Chapter Text
The thing about Shane Hollander is that he’s never hated anyone in his life, not in the way most people do, at least. He’s too kind, too careful, too forgiving. His mom raised him to see the best in people, to give second chances, to understand that everyone’s fighting silent battles no one sees. And Shane tries, Oh God, he tries, to be that person. He’d always try to make things easier for everyone else even at the expense of his own comfort.
But Ilya Rozanov makes it really fucking hard.
For three FUCKING seasons. Three years of Ilya being everything Shane cannot stand; arrogant, reckless and cruel in a way that feels intentional . The kind of player who’ll slash at your ankles when the ref isn’t looking, smile that sharp, mean smile when you hit the ice, and celebrate goals like he’s trying to personally humiliate you.
Ilya’s all jagged edges and anger, a rough player who fights like he’s got something to prove at every game. Shane’s the opposite, he never loses his cool, never yells, never bites back no matter how hard Ilya pushes.
It makes Ilya furious and somehow curious to crack that composure, he would do anything for Shane to finally break character and lose that good boy persona.
Shane’s watched him taunt rookies until they’re shaking, he watched him start fights with nearly everybody for no reason. Watched him be so casually vicious to his own teammates that Shane doesn’t understand how anyone tolerates or remotely supports him still.
“He’s a piece of shit,” Hayden says one night after a particularly brutal game where Ilya checked Shane into the boards so hard he saw stars. Hayden Pike, Shane’s best friend and teammate tosses back a Ginger Ale and shakes his head. “I don’t get why the league doesn’t do something. Dude’s a liability, he needs to be put on a leash or something”
Shane just shrugs, pressing ice to his ribs. “He’s good.”
“So are you. Better, actually.” Hayden grins. “You’re literally ranked number one, Hollander. Don’t let that Russian asshole get in your head, fuck him”
But that’s the thing. Ilya is in Shane’s head. Has been since their first game against each other, when Ilya looked at him like Shane was just another obstacle to demolish. And Shane, who’s built his entire life around being good at hockey, who’s never had to fight for recognition because it came to him naturally, felt something unfamiliar and uncomfortable twist in his chest.
Not quite hatred or jealousy, but close enough.
-
What Shane doesn’t know or what he can't know is that Ilya Rozanov doesn’t actually hate him at all.
Ilya watches Shane Hollander the way a kid in the cold watches warm lights through a window.
He watches Shane laugh with his teammates, easy and bright, he watches him FaceTime his parents after games, his mom’s face lighting up with pride, his dad asking about his stats with genuine interest. Watches him be so effortlessly good at hockey even in his worst days, good at being a person, good at having a life that isn’t held together by spite and performance.
Ilya is twenty four and he can’t remember the last time his father said something kind to him, nor the last time he didn’t feel alone in a room full of people. He doesn't remember what it’s like to go home and feel safe.
His mother’s been gone for twelve years, he will never forget the day he found here laying face down in the bathroom, the day his whole world tilted sideways and never quite righted itself. Twelve years of his father’s coldness and cruelty, the weight of being the only one who survived and somehow that being the worst thing he could’ve done.
For years, hockey has been the only thing that ever made sense, synonym for his refuge and the only place where the rules are clear and violence is expected and Ilya can be exactly as sharp and mean as he feels inside without anyone asking questions.
Except Shane Hollander who looks at him like he’s something rotten. Like he's the epitome of everything that's wrong with the sport, or even the world, and maybe he is.
Maybe that’s exactly what he is. When was the last time he didn't feel like he was spoiled at the core, ruined beyond repair, nothing but sharp edges and poison?
But God, he’s so tired of being that.
-
It happened on a Tuesday.
Ilya's in Boston for an away game and they lose 4-2, which wouldn't be so bad except Ilya plays like absolute shit. Misses passes he could make in his sleep, so stupid, his coach looks at him like he doesn't recognize him anymore. He can't get his head in the game no matter how hard he tries, and by the third period, he's benched, sitting there watching his team fall apart without him. Well, as if he could help it.
He watches as all his teammates go to dinner afterwards, he doesn't tag along and decides to go back to the hotel alone, he sits on the edge of the bed still in his suit, and calls Svetlana because she's the only person in the world who actually knows and likes him, the real him and not the version he shows everyone else.
She's always been there, except this time, she doesn't pick up.
Fuck. Timezones difference, of course she's asleep right now, she recently started this job selling fancy cars and is super busy with her new clientele.
Ilya stares at his phone for twenty minutes, he thinks about going to bed or maybe even ordering room service he won't eat, he turns on the TV just so the room isn't so quiet.
That's when his father calls.
Ilya looks at the screen, Отец and something in his chest goes cold and tight. He should just let it ring out or turn off his phone, pretend he never saw it, deal with the fallout later.
But he's never done that, he answers. He always answers. Because some pathetic, desperate part of him still thinks maybe this time will be different, perhaps this time his father will ask how he's doing, tell him the loss wasn't his fault, or sound like he gives a shit.
Except it's not different.
His father's voice comes through like ice, like venom, ripping into him in rapid Russian before Ilya can even say hello.
Disappointing.
Lazy.
Disgraceful.
You had one job and you couldn't even do that right. What was I thinking, letting you play professionally? You're an embarrassment.
Ilya doesn't argue, he just takes it. He's very good at that.
"I'm in Boston," he says quietly, when his father pauses for breath, having asked him to see him immediately. " I can't really- "
"I know where you are." His father's voice drops, goes dangerous in that way that makes Ilya's hands start to shake. "I'm in Boston too."
Ilya's stomach drops straight through the floor. "What?"
"Hotel bar. Downstairs." It's was not a request and Ilya knows it.
"Now."
The line goes dead.
Ilya should’ve known better than to go see his father, he should’ve stayed in his room, locked the door, let his father rage into the void alone, but he goes. because he’s twenty four and still desperate for his father’s approval and love, still hoping that maybe if he just tries hard enough, does enough or becomes enough-
His father’s sitting in the corner booth, alone, nursing vodka that smells like Ilya’s foggy childhood.
“Sit.”
Ilya sits.
It starts quiet and torturous, his father’s disappointment is always quiet at first; measured, controlled, designed to cut deep without having to raise his voice. He lists Ilya’s failures methodically: the missed goal, the penalty, the way Ilya plays like he has something on his mind, like he’s forgotten everything his father taught him.
“You had potential,” his father says. “But you’re weak, so soft, just like your mother.”
Ilya’s chest goes tight. “Don’t-”
“Oh he talks back, don’t what now?” His father leans forward, eyes blue and cold “don’t tell the truth? She was weak and look where it got her.”
“Shut up.” Ilya’s voice cracks. “Just- shut up about her. ”
His father moves fast, Ilya doesn’t see it coming and doesn’t process it until his head snaps sideways, until pain blooms hot and sharp across his cheekbone, until he tastes blood on his lips. The crack of it echoes in the quiet corner, but the bar's nearly empty this late, just the bartender wiping glasses at the other end, pointedly not looking.
His father stands, drops cash on the table and Ilya thinks it's over. Thinks he can leave, go back upstairs and pretend this didn't happen.
"Pathetic,” he mutters. "Outside. Now."
Ilya's hands are shaking but he stands. He follows his father through the back exit into the alley behind the hotel because what else is he supposed to do? It's dark back here, just a dumpster and the smell of old garbage and the dim glow of a security light that flickers.
Ilya knows, with sickening certainty what's about to happen cause it definitely wasn't the first time.
His father's voice is quiet when he speaks. Dangerous. "You embarrass me, you embarrass the family name, you can't do anything right, can you? "
"I'm sorry," Ilya says, and he hates how his voice shakes. "I'll do better, I'll-"
What happens next happens fast.
Ilya's vision goes white for a while, there's brick against his back, his head, and then his father's voice again, cold and distant: "You've been saying that for years. You're useless, A disappointment."
When Ilya can see clearly again, his father's already walking away. He touches his hairline and his fingers come away red. His face throbs where it's already starting to swell, copper taste of blood on his split lip.
"Clean yourself up," his father says without looking back. "And don't let anyone see you like this, the last thing we need is some scandal about the great Ilya Rozanov getting what he fucking deserves."
The alley door slams shut.
Ilya sits there against the brick wall, shaking, his face throbbing, blood drying sticky in his hair. He realizes with horrible clarity that he has nowhere to go and no one to call. Svetlana's three time zones away, his teammates think he's an asshole. His brother doesn't give a damn.
He's completely, devastatingly alone.
And then, God, he doesn’t even know why, he thinks of Shane Hollander.
-
Shane, who's kind to everyone, who smiles at his teammates like they hung the moon. Same Shane, who looks at Ilya like he's something dirty but has never been cruel about it, not really. Just... disappointed. Like he expected better from him and Ilya let him down.
Ilya has seen the way Shane is with people, soft and patient and good in a way he's never been or never learned how to be, like some kind of angel who doesn't know how dark the world actually is.
Would he help? Ilya thinks, half delirious. Would the good boy show some kindness, even to someone like me?
Do I even deserve his kindness...... ?
It's a stupid and desperate thought, Shane's his rival and he hates his guts, but he is also the only person Ilya can think of, who might open the door at 2am and not slam it in his face. but would he?
Ilya pulls out his phone with shaking hands and searches for Shane's address. He'd looked it up once, months ago, for reasons he'd never examined too closely.
He has no time for these thoughts now, he has nowhere else to go.
So he goes to Shane.
-
Shane is in deep slumber when someone knocks on his door at 2 am.
He wakes up disoriented, squinting at his phone to check the time, wondering if he dreamed it, the knock comes again, soft, hesitant, barely there but he's sure he heard it.
Shane drags himself out of bed, still half asleep, and pulls on the first hoodie he finds. His mind's running through possibilities as he pads to the door in only his socks. Hayden would just text, his neighbors know better than to bother him this late, maybe it's a drunk person at the wrong house.
He unlocks the door and pulls it open without thinking to check the peephole first, he's too sleepy to think properly.
Ilya Rozanov is standing in the hallway.
Shane’s brain stutters, trying to make sense of the whole situation, he blinks one or twice. Ilya Rozanov, his rival, the guy he’s spent three years resenting, is at his door in the middle of the night, and something is very, very wrong.
Ilya looks like shit was the first coherent thought Shane manages. He looks like absolute shit, there's dried blood at his hairline that's gone a bit dark and tacky, and his cheek is already swelling up purple black, and his hands are shaking. His hands are shaking, curled into fists at his sides like he's trying to white knuckle his way through standing upright and hold himself together and failing miserably.
“Jesus Christ,” Shane breathes, and all the hatred drains out of him in a single, horrifying second. “Ilya-”
“Didn’t know where else to go.” Ilya’s voice is wrecked, his accent thick when he’s barely holding on, all his carefully practiced English slipping. He won’t even look at Shane. “I-sorry. This is stupid. I’ll just-”
“Who did this to you.”
It comes out wrong and scary. Shane’s never been angry, not like this, not with this sharp, violent edge that makes his hands shake and his chest feel like it’s splitting open. He’s the calm one. The one who never loses his cool or demeanor, who smiles through cheap shots and laughs off dirty hits and drives everyone crazy because nothing ever gets to him. But seeing Ilya like this, all hurt and scared and so clearly alone-
Something in Shane just snaps.
Ilya flinches.
He actually flinches, jerks back like Shane's going to- like he thinks-
Oh, God. Oh God. Oh God, he thinks I'm going to hurt him.
"No," Shane says, and his voice comes out cracked and wrong. "No, I'm not- I'm not gonna do- just come inside, okay? Please. Just- please."
Please? When have I ever said please to Ilya Rozanov?
Ilya hesitates. He's looking at Shane now, finally, and there's something in his face that makes Shane want to put his fist through a wall. It's not fear, exactly. It's worse than fear. It's this careful, braced thing, like he's waiting for Shane to slam the door in his face. Like he's already decided that's what's going to happen and he's just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
How many times has someone slammed a door in his face for him to look like that ? Shane had thought.
Ilya steps inside like he knows he is walking into a trap and Shane closes the door behind him, he turns around, and-
Fuck. Fuck.
It's so much worse up close, the bruise is spreading across Ilya's cheekbone like ink in water, dark and vicious on his pale skin, and the cut at his hairline is deeper than Shane thought. Ilya's breathing too fast, these shallow little gulps of air that aren't doing anything, and his whole body is wound tight like he's about to shake apart, Shane looks at him with eyes full of worry and carefulness, he's had his fair share of panic attacks so he knows what it feels like.
"Sit down," Shane says. He's trying to be gentle but it comes out too rough, scraping past the thing lodged in his throat. "anywhere, here- sit on the couch"
Ilya moves toward the couch and Shane sees the way he holds himself, careful and stiff, one arm pressed against his ribs.
There are more bruises under his shirt.
Shane's vision goes fuzzy, I'm actually going to kill someone tonight, he thinks.
He walks to the bathroom on autopilot, digs under the sink for the first aid kit, his hands shaking so bad he nearly drops the whole thing. He stops and presses his palms flat against the counter and breathes, because if he walks back out there looking like he's about to commit murder, Ilya's going to bolt and he didn't want that, and also because he's not sure he is supposed to feel this way. He wasn't supposed to care this much, right?
When he comes back, Ilya's still sitting on the couch, he looks small and vulnerable, it was a weird sight, Shane's never thought of Ilya as small before; he's six two and built like a wall on the ice, and most importantly, he spent three years making Shane's life hell, but right now he looks like he's trying to fold himself into nothing, he should feel something like satisfaction, right? Ilya Rozanov, untouchable and unbreakable Ilya, finally cracked open infront of him. Shane is not proud to think this but he had fantasized about this, about winning, somehow this sight felt like swallowing glass.
Shane kneels down in front of him. Ilya's staring at the floor and then his own hands, avoiding making eye contact with Shane.
"Hey," Shane says quietly. "I need to clean this, okay? The cut. Is that- can I?"
Ilya nods, a tiny jerk of his head.
Shane opens the kit. Pulls out antiseptic, cotton pads and bandages. His hands are still shaking but he makes himself go slow and more careful than he's ever been with anything or anyone. He dabs at the cut and Ilya hisses quietly through his teeth and Shane whispers "sorry, sorry" even though he shouldn't be the one apologizing, you're not the one who should be fucking sorry, Ilya. Shane thought.
"You gonna tell me what happened?" Shane asks.
"Doesn't matter"
"It matters to me"
Ilya laughs and it's an awful sound, hollow and sarcastic. "Why? will it give you any satisfaction? You hate my guts."
Shane's chest does something painful. "Yeah," he says. He smooths the bandage over the cut, so gentle his fingers are barely touching his skin. "I do."
Ilya's face twists, just for a second, before he shuts it down.
"But I hate this more," Shane finishes quietly, his voice comes out rough. "Whoever did this, I hate them more."
Ilya goes very still for a minute.
Shane moves to his cheek, wetting a fresh pad with antiseptic, cleaning away the dried blood with strokes so soft it makes his hands cramp and ache, It feels almost too intimate, doing this. Being this close to his arch rival, Ilya's wet eyelashes don't go unnoticed by him.
"Who hurt you?" Shane asks again, desperate and careful. "I know that we're not in any position to trust each other, but I am genuinely asking"
"My father." It comes out flat and toneless, as if he was reading off a grocery list.
"He-it doesn't happen often. Usually he just-" Ilya stops and shakes his head, shutting off completely. "It doesn't matter."
"It matters," Shane says, and there's too much in his voice, he can't swallow down what he's feeling. "It fucking matters, Ilya."
Ilya's breath catches and then he just- breaks.
It happens fast, rhere's no sobbing or wailing, nothing dramatic. He just crumbles, caves in on himself like someone cut his wings, and small uncontrollable sounds start coming out of him; Choked, hurt sounds, like he's forgotten how to cry.
Shane doesn't think, he moves on autopilot, pulls Ilya in, wraps his arms around him and holds him. Ilya's hands come up and fist in Shane's hoodie, grip so tight Shane could feel his knuckles through the fabric, and he's shaking, God, he's shaking so hard, it had Shane thinking of ending lives.
"I'm sorry," Ilya gasps, his face still near Shane's shoulder. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come, I didn't have anywhere else to go, I-"
"Stop." Shane's voice cracks. "Stop apologizing, please. You don't have to- You shouldn't. you're allowed to need and ask for help, Okay? You're allowed"
"I didn't have anyone to call or go to. Fuck, this is embarrassing." Ilya's voice is wrecked, muffled against Shane's shirt. "Svetlana's in San Francisco, she's the only one who ever picks up the phone when I need her." He breaks off, shuddering, Shane goes silent.
"Shit, this is really pathetic," Ilya curses before Shane could utter a word, his voice comes out scraped raw, barely a whisper. He's not looking at Shane anymore. The embarrassment surfaces and he feels like suffocating in his own tears. "Showing up at your door like some-" He cuts himself off, shakes his head and laughs, but there's nothing funny about this. "If I were you, I'd kick me out."
Something in Shane's chest cracks clean open.
Would I ? Would I really do that?
Shane doesn't know anymore, he's never been this confused and conflicted before, it was almost 3 am for God's sake, he never even stayed up this late.
"Ilya-"
This is Ilya Rozanov. The guy Shane's supposed to hate, I mean he does hate him, or so he thought he did, or-
Fuck. FUCK.
"I'm so tired." It comes out like a shameful confession, Ilya's voice drops so low Shane has to get close to hear it, and there's something in his tone that sounds like surrender but not the kind that comes with relief, but the kind that comes when you've been fighting so long you just can't anymore. "I'm so fucking tired of having no one. Of being-" He exhales, shaky, and says with a dry chuckle. "Of being this fucking alone all the time."
Shane can't breathe.
This isn't how it's supposed to go, he is probably still sleeping and this is all a silly dream and he'll forget about all of this. Ilya is supposed to be cold, untouchable and the fucking villain in Shane's story, the asshole who makes his life hell for no reason and the guy he has spent three years building up in his head as this heartless, cruel, unreachable menace.
He's not supposed to be this.
Fragile, Shane's brain supplies, and he flinches away from the word. Ilya Rozanov isn't fragile. Ilya Rozanov is six two, sassy and mean as hell and has a slapshot that could kill a man, Ilya Rozanov does not fucking break. Ever.
Except he is.
He's breaking right now, right here on Shane's couch, and Shane doesn't know what to do with the way this is making his chest ache.
I'm supposed to hate him.
It hits him all at once, he spent three years hating this guy and matching him tit for tat and lying awake some nights genuinely wondering what he ever did to make the Ilya Rozanov despise him so completely.
Three long years of thinking of Ilya as this heartless and cruel excuse of a person, an asshole who got off on making everyone around him miserable simply because he could, he genuinely thought something in him was just wired wrong.
And the whole time, Ilya was just trying to survive.
All those things I said to him and about him, from calling him heartless, cold, useless. Shane could have sworn Ilya felt like he was incapable of feeling anything.
Ilya heard everything and never said a word.
All those sharp edges, armor and walls he built around him, Ilya said something vicious before anyone could get close enough to hurt him first, Shane thought it was maybe not him being an asshole, but him protecting his feelings, it wasn't cruelty, It was protection. It was a kid who learned way too young that people leave, that love comes with fists, and the only person you can count on is yourself.
Right.. A kid whose mom died when he was twelve and left him alone with a father who-
Shane's stomach turns.
I made fun of him for not talking about his family, last year, in the locker room. I said- God, what did I say again? Something about how even his own parents couldn't stand him and I said that to his face. Oh God shoot me please.
The look of surrender on Ilya's face told Shane everything he needed to know about the abuse, this was not the first time, His father have been abusive for years. And Ilya just took it and kept his mouth shut and walked into rinks with bruises and broken ribs hidden under his jersey and never said a word to anyone. Because who would he tell? Who would even believe him? Who would care?
He showed up at Shane's door at 2 AM because he had literally nowhere else to go.
That's the part that wrecks Shane completely, out of everyone in Ilya's life; his teammates, coaches, friends, anyone, he came here. To the guy who's spent three years making it crystal clear he can't stand him. Because even showing up at his rival's apartment bleeding and broken, was better and safer than the alternatives.
‘This whole night is insane. Twenty minutes ago I would have said Ilya Rozanov was the last person on earth who'd ever need anything from me and come knock on my door.
Twenty minutes ago, I would have said he didn't have feelings TO hurt.
I was wrong, Oh, I was so fucking wrong.’
"You're not alone." Shane's voice comes out hoarse, barely a whisper, and he doesn't even realize he's pulled Ilya back in until he feels him stiffen again in his arms. "Hey.. you hear me? You're not alone, not anymore."
What am I doing? What am I DOING!!
Ilya doesn't relax at that. If anything, he goes more rigid, like he's bracing for the catch for the punchline or for Shane to shove him away and laugh and say just kidding, get the fuck out of my apartment.
He's waiting for me to be cruel. He's EXPECTING me to be heartless to him.
How many people have been cruel to him for that to be his default?
"I've got you, trust me" Shane says, and his throat is so tight it hurts to speak. He can feel Ilya trembling against him in a way that makes Shane believe that Ilya is probably hoping he can't feel him. "I promise you, I've got you."
I mean it. I don't understand why I mean it, but I do.
For a long moment, nothing happens. Ilya doesn't move, doesn't speak, barely even breathes. And then, slowly, like he's fighting himself every inch of the way, he lets out an exhale and drops his forehead to Shane's shoulder.
He doesn't say anything, but his hands come back up, curl into the fabric of Shane's hoodie again, and he stops trying to pull away.
It's not trust, not even a little, but it's the beginning of something, and Shane holds onto it with everything he has, he has no idea why having Ilya trust him mattered to him now.
This is so weird. This is so fucking weird. Twelve hours ago we were screaming at each other on the ice and now he's curled up against me and I'm letting him hold me this tight.
Shane's anger comes slower this time and it runs deeper, It settles into his bones like ice, cold and sharp and furious but this time at Ilya's father, who should have protected him and didn't. At his brother, whoever the fuck he is, who apparently couldn't be bothered to give a shit about his younger brother. And at every single person who looked at Ilya over the years and saw the sharp edges and the cold eyes and decided he wasn't worth the effort of looking deeper.
But he was mostly angry at himself, for being one of them.
How many times did I throw his walls back in his face like they were a character flaw and not a fucking survival mechanism?
How many times did I prove him right? He expected me to be just like everyone else, and I was.
For three years, I was exactly what he expected.
But Shane is more angry that Ilya's been drowning for years and managed to convince himself he deserved to.
You don't deserve this, Ilya.
I don't know how to make you believe this, Ilya, but I'm going to try, I don't even know why, I just know I have to.