MaryMoonpixie



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    “You’ll text when you land, right?” Shane asks as he takes an exit ramp labeled Airport Departures.

    “Yes. Promise.”

    “And you’ll call tonight?” Shane’s throat works over the words, like he still doesn’t trust this new thing between them. Ilya thinks he understands. He also doesn’t know how to trust this love. How can he when it has been trapped in his own heart so long. Neither of them know what the next year will bring. There is so much time before Ilya can have his agent, or his future agent, he will need a new one with no connections to Russia, reach out to Ottawa and hope that they’ll be interested in a future Hall of Fame center. The one thing Ilya is certain of is that he will do everything in his power to make their plan work. He spent his entire adult life lusting after, and then pining for Shane with his whole heart.

    “I will call.” Ilya reaches for the hand Shane has left on the gearshift and threads his fingers through his. He wants to say so much, but he has always been better with touch than words, especially when the only shared language was English. “We will talk every day.”

    Or, There is a year before Ilya can sign with Ottawa, Shane counts down the days until their forever.

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    22 Jun 2026

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    you, plural.

    or: Svetlana has Ilya, and then she does not.

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    17 Jun 2026

  3. Public Bookmark *

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    In 2008, Shane Hollander lost to Ilya Rozanov. Fresh-faced, hungry. Like he’d been living off victory points that were scraps compared to the real thing, compared to beating Rozanov, the first man in the world to make him feel second-best. Back then, he’d thought that was the only thing he felt, too. That the electric pulse jostling between them in the gym some time later was a trick of the mind. It was like seeing sky above for the first time. See you at the draft. Life in that paper body.

    or: Ilya comes back. This is the crux of it.

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    17 Jun 2026

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    “I was trying to be cool about it.” Shane's confession is a quiet whine, muffled into his palms. “Go with the flow, y’know?”

    It’s almost unbearable, how much Ilya adores this perfect, neurotic man. “Hollander,” he says patiently. “You have never once gone with flow. Not ever in your life.”

    There is only one grey cloud in the perfect blue sky of Ilya’s summer.

    His two weeks at the cottage are almost over, and Shane still hasn’t asked him to stay.

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    16 Jun 2026

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    “Go?” Rozanov repeats, and Shane thinks he manages to nod, thinks he manages to spin some kind of excuse that he knows Rozanov doesn’t really buy, but he needs to go. He needs to get out of here. He needs to find somewhere quiet and calm where he can ride out this panic and painful tightness until he can catch his breath again. He needs-

    He needs to go.

    “I’m sorry,” he says, turning heel and resisting the urge to just book it right for the front door only because he’d rather not have to explain to Hayden why he returned from a hookup with Boston Lily in men’s clothes that he certainly didn’t leave in.

    It’s not until he makes it halfway up the stairs to Rozanov’s bedroom that it occurs to him in a cold rush that it isn’t just anxiety that makes it this hard to breathe.

    “No,” he tells himself firmly, white knuckling the bannister and trying to take a deep breath just to prove that he can.

    It wheezes.

    (how the tuna meltdown is averted through the power of food allergies and anaphylaxis)

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    16 Jun 2026