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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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    13 Jun 2026

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    12 Jun 2026

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    Episode 4 Fuck Montage meets Forced Proximity meets Accidentally Domestic and stuck in a storm with your No Commitment Non-Monogamous Long-Distance Situationship™

    Or: they get snowed in at Shane’s apartment and they’re both fucking horny and go multiple rounds.

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    12 Jun 2026

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    Shane Hollander goes on LTIR just before the Sochi Olympics with no public statement and an outpour of fan theories and media speculation. For the next two years of radio silence, Ilya grapples with the ghost of a relationship that could never be but almost was, wondering what he’d done wrong, yes—but mostly just coming to terms with the fact that his worry fits best by another name; one that neither of them can afford to call it.

    In 2017, Shane returns to reclaim his position on the ice opposite Ilya, but things are different now. Ilya worries that there's someone else, and there is.

    Just not in the way he'd expected.

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    12 Jun 2026

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    “It’s okay. I don’t need anything.” 

    “I am not going to eat in front of you while you have nothing, Hollander,” Ilya scoffs. He plucks a can of cold ginger ale from the top shelf as casually as he can manage and slides it over the island, interrupting Hollander’s fidgeting thumbs. “You must be hungry, yes? It’s been hours since you left hotel. I can make something. Easy.” 

    “Make… what?” he asks warily.  

    Ilya rolls his eyes and tosses a look over his shoulder. “Do not worry. I will find something that works for your special hockey diet,” he teases. He reaches back into the fridge. “Tuna melt okay?” 

    “No,” Hollander says primly. “And it’s a disease. Not a diet.” 

    He pulls his hands out of the cold and turns, blinks. “What?” 

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    12 Jun 2026

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