brady was one of the greatest athletes of all time, that was undeniable, but Ilya who loved to point out that he had met him in Boston a few times, was convinced Tom Brady had rocks for brains.

In the end the team nutritionist had managed to convince Shane that the macrobiotic diet might be the reason why his muscle build had been stagnating for a while now. His personal nutritionist wasn’t happy about it at all, demanding his own phone call with Shane and the team nutritionist. Ilya thought it was hilarious that Shane was getting stressed about two nutritionists fighting about him and demanded to hear all of it on speaker phone.

Shane couldn’t deny that his body had changed over a summer in a way that he liked, and the diet that helped him do that was closer to the one the team nutritionist recommended. He still had to count macros, but he never really minded that. He would be lying if he said it didn’t bother him to make a change to his routine that was this big right before the start of the season, but one of his personal goals this year is to make it harder for Ilya Rozanov to slam him into the boards. Even with the five pounds of muscle he gained over the summer, Ilya still had at least fifteen on him. 

“I missed this fucking guy,” J.J. says, swinging an arm around Shane’s shoulders as they’re headed out. “People are losing their shit about that hockey camp. ‘Why is our sweet angel Shane Hollander getting involved with that animal Rozanov?’ they’re asking. And me? I’m liking all those comments.” 

“No, you’re not,” Shane laughs. “You would have liked it, if you had come.” 

“I’m keeping my schedule free for next year. You better invite me again.”

“That’s not just up to me. Rozanov picks the instructors.”

“Fuck that. Since when?”

“Since the one guy I picked, canceled on us,” Shane says pointedly. “It didn’t make the Metros look good, I can tell you that. Centaurs were there. Even fucking Raiders and Admirals.”

“I was there,” Hayden interjects. 

The restaurant is only ten minutes away. It’s a nice place and they are definitely underdressed, but the hostess leads them to a private table in the back of the steakhouse. Shane has been there before for his dad’s birthday, and he knows his parents like coming back here when they’re in town. It’s a lot of red meat, which Shane doesn’t eat much. According to his new meal plan, he can have it twice a week. He doubts he will.

“So, that’s still a thing then?” J.J. asks when they’re seated. Hayden is sitting across from them. “Rozanov.”

“Obviously,” Shane says. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I think we just have to accept that he’s not going away anytime soon,” Hayden says looking at J.J. “You should have seen them at the camp, staring at each other from across the ice like fucking Romeo and Romeo, or something.” 

“That didn’t happen,” Shane says and turns to J.J. “Wait, weren’t you supposed to bring your new girlfriend?”

“Nah, not today. I can’t talk about you and Rozanov around her.” 

“How much are we going to talk about him? And why?”

“I’ve personally heard enough for a fucking lifetime,” Hayden says. “Do you know how many people have asked me about that picture of you and him at the gas station? I told my dad it’s photoshop so he’d shut up about it.”

“That was… stupid. It was like six in the morning and there weren’t any cars around. We didn’t think anyone was there. Still, we should have been more careful,” Shane says. He doesn’t tell them how much worse it could have been if that creep who took the picture got there like ten seconds earlier.

“It’s okay, man. I mean, some weirdo was taking pictures of you from behind the bushes. You didn’t actually do anything wrong,” Hayden says.

“Still, stuff like this brings weird attention to the team,” Shane says, shifting uncomfortably. “Whether it’s fair or not. It’s just what it is.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve done gayer shit on the ice than what was in that picture,” J.J. says. “But the camp was a success, that’s what most people are talking about.”

“Rozanov is like a genius with kids. Don’t tell him I said that,” Hayden tells Shane sternly and then continues: “They can’t get enough of that guy. And it’s like he never gets tired of them - all they do is scream by the way. The whole time. Just fifty of them, screaming at the same time for five hours straight,” Hayden says.

“So much for a fucking vacation,” J.J snorts. “Should have gone to the Bahamas like me.”

“Weird, I didn’t get an invite to the Bahamas,” Hayden says and looks at Shane. “Did you?”

“No,I didn't. In fact, I’m pretty sure he told me that he was going to be a volunteer for my charity, which I worked very hard on, and then he canceled a week before. To do what again? Oh, go to the Bahamas,” Shane says. “Sounds nice.”

“My family wanted to go. My sister graduated college. What was I supposed to do? Say no?”

“No, it’s fine. There were like six underprivileged kids there who specifically wanted to meet the best defenseman in the world, but I explained to them that you decided to go to the Bahamas instead. At the last minute,” Shane says.

“Oh, fuck off. Nobody is asking about me when Shane Hollander is around.”

“They were asking,” Hayden says. “I thought it was weird, too, honestly.”

The dinner is great. Shane is glad he went. He is also very glad to come back home to his warm apartment, to kick his shoes off, take his jacket off and to fall right into outstretched arms. It’s just a little past ten. Ilya is lying on the couch with the tv softly buzzing in the background. Shane lies fully on top of him, resting his head on Ilya’s chest.

“Was nice?” Ilya asks, propping his chin on top of Shane’s head.

“Hm-hm. I wish I could come home to you like this every day.” And it’s not a secret necessarily, but the words fall out of his mouth almost involuntarily.

“Yes, me too,” Ilya says easily. “Did you have drinks?”

Shane shakes his head. “You would have liked the restaurant, though. They have private tables. Maybe I can take you there some time.”

“Some time.”

Shane gets off of him carefully. “I’m going to get ready for bed.” 

Ilya turns the tv off before Shane has even finished his sentence. Shane takes his hand and pulls him off the couch. He is about to lead Ilya up the stairs to his bedroom when something catches his eye in the kitchen. “Where did those come from?” Shane asks, looking at the bunch of bananas on his kitchen counter.

“Where do you think?” Ilya answers.

“You went to the grocery store?”

“Yes. You went to the nice restaurant with your friends. I had to eat too.”

“What else did you get?”

"Nothing, Hollander, it’s not a big deal.”

Shane lets go of Ilya’s hand and moves further into the kitchen. He had been dreading the trip to the grocery store. Doing groceries stresses him out on his best days, but he hadn’t even found time yet for it in his schedule the upcoming week. He opens the fridge, and as he suspected, it’s stocked. Not only is it stocked, but Shane can see at a glance that all the items from Shane’s meal plan are there. He smiles at the two rows of ginger ale and two rows of coke on the bottom shelf. Like a promise that they’ll be back together soon enough.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Shane says, heart so full it feels like it could explode.

“Do what? We need breakfast in the morning. Come to bed,” Ilya says. Shane kisses him there in the kitchen first. Ilya tastes minty fresh.

In Shane’s bedroom, the sheets have been changed. The air is cool and crisp, telling him it’s been aired out. The dust on the night stands and lamps is gone. His suitcase is tucked nearly in the corner of the room. 

Shane opens his mouth to say something, but is distracted when Ilya throws himself onto the bed, ruining the neatly stretched out sheets immediately. 

Shane took a shower earlier that day before going out, but he jumps in again for just five minutes or so, just to wash the street off of him before getting onto the freshly made sheets.

When he comes back, Ilya is under the covers, back in the Celtics hoodie, and Shane has suddenly never wanted to sleep in a particular item of clothing more in his life. He puts on a pair of shorts and then hovers next to Ilya’s side of the bed. 

“No,” Ilya says.

“I’ll give it back in the morning.” 

“I don’t believe you.” 

“Please.”

“No.”

Shane sighs. He tried asking nicely. He gets on top of Ilya, straddling his hips. There is a thick duvet between them but Shane can still feel the strong legs under him. “Ilya,” he says. 

“Go away.”

“I thought you came with me to take care of me,” Shane says, and from the way Ilya rolls his eyes it’s clear he sees right through the manipulation tactic. “You’re going to deny me this one thing on our last night together?” Shane continues. He puts his hands on Ilya's chest. “You don’t love me enough for that?”

“No,” Ilya says flatly. “You know what I love?” 

Shane knows. He licks his lips. Ilya’s eyes are on his mouth immediately. 

Shane leans down and kisses Ilya on the lips once, then moves down to his neck. It’s warm there, his scent so strong and overwhelming that Shane gets drunk off of it in seconds. He stops just short of giving him a visibly hickey. 

“You’ll give it to me after this?” Shane asks, pushing the covers out of the way, leaving the duvet bunched on the empty side of the bed.

“Depends,” Ilya says, pulling the sweatshirt up from his stomach, revealing his abs and the blonde trail disappearing into his shorts.

“On?”

“On how good you do.”

Shane wakes up first the next morning. Warm and comfortable, with Ilya barechested spooning him, arm around his waist feeling heavy and secure. Ilya’s steady breathing feels ticklish on the back of his neck. Shane closes his eyes. It’ll be a while before he gets to wake up like this again. He stays like that for maybe fifteen more minutes, before Ilya stirs awake, lifting his arm to rub at his eyes.

“I’ll make coffee,” Shane says, shuffling out of the room. Coffee he has because Ilya refilled the machine with fresh beans yesterday. He also has everything to make the one breakfast they can agree on for heavy workout days: eggs, eggwhites, whole wheat bread, avocado’s. He silently wonders, as the scent of coffee fills the air, what he ever did to deserve to have Ilya Rozanov all to himself. When Ilya comes out, Shane hands it to him his coffee. Black, one sugar. “There is no milk for your coffee.”

“They only had big things of milk. You don’t drink it. It would go bad,” Ilya says around an exaggerated yawn.

And time flies, is the thing. They’re having breakfast one second, getting dressed the next and then it’s time to say goodbye for real.

Downstairs in the garage of Shane’s building, Ilya steps into the rental car he got yesterday before he went grocery shopping. He’s wearing the Celtics hoodie with the hood pulled over his hair, one of the strings between his lips.

It’s the first time Shane figures that Ilya wasn’t just being stubborn and annoying about not letting Shane keep the sweatshirt. The first time he considers the possibility that Ilya might want it for the same reason Shane wanted it to begin with. Shane had claimed it a while ago, when Ilya still wore it around the house often. It was soft from years of wear and it smelled like him no matter what, even right out of the wash.

Ilya is in the driver’s seat with the door open when Shane says: “I’m glad you came with me. Thank you. For everything.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just wanted to fuck you one more time,” Ilya says. “And I did it twice, so thank you.”

Shane rolls his eyes at that, but reaches overa and grazes his thumb over Ilya’s cheek. “You promise you’ll call me if you’re having a hard time, too? Or for any reason?” He wishes he didn’t have to ask, but Shane does have to. Aside from being grateful, Shane is also envious of the fact that Ilya always seems to know when Shane is struggling and what he needs, before Shane is even fully aware of it. He would love nothing more than to offer Ilya the same, but he has yet to figure out how. 

Ilya gives him a sweet smile, turns his head and presses a chaste kiss to the palm of Shane’s hand: “See you on the ice, Hollander.”

Going back to his regular routine is familiar and nice, to an extent. For the first week, he’s too busy to really pay too much attention to the gaping void at his side. They’re both busy, but the last thing they do every night is call each other. 

On Saturday night they watch the opening game of the season together on Facetime. It’s a home game for L.A., last year’s Cup winner, against the Boston Raiders. Shane is enjoying it. That is until Ilya suddenly says: "Wait, Svetlana is texting me. Ah, she’s at the game in L.A. Looks like pretty good seats, too.”

Shane is aware that he is taking too long to respond, completely caught of guard. “She’s texting you?” he finally asks. The screen is black, so Shane can only assume Ilya is still staring at some picture the woman he used to sleep with just sent him. 

“Boston is her team,” Ilya says.

“Still?” 

“What, you think she's a Boston fan because of me?” Ilya snorts. “No, she liked Boston before that. Her mother’s family is from there.” 

“Are you texting her back?”

“Yes. I am flying to L.A in two days. Maybe she’ll be there still.”

“And then what? You’re meeting her there?” 

“Maybe. Been a long time.” 

“Long time since what?” Shane isn’t disguising his annoyance very well and he knows it’s not entirely fair. Or at least he thinks that it’s probably not fair. Ilya has made it clear to him that he doesn’t have any feelings for Svetlana and that he never did. In the last two years, Ilya has never made Shane doubt that. 

Still, just the concept of his bisexual boyfriend’s best friend being a girl he used to fuck, would feel like somewhat of a red flag to any sane person. Parts of it are irrational, he knows that. For example, he doesn’t like that there are just some things that Shane can’t give him, that there are parts of Ilya’s sexuality that Shane just has nothing to do with. He knows it’s not fair to be upset about something like that, especially when Shane has only ever felt wanted by Ilya.

But the thing that Shane is skeptical of and that Shane thinks Ilya might just be a little bit too naive about, is Ilya claiming that Svetlana also never had feelings for him. Shane doesn’t know her, but he knows Ilya. He knows that not falling in love with him isn’t really an option. 

“Long time since I’ve seen her,” Ilya clarifies.

“And when was that?” 

“I don’t know. Months. Maybe almost a year.”

“But she still texts you?”

“Yes, she’s my friend. I tell you this every time.” Ilya comes back into frame. He puts the phone back on the coffee table, leaning on something. Ilya lies down on his side, propped up on one elbows. “She’s a big fan of yours.”

“You keep saying that.” 

“Maybe you should meet her.” 

“Why would I do that? She doesn’t know about us.” 

“Then I can tell her.”

“What? No.” His reaction is instant. He starts thinking about it only after he has already shot down the idea. Ilya has never asked to tell anyone about them. He supported Shane when he wanted to tell Hayden and J.J. He was there with Shane when he told his parents and didn’t even question it when Shane’s mom told his grandparents. 

Shane knows it’s not fair, but he still feels panic creeping up on him at the idea of someone out there who he has never met, someone so far beyond his control, knowing this about them. 

“I mean…” Shane then starts. “How do you know you can trust her?” 

“Shane, I know her.” 

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I don’t know. Can I think about it?” 

“Hm. Yes, but I’m telling you, there is nothing to worry about.” 

“I hear you.”

“And you will like her. She knows everything about hockey.”

“I said I’ll think about it. Look, I’m pretty tired-”

“No, finish the game with me. Only fifteen more minutes.”

Shane stays for those fifteen minutes. By the time Shane gets into bed, his jaw has mostly unclenched. Still, it’s not the easiest he has ever gone to sleep. 

“Do you keep in touch with any of your ex-girlfriends?” Shane asks J.J. They’re in a hotel room in San Francisco. The lights are already off and J.J is already tucked in up to his neck, phone poking out and shining blue light on his face. They had won the game, their first of the season.

Ilya is currently on his way to L.A. where Svetlana had graciously extended her trip by one day to catch up with him. A really cool and friendly thing to do. 

“An ex is an ex for a reason,” J.J. says. “Why?” 

“No reason.” 

“If you’re going to cheat on Rozanov, don’t tell me about it. I don’t want to die with you that way.”

“I’m not. Don’t be fucking crazy,” Shane says and sends a loose pillow across the room. It lands on J.J’s form and rolls onto the ground.

“What is it then? Rozanov has some ex you’re worried about?”

Shane doesn’t say anything. 

“You think he’s cheating?” J.J. then asks, throwing the covers off and sitting up, outrage in his voice. 

“No, Jesus, no,” Shane quickly says. “He has this friend he’s known forever. Since they were kids. They used to hook up, too. They never actually dated. But they’re still friends.”

“And they still fuck, or no?” 

“What? No, of course not. I just told you he’s not cheating.”

“I don’t fucking know, man. I thought maybe you guys fuck other people on the road or some-”

“We don’t.” 

“Okay, fucking virgin Mary over here. If it bothers you that much, tell him to cut her off. What is he keeping her around for anyway?”

“She’s like his best friend from elementary school. I can’t just tell him to cut her off. That feels awful.” He stops there. He could add that she’s the only person Ilya still considers family at this point, but it seems so personal, Shane keeps it to himself.

“Still kind of weird. Have you met her?” J.J. asks.

“No. He wants me to. He… he asked if he could tell her about us.”

“She doesn’t know about you? Then why would she give a fuck? Shane, I love you, man. But nobody takes an unnamed secret boyfriend seriously. You might as well not exist at all to anyone who wants that man.”

“Yeah, I’m aware, thanks. So you think I should let him tell her?”

“Yes. If she’s his ‘best friend’ or whatever, you might as well let her know that what you and him have is serious. Otherwise why would she care about some guy who doesn’t even claim him like that.”

“I just feel like it’s a bad idea to tell too many people.”

“Look, that makes sense, too. But it sounds like you have two options here. You meet her, see what her deal is. Or you tell him to cut her off.”

“Or I can just move on and pretend it doesn’t bother me.” 

“Yeah, you could. It’ll probably have you going through his phone in the middle of the night or something, though. And you know all that shit is in Russian, too.”

“You’ve gone through your ex-girlfriends’ phones?”

“Don’t even start with me, I’m in a good place in my life right now,” J.J. says and lies down again, pulling the covers back up to his chin. “Besides, I thought gay guys were supposed to be chill with fucking other people.”

“Not all of them- all of us, I mean,” Shane corrects himself. "Definitely not me and him.”

“Everyone knows Rozanov used to fuck like crazy. People wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“Okay. What’s your fucking point?” Shane asks, annoyed. He doesn’t need to be reminded.

“My point is that I haven’t heard any of those stories in a long time. He went from locking team mates out of hotel rooms so he can have threesomes to starting a charity with you. I hate to say it, but it seems like he doesn’t fuck around about you.” 

“Why do you hate saying that?”

“I want all of us to go back to hating the motherfucker together without feeling bad. I have like four gay cousins I could set you up with if you leave him.”

“He’s not a bad guy. You know that, right?” Shane feels the need to ask. “Not even close to being a bad guy. He’s like… the best.” 

“‘The best’? You’re so annoying. You and him both. But maybe my opinion about him would be different if I was into white boys.”

“Don’t say I’m into white boys. You sound like my grandma.” 

“Look at the facts. It’s a white boy you’re stressing out over. Blonde hair, blue eyes white dragon-”

“I liked it better when we didn't talk about him at all,” Shane says and it’s a lie. He feels a lot better now than he did twenty minutes ago, when his mind was racing with every worst case scenario of what could happen between Ilya and Svetlana in L.A. At least saying it out loud and having J.J. chime in made him feel less insane and offered some perspective. 

“When are we finally meeting your new girlfriend?” Shane asks.

“Girlfriend? No, that ended like two weeks ago. No time for a casual girlfriend now that the season has started.”

“I thought all you had time for was a casual girlfriend during the season?”

“Eh, I didn’t like her that much.”

“Was she white?”

“Enough questions, Hollander, time for bed.”

Shane can now admit that he was naive as a rookie. About a lot of things, about a lot of very obvious things, but especially about one thing. It wasn't like he didn't expect any bullshit for being Asian, but he had definitely underestimated how often it would randomly be brought up as some kind of reasoning for why he was or wasn't performing well. He noticed, but no one else seemed to notice or care. So he let it roll off his back. What could he even do? And what does it even matter, really?

His mom warned him and tried to prepare him, but he was preoccupied at age nineteen, twenty, twenty-one. Preoccupied with a different part of who he was.

His mother was the one concerned with representation, not him, not at nineteen years old. For most of his life, all he truly and deeply cared about was his sport. His performance. He figured that if he really was the best, the rest wouldn't matter. Maybe it mattered when his mother was growing up, or when she stepped into an interracial marriage in the early ninetees, but things were different now. Kind of. A little bit.

Barely, really.

Commentators tried being euphemistic about it, citing some kind of cultural stoicism, IQ, whatever. Online, people were less subtle. There was no limit to the slurs people could come up with from all sides. If he's too good, the slurs come from the opponents fans. If he's not performing at a hundred percent, even some Metros fans will have the fucking nerve. It's an endless cesspit that he tries to stay as far away from as possible. Ironically, Ilya being his so-called arch rival and being such a polarizing character worked in Shane’s favor early in their careers. Ilya was a media demon and all Shane had to do was say nothing and he’d win some favor. 

Shane just recently came to terms with the fact that his mother was right. It’s embarrassingly late, he has come to terms with that as well. It doesn’t really matter whether he wants to be a representative, the reality of the matter is that he is. He still couldn't care less about the Metros using him as some kind of diversity card. But he did care, could not help but care, about some of the shy non-white kids gravitating towards him at the start of the hockey camp, until they were comfortable enough to talk to other adults. 

He knows his impact, that just by existing as a public person, he means something to people who he will never meet. So he does the Calvin Klein ad. He does the Rolex ad and whatever high profile interview, despite these things taking up about half his summers now. He knows the offers will stop coming some day, so he might as well cash in while he can.

That is all to say that now, ten years into his career, Shane has no delusions anymore about how he is perceived. There are fans who support him no matter what. There are fans who will turn on him and become raging racists if he misses a shot. 

He knows what the overwhelming response will be if he comes out before retirement. He might never be judged on his talent again. Parts of him will be erased, one way or another.

The next morning Shane leaves the hotel restaurant where the team is having breakfast and calls Ilya from right outside.

“Good morning,” Ilya answers.

“Good morning. Do you have a minute?”

“Yes, maybe even two. You okay?”

“Yeah, no, I’m fine. I have an idea.”

“Ah.”

“It’s nothing crazy. I just… if you want to tell Svetlana about us, you can. And I want to meet her. Maybe next time I’m in Ottawa, if she has time and if she doesn’t mind travelling.”

“Where is all of this coming from, Hollander?” 

“I said I would think about it and I did.”

“Normally it means ‘no’ when you say that.”

“Well, I’m saying yes.”

“And this is your idea, you’re saying?”

“Look, I’m sorry I was an asshole about it the other night. It just caught me off guard.”

“Is okay,” Ilya says and follows it up with a suspicious puff. 

“Are you smoking? It’s eight a.m.”

“Cigarette, coffee, croissant. Perfect breakfast.”

“For a rat living in Paris, maybe. You have a game today. You should be eating a real-”

“Who are you talking to?” Shane suddenly hears a male voice in the background on Ilya’s end. 

“Mind your business. How many times do I have to tell you?” Ilya responds, with little heat behind it.

“If you’re secretly married, you have to tell us.”

“Oh, she didn’t tell you? I married your mother.” 

“Don’t say that. You know my mom loves you.”

“And I love her too, very much. No, don’t sit here. Go bother the other guys for ten more minutes. You can come back later.”

When the inaudible objections fade into the distance, Shane asks: “Your team mates think you’re secretly married?” He tries not to sound too gleeful about it. “Not even a secret girlfriend? They’re like, this guy has a wife that no one knows about?” 

“It’s their dumbest joke. Why would I hide a wife? They do not have the brain power to even imagine a real secret, like a husband.” 

“It’s a big leap. Why would the guy who locked his team mate out of his hotel room to have a threesome with two women suddenly have a husband?”

“Bisexual man finds the love of his life. Is it really so hard to believe? And who told you about that?” 

“The love of your life, huh?” Shane feels his cheeks cramp, that’s how big the dumb smile on his face is. He ignores the other question. “Lucky me.”

“What about lucky me?” Ilya asks. 

“Well, I’m still looking around…”

“Oh? You can start looking around for new sweatshirts to sleep in, then,” Ilya scoffs.

“I’m kidding. Don't bring the sweater into this. Obviously you’re the love of my life. And the next life, probably.”

“Definitely,” Ilya says. “Listen. Tonight I will be back late. But when you get to Toronto, you should get a hotel room alone.” 

Shane doesn’t need to ask why.

He gets the room, goes to the hotel gym, rides on the Peloton for ninety minutes and still feels restless. He knows why, he knows that Ilya is probably out with Svetlana at that exact moment. He is dying to ask him what they’re doing exactly, where they are, what they’re talking about and what everyone is wearing. There is a three hour time difference, and it’s about midnight in Toronto. Still early in L.A.

Shane can’t stay up until Ilya is back in his hotel room. It would be silly. Toxic, maybe, even. 

He gets into the shower, ready to jerk himself off and force himself to sleep, when he gets an idea. A bad one. 

He dries himself off, gets onto the bed naked and thinks of big hands holding him as he strokes himself. It doesn’t take much for him to get hard. He hasn’t jerked off in a couple of days and the last time Ilya had his hands on him was over a week ago. Not that long ago, all things considered. But also a fucking long time ago.

He thinks of heart shaped lips. Of soft curls between his fingers. Of a hard, thick cock in his mouth. He fights the urge to finger himself. He has been fighting that urge for days now, deciding that he could go three weeks without it. It would be a lesson in personal discipline with a clear reward in the end. He should have known that the result of this might be that he’s constantly just thinking of getting railed. When he cums, Shane makes sure it lands on his stomach, some even reaches his chest, but every last bit of it lands on his body. 

He grabs his phone, bad idea still at the forefront of his mind. He takes a picture of his chest, abs and the white pearls glistening in the dark hair around his cock. He leaves his face out of it. He sends it before he can change his mind. He has only sent Ilya pictures like this a couple of times before. Facetime sex feels easier to him: it’s the two of them at the same time, on the same page. Sending a picture like this makes him much more nervous. What if it’s a bad time? They agreed to do this tomorrow, what if Ilya is annoyed at him for doing this now? 

He sets the picture to delete itself after it’s been opened once. He hesitates and then also gives it a time limit of thirty seconds. Apart from it giving him a little peace of mind, he also likes to imagine Ilya’s frustration as it disappears. 

He makes sure to add open in private, good night to the message and then puts his phone away. He finishes his shower and finally goes to bed. 

When he wakes up the next morning, it’s the first thing he thinks about. He reaches for his phone before he even opens his eyes. There are four messages from Ilya, all sent at three a.m in Toronto and midnight in L.A.

are you trying to kill me 

thirty seconds is torture 

fucking got me rock hard

I miss seeing your face when you come

But they have to wait another twelve hours or so before they finally get to see each other, even if it is through a screen. 

“So how did it go?” Shane asks, settling into the pillows of his hotel bed. Ilya looks at him, gorgeous and hair still wet from his shower. 

“What, the game? We won, but we could have done better.”

“No, I mean with Svetlana, obviously.” 

“First you never want to talk about her, now all you want to talk about is her.”

“Well?” 

“It was good.”

“Did you tell her everything?"

“Yes.”

“And?”

“She was upset that her favorite hockey player, Shane Hollander, is gay. She doesn’t like you anymore-” 

“Can you be serious for a second? I want to know how it went.”

“It was fine. She was maybe a little bit sad that I didn’t tell her something like this earlier. Like I didn’t trust her or something.”

“Sorry about that.”

“It wasn’t bad. She knew some things about me already, just not…”

“Just not about me?”

“Not completely."

“And how did you feel about it? About telling her?”

“What, are you my therapist now? Hollander, this was a phone call for fucking, remember?”   

“Okay. Sorry for giving a shit-”

“No, you’re the asshole, not me. You sent me that picture and now you want me to talk about whatever?”

“Oh, I almost forgot about the picture.”

“I did not. Not even for one second. I saw it in my fucking dreams.” 

“Oh?”

“Don’t play innocent. You know what you did. I was hard for you all fucking day.” 

“You haven’t jerked off yet?”

“Twice. Last night after I saw it and again this morning.” 

Shane palms his own cock through his sweats. “I was thinking about you, before I took that picture last night.” 

“Yeah? Did you finger yourself?” 

“No. I didn’t want to…”

“Why not? I thought you’d be begging for it by now.”

“Fuck. I want… I want to wait, I think.”

“You want to wait? For me?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t wait, Hollander. You want to get fucked. Fuck your fingers for me.”

“No,” Shane refuses. He slides his hand into his underwear and strokes himself slowly. “Right now I want your cock or nothing at all.”

“And my cock wants you. Or nothing at all.”

“Show me,” Shane practically begs. There is a flash of Ilya biting his lip, before he switches to the back phone camera, aimed perfectly at his rock hard cock, wet at the tip, hand wrapped snugly around the shaft. He is completely naked, and god, every fucking inch of him is just gorgeous. 

“Do you remember?” Ilya then asks, voice so deep it sends a shiver down Shane’s spine. “Do you remember sucking my cock in the car at that gas station?” 

“Of course I do,” Shane says through shaky breaths. “It could have ruined us. If they had shown up five minutes earlier…”

“They would have seen you swallow my entire cock.” 

“Fuck. It was so stupid.” Shane had felt so free that morning. So normal. He had convinced Ilya to go on a hike with him on a trail an hour north of the cottage. They had left the house before sunrise. It was quiet on the road, quiet at the gas station and when they pulled into a parking space for a moment, Shane had felt like they were the only two people on earth. They were just fucking around at first. Joking about how if they were ever going to fuck in a car, this was the perfect time. And then… Well, they got pretty carried away in that bit. Ironically, the day of the hike might have been Shane’s favorite day of the whole summer. Right up until his mom sent him the tweet with that picture attached. Ilya leaning back against the side of the car right next to the gas cap, Shane standing between his legs, holding the fuel nozzle as he pumped gas. Their faces were barely an inch apart. Shane didn’t tell his mom or anyone else that they had definitely, absolutely, kissed there. He is pretty sure that the person who took the picture must have seen them kiss and must have pulled out their phone too late. It’s a bizarre feeling. That some stranger out there just knows. Someone saw them. To that person it’s not a rumor. They saw Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov making out with their own two eyes. 

It was absolutely stupid and reckless of them to just forget themselves like that, and yet they did, and it felt good in that moment. Shane was happy that day, maybe the happiest man in Canada at the start of a wonderful day with his gorgeous boyfriend who he had all to himself for so little time.

It wasn’t until after that Shane even considered that every gas station has security cameras and that even now, who knows, someone who works there can stumble upon that picture, recognise the surroundings and check the cameras for the full experience.

“You like it,” Ilya then says, and all Shane sees is his hand moving up and down his cock with slow, lazy strokes. “Almost getting caught.”

It’s over pretty fast after that. Shane still has all of his clothes on, and Ilya hadn’t complained, apparently getting off on the expression on Shane’s face alone. Shane is barely aware of it, until Ilya asks to see Shane’s hand before he wipes it off.

“Can I ask you about it now?” Shane asks when they’re done cleaning up and Ilya has the camera back on his face.

“Yes, yes. I’m happy she knows now. She’s doing good, too. Business is doing good. She wants to meet you, but she thinks maybe you’ll treat her like an ex-girlfriend or something.”

“Well, that’s what she is.”

“No, not really. She’s a friend first. The fucking… it was extra. Sometimes it’s better to go to someone you know than to find a stranger, you know?” 

“No, I wouldn’t know,” Shane says honestly. “I always went to you and I was in love with you then, too.” 

“She’s not in love with me.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I know her. And even if she was-”

“No, I don’t want to hear ‘even if she was’,” Shane interrupts sharply. “If she was, that would be a problem. A big one.”

“Okay, she’s not. She’s not,” Ilya emphasizes. “She has known me for a long time. You don’t think she would say something?”

“I don’t know. We knew each other for a long time, too.”

“Hollander, I don’t understand. You said this was your idea. You said I should tell her and you want to meet her,” Ilya says, visibly getting frustrated. 

“I did. But I’m just… Look, I don’t know how to say this without sounding like an insecure asshole. She clearly means a lot to you, but if there is even anything there… I don’t think I can be okay with that.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes. You will meet her and see for yourself.”

“And you don’t mind?” 

“Mind what? Hollander, I don’t want you to think I’m not loyal, after everything.” 

“I don’t think that. I promise. But people don’t know about us and even when they do, they don’t seem to take it very seriously.”

“Who cares what they think?”

“Well, J.J. is still trying to set me up with his cousin.”

“What? He is?”

“You care now?”

Ilya rolls his eyes before looking back at the screen seriously. “Tell me what you want and we’ll do it. I don’t want you to be worried about this anymore.” 

“When am I meeting her?” 

“We didn’t decide. She can come to Ottawa, maybe when we have our first game there.”

“You mean the next time we see each other?”

“Yes. Or later if that’s what you want.”

“No, it’s fine. If that works for her.” Is it ideal? No. It was supposed to be their first long weekend together after three weeks apart, but Shane knows that this isn’t the time to be a baby about it. All things considered, Svetlana is the closest thing to Ilya’s family that Shane might ever meet. As nervous and uncomfortable as it makes him, Shane tries to remember that this isn’t really about him. It’s about Ilya. Ilya who is excited to share this part of his life with Shane. And while Shane thinks he knows Ilya pretty well at this point, he can’t deny he’s curious about someone who knew Ilya in Russia, who knew him as a child, who might even have known Ilya’s mother. Shane does really want to meet the only person Ilya cares enough about to want to introduce Shane to at this stage in their relationship. In an ideal situation he would have preferred if it wasn’t someone Ilya had fucked. Often.

The following two weeks go by slowly. 

This is his time to focus. There is no point in dwelling on the summer being over. It’s time to throw himself into every match like it’s the fucking final. The one he lost last year. That won’t happen again.

There is just one issue. 

He hasn’t been sleeping well. He gets about six hours a night, three less than is ideal. He can settle for eight, but six is practically disastrous for his performance. They still win their games, but Shane feels like absolute shit afterwards every time and he knows he can’t keep this up for much longer.

He just doesn’t know what the problem is, exactly. Stupidly he blames not having the Celtics sweatshirt first. But he slept fine for almost thirty years before he ever even touched that sweatshirt.

Not having Ilya in his bed is his second guess. Again, if anything, Shane was more likely to get more sleep if he was in bed alone than with Ilya there.

So it must be the new diet, then.

The switch back is easy. He has go-to meals when he is on the road. The same two overpriced bowls and salads. They taste fine. 

He had started liking cooking over the summer. He never minded it before, felt good about being responsible for his own meals, but he also just had about three go-to meals which he rotated all the time. But Ilya wasn’t interested in brown rice and salmon three nights a week and if Shane left it all up to him they'd be ordering pizza three nights a week instead. The compromise was choosing and cooking new healthy recipes together. They both still had plenty to complain about. From ‘We don’t need to use lettuce as a wrap. We have normal wraps right there, Shane,’ to ‘We can’t put a whole container of sour cream into everything we make, Ilya.’ Still, cooking together was fun in a way Shane hadn’t expected. If they were a normal couple they would have probably gone out on most of those nights. Shane knows that Ilya would have preferred that, probably. At least on some of those nights. 

But selfishly, Shane loves nothing more than being alone with Ilya, at home. He doesn’t think he’d prefer to be anywhere else, even if their situation was different. Their time together means the world to him.

But he is alone now and he is having trouble sleeping.

Stupidly, he expects that going back to his old, restrictive diet would solve his problem immediately. That doesn’t happen. He still wakes up three hours earlier than he is supposed to, every morning for the next week. Not to mention he is always fucking hungry now. His carb allowance is cut in half, but he didn’t used to get this hungry on this diet before, did he? Now he’s walking around practically starving all day.

“What are you stressed about?” Ilya asks him one evening, just a couple of days before their match in Ottawa. “You must be worrying about something, no?”

“I don’t know. Not really. Not more than usual.” Shane grabs a ginger ale out of his fridge and sits down at his kitchen island. He props the phone up against his bowl of oranges. They only barely won the game against Philadelphia that night. Shane wants nothing more than to fall into bed, but it’s too early. It's barely eight-thirty. He needs to stay awake until ten at the earliest, so that he can wake up at a reasonable time. “Hey, are you still getting those weird dreams?” he then asks, hoping it’s a little more subtle than hey, are you remembering to take your meds every night? 

“No, not for a while. Your little alarm is very helpful.” 

Shane smiles at that. “Good.”

“You should go lie down,” Ilya then tells him. The room Ilya is in is a little dark. A hotel room in Chicago, one that looks just about the same as any other.

“I don’t want to fuck my sleep schedule up any more than this,” Shane sighs and cracks his drink open.

“Maybe it’s the sex then,” Ilya suggests. “You’re not jerking off enough. Gives you bad sleep.”

“I jerk off.”

“Yes, but not the way you want to,” Ilya says with a tiny smirk. “You should do it.” 

“We have like two days left.“

“So what? You can feel good now, tonight. And maybe it will help.”

Shane shakes his head, but the corners of his mouth tug up involuntarily. “I don’t think I have the energy to even just jerk off, let alone do any more than that.”

“Hm. I think when you start, you’ll want to keep going.” 

Shane bites away another smile. “I’d be pissed at myself if I gave up two nights before the finish line.”

“Or you’ll be happy you did it after you get a good night’s sleep.”  

“Maybe I should just do another hour on the Peloton," Shane says.

“Okay, listen to me,” Ilya then says, seriously. “Go up to your bedroom.”

“Ilya…”

“Go upstairs. Take off all your clothes. Get on the bed. You need to relax.” 

Part of him wants to argue. He is relaxed. Really. But his legs defy him. It’s the serious tone of Ilya’s voice, the confidence there. Maybe he knows what Shane needs.

He strips down in his bedroom and gets in bed, as he’s told. Under the covers, just because. “Now what?”

“Now you decide.” 

“What?” Shane asks, confused. 

“You decide. Jerk off. Finger yourself. Grab a toy. How are you going to make yourself feel good, Hollander?” 

“You’re not going to tell me what to do?” 

“You know what you want.”

“I want you,” Shane admits. “So fucking bad. I want you to fuck me.” His cock twitches as he says it. 

“You want me inside you,” Ilya says. “Use your hands. It will feel good.” 

Shane’s hand is already on his cock, still a little hesitant. “I can’t even show you any of that. I don’t know where to put the phone-”

“Don’t worry about the phone. You can put it down and listen to my voice. You want to use both your hands, maybe.”

“And you’re, what, going to look at my ceiling on your screen?” Shane jokes, putting the phone in the pillow next to him.

“Don’t worry about me or the phone. Put your fingers in your mouth.” 

Shane lifts his free hand and pushes his index finger and his middle finger past his lips. It’s too late to go back now. He spreads his knees further apart and can feel the promise of fullness already. 

“Get them wet. Don’t hurt yourself,” Ilya's voice floods the room. It sends a chill down Shane’s spine. He’s warm, he’s aroused, he’s relaxed. 

He pulls his fingers out of his mouth and reaches past his cock, pressing his fingertips against his warm hole. It has been weeks. As soon as he pushes the first fingertip in, he forgets any and all reasons why he ever abstained. “Ilya,” he breathes. “Fuck.”

“Use your lube. Don’t hurt yourself,” Ilya repeats. “Fuck yourself for me.”

Shane digs the lube out of his nightstand and lies back down. “Keep talking to me, please,” he says as he puts a dollop on his fingers. 

“When I see you again,” Ilya starts. “You’re going to feel me for days. I’m going to fuck you in every room, every fucking corner.” 

Shane presses the two fingers back into himself, now with enough traction to pull them back out again a little easier. “I wish you could see,” Shane says. “I wish you could see how ready I am for you.”

“You’ll show me later. Focus on feeling good. On  fucking yourself exactly how you like it.” 

Shane nods for no one to see, letting out a moan he has been stifling for some reason. 

“Do you still have the toy?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you want it?”

Shane forgets himself and nods before catching up and saying: “Yeah, I think I do.” He pushes his fingers in deeper first, curling them up just short of hitting his prostate. He figures eventually that if he wants the toy he is going to have to grab it himself. 

He grabs it out of the deepest crevice of his night stand, neatly put back in the box. It’s fully smooth, black silicon with a flat base to hold on to. It’s not very long or thick, but it has been getting Shane through desperate times for years now. He spreads some lube over it and wipes his wet hand on the sheets. He’ll be mad at himself for that tomorrow. 

Shane pushes it into himself, there’s a sting, it’s been a while, but Ilya’s name rolls off his tongue as if he is right there in the room with him. “Fuck, Ilya.” 

“Hm. Touch your cock, too. Don’t forget.”

“Are you touching yourself, too?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Ilya says around a small chuckle. “How could I not? Just the way you breathe makes me…”

“Makes you what?”

“Makes me fucking leak.”

It’s such a clear image in Shane’s mind. Ilya holding his thick cock at the base, precum on the tip. “Will you taste it for me?” Shane hears himself ask. 

“Hm. It tastes like when I kiss you after you suck my cock.”

“Holy shit,” Shane moans. He pushes the toy deeper. “Holy fucking shit.” He pulls it out again, almost the entire way, and pushes it back in. He does it again, and then again, strokes his cock with the other hand until he cums so hard his head is spinning. He closes his eyes, even the dim lighting feeling far too bright and harsh in that moment. For about two minutes, Shane forgets his phone, forgets Ilya on the other line, forgets who ge even is, until Ilya’s gentle voice comes through. “Did you fall asleep?” he asks.

Shane lets out a deep breath. “No. But almost.” 

“Go to sleep.” 

“Wait, did you-”

“Yes, yes. Before you did. Go to sleep. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” 

Ilya ends the call, which is good because Shane only has a vague idea of where the phone even is at this point. 

He is startled awake by his morning alarm. Six a.m. Drool on his chin and pillow. Hand and sheets unwashed. There’s a used sex toy poking at his right thigh. The alarm on his phone is still buzzing and chiming, lost somewhere in the mountain of pillows on the other side of the bed. He finds it, silences the alarm and closes his eyes again for a moment. His first full night’s sleep in three weeks. He could probably have added an hour or two if his alarm hadn’t dragged him back to the land of the living. 

He gets up, puts the sheets in the wash, cleans up everything that needs cleaning up, including the opened ginger ale in the kitchen that he doesn’t think he even took a single sip of. He moves around his apartment, desperate exhaustion lifted. He feels even better after a shower and a coffee, even better after forty-five minutes of yoga. By the time he arrives at morning practice it feels like he is walking on a cloud. And he is on a mission to prove that his subpar performance in the last few games is not the way the rest of this season is going to be. Barely winning is not enough. Shane Hollander is excellent. Indispensable to the Metros. Shane Hollander’s next opponents won’t know what’s coming.

And unfortunately for Ilya Rozanov, those are the Ottawa Centaurs.

Shane didn’t forget. He had thought about it a lot. About her. Svetlana. What he did not necessarily factor in, was that she would be there the entire time. Two nights. She would be there when Shane arrives and she’d still be there when he leaves. 

“Rozanov got lucky last year,” Hayden says, bumping Shane’s shoulder with his own as they’re getting ready in the locker room. “Starting right now Ottawa never wins a game against Montreal ever again.” 

“Actually the smartest thing you’ve ever said,” J.J. says from Shane’s other side. 

Shane rolls his shoulders back. Ottawa has won three out of four games up until now. Last year they hadn’t won a single one at this point in the season. Montreal hasn’t lost yet, and Shane knows they won’t lose today. If everyone just lets him focus- 

“Hollander, five minutes for Ottawa City News,” the team manager says, pointing at the door. 

“Are you sure they didn’t mean me?” Hayden jokes. “They usually want me.” 

Shane pulls his compression shirt over his head before heading out, down the hall to the press corner. 

As he approaches the bright lights the first thing he sees are messy blonde curls and a constellation of moles on a broad, muscular back. It’s been three weeks. Maybe the longest three weeks of Shane’s fucking life. Okay, that might be an exaggeration but it certainly feels like it has been much longer. 

Ilya turns around and walks out of the press corner right as Shane approaches it. Ilya’s eyebrows shoot up as their eyes meet and if Shane ever hoped to keep a neutral expression, that was silly of him to begin with. His chest floods with warmth. Shane answers Ilya’s bright smile with his own. As they pass each other Ilya puts a warm, heavy hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Say nice things about me.”

“Fuck off,” Shane snorts.

“Anyone worried that everyone’s favorite rivalry in hockey is over can now rest easy. What a show from both captains tonight.”

“In fact it seems like Hollander finally decided to show up. This is the best he’s played since the season started.”

“Come on, the season barely started at all. But I’m glad to see it. Rozanov was on his heels the entire time. The hunger is still there for both of them, friends or not.”

“I have to say, it is pretty magical when Hollander is in Ottawa. For the last ten years he has ranked number one among Ottawans as their favorite player in the league. We still claim him as our own.”

“I wonder how he feels about Rozanov’s new found popularity in the city?”

“Well, as much as I love watching Hollander play, I have to root for the guy whose job it is to bring that Cup to Ottawa.”

“It can’t hurt to dream.” 

It’s an evening game, so by the time Shane finally arrives at Ilya's apartment, it’s almost ten p.m. On any other occasion, Shane would want to get into bed immediately. Instead he has someone to meet. 

He is anxious about it. He has been anxious about it since the moment he decided to do it. Bouncing between wanting to get it over with already and wanting to cancel the whole thing. It’s too late now. There is no lie he can tell that would convince anyone, let alone Ilya, that he couldn’t make it tonight.

And to make things even worse, Svetlana Vetrova turns out to be one of the most beautiful women Shane has ever seen up close. He’s not sure what he expected. He knew she’d be beautiful, because he knows Ilya. He had only seen the one picture of her from when they were teenagers. She was just a kid in that. Ilya had suggested Shane check out her Instagram and he had refused. It would have been too much. He’d end up in a rabbit hole and it would be way too big of a distraction this early in the season. 

He leaves his bag by the entrance and is then somewhat blindsided by what might as well be a supermodel greeting him when he enters the living room. She gets up from the couch when she sees him. “Uh, hi,” he says, looking around, but Ilya is nowhere to be found. 

“Hi,” she says and follows his gaze around the room. “He’s in his bedroom, I think.”

“Yeah, no, sorry. Shane,” he introduces himself, walking over with an outstretched hand.

“Yeah, I know. Imagine I didn’t?” she jokes as she shakes his hand. “Svetlana.”

“Right. I guess I knew that, too.”

“You had a good game tonight.”

“You watched the game?”

“Yeah, my first live Centaurs game.”

“Sorry it had to end that way.”

“I don’t think you’re sorry at all. And I’m not a Centaurs fan.”

“I thought you’d be a fan of their star player at least.”

“Who is that again?”

“Okay, enough, before both of you hurt my feelings for real,” Ilya says, sauntering into the room. He stands by Shane’s side and puts a hand on the small of Shane’s back. He smells like expensive soap, the type of thing he buys on whim when he’s bored at airports. He looks perfectly cozy in grey sweats and a slightly oversized black t-shirt, golden cross gently dangling over it.

“You can recap the game together tomorrow. Everybody is very tired,” Ilya decides. 

“Does he need to tuck you in?” Svetlana asks. “We were having a conversation.”

“You were falling asleep on the couch five minutes ago,” Ilya points out. “Don’t worry, Shane Hollander will answer all your fan questions in the morning.”

“I don’t mind staying up for a bit,” Shane offers.

“No, it’s okay,” Svetlana then says. “It’s been a long travel day for two people in this room.”

“And I have very comfortable beds for them,” Ilya says.

Svetlana rolls her eyes at him and then turns to Shane. “We’ll talk in the morning.” 

“Yeah, for sure,” Shane says.

When Svetlana leaves the room, Ilya calls something after her in Russian. “What was that?” Shane asks. 

“That if she needs anything she should tell me,” he says. His hand slides down and lands firmly on Shane’s ass. He turns his head and presses his lips against Shane’s temple. 

“Stop, we’re not even in your bedroom yet,” Shane says and pulls Ilya with him. 

All Shane wants, truly and firmly, is to get fucked that night. That need only grows when they get to Ilya’s bedroom and he sees the Celtics sweatshirt and a black pair of shorts he left behind, neatly folded on Shane’s side of the bed. 

He is still looking at the clothes when Ilya presses himself against his back and presses very intentional open mouthed kisses to the nape of Shane’s neck. Shane closes his eyes and covers the hands Ilya plants on his stomach with his own. “We shouldn’t do this,” he says softly.

“Hm?”

Shane turns around to face him. “She is right there,” he says softly, pointing at the wall the bed is pushed up against. “These rooms are not soundproof at all and we’re not exactly quiet. And I don’t think I’ve ever done it with someone else in the house.” 

Ilya stares at him for a few long seconds and then says: “Oh, you’re serious?” 

“Yes. And you can’t be mad about it. She’s your guest.” Shane takes his sweater and t-shirt off and grabs the Celtics hoodie off the bed. 

“I’m not mad, but it’s a little bit silly, no? Most people have sex with other people in the house.”

“Lower your voice,” Shane says, poking his head through the shirt.

Ilya rolls his eyes and pointedly walks around the bed to his own side. Shane finishes getting dressed for bed, brushes his teeth and comes back to find Ilya tucked in.

Yes, it is a little bit silly, Shane knows that. He also really doesn’t want a woman who he spoke to for five minutes to immediately hear him getting railed one room over. He gets into bed, under the covers. Ilya turns onto his side to look at him. “You think she can hear us kiss?”

Shane can’t help but smile at that. He kisses Ilya first, their first real kiss in three weeks. It’s perfectly nice and sweet until Ilya opens his mouth slightly and Shane’s entire body heats up at the slightest graze of his tongue. A sound escapes him involuntarily and Ilya shushes him with a chuckle. 

“You’re right, no more kissing-” Shane starts.

 “No, Hollander. Do you know how much I’ve missed you?” 

“Hm, yeah, I think I know,” Shane sighs, their lips grazing as he speaks. Shane kisses him again, aware he’s sending very mixed signals at the moment, but having Ilya this close, having their bodies pressed together in this bed, it makes his brain completely useless. 

“Turn around,” Shane tells him.

“Turn around?” 

“Yes.”

Ilya does as requested, back facing Shane, and Shane scoots in behind him. He lets his arm rest loosely around Ilya’s waist. It felt like a great idea, but he very quickly runs into a problem. Ilya’s fat ass. He is about to scoot further back when Ilya adjusts his position and plants his ass right into Shane’s crotch. 

It’s not Shane’s best idea. He involuntarily buries his face into Ilya’s hair, soft curls tickling his nose. It’s a bit surreal, how it only now sets in for real, that Ilya is in his arms, that they are back together again, that this is their time together. He kisses the back of Ilya’s neck, and feels the clasp of Ilya's necklace against his lips. 

He slides his hand under Ilya’s shirt, and lets it rest on his tummy. He caresses the soft hairs there with his thumb for a while and then moves his hand up, because that’s what he always does, up to Ilya’s strong chest. He grazes one of his nipples with his thumb, accidentally. He does it two more times, accidentally. 

“Hollander.”

Shane presses another kiss to the back of Ilya’s neck. “Hm?”

In a swift but careful movement Ilya turns around, maneuvers Shane onto his back and gets on top of him. Shane sighs under Ilya's weight. There really is nothing that compares to this. Not only feeling Ilya's body, his weight and warmth, but also simply having his undivided attention. There’s no amount of phone sex, video sex or sexy pictures that could replace even just this: Ilya lying on top of him in this dark room, fully clothed under the covers. He smells like that fancy soap, but he smells like himself most of all. A scent so addicting that Shane needs to steal clothes out of his closet to hold him over when they’re apart.

He threads his fingers through Ilya's hair, wrapping a particularly long strand at the back of Ilya's neck around his finger. "I was worried you were just going to give up."

Shane can see Ilya smile at that as his eyes adjust to the dark. He leans down and presses a tiny peck on Shane's lips. "You know me better than that."

Shane nods, spreading his legs a little wider so that Ilya fits in between them better. "But we have to be quiet."

“Yes, yes. We’ll fuck like mice.” 

Shane should probably object about the fucking part. They can blow each other and keep things pretty quiet, probably. But… 

Shane wants him. Wants him deep. Has been wanting him since the morning Ilya left Montreal and hasn’t stopped wanting it for even a second since.

They have sex under the covers, in missionary, and Shane gets way too turned on when he lets out an involuntary moan and Ilya covers his mouth with his hand and keeps it there for a moment, before kissing him.

They keep kissing for a long time after they finish, dragging it out, hands roaming over each other’s bodies, drinking each other up in every way possible, until they inevitably fall asleep.

Svetlana

Shane Hollander is even more attractive in real life than on the screen. Gorgeous face, strong and fit physique. He is also more… stilted. Almost unreadable, in the beginning. Unimpressed.

This man is the reason Ilya moved to Ottawa. This man is the reason Svetlana hadn’t seen Ilya in almost a year. She knows it’s not fair, of course. Ilya is a grown man who makes his own decisions. But sometimes those decisions are fucking stupid and if they are, then ss his friend Svetlana is the one responsible for letting him know that. She is supposed to be his extra eyes, she is supposed to make sure no one takes advantage of him. Not again.

When Ilya got portrayed in the world of hockey as some kind of arrogant asshole, Svetlana was flabbergasted. Ilya of all people? Sure, he was a trouble maker at heart and he had a bit of a mean streak on the ice, but last she checked that was practically in the job description for being a good hockey player.

Between the two of them, Svetlana had always been the meaner one. At least Ilya was forgiving. She was hardwired to be skeptical, always and about everything. And they both tasted the downsides of these attributes often.

When Jane first came onto her radar, years and years ago, Svetlana was immediately intrigued. Ilya gave his number to a girl? His real number? She thought it was pretty cute at first, seeing Ilya’s face light up in a smile as he was looking at his phone. But it also started to worry her as time went by. She didn’t know anything about this girl and he refused to answer even basic questions about her.

The thought of Ilya cheating on some girl didn’t sit well with her. She didn’t think he would, but… at the end of the day he’s a man. And a professional athlete, at that. Svetlana didn’t see him that often, even before he moved to Ottawa. People change with money and fame. 

And Ilya did change, but mostly in a way Svetlana admired. He matured quicker than she expected. Said goodbye to the drugs and got bored with the nightlife before even she did.

But it’s not just because of this Jane, or Shane, as she now knows. His father’s Illness took a toll on him for years. His brother’s resentment was so loud and clear with every word they exchanged. Ilya internalised it most of the time, found it in himself to still perform and flash a bright smile in the right moments.

When Ilya’s father died, his grief was palpable to her. On the plane to Moscow, on the plane returning to Boston and in every moment in between. Again, she admired his attitude. He made preparations for the funeral on his own, still managed to crack a few jokes through all of it and he made sure no one felt the need to question why she was there.

But on the flight home she felt like there was more there, maybe. She felt like maybe part of Ilya was finally set free. 

Svetlana knew Ilya was attracted to men. Not because he told her. Not because she had somehow figured it out herself. But because Sasha couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Maybe it was unintentional, maybe it was malicious, she still isn’t sure to this day. But he had told her a long time ago, when they were still teenagers and he was drunk and hurt that Ilya was losing interest in him. 

She was… shocked, sure. The way a nineteen year old would be, finding out the first guy you ever slept with might be gay. But he wasn’t, she knew that. Ilya wasn’t that good of a liar and there was only so much a person could fake. And even if he did somehow fake all of it, she couldn’t for the life of her come up with a reason why he would still be interested in sleeping with her, if he was in fact gay. He didn’t have to. They have gone months, even years without having sex. She has had boyfriends in between. Ilya didn’t owe her anything, least of all his body.

But she believed Sasha, too. It was far too dangerous to be a lie.

She kept it to herself. What other option did she have? Confront him? It seemed invasive. Dangerous.

It did make the conversation about Jane a little trickier, though. When Ilya was watching the item about Shane Hollander and his cottage, she had teased him about it. Not about Shane specifically, but about the fact that he was for some reason watching a man do yoga poses in a dark room right before they were going out. His reaction made her think that oh, maybe he does think Hollander is hot, maybe he does have a little crush on his rival. She put two and two together that same evening, in the car when Sasha happened to text her. Jane. Shane. It was such an Ilya thing to do, it was almost annoying. Almost. Silently, she thought it was pretty funny.

He might not be a great liar, face far too expressive and heart far too sensitive for that, but he did always love a silly little scheme to get away with something. From stealing alcohol and cigarettes when they were younger to cheating on whatever test in school that he didn’t have enough time to study for in between grueling training sessions that lasted for hours and hours, and often for as long as the coach wanted them to last. If Ilya wanted something, he’d make sure he’d have it, one way or another.

It also started making sense why Ilya never had anything to say about Shane Hollander. Ilya was a social guy. He liked meeting players from other teams, liked getting to know them and being an annoying presence in their lives, and he loved coming back into town with a fun story to tell. But Hollander never came up. Not even in passing, not unless she mentioned him herself and even then he’d barely engage and try to move past it. She figured maybe Shane Hollander kept his distance from Ilya with this whole rival thing. Maybe he was just a very private person, not very social. And maybe all of that was still true, but the main reason turned out to be that They Were Fucking. 

It wasn’t that hard to believe that Ilya would do something like this. Let his cock lead the way down a road with a very clear dead end sign right at the beginning of it. She just hoped he’d see the brick wall at the end before slamming into it. And his heart… it would never stand a chance.

Shane Hollander was mostly a mystery to her. A great player, one of the best in the league. The best, depending on who you ask. She had her own bias, in this case. Still, she enjoyed watching him play. He was hot, sure. Very handsome, actually. Guarded in interviews, never veering too far off script, very private. The news of him dating Rose Landry was the most he’s been in the media for anything regarding his personal life. 

But there was a rippling effect to it that she did notice. She and Ilya hadn’t slept together in months. She wasn’t keeping up with the exact dates. The summer before that, they went out together in Moscow a few times, far less than usual and he had picked up a girl every now and then, but most nights he had stayed home with his father. He had told her he quit smoking that summer, spent most of his days working out, taking his niece out, looking for different doctors for his father who was quickly deteriorating.

They only hooked up again after the news of Shane Hollander and Rose Landry came out. Ilya was all stiff shoulders, unusually quiet, and seemingly hadn’t been with anyone for a while. She tried to get a little bit of a reaction out of him about the Shane thing, but he was even more guarded about it than usual. She didn’t really know what to think of it after that. Maybe he had slammed into that brick wall after all. Or maybe it was never as serious as she thought it was.

By the time Ilya’s father passes, things are different again. She wants to assure him then, so desperately, that it’s okay. That he can talk to her about anything, that there is no burden in this world that he needs to carry on his own. That they are friends before anything else. She does hope that she expresses it clearly enough to him then. 

Still, the name Shane Hollander doesn’t cross his lips to her, not even once. Not even after Shane Hollander gets injured in the game against Boston. 

And then she makes one of the greatest mistakes of her life. She walks out of the room right after the Admirals win the cup. She does not see Scott Hunter come out live, and she does not see Ilya’s first reaction to it.

Initially she thought he had missed it, too. When she came back into the room, he was gone, on the phone with someone in the hallway. But she was wrong. Him cancelling his flight to Moscow that they were both supposed to be on the next day, couldn’t be a fucking coincidence. He refused to tell her why, only telling her his plans changed and that he’ll make it up to her one way or another, as if that was the issue at all. 

She was only a little worried about the decision. She was surprised he wanted to spend the summer in Moscow at all after the last blow up with his brother, but she figured it had more to do with seeing his niece again. But he was a grown man. He could spend the summer wherever he wanted and Svetlana was happy to deliver any gifts to his niece he wanted. Alexei’s wife was not as unbearable as her husband and Svetlana had her contact information so she didn’t need to see that man. 

She had tried to have some sympathy for Alexei for a while. She understood, to an extent, why Ilya put up with his abuse for so long. Ilya was twelve when his mother ended her life. Alexei was seventeen. Ilya was scouted that same year and their father practically forgot he had another son at all. They were all so focused on what this young boy’s success could mean for them that they all forgot to be proud of him.

And Ilya wasn’t just talented. He was gorgeous, funny, charismatic. It was easy for anyone to become invisible around him with a shadow so massive. Especially someone as painfully average as Alexei. But Svetlana’s sympathy ran out when silent resentment turned into outright cruelty. Ilya didn’t deserve that, not even a fraction of it.

It wasn’t complete radio silence that summer. He sent her one picture as a sign of life without her having to ask for it. It’s a picture of his hand with a glowing, lit cigarette between his fingers, the backdrop being a very familiar lake at sunset. She responds with a picture of her own cigarette on the patio of the café in Moscow where she’s enjoying her cup of tea at that moment. And here is the thing. She has always been nosy and Ilya knows this about her. The lake looks familiar and her suspicions are confirmed when she looks up the video of Shane Hollander talking about his cottage. Part of her is dying to know exactly how Ilya ended up there, is craving every detail of that story like her life depends on it. The secrecy hurts in the sense that she wishes Ilya could confide in her no matter what. Maybe he knew she’d figure it out. She has seen him watch that interview after all, they saw Shane Hollander do yoga by this exact lake together. But Ilya is choosing not to tell her more than this and it doesn’t take a genius to understand why. 

Svetlana’s vacation was short, two weeks to visit her own father and the rest of her own extended family before she’s back in Boston. Her luxury car import business was finally coming off the ground. She let Ilya take a couple of cars for a spin when he was in town and after he gave her his favorite toys to sell. He had told her to keep the money she earned with the sales and to put it back into her business. It was beyond generous, so letting him take a little spin in the Ferrari before the actual owner… well. No one needed to know about that. She did start pestering him about what he was going to do with his contract ending and all he wanted to really tell her was that she was probably going to be sad about it. It told her enough. He was leaving Boston. Apparently he had already decided that. He didn’t ask for her advice. That hurt. He usually trust and values her advice when it comes to his career. But he probably knew damn well she would have called him crazy for going to Ottawa.

She saw less of him that year and maybe she should have put in a little more effort, knowing that he was going to leave eventually, but there are only so many days in a year.

When he moved to Ottawa, again he didn’t tell Svetlana the whole story, but the Shane Hollander of it all hung in the air between them, unspoken. Ilya might be a bad liar, but telling a secret that wasn’t his own? He wouldn’t. So Svetlana kept that name out of her mouth. It did hurt, to watch Ilya go live a new life with a new tean in a new country, knowing he would be living it in silence. Even from her. She had hoped that his father’s death would set him more free than this.

And for months, she barely heard anything. She offered to help with the move, with immigration issues, with paperwork, but he assured her he had it covered. The charity was as big of a surprise to her as it was to anyone, but she got the idea. They would be seen together sooner or later, better to give people a plausible explanation beforehand. When she tried talking to him about the Centaurs flailing on the ice for months, he didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t really seem to want to hear anything.

For the first time, it made her insecure.

Maybe they weren’t that close, after all. Were they really just going to grow apart like this? Because of some boy he never even introduced her to? Maybe she really was just someone he fucked from time to time and maybe he had lost all respect for her as a friend. 

He was a man, after all.

She tried not to internalise any of this. The whole reason she slept with Ilya in the first place, was because he was a safe space for her. She never had trouble finding a hot man, but she knew Ilya never judged her for just being horny in between boyfriends. He was safer than some sweat drenched, handsy guy at a club, safer than whatever loomed on all those godforsaken apps. If she needed dick, he was a safe space for her to get some. 

The truth was that she had tried falling in love with him at one point. Why wouldn’t she? He was the hottest guy she knew, massively successful, sweet, funny. Anyone would be lucky to have him.

But it never happened. She’d much rather be Ilya’s best friend than his second best lover. Despite all the fondness she held in her heart for him, she could never let herself fall first. 

It was the type of humiliation her own mother often warned her about, the type of dumb shit that will have you chasing a man from city to city while he barely looks back at you.

Ilya loved her, she believed that. She loved him, too. But the romance was never there and neither of them was willing to dig it out of the other. When it comes to love, she comes to life when she is pursued. She has felt it before, has been hot with love and lust before, has had her heart broken before, by men who wanted all of her, and she knows that it’s not something that the ever casual Ilya Rozanov will get out of her.

Still. She kept texting him weaknesses she thought individual players on the Centaurs needed to work on. She watched every game, took notes, sent screenshots. She wasn’t going to let him embarrass himself like this without at least trying to intervene. Thankfully, Ilya turned it around halfway through the season. He sent her a text somewhere in January, not a lot of words but certainly it was better than nothing. I wasn’t really myself the last few months. Thank you for helping me crush the Raiders in their home game. You are their worst fan. Thank you <3. 

She pondered those first words for a while. I wasn’t really myself for the last few months. It worried her. She didn’t really know anything about Shane Hollander. No one really did. What if he was actually just a piece of shit? What if Ilya was struggling in Ottawa, alone, because of some guy who none of Ilya’s friends even knew about? She had known Ilya long enough to know that he could become withdrawn sometimes, could turn into himself for weeks on end. What if this Shane Hollander wasn’t even trying to get him out of that? 

If one of her girls was seeing some guy in secret and suddenly stopped texting all of their friends, she would have probably intervened a lot earlier. 

So she takes a risk. Instead of addressing anything in that message, she responds with: Is Jane treating you right? 

The response she receives catches her completely by surprise: yes, his parents raised him right. sorry to make you worry.

Apart from Ilya confirming for the first time that Jane is in fact a he, the concept of Ilya meeting Shane Hollander's parents blows her mind. At the very least, it also eases her mind a little bit that Ilya is not experiencing this entire relationship completely in secret and alone.

Now, at the end of October, barely a month into Ilya’s second season with the Centaurs, she’s sitting across from the one and only Shane Hollander in an apartment she is unfamiliar with, in Ottawa, Canada. Never in a million years would it have occurred to her to visit Ottawa if her best friend didn’t decide to move here. There are three different Canadian cities she would consider first, and Canada as a whole would probably not make it in the top twenty of her preferred vacation destinations. 

Svetlana is sure he’s nice. People rarely have anything bad to say about one of the best players the league has seen in decades. Nice, they say. Dedicated. Hard working. Private. Calling him ‘not very social’ is as harsh as it gets. At least that gives some insight into the personality behind the pragmatic interviews. How this supposedly ‘not very social’ man charmed Ilya of all people into moving to another team and another country for him? Well, Svetlana is here, in fucking Ottawa, to find out.

And she’s not delusional. She knows why she’s actually here. It’s not because she wants to meet Shane Hollander. It’s because Shane Hollander wants to meet her. He wants to size her up, wants to know if she’s some kind of threat. Wants to know if he needs to tell Ilya to cut her off completely. He would be within his right, she figures, rationally. Your boyfriend is still keeping around some girl he used to fuck? No, he’s not. Not anymore. Simple.

But it’s not how she wants to be treated. It borders on humiliating, having to fight for a place in her best friend’s life who she has known since elementary school. Because of some boyfriend. When Ilya warned her that Shane knew that they had slept together in the past, Svetlana could have choked him. It made things so much more complicated. She was now a villain before Shane Hollander had even met her.

And when she finally did agree to come, Ilya made her promise to be nice to him. It’s not like she wasn’t planning on it. At the end of the day, she doesn’t actually have reasons not to be nice. Not yet, anyway.

So here she is, in a pleasantly lit kitchen, sitting across from the brightest star of the Montreal Metros, who probably already hates her.

She had landed in Ottawa the day before. Ilya had been waiting for her at the gate with one of those stupidly overpriced balloons they sell at the airport reading Welcome home. It had melted away any insecurities she had. When he hugged her, it felt like they were fifteen year old rascals again. 

He took her back to his apartment, put her up in his perfectly nice guest room and then took her to the Ottawa - Montreal game. It’s just how the timing worked out. She'd be lying if she said she wasn’t a little bit annoyed that there was barely any time for her and Ilya to catch up alone. She was especially looking forward to interrogating him extensively about Hollander and this relationship, before Hollander arrived. They had talked a little bit about it in L.A., but they barely had any time there, either. She still has a million questions for Ilya that she wanted to ask before she met him. 

But here he is.

Last night he greeted her with a polite smile and big brown eyes that made it very hard not to be nice to him, whether she wanted to or not. He somehow looked surprised to see her there, even though she knew that he knew that she’d be there. He hadn’t hidden his discomfort well in that moment, but it did seem like he had at least decided to be nice, too. It makes Svetlana wonder if Ilya had also warned him to be nice. 

This morning, he seems much more relaxed. He moves around Ilya’s kitchen like it’s his own, most of the awkwardness quickly disappearing once he has something to do with his hands. Cracking and whisking eggs, preparing toast, cutting avocado’s, washing berries. The most she ever expected from a breakfast when staying with Ilya was Doordashing a couple of breakfast sandwiches. 

He is somehow even more handsome in real life than he is on any screen, she has to admit. About Ilya’s height, shoulders only slightly more narrow. Strong arms in a black t-shirt that he fills out nicely. The cameras never captured all those freckles either.

He hands her a cup of coffee, long fingers wrapped around -

“Stop looking at him like that,” Ilya says, exasperated and in Russian, despite explicitly asking her to speak English when Shane is around. Ilya is leaning against the counter next to the stove, arms crossed holding the wooden spoon he had just been scrambling eggs with.

“His hands look so strong, though,” she teases.

“He doesn’t want you, not even a little bit,” he tells her and then turns to look at Shane, switching back to English. “She told me once, she thinks you’re hot.”

“Oh?” Shane chuckles nervously.

Svetlana rolls her eyes at Ilya’s weak attempt at embarrassing her, before she turns to Shane, too. “Yes, and I asked Ilya if he agreed.”

“Stop,” Ilya warns her.

“Go on,” Shane says, looking between them amused.

“Do you remember, Ilya?” she asks. 

“I said he’s the hottest man I’ve ever seen, of course. What else would I say?”

“I actually hope you didn’t,” Shane says.

“He was still very much pretending that he had no opinion of you at all,” Svetlana says. “And I only ever meant that you look good on the ice. Compared to some people.” 

“Лжец,” Ilya snorts under his breath. Liar. 

Shane grabs the wooden spoon out of Ilya’s hand. “Oh, that’s… nice. Did you have a good flight?” he asks. She watches him work methodically, putting two pieces of toast onto each of the three perfectly lined up plates on the kitchen counter. 

“It was alright. Just delayed by like an hour,” she responds. 

“I’m sorry about that. We wouldn’t have asked you to come all this way, if… I just didn’t think it was a good idea for us to travel together, you know? Sorry for the trouble.”

“I had to come see Ilya’s new home, sooner or later.”

“Did he tell you? He’s looking to buy a house,” Shane says, cracking the first unguarded.

“Oh? Is the luxury apartment not up to your standards anymore, Mr. Record breaking transfer?” she teases Ilya who has pulled up a chair across from her.

“We want a home gym,” Ilya says. “This was just temporary anyway.”

“Find anything yet?”

“Oh no. It is never going to happen. With him? There is no house good enough. This one is too old, this is too big, too modern, ugly ceiling…” Ilya lists off.

“You were going to buy the first house you viewed. You can be a bit more critical than that,” Shane argues, now standing with his back turned to them, scooping perfect scrambled eggs onto perfectly toasted wheat bread. “And big renovations can take a lot of time.”

“So you’re buying this house together?” Svetlana asks, intrigued. 

“No, I’m buying the house. He just has an opinion about all the tiles in every single bathroom,” Ilya says.

“Those tiles were insane. Show her the videos,” Shane demands, more animated than she’s seen him up until then. 

“We can put in new fucking tiles,” Ilya says, exasperated, grabbing his phone off the table. 

“And there were a lot more problems. There has to be something better. Hopefully something that won’t need like a year’s worth of renovations,” Shane says, glancing at Svetlana as he ends his sentence. “Do you like avocado?”

“Sure.” Svetlana feels like she’s hearing a lot we’s for two people claiming not to be buying a house together, but she decides not to point that out just yet. 

The breakfast is nice. They mostly talk about the hockey camp last August, about how Shane’s mother took on a much larger role in the organization so that they could focus more on the actual coaching parts. 

She mulls that over. Eating her eggs on toast and perfectly sliced and seasoned avocado, while hearing stories about Shane’s mom working for the charity named after Ilya’s mom. If she ever had an inkling that Ilya was not exactly where he wanted to be, it melts away completely during that breakfast. All she really needs to see is how Ily a looks at Shane as he talks. The look of absolute, undivided adoration. Expressions she has never even seen him make before.

Shane Hollander is harder to read. There is certainly a fondness in the glances he steals at Ilya, but for the most part he is just guarded. He seems to relax more throughout the meal, but not by very much. She can’t fault him for it, really. To him, she’s a stranger. A stranger who just by being there, now knows enough about him to potentially destroy his career, his life. Everything he has worked so hard for, since he was just a boy. 

She would be guarded, too. 

Through all of this, she can only conclude that Ilya must be worth it to him. Worth the risk. Worth risking every last bit of it, for these few moments scattered over weeks and months and even years.

After breakfast Svetlana and Ilya smoke a cigarette. They sit across from each other on some deck furniture on the sizable terrace connected to Ilya’s penthouse. It’s quiet and cold, with most of the noise coming from inside where Shane has started putting plates into the dishwasher. It’s practically freezing. Ilya throws her the blanket that’s draped over the back of his chair.

“Can I ask him about playing for the Metros?” Svetlana asks, back to Russian, the only language that feels natural between them in private.

“You can ask him whatever you want. Why are you asking me?” Ilya responds. “I’m surprised you waited this long. Aren’t you his biggest fan?”

Svetlana rolls her eyes and takes a drag. “He’s number one in the league. I feel like an idiot sitting there. Any hockey fan would kill for an opportunity like this.”

“You can ask him whatever you want,” Ilya assures her.

“You don’t think he’ll be annoyed if I ask him about work?”

“He likes talking about it,” Ilya says. “Very much. Especially with someone who knows what they’re talking about, but I would avoid giving advice where it’s not asked for.”

“You think I’d go out of my way to give advice to a legend?”

“I think you can’t help it,” Ilya snorts. “Always got some shit to say.”

“To you, maybe. He’s doing very well on his own.” 

“Are you still mad about last season?” 

“I was absent from your MVP speech, so yes, I’m still mad about last season,” she jokes.

“He would send you my head in a box if I mentioned you in my speech.”

“A real romantic, huh? So it’s really just the two of you then?

“Yes. We’re not very good at sharing. Very, very bad even. Both of us.”

“A monogamous relationship. With a man, no less. Even I couldn’t have predicted this for you.”

“Even you don’t know everything,” he smirks.

“You’ve met his parents?”

He smiles at that and presses the stub of his cigarette out on the ashtray on the table between them. “And grandparents.”

Svetlana takes one last drag of her cigarette before pressing it out too. She has a million more questions, but now is not the time. She stands up. “I need to know his perspective on last year’s Stanley Cup final.”

Ilya then announces suddenly that it’s time for him to leave. Suddenly, because Svetlana forgot. He had told her the day before that he had an appointment the next morning and that he’d be back by noon. She had shrugged it off, sort of figured she might even still be in bed until then. 

“Leaving?” Shane asks sharply. Apparently he forgot, too.

“I told you already,” Ilya says pointedly and it seems to dawn on Shane then. “I’ll be back in two hours. Be nice, both of you. I’m taking an Uber, so if you want to go out, you can take the car.”

“Go out where?” Shane asks.

“Wherever you want. Get coffee. Go do yoga. There’s some things to do in Ottawa.” And then he’s gone. 

Svetlana opens her mouth to break the awkward silence that follows, but Shane beats her to it: “Do you do yoga?”

The wellness club is as luxurious as it gets. All dimmed lighting, private rooms, the scent of lavender and tea tree. It’s the type of place that clearly promotes and promises a level of privacy for a certain clientele. Svetlana isn’t unfamiliar with luxury, though she hasn’t really been in a position to pamper herself much these days. Whatever extra money she has, she was careful with. Business might be doing well now, but things could quickly change. Thus the yoga class she goes to in Boston is the one that is closest to her apartment. 

This is certainly a little different. The instructor is a woman, middle aged, and she greets Shane with a warm, familiar smile. It’s a small group,just the five of them, and from the looks of everyone, Svetlana figures she is probably going to have a very hard time. Maybe she shouldn’t have admitted that she went three times a week religiously. It’s still a joke to a professional athlete who takes these classes to relax. Meanwhile she’s sweating bullets at the end of every lesson. 

But it’s okay. It is definitely far more challenging than her intermediate class at home, but she doesn’t necessarily mind it. It’s absolutely surreal, though. She catches herself multiple times, realising exactly how surreal it is that she is doing a yoga class with the Shane Hollander, at his invitation. 

And she can’t even tell any of her friends about it. 

The class is forty-five minutes long and by the end of it she is glad to see that she is not the only one sweating. Shane barely has a sheen on him. It must be a nice little warm up for him. 

“So, do you feel like yoga helps you on the ice?” she asks, accepting a very green recovery juice offered at the counter just outside the exercise room.

“It helps me clear my head, mostly,” he says seriously. “So yes. It helps me.”

“Let me guess, Ilya is not into it,” she says. They sit next to each other at the counter, towels draped over their shoulders. 

“He’d die before doing forty-five minutes,” Shane snorts. “He’ll do like the first fifteen minutes with me when we’re home. He got into it a little bit over the summer, when he had to do some physical therapy for his knee.”

Svetlana takes a sip of her juice. It tastes as green as it looks. “So you were in Ottawa all summer?”

“Mostly. My family lives here. I grew up here.”

“Is it nice here during the summer?” 

“I mean, it’s fine. I prefer leaving the city as much as we can.”

There’s that we again.

“Did you go to Russia this summer?” he then asks her.

“Yes. Not for very long. Just to check in with family,” she says.

“Was it… nice?”

“It was fine. Everyone wants to know why Ilya hasn’t been back in so long.”

The expression on his face is indecipherable. There is a flash of emotion there for a split second, and then a mask, a blank face. “I’m sure people miss him a lot,” he says.

“My dad definitely does. He can’t stop talking about why on earth the best player in the league would go play for Ottawa of all places.” 

“Your dad thinks Ilya is the best player in the league?”

“Everyone in Russia thinks Ilya is the best player in the league. His fanbase there is massive.”

“No, I’m sure,” Shane says. “But he has done great in Ottawa. MVP in his first season. That’s like-”

“No, I know. It was still a huge risk.”

“I wouldn’t have asked him to, if I didn’t think he could be successful anywhere he went.”

“So it was your idea?” 

He looks at her, intense eyes searching for something. She doesn’t back down, and neither does he. “Yes,” he says, sternly. “It didn’t take much convincing.”

“It didn’t take much convincing to get him to go play for one of the worst teams in the league?”

“What are you getting at exactly?”

“I’m just saying, if he asked for my advice about this idea of yours, I would have probably told him that his biggest rival in the league was clearly trying to sabotage his career.”

“Well, he didn’t ask for your advice,” he shoots back immediately, tone edging towards anger. “And I would never do that. Not to anyone, let alone to him. And give me a break. If I’m going to be better than him, it’s because I am better than him. Not because of sabotage.”

“Then why would he do something so fucking stupid?” She honestly hadn’t imagined this get-to-know-the-boyfriend-trip to somehow end up with her arguing with the Shane Hollander at the bar inside a luxury wellness center, but then again, maybe she should have figured that her friendship with Ilya could put her in even more ridiculous situations than this. 

But she likes it. She likes that Shane is willing to bite back at her. 

“He didn’t tell you?” he asks.

“Just that he wanted to be closer to you.”

“I don’t think you know how hard it was for a very long time. We just had to change something so that we could see each other more. Like I said, I wouldn’t have asked him to, if I didn’t think he could be successful. If anyone could pull it off, it was him. He fights back. It’s what he does. He likes the team now.”

“And the charity was your idea, too?”

“Yes. Is that me sabotaging his cool guy image, too?”

“No, I think that was a good idea,” she concedes.

“Oh. Well, thanks,” he forces out, but his expression softens a bit. “But I don’t know about that. I feel like we’ve only had more rumors because of it.”

“No, the rumors have to do with that gas station picture,” Svetlana says and the blush that creeps under his freckles is admittedly very cute.

“You saw that?”

“Who hasn’t? But if it makes you feel any better, I’ve read all the comments. Sports fans and maybe hockey fans most of all, are not really capable of actually believing their favorite athlete is gay. Sports is for the straights and if they see you rubbing noses with your so-called rival, then that is just great sportsmanship. If you don’t do a full on Scott Hunter-style coming out, they will choose to live in denial forever. Especially Metros fans. No whimsy whatsoever. No offense.”

“None taken. There’s a lot worse you can say about Metros fans than that they have no whimsy,” Shane snorts. 

“Oh? Shane Hollander wouldn’t ever have anything negative to say about his own fans, would he?” Svetlana leers and the way Shane rolls his eyes tells her he has at least relaxed a little bit. 

“No, they’re great, really,” he says. “As long as you never trip, never miss a shot, never get injured, never get decked, and never lose a fucking game in your life. Then they’re great.”

“And if you do any of those things?”

“Well, they might invent a new slur for you. Or just use one of the good old reliable ones. Or just call you Chinese and they’ll mean that as an insult somehow. I learned that when I tried correcting them once.”

“Does it make you feel better to know that fans being racist isn’t exclusive to the Metros?”

“I’m aware. And no, it doesn’t make me feel better at all,” Shane says with a little smile.

“Still, the Metros are particularly…” 

“Was Ilya just lying to me, when he said you were a fan of mine?” 

“Look, a good player is a good player, but you’ll never catch me rooting for the Metros.”

“Why not? We’re without a doubt the best team in the league. Two cups back to back.”

“You know a team doesn't get more fans by winning cups, right? You just get more haters from fans rooting for other teams. You, as a player, might get more fans and respect, but people hate these teams with these massive corporate structures. They seem entitled. It’s just not that fun.”

“Whatever. Boston needs all the fans they can get now that their star has left, anyway.”

“Okay, who are you a fan of, then?”

“In hockey?” 

“In anything.”

“I respect the greats. LeBron James, Tom Brady. Shohei Ohtani. Lionel Messi.”

She shakes her head. It’s a very well known list. A list his own name has been added to more and more in the last couple of years. LeBron James, Tom Brady. Shohei Ohtani. Lionel Messi. Shane Hollander. “That might be the most boring thing a sport’s fan could ever hear. Does Ilya know this about you?”

“What, that I’m boring? Of course. He can’t stop talking about it.”

“I’m sure. But I noticed you didn’t mention any actual teams on that list,” she says, taking another sip of her gremlin green juice. “And rooting for a team who is just dogshit sometimes is more fun. If Ilya and the Centaurs didn’t flop for half the season last year, people wouldn’t have cheered them on as much in the second half of the season. Sometimes your team just embarrasses you.”

“Come on, they didn’t flop...”

She laughs at that. “Now that’s a Centaurs fan speaking, if I’ve ever heard one.”

She has her answer as to how Shane Hollander managed to charme Ilya Rozanov to the point of moving to another team and country for him. If there is anything Ilya loves it’s a little weirdo. And he certainly found one in Hollander. A hot little weirdo to poke and prod and dote on for what seems like might be forever if all this house talk is anything to go off of. 

Ilya was her first friend when she moved back to Russia in elementary school. She was born in Boston, had spent the first ten years of her life there, going back to her father’s homeland every summer, until her father retired from hockey and they moved there fully. She had always loved going back, but starting at a new school, starting a whole new life in a country where she might encounter one other black person every other month or so, it also terrified her. And she knew it terrified her mother, too, probably more than her. 

But she was lucky. She had a famous dad and on her first day of school a blonde boy had a thousand questions for her, so many that the teacher had to warn them on her first day of school to keep it down. Even back then, Svetlana knew that Ilya was particularly cute. Boston was full of white boys, but at the age of ten she had never seen a white boy with full lips before.

She remembers him gravitating towards Sasha, too. Sasha was her friend first, when they were in high school. They’d both show up to the junior league’s practice sessions often. Svetlana because she liked the actual game and Sasha because he liked looking at sweaty boys and it wasn’t strange for him to be there considering his father was a coach. For a split second she had been worried that the ever tough, brash and popular Ilya Rozanov would be mean about her clearly flamboyant friend, but instead he’d been intrigued. Nice even. Invited him to party with them. She knows now that there was more to that than she had known then.

When Shane and Svetlana get back home, Ilya hasn’t returned yet, and from the way Shane’s nostrils flare when he realises this, he’s not happy about it. 

To be fair, she isn’t eithe. But she is also fairly certain Ilya did this on purpose. Leaving the two of them alone so that they would actually talk to each other rather than use him as a buffer the entire time. Still, Hollander seems to find this whole situation awkward enough as it is even with Ilya there, so him not being there must be causing some… panic. 

“Is it okay if I take a shower?” she asks him. 

He looks at her like she’s insane. “Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t it be okay?”

“I don’t know, just being polite,” she answers. “It’s your place.”

“Not really,” he chuckles nervously. “You can do whatever you want. Ilya doesn’t mind.”

She knows that Ilya wouldn’t mind. Ilya wouldn’t mind if she took his couch with her on her way out, if she said she liked it. He’d help her carry it out. “Okay,” she says. “It might take a while.” 

“Yeah, no problem.”

She makes sure it takes a while. Long enough for Hollander to hopefully collect himself and long enough for her to let the tension ease out of her shoulders. She had thought the yoga class had gone well. The conversation after was fine on every front except for when Ilya came up. They were both getting too defensive too quickly and it doesn’t help that she still has unanswered questions. He probably does, too.

So she makes a decision. It’s a risky one. Still, something tells her that Shane Hollander might be more appreciative of… directness.

When she leaves the guest room, Shane is in the kitchen, sitting at the island with a ginger ale in one hand and his phone in the other. He looks up at her when she approacehs him. Uncomfortable. “He’s not back yet,” he tells her. “Do you want a drink?” 

“I’ll have what you’re having,” she says. He gets up as she sits down and grabs a can for her out of the fridge.

She cracks the can open, as he sits down again. She takes a sip and then says: “I’m not in love with him, you know.”

He stares at her. For a long time. Too long, but she doesn’t look away. She doesn’t know exactly what kind of response she expects. Maybe just a ‘good’ or an ‘I don’t believe you’. 

What she doesn’t expect is for Shane to look her in the eye and to ask: “Why not?” 

It catches her off guard and she doesn’t have a very eloquent answer ready. “I’m just not.”

“I don’t get it.”

“What?”

“How that’s possible.”

“I’m sorry?” 

“How do you spend so much time with him without falling in love with him?” he ends the question with a little chuckle as if the entire premise was that absurd.

“I don’t know. I guess the way you couldn’t control falling in love with him, I couldn’t force myself to fall in love with him. And he never did either.”

“Then why did you…” it might be the most uncomfortable he has looked until then, and that is saying a lot.

“Why did I what? Fuck him? I think you know why,” she snorts.

Going off of his expression, Shane doesn’t seem to think that’s funny at all. 

“I felt bad for him,” Svetlana tries for another joke. “A pity fuck for Ilya Rozanov. Who else would fuck him, if I didn’t?”

“Okay, okay, enough of that,” Shane says firmly. “I just… I don’t know. I’m not trying to make you feel weird or uncomfortable or anything.”

“I started this conversation,” she reminds him. “He’s clearly head over heels for you. I’d hate to leave here and for you to think you had something to worry about.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Okay. Good. Just in case, I’d keep an eye on him around any other hot biracials, though.”

“I already do that,” Shane answers, and this time he does seem to appreciate the joke. Shane then pauses for a moment. He clearly mulls something over and then asks: “Do you think he’s happy here?” 

Again, the question surprises her. But it’s something she has been wondering about herself. Not just since she’s been here, but since Ilya moved. “He loves you and he’s happy with you. He told me that himself and I can see it with my own eyes. Sometimes he just… I don’t think it has to do with where he lives or who he’s with.”

“So you’ve… you’ve seen him when he’s…” 

“It comes and goes, I think.”

“He’s been working really hard on it,” Shane then tells her with more emotion and affection in his voice than she’s heard from him until then. “I just don’t really know how to help him when he’s having a rough time, other than try to be there for him. But I can't even do that when we’re on the road.”

“Has it gotten worse?” she asks, worry clawing at her chest. 

“No. I mean, it was bad for a while right after the move and at the beginning of last season. Maybe the worst it’s ever been, but I don’t know. I feel like he’s been doing a lot better, and I - Jesus, I don’t think he’d want me to be talking about any of this. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“It’s his fault for leaving us here alone,” she shrugs. “What did he think we were going to talk about?”

“Hockey, probably.”

“Look, Ilya… he’s very sensitive. Way more than he lets on.”

“I know that.”

“But he’s also stronger than anyone I know. Some of the worst things that can happen to a person have happened to him. Like you said, he fights back.”

“I just wish there was more I could do. It feels so awful watching him get like that and not being able to do anything. And I think us living like this, with this relationship, is just making it worse.”

“What choice do you have?” she wonders out loud. She thinks of that list. LeBron James, Tom Brady, Shohei Ohtani, Lionel Messi, Shane Hollander. 

“Right now we don’t have a choice.” 

The front door to the apartment creaks open as Shane speaks and they both fall silent when Ilya saunters into the open kitchen, shedding his coat along the way.

He looks between the both of them. “Oh, no. Why the fuck do you look so serious? You didn’t try to talk to him about his backhand, did you?” he asks Svetlana. “I know it’s dogshit, but-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Shane says with a little smile, visibly relaxing when Ilya moves to his side of the kitchen island and puts a hand on his back.

Ilya steals a sip of Shane’s ginger ale and says: “What do we want for lunch?”

Ilya

“Does he ever relax?” Svetlana asks. 

It doesn’t sound like a dig, more like honest curiosity. Ilya leans back in his deck chair. He accepts the lighter she hands him. “Sometimes,” he says. “But not a lot.” He lights his cigarette and hands the lighter back. He buries his free hand in the front pocker of his hoodie. It’s a stupid black one. New, he just ripped the tags off it  and put it on right before stepping onto the patio. It’s heavy, warm and fits him bigger than the Celtics one, but it smells like nothing at all. Like the store, maybe. Hopefully it doesn’t end up smelling too much like cigarette smoke by the time they step back inside. It’s cold. Probably too cold to sit outside like this. 

Shane has already retired to their bedroom. Ilya’s bedroom. Whatever. He has an early drive back to Montreal. Ilya was torn between going to bed with him or catching up with Svetlana for the night. Shane assured him he didn’t mind going to bed alone. For this one time he had added, pointedly and Ilya knew he wasn’t going to be in too much trouble either way. He tried convincing Shane to have one drink with them, but he knew it was a long shot.

“Do you like him?” Ilya then asks her.

“He is pretty intense,” she says with a smile, not unkind. She grabs her glass of red wine off the table between them. “I don’t think he likes me much, though.”

“For eight years I thought he didn’t like me either. Still barely puts up with me, most days,” Ilya snorts.

“Now that’s a lie,” Svetlana says. “If he loved you any more than this, he’d have you locked in a basement. Though, I doubt he’d need a lock to keep you in there.” 

“Oh yeah?” Ilya asks innocently. “You think he likes me? What did he say about me?”

Svetlana answers with an exaggerated eyeroll.

Ilya was honestly surprised when Shane agreed to meet Svetlana. Ilya had tried to broach the subject a few times in the past. Each time he backed down when Shane looked at him with those brows furrowed, tight lips and serious eyes. He rarely shut down completely like that. And Ilya was always going about it the wrong way, he knew that. But he didn’t think there was a right way to go about this other than to be as honest as possible about what his relationship with her was like in the past. Even years ago, he figured that it was at least appropriate for Shane to know that Ilya was sleeping with women, with Svetlana specifically, but that it wasn’t serious. And even then Shane made him pay for it. 

So now, Ilya always caves. He could never really deal with Shane being angry at him, not for real, not when he is actually hurt. But still, what was Ilya supposed to do? Erase her out of his life completely? Maintain a friendship with her in secret? 

His therapist thought both ideas were firmly bad ideas. Though she warned him that in the end, Shane might want him to cut ties with past sexual partners and that that wasn’t unreasonable, no matter how adamant Ilya was about there being no romantic or sexual feelings left at all. 

Over the summer, Ilya had decided that he was going to tell Svetlana no matter what. He didn’t have to name Shane if Shane didn’t want him to, but he had a feeling that wasn’t really necessary anyway. Still, he would certainly prefer it if he could finally just tell her the whole story. If the two of them could go back to knowing each other fully. 

So he tried to convince Shane over the phone. Maybe Ilya could stay a little stronger if Shane wasn’t right there, radiating discomfort and anger when he heard Svetlana’s name. It didn’t help much. Ilya stated his case and he did so poorly, probably.

Shane said he would think about it and Ilya was fully prepared for Shane to never bring it up again. Even when Shane called him to tell him he wanted to meet her, Ilya still thought Shane might change his mind. That was his own fault. He should know better by now than to doubt Shane Hollander once he has made a decision.

And he knew it would be awkward, too. He decided not to reschedule his therapy appointment that morning. It was his first in person appointment in almost a month, and he could have probably rescheduled it for an online appointment at another time that week, but the idea of leaving Shane and Svetlana alone, even for just two hours, was kind of delicious to him. Shane was probably not going to forgive him for that any time soon. He doesn’t like surprises, even the good kind. 

But they survived. When he came back and found them in the kitchen, things seemed serious, but he was relieved that they weren’t actually arguing. Shane could be… direct when pushed into a corner and Svetlana was… a pusher. But they survived.

He didn’t need them to be friends. It would be nice if they were, but for them to know each other and to understand about each other how important they both were to him in different ways, would be enough.

He knows that Shane can still decide after this that he doesn’t like it, that he doesn’t want Ilya to see her anymore and Ilya would have to deal with that somehow. And he would, if he had to. He just hopes he doesn’t have to.

It’s a nice night. They sit there for a few hours, smoking a couple of cigarettes and sharing a couple of drinks in the freezing cold. They talk about people they both know from back home, some people who haven’t crossed Ilya’s mind in a very long time, about a world that still exists out there that he isn’t really part of anymore. It also strikes him that this is the longest conversation he has had in Russian with anyone other than his therapist in months. Even when he met Svetlana in L.A., she had her friend with her for the most part and apart from him taking her aside and telling her about Shane, they didn’t catch up all that much. He also gets to tell her about the Centaur. About Shane’s parents. They even talk about Rose Landry and Ilya doesn’t even pretend his vague annoyance at the existence of this woman who he has never met is not hypocritical. He knows it is and he doesn’t care. 

He tries to be quiet when he goes to bed, tries to open the bedroom door without letting it creak, tries to close it without it clicking into the lock too loudly. And maybe he is just a tiny bit drunk. He lost track, honestly, of how often he refilled his drink.

He almost jumps out of his skin when Shane’s says cuts through: “You don’t have to do that. I’m not asleep.”

Shane laughs at him and turns on the soft light on the night stand. He sits up and Ilya sits on the edge of the bed next to him.

“Why aren’t you asleep? It’s like one in the morning,” Ilya says. “Were we being loud?” 

“No, I was just reading,” Shane says.

Ilya doesn’t argue that Shane has a very strict ten p.m bedtime, because that would be insane, but he does feel bad. Shane was waitin up for him, whether he was willig to admit it or not. Ilya leans down for a kiss and feels Shane’s warm hand on his cheek.

“Oh my god, you’re freezing cold,” Shane chuckles. “And you taste like cigarettes and vodka.This might be the worst kiss we’ve ever had.”  

“Should I just kill myself then?” Ilya says, reaching up to put his cold hands on the back of Shane’s neck. 

“Stop, asshole,” Shane laughs. “Go brush your teeth and come back.”

“Will you let me try again?”

“Maybe. If I don’t fall asleep before you get back.”

Ilya washes his face and brushes his teeth in the bathroom and after a whif of his sweatshirt he decides to leave it behind in the bathroom, too. It doesn’t smell of cigarettes that much, but he does smell it somewhat. Shane waits for Ilya to get into bed fully before he turns the light off again.

“Why didn’t you go to sleep?” Ilya then asks, pulling Shane’s warm body into his chest. 

“Just wasn’t tired,” Shane says unconvincingly.

“Tell me,” he urges him carefully. 

Shane’s warm exhale tickles Ilya’s bare chest. “I just wanted to fall asleep with you, before I leave tomorrow,” he says softly. 

Ilya squeezes him tightly against his chest and presses his lips to the top of Shane’s head. 

Ilya performs a small miracle the next day. 

He convinces Shane to leave two hours later than planned. It allows Ilya to take Svetlana to the airport and to drive Shane to Montreal right after. 

“Are you spending the night?” Shane asks that morning while Ilya is fixing his hair in the bathroom mirror before they leave for the airport.

“I mean, if you let me,” Ilya says. Of course he is staying the night.

“Then don’t forget to bring your meds, please. And we should probably think about keeping some extras at my place, just in case,” Shane says before leaving the bathroom.

They drop Svetlana off at the airport, before they get onto the highway towards Montreal. “So,” Shane says. “She fucking hates me.”

“No, she doesn’t. Nobody hates you. It’s impossible.” 

“She thinks I sabotaged your career on purpose.”

Ilya laughs at that. 

“It’s not funny. She thinks a piece of shit.”

“She does not think that.” 

“Then why was she questioning me like I’m holding you hostage?”

“Well, maybe if I had told her about you earlier, she wouldn’t be worried like this.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault?”

“No, it’s mine.” 

“I just didn’t think she’d be so…”

“What? You thought you were the only person who cared about me?” 

“Of course not. I just thought, at the most, she’d be trying to steal you away, or something. Not that she’d come here and scrutinize our whole relationship.”

“Everyone does that when they find out,” Ilya says. “You think I like it when Pike opens his mouth to say some dumb bullshit? Even your mom didn’t want this for you in the beginning. It’s the rivalry. Only this time you’re the bad guy for once.” 

“I don’t like it.”

Ilya gives him an exaggerated shrug. “It is what it is. We wanted to be famous athletes, we are famous athletes. We wanted to fuck in secret, now here we are. Your friends hate me. My friends hate you.”

“I thought you said she doesn’t hate me.”

Ilya looks over at him, smiling. “She doesn’t. She thinks you’re intense.”

“Me? What about her? She’s the one who started those arguments, not me.”

“What arguments?” 

“No, forget I said anything,” Shane says, rubbing his face with his hand. “It was embarrassing, but I think it was fine in the end. She didn’t say she was upset or anything, did she?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Then what did she say about me?” 

“She said you’re more handsome in real life than on TV. And that your yoga is very professional. Oh, and that you’re so in love with me that you can’t understand why everyone I ever meet doesn’t also immediately fall in love with me, too.”

“Oh my fucking God,” Shane groans, covering his entire face with both hands now. 

“And that you’re secretly a Centaurs fan, she told me that, too.”

“I’m not,” he says, muffled. 

“And something about how you want to be a greater athlete than LeBron James.”

“I never said that.” 

“So you don’t want to be a greater athlete than LeBron James?”

Shane finally removes his hands, exasperated. “Of course I do. Who doesn’t? But I didn’t say that.”

“Okay, okay. But it sounds like you talked a lot. Maybe it was hard for you, but it made me happy.” 

“Really?” Shane asks.

“Yes, really.” He turns to look at Shane who is looking back at him with big, beautiful brown eyes. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I should have agreed sooner.”

“Where is your phone?” Ilya then asks. “Check the real estate website. It’s been a few days since we last looked.”

Shane takes out his phone and spends the next twenty minutes or so reading out the specs in the listings.

It then takes a moment for Ilya to notice that Shane hasn’t said anything in a while and when he looks over, Shane has his eyes closed, his arms crossed in front of his chest, phone in his lap and his head leaned back, sound asleep. 

Chapter Text

Ilya

Shane Hollander has posted a photo.

It’s mid December. Ilya is sitting on the floor of the Centaurs locker room, his back pressed up against the heater. It’s practically burning him through his sweatshirt, but the line between pain and pleasure hasn’t been crossed yet. He is definitely sitting in the way, but his team mates have yet to work up the nerve to ask him to move and to stop blocking all the heat from reaching the rest of the locker room.

He’s looking at his phone, scrolling through house listings, most of which he’s seen already, when he gets the Instagram notification at the top of his screen. 

Shane Hollander has posted a photo.

His thumb flies up to tap it without a second of hesitation. Ilya doesn’t think he has ever gotten a notification from the official Shane Hollander Instagram account. That must be why he can’t remember ever turning those notifications on. It must have been years ago, when he was still thirsty for third party Hollander crumbs.

Even as the page loads, Ilya thinks it’s probably not Shane’s real account. He must have accidentally followed one of the thousands of Shane Hollander fan accounts that are constantly recommended to him and who he has sworn to Shane he would never follow. Ilya thought it would be pretty funny m if people saw that the only people he followed were other athletes and for some reason also fifteen Shane Hollander fan accounts.

When the page finally loads, Ilya’s eyes practically pop out of his head. His mouth falls open, and a different type of heat spreads through his limbs.

It’s definitely Shane Hollander’s official account. Ilya has never seen this picture before, can’t even remember Shane mentioning a photoshoot like this. Shane Hollander, lying on a bed wearing nothing but a soft yellow sweater and white striped boxers. The sweater is pushed up, showing just enough of his belly for Ilya’s mouth to start watering. Shane is looking right at the camera, eyes slightly hooded, lips red and plump, the way Ilya likes making them look-

There is another picture. White dress shirt, open, the same boxers in dark grey, his face serious, looking off to the side. Both pictures are so clear, so sharp, that Ilya could count every freckle on those cheekbones. He has noticed before, to his great annoyance and indignation, that the freckles usually disappear in these big professional photoshoots. 

The caption reads something about loungewear, but Ilya barely processes any of the words. He opens the comments and without thinking, his fingers fly over the keyboard.

He posted this as suicide prevention. Go to @IrinaFoundation for more info.

Yuna had told them they should try to do more promo for the foundation. He’s sure she didn’t exactly mean posting thirst comments. Ilya might not be a manager (or even technically have one since he moved to Canada), but he knows a thing or two about what gets people talking. Ilya Rozanov commenting on smoking hot Shane Hollander pictures? Yeah.

He taps the picture twice and puts his phone away. He pushes himself off the floor with new found energy after a somewhat boring practice session, and gathers his things.

He waves away any questions about why he’s suddenly leaving in a hurry. He’s down the hallway and in his car in the garage in a matter of minutes. By the time he’s driving out of the garage, the music in his car is interrupted by an incoming call.

“Are you serious?” Shane asks as soon Ilya answers, sounding already defeated.

“Hm?”

“It’s too flirty.”

“Maybe. It’s funny.”

“It is also already attracting a lot of attention.”

Ilya laughs. “And you think that is because of my comment? Not because of your pictures?” 

“Don’t even start. I am embarrassed enough as it is. I didn’t know it would be so…”

“Sexy? You’ve done sexy ads before, no?”

“Not like this. I don’t know. It’s so… soft. It’s not what athletes usually do, is it? At least not the guys in the league.” 

Ilya laughs again. “You think there’s any guy in the league that could even do it if they wanted to? They’re ugly, Shane.”

“Don’t say that,” Shane responds, outrage in his voice completely undone by the chuckle that follows. “And I know at least one guy in the league who’s not ugly and who would kill doing something like this.” 

“Really? Who? Oh, me? Yes, yes, I’d look good. But you know me, I want to fuck the supermodel, not be it.”

“Stop, I’m not a supermodel. Are you on your way home?”

“Hm. Yes, you are. And yes, I’m going home now. Was going to go look at more of those pictures in private. Maybe put them on my TV.”

“I uh, I have an idea. If you’re up for it. If it’s not too much. You don’t have to, if you’re tired or you just don’t feel like it or something-”

“What?” Ilya pushes through.

“There’s a flight from Ottawa to New York at seven tonight. We’re both free tomorrow and the next day. Maybe…I don’t know. I was going to come to you, but maybe you want to come to New York?”

“Now?” Ilya asks and looks at the time on his phone. Three o’clock.

“Yeah. If you’re up for it. I won’t be mad if you don’t want to. But if you do and you really liked those pictures… I think I packed that sweater. It’s even softer than it looks.” 

“I’ll come,” Ilya says. Is he thrilled about spending more time at an airport or on a flight? No. But there is no way in hell he could even imagine saying no to this.

“Really?” Shane asks, and the excitement in his voice grips Ilya around the heart. “I’ll book your flight right now.”

“I can book it when I get home.”

“No, there’s not a lot of seats left. And the flight after this one doesn’t land until after midnight.” 

“Okay, but I want-”

“Business class. Yeah, yeah,” Shane says. “I’ll get us a nicer room, too.”

“Can I ask?”

“Ask what?”

“Why Shane Hollander is being fun and spontaneous?”

“Shut up. The hotel I’m in right now is near that little ice rink we went to last year. It just reminded me of that trip. It was nice.”

“It was. This is a good idea.”

“Good, I’m glad you think so. I’m going to book your flight now and then I’m going to go destroy the Admirals. Text me when you get all the flight info.”

Ilya gets to the hotel just a little before ten that evening. He doesn’t expect anything. Just that he’ll see his boyfriend for the first time in a week and a half. They have gone much longer, really. He’s hungry. Maybe they’ll order something off the room service menu and fall into bed right after. Shane should be in a great mood. The Metros had crushed the Admirals with four to two.

He pushes through the unlocked door to the penthouse suite at the very top floor of the building and it’s not just a nice hotel room. It might be the nicest room in the whole city. 

“What the hell, Hollander,” he starts as he’s taking off his jacket and kicking off his shoes. “You’re going to make me think you’re rich-”

Shane appears in the hall and has Ilya stop dead in his tracks. Like a fantasy come to life, he’s wearing the pale yellow sweater, and the white striped boxers. Calf length sports socks. “You said something about fucking the model,” Shane says.

Ilya finally moves. He steps forward and grabs Shane right under his ass, and lifts him up. Shane goes up easily, strong arms wrapping around Ilya’s shoulders and strong legs wrapping around Ilya’s waist before their lips finally meet, both smiling into the kiss.

He pushes Shane up against the nearest wall. “You’re going to drive me fucking crazy,” Ilya tells him. Growls it, maybe.

Shane reaches up to the back of Ilya’s head and threads his fingers through the curls there. “Yeah? What are you going to do about it?” He speaks every word with his eyes on Ilya’s lips, so Ilya gives him what he wants. Deeper this time, open mouthed and purposeful.

He considers for a moment to just do it right there, spit in his hand and fuck Shane right up against the wall. As hot as it would be, it seems kind of… rude, maybe, after all the effort Shane went through to get them here tonight. Knowing Shane, he might actually like it.

Ilya tightens his grip and lifts Shane away from the wall. Shane nods towards the left, where an open door leads to a bedroom with floor to ceiling windows looking out over the skyline of New York City. The first thing Shane does when Ilya lets Shane down onto the bed, is reach for the remote on the night stand to bring down the blinds. 

“Really?” Ilya asks. 

“I can see what they’re watching on TV across the street,” Shane says, pointedly. “So I’m sure they’d have no trouble seeing us.”

“Hm, and you don’t want to be seen?” Ilya hums into the skin of Shane’s neck as the blinds come down with a low buzz. “You don’t want the world to see how good I’m about to fuck you?”

Shane gently moves Ilya’s face to look at him. “No,” he says seriously. “Why would I care about anyone out there when you’re fucking me?”

“Very good answer. But with those new pictures… you know how many people are going to jerk off to those?”

“Don’t.”

“It’s true. All of them, dying to know what Shane Hollander has under here,” Ilya says, reaching his hand up the leg of Shane’s boxers, pressing his thumb into the crease of his hip. He pushes the sweater up with his other hand and leans down, planting a kiss right above Shane’s belly button and then another one right on top of it. Shane’s hand doesn’t leave his hair for even a second. “What would they do, huh?” Ilya asks, peering up. “If they knew I had you here like this?”

“If they could see you like this, they’d understand. Why it’s you,” Shane says, eyes as soft as they have ever been. “And no one else.” 

Ilya can’t help himself, he grins at that. Then he refocuses and finally mouths at the front of Shane’s boxers. Shane spreads his legs wider as a response and when Ilya glances up he has his head rolled back into the pillows, eyes closed and brows furrowed. Perfect. Ilya keeps going, tonguing Shane’s quickly hardening cock through the soft fabric of the loose boxers. 

“Fuck…” Shane sighs and tugs on Ilya’s hair lightly before moving his hands down and pulling at Ilya’s shirt. Ilya sits up on his knees and while he takes the shirt off completely, Shane’s hands are on the strings of Ilya’s track pants. And he’s not as coy about it. He yanks Ilya’s pants and underwear down to his thighs and takes Ilya’s half hard cock into his mouth, without using his hands. 

“Oh my fucking god,” Ilya mouths, practically up to the ceiling. He then watches intently, watches reddened lips stretched around his cock, tongue hot and skilled, eyes darting up to meet Ilya’s. 

He has to muster all of his willpower after a few moments to nudge Shane off with a gentle hand on his cheek. 

“Come on,” Shane says, using his hand instead, his mouth still close enough that Ilya can feel his hot breath on his aching cock. “We have all night.” 

Ilya can’t really object to that. Shane takes him back into his mouth. One hand stroking Ilya’s shaft as he moves his mouth up and down his cock, the other hand on Ilya’s ass, strong fingers kneading the soft flesh there.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya lets out as a warning of sorts. 

Shane’s eyes flutter up to look at him. He lets the cock slip out of his mouth and asks. “On my face?” It’s the type of brazenness that only comes out of him when he’s drunk with lust, his own cock aching. 

Ilya grabs him by the chin and leans down for a wet, sloppy kiss before straightening himself out again and covering the hand that Shane has wrapped around Ilya’s cock. It only takes a few more seconds after that, until white streaks cover Shane’s freckled cheek and lips. Ilya can only stare and pant as Shane darts his tongue out to lick off his lips and then the tip of Ilya’s cock. Ilya takes a moment to just watch. Watch how Shane pushes a hand into his own boxers, jerking himself off as he swipes his fingers over the cum on his cheek and brings them to his mouth. Ilya then finally moves. He takes his pants off all the way, just because it’s a tripping hazard, and then manhandles Shane further onto the bed and onto his back. He pushes Shane’s knees apart and yanks the boxers down just enough to give him access, to take Shane’s cock into his mouth.

Shane curses more than once, and Ilya reaches a hand up, which Shane grabs eagerly, leading two of Ilya’s fingers into his mouth. He considers swallowing the whole load when Shane cums, but decides to let the last drops rest on his tongue. 

He moves up, over Shane’s spent body, and kisses him, wet and dirty, tasting like each other, mixed together.

Ilya then lies down next to him, on his side, bodies still pressed up against each other, Legs tangled and fingers intertwined. Ilya buries their linked hands under Shane’s soft sweater, on his stomach and leaves them there. He then reaches for his own t-shirt, strewn just within reach on the bed. He brings it up to Shane’s face and gently wipes away what’s left of the glistening streaks on his cheek. Shane snorts with his eyes closed. 

“Should have taken a picture first,” Ilya says.

“Hm. The day we do that is the day our phones get hacked or stolen, I just know it,” Shane says. “And we should probably stop sending each other those other pictures, too.”

“Oh, should we?”

“Yes. I mean no, but we should. You don’t even hide your face most of the time.”

“I thought you liked my face?”

“Shut up.”

“Just maybe not as much as I like yours,” Ilya says and presses a soft kiss to Shane’s freckled cheekbone.

“You really don’t think that photoshoot was, like, too soft?”

“And why is soft so bad, huh?”

“You know why,” Shane sighs. “And I felt weird looking at them. I don’t know. Maybe some stuff is just for us.” 

“Like what?”

“Soft stuff. Like when you cried for the full ninety minutes when we watched Coco.” 

“You cried, too.”

“Right. But that’s just for us.”

“Okay,” Ilya chuckles. “And what else?” 

“Not the sweatshirt anymore. I don’t want to wear the Celtics sweatshirt anymore,” Shane says, looking away, miffed.

“What? Because of those stupid posts again?”

“Yes, it’s ruined,” Shane says, furrowing his brows further in annoyance. “That was just for us. It doesn’t feel the same when people start speculating.”

Ilya sighs and presses his foreheads to Shane’s temple. It was a rough one. Shane had worn the Celtics hoodie out of the house exactly once on his way to a practice session. He had stopped to answer a couple of questions from reporters as he’s done so many times. That same afternoon some Rozanov fan account had posted a still of Shane in the hoodie next to pictures of Ilya wearing it on different occasions, going back five years, with and without a jacket over it, pointing out where the Celtics logo is faded in the exact same place on both. Most people were calling the account fully delusional. A lot were… unnecessarily mean. Some were pretty funny. 

-I just saw my English teacher wearing this same sweatshirt. Should I ask him if he’s fucking Ilya Rozanov too? 

-Some of you need to start taking medication asap.

-I know Hollander is probably gay fr but I want to know whats worse: Hollander fucking that communist demon or Hollander repping the Celtics like a fake fan bc his evil crush played in Boston once upon a time. Vote in the comments.

-you people are so fucking annoying I’m sick of hearing about Rozanov everytime I open a Hollander thread I DONT CARE ABOUT ROZANOV keep him out of my Metros interviews or istg. he’s WASHED UP in Ottawa and Hollander shouldn’t even be friends with him in the first place 

-idk i share clothes with my friends all the time. some of you just dont know what real friendship is. some of you probably dont have any friends at all.

-Hollander must have lost a bet cus who just decides to give a shit about the fucking Celtics bro lmao

“Even if people knew about us,” Shane then continues, “I don’t think I’d ever want to make a statement or anything. People are so fucking awful just to be awful.”

Ilya is suprised that Shane is suddenly even considering the possibility of people knowing about them and how to react to it. “Are you still mad I commented on your picture today?” he asks.

“I mean, yes, it was definitely too flirty. But it was good to mention the foundation.”

“If people knew about us, I would tell everyone that I get to fuck you, under every picture of you.”

“What about telling everyone that you love me?”

“No, that’s just for us, remember?”

“Tell me then,” Shane says. 

“Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“I love you, too.” 

“Come on, try it.” 

Shane sighs dramatically and then says: “Ya tebya bezumno lyublyu.”

Ilya smiles, unable to even come up with a way to tease him. Too enamoured in that moment with how this gorgeous man just told him he is madly in love with him. Shane kisses him, deep and with intent, and Ilya can feel it in the way Shane holds his face that maybe he didn’t think Ilya would come to him that night.

Ilya enters the bathroom later, ready for his last shower of the day. There is the floor to ceiling window again, but this one is frosted for the most part, leaving a sliver at the top to show the night sky. 

It’s the massive free standing bathtub in the middle of the bathroom that catches his attention. A bath? That’s kind of dumb, right? He hasn’t taken an actual bath bath in years. The coach and physical therapist in Boston would make him take ice baths every week for some kind of ‘recovery’ but he hadn’t done it since he got to Ottawa. 

He starts running the bath as he studies the big bottles of soaps and oils on the shelf by the counter. “Hollander. Do you like a honey milk bath or a lavender bath?” he calls out, turning the amber colored bottle in his hand. 

Just a moment later Shane pokes his head through the open bathroom door. “You’re taking a bath?”

“You and me.”

“Oh. Then honey. Why are we doing this?”

“For romance,” Ilya says, wriggling his eyebrows at his boyfriend as he takes the cap off the soap. Maybe it would be more convincing if Ilya wasn’t still fully naked as he said it.

Shane rolls his eyes at him, but moves forward and dips his hand into the water. The water filling the tub is starting to steam up. Ilya pours about half the bottle into it, the sweet, but warm scent filling the room instantly. 

“This thing is massive,” Shane says. “It’s going to take a while to fill up.”

“Is it too hot? Not hot enough?” Ilya asks. 

“How hot do you want it?” 

“Burning.”

“Then it’s not hot enough,” Shane says and moves up to the faucet to twist the knobs. “I don’t think I’ve taken a real bath since I was a kid.”

“We should have candles,” Ilya says. “You think they’ll send us some?”

“Definitely not. I don’t think they want random guests to be burning candles in their hotel rooms.”

“Not even Shane Hollander?”

“Not even him and he’s not going to try,” Shane says. He walks to the automatic light switch by the door and the next thing Ilya knows, the lights dim around him.

“What about… strawberries and chocolate?” Ilya says.

“You want me to ask them if they have strawberries and chocolate? Ilya, that is so embarrassing.”

“I see. You flew me to your New York penthouse suite to fuck me and then let me starve?” 

“Shut the fuck up. I can order food. But I can tell you right now strawberries and chocolate are not a menu item.” 

“When you rent a room like this, everything is on the menu.” 

“You really want me to ask them-”

“Yes, Shane. I have never wanted something so much in my life.” 

Shane lets out an annoyed huff and practically stomps his feet out of the bathroom. Ilya smiles to himself, silently wondering if it will ever not be funny.

The strawberries arrive just fifteen minutes later, right as the tub fills up. “This is so embarrassing," Shane says again, showing Ilya the bottle of champagne delivered with it, complete with ice bucket and two glasses. 

“You are so romantic, Shane Hollander. How did you know?” Ilya teases and grabs the bottle from him. There is a dark wooden side table tucked under the sink, which Shane pulls out and slides next to the tub. He puts the pretty plate of strawberries, the ice bucket and the two glasses on there. 

“Don’t say I’ve never done anything for you,” Shane says.

Ilya replies by putting the bottle down and helping Shane take his sweater off. He watches as he folds it neatly and places it on the small bench near the overhead shower. Shane takes off his socks, too, and rolls them up. Ilya decides to be helpful again and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Shane’s low hanging boxers from behind. He presses a kiss to the soft skin on the back of Shane’s neck and then pulls the boxers down to his thighs, until they fall down to the floor themselves. Ilya bends down to pick them up and puts them with the rest of Shane’s clothes. 

He then puts his hands on Shane’s hips and inches him forward. “Get in.” 

Shane steps into the bath and sits down with a pleasant groan. “It’s really hot,” he lets Ilya know. He reaches a hand out, which Ilya takes as he steps into the bath himself. It’s certainly wide enough for the both of them, but when Ilya sits in between Shane’s legs, with his back against Shane’s chest, Ilya has to bend his knees just a little. 

It’s definitely worth it, Ilya thinks, even just for that short moment where he feels his back muscles relax as he’s engulfed by the steaming hot and soapy water.

“Feels good, right?” Shane asks softly, just beside his ear. Ilya opens his eyes, unaware he had even closed them. He hums in agreement and scoots down a little so that his shoulders are submerged as well. 

He can see thick and heavy snow flakes falling through the sliver of unfrosted glass. It makes him all the more grateful that they are right where they are currently. Not out there trudging snow. Not at an airport, not in traffic, not hundreds of miles apart.

He doesn’t always feel it. Grateful. He does always feel horrible for how ungrateful he can be. For weeks now, he has been waking up in a horrible mood most days. Not even depressed, just… annoyed. Pissed, even. At everything and fucking nothing.

He almost has it all. A career most people would kill for. More money than he needs. Peace and quiet, for the most part. Friends. And most importantly, a love so overwhelming and all consuming he can’t even imagine a life without it anymore. Without him. 

The idea that he could be ungrateful disgusts him, truly. It’s so petty and selfish, so… disconnected. And still, if he has all of that, why the fuck is he still waking up alone, day after day?

His therapist tries to assure him that feeling that way isn’t good or bad, it’s just a feeling. Self flagulating for not having a bad enough life doesn’t help anyone.

But even she fell silent when Ilya brought up Russia in their last conversation. People fight back, don’t they? They have nothing else. Just their principles. What do I have? Everything. Except for that. 

It had taken her a moment to process before going back to his circumstances and the pressure. She doesn’t have all the answers, he knows that and he doesn’t expect that of her. At the very least, in these frustrating moments, she was simply someone who he could say these things out loud to, and it was still an improvement to these thoughts and feelings being stuck in his throat like a cinder block, for months on end. Years, even.

And even so, he still hasn’t told her everything, still hasn’t been able to give voice to the glaring reason his brother hates him and why iIlya, for a long time, felt like he deserved every bit of that vitriol. Still often feels that way. Ilya never told anyone. Not Svetlana, not Shane. Svetlana would forgive him, he thinks. She had been around him when he was making all sorts of stupid decisions and fucking all sorts of people he shouldn’t.

But Shane? The ever faithful, ever loyal. He might look at Ilya differently.

But here, in this moment, he feels grateful down to his bones that he is one of the lucky ones, with a life so comfortable and filled with obscene luxuries like taking honey milk baths with the most beautiful boy in the world. 

It’s not everything, but it’s the farthest thing from nothing. You can talk to me about anything, Ilya, Shane assures him so often. Ilya is getting pretty close to believing that.

They end up back in bed, in fluffy hotel robes with the rest of the strawberries. Ilya had poured them a glass of champagne each. Shane didn’t touch his champagne or the chocolate covered strawberries. There were regular strawberries, too, which he did eat all of and when Ilya dipped one of those in his champagne and held it up for Shane to bite into, he did. 

Shane was stricter about alcohol and sweets than he was previously. He wasn’t bulking anymore, and Ilya thinks he might have even lost a few of the pounds he had gained over the summer.  Reaching the finals and then losing last season had definitely made Shane far stricter as soon as this current season began. 

Shane puts on a pretty boring basketball game between the Raptors and the Bucks, but it has Ilya’s attention well into the second quarter. Shane is leaning against him, head on Ilya’s shoulder, with a warm, heavy hand on Ilya’s chest. Ilya thinks maybe Shane has fallen asleep already, but just moments later Shane’s hand moves. His fingers curl over the collar of Ilya’s robe, carefully inching down to right above the knot in the robe’s belt. He grazes his fingers over the bare skin on Ilya’s stomach, and then back up to his chest. He does this for a while and Ilya enjoys the gentle caress for what it is, until Shane lifts his head up and presses a warm kiss against Ilya’s collarbone. He’s hovering just short of taking initiative. He could get in Ilya’s lap, could just grab his cock, could kiss him, the way he has done plenty of times before.

Ilya knows that it’s not hesitation or shyness. He puts a finger under Shane’s chin and lifts his head. He wants to kiss him, wants to devour him, envelop him, be everything he could ever need. 

“Sit here,” Ilya says, spreading his legs. Shane moves immediately to get into Ilya’s lap. “No. Turn around.” 

Shane quirks an eyebrow, but sits in between Ilya’s legs, leaning back against Ilya’s chest, the way they had just been sitting in the tub, places switched. Ilya reaches around him, puts a hand on each of Shane’s bent knees and pushes them apart. He then grabs the belt of Shane’s robe and undoes it. He presses his lips against Shane’s ear. “Get yourself ready for me.” 

Without a word, Shane reaches up and puts two fingers into his own mouth. He takes them out again, slick with spit, and reaches between his legs. He lets out a sigh as he touches himself. 

Ilya feels the heat rising, just watching him over his shoulder. Feeling Shane tense against his chest for just a second, feeling him adjust himself to get comfortable, is so hot he has to mentally restrain himself from just shoving Shane down on the bed and grinding up against him like a dog. And Shane would like it, too. 

He watches Shane’s soft cock twitch, waking up among a tuft of soft dark hair. Ilya lets his hand roam over Shane’s chest, grabbing a shameless handful first and then reaching down to stroke Shane’s cock. He presses his lips back up against Shane’s ear, kisses it, mouths at it and pulls the first real, open mouthed moan out of him.

They take their time. They were blowing each other just two hours ago, and as hot as it would be to fuck fast and rough now, Ilya directs Shane to lean back against the pillows. He then pushes Shane’s knees up to his chest and eats him out until the hand in his hair becomes desperate. 

There’s a tiny bottle of lube in Shane’s toiletry bag on the bedside table, no label and could easily be mistaken for hand sanitizer. Ilya coats his cock with it, eyes on Shane’s face who is fully fixated in Ilya’s cock. 

He presses his cock up to Shane’s hole and leans down for a kiss. Ilya can feel Shane’s knees grip at his hips and pull him in closer. He can only tease so much until he’s teasing himself more than Shane, really.

Shane lets out a beautifully familiar groan into Ilya’s mouth when Ilya presses into him. Ilya responds with his own, overwhelmed by the heat, by the tightness around his cock, by how easily he is welcomed in, despite that. By the way Shane can relax so fully when Ilya has him like this.

A long time ago, Ilya used to tell himself some really stupid things. Just sex. Over and over and over again. You can get sex anywhere, it’s not a big deal, he’s just one guy, it doesn’t need to be him, why do you always want it to be him? Get over it. He doesn’t want you. Why would he want you? He just doesn’t want to risk it with anyone else. You’re convenient. Don’t let it get to your fucking head. 

That was a lifetime ago. The rest of their relationship could probably be considered the opposite of convenient. Just bending over backwards to spend every last spare second together. And every last one of those seconds has been worth it. 

And Ilya did really believe that sex itself was just a physical thing at one point. He believed in love, sure, but as a separate thing. These days, and for quite a while now, all his lust and love seemed to have converged in one massive, glowing, smoldering hot arrow, pointed directly at Shane Hollander. 

“Ilya,” Shane pants and reaches for Ilya’s hand. “Fuck, Ilya.” He guides Ilya’s hand up to his chest and Ilya knows what he wants, what he’s been liking lately. Ilya slides the hand up and Shane bares his neck for him immediately, tilting his head back. Ilya curls hand around his throat gently, but snugly, as he fucks into him. He presses down gently, holds him like that and watches Shane’s beautiful face contort in pleasure.

Ilya wakes up with Shane’s head resting on his chest. The room is still dark and his phone is just out of reach to check what time it is. Shane stirrs when Ilya tries reaching for it. “Morning,” Shane says. 

“Morning,” Ilya responds, accompanied with a kiss to the top of Shane’s head.

“It’s still early,” Shane says, returning the kiss on Ilya’s chest. “You can go back to sleep, if you want.”

Ilya doesn’t go to sleep, but he doesn’t feel the need to move either. It’s warm under the covers, skin to skin. 

“Did the last house have a sauna?” Shane asks after a little while. 

“Yes. Not very big, but nice.” 

“You really liked that house.”

“You would have liked it, too.”

It was perfect. Shane would have love the surroundings. The house was covered by trees, the next home being about fifty yards away. Close to a running trail. There was a firepit in the yard, even. 

It was fairly new, too. The family that owns it was still living there when Ilya viewed it. Clearly very wealthy. They hadn’t even listed the house anywhere. Ilya’s realtor had called him personally to tell him that she knew a family who was maybe thinking of selling their home. He got a private viewing while no one was home. It was clear it was a longshot. But when he saw how nice it actually was, he couldn’t help but get his hopes up. 

This was definitely a house that Shane Hollander would want to live in.

But before he even got to talking about putting in an offer, the owners let the realtor know they decided not to sell after all. Ilya had considered just making an offer anyway. Maybe it would be an offer they couldn’t refuse. He didn’t know how rich these people were exactly. 

But he had seen children’s hockey gear stacked in the mudroom, tiny skates and sticks, dog bowls and he had walked past what was clearly a young girl’s room. It seemed kind of awful to just offer a bag of money and tell this family to fuck off out of their home, because he wants these five bedrooms to himself to impress his gay boyfriend with. His gay boyfriend who just so happened to be a big fan of modern architecture and all natural materials. 

He had shown Shane some pictures. He didn’t take many, just a couple of the outside spaces. There were still people living there after all. In the end, it was probably better that way. He was disappointed enough on his own. He would have hated for Shane to get excited and be disappointed, too.

Even so, Shane said he loved the location and the privacy that came with it. Maybe a little big was his only point of criticism, which meant that it was probably perfect. Ilya could still see himself and Shane sitting near that firepit so clearly. Having a little bit of the privacy the cottage provided, but  in their everyday life in the city. 

“Maybe we’ll find something in that neighborhood,” Ilya suggests. 

“You want that one, though. I know you said you don’t want to put in an offer, but I don’t know. You can ask the realtor to float a number. Just a little over what he thinks it’s worth.” 

“I can’t buy a house you haven’t even seen.”

“It’s the one you want,” Shane says. “You were nowhere near as excited for any of the other ones.”

“Much more expensive than the others, too.”

“It’s a better investment than a Lamborghini.”

“Hm. Fuck you.”

“Just think about it. If you loved it, it’s worth a try,” Shane says, pressing another kiss on Ilya’s chest before pushing himself up. He doesn’t get out of bed, just sits up against the headboard and grabs his phone off the bedside table with one hand. He buries the other one in Ilya’s hair. 

“There’s a coffee machine in the suite, but the room service can bring better coffee,” Shane then says. “They have a bacon, egg and cheese bagel. You want it? Or yoghurt with fruit and oatmeal for the both of us?”

“You know what I want,” Ilya says, suddenly starving. He really didn’t even get to having dinner last night. “But extra fruit is good.”

“Okay, should be here soon,” Shane says and finally gets out of bed. “I’m going to clean this sticky fucking mess off me. We took a bath and a shower last night, just to still wake up with your cum all over me.” He says most of it as he’s already out of the room.

“It’s your own cum, too,” Ilya calls after him. He turns on the light on the bedside table and finds his own phone. 

It’s worth a try, Shane had said, so he might as well try. He texts his realtor with the idea of floating an offer after all and proceeds to ignore every other incoming text. His team mates love to ask him what he’s doing on his days off. He’s sure he is missing something they had planned, not sure what, because he had declined the invite to whatever it was without even hearing the specifics. If Ilya hadn’t come to New York, Shane would have come to Ottawa. There just aren’t enough hours in their days together for Ilya to also schedule team events somewhere in there. He has been feeling worse and worse about it. He was still just getting to know the team last season, but they seem to have… grown attached to him. Especially the younger ones go nuts if he shows his face for even twenty minutes at a get-together. And maybe he’s grown attached to them as well.

When Shane comes back just ten minutes later, he points at the bedroom door. “There’s a Peloton and a weight rack in the other room. Or we can go for a run outside after breakfast if you want. And if the weather is good enough.”

“What if I don’t want either?”

“Then I would have to do it alone. And I wouldn’t like that.”

Ilya makes a show of groaning dramatically and throwing the bed covers off of himself. He gets out of bed, grabs Shane’s face and presses a loud and hard kiss onto his cheek, squeezing his face for good measure. Shane pretends to fight him, but the arms that snake around Ilya’s waist are more telling. 

Ilya still takes a full shower. He doesn’t mind showering both before and after a workout, in fact he prefers it. Before and after workouts, before and after games, before and after sex. Getting ready and winding down. On his worst days, he might be in there four times a day, naively trying to wash away the heaviness, hoping he’ll feel normal, lighter somehow, after this one. Or the next one. 

He’s just finishing up brushing his teeth when Shane pushes into the bathroom. He grabs his Apple watch off the counter and puts it on his wrist. He then wordlessly sidles up behind Ilya and wraps his arms around his torso which he lazily dried with the towel that is now wrapped around his waist.

The mirror above the counter is too foggy for Ilya to see Shane’s expression fully.

“Sorry,” Shane then says, letting go of him and taking a step back. “I can’t keep my hands off you for some reason.”

“For some reason?” Ilya asks and turns around.

Shane looks at him, almost shyly. “I promise that’s not the only reason I asked you to come here.”

Ilya leans back against the counter. “And you think I wouldn’t like it, if you asked me to come here and we stayed in this room and fucked for two days?” 

“I think it would be rude of me to assume.” Shane reaches over and drags his fingers over where the towel is tucked against Ilya’s hip. 

“Then ask,” Ilya says. 

Shane bites his lip and asks: “Can I suck you off?”

By the time they get to their food, the coffees are lukewarm. Shane has put on track pants and heavy sweatshirt, very inconspicuous in all black, which tells Ilya that he has already decided for them that they are going out for a run. 

“Mom just texted,” Shane says when Ilya sits down next to him. "Apparently your comment on my post got like fifty thousand likes.”

“Famous,” Ilya says before biting into his bagel. “Is she mad?” 

“No. Apparently the foundation’s account got a bunch of followers from it.”

“You don’t look happy about it,” Ilya notes, looking at slumped shoulders.

“It’s not that. There’s just a bunch of other comments under yours now.”

“Don’t read them.”

“It’s too late for that,” Shane sighs and puts his phone down on the table.

“Want me to delete it?” Ilya offers, putting his hand on Shane’s thigh. It had been a spur of the moment joke. He couldn’t be in those comments supporting his hot boyfriend going out on a limb with a photoshoot like that. But at least as a colleague he could show it every now and then. He never meant for it to cause more stress.

Shane shakes his head. He leans forward and grabs his yoghurt bowl off the table. “We’re going to do six miles in Central Park.”

“As my punishment, or what?”

“You liked it last year. After that we can go out, do lunch somewhere. Maybe you can ask your friend Scott Hunter if he knows anywhere good that’s a bit more private.”

“Scott Hunter does not know good restaurants,” Ilya snorts. “Why don’t you ask him?”

“Because I beat him two to four last night. He doesn’t want to hear from me,” Shane says frankly. “But now that I think about it, he’ll probably have questions about what you’re doing in New York if you ask him.”

“Getting sucked off by the man who beat him, what else,” Ilya chuckles and it gets a laugh out of Shane, too. “But you really want to go out? Last time you hated it.”

“I didn’t hate it,” Shane says. “Just like… a little bit. But it’s different now. People have seen us together a lot, they know we’re friends. And you like it, right?”

“Not if it stresses you out.”

“Okay, well, everything stresses me out. If we were to go by that, we would never do anything or go anywhere. I can get over myself,” Shane says decisively.

It’s not snowing anymore and most of what fell the night before seems to have thawed overnight, leaving just mounds of icy snow along the roads and walkpaths here and there. Every now and then even the sun breaks through grey clouds.

It’s just past nine a.m on a Saturday morning when they start their run. The park is a lot busier than it was the last time they were there. Couples out on walks, families out with strollers, people out with their dogs.

Ilya loves it. It’s six miles, a good distance for anyone, but he feels like he could do twenty with Shane by his side at a steady pace, with the sounds of all these other people around them just living their lives. And the harder his body works, the less time he needs to spend thinking about anything. The louder his heart pounds in his chest, the softer the unrelenting voice in his head becomes that just loves to ask what the fuck is the point of anything?

He also likes to push it far enough to the point where Shane can only barely keep up with him. Shane can act annoyed by it all he wants, but everytime Ilya picks up the pace there is a smile there, the drive reignited, ready to be challenged, ready to play. Shane is faster on the ice. Most of the time. That is where Ilya is playing catch up. Most of the time. It’s the only place where it actually matters.

Back at the hotel, they skip the weights and instead get right back into the shower. It just happens, really. And Ilya can admit that it’s probably a bit much to already be all over each other again, as he becomes mesmerized by how Shane’s long, pretty eyelashes stick together under the shower stream. He has the self control to wait for Shane to be done washing his hair and scrubbing himself down before he crowds him up against the wall, just to kiss him a little bit. Shane kisses him back, warm and sweet and comforting, pulling their bodies flush together. Shane pulls away and presses their foreheads together. “I swear this isn’t why I asked you to come here,” he says, dragging his fingers over Ilya’s back.

“Hm?”

“I didn’t ask you to come all the way to New York just so we can fuck the entire time.”

“You keep saying this. What could be a better reason?”

Shane shakes his head, small smile on his lips. “We’re supposed to go out, have fun.”

“You don’t have fun going out in New York.”

“But you do. And last time we were here you said…” Shane cuts himself off, dropping his head on Ilya’s shoulder when Ilya slides both his hands down Shane’s back and his ass, spreading him open and pressing one gentle finger against his hole.

“What did I say?”

Shane gives Ilya’s shoulder a playful bite, both hands gripping at Ilya’s waist and then looks at him. “After this, we’re going out.”

There is the small problem of not really wanting to get out of bed after they fuck. They order lunch to the room and get back in bed again, which Ilya has absolutely no complaints about whatsoever. And then Shane says: “I have an idea, but it might be a bad one.”

“Hm?” Ilya asks. Shane has his head on Ilta’s chest and Ilya has been playing with Shane’s ear with one hand and lazily scrolling on his phone with the other. He puts his phone down.

“The Knicks are playing the Celtics tonight,” Shane says. “You would like that.”

“You want to watch?”

“No. I mean, we could… go,” Shane says.

“You want to go to a game with me? Together?” Ilya asks, honestly confused.

Shane stills for a moment and then shakes his head. “No. You’re right, it’s stupid.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, it is. I’m sorry,” Shane says. He shifts away from Ilya to lie down next to him, turning onto his side to look at Ilya. 

“This was your idea?” Ilya asks, still pretty confused.

“No. I mean, I was thinking maybe we could go, wear the Irina Foundation sweatshirt. But I only brought one, so it’s stupid.”

“You want to go to the game and you want to promote the foundation there? So we’re sitting courtside?”

“You’re right. It’s dumb.”

“I did not say that,” Ilya says emphatically. “I will go if you want to go.”

“I just thought you’d like it. I don’t even know if there are any tickets left.” 

“I can get tickets. Lots of friends at the Celtics. Will you really go? If I get them?”

Shane exhales. “Yes.” 

“You don’t want to ask your mom first?”

Shane rolls his eyes at that. “No. It’s fine. If I treat it like a promotional thing, I won’t even have a panic attack while we’re there.”

Ilya expects Shane to change his mind every step of the way. 

Getting the seats is easy. The problem is that they’re maybe a little too good. There is also still the issue of Shane having beat the Admirals the day before, but the boos are halfhearted when the cameras find them for the first time and probably mostly directed at Ilya who is wearing a bright green Celtics jacket he got off one of the players after chatting with them for a little bit before the game. Even Shane rolled his eyes at him when he put it on.

Ilya introduces his very famous and good friend Shane Hollander to the players and while Ilya continuous to fuck around with old friends before the game, Shane puts on his very professional interview smile and talks to the sideline reporters for a little bit.

“We know Ilya Rozanov used to live in Boston, but what makes Shane Hollander a Celtics fan?” she asks. Ilya looks over her shoulder at Shane’s face who is just shaking his head.

“You know, I’ve liked the Celtics since I was a kid,” Shane lies. “I’m a big fan of sports’ history and the Celtics have been a force for decades. And before I was drafted to the Metros, there was a good chance I’d end up in Boston, too.”

“Hm. No there wasn’t,” Ilya blurts, peering at Shane over the cameraman’s shoulder. Shane catches his gaze, stern warning in those pretty brown eyes. Ilya dares a wink and dodges the cameraman who tries to turn around to get him in view.The reporter and the cameraman both seem more amused by his antics than Shane is.

The reporter continues: “Well, I think the guys on the Celtics will be thrilled to hear that they have the support of the best player in the MLH-”

And it’s clearly bait. She says half of it, while looking over her shoulder at Ilya who just shakes his head and backs away while scoffing loudly and annoyingly. It takes every ounce of self control not to remind everyone who won MVP last year. He steps back and catches just enough of the rest of the short interview to hear Shane mention the foundation and explain what it entails in his nicest Canadian boy voice. 

“I can’t believe I have to be a Celtics fan now,” Shane mutters when they finally sit down for the game to start.

A Celtics staffer shows up with a tray of snacks and drinks and Ilya thinks it’s one of those nights that proved it can actually be pretty fucking fun to be semi-famous.

But Ilya can’t help himself. Shane seems to be having a perfectly good time, but Ilya turns to him at least four times during the game to ask him if he’s still okay being there. The last thing he wants is for him to be sitting there overwhelmed and regretting the entire thing with camera’s pointed at them. The stadium is packed and loud. Shane is used to a crowd, but Ilya knows from experience that when you’re the one at the centre, you get very good at drowning out the noise to focus on the task at hand.

“I’m good, I promise,” Shane assures him after the fourth time. “It’s more fun than watching on TV.”

“We can go when you want to go,” Ilya assures him.

“It’s a close game. As a Celtics fan, I’m very invested in the result,” Shane says with a small smile, and then more seriously: “I’ll let you know when I want to leave.”

They take a few pictures with fans at the end of the game and right as Shane signals at Ilya with just his eyes that it’s time to leave, a security guard, about a head taller than the both of them, comes up behind them. “I can call a car for you guys. Or two cars?”

“One is fine, thank you,” Shane responds. 

Ilya waves goodbye to the last few fans and follows Shane and the security guard down into the player’s exit. There is a black car waiting for them outside already, near the Celtics player’s bus.

The car ride is only ten minutes long, ten quiet minutes in which Shane, who is already wearing a pair of sunglasses, pulls the hood of his sweatshirt up. Ilya wants to pull him against his chest, wants to grab his hand and let him know it’s done, the night has ended, they’re almost alone together again.

Instead, the best he can do is ask the driver if he minds turning the music down.

It’s not until the door closes behind them in the hotel room that Shane says: “I think that part with the fans drained all the life out of me.”

“They were happy to see you,” Ilya says. He grabs Shane’s arm, gently, and turns him around so that they’re facing each other. He pushes Shane’s jacket off his shoulders. “And you did very good.”

“When it’s so many of them, it just becomes too much to focus on. Don’t you get overwhelmed?” 

“Sometimes. They must like you a lot, for them to be so nice after you destroyed the Admirals one day before.”

“They were nice,” Shane admits. “But I get so tired after things like this.”

“Shoes off. We’re going to lie down,” Ilya assures him.

While Ilya gets changed, Shane comes out of the bathroom with his toothbrush in his mouth to remind Ilya to take his meds. His alarm went off over an hour ago while they were out and Ilya had already forgotten about it. 

He waits for Shane to get into bed first, before joining him. He lets Shane decide how much he wants to be touched and Ilya is silently pleased when Shane scoots closer to him and latches onto him with all of his limbs, putting his head on Ilya’s shoulder. 

“Did you have fun?” Shane then asks. 

“Me? Of course,” Ilya says.

“Really?”

“Really. Talked to old friends, talked to fans, watched the game, had pizza and popcorn. My boyfriend was there complaining about how everything was too loud and too bright and too salty and too greasy…”

“I didn’t complain about it being too bright.”

“You were thinking it, but it’s okay. It was a very good time.”

“Really?” Shane asks again, softly.

“Yes, really.”

“Good. I’m glad. I just wanted you to have a good time this weekend.” 

Ilya buries his nose in Shane’s hair and the last thing he thinks before he falls asleep is that his therapist would probably be proud of him for not questioning why his boyfriend would care so much.

Their flights leave around six in the evening the next day, and that morning Shane doesn’t seem pressed at all to do anything or go out. They take turns on the Peloton in the suite, Shane first and Ilya second, beating Shane’s mileage by almost half a mile per hour.

“Fuck off,” Shane says when Ilya gloats about it. “I didn’t even know we were competing.”

“Okay. Some of us always put in our best effort and some of us pick and choose when to perform,” Ilya says, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the towel draped around his neck.

“Is this how you talk to your team mates as a captain, too? Just bitchy?” Shane asks. 

“No, no, no. If they slacked off like you did just now, I would set their skates on fire. I was very nice to you.”

When Ilya returns after his shower, Shane is back in bed, lying on top of the covers with his phone in hand. He says: “I think Hayden is pissed.”

"Nice. Why?” Ilya says, pulling a pair of grey sweats out of his bag. 

Shane is scrolling through texts, little frown knitting his eyebrows together. “Apparently he watched the game last night and he saw we were there. He has been asking me to go to a Raptors game with him forever and I always tell him I don’t like basketball.”

Ilya snorts, and then laughs with his whole chest.

“And they showed us a lot, apparently. They even put the foundation’s socials in the lower third. That kind of advertisement usually costs tens of thousands of dollars. That’s actually pretty cool.”

“Did your mom see it?”

“Yeah. She was surprised, but she said we looked cute,” Shane says and scrunches his nose up at that. “Maybe she’s pissed, after all. I don't know. Usually if I’m doing an appearance somewhere, it goes through her.”

“When she’s pissed, she tells you, no?”

“Yeah, but… I don’t know. I feel bad sometimes. For years the only time I was in the news was for hockey. The last couple of years have been so weird. For everyone.”

“Hm. Did we look good?” Ilya looks around the room until he sees something yellow peeking out of Shane’s bag at the other side of the bed. He moves to grab it.

“People seem to think so. And they’re not calling me a fake Celtics fan anymore.”

“But you are.”

“No, I’ve decided to be a real fan.”

“Oh, you really want Hayden to kill himself,” Ilya snorts again and pulls Shane’s soft yellow sweater over his head. “Does this color look good on me?”

Shane glances up at him once and then pointedly looks back at his phone. “No, you’re very ugly, actually.”

“Hm. What if I post a picture in this sweater, huh? You think there will be more rumors about us fucking each other?”

“If you do that, there will be no more of us fucking each other,” Shane tells him and then turns his phone for Ilya to look at a close up picture of the two of them, shoulder to shoulder, faces neutral, focused on the court. The first comment under it is: I can’t choose, ya’ll think they’d double team?  

“I assume that’s sexual,” Shane says.

“Yes, very. My hair looks messy.”

“No, it looks good,” Shane says, a hint of outrage in his voice as he pulls the phone back, completely forgetting he was doing a mean bit just now. “I like it like that. It looks so soft.” 

“You know, they were very happy to meet you,” Ilya tells him. He plops down on the side of the bed he had been sleeping on. Close enough to look at Shane’s screen. “The players. From the Knicks, too.”

“They were just being nice,” Shane says. 

Ilya grabs his own phone off the nightstand and shows Shane just one of the texts he received last night and that morning.

Nice to see you again man. Warn us next time before showing up with a legend. Got my knees shaking while taking shots. 

“That’s nice,” Shane says. “And it was fun, I’ll admit it. Talking to other athletes outside of hockey. But I was also so fucking tired when we got back last night, you’d think I ran a fucking marathon instead of just sitting there and watching a basketball game, pretending you and I didn’t spend the last twenfy-four hours just sucking and fucking.” 

“Was that what you were thinking?”

“Yes. Weren’t you?”

“No, I was watching the game, you little pervert.” Ilya looks over Shane’s shoulders to see more pictures and clips of them at the game. “We look very good together.” 

“Yeah…”

“What?” Ilya asks, bumping his shoulder. “You regret going?” 

“No. No, that’s not it. I just… we just went, you know. I knew there would be some news about it here and there, but even the official NBA channels are showing us. It’s definitely more attention than I expected. I got messages from Metro's management, too. Nothing crazy,  just that they saw. They’re reposting the clips, too.” 

“Oh, really? Did they blur my face?” 

“No… they just zoomed in on mine really tight. Look, your shoulder is in this one,” Shane says as he passes a picture of himself looking off to the side, to where Ilya is sitting. And indeed only his shoulder is visible.

Ilya rolls his eyes at the crop. “You look very pretty there. And you can see the name of the  foundation, so that’s good,” Ilya tries to put it into perspective. “It was a good idea, using the charity as a cover up for our date.”

“Don’t say we’re using our charity as a cover up. That sounds really, really bad.”

“No, it’s a very smart scam you came up with so that no one suspects that we are fucking and sucking.”

“And please don’t ever call the charity a scam. I’m actually begging you.”

“Okay.”

Shane puts his phone away and looks at Ilya, a bit more serious. “Did you really have fun last night? This weekend?”

“Yes, of course. Why do you keep asking me this?” 

“I don’t know. It was so last minute and I didn’t really plan anything. We just got lucky with the basketball game. I should have at least googled a nice restaurant or something. You came all this way. I wanted you to have fun with your boring boyfriend for once.”

“I had fun with my boring boyfriend. You did good. Very good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Did you have fun?” 

“Yes. The part with the fans stressed me out a little bit, but the game was fun. Meeting the guys, too.”

“Do you think you’ll wear the Celtics sweatshirt again now that you are a real Celtics fan?” 

“Maybe.”

“Will you promise me one thing?” 

“What?”

“If you love me, you will never ever go to a basketball game with Hayden.”

“I’m not promising that.”

“So you don’t love me?” 

“Not when you’re acting like a baby.”

“I’m acting like a baby? Not you, complaining about too much honey in your yoghurt?” 

“It was just saying it was way more than yesterday. You order something from the same place, you expect it to be consistent.”

“Should we call them and tell them? Next time please measure your honey for Shane Hollander’s yoghurt, or he will talk about it for thirty minutes, please.”

“You think I’m that annoying?”

“No, they should always do it perfect for you, Shane Hollander, superstar athlete and supermodel.”

“Can I ask you a serious question?” Shane then asks, and doesn’t wait for Ilya to answer: “Do you think it’s weird I get overwhelmed so fast at events like last night? It’s always like that. Everyone else seems to be fine, but halfway through a night like that I feel like I need to go home or I’m going to explode.”

“You should tell me earlier. Don’t wait till it's that bad. We can just leave when you want to leave.”

“People would call me an asshole.”

“Yeah, fuck ‘em,” Ilya shrugs.

“But you never feel like that?” Shane asks. 

“Not exactly. I have… different problems. Makes me not want to go anywhere at all sometimes. You know.”

Shane nods. “I’m still glad we went.” He reaches for Ilya’s hand which Ilya pulls away. 

“Remember when you called me ugly?”

“No, I would never,” Shane says, chasing Ilya’s hand until he moves his whole body, straddling  Ilya on the bed and leaning down. Ilya feels his weight on his hip, his warmth everywhere and he patiently watches plump pink lips get closer and closer. 

Shane

Shane is flying to Montreal. Ilya is flying to Ottawa. Their gates happen to be right next to each other and their departure times are only ten minutes apart.

Shane peers at Ilya from across the table that holds their coffees, phones and Shane’s glasses. The private lounge isn’t very busy, but there has been at least one double take of someone passing their table. Ilya had refused to take off the yellow sweater. It only just peeks out from under his jacket, and maybe it’s because Shane has been so thoroughly and repeatedly fucked by this man in the last day and a half, that he can barely bring himself to care at this point.

Shane had opted for what he thought was a more subtle look. Baseball cap, hoodie, glasses. Practically invisible, Ilya had teased him before they left the hotel.

Shane is torn, somewhat, between wanting to be back home in his quiet Montreal apartment after this quite frankly overstimulating trip, and never wanting this weekend to end. Even now, all he can really think about is how good Ilya looks and how good he has been looking all weekend. 

Ilya is sitting across from him, brow furrowed, one airpod in as he scrolls, pauzes and starts scrolling again.

Shane gave up trying to keep his hands to himself in the hotel room. The basketball game was a hit in the sense that Ilya had fun. It was a disaster in the sense that Shane had initially hoped that no one would even know that they were in New York together at all. But it was his own fault. He had invited Ilya over and hadn’t planned anything for them to do. There just wasn’t much Shane wanted to do other than be with his boyfriend so that they could fuck and talk face to face rather than through another fucking screen. But Shane knows that they’re different in that way. Ilya likes going out, likes being around people, talking to people, having fun. 

Shane had seen the advertisement for the basketball game the day before, when he was playing against the Admirals in that exact stadium. He suggested it after the fourth time they had sex in the span of about twelve hours, hoping it made up for the lack of planning on his part. He really didn’t want Ilya to feel like Shane had made him get on a plane just so that they could stay holed up in a hotel room for two days. 

So yeah, people knew they were in New York together. A lot of people knew. They pit it on the fucking news. He got more texts from people seeing him sitting at the sideline of a random basketball game than he has gotten for actually being a star player in a hockey game.

Rose’s text had humbled him immediately:

Look at you looking like a superstar! Killed it in the interview too! Question: how fat is that man's cock for you to be doing all of this?

And she got him there. He’s stumped himself, really. Less than a year ago, Shane had practically had a panic attack over them being seen together during All Star weekend, of all things. They had fought about it, intensely. 

And now he’s voluntarily going to massive public events with Ilya for fun. He still had waves of anxiety about it, but somewhere along the way, being in the real world together started feeling normal. The only thing that didn’t feel normal was how severely conscious Shane always was of exactly where his hands were when they were out together. He has caught himself so often reaching to rest a hand on Ilya’s lower back, or around his waist, like he’d do if they were maybe alone in the kitchen together at Ilya’s apartment. He really shouldn’t be doing that while they’re waiting in line to get a coffee at the airport. And he didn’t. But he almost did. And Shane thinks that if they were actually smart people, they wouldn’t even be waiting in line for coffee together at all. Ilya wasn’t even wearing a hat, for god’s sake. 

It worries Shane slightly, how he doesn’t feel the sense of danger in the same way anymore when they are together in public like this. He’s getting complacent. He's getting comfortable. The nearly unbearable stress he felt during the summer camp past summer was a distant memory. He survived that. And there are plenty of annoying fans and flatout psycho’s, but something Shane hadn’t expected at all was how many people actually liked seeing the two of them appear together. Fans of the both of them and fans of the sport in general, were seemingly just excited that they were interacting at all. Good sportsmanship was apparently a pretty popular concept. Maybe not as popular as the concept of a career long rivalry, but still.

At the end of the day, Shane doesn’t want to be the reason that Ilya feels like he did after last year’s All Stars ever again.

Maybe it’s foolishly optimistic and maybe he is getting his priorities mixed up in a way that he can’t really catch up to yet. And maybe if he doesn’t get it sorted out soon, they’ll catch up to him instead. 

These are all things he has been meaning to sort out, meaning to talk about. Just a long list of things that they should probably discuss at some point. 

They had spent that day pretty much entirely in bed, and it flew by. Shane had wanted to talk to Ilya more. Had wanted to look right into his eyes to ask him how he was doing, really. He hadn’t even done that.

Ilya had seemed… stressed, maybe, for the last month or so. He didn’t seem to be depressed, necessarily, at least not as far as Shane could tell or as far as Ilya was willing to admit. He was just frustrated. With a lot of things. Looking for a house, getting the Centaurs motivated again. And they were also right back in the middle of the worst time to travel for games. Flights were getting delayed or cancelled due to weather conditions, which meant games were getting delayed, which meant that when they would see each other again was often unsure.

So this weekend, Shane just wanted Ilya, wanted them to have a good time and do something that Ilya would like.

So they did not do much talking.

“What are you getting pissed at on that phone?” Shane asks. The frown on Ilya’s face has only gotten deeper.

Ilya glances up at him, shaking his head. “Some people online are not just assholes. They need to die, I think,” he says plainly.

“Okay, let’s not say that too loudly at the airport,” Shane says. “When did you start getting bothered by comments? I thought that was my thing. What are they saying?” 

Ilya shakes his head again, locks his phone and puts it on the table with screen facing down. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be looking at it. Ruining a perfect weekend right at the end,” he huffs and then smiles at Shane. 

Speaking of ruining a perfect weekend. Shane had been holding on to something since Friday. Since he booked Ilya’s flight. Shane had Ilya’s passport information in a locked note on his phone and it had been a while since he had needed to look at it at all. When he opened the note that afternoon to book his flight, he noticed the expiration date. June 1st of next year. Shane has been meaning to ask, what was the process going to be? Could he do the whole thing online? Would he have to go to the Russian consulate? Would he have to go all the way back to Russia?

He bit his tongue about it all weekend, not wanting to ruin a perfect weekend, right at the end. 

Shane decides that he’s going to ask Ilya when they are back home. 

When Shane gets off the plane in Montreal around nine that evening and checks his phone, he has a couple of missed calls and a few texts which he decides to get to when he’s home. When he is finally home, he takes a shower, orders food, plops on the couch and then looks at whatever random twitter drama he has apparently been missing out on while waiting for his food to arrive. J.J.’s text is most recent, just a screenshot of a tweet followed by a LMFAO. 

“Oh, what the fuck,” Shane groans out loud when he realises the drama is not that random after all. The first thing he reads is:

IlyaRozanov

only scrolled two times and found this guys fetish in his likes. since its public and you got opinions, please @SkateMog let all your followers know if its only white womens piss you drink

There are hundreds and hundreds of comments, thousands of retweets and tens of thousands of likes. Shane is frozen for a moment, wondering how he should go about putting this into context. He can’t remember Ilya ever tweeting anything other than obligatory game schedules. What could possibly have provoked a reply like this?

From there it takes barely thirty seconds to figure out what Ilya was replying to. The tweet with the original clip has been deleted at this point, but Shane finds a reposted clip of two white guys sitting at a desk with microphones, just thirty seconds long. The type of clip Shane would never normally click on. One of them is wearing an Admirals hat.

“Yeah, I can’t wait for Scott Hunter to retire. Like, it’s over. Go be fucking gay on your own time.” 

“Hollander fucking annihilated him, but you know what they say about him, right?”

“Hollander is overrated, too. Did you see him prancing around at the Knicks game? Why am I suddenly seeing him everywhere? Used to be we’d only see players on the ice, where it fucking matters. Not on every gay ass billboard.”

“You know what? I miss when the league wasn’t overrun with homosexuals and fucking Asians. Can we go back to that?”

Shane goes back to Ilya’s tweet and notices the timestamp on it. Just a few hours ago. When they were still sitting together in the airport. 

He sighs and rubs at his eyes. His thumb hovers over the like button on Ilya’s tweet. There is no universe where Metros management would let it slide if he gave it a like.

Instead, he exits the app and calls Ilya. He should be back home by now, too. Ilya answers on the third ring. “Yes, I’m here,” he says and Shane watches him lean the phone against the backsplash in his kitchen.

“Why are you calling some guy a piss drinker on twitter?” Shane asks and he can’t hide the exhaustion in his voice. 

“What do you mean why? It is clear why.”

“I thought we agreed to ignore the really nasty stuff?”

“Is easy to ignore when they are nobodies. Millions of people watch these assholes. What am I supposed to do? Hear them talk about you like that and ignore it?”

“Ilya.” 

“What?”

“I’m not mad. But I don’t know if it’s worth the mess.” 

“What mess?”

“You know everyone is talking about it. I just don’t want you to get in trouble because of this.”

“In trouble from who?” Ilya snorts. “If you’re not mad, then there is no trouble.”

“I don’t think the league is going to be happy with one of their top players attacking random podcasters on twitter. They give fines for stuff like that.”

“Would be nice if the league cared about one of their top players being attacked by these assholes.”

Shane sighs again. “What would they even do about it? These people are going to say whatever they’re going to say-”

“Yes, and I said some stuff, too.” 

“It’s just a lot of attention. On you specifically. I just get worried, you know.”

“Worried about what?”

“Well, you know. We’ve been going out in public a lot recently. And as fun as it has been, it’s also very risky.”

“Hm.” 

Shane lets out his deepest sigh yet. “Your passport is expiring in June. I was reading up on the application process and it said you’re going to have to go to the Russian consulate here in Canada.” 

“Yeah? So what? I’ve been there before when I moved here. I’ve been to the Russian consulate in America, too. It’s not a big deal.” 

“Okay, but that was before. There are so many rumors about us now and we have been going out in public together a lot more. You’re not exactly beating the gay allegations by defending me online. Or Scott Hunter, by the way. And he’s confirmed gay. Isn’t that like… propaganda or something.”

“You have gay allegations,” Ilya says and starts unwrapping a cheeseburger.

“Where did you get that?” Shane asks.

“Got it on the way home. You want some?”

“Shut up. I ordered a bowl. Should be here in ten minutes,” Shane says, though the cheeseburger does look good, even through the screen. “Can you at least promise me you’ll get the passport stuff sorted as soon as possible? Otherwise I’m going to just be worried about it all the time.”

“Yes, that’s easy.”

“Okay. Why aren’t you eating your burger?”

“I can wait ten minutes,” Ilya shrugs. “What did you get?”

“Quinoa with spiced salmon.”

“Extra salmon?”

“I mean, yeah.” 

“Hm. Can’t wait to watch you eat it.”

Shane shakes his head and rolls his eyes in one go. “You’re a fucking weirdo.”

-rozanov is funny as hell for this

-They deleted EVERYTHING??

-I hated these guys from the beginning. Good riddance. Hope everybody in their family brings his piss fetish up at Christmas.

-Does no one think it’s kind of crazy that Rozanov just ruined a guy’s life like that? Could even have ruined his marriage.

-I’m not saying we shouldn’t care about racism or homophobia, but it’s a bit much to be kinkshaming a guy in public like that. 

-everybody who cares about these guys feelings after all that should probably kill themselves. you’re holding everybody back with that weak shit.

Shane doesn’t see Ilya again until Christmas eve. Shane’s grandparents have been in Japan since October and they probably won’t be back until the spring. Shane’s parents decided to visit them there, so Shane spends his very first Christmas without his parents or grandparents with Ilya in Montreal. Hayden had invited him over as soon as he heard Shane’s parents wouldn’t be in town. And Shane would have gone, too, if it was just Hayden, Jackie and the kids. But it was Hayden, Jackie, the kids, Jackie’s brothers, their kids and Jackie’s parents. It was clear that Ilya was not invited. 

So instead they decide to stay at home in Shane’s apartment and try to cook the braised beef Shane’s dad made last year on Christmas day. David wrote the whole recipe out for them and Shane goes grocery shopping the morning of Christmas eve, which is apparently way too late. He is standing in line at the butcher’s shop for about an hour, too embarrassed to take anyone who recognised him up on the offer to skip the line. 

In the end, grocery shopping takes him all morning, and by the time Ilya arrives that afternoon, Shane is already exhausted. Ilya lets himself into the apartment where he finds Shane sprawled out on the couch. He can hear him shed his jacket and shoes at the door, so Shane sticks his arm up to greet him. 

“Just lying here in silence again,” Ilya says, voice getting closer and closer until he pokes his head over the back of the couch, right above Shane’s head.

Shane touches his face. “You’re late.”

“And you’re cranky.”

“Hm.” 

“No?”

“There’s just too many people everywhere.”

Ilya smiles at that and finally leans down to press a much needed kiss to Shane’s lips. It’s just a peck, really, before Ilya wrestles himself over the back of the couch and covers Shane’s entire body with his own.

“Hello,” Shane breathes out. “Merry Christmas.”

“Did you miss me again this time?” Ilya asks, brushing a few strands of hair out of Shane’s eyes. 

“I’ve been missing everyone this week. You, my parents. Grandparents. I didn’t know it would feel like this, not being with family for the holidays.”

“Yes, it’s not fun.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t complain.”

“Why? Because your family is not dead?”

“Shut up. Yes, I’m very grateful that my family is not dead.”

“You can still be sad they’re not here,” Ilya says. “But not too sad, because I’ll think I’m not enough for you.”

“You know, my mom gave me a whole box of decorations before they left, to decorate the apartment.”

“Oh? You want to-”

“No,” Shane cuts him off. “I was going to, before you got here, but I opened the box this morning and all I saw was glitter. I don’t want to be finding glitter all over my apartment for the next year. I didn’t even take any of it out of the box and I still had glitter on my hands. I had to take another shower after that.”

“You’ve had such a hard day already,” Ilya teases. “Do you think you will recover?”

“Shut up.”

“Should I give you some good news then?” 

“Oh?”

“The realtor called me yesterday.”

“Ilya.”

“It’s nothing official yet. I want you to see it first. And if we still like it after that, we would not be able to move in until June.”

“Ilya, that’s great,” Shane says, and wraps his arms around Ilya’s waist tightly. He feels his mood lift instantly, face breaking into a smile. “Did your offer change their mind?”

“Not exactly. There is bad news, too. They said they just wanted to wait with selling the house until the summer, so that the kids could finish the school year there. Alone with the mom.”

“Oh my god, the dad died?”

“No, divorced. Like two years ago. You are so dramatic.”

“You said it like the mom was the only one left.”

“No. Just time to sell the house, split the money.”

“That’s a lot of money to split. At least now you know those kids aren’t going to be homeless because you bought their house.”

“I didn’t think that.”

“Don’t pretend now. You were acting like you were kicking those kids out onto the street by putting an offer in,” Shane chuckles. “It would have been more frustrating if it wasn’t kind of cute.”

“Do you really hate my apartment that much? You’re happier about this than me.”

“I don’t hate the apartment,” Shane says earnestly and now it’s his turn to play with Ilya’s hair. “I don’t know, I just feel like you belong in a big, beautiful house.” He doesn’t say that, compared to Ilya’s home in Boston, the two bedroom apartment in Ottawa just feels very temporary. He hadn’t even furnished the guestroom until he was already a year into living there. He didn’t hire any help to make it feel like a home. It was just a place he was staying, because he needed a place to stay. Just enough furniture, nice things, for it not to feel empty. There were plenty of reasons for it. Lack of time, priorities, depressive episodes. But it still made Shane uneasy when he thought about it, sad even, that Ilya didn’t really feel like he was at home in Ottawa. In Canada.

“And what about you?” Ilya then asks, voice soft and eyes even softer. “Do you belong in that beautiful house, too? With me?”

For a moment all Shane can do is nod, a wave of emotion washing over him, any attempt at a full sentence stuck in his throat. He pushes through. “Of course,” he says. “Where else?”

Ilya gently wipes his thumb over the outside corner of Shane’s eye where one stubborn tear made it out despite his best efforts. “And if it happens,” Ilya continuous, “it will be our home? You won’t just come visit, you will not be my guest. It will be our home together. Do you want that?” 

“Yes,” Shane answers, voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, I want that with you.”

Shane’s mom facetimes him that evening, around eight p.m in Montreal and nine a.m on Christmas morning in Kyoto. 

“I told them not to come without you,” his grandma says, appearing on screen first, before Yuna pops up behind her. “What kind of people leave my grandson behind alone?”

“I’m not alone, grandma,” Shane chuckles, glancing back at where Ilya is in the kitchen scooping up a bowls of ice cream. 

“Is your friend with you?” 

“He’s here.” 

“And he takes care of you?”

“Grandma, he doesn’t need to take care of me-”

“Of course I take care of him,” Ilya interrupts, rushing over to look at the screen over Shane’s shoulder. “I always do. And he takes care of me.”

“Good, good. That’s good. Do you have enough to eat? You know, stores close during the holidays.”

“More than enough,” Ilya says.

“Are you bringing Shane to your family this year?”

“No, my family is also very far away.”

“Ah. It’s good that you are together, then.” 

“Yes, but Shane misses you very much. He told me this morning.”

“You two should just come,” she states matter-of-factly.

“If we had more time, we would be there,” Shane finally speaks up. “I’m really sorry I couldn’t be with you guys this year.”

“It’s because you work too hard. You need to relax sometimes.”

“He likes working hard, so what can you do?” Ilya chimes in again.

“He’s like his mother. She can’t sit still. Even here she is doing emails, phone calls. Shane will be in this magazine, he will do this interview, this photoshoot."

“Mom,” Shane says. She’s not in frame, but he knows she can’t be far.

“It’s nothing,” her voice floats in. “She’s exaggerating. You know her.”

“I told you, you shouldn’t be working at all while you’re there,” Shane says. 

“Don’t worry about me, honey. Grandma sent a care package your way. Should be there before New Year’s,” his mom says. “It has those ginger candies in it that you like.”

They spend a little longer on the phone. Shane asks his dad a few questions about the braised beef recipe (how much exactly is a pinch of cinnamon in this context’) and goes over the current scores in the league with his grandpa (‘the Centaurs really have their work cut out for them’). 

“Do you think we should have told them about the house?” Shane asks after he hangs up.

“No, no,” Ilya says and shakes his head for good measure. "Not until it’s official. You haven’t even seen it yet.”

“Then why have we been watching home gym equipment reviews for the last two hours?”

“You started doing that, so if you get disappointed, it’s your own fault. No need to disappoint the whole family.”

“I have a feeling we’re not going to be disappointed,” Shane says

And they’re not disappointed. Not about this.

At the end of January, Shane does a private walkthrough of what is probably the most beautiful home he has ever been inside of, and Ilya closes on the house the next day.

But at the beginning of February, Ilya learns that he has to go to Moscow to finish the process of his passport renewel. Something about the Russian consulate in New York, which he went to when he lived in Boston, not being able or willing to press a button on a keyboard to confirm Ilya’s entire existence as a Russian citizen working abroad. It apparently doesn’t matter that he is probably one of the most famous Russian athletes in North America and all the proof they need can be found by a Google search.

“I’m cursed, I have to be,” Ilya huffs dramatically. “Every single time something good happens to me, some fucking bullshit happens, too.”  

“Like what?” Shane asks, because he has no clue in what other way to be supportive.

“I got scouted and then my mother died. Same year.” 

“Jesus Christ.” 

“You told me you liked me and then my dad died. Also same year.” 

“I’m part of this curse?” 

“It works the other way, too. Losing at the Olympics. Bad. Winning the Cup. Good. Same year.” 

“Okay, but you won MVP last year and nothing bad happened,” Shane says.

“Hm. The depression that came before that was pretty bad.” 

“Okay, enough. This is not the time to list every horrible thing that ever happened to you. You know there’s another option.”

Ilya turns away from him like he didn’t even hear him. It’s true. Ilya technically has two options.  He can go to Moscow and get their parents’ birth certificates himself. Or he can ask his brother Alexei to do it for him and mail them over. Ilya seems to have made up his mind about it pretty quickly. “It’s only four days. I will be back before All-Stars is even over.”

“You’re the only Centaur invited to All-Stars. They need you to do promotion,” Shane argues. 

“Too bad. I don’t have a choice.” 

“Well, you do,” Shane says.

“No, I don’t.” 

“You’re the one who said that maybe you wanted to-”

“Not like this,” Ilya cuts him off. “Not now, right when I need something from him.”

“It’s a pretty important thing. Ilya, let’s be real. It’s the least he could do for you.”

“I don’t want it, okay? I don’t want to owe him anything and I don’t want him to owe me anything.”

He had talked to his immigration lawyers, just to see if there was anything else they could try. Starting any new processes now would put him at risk of his passport lapsing into the last three months of the expiration date, which would make it impossible for Ilya to even travel to the U.S for his actual job. And Shane knows there is that same danger if Ilya asks Alexei for help. There is no guarantee he’d even do it.

It still feels surreal to see Ilya packing a bag right now. Yesterday they were both getting ready to fly out to L.A for All-Stars, still riding the high of closing on their dream home. They were finally going to go to Shane’s favorite sushi restaurant in L.A together. They have both been there separately, they have ordered from the restaurant to their hotel room together after the finals last year, and this time they were going to go out to the restaurant together. 

Shane feels the childish urge to empty the bag Ilya is packing onto the floor. Instead, he leaves the bedroom, feeling anger and frustration rise with nowhere for him to put it. He shouldn’t be getting this emotional about it. It’s four days. Ilya will be on a flight for two of those days. He has nothing to worry about. Except for god knows how pictures are now on the internet of them barely inches away from making out in public. Except for the rumors. Except for all of Ilya’s annoying supportive posts and appearances with Scott Hunter, the only openly gay player in the league. Shane hates himself for thinking it was all a bad idea. 

For Ilya specifically. And Ilya knows better than anyone what even just the implications are of one of the most famous Russian athletes in North America doing something like that, whether they know about his own sexuality or not. And he did it anyway. Does it anyway.

Ilya had said once, or maybe he even twice that he never wanted to go back to Russia. He was angry then, and so so hurt by how he left things with his brother. His tone had changed in the last few months. Shane thinks he must talk about it more with his therapist than with him, but the last time Ilya’s brother came up at all Ilya said he hoped he was at least sober now. That he felt weird, having a charity that is all about bringing awareness to mental health issues, while he left his own brother behind, addicted to drugs and tied into knots about their father’s death and all the misery that came before it. 

It’s the type of intense stuff that Shane just can’t even imagine coming to terms with. He can only hope to offer some comfort, and be thankful that Ilya has a therapist who could offer some actual advice. 

But Shane hates it nonetheless. He hates that Ilya has to walk around with all of this. He hates that he can’t make it any easier for him.  

He goes downstairs and cracks open the door to the balcony without stepping outside. He just needs some fresh air, he needs to calm down, to cool down, before he says something he’ll regret.

He is still leaning against the frame of the sliding door to the balcony when he feels warm arms wrap around his waist from behind. Ilya locks his fingers together over Shane’s stomach, pulling Shane in flush against him. It’s warm and comforting, and Shane can smell the pleasant citrussy smell of his own shampoo in Ilya’s hair. Shane closes his eyes and lets the warmth wash over him.

“Don’t be mad at me,” Ilya says. “I’ll be back on Tuesday. Four days is nothing.”

“I’m not mad at you,” Shane says. “I’m just mad.”

“There is no curse, okay? This is not that bad. There are no rumors about me on Russian social media or anything like that. Nothing to be worried about.”

“And you’re not worried?”

“No,” Ilya says, and he sounds sure. “I know how to be when I’m there.”

“I know you’ve been thinking about it,” Shane says, looking for the right words. “Are you kind of… excited about going?” 

Ilya doesn’t immediately answer. He hooks his chin over Shane’s shoulder. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”

“But you’ve been wanting to?”

“I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Look, it’s okay. I’m sorry about getting mad earlier. I don’t want to make this more stressful than it needs to be,” Shane says and covers Ilya’s hands with his own. 

“There is no stress. I’m ready to go.”

“Fans are going to be disappointed. Last year’s MVP, skipping out on All-Stars like this,” Shane says. “You’re not even going to be there, and you’re still going to be all everyone is talking about.”

“Come inside. It’s too cold,” Ilya then says, gently pulling Shane away from the doorway and using one hand to slide the balcony door closed. 

They go back upstairs, finish the last preparations for their respective trips and then get ready for bed. It’s still too early for either of them to actually be tired, but Ilya’s flight leaves at six in the morning, which means he needs to be at the airport at four, at the latest.

When they’re settled in bed, lights off, and facing each other with Ilya’s arm resting on Shane’s waist, Shane says: “Border security can search phones these days. American security does it, too. They look through socials and stuff.”

Ilya is quiet for a long moment. Shane knows the implications of what he’s saying. He even knows that Ilya most likely won’t do it. He knows most of all that if he doesn’t consider everything he can do to keep Ilya safe, he won’t forgive himself.

“If they take me away for wishing Scott Hunter a happy birthday, then I deserve it,” Ilya finally answers.

“If anything actually happens to you-”

“You think they’ll say taking pictures with Scott Hunter is gay propaganda?” Ilya snorts. 

“It literally is.” Shane knows that if Ilya can’t joke about stuff like this, there is a bigger chance of him not talking about it at all, than him switching to taking it seriously. So Shane bites his tongue, fighting the urge to tell him to stop joking.

“I don’t know anything,” Ilya says with a dramatic sigh. “I didn’t even know he was gay. I hate the Admirals and I turned the TV off as soon as they won the Cup that year. And if he is gay, then that’s bad and he should stop doing that.” He lifts his hand and places it under Shane’s chin. “And so should Shane Hollander.”

“The Shane Hollander thing is just a rumor.”

“Hm. I think it’s true,” Ilya says and he mumbles the last word against Shane’s lips.

As predicted, the only thing anyone is talking about is the MVP’s absence. Shane’s parents have traveled with him this year, so he should have plenty to distract him. Still, he is practically glued to his phone the entire day, tracking Ilya's flight in his hotel room, until Ilya finally facetimes him in the evening. 

“Hey, how was your flight?” Shane asks. 

And Ilya looks good, looks barely tired. “Was okay. The flight attendants knew me.”

“Did you feel famous?” Shane teases. 

“They were very nice.” 

“How nice?” 

“Hollander, it’s only been twelve hours. You can’t be jealous already,” Ilya chuckles. 

“Apparently I can,” Shane argues, and then he asks: “How are you feeling?” 

Ilya shrugs, and looks around what looks like a nice hotel room. “It’s weird to be in my own city, and I don’t have a home here. Not my apartment. Not my father’s house. I don’t know.” 

“You feel sad about it,” Shane says, it’s not a question. He sees it in the perfectly tender eyes and downturned brow.

Ilya reaches a hand up and runs it through his hair, still not looking at the screen. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry.” 

“Tell me who you saw today,” Ilya changes the subject. “Did my good friend Scott Hunter make it?”

“Yes, he made it. Asked about you,” Shane forces out. 

“He asked you about me?” Ilya asks, sly smile on his lips. “And what did you do, kill him?” 

“I asked him why he thought I would know anything about you,” Shane says. 

“Yes, why would you?" Ilya chuckles. “It’s still early there, no? Will you go out tonight?”

“I don’t know. There’s a bunch of stuff going on that just sounds like too much.”

“You have to go out to eat with your team, at least.” 

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, the captain has to go,” Ilya says resolutely.  “I am going to try to sleep now. Appointment for documents is in a few hours already.”

“Okay. Keep me updated on that, please. My parents have like a million question about it every time we talk.” 

“Okay. I love you.”

“I love you, too. And…”

“Hm?” 

“I just… I know you feel sad right now, and I know it’s not the same, but maybe it can help you feel better… to remember that you and I will also have a home together now.”

Ilya’s smile becomes soft, so soft that Shane stupidly wishes he could reach to the screen and touch his face, so soft that really it’s horrible that Shane can’t fully have him in his arms in that moment. “Yes, that does make me feel better,” Ilya then says. “And I think about it all the time.”

With the ten hour time difference and Shane’s busy schedule, there is no good time for another phone call between them. Shane does a few interviews and while he’s been asked about Ilya before, he definitely feels like Ilya is being brought up a lot more, with every reporter and interviewer trying to circle back to Ilya Rozanov’s absence. Last year’s MVP. Has your friendship changed in the last year, now that you’re working together on a charity? How close have you really gotten? How does it feel to be here without him? Who do you think is your greatest competition in his absence? Any comment on Rozanov’s twitter controversy? Should he have been fined for that? 

It’s silly, it’s annoying, it’s exhausting. The saving grace is him doing well in the actual skill events. He does great, even. But the entire time he is still wishing for them to be over sooner, so that he can get back to his phone again.

Not that there is any point. By the time he has a moment to himself again, it’s three a.m in Moscow. He can’t call him, not yet, but he is happy to see that Ilya sent him a picture. Shane steps away from the communal lunch table. He doesn’t go far, just hovers at the drink fridge in the L.A Kings cafeteria to actually open the message.

A wave of relief washes over him at the sight of Ilya holding up a crisp, bright red passport next to his gorgeous face. The caption reads:

Famous enough for special treatment. They were embarrassed that I missed All-Stars for this, so they gave me expedited passport. 

“What are you smiling at?” 

Shane practically jumps out of his skin when Scott Hunter appears beside him. 

“Nothing,” Shane says, locking his screen and stepping away from where he is blocking the fridge. Scott Hunter reaches in and grabs a coke. 

“Hey, Rozanov’s is good, right?”

“What do you mean?” Shane asks, feeling like he’s having deja vu. He’s pretty sure Hunter asked him the exact same thing yesterday. 

“I tried texting him to see how he’s doing. He’s not answering.”

“He’s fine,” Shane says, without thinking. And then: “I mean, I’m sure he is. Last I checked.”

“And when was that?”

“Recently,” Shane says, annoyance creeping up on him. Shane doesn’t dislike Scott Hunter, but his interest in Ilya has Shane, well, irked.

“Recently like when?” 

“Hey, are you still seeing that one guy?” Shane blurts.

“Yeah, why do you ask?” 

“No reason. Rozanov is fine. If he wanted to reply to your message, he would have.” 

“Jesus Christ, man. I’m not trying to take him from you.”

“Then what are you trying to do? You used to tell me you hated him.” 

Scott Hunter looks at him, suprised or maybe even shocked by Shane’s aggressive tone, by Shane not denying the implication, by Shane not backing down, not budging an inch.

Rationally, Shane knows that none of this is Scoff Hunter’s fault. Ilya is a grown man, probably smarter and more empathetic than most men. His support for Scott Hunter has always been a fully conscious and active decision. But even just the possibility of something happening to Ilya because of it…

Shane can feel himself taking his frustration out on the wrong person, but here they are.

“You can relax, alright? He’s been cool through this whole thing. He’s the only reason I’m here this year. Didn’t think he’d have attack dogs ready for me,” Scott Hunter says. “This thing between you and him-”

“Yeah, I’m not doing this,” Shane cuts him off. “Definitely not here, with half the fucking league around to hear it. And there is no thing between me and him,” he adds. He knows it’s pretty futile, though he feels better having at least made an attempt at plausible deniabiliy on the off chance anyone else is listening.

“Sure. Again, the attack dog bit is not helping your case,” Scott Hunter says, before going back to the table.

Shane turns back to his phone, opening Ilya’s message again. Thank god. I’m glad that’s over with. Did you meet up with anyone today?

He walks back to the table, not expecting a reply until hours later, but a message pops up on his screen right as he is about to sit down. Can I call you? 

Shane walks away again, out of the cafeteria this time, out into a hallway where mostly staff is walking up and down. He asks the first person he sees if there is anywhere he can make a private call and she leads him to a small, empty security office.

Shane thanks her and closes the door behind him. He calls Ilya first.

“You should be asleep,” Shane says as soon as he hears the click of Ilya picking up. 

“Jetlag,” Ilya says. “How did you do in your events today?”

“Good. I won my events.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“Guess it’s easy for you when I’m not there.”

“Fuck off,” Shane snorts, leaning back against the door. “What about you? How was your day?”

“Was okay. I thought I was going to have to wait forever for processing this and that. But they were, you know, starstruck.” 

“And they couldn’t be starstruck while you were still in Canada?” Shane complains. 

“Is okay, I’m flying back tomorrow.” 

“No, the day after.”

“No, I’m coming back early.”

“Didn’t you… I thought you were going to try and meet up with your brother and your niece?” 

“I tried. He didn’t answer my texts or calls.” 

“Ilya.”

“It’s okay. I’ll be in L.A by tomorrow morning, your time.”

“Wait, you’re flying into L.A?”

“Long story. The league wants me to come for promos. I told Centaurs management I got the passport, they told the league, now they want me to come for the last day.”

“How are you going to do that if you still have jetlag from when you got to Moscow?”

“We’ll see.”

“Doesn’t seem fair. Not competing, but still having to do all the promo for it? They’re paying you for it, right?”

“Yes, a lot.”

“I just got into a pretty bad argument with Scott Hunter,” Shane then admits. 

Ilya responds with beautiful, genuine laughter. “About what?”

“I don’t even know. He keeps asking me about you and I’m like… fuck off.” 

“Why are you mean to old people like that? He just wants to know what the kids are doing.”

“Well, he didn’t like you before you started helping him out.”

“You didn’t like me before I made you cum, so.”

“That doesn’t count. We talked like three times before you made me cum,” Shane says. “And I was just pretending before. Maybe Scott Hunter was just pretending, too.”

“I don’t think so,” Ilya chuckles. “I was very, very mean to him. I still am, most of the time.”

“Ilya,” Shane then starts, a bit more seriously, because Ilya said something at the beginning of this conversation that Shane can’t ignore. “Your brother…”

“I don’t want to talk about that right now.”

“Can we talk about it when you get here?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. I’m trying not to think about it.”

“I’m sorry. You don’t deserve this,” Shane feels the need to remind him.

“I’m going to try to sleep now,” Ilya then says around a sigh. “I will see you soon, okay?” 

“Okay. I’ll be waiting.” 

“And if you’re going to fight Scott Hunter, please let someone film it so that he can be famous.”

“Shut the fuck up. If he asks me about you again I’m actually beating his ass.”

“Yes, yes, yes. I would love to see it,” Ilya laughs.

Shane watched Ilya’s first interview live in his hotel room, before he has even seen Ilya at all. As handsome as he looks, Shane can tell he’s tired. They ask him about the season until then, about his plans and strategies for the rest of the season, and naturally Shane comes up.

“Can you tell us a little bit about your friendship with Shane Hollander?”

“Shane Hollander? Yes, I can tell you everything about him.”

“Can you tell us how you became such good friends?” 

“Me and Hollander? I’ve known him for a very long time. But when I moved, he was the only person I knew who was from Ottawa. So he showed me around and I met his family. He takes me hiking, we go to the gym. We became very good friends. You know, they say Canadians are nice, but I think Shane Hollander and his family are the nicest ones.”

“So you’re saying you work out together?” 

“Off the ice, yes, we have.”

“Hollander won his events in the skills matches. Do you think you could have done better?”

“I haven’t seen it yet, but yes, probably. He could do better, too. No broken records this year.”

“I see the rivalry is still alive and well.”

“He will always try to be better than me, you know. It’s tough for him.”

“In his interview he said that you were one of his best friends.”

“Did he?” 

“He did. Apart from the Irina foundation, are there any other projects you are working on together, now or in the future?” 

“The Irina foundation is very important to us. We put a lot of time into it. Yuna Hollander works very hard on it, too. For now we are busy enough with it, but who knows. Hollander is good to work with.”

When Ilya’s voice floods the stadium that afternoon as he takes his place in the commentator’s booth, the crowd erupts into the loudest cheers anyone has heard all weekend. Ilya’s plane landed too late for them to see each other before the event. The booth is too high up for Shane to really see him, but an intense flood of relief washes over him at the mere fact that they are currently in the same building, and no longer six thousand miles apart. 

Shane doesn’t get to kiss him until hours later, when he slips into Ilya’s hotel room while everyone else is getting ready to go out. 

“I almost fell asleep,” Ilya tells him, pulling Shane towards the bed with him.

“You didn’t get any sleep on the plane?”

“No. Flight attendant gave me a sleeping pill, but I didn’t take it. Because, you know.”

“I know. I don’t think you should be accepting drugs from flight attendants regardless. Or anyone else,” Shane says. 

“Ah, you should give that advice to the kids tomorrow,” Ilya says, leaning in to press a kiss right under Shane’s jaw. “So smart and responsible…” 

“Maybe you should just go to sleep, then,” Shane sighs, tilting head up, his body already hot with it. “Tomorrow is another busy day and you’ve been traveling so much…”

Shane can feel one of Ilya’s hands on his ass, the other one reaching up to grab Shane’s face. They don’t really talk much for the rest of the night. 

But the morning is different. They went to bed early, and Ilya is still very deeply asleep when Shane wakes up, but he doesn’t get past his regular eight hours either. Shane showers first and comes back to bed. He quietly reads up on the next events, until Ilya starts stirring. Maybe it’s better not to disturb him, maybe he can get an hour or two of extra sleep before they are expected to be anywhere, but Shane selfishly reaches out and buries his hand in Ilya’s curls. Ilya responds with a massive stretch, before he wordlessly puts his head in Shane’s lap and pulls the covers back up over his bare shoulder.

“Are you cold?” Shane asks. 

Ilya shakes his head. “What time is it?”

“Six thirty.”

“‘S too early.”

“You can go back to sleep. I’ll wake you up.” 

Shane can feel Ilya’s next exhale through his entire body. He turns onto his back, head still in Shane’s lap and looks up at him. “Good morning.” 

“Good morning,” Shane smiles back at him, brushing his thumb over Ilya’s cheek. “How was your trip?”

Shane watches Ilya’s eyes dance around for a moment, before they settle on Shane’s face again. "Very short. Was in the hotel or at appointments the whole time.”

“You said your brother didn’t want to meet up with you. Did he say why?” 

Ilya shakes his head and hoists himself out of Shane’s lap to lean up against the headboard. It’s enough to let Shane know he still doesn’t really want to talk about it, but Shane doesn’t want to let it go just yet. 

“He’s an asshole for that. You know that, right?”

“To him I’m the asshole,” Ilya says and gets out of bed.

“For what? Not depositing your entire net worth into his bank account? If anything, he should be reaching out to you, to apologize,” Shane says.

“I’m the one who told him to never contact me again.”

“What about his wife? You said Svetlana had contact with her, right? You didn’t ask her if you could talk to your niece or something?”

“If I talked to his wife, he would probably kill me,” Ilya says, half under his breath.

“Why?”

Ilya doesn’t respond. He grabs a dry towel off his night stand and gets out of bed.

“Ilya.”

No response. 

“Are you actually fucking ignoring me?” Shane asks, annoyed.

“Enough, okay? I know it’s bad. I know all of it. Can you please shut the fuck up and let me go shower now?”

Shane bites his tongue. He wouldn’t really know what to say without snapping back, even if Ilya did want to talk.

The first event of the day is a skating clinic for local youth hockey players. They’re all girls netween twelve and fifteen and they’re all, as it turns out, massive Shane Hollander fans. Apparently he left an impression after last year’s Stanley Cup final, despite losing to L.A. He’s surprised, to say the least, but also relieved that their excitement is very much expressed in asking very specific hockey related questions which he has no problem engaging with. 

Ilya is there, and he immediately profiles himself as the villain of the event by asking why anyone in California would even consider ice hockey at all. Shane doesn’t get involved in the intense debate that follows between his boyfriend and twenty-five teenagers, even though he thinks Ilya is definitely right on all accounts.

“You think maybe All-Stars is cursed for us, too?” 

“Why would it be cursed?” Shane looks at Ilya who is leaning against the boards, watching the girls take penalties under Carter Vaughn’s supervision.

“Second year in a row we’re fighting.”

“We’re not fighting,” Shane says.

“You didn’t talk to me all morning.”

“No, I tried talking to you and you told me to shut the fuck up. So I’m shutting up.” 

“Forever?”

“Fuck you.”

Ilya skates up closer to him, too close, probably, but Shane doesn’t budge.

“I’m sorry I said that. I was an asshole," Ilya says.

“What else is new.” 

“Shane.”

“Why are you trying to do this right now with all these people around? And while we’re in the middle of something? When I tried talking to you this morning, in private, with hours of free time, you didn’t want to hear it.”

“Are we still not fighting, or is the fight starting now?”

“You can actually fuck off. I have been nothing but worried sick about you for the last week. No, for the last two years, even. And when I try to talk to you, you snap at me for giving a shit. No, I’m not doing this right now,” he says when Ilya opens his mouth to respond, even though Shane is in the middle of doing this right now. “I think you should go help that girl with her backhand before she hits someone in the face,” Shane then adds, nodding at one the girl who is taking a very ambitious swing a couple of yards away. 

Ilya pushes himself off the boards and skates away from Shane, backwards, practically pouting.

Maybe All-Stars is cursed for them after all. 

There is a red carpet event that evening, followed by the Dunkin’ Donuts Gala to close out the weekend. Ilya disappears after the hockey clinic. Well, he doesn’t disappear. He sends Shane a text telling him he’s going to look for something to wear since he didn’t bring anything, again. Shane ignores the text, because he’s still annoyed and he already knows Ilya is going to look way too good to ignore later on in the night, so he might as well play hard to get now.

“You think he’s going to show up with his tits out again?” J.J. asks, while they’re waiting for their pick up in the hotel lobby.

“Probably,” Shane says.

“At least it’s hot. Outside, I mean. It’s crazy they made him come all the way out here just for this promo bullshit after two twelve hour flights back to back. I would lose my fucking mind,” J.J. snorts.

“Yeah, well, he’s last year’s MVP. People expect  to see him here.”

“So what? MVP’s don’t sleep? He’s got like three games lined up next week. He’s got to do all that after all this?”

“Why are you of all people showing sympathy for him all of a sudden?” Shane asks, annoyed by the guilt that settles in his stomach.

“Do you want me to be nice to him or not? Make up your fucking mind, man,” J.J. says.

“I do, but you’re picking a really annoying time to start.”

“Is he going to be picked up with us, or no?” J.J. then asks, looking at his phone. “Car is ready for us outside.”

“Are you talking about Rozanov?” Scott Hunter interjects, siddling up beside them in his boring grey suit and blue tie. “He’s already outside, smoking.”

Shane has half a mind to ask him why the hell he’s keeping track of Ilya’s whereabouts like that, but the smoking part trips Shane up more. It feels like months since he saw Ilya smoke a cigarette. Maybe even since Svetlana’s visit. 

Before Shane can decide to go find him outside, he watches Ilya come through the revolving door and enter the lobby. He meets Shane’s eye immediately, a small smile on his lips and Shane reciprocates on autopilot before remembering he’s supposed to be pissed.

Of course he looks amazing again, in all black with wide black dress pants that make his legs look miles long, a skin tight black tank top covered by a loosely flowing and expensive looking black dress shirt that is practically sheer.

“I have to put this in my room,” Ilya tells him. Or maybe he tells all of them. There are other people there, Shane remembers. “You can go. I’ll follow.”

“I’ll wait,” Shane decides and doesn’t wait for anyone’s reaction as he follows Ilya to the elevators. When the elevator doors open up, a gaggle of hockey players in a mismatch of formal wear bursts out of it, hooting and hollaring. Only a few of them even notice Shane and Ilya standing there, and Shane watches Ilya expertly dodge multiple Raider hands reaching out to mess up his professionally styled curls.

They get in the elevator and as soon as the doors close, Ilya reaches out and gently tugs on Shane’s grey tie. “You don’t need this,” he says. He doesn’t step closer or even touch him beyond that. Elevators are off limits, they decided a long time ago. 

“It’s what I brought,” Shane says. “You didn’t exactly invite me to go shopping.”

“Would you have come with me?”

“You don’t smell like cigarettes,” Shane then changes the subject, because he just remembers Scott Hunter’s annoying comment. 

“Why would I?”

“Scott Hunter said you were smoking outside.”

“No, I asked the doorman for a cigarette. He gave me one. I didn’t smoke it yet,” Ilya says, reaching up to his ear to grab the cigarette that Shane somehow had failed to notice was tucked behind it. “After all I do for Scott Hunter, he would do this to me?”

“You shouldn’t smoke it,” Shane says.

“Hm. And what if I do?”

“I wouldn’t like it.”

“But what if I really, really want to?” Ilya drawls and puts the unlit cigarette between his lips, right as the elevator doors open on his floor.

His room is right at the beginning of the hallway. As soon as the door falls into its lock behind them, Shane pushes Ilya up against the it with just enough force to make Ilya’s lips curl up in excitement. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and pockets it. “You think we have time for this, Hollander?”

“I think you know how to get me off fast,” Shane responds.

Ilya smirks into the kiss that follows, warm tongue deft and purposeful. He inches Shane backwards towards the bed. His hands slide under Shane’s jacket, squeezing his sides and then his ass.

When he lets go, he tugs on Shane’s tie again and starts undoing it.

“This is not part of the fast way,” Shane reminds him, but doesn’t stop him. 

“I want to see you,” Ilya says, pressing their foreheads together as he starts undoing the buttons of Shane’s dress shirt and then swiftly moves on to Shane’s zipper. He pushes Shane to sit on the bed, gets onto his knees and pushes Shane’s legs further apart. 

“Don’t touch my hair,” Ilya tells him.

“I’ll try,” Shane says. 

“I’m serious,” Ilya says. 

“Okay, well, don’t get anything on my clothes,” Shane says. “Jesus, this is such a bad idea. They’re going to be waiting for us.”

Ilya slides his hand into Shane’s boxers and pulls out his cock, stroking it slowly. “I know what you really want,” Ilya says. “If you got it your way, I’d fuck you so hard right now you’d feel me all night, no?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Shane sighs. “Can’t always have what I want.” He leans back onto the bed, on his elbow, settling into the feeling of Ilya’s hand on him. Ilya reaches up with his other hand and drags it over Shane’s bare chest and abs.

“So you don’t want it?” he asks. “You don’t want to feel me while you walk that red carpet, with all those people there to see you?”

“Jesus, I don’t think we have…” Shane loses his train of thought when Ilya parts his lips and takes the tip of his cock into his mouth, tongue craddling the base. Shane’s hand moves down instinctively, ready to grab a handful of blonde curls. Ilya first swats it away, and then grabs onto it, interlocking their fingers as he blows him. Shane doesn’t last long, he never does when Ilya has made up his mind like this, when they have somewhere to be, when someone is waiting, when someone is knocking, when someone is calling.

Ilya swallows almost all of it, but does this thing that Shane should maybe be grossed out by but instead thinks is one of the hottest things in the world. He gets onto his feet, yanks Shane up with him and then kisses him, wet and slick and salty. Tasting himself in Ilya’s mouth is almost enough to get him going again.

Shane reaches down and cups Ilya’s bulge, fat and pronounced in his dress pants.

Ilya moans into the kiss. “After,” he tells him, pushing his hand away. “I’m going to fucking ruin you, after.”

“Oh? You’re going to get on the red carpet with a fat fucking hard-on?”

“Why not? Give the fans something to talk about,” Ilya smirks. He straightens Shane’s collar and starts buttoning up Shane’s shirt. 

“They’ll have you arrested,” Shane says.

“For what? Having a fat cock?” Ilya leaves the top three buttons of Shane’s shirt undone and when Shane goes to button them he swats his hands away. “You look good like this. More like you.” 

“More like you, you mean,” Shane says, turning to look at himself in the full length mirror on the closet door. He sighs at how much of a mess he actually looks like noe. Shirt frumpled and untucked. His face and lips look red and while they made sure Ilya’s hair stayed untouched, Shane had rolled his head on the bed enough for him to look like he just rolled out of it.

He straightens himself out the best he can while Ilya digs something out of his suitcase. Shane watches through the mirror as Ilya puts the gold watch around his wrist. 

“You took that to Russia with you?” he asks.

“Yes. Why?”

“Just loose in your suitcase like that?” 

“It’s mine. I can do whatever I want with it, Hollander.”

Shane rolls his eyes, but then remembers something. He looks at his nightstand. Two of the girls at the hockey clinic had given him colorful beaded bracelets as a gift. Shane grabs it and slides it around his wrist.

Ilya looks surprised. “Really?”

“It was a gifts from fans. It’s a little girly, maybe. But not that crazy, right?” He asks, rolling a few orange, white and pink beads with his fingers. 

“It’s very cute,” Ilya says and then: “It is also lesbian flag colors.”

“What? Why would they give me a bracelet with lesbian flag colors of all things? Those girls were like fifteen.”

Ilya raises his eyebrows at him. “Sometimes fifteen year olds are lesbians.”

“Fuck off,” Shane sighs and slides the bracelet off again. “You think it’s going to be a thing if I wear it?” 

“I’ll wear it if you don’t want to,” Ilya offers. 

“No, fuck you. They hated you and it would literally be the definition of gay propaganda if you wore it,” Shane says and slides it back around his wrist. 

“Fine then,” Ilya says. “Is our big star ready to do more smiling and waving at the fans?”

“Not really,” Shane admits. “But we’re already late.”

They do the red carpet one after the other and unfortunately they are the last two to show up, so every bit of attention is on them. Ilya walks ahead of him, quickly veering towards the crowd of fans holding up jerseys, pictures and pamphlets to sign. He takes long enough for Shane to catch up to him, chatting with a few young kids and taking a picture with them. 

Shane vaguely hears his own name being called out, but it barely registers. 

He sees it happen, barely a foot in front of him. A hand grabbing onto the back of Ilya’s shirt, pulling him back right as he is about to walk away, and then grabbing at his arm and shoulders. Ilya turns around, annoyed at the grown man who has wrestled himself to the front.

Shane’s arm snaps up in an instant, not a thought in his head, just hot rage shooting through him. He grabs the man’s wrist tightly and yanks his hand away. The man lets go in shock, though Shane sees him try to grab onto Ilya again. He pushes the hand away again, barely containing his annoyance, if he manages to contain it at all.

Instinctively Shane’s other hand lands on the small of Ilya’s back, leading him away from the crowd, right as security heads their way.

Ilya turns to look at Shane, eyebrows up at his hairline, and Shane snaps out of it. He pulls his hand away from Ilya’s waist. “Sorry,” Shane mutters. “You can keep moving. Just be careful.”

“Didn’t know you were doing private security for me,” Ilya smirks at him. 

“Shut up, please,” Shane exhales. He can already feel his face heating up. 

“You think they got that on camera?” Ilya chuckles.

Not only was all of it caught on camera, but it was caught on camera from every angle imaginable. Hayden texts him the first clip while they’re still at the party.

Yuna pulls up the thread on her own phone. Shane, his parents and Ilya are huddled over it by a standing table and Shane watches himself do a lot of things, but the most flagrant thing that jumps out to him is how he puts his hand on Ilya’s waist, on his hip really and lead him down the red carpet in the most intimate way anyone could ever do it.

“At least no one can say you were out of line,” Yuna says casually. “He deserved that and more. Ilya, did he scratch you?”

“No, your son saved my life,” Ilya says dramatically.

“Security should have been on that,” Shane says.

“You want the man to be arrested for touching me?” Ilya snorts. “What should they do with you then, hm?” 

“Dad, don’t laugh at that,” Shane sighs when David lets out a chuckle.

“Come on,” his dad says.

“Honey, it’s fine,” Yuna says. “All these comments are calling you a knight in shining armor. This is great, actually. But what is this I’m reading about you wearing a lesbian bracelet? What is that even supposed to be?” 

This time Ilya laughs, loud and surprised. 

“Fans gave me this,” Shane says, pulling up his sleeve to show the bracelet.

“Two small lesbian fans, I think,” Ilya laughs.

“I should have let that psycho take you away.”

“Shane,” his dad says. 

“He’s being annoying on purpose, dad,” Shane defends himself. 

“Still, don’t wish for the psycho to take him away,” David says.

“I’m the victim, here,” Ilya says and pokes his tongue out at Shane when his parents aren’t looking.

Shane rolls his eyes and turns to his mother. “Mom, be honest. Is this bad?”

“No. I mean, it shouldn’t be. Technically, it could be considered a political statement, which the league is not a fan of-” 

“It’s a bracelet from a fan,” Ilya says.

“And Ilya’s twitter moment was worse than this,” Yuna continues pointedly. “But that blew over pretty quickly. Honey, I really wouldn’t worry about it. Enjoy your night. Have a drink. You’re going to be back in the rat race tomorrow.” She puts a gentle hand on Shane’s arm.

Shane tries and he succeeds almost. He sips on a ginger ale and listens to Ilya tell his parents about his trip to Russia. More than he told Shane. They seem to know better than him what questions to ask, how to keep it light, how to roll their eyes at bureaucracy and wait times and show sympathy for rough travel times. They congratulate Ilya on the house, which - of course they do. It’s been just a little over a week since he closed on the house, but with everything that happened between then and now, it feels like a million years ago. They haven’t had any time to actually celebrate it.

Shane is grateful for his parents, for the easy and light conversation, and he is also envious. He wonders if he’ll ever know exactly what questions to ask to make Ilya open up to him without upsetting him in the process. He also knows it’s not entirely the same. His parents don’t know all of it, it’s not their job to understand all of it. But it is Shane’s job. And if there is anything Shane takes pride in, it’s being good at his job.

“You want one more?” Ilya asks when Shane puts his empty glass down, after his parents excuse themselves to talk to some connections. 

“No, I’m good,” Shabe says.

“Water, maybe?” Ilya asks. 

“Nope.”

“You’re still mad,” Ilya concludes. “The blowjob wasn’t good enough, or what?” 

Shane shoots him a look. There are too many people around to be joking like this, and Ilya knows it.

“Can you stop trying to have this conversation in a room full of people where everyone is looking at us?” 

“We were alone in the hotel before this. You did not exactly want to talk then.” 

People started flocking in their direction as soon as Yuna and David moved on. So the last thing Shane lets out is: “Later, okay?” before Carter Vaughn, Scott Hunter and J.J. join them at the standing table. Shane is distracted by Carter’s cheerful greeting for just a second, before he realises Ilya walked away from the table. He catches a glimpse of him at bar, at the other side of space, before his view is blocked by more and more people. 

“Is he okay?” Carter then asks him, pointing a thumb into Ilya's vague direction. “We saw that video. Looked like that guy wanted to put him in his basement.”

“Yeah, no, I think he’s okay,” Shane says. 

“Out of all of us, I’m pretty sure he spends the most time catering to fans, just for some bullshit like that to happen,” Scott Hunter says.

“I’m going to get a refill,” Shane then says and heads for the bar. Ilya is still waiting, leaning onto the counter with his elbows. Shane stands next to him.

“You should not follow me around if you don’t want more attention,” Ilya says.

“I think these days people have more shit to say if we’re not seen together,” Shane says. “‘Did Rozanov and Hollander have a falling out?’ ‘From rivals to friends to enemies?’”

“Who’s saying that?”

“People, after our last game. Apparently you were boardchecking me a lot.”

“Hm.”

“I’m just trying to say that you don’t have to walk away from me if friends come up to us.”

“I didn’t feel like talking to them.”

“Why not?”

Ilya turns to look at him then, serious. “I should not talk to you like that, like this morning. I was a fucking asshole.” 

“Okay. Okay, we can let that go. You were upset. It happens.” Shane has to actively keep his hands to his sides, keep himself from reaching out, from touching Ilya’s face, from actually assuring him the way Shane knows he likes to be assured.

Ilya gets served his drink, something dark and probably bitter. Ilya adds a ginger ale to the order and they watch the bartender pour it into a glass.

“Do you still want to get sushi after this?” Shane then asks.

“After this? Tonight?" Ilya asks, a bit incredulous. “Me and you? Did you get drunk when I wasn’t looking?” 

“What’s the big deal? Two best friends can’t go out for dinner after the Cheetos and Dunkin’ Donuts sports gala?”

“What about your parents?”

“What about them?”

“They came here for you.”

“They’ve been to a million of these. If anything, it’s a networking thing for my mom. They won’t mind if we go to dinner without them. Look, if you don’t want to go-”

“We’re going,” Ilya says.

They go. And because All-Stars is now cursed for them, the restaurant is closed when they get there. Ilya then does something that Shane would never even consider doing for a multitude of reasons, social anxiety being the main one. He asks the Uber driver to take them to whatever he thinks is a good restaurant in the area. The driver seems to feel for them and makes a point to take them to be the best restaurant he knows.

It’s a change of plans that makes Shane uncomfortable, but he decides that this needs to be another get-over-it moment. He can’t just tell Ilya he would rather go back to the hotel than be taken to a mystery restaurant somewhere in this city, after all of this. 

They get out of the car just a few block away from their first destination and Shane has to admit, the large covered patio with colorful seats and strings of lights looks very cute and inviting. 

Far more casual than the sushi restaurant, mostly families, not deserted but not fully booked, as is to be expected on a Wednesday evening.

Shane forgets to be annoyed at the unexpected and sudden change of plans when Ilya excitedly points at the chalk board sign that reads Specials: Fresh Ceviche & Shrimp taco’s.  

It’s warm enough for them to sit outside, despite it being the middle of Februari. The contrast with back home is the only reason Shane lets himself be convinced to do it. Obviously they’d be better off inside, away from passersby who might peek through the hedges separating the patio from the street. Realistically, L.A is not a place where Shane would get recognised much. There are far more famous people roaming the streets here, athletes or otherwise. 

They sit at the table the furthest away from any other patrons, far enough that Shane thinks no one should be able to overhear them. 

Ilya must notice his nerves because before they even order he says: “We can leave whenever you want.” 

“I like ceviche. I don’t have it much back home at all, but it’s very healthy, you know,” is how Shane responds.

“Hm.”

“So, should we talk about it?”

“About what?” Ilya asks, pointedly holding a plastic menu up between them, pretending to study it. 

“About how you said in an interview that you thought you would have done better than me in the skills events this weekend.”

Ilya smiles at that and looks back up at him. “What more do you want me to say about it?”

“This is why my grandpa doesn’t like you, you know.”

“I think I said nice things, too.”

“The stuff you said about my mom was really nice.”

“Should we also talk about how you said in your interview that I am your best friend?" Ilya then asks. 

“Let’s not. Hayden hasn’t stopped texting me about it.”

A server comes to take their order and when he leaves again, Shane asks: “Did you really ask the league to replace you with Scott Hunter this weekend?”

“Who told you that?”

“He did.”

“He should not be telling people. Bad look.”

“So you did do it?”

“I mean, yes.”

“Why?”

“He was not invited.”

“Yeah, I get that, but… lots of players would have killed for a chance to be here. If you got to pick, you could have picked a Centaur. Boodram would have been great.”

“I thought about it. It’s not like I just got to pick. They wanted me to do this whole promo thing all the way to the playoffs. I asked for one favor.”

“So why him?”

Ilya pulls up one shoulder. “I like doing gay propaganda.”

“He has to retire eventually. You can’t personally try to keep him in the league forever just because he’s the only openly gay player.”

“No, not forever. Just until a much younger, much better and much more handsome gay player takes over.”

“You think I’m more handsome?”

Ilya smirks at him. “Maybe I was talking about myself.”

Shane can’t help but smile back. “You’re claiming gay now?” 

“You and him are both older than me, but yes, you are much more handsome.”

“I don’t know about much more…”

“You used to like Scott Hunter, no?” Ilya then asks.

“I don’t dislike him now. I just don’t know where this sudden friendship between you two came from,” Shane says honestly. “I know you’re not, like, into him, or anything. But he might be into you.”

“That would be funny, but I don’t think it’s true,” Ilya says. “Don’t you think he would have tried to fuck me by now?” 

“Well, technically he doesn’t know that you’re bisexual.”

“Technically, no. But realistically...”

The server returns with their drinks, a lemonade that looks ice cold for Ilya and Shane’s sparkling water. Shane was a little suprised that Ilya didn’t order a beer, but then remembered that he had had two drinks already earlier that night. His limit is two these days, as per the advice of his psychiatrist to avoid anything affecting his medication. Ilya had played fast and loose with that advice for a while. Either not drinking at all (Shane felt that was the obvious choice) or going out and not counting the drinks at all (pissed Shane off immensely). He also puts a basket of tortilla chips and salsa on the table. 

“Realistically, he’s gay and he probably wants to fuck you,” Shane says when the server leaves. 

“They are warm,” Ilya says, grabbing a chip, and then: “What about his smoothie boy? You think Scott Hunter is a cheater like that?” 

“Maybe they both want you, I don’t know.”

Ilya laughs at that, despite Shane being pretty serious. “Maybe. If he tries something with me, I’ll tell you and you can fight him, kill him, whatever you want. Okay?”

“Okay,” Shane says. 

“I know you’re hungry. This is good,” Ilya reminds him.

Shane ignores him. “To be honest, I’m mostly annoyed Scott Hunter got to be the captain of the opposing team this weekend. I like being on the ice with you. I had been looking forward to it, but… but Russian bureaucracy ruined that, I guess.”

“Should I move to a team in the Western conference next?” Ilya jokes. “Make your dream of facing me in the Stanley cup finals come true?”

“As fun as that would be, Ottawa is already too far away. Besides, if we’re dreaming big, the ultimate dream is winning the cup with you on my team.”

“Or you on my team.”

“Sure, whatever. It’s never going to happen.”

“Definitely not on the Metros.”

“Not anywhere,” Shane shrugs.

Ilya tilts his head like he wants to argue that, but seems to change his mind at the last second and takes a sip of his lemonade instead. 

“What?” Shane asks. 

“Nothing.”

“Ilya.”

“It’s nothing. I’m surprised, maybe. You have this big dream, but you think it’s so impossible. It’s like you forget that you have already done so many impossible things. Us sitting here like this was impossible just one year ago.”

“Okay, well, the Metros are not picking you up anytime soon. They think this friendship of ours is inappropriate as it is. From management all the way down.”

“What, they don’t like me?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Even if they did, I don’t see you jumping to join the team.”

“Well, the Centaurs would love to have you.”

“Oh, I’m sure. They better start saving up now, then,” Shane snorts. 

Ilya holds up a chip with some salsa on it for Shane to take. “It’s very good. Menu said it’s homemade. I know you didn’t drink or eat anything good all week.” 

Shane rolls his eyes and takes the chip.

The rest of their food comes out not long after that. Shane always thinks the meals he shares with Ilya are some of the best meals he’s ever had, but mostly because of the company. This time it’s actually some of the best food he’s ever had.

At the end of the night, while they’re waiting for their Uber back to the hotel and Shane has his eyes on the street, he hears a clicking sound coming from from his left where Ilya is standing. He turns his head to see Ilya successfully light a cigarette. 

“You’re actually the most annoying guy I’ve ever met,” Shane says. 

“Fuck you,” he mumbles around the bud and takes a drag. 

“You’re going to make some poor guy’s Uber smell like an ashtray,” Shane says. 

Ilya takes the cigarette out from between his lips “I will say sorry with the tip. I saved this for the perfect moment.” 

“How is this the perfect moment?” Shane asks, confused. 

Ilya reaches out with his free hand and brushes a gentle thumb over Shane’s cheekbone. “You don’t think it’s perfect?” 

And he’s got Shane there, really.

When they get back to the hotel, Shane doesn’t take out his phone. He doesn’t want to know. Not tonight.

He also doesn’t try to talk to Ilya about Moscow or his brother again, despite desperately wanting to. They’ll figure it out another time.