Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Shane staggered out of the meeting into an empty corridor, sweat sticky and uncomfortable at his back, already answering his phone.

“Mom.”

“Okay, listen honey. The trade is completed so there’s no appeal process here. So we’re not talking about whether it happens, we’re talking about what happens next.”

Sliding down the wall, he hunched over his untied sneakers, shoved on hastily when Coach had called him in for a meeting after morning skate.

“Boston wanted you specifically. I’ve already spoken to their GM. You’re flying this evening or tomorrow morning: I’ll confirm once the paperwork clears.”

“Mom,” Shane said again.

“Oh sweetie. I know, okay. Those fuckers, how dare they do this! Two fucking cups! Now all of a sudden they decide they want a reset and you’re going to fund it.”

Shane put his head between his knees and tried to breathe. God, Boston. They hated him there; it was so far away; he was fucking their captain.

“Shane? Baby? Can you hear me? I need you to breathe, okay? With me, one, two, three, four. That’s it. Come on.”

He was hot, burning up. It was hard to breathe over the tightness in his throat. There was a terrible pressure just behind his eyes, like he’d taken a hit to the bridge of his nose. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. He’d been following instructions since he was five years old.

“Shane?” It was Mike. Mike who’d been Assistant Coach when he’d been a rookie, now Head Coach for the last three years. He’d continue on, it was only Shane who they’d decided to cut away, like a dead root in winter. “You good?”

“Yeah.” Shane made himself stand. “Let’s talk later, Mom,” he said with as much steadiness as he could manage.

“Two cups,” she told him. “Walk out with your head high.”

He cut the call and looked at Mike, tucking away everything he felt behind the expression he wore when he was facing the media after a bad loss.

“Let’s get you to your car, okay?” Mike said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Mohammed has gone to get your stuff.”

He wasn’t even going to get to speak to his team. It wasn’t his team, that was why: not anymore. He wasn’t covered by the Metros’ insurance—the best thing they could do was get him off the property as fast as possible.

The side exit Mike led him to was one he’d never seen before. Why would he have? He’d always come in and out of the front entrance, security greeting him by name each time. Lauren had been on shift this morning: she’d shown him a picture of her new kitten.

He was supposed to go to the new smoothie place downtown with Hayden that afternoon. Hayden had been so proud when he’d shown Shane the place on Google: he’d even rang them and it sounded like he’d put the management through some pretty intense questioning to make sure they sold something that Shane could drink.

God, he hoped they gave him the captaincy.

Mike shook his hand when they reached his car. He’d done the same after the GM had broken the news, his face grainy on a bad connection from head office. Shane got in and hesitated, his hand on the ignition—he’d left his favourite water bottle in his cubby. He started the car and drove out of the parking lot, merging into midmorning traffic.

It was a two-hour drive from Ottawa to his Montreal apartment, longer at rush hour. So basically, he was on his own for packing—his dad would have come if he’d known. He was getting his big suitcases out of the den when his mom rang again, her picture crowding out a multitude of notifications.

She dived straight into logistics, which he listened to while checking all the zips and locks were working.

“Your flight is at 6pm and someone from player services will pick you up. Rozanov offered for you to stay at his house, if you can believe it, but—”

“Yes,” Shane interrupted.

“...You’re okay with staying with Rozanov. Are you sure?”

“Yes. I need to fit in with the team: I can’t be saying no to offers like this.”

“Well, if you’re sure, honey.”

“I am.”

“Okay, let me go give Joanna a call back. You just keep packing and call your dad if you need anything.”

The group chat was lighting up and his own messages were buzzing away. Hayden’s name flashed, the phone dancing across the table as it rang. Shane left it where it was, going into his bedroom, the suitcases banging awkwardly against the door frame.

Clothes were first, underwear after that. He went through his laundry and bundled anything he needed into a plastic bag he fished out from under the sink. His laptop, iPod, and chargers went into his backpack. He remembered his dildo with a jerk of horror—the cleaner, his mom could have found it—and shoved it in a sock, along with a half-full bottle of lube.

Back in the kitchen, he stared at his blender for a few minutes before unplugging it and wrapping it in a heavy sweatshirt. His kitchen scales fit as well, along with an unopened pack of freeze dried kale and some spirulina. Rozanov probably didn’t have spirulina in his apartment.

Fuck, he was going to have to have someone come clean out his fridge. All that wasted food. He’d just bought a new grill. He was going to have to sell his apartment. Sitting down on the edge of the bed he scrolled through his messages, ignoring everything to open Lily.

There was a text from about the same time as Shane had been finding out he wasn’t a Montreal Metro anymore: I didn’t know

Then, a few minutes later: You can stay with me

The last was from about five minutes ago: Late game, help yourself to anything. Aija will pick you up: she’s from Latvia so ask her about song and dance festival. You won’t have to talk for whole journey.

It was probably the longest text he'd had from Rozanov that didn't include any mention of sex.

Okay, he sent back, then added, thanks

His mom’s picture popped up, along with a time for the car that was coming to pick him up to take him to the airport. Trudeau airport was big enough that there was almost no chance of reporters catching him. He had another hour to kill so he went through the fridge and freezer, double bagging everything so it wouldn’t smell. The trashcan needed a clean so he did that as well, leaving it to drip-dry in the shower, writing a note so the cleaning service would know where to find it.

For the last fifteen minutes he wandered through the apartment, unplugging everything and then just touching furniture and pictures. He’d been moving around for hockey since he was sixteen, he should be taking this hit the same as he’d taken all the others.

When his phone buzzed with a message to say his ride was there, he was already standing in the entrance way, all the shades drawn against the weak winter light.

Aija had put her name on the sign rather than Shane’s, which was smart. She was also very proud of Latvia’s song festival, which actually did sound pretty cool. When they arrived she insisted on helping him with his suitcases, but left him alone to figure out the locks, Rozanov’s spare keys cold in his hand.

The house was massive and much warmer than outside, though that wasn’t hard when talking about Boston in January. Taking his shoes off, he wandered through the house in socks, his feet cooling on the hardwood floor. It was a beautiful house, all open plan with big windows overlooking a landscaped garden. It wasn’t a million miles away from the cottage he was having built in Ottawa, but a darker cousin, all deep grays and blues with modern art on the walls. Upstairs there were three bedrooms, though he didn’t go beyond the doorways, even when he was sure he could guess which one was Rozanov’s. He went back downstairs and stared at his two suitcases, sitting ready in the entranceway. Was he supposed to unpack? He wouldn’t be skating tomorrow, even if he’d probably have to go to morning skate.

He went back into the main room and sat down in the corner of one of the massive black leather sofas. His phone was mostly quiet now: the team having given up on contacting him. He sent a text to the group chat he had with his parents and then managed about three minutes of Twitter before he started to feel the familiar creep of panic set in. He turned his phone face down and took two deep breaths before opening up Google and going directly to the team's websites.

The Montreal Metros have completed a trade with the Boston Raiders, sending centre Shane Hollander to Boston in exchange for six early round draft picks.

Shane has been an integral part of our organisation and played a key role in our recent success. We thank him for his contributions on and off the ice and wish him and his family the best in the next chapter of his career.

It was so bland it was actually almost comforting. Like reading the back of a cereal packet.

The Boston Raiders have acquired center Shane Hollander from the Montreal Metros.

Shane is an elite player with a proven track record, and we are excited to add him to our group. We look forward to welcoming him to Boston.

Acquired. God, he could almost forget he was the equivalent of a show horse when he was grinding away the corners with his whole team behind him.

It was already 11pm. Rozanov could be home anytime, but likely not for at least a half an hour: he was sure there would be a scrum of reporters waiting for him after the game. He could be grateful that no-one would be letting him anywhere near the media for the next few days at least. He scrolled through his contacts and hit Hayden.

“Shit, Shane! Are you okay? Are you in Boston?”

Shane took a shaking breath, but couldn’t seem to get any words out.

“Shane?”

He didn’t know what sound he made, but something must have gotten through the hundreds of kilometers between them.

“Shit, buddy. It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Putting his hand over his mouth didn’t seem to help: he could feel ugly noises breaking free. He curled forward, phone still pressed to his ear. He didn’t even have it in him to startle when a familiar hand curled over the back of his neck, taking the phone away from him.

“It’s okay,” Rozanov said. “I have him.”

He couldn’t hear what Hayden said in reply, but Rozanov snorted. “He's my teammate now, and we look after our own.”

Shane went where he was directed, tucked against Rozanov’s side, his head on his shoulder. He wasn’t even crying, just dry sobs that shook him even as he tried to claw back control.

“Shhh,” Rozanov comforted, murmuring in Russian against his hair. He rubbed circles on his back, warming Shane when he hadn’t even realised he was cold.

He should be counting his breaths, listening for sounds in the room, working through any of the hundred or so grounding techniques he’d read about over the years. What use was it though? He hadn’t been good enough for the Metros and he wouldn’t be good enough now. No matter how fast he was, he’d always be chasing the Shane Hollander that everyone seemed to want. Someone who was calmer, who had his fucking shit together.

That was the thought that shook him out of his self-pity spiral and he was able to quiet down finally, painfully aware that he was now cuddling with Rozanov. His captain.

“Fuck, I’m—”

Rozanov made a deep sound of disgust. “No Canadian apologies, please. You only just arrive and already with the apologies.”

Shane let out a shaky laugh. “Still an asshole.”

Rozanov kissed his hair again. “Always.”

He smelt so familiar, felt so familiar against him. Six years of fooling around once in a while had built up muscle memory and he splayed one hand flat on Rozanov’s chest, as if they were coming down from the high of sex instead of whatever the fuck they were doing right now.

“What are we going to do?” he asked, not even sure which part of this shitshow he was referring to.

He looked up when Rozanov didn’t answer to find him looking back with a soft smile tucked into the corner of his mouth.

“Play hockey.”

Chapter Text

Shane was in the kitchen by 06:45 am, texting Hayden and then his parents one-handed while he drank his smoothie. Rozanov did have a blender, actually, but he’d been right about the spirulina. He’d need to reply to the group chat at some point, but he couldn’t bring himself to read through it yet. Hayden replied instantly, assuring him that everything was fine and he was glad Rozanov hadn’t murdered Shane in the night.

There was a home game that morning. For the Metros that was. Philly would be brutal: without him taking defensive-zone draws, they’d lean hard on the Metros’ second line—especially on the right side.

Wish Hayden good luck or not? Not, he decided, drinking the rest of his smoothie.

Rozanov came down into the main living space at 7am, just as Shane was about to call player services for a ride. He mumbled something that might have been a hello and turned on the coffee maker, his sweatpants showing a line of pale skin at his hip.

“It’s twenty minutes to the rink from here,” he said, once he’d had a draft of what must have been boiling hot coffee.

“You don’t need to—” Shane cut himself off as Rozanov gave him a look. “Thanks. You’re really not a morning person, huh?”

Rozanov said something in Russian that sounded nasty. Japanese didn’t really work for swearing so Shane did the next best thing and told him he was annoying.

“You speak Japanese?” Rozanov asked, coffee cup in midair.

“Not fluently. My mom didn’t want to confuse me when I was learning French at school. I think my grandparents were pretty mad about it, but I learned enough just being around them that I could tell them about my school day and stuff.”

“They still here?”

Shane cast around for the dishwasher, opening a door that Rozanov pointed to. “No, they had my mom when they were in their 30s, so.”

Rozanov hummed in acknowledgment, set his cup in the dishwasher, and checked his phone.

“We should go,” he said, already half-way out of the kitchen.

The drive to the rink was accompanied by some truly terrible dance music that Rozanov tapped his fingers to all the way there. They were ushered into the locker room by a no-nonsense woman from ops called Marie-Anne who narrowed her eyes at Rozanov’s attempt at a winning smile.

“Okay, off with you, Ilya. Go skate, I hear you’re good at that.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Rozanov replied, clapping a friendly hand on Shane’s shoulder before retreating.

His nameplate was already up on his cubby: between Marleau and Laine, one away from Rozanov. He stared at it, jerking his attention away when Marie-Anne continued.

“The equipment manager, Terrence, is running a few minutes late but he’s going to walk you through everything. Your gear should be here this evening and you’ll go watch morning skate after this.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Shane agreed, taking a leaf out of Rozanov’s book.

“You’re sweet,” she told him. “After morning skate we’ll hide you from the media so you can go for lunch with the team, then you’ll have a medical check in, then player services. Any questions?”

“Do you know roughly when I’ll be skating?”

“Tomorrow. Assuming medical clears you today and your gear arrives tonight,” she smiled and it softened her whole face. “Don’t worry, we want you out on the ice as much as you want to be there.”

Terrence showed up just as Marie-Anne disappeared, breathless and apologetic, clipboard tucked under his arm. He walked Shane through the cubby, the gear order, where his skates would go once they arrived, tapping nameplates and hooks as he talked. When the team started filtering towards the ice, another staffer appeared and politely asked Shane to follow him. They went down the tunnel together, the air turning colder with every step, the sound of blades and pucks echoing ahead of them. Shane took a seat in the stands just as the first line jumped over the boards.

It was mostly watching Rozanov apparently flirt with every member of his team. He was a menace, winking at whoever scored on him during drills; chirping everyone who flubbed a pass; making every single one of his own passes flashier than they needed to be. Half of the bench seemed determined to encourage him, some cheering wildly whenever he completed a drill perfectly, which was most of the time. It was overwhelming and loud and very, very different to the Metros.

The head coach, Dan McAdam, introduced him briefly as the team headed back to the locker room—we’re happy to have him: let’s make sure he feels welcome—and then Shane was led to the lounge where a buffet lunch had been set up. He wandered over, eyeing the portions and trying to guess approximate weights.

He heard the team before he saw them: someone shouting in French, maybe Marleau or another Quebecois guy. An arm wrapped around his shoulder before he’d gotten up the courage to go meet them. “Don’t worry,” Rozanov said, low in his ear. “There is boring food for you.”

He turned Shane to where the rest of the team were starting to get plates and complain about who was first in the queue.

“This is Shane Hollander! Just called up from the AHL to play on my line. You don’t know him but don’t worry, he’s good.”

“Oh yeah?” Someone replied. “From which team?”

“Laval Rocket,” Shane said, naming one of Montreal’s affiliates, which thankfully got a laugh.

Rozanov dragged him to the front of the line and handed him a plate before finally letting him go. His heart was racing from the proximity. How the fuck was he going to do this every day?

Once he’d loaded up with plain rice and chicken, he sat down at the table Rozanov was beckoning from. He didn’t even bother trying to join in the conversation that was happening between Marleau, Laine, and a new call-up whose name Shane hadn’t caught. Rozanov was inhaling his food, yet more coffee steaming in a paper cup balanced on his knee, completely at ease. Shane chewed slowly, eyes wandering over the team and matching faces to names where he could.

He was just about finished when yet another person from player services came over—Michael, according to his lanyard. “Shane, you ready for Medical?”

“Yes, let me just—”

“Leave it,” Rozanov said, gesturing lazily at Shane’s plate. “Go get cleared for skating.”

Shane nodded his thanks and went, the corridor outside the player’s lounge cool and quiet. Medical was quick but thorough: vitals, mobility checks, a concussion baseline, and a few questions about his sleep and stress. Player services handed him a stack of forms to sign and a welcome pack with everything from gym codes to a dentist’s address. The woman at the desk offered to help him find an apartment, but Shane just shook his head and thanked her for the offer. The thought of apartment hunting right now made him want to crawl under the covers and never come out.

Rozanov’s phone rang the second they were through the door and he answered in Russian, flopping down on the sofa, one foot on the floor. Shane made some gesture to indicate that he was going to go upstairs but Rozanov didn’t see, a small smile touching his lips as he listened to whoever was on the other line.

Shane took a quick shower in the main bathroom, calling his parents as he tried to find the socks he wanted. The room he’d slept in last night was spacious, with deep blue sheets and off-white walls. Outside the large window a manicured garden rolled away into the distance. Shane started to put away his underwear in a drawer as the phone rang out at his parent’s house. They were probably out with friends somewhere, lingering over a late lunch. He’d ring them later.

When he went out into the corridor he could hear laughter from downstairs. Maybe Rozanov had a Russian girlfriend.

He went back into the guest room and closed the door. Sitting on the floor with his back to the bed, he finally scrolled through his messages, going through his teammates' individual messages and answering as best he could. No, he hadn’t known. Yes, it did suck. Yes, he hoped Hayden would be made captain. He probably had been already, but there was no way Shane was going to go on hockey Twitter. Hayden had sent pictures of fans at their at home game this morning: it was just a sea of signs—a lot thanking him, some about the Metro’s two cups. Shane’s eyes started to blur so he put the phone down next to him.

After a moment he picked it up again and just sent thanks without looking at the rest of the pictures.

The latest message was from JJ: you’re staying with him??

Yes

Shane stared at the screen for a while, but what else could he add to that?

He scrolled back up but couldn’t see the group chat. He scrolled down his messages again, more slowly. It was usually at the top because it was so active.

It wasn’t there.

Of course it wasn’t there. Shane turned his phone completely off and reached up to put it on a side table. He wasn’t a member of the Montreal Metros any more: he was the enemy, they would have had to remove him from the chat. It had been more of an annoyance than anything else, fast paced and full of half-incomprehensive memes. He certainly wasn’t looking forward to being added to Boston’s group chat. If they bothered, that was.

A knock sounded at his door. “Yeah,” he called.

Rozanov poked his head around the doorframe. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just going to nap.”

“Sure, me too. Come here first.”

“Come where?” Shane asked, getting up and following Rozanov out into the hallway and then into his room. “What—”

Rozanov pulled him into a heated kiss, one large hand framing Shane’s face. Shane let him deepen the kiss, pulling him closer by his sweatshirt. They kissed for long minutes, Shane slightly out of breath when Rozanov finally pulled back.

“We should—” he tried, but Rozanov bit down hard on the muscle of his neck and Shane moaned instead, his cock twitching in his sweats. “Fuck.”

“That is the plan, yes.”

This was definitely a bad idea. It hadn’t occurred to him that they might just keep on fucking, that Rozanov would be a good captain—offering a room to the new recruit—but also not immediately want to stop whatever this thing was between them.

Rozanov bit down again, harder this time, and Shane pushed his hands under Rozanov’s hoodie, desperate to get at his naked skin.

“You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes. Yes, please.” He couldn’t think of anything he wanted more, in fact.

“So polite,” Rozanov murmured, and then just picked Shane up by the backs of his thighs before depositing him on the massive bed.

They had prep down to a fine art at this point, but Rozanov seemed intent on taking his time, kissing and kissing as he opened Shane up, lube smeared wet and sticky on the inside of his thighs. He was too careful entering Shane, shallow rocks of his hips when normally he was fucking Shane inches up the bed with each thrust.

“Fuck, Roz. Harder, come on.”

“Don’t need to fuck you hard,” Rozanov told him, his mouth against Shane’s ear. “Can fuck you every day. Can suck your cock, fuck your thighs, hold you down and come down your throat.”

Shane whined high and loud, his arms locked around Rozanov’s neck. He wasn’t going to survive this: he didn’t need to worry about skating with a team that hated him because their captain was killing him right now.

“Please, please,” he begged.

“Please what? Hmm?” Rozanov kissed him. “Please make you cry on my cock every day?”

“Yes! Please. God, please.”

Rozanov growled something out in Russian, his thrusts finally becoming hard and fast. Shane wished the condom wasn’t there: he wanted to feel it, wanted Rozanov to come inside him, to feel it dripping out from his hole.

He was being loud but so was Rozanov, who propped himself up on one arm and got a hand on Shane’s dick. Thankfully Shane was beyond embarrassment because that was all it took for him to come all over them both, Rozanov panting into his mouth as he came too, his thrusts almost too much.

“Fuck. You’re too good,” Rozanov told him, still catching his breath.

Shane kissed him rather than reply, his hands winding into Rozanov’s hair. When he pulled back, Rozanov kissed the end of his nose and then rolled away, going into the en suite but leaving the door open.

“You want to shower before nap?” he called over the sound of the tap running.

“No, I’m good,” Shane replied, taking the warm cloth that Rozanov offered him. He wiped himself down while Rozanov shut the blinds, startling a little when he got back into the bed and flipped the comforter over them both.

“Give,” he demanded, and Shane looked down at his outstretched hand in confusion before giving him the cloth.

Rozanov dumped it on the floor then directed Shane with touches at his shoulder and hip, much the way he did when they fucked, until Shane was lying down with his back to Rozanov who, still naked, tucked his knees behind Shane’s and put an arm around his waist.

“Didn’t you want to nap?” Shane asked, hesitating before putting his hand over where Rozanov’s rested on his stomach.

“Yes,” Rozanov kissed his shoulder. “I set an alarm for 3, okay?”

Shane blinked. “Yeah. I mean. Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Good.”

That seemed to be the end of the conversation and, before long, Rozanov’s breaths lengthened, his exhales stirring the hair at the back of Shane’s neck.

Chapter Text

At practice Shane pulled on the same black jersey as Rozanov and Marleau and tried not to read too much into it. First line colours, or perhaps just convenience. Warmups told him quickly where the problems were going to be: his body kept wanting to slide back into the middle, curling low out of habit, and he had to keep reminding himself to stay wide, to hold the boards, to let the play come to him instead of driving it. The puck felt right on his stick but everything else was half a beat off. An assistant coach murmured something about spacing to him and Shane nodded, eyes down on his skates.

Once the drills sped up he started arriving where the puck was going to be instead of where it was, stealing it clean or popping free at the edge of a defender’s vision. Rozanov carried the puck on a rush drill and Shane cut across without calling for it, a move that would have been stupid on any other line. The pass came anyway, not to his stick but to the space in front of it, and Shane sent it back blind, one touch, right into the slot. Marleau scored. There was a short, strange silence after that, the coaches watching carefully.

They did it again. A delay here, a give-and-go through traffic, a pass that should not have made it through but did. Rozanov grinned at him, tapping his stick, asking for more. Shane finished practice breathing hard, sweat dripping under his helmet, aware of the looks from the bench but too tired to try to make anything of them.

In the locker room Rozanov burst in ten minutes after everyone else, fairly bouncing off the walls with energy.

“You tell them, Cap?” Benny, possibly the second line left-winger, asked.

“I tell the media nothing, they’ll see at the game tomorrow,” Rozanov announced with glee, leaning across Marleau to lightly punch Shane’s shoulder.

“Wanna swap with me?” Marleau asked Laine who was sitting next to Shane, drinking a recovery shake.

“Nope.”

“What is this bullshit?” Rozanov demanded. “I’m a delight! Of course you want to be next to me.”

Shane continued to re-tape his stick, half-listening to their comfortable chirping, unsure how to deal with Rozanov’s enthusiasm. Yes, it had been a good practice, way better than it’d had any right to be, but that was never any guarantee of success.

Once he was done he showered and changed, as he’d done a thousand times before in dozens of different locker rooms. He was halfway across the room when Rozanov caught his wrist, fingers warm and careless, stopping him without breaking stride in whatever story he was telling.

“Where you going?” Rozanov asked, shirtless and grinning, still half-turned toward two rookies.

“Just to talk to Terrence about my sticks,” Shane said.

“Okay, I’ll come find you after.”

Shane nodded and kept walking, heart thudding a little too hard. Rozanov touched everyone, no-one would think anything of it: he was just another member of the team.

Rozanov’s front yard was mostly tall, pruned hedges backed by taller scrolled fences. Rozanov drove them into the massive garage, past a collection of tiny, brightly coloured sports cars. He was currently driving something slightly more sane, thankfully, but the Audi’s matt grey paint job still got them appraising looks when stopped at the lights.

“Thanks,” Shane said automatically as they parked.

“You going to thank me every time I drive you somewhere?”

“Yep.”

He should really get his Jeep driven down here, now that he thought about it. He glanced around the spacious garage. There seemed to be room for it, but maybe Rozanov was saving that space for friends. Or more sports cars.

“Your car in Montreal?” Rozanov asked as they grabbed their bags.

“Yeah. Is it cool if I get it driven down here?”

“My casa is your casa,” Rozanov replied with a shrug, searching his pockets for something.

“Cool.”

They were quiet then, negotiating the smaller back entry way that led into the mud room. Shane needed to call his parents but he needed a drink first. He went into the kitchen and Rozanov followed him, filling an odd double teapot with boiling water.

“Montreal don’t understand what they did, do they?” Rozanov asked, pouring tea from the smaller pot first, dark and bitter, then diluting it from the larger one without looking.

“What do you mean?”

Rozanov rolled his eyes. “You were on the ice today, no? We’re going to do that tomorrow, and then every time we play from now on. Montreal wouldn’t give you to me if they thought it would be like that.”

“They didn’t give me to you, Jesus,” Shane spluttered, his face hot. “They wanted a reset, that’s all, and I was the funding.”

“You’re on my line,” Rozanov said, somehow making it sound dirty. He put down his tea and came over to Shane, bracketing him against the counter.

Shane let go of his water glass when Rozanov took it off him, leaning in as Rozanov kissed him, slow and heated.

“They gave you to me,” he repeated, sucking a kiss just under Shane’s jaw.

“No marks,” Shane warned him, then yelped as Rozanov bit him.

“Say it.”

“What?”

Rozanov had his hand in Shane’s sweats, rubbing against his hardening cock.

“Say they gave you to me.”

“No—ah! Fuck you.”

Grinning, Rozanov only stepped back, pushing his pants and boxers down far enough to show his cock, half hard against blond curls.

Shane gave him an unimpressed look, but probably undermined it completely by dropping to his knees on the kitchen tiles and swallowing Rozanov’s cock down. Guys had been making jokes about cocksuckers his whole life but he was pretty sure that was just because they’d never tried it. He moaned as Rozanov pushed his hands through his hair, holding him still as he started to thrust, shallow and slow. He was fully hard now, keeping his hands on Rozanov’s thick thighs and drooling a whole lot as Rozanov got closer to the edge. He’d thought he’d hate having him come in his mouth—everyone always painted it as an amazing thing when their girlfriends or hookups did it—but fuck it was so good. He moaned again, his hips twitching, but not as loud as Rozanov as he came.

“Get up here,” Rozanov demanded, wiping away a line of spit leading from the tip of his cock to Shane’s mouth.

Shane stood up unsteadily, kissing Rozanov back and bucking up into his warm hand. He was already so close.

“Say it,” Rozanov murmured, twisting his hand in a way that made Shane cry out.

“I—uh,” Shane tried, eager to give Rozanov whatever he wanted, once he understood what that was.

“Say that they gave you to me.”

Shane repeated the words without hearing the meaning. “They gave me to—to you.”

Rozanov brought up his other hand to grab Shane’s pec hard and Shane came, going up on his toes to get as close as possible, his head buried in Rozanov’s shoulder.

“You fucker,” he panted, his brain starting to come back online.

Rozanov grinned, unrepentant before leaning in for a soft kiss. Shane stroked a hand through his curls, rubbing a thumb across the delicate skin under his ear. Smiling quietly now, Rozanov placed a kiss at the centre of his palm.

Down in the den, it was dim even in the late afternoon. He'd come down to speak to his parents as somehow even the guest room next to Rozanov’s seemed inappropriate: like his parents might guess what they were doing together.

“How was practice?” his mom asked, almost before he'd finished saying hello.

“Good, they had me playing on the first line.”

“Left-wing?”

“Yeah.” Shane put his socked feet up on the ottoman.

“Did you stay wide?”

“Yes, Mom. I stayed wide: it was a good practice.”

“And Rozanov, did he make an effort?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, leaning back to look up at the spotlighted ceiling. “He did. He was—Rozanov was good.”

His mom hummed, clearly about to ask a follow-up, and then his dad’s voice cut in from somewhere nearby. “Are you still calling him Rozanov? You can’t live in someone’s house and call them by their last name, son.”

“It’s rude?” It didn’t seem rude: they were hockey players—no-one used anyone’s actual name. The rules could be different for living with someone though.

“It seems a little impolite.”

“Okay, that’s good to know.”

His mom immediately pivoted to logistics, asking about cleaning schedules and whether Rozanov was pulling his weight in the kitchen. Shane did his best to answer, which mostly meant admitting he didn’t know. The place was spotless. He’d assumed there was a cleaning service and hadn’t asked, because that felt like a strange thing to bring up on day three. Or any day he was living with his hockey rival of the last six years, actually.

“Should I be doing anything? Like for Reebok or Rolex?”

“No, don’t worry about that for now, sweetheart. Let me deal with them and I’ll let you know what happens.”

That didn’t sound good but he wasn’t sure if he had it in him to be posting on Instagram right now, so he just accepted that.

“The team treating you okay?”

“Yeah, they’ve been pretty quiet, but Marleau and Laine seem alright.”

And Rozanov keeps touching me in front of other people. He was going to have to get used to that one on his own.

“You’d tell us, if you were having any problems?” his dad asked, in the same way he had when Shane had been a kid and already better than everyone else on his team.

“Yeah, Dad. I’d tell you, I promise.”

“You're a great kid and you were a great captain, you didn’t deserve what Montreal did to you.”

Shane put his fist against his mouth and closed his eyes. “Thanks, Dad,” he managed.

“Have you looked at any of the reporting?” his mom asked.

“No, no I haven’t even been on Instagram.”

“Probably for the best,” his dad said.

“That bad, eh?” Shane tried a laugh, but it sounded flat.

“Honey, people just don’t understand what Montreal was thinking. There’s a lot of disappointed fans out there.”

“Disappointed with me?”

“No!” both his parents said, their voices perfectly in sync. “No, honey,” his mom continued. “They’re disappointed with the front office, that’s all.”

Shane nodded, even though they couldn’t see him. He’d really wanted to speak to them but now, guiltily, he wanted this phone call to be over already. It wrapped up soon enough with Shane promising to call them after the home game tomorrow.

His first game in Boston colours. He couldn’t even begin to imagine it.

Staring at the wall did nothing to ease his anxiety so he got up, intending to see what grocery service Rozanov used when his phone buzzed. Opening up messages, he smiled to see Jackie’s name at the top: she’d sent some pictures of the twins, Jade and Ruby holding ice cream cones with no ice cream in them as they seemed to be wearing most of it. It was their birthday in a couple of months: the first he wouldn’t be there for.

He pressed down on the pictures one by one until a heart appeared under each.

That night he stretched next to the bed. Well, his bed, he guessed, at least for the next little while. Rozanov was still downstairs by the sound of it, speaking to someone in low, clipped Russian.

Holding the stretch for thirty seconds, counting slowly under his breath, he released it and moved into a spinal twist, the carpet thick enough that he only had a towel under him. He’d done these stretches so often he no longer had to think about them, so he listed his game day clothes in head, laying them out like he would a play.

Once he’d finished with child’s pose, he got up and folded the towel, placing it on a chair. He’d got his clothes out already, but he didn’t think these were the right socks. They were black with the soft ribbing he liked, but there was something different about the texture of one of them. Going to the dresser, he got all of his black socks out and unpaired them, feeling the weave and holding them up to the light. None of them seemed right.

He didn’t pay any attention to the sound of Rozanov coming up the stairs, only turning when he knocked on Shane’s open door. Rozanov’s curls were dishevelled, as if he’d been running his hands through his hair over and over.

“Come sleep with me?” he asked, one hand hooked in his sweats, the other rubbing at the cross he always wore.

Shane looked down at the odd socks on the bed, the lines of the ribbing at the top warping in his tired vision.

“Yeah,” he decided. “Sounds good.”

Chapter Text

Shane was dressed in his base layers when Rozanov burst into the room, grabbing a naked rookie—maybe Tiz—in a headlock and starting a conversation with Marleau while the rookie tried to squirm out of his grip.

It was ridiculous and Shane smiled at the ground while he rolled his socks up.

“He’s in a good mood,” Laine commented.

Shane stilled, but there was nothing suggestive in his tone. “Isn’t he always like this?”

Laine snorted. “Moodier than my teenagers, that one.”

Rozanov finally let the rookie go when a trainer rolled a whiteboard into the room, lines and positions written on in neat, blocky handwriting. Shane put his jersey on, straightening the number 21 on his arm. He glanced up to find Rozanov looking at him, something hungry in his gaze before he smiled, tilting his head.

“On my line,” he said quietly, leaning across Marleau’s cubby to do so.

Shane looked at the board then: first line, left wing. He really was going to go out onto the ice on Rozanov’s wing. He bent down under the guise of putting on his skates, but he just closed his eyes and breathed slowly for a count of ten.

There was a buzz to the locker room, a kind of noisy chaos that looked ungoverned until you noticed how often the team looked to Rozanov. The rookies in particular seemed to have someone older assigned to them, maybe formal, maybe informal, but everyone was standing and ready a minute before the trainer came in: no phones in hands, no helmets off.

The tunnel opened up to cold and noise, Boston fans screaming like they’d won already. Shane went straight over to what would be his usual place at home, stretching first then taking shots when they were passed his way. Marleau drifted over, catching Shane’s eye and nodding up at the stands. Shane looked up and saw the signs: Hollander Home Ice, read one. Welcome to Boston. Don’t Suck, read another. There were others too, less welcoming and Shane pointed them out to Marleau with a raised eyebrow. Marleau snorted and clapped him on the shoulder before skating off.

The horn sounded and they all went back into the tunnel, the sound of the crowd waning to something manageable. Shane re-laced his skates in the locker room, sitting up as Dan came in to give what was apparently the standard NHL pre-game talk. It could have been Mike saying those words in the Metro’s locker room: matchups and first line reminders, with a hockey cliche tagged onto the end.

“Pittsburgh don’t fucking know,” Rozanov told them, fierce and proud, and Shane hoped he wasn’t talking about him.

Out on the ice again. Shane could barely hear the anthem over the sound of his heartbeat, the words unfamiliar. The Boston fans cheered throughout, sometimes reaching scoring-levels on certain words or phrases. Helmet and gloves back on, he had half a minute to feel Rozanov and Marleau standing close. His line. Then they were going over the boards and skating into place. Anderson was facing Rozanov, having replaced Williams who was out with an upper-body injury. He had his head down, but the line of his shoulders was unsure.

Shane had time to think that they were going to win, then the puck dropped.

The final horn cut through the noise and Shane coasted to a stop, lungs burning, sweat cooling fast under his gear. Rozanov was on him almost immediately, pulling him in to kiss his helmet, Marleau closing in from the other side, laughter and noise and motion collapsing into something warm and loud. Shane smiled because it would have been strange not to.

6-2: they’d won.

But Pittsburgh hadn’t been ready for them. They’d overcommitted on Rozanov through the middle; assumed Shane would drift harmlessly wide; left the weak side open one too many times. Their defence had chased the puck instead of the pattern. That wouldn’t last: anyone watching the tape would see it. Teams would start holding the lane instead of stepping up, forcing Shane lower, pinning him to the boards.

Shane tipped his helmet back, taking in the crowd, the noise washing over him again. This had worked because it was new and fast and no-one had solved it yet.

Rozanov skated over to the boards, bumping fists with everyone as they headed towards the bench. Shane went towards the vaguely organised huddle, losing his helmet and looking longingly at his water bottle a few feet away.

“I love you, good game,” Rozanov said to Tommy, who was in front of Shane.

Looking up, he caught Rozanov’s wide eyes as he hesitated for a split second. “Love you, good game,” he mumbled, like he was embarrassed.

Shane almost stumbled over the boards, suddenly hot under his pads. Had Rozanov thought that Shane would take him seriously? Hockey players said all sorts of shit to each other, both on the ice and off it. Last year, Hatsy had come into the locker room with a ring and proposed to Wheels, going down on one knee to do so. It had been dumb and kind of uncomfortable, but pretty much the whole team had laughed until they’d cried.

He forgot about his water until he was herded into a conference room and sat down in front of a scrum of reporters.

“Have you heard anything from Montreal?” someone asked.

Shane nodded once. “Yeah. A few guys reached out. They wished me luck.”

“And from the front office?” another voice cut in. “Did tonight feel like a message?”

Shane shook his head, careful. “No. It was just a hockey game.”

“What clicked so fast on that line?” a reporter asked. “It looked like you’d been playing together for years.”

Shane glanced down at his hands, wishing he’d brought his water bottle as a shield. “We kept it simple. They draw coverage through the middle, I stay wide, we move the puck quickly. Pittsburgh chased instead of holding structure.”

“You don’t think teams will adjust after seeing the tape?” someone pressed.

“Of course,” Shane said immediately. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

There was a beat of quiet, pens scratching.

"Have you congratulated Pike on his captaincy?" another voice asked.

Shane opened his mouth then closed it again and swallowed hard. He was so happy for Hayden, he really was.

There was a small flurry of activity and then Rozanov was sitting next to him, shirtless and sweaty. "I spoke to Pike,” he announced. “Told him Holly is ours now."

If that nickname stuck, Shane was going to kill him.

“Is that the kind of confidence you want from your captain?” someone asked, half-amused.

Rozanov grinned. “We won 6–2. I think it is correct confidence.”

“And Shane,” another reporter said, turning back to him, “how are you feeling about your new linemates after a night like that?”

“They’re great,” Shane said, a little too fast. “Their captain needs a shower, though.”

That got a laugh, thank god. Rozanov was so close, a line of heat down his left side. He smelt of sweat and ice, familiar in a way that made Shane’s gut clench. He fixed his eyes on the floor, willing the flush out of his face.

“Okay,” Jen said briskly, stepping in before anyone could ask another question. “That’s it, guys. Thanks.”

Shane was so relieved when Rozanov pulled up next to his candy-coloured sports cars. They had to be up at 6:30 to get their morning flight. He’d already got most of his stuff ready, he just had to eat and pack and then he could fall face first into bed.

He got out the car with his phone in his hand, scrolling past a message from Hayden to read:

Congratulations! You all must have practiced hard to be clicking so well! That blind backhand slip looked impossible. We’ll need a whole run-down when you have some free time. Much love, Mom and Dad xx

Thanks will do, he sent back.

Looking up he took his garment bag off Rozanov who, instead of letting go, used it to reel Shane in for a kiss.

“That was amazing,” Rozanov told him. “I’m tired now but I owe you a blowjob.”

Shane spluttered out a laugh. “You’re getting old.”

“Fuck you, I’m not old. Take off your pants! I will give you the best blowjob!”

Taking a step back, Shane shook his head. “No, no. You can owe me a blowjob.”

Rozanov relented, smacking Shane’s ass as he passed him.

He was aware of Rozanov watching him as he took out his scales and pre-made pasta, scooping it into a bowl until he hit 550 grams exactly. He ate it cold, sat on a remarkably uncomfortable bar chair while Rozanov inhaled a cup of tea, two glasses of water, and a bowl of steaming hot rice, with what looked like chicken thighs in some kind of sauce.

They put their plates in the dishwasher and worked together to turn off all the lights downstairs. Rozanov followed Shane into the guest room, flopping onto the bed just behind where Shane had put his folded clothes for the trip.

“Did you pack already?” Shane asked.

“No, I will do it in the morning.”

Shane looked up at him, but Rozanov was on his phone, scrolling through what looked like Twitter. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

Rozanov rolled his eyes. “Of course I have packed. You know I’m the captain, yes?” He leant on one elbow so he could show Shane his phone. “Look, highlight reel is all you.”

Glancing away from where he was checking his clothes, he caught a glimpse of himself in black, an unfamiliar number on his shoulder.

“There,” Shane said, pausing the video with a finger. “I shouldn’t be there yet. I get away with it because they chase, but if the weak-side D holds his lane I’m boxed out.”

Rozanov looked at the phone and then Shane in disbelief. “You didn’t look! You passed to empty space!”

Shane shrugged. “I knew where you’d be.”

It had been a good pass, but it wasn’t going to work so well next time. He took half a step towards a wardrobe before remembering where he was.

“Shit.”

“What is it?”

“I—” Shane looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t have my small suitcase here. It’s in Montreal.”

Along with every fucking thing I own. Everything would be shipped soon, it was just taking a while for the movers to finish packing everything. Even then, he wasn’t 100% sure what his mom had marked to be sent down: he’d told her to pack light.

“It’s okay, I can lend you one.”

Shane nodded, hoping Rozanov would just get up and go fetch it. The bed springs complained behind him, but then Rozanov’s hands were on his shoulders, turning him around.

“Okay?” he asked.

Shane nodded again, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just looking forward to having my shit here. I mean—” he looked up. “If it’s still okay for me—”

“It’s good,” Rozanov cut him off. “I already say you can stay here, I didn’t change my mind.”

“Sorry, it’s just a fucking suitcase.”

Rozanov brought his hands to Shane’s hips. “This isn’t easy, I know okay?”

“You moved to an entirely different continent where you had to learn the language. I need to fucking suck this up and deal with it.”

“Not the locker room,” Rozanov kissed his forehead. “Don’t need this bullshit. It’s okay to be sad about your lame friends and your terrible team and your very boring apartment.”

Shane half-smiled. “Good job it’s not the locker room,” he joked, then froze as he realised what he’d said.

But Rozanov just smiled back and dropped a sweet kiss on his lips. “Yes, good job. I’ll go get you a suitcase.”

Sitting on the end of the bed, Shane put a hand over his wildly beating heart. He was tired and a little sad, yeah, but he needed to keep a better watch on what he was saying. This thing between them was fine, but it needed to stay where it belonged and joking about doing anything in the locker room was not the way to do that.

Rozanov came back in then, wheeling a small suitcase and Shane couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him. It wasn’t just that it was a branded Boston Raiders suitcase, it was that it was covered in the logo, overlapping canons into infinity.

“Thank you, Ilya,” he said, touching one finger to the ridiculous thing, and looked up to see Rozanov’s expression brighten into something like wonder.

“You’re welcome, Shane.”

Chapter Text

“Two assists!” someone yelled in his direction and Shane tilted his still-full tonic towards them.

He’d had fourteen assists in the last fourteen games, but his scoring average was down from where it had been in Montreal. The Boston coaches didn’t seem worried, but Shane couldn’t help but calculate it after every game.

“No, but seriously,” Taz said, leaning over the sticky table, eyes wide. “That thing you did in the second. You passed it through the guy. I thought it hit his skate.”

“Taz, how are you drunk already?” Marleau asked from Shane’s left and the table guffawed, as this was the best chirp they’d heard in years.

Columbus was cold in February but the sports bar they’d found themselves in by default was nice enough. They were in some booths at the back and so far no-one had even looked their way.

Shane checked his phone. He’d sent Hayden and JJ and congratulations texts: they’d won their game against Minneapolis in overtime. Boston was playing Montreal next week and Shane was excited to see them both but dreading the game itself.

Montreal had picked up a second-pair defenceman from the West who was doing okay, but he kept stepping up too early at the line, getting caught flat-footed when plays turned over. Shane could see it even without watching the games closely: the gaps were wrong, the timing half a beat off. He’d do better if he just held the lane and trusted his partner instead of trying to force the play. Shane was still avoiding Twitter, but from what his mom had said fans were desperate for someone tangible to be angry at, and this poor guy was bearing the brunt of it.

“Where’s Roz?” Willis asked.

Shane turned in his seat, leaning to one side far enough that he could just about see the bar.

Ilya was talking to a woman there. He was laughing, in fact, his hands moving as he spoke. She was tall with long brown hair, dressed all in black and she looked like the models he worked with on ads sometimes. Ilya spoke and she searched in her purse for something. Her phone? Were they exchanging numbers?

She looked away from her purse and put a hand on Ilya’s arm, smiling. Shane stood up.

“Hey, you okay?” Marleau asked.

Shane looked down into his concerned expression.

“I don’t feel great,” he replied, which was the absolute truth. “I’m going to go back to the hotel.”

Marleau, maybe Taz, said something after that, but Shane kept walking, past the bar and out into the cold night. He’d left his jacket on the back of his chair. Someone would pick it up.

He hailed a cab and gave the driver the name of the hotel they were staying at. It was a good job that he and Rozanov were at an away game: their rooms were on different floors. In Ilya’s house the bedrooms were all on the same floor, so maybe Shane would have had to sleep down in the den to give him some privacy.

Shoving some bills at the cab driver, he got out and went up to his room, shivering slightly. It was dim inside, the white bed almost glowing in the lamp light. Shane took off his shoes, stared at the bed for a moment, then walked into the bathroom where he threw up into the toilet, coughing against the acid burn. When he was done he sat on the floor, using some toilet roll to wipe his eyes and his mouth.

He was having a panic attack. He hadn’t vomited with anxiety since school.

Shaking hard, he got up and flushed the toilet, running his hands under the hot tap and concentrating on the sensation, the sound of the rushing water. He felt well enough after a few minutes to brush his teeth, though he had to fight against his still-unsteady hands.

He got into bed when he was done, still in his slacks and shirt, wrapping the comforter around him.

Was Rozanov back already? Was he in his room, even now, kissing that woman with his hands in her hair. He bent forward on the bed, his breathing coming fast again. This was the most pathetic he’d ever been. He shouldn’t be having a meltdown over Rozanov—famous womanizer—taking a woman back to his hotel room to fuck. He conjured some images: Rozanov with his hands on her ass, kissing her. Holding her down while he fucked her, his cock pumping in and out of her pussy.

Gasping now, Shane fought to slow his breathing, counting to four over and over until he felt less like he was going to faint.

I love you, Ilya told him after every game, but he didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean it and he wasn’t ever going to and Shane shouldn’t care anyway. He didn’t fucking care because he wasn’t—

A knock sounded at the door.

Shane ignored it. It was probably Marleau, making sure his star teammate wasn’t dead in a ditch or anything.

“Shane!” Ilya’s voice. “Open the fucking door!”

Shane wiped at his eyes and got up, unlatching the door and standing back as Ilya barged in, his jacket in one hand.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane shrugged. “I just didn’t feel great.”

“So you just took off,” Ilya said, flatly. “Without your jacket.”

“Thanks for bringing it back.”

Ilya dropped the jacket over the back of a chair and took a step forward. Shane took a step back, staying out of his personal space.

“What are we doing? Are we dancing?”

It could have been a joke, but there was an edge of annoyance to Ilya’s voice.

“Don’t you have—I mean, what about that woman?”

“What woman?”

“At the bar. I thought—” Shane looked up at the shadowed ceiling, folding his arms over his chest. “Did you—” he swallowed hard, then tried again. “Did you kiss her?”

Ilya looked at him like he’d grown another head, before puzzlement shaded to anger. “You really do think I’m an asshole? Think that I would pick up the first pretty girl that smiles at me.”

“Well, you could. You could do that, if you wanted to.”

Again, he seemed to have made Ilya speechless. “What are you talking about?” he asked, finally. “You think I would do that to you?”

“Do what?”

“Fuck this.” Ilya turned and took a step towards the door, then wheeled back around. “What do you think we are doing? Hmm? We live together, sleep in the same bed!”

“I don’t know.” Shane shook his head, and collapsed on the nearest chair, his breath coming short again. “You never said and I didn’t even fucking know I could be jealous of you. Shit. This is so fucked.”

A hand, cool and firm, settled on the back of Shane’s neck. “Hey, come on. Everything is okay. We are fine: first fight, eh?”

“Fuck,” Shane swore, unsteady. “We’re together, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Ilya kissed the top of his ear. “I think so.”

Pretty much everyone had slept on the way home, wiped out after six days on the road. Shane was jittery, desperate to touch Ilya but now more aware than ever of the dangers of even then most casual intimacy. They’d collapsed into Ilya’s bed when they’d got home and had fucked slowly that morning, unbearably tender.

Ilya had somehow managed to dodge PR for the whole day but Shane wasn’t so lucky, speaking to Sports 104 at midday and then taking some Instagram pictures for Underarmour.

He should probably take a quick shower and get a snack, but he was putting off calling Hayden. It was a shitty feeling, not wanting to call his best friend, but they’d both been too busy to chat and he really didn’t know what to expect.

It was late afternoon. He really did have to call Hayden: he had a day off as well but he was taking the kids out later.

He hit video call and waited. Hayden appeared, pink-cheeked and smiling, wearing a Metro’s branded hoodie that looked like it had yogurt on one shoulder.

“Shane! How are you, buddy?”

“I’m good. How are you and the kids? And Jackie?”

“We’re all good. Ruby snuck three extra cookies somehow and was up until 2am with an upset stomach.” A voice called out in the background. “Hayden! He doesn’t want to hear about that!”

“Hi Jackie,” Shane added.

“Hi Shane!”

“How’s things? Is that your apartment? Looks nice!”

“Ah, no. I’m staying with Il—Rozanov,” Shane caught himself just in time. “I thought you knew?”

“Yeah,” Hayden agreed, surprised. “I just thought, you’ve been there a month, right?”

“It’s a big house.”

“For sure. Listen, I’m glad if you’re getting along with your teammates, you know? Everyone was worried about you.”

“They’re just hockey players.”

“Well, good.”

“How is everyone?”

Hayden’s smile dipped a bit. “Man, I have no idea how you did this captain sh—” he looked off screen for a second. “Stuff. Captain stuff for so long. The meetings! So many meetings, man. I just want to be on the ice.”

“Yeah, it’s a lot, you’ll get the hang of it,” Shane reassured him. “Is JJ okay?”

Shane had sent a couple of dumb animal videos to him but hadn’t gotten any reply.

Hayden winced. “Yeah. I think he’s just spent a bit too much time on Twitter, you know?”

“No? I haven’t really been on much.”

“Well, there’s a lot of videos of you and Rozanov being buddy-buddy and I know it’s just PR shi—. Just PR, but that with the way you are on the ice. I don’t know, he’s just gone down a bit of a rabbit hole. He’ll come round.”

Shane didn’t even know where to start with that. What the fuck did buddy-buddy mean? What kind of rabbit hole?

“How are we on the ice?” That seemed like the safest question to ask.

“Well, you know-” Hayden made a sweeping gesture with one arm. “You keep doing impossible shit that you didn’t do here. I mean, you didn’t do so much of here. And you seem to have a lot of friends on the team already. Some people—” he stopped and there sounded like there was a whispered conversation going on. “He’s going to find out at some point,” Hayden said to Jackie, before turning back to the camera. “Look, some idiots are saying you asked for the trade.”

“I—” Shane didn’t even know what to say to that.

“I know it’s not true, okay? I spoke to you that night: you were devastated.”

He’d almost forgotten about that, about not being able to even form words, Ilya coming in and speaking to Hayden. He wanted to be upstairs with Ilya now, to be lying on the sofa with his head on his shoulder, dozing while Ilya scrolled Instagram or Reddit or watched Russian TV with the sound low.

“And JJ thinks it’s true?”

“You just need to talk to him, okay? Maybe we can hang out after the game next week?”

“Sure,” Shane agreed, despite his misgivings. He had a horrible feeling Boston was going to trounce Montreal, which wouldn’t endear him to JJ.

“Not going to be past your bedtime?” Hayden joked.

Shane just rolled his eyes at him. “Tell me about the kids,” he requested, and Hayden’s eyes lit up.

He could hear the sound of some kind of racing game as he came up from the den, revving engines filling the living room. Voices too, and he stood on the top stair until he was sure it was only Marleau up there with Ilya. Laine would have been fine too, but any of the rookies would have been a little too much. They were endlessly starstruck by Ilya and just a little too interested in his personal life. Marleau and Laine just came over to play video games or watch Daredevil.

“Hey,” Shane said, sitting down a respectable distance from Ilya.

“Hey Holly,” Marleau greeted him and Shane rolled his eyes.

Thankfully only Marleau called him that. “Are you losing again?”

“Only—” Marleau gritted his teeth and turned his whole body with the controller. “Because Roz is cheating.”

“Is Mario Cart!” Ilya replied, jumping to his feet and leaning towards the TV. “How can anyone cheat at Mario Cart?”

“You kept speculating about Coach’s sex life during the first lap!”

“Big word,” Ilya replied, throwing a bomb behind him on the screen. “Too difficult.”

Marleau opened his mouth to reply but Ilya’s turtle passed over the finish line, confetti raining down on the screen.

Ilya collapsed back on the sofa, turning so he was lying down with his head in Shane’s lap. Shane lifted his hand to run it through Ilya’s hair, but abruptly remembered they had company and put it down again.

Thankfully, Ilya was pretty tactile with everyone so Marleau didn't blink, instead slapping Ilya’s ankle so he could sit down. Ilya promptly shoved his socked feet under Marleau’s thigh.

“You guys coming to Will’s BBQ next week?”

“Sure,” Ilya agreed. “But Shane will only go if Joanne is there.”

Joanne Laine was Shane’s favourite WAG. She was from Yorkshire originally, which seemed to be a place where half the words were optional, so Shane only caught every second thing she said but she had a kind smile that always put him at ease. She also treated Ilya like he was the same age as her kids, which was alternately sweet and hilarious.

“I’m sure Lainy can be convinced to bring his wife.”

The conversation turned to the TV show Marleau and Ilya watched together on flights sometimes and Shane lent back, letting his eyes half-close. It was nice, sitting here with one teammate and one teammate who was also his—. His something. Extremely strange and something he was trying not to think about too much, but nice.

Marleau got up to go, searching for his jacket while Ilya tried to get Shane to be the one to walk Marleau to the door.

“It’s your house.”

“You live here,” Ilya whined, his head still in Shane’s lap.

“I know my way out,” Marleau told them, his eyes creased with amusement.

“It’s rude!” Shane told Ilya, who sighed expansively and stood up.

“Mr Marleau, please follow me,” he said to Marleau, with what he probably thought was a fancy accent, but just made him sound more Russian.

Marleau held out his fist and Shane bumped it with his own. “See you at skate tomorrow.”

“See you, good luck with this dude,” Marleau replied, in French.

“Thanks, I’ll need it.”

When he came back into the living room, Ilya climbed into Shane’s lap. “What did you say about me in French?”

“Marley said you smelled bad and I told him you never brush your teeth.”

“Never brush your teeth,” Ilya repeated, shaking his head. “Such terrible chirps, like a small child.”

Shane knew he was grinning but couldn’t hide it. “You need a haircut,” he said, running a hand through Ilya’s unruly curls.

“I need a kiss.”

“Do you?” Shane asked, his eyes flicking to Ilya’s lips.

Ilya hummed, and leaned down.

Chapter Text

Morning skate had been optional, but Shane and Ilya always went: Ilya because he was captain and Shane because he was, according to Ilya, a goody-two-shoes. Marly had taught him that one.

Afterwards, Ilya was telling a story about a game from before Shane’s time to Taz and Remy, sitting in just his compression shorts and one sock. Shane was half listening while he dried off, Laine sitting his cubby beside him, tapping away on his phone. Starting to turn around, Shane stopped as he felt a touch on his elbow.

“Maybe cover those up, eh?” Laine said, nodding down at Shane’s arm.

He looked down at his forearm: he had bruises in the perfect shape of five fingerprints.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, face burning. He shoved on a sweatshirt, pushing his arms through quickly.

“You’ll be chirped into next month if anyone sees them,” Laine told him.

Shane nodded, glancing over where Ilya wasn’t any more dressed than before. He was torn between remembering how good it had felt to be held down last night and wanting to murder him for leaving a mark.

Laine had gone back to his phone and Shane felt a swell of affection for him. He was so lucky Laine was so uninterested in anyone’s personal life, even Hayden and JJ would have been desperate to get the who and the how out of him.

Skate was optional but tape wasn’t. By the time Shane had showered and eaten, the video room was filling up with players who hadn’t been on the ice that morning, many with Dunkin’ coffee cups from the place around the corner, jokes overlapping as the lights dimmed, the first clip frozen ready on the screen.

“Watch their F3 here,” Coach said, indicating the screen with a laser pointer as the clip paused. “They’re high, they’re patient. If you force it through the middle, you’re giving them exactly what they want.”

He nodded with everyone else, even though he’d already clocked it. Tampa funneled play wide, collapsed late, waited for mistakes.

Montreal came up next.

Shane felt it before anyone said anything, the faint shift in the room as the logo filled the screen. Keeping his eyes down on his notebook, Shane wrote Montreal Metros across the top of the page and underlined it twice.

“Same structure as always,” Coach said, neutral. “But watch how aggressive their D are at the blue line.”

The clip paused. Shane could see it immediately, the familiar problem showing up right on time. The defenceman stepped up early, shoulders squared, stick extended, trying to kill the play before it started. Coach paused and explained, then moved on.

With every point Dan made Shane’s stomach wound tighter: excitement and fear, excitement and fear. He could see three moves ahead each time—every place where Montreal would try to compensate and every place where it wouldn’t be enough.

“He did not,” Shane was saying, following Ilya through the back door.

“He did! I swear to you! He came down out of the bathroom naked and tried to get into a cupboard. You ask Joanne when you see her, she was there, she knows her husband’s mistakes.”

Shane shook his head: he wouldn’t believe such slander of Laine until he had a secondary witness. Ilya was—

A woman appeared at the top of the stairs and Ilya swore.

“Ilyusha!” she said with a smile, and Ilya blinked at her for a second before replying in tense Russian. Shane took one uneasy step back, as if he could disappear back into the mud room and then out away from whoever this person was.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new teammate?” she asked, in perfect American English.

Ilya sighed. “Shane, this is Svetlana Vetrova, my friend who does not know how to call ahead. Sveta, this is Shane Hollander, as you already know.”

“A pleasure! It’s so nice to see Ilya spending time with his new teammates.”

“He lives here,” Ilya told her, flatly.

“Does he now?”

Ilya said something sharp in Russian, but Svetlana simply smiled. “Why don’t you be a good host and offer me something to drink? Surely you have some black tea in here somewhere.”

With that she turned around and disappeared into the house.

Ilya turned to look at Shane. “We have known each other since we were children. Don’t listen to anything she says.”

And with that he took the stairs that led up to the main floors. Shane messed around with his shoes for a bit, making sure everything was tidy. He went directly upstairs, going into the guest bedroom where he never slept and dumping his bag on the bed that housekeeping must have made recently. He messed it up a little so that it looked slept in. Should he move his shampoo out of Ilya’s en-suite? Probably not. Why would Svetlana go into Ilya’s bathroom?

He sat on the edge of the bed. Maybe he should just stay out of their way for a while: let them catch up.

Svetlana was probably one of the most beautiful women Shane had ever met. Even in plain smart pants and a soft-looking sweater, she’d looked like she’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine. He’d seen her somewhere before, he was sure. It clicked all at once, unpleasantly sharp. Not where he’d seen her, but how. A Twitter fan account he’d almost scrolled past, Ilya in a club somewhere, laughing, an arm slung around a woman who looked effortless in the way only certain women did: it had been captioned with something speculative and winking and Shane had spent too long looking at the slant of Ilya’s smile.

He stood up and went downstairs, towards the sound of Russian conversation coming from the kitchen.

“Hello again, Shane Hollander who has lived here for a month without me knowing about it.”

Ilya said something in Russian to her and she rolled her eyes at him.

“Ilya said you’ve been friends since childhood and not to believe anything you say.”

Svetlana laughed. Even her laugh was sexy.

“Oh, I have so many stories to tell you, but first, you can’t call him Ilya. This is for Americans and you are Canadian. You must call him Ilushenka.”

“Ilushenka,” Shane repeated.

Behind Svetlana, Ilya was looking down at the tea he was making, using the double tea-pot Shane had since learned was called a zavarnik. He didn’t look up at the new name, but there was something deliberate in the way he was concentrating.

“Can you teach me some more Russian?” he asked Svetlana, who took his arm and steered him towards the living space.

“Of course, Shane Hollander. In exchange you must explain the pass you made to empty air against Pittsburgh: the one everyone is pretending was intentional. Ilya doesn’t look where he’s going, so how did you know where he would be?”

In the end Svetlana only stayed for two hours. She was on her way back to New York after skiing in Vermont and had taken a layover in the hope of surprising Ilya. Ilya had threatened to take her spare keys off her a number of times, but didn’t seem to have followed through.

He came back in from seeing her to the door, bringing a burst of cold air with him.

“Brr,” he shuddered, burying into Shane’s side.

“She seemed nice.”

“No, she is terrible.”

“And you’ve known her a long time?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever—,” Shane hesitated. “I mean, were you two—”

“Yes, but not anymore. Svetlana is always my best friend first.”

“How old were you when you met her?”

Ilya shrugged, still burrowed against Shane's side. “Eight, I think. Our parents were friends.”

That was probably enough questions. Ilya got skittish if he asked too many questions in a row: he said they were boring or he suddenly remembered something he had to do. Even Shane could take a hint that obvious.

“She knows about me,” Ilya added.

“What about you?”

“That I like men as well as women.”

Shane's heart skipped a beat before starting up again, double time. “Does she know about us?”

“I didn't tell her but she is not stupid.”

“Would she ever—”

“No,” Ilya cut across him. “No, never. She has protected me always. She can be trusted.”

“Okay.”

He wasn't sure it was okay, but what else could he say. Hayden was his best friend but he wouldn't be telling him any time soon. Possibly ever, if he could help it.

Ilya kissed the underside of his jaw, once, then twice, and Shane's eyes fluttered with pleasure, happy for the distraction.

“Hmm,” he agreed with nothing in particular. “No, wait.”

Ilya propped himself up on an elbow. “I told you a million times, this couch is wipe-clean."

“What? No, not that.” He pulled up his sleeve. “This!”

Ilya peered at his arm. “That is your arm, yes. Needs more muscle so your back hand is better.”

Shane huffed a sigh. “No, the bruises.”

Ilya put his hand over Shane’s forearm, fitting his fingers gently over the bruises. “Oh, yes,” he replied, his voice gone deep. “I remember now. I held you down last night while I fucked you.”

“That’s—” Shane licked his lips. “That’s not the point. Laine saw them in the locker room.”

“What did he say?”

“That I should cover them up before anyone else saw.”

Ilya laughed: a loud, happy sound. “Ah, he is a good man. See? No problem. I can mark you up and Lainy will make sure no-one sees.”

“That’s not the—” Shane cut off on a moan, embarrassingly high as Ilya sucked hard just under his jaw. “No marks,” he said, but it didn’t sound very convincing even to himself.

“No marks people will see,” Ilya agreed.

Shane wanted to remind him they showered naked with twenty-odd other men most days of the week, but Ilya was stripping him of his hoodie and t-shirt, his mouth going to Shane’s nipple. He bit down, lightly at first, then harder and harder. Shane’s hands flew to the back of Ilya’s head, keeping him there even as he squirmed against the feeling.

“Fuck,” he panted, when Ilya pulled away. His eyes were very dark.

“Again?” Ilya asked. “Think you can take it?”

“Fuck you,” Shane breathed, already arching up against Ilya’s hot mouth.

God it was so intense: like the physical sensation of white noise. He came back to himself panting, grinding up against Ilya’s thigh.

“Tabarnak, fuck,” he swore. “Please.”

“Must be good if you’re swearing in French,” Ilya commented between tender kisses under his jaw.

“Come on,” Shane absolutely didn’t whine.

Ilya huffed a laugh, his breath tickling against Shane’s skin. Then finally his hand was on Shane’s cock and he forgot his annoyance. This time, when Ilya bit down on his nipple, Shane lost all control of his volume as he came, shoving his heels into the couch to try to get more friction, more everything.

Reality started to filter back in as Ilya muttered something in Russian, pushing his sweats down and kicking them off. Still dazed, Shane watched as he began to jerk himself off, fast and rough. He came quickly enough that Shane should’ve chirped him for it, but he was still trying to find his brain cells. He’d likely regret all this when he was putting on his compression gear tomorrow, but that was a problem for future Shane.

Ilya collapsed to the side of him, fishing for something then coming up with a t-shirt and wiping them both off. Shane put one arm around Ilya’s shoulders and snagged a throw off the back of the couch to spread over them. It was from his old apartment in Montreal: his mom had packed it with his clothes and the few books she’d sent.

They lay like that, breaths slowing. There was no-where they needed to be.

“Say it?” Ilya asked, his voice quiet.

“Say what?”

“What Svetlana taught you.”

Shane kissed the delicate skin by the side of Ilya’s eye. “Ilushenka,” he whispered.

Ilya turned his head so that Shane couldn’t see his expression. “Again.”

“Ilushenka,” Shane murmured, dropping first one kiss onto his hair, then another. “Ilushenka.”

Chapter Text

Warm-ups were fine. Ilya stayed with him the whole time, but that was pretty normal: they usually stretched together, then skated slow laps or passed a few pucks. At some point Ilya would kiss his helmet, which was originally just the signal for Marleau to do the same, but Ilya was captain so of course it had caught on.

He tilted his head as Laine came up to him, then Taz, and then Wills. He caught Ilya’s grin as he got to his feet, and discovered Pez, Sebs, and Cade all patiently waiting for their turn to kiss his helmet. Shane laughed, shaking his head. There was something sweet about how the Raiders followed Ilya’s lead: if he hugged Shane after a goal, then first Marleau and then Laine had to do the same. Ilya always handed Shane his water bottle before taking his own when they got to the bench. So now if Shane got there before Ilya, someone was always ready with it.

As a kid he’d struggled with big groups: both at school and on teams. He’d found strategies to help over the years, but he couldn’t remember a time when he’d genuinely felt popular. He had no illusions: it was all about his skills on the ice and Ilya’s lead, but it was still nice.

He caught a few of the Metro’s watching him once or twice, but they were too far away to see their expressions. He’d nodded at Hayden from within the scrum of Raiders that seemed determined to accompany him everywhere, but that was all he managed before the horn let them know it was time to go back to the locker room.

There was enough time to tie and re-tie his laces, then out to O Canada, followed by the Boston crowd doing their best to sing louder than anyone had ever sung the Star-Spangled Banner.

Ilya was already in position when he skated up and he could tell from the referee’s flat, unimpressed stare that Ilya was chirping Taylor relentlessly. He was a solid centre and he’d been a decent teammate: he’d certainly done nothing to deserve Ilya’s undoubtedly gleeful shit talking.

Ilya won the faceoff. The Metros were half a step behind the Raider’s every move, Marleau scoring on Shane’s assist. The crowd threw themselves against the glass, faces pressed up against it in roaring delight. Shane was so grateful for them, they’d got behind him almost instantly and hadn’t let up since.

They came off after the goal and Shane kept his eyes forward on the bench, Ilya’s bare hand warm on the back of his neck as he talked over Shane’s shoulder to Laine. Shane caught his name but ignored them, watching Berkes finish a hit on Taz that drew a brief crowd before the refs waded in. No goals, but only because Mitty was stepping up to cover where the Metro’s were more concerned with getting choppy.

By the third, the game had stopped being about hockey and turned into attrition. Montreal kept scoring just enough to stay visible, but every shift Shane took came with a price, a shoulder driven through him at the boards, a stick across the ribs, a mouthful of abuse when the refs weren’t close enough to hear. Boston answered every time: someone always arrived after the hit, always stepped in, and the penalties stacked up on both sides as the Metros got choppier and the Raiders stopped pretending they wouldn’t respond. The only reason it didn’t get out of hand was Mitty, standing on his head while his defence burned energy trying to hurt Shane instead of stopping the puck.

They won 5-2. Shane watched his old team as they skated off the ice, Boston screaming like they’d just won the cup. He’d be having dinner with Hayden in an hour or so: almost impossible to imagine after that game.

Media was relentless. Jen had to step in twice and Shane could feel Ilya’s annoyance from across the room. He’d been banned from crashing Shane’s media about ten games back, so there was no hope of a rescue. Just a regular game; they’re a good team over there; we just came out the right way; it’s hockey, stuff happens. He put on his blandest smile and grinded all the way through five terrible minutes of questions.

Standing in the hallway, hair damp from a quick shower and a draft coming from under a fire exit, Shane felt every one of his hits. JJ had landed a couple of clean hits, not even looking at him. Hayden had passed him on the ice, head down. Schneider had gone low with his stick, catching Shane across the shin. Gagnon had gone for a cross-check and Roy had chosen a stick ride across his forearms. Comeau had driven him into the boards twice, calling him a traitor, a cocksucker, a faggot. He was going to have bruises all down his side that would take a while to fade.

The first time they’d won the cup, Roy had screamed into his ear that he was a beauty. He’d gone with Schneider to sign off on his equipment order a couple of times because he’d kept putting it off.

Shane put the back of his hand to his mouth.

He wanted to go back into the locker room and sit in his cubby, listening to the rookies ask increasingly stupid questions about the in-flight food tomorrow. He wanted to go home.

“Shane!”

Hayden was coming down the corridor, smiling brightly in the overheads, with JJ trailing just behind.

Shane took them to South Street Diner. He’d been with the team a couple of times and none of the servers ever blinked at a group of NHL players, shoved tightly into a corner booth.

“Hey, pancakes!” Hayden exclaimed, plastic menu in hand.

JJ was quiet, seemingly engrossed in deciding what to order.

Shane didn’t even need to look: pretty much the only thing he could eat was scrambled eggs on wholewheat toast, but that was fine. Hayden ordered something with churro in the name and JJ went for a wrap and chocolate milk.

Once the server left, Shane opened his mouth to say something, he had no idea what, but it would be better than silence. Hayden held up a commanding finger.

“No hockey, Jackie’s rules, don’t blame me.”

“You’re so whipped,” JJ muttered, the first thing he’d said that wasn’t hi.

“How are you doing?” Hayden asked Shane, brightly.

“Good. I, er, I’ve got to be up early tomorrow though. We’re flying to—”

“Ah!” Hayden interjected, eyebrows raised.

Shane rolled his eyes, but he could feel a smile tugging at his lips. There was no way they were going to be able to avoid even mentioning hockey. What else did they do with their time?

“Okay fine. How’s Jackie and the kids?”

“Great!” Hayden began, launching into a story about Ruby emptying a jar of honey behind the washing machine that even had JJ smiling into his drink.

Their food came and taking the edge of their post game hunger carried them past the forty-five minute mark. Shane could feel his phone buzzing in his pocket. One text would be from his parents, but the rest would all be Ilya. He put his hand over it but didn’t check.

Hayden finished his mound of pancakes first, the sickly smell of sugary syrup thankfully dissipating.

“How’s the diet going?” Hayden asked.

“Hockey-adjacent,” JJ said, without looking up from his food.

“I didn’t ask for the trade,” Shane announced.

That got him a betrayed look, but he had to make sure JJ believed him. “We know you didn’t, buddy. Right?” Hayden asked JJ.

“Yeah. I know, I’m just—” JJ made an expansive gesture. “I’m pissed at everyone right now. What the fuck were they thinking?”

“They were thinking that you’d tank,” Hayden said to Shane, all good humour gone. “They’d be able to buy whoever they wanted but you’d fail in Boston so who gives a fuck?” Shane didn’t think he’d ever sounded so bitter.

“Their fucking mistake, and now we’re paying for it,” JJ spat. “God, the fans… You seen any of it?” he asked Shane, anger sharpening his accent.

“No. I’ve posted some sponsor stuff on Instagram, but that’s it apart from ESPN. My mom tells me if there’s anything important.”

“Yeah, maybe don’t go looking,” Hayden agreed. “I’ve seen way too many edits of Rozanov kissing your helmet three hundred times.”

Shane blinked. God, he hoped that wasn’t actually a thing.

“Are you still living with him?” JJ asked.

“Yeah.”

“Well, I guess he’s your captain.”

“And my friend,” Shane added, firmly.

JJ looked down at his half-empty glass. “Well, I’m glad you’re making friends,” he allowed. “Even if that friend thanked Taylor for giving you to Boston every time you scored or got an assist.”

“Christ.”

“Still an asshole then?” Hayden asked, but he was smiling.

“Yeah, sometimes.”

JJ finished the rest of his drink with an obnoxious slurp and pushed the glass aside.

“You playing Buffalo tomorrow?” Hayden asked, apparently fully given up on his own rule.

“Yeah.”

“You going to steamroll them?”

“Probably, yeah.”

“Rozanov and Hollander on a line,” JJ shook his head. “Who the fuck thought that would be a good idea?”

Shane kept silent, sipping the last of his water. He was pretty sure it wasn’t a real question, anyway.

“Well, you’ll make playoffs for sure,” Hayden said, sounding at least fifty percent happy for him.

Glancing across the table, JJ’s phone showed a clock glowing upside down reading 01:30am.

“Thanks,” he replied, absently. “We better get the cheque, yeah?”

Hayden snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s get you home before you turn into a pumpkin.”

Outside in the cold February air their breath plumed white while they waited for the taxi that would take Hayden and JJ to their hotel. JJ was leaning against the railings outside the diner, looking up at the old office building across the street.

“Call me if you need anything,” Hayden told him, sincere.

“Yeah, same,” Shane agreed.

“Don’t get hurt,” JJ ordered, clapping him on the shoulder.

Shane waved them off and cut east towards South Station. The parking lot was so bright that he wished he was the type of guy to walk around in sunglasses at night. He pulled his hood tighter instead, trying to cut down the glare. In the car he finally looked at his phone, replying to his parents and scrolling through the cascade of messages Ilya had sent before starting the engine and backing out of the narrow space.

It was nearly 2am when he got in, the downstairs dark except for a lamp, glowing dimly next to the couch. Shane flicked it off, climbing the stairs in the semi-darkness. The ensuite light was also on, a wedge of brightness falling across the bottom of the bed. Ilya was a huddle under the comforter, only the outline of his head visible against the pillow. He was asleep, snoring softly.

Shane went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He brushed his teeth for the whole two minutes despite his exhaustion. He turned away from the mirror as he stripped, not wanting to see the bruises starting to bloom across his skin.

As he got into bed Ilya, still mostly asleep, rolled over and clumsily pulled him close. Shane turned his face into the warm skin of his shoulder, so familiar now. They slept together almost every night. Even on the road, Shane would go over to Ilya’s room, waking early to go down to breakfast before almost everyone else was up.

He breathed deeply, his heart clenching with some emotion—trembling and full. He should have made more effort with JJ, he should have thanked Hayden for believing him, but all he’d wanted all evening was to be here, in Ilya’s house, in his bed, in his arms.

“Okay?” Ilya mumbled.

“Yeah,” Shane replied. “I’m okay. Go back to sleep.”

Chapter Text

Shane lay sprawled on the bed, Ilya’s pillow under his head, his phone tucked against his cheek. They’d got back late last night and had gone to morning skate that morning, then they’d been dragged to Row 34 for lunch: only because half the team had complained that their captain was getting old and never went out any more.

“Front office has only been giving me positives,” his mom was saying. “Good line chemistry, teamwork, you know the drill.”

“Cool.”

“How are you feeling? Think these guys are going to support you long-term?”

“Yeah? I don’t know. I thought the Metros were going to re-sign me so maybe my opinion counts for nothing.”

“Honey, I’ll tell you and your dad will tell you until you believe us, but that had nothing to do with you, okay? I never heard a bad word about you from them.”

That made it worse, not better. “The team seems good,” he offered.

“And you’re feeling more settled?”

“Yeah, I guess. The people here don’t seem to give a fuck there’s a group of NHL players getting coffee next to them, which is nice.”

“Okay, and how are you feeling about finding an apartment there? Signalling you want to put down some roots?”

Shane rolled over onto his front, burying his head in Ilya’s pillow for a moment.

“Shane?” his mom sounded worried. “If you’re not ready, that’s fine too.”

“I’m good here,” he mumbled. “Staying here, I mean.”

“And Rozanov? He’s okay with that?”

“Yeah,” Shane replied. “I mean—” They hadn’t actually talked about it, but he figured he could just stay and see if Ilya got annoyed. “Yeah. We’re good.”

“Okay, well, I just want you to be mindful of how closely you’re being associated with Rozanov right now.”

Shane sat up. “What?”

There was a pause on the end of the phone. “Shane, honey. I don’t have anything against him: he’s doing a lot for you. He just has a very different image to you and probably not one Rolex is looking for. He has own sponsors.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Or, nothing bad. Just, I worry about you getting into the party scene he seems to be part of.”

Party scene? The last time they’d gone out was the week before last, when they’d had dinner with the team and Ilya’d had two beers before they’d headed home.

Shane flopped back down. “There haven’t been any parties, Mom.”

“That’s good to know. Now, we were thinking of coming down to see a home game, maybe against Detroit. I know you said you wanted some time to settle in, but by then it’ll be two months since we last saw you.”

“Sounds good. I’ll ask around for hotel recommendations.”

“Okay, we also were hoping we’ll get to see where you’re staying? It would be nice to meet your captain as well.”

“Sure.” Absolutely not.

Ilya would do something perfectly normal like put his head on Shane’s shoulder or tuck his thumb into Shane’s back pocket and none of the team even blinked, but his parents would ask questions.

“Let’s talk about it next time, I’m sure you need a nap.”

“Yeah, thanks mom. Give my love to Dad.”

Ilya was lying full length on the couch, listening to something pop-rocky in Russian. Shane crawled up so that he was lying half of Ilya, half on the back cushions, and waited for the song to end.

“Did I hear you talking to your brother before?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it like, 1am there?”

“Yes, he was drunk.”

Shane turned and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “How’s your dad?”

“I don’t know. Worse maybe? Alexei won’t take him to the doctor, so who knows?”

Getting Ilya to talk about any of this was usually like pulling teeth: all he knew was he had an older brother, a forgetful father, and he’d never mentioned his mother.

Shane slipped a hand under Ilya’s hoodie and put it against the warmth of his t-shirt on his side. He stroked a comforting thumb back and forth while he tried to think of the right thing to say.

“He says that all people get old and forget,” Ilya continued, folding a hand absently into Shane’s hair. “That he will come out worse; that they might lock him up. He always has an excuse and I’m not there so I can do nothing about it.”

Ilya’s accent was sharper after he’d been speaking to his brother.

“Do you need to go back?”

“No: the problem will be waiting for me in summer.” He blew out a breath and pressed a kiss to Shane’s temple. “How were your parents?” he added.

“Good. Fine. They want to come visit.”

“Oh yes?” Ilya pushed himself up onto an elbow. “How long for?”

“Just a night.”

“They can sleep downstairs. Or they can have the master bedroom.”

“Ilya, they can’t stay here.”

“Why not? I can promise not to fuck you for one night.”

“Because they’ll know. The second they see us together: they’ll know.”

Ilya looked down at him, his fingers still tangled at the back of Shane’s head.

“They don’t know about you?”

“They don’t know anything.”

“And you don’t want them to know?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Ilya agreed, but he took his hand back, tucking it into the pocket of his sweatpants as he lay back down.

Shane sat up, his ass shoved between Ilya and the back of the couch, his legs over Ilya’s stomach.

“Look,” he started, then paused to gather his thoughts. “My mom, she had a hard time at school. Like, really hard, because she looked different, because her packed lunch was different, just everything. And she told me she thought about—” Shane took a breath. “She thought about hurting herself a few times.”

Ilya’s easy breaths froze for a second and Shane looked over at him: his expression was one of horror.

“She never did anything! She just had some dark times. But yeah, because of that she worked hard so I’d fit in. Like, she made sure my sneakers were the same as everyone’s, that I did the right after-school classes. She even—” Shane hesitated again, embarrassed. “She’d practice conversations with me so I would know what to say to my classmates. Like asking about weekends and music and stuff. Dumb stuff that other kids just seemed to know, but I couldn’t get.”

“And now I’m fucking that up. Being—Being this, with you. It’s like I’m throwing that all back in her face.”

Ilya was watching him carefully. “She never hurt herself?” he asked, voice quiet.

“No,” Shane assured him. “She just felt really bad at the time.”

“I think she would understand. She is a good mom: she loves you.”

Shane rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I know I’m so lucky. I just can’t right now. Is that okay?” He couldn’t look at Ilya.

“Is okay. They stay in a hotel, I will go do something for PR. It’s no problem.”

Lying back down, Shane laced their fingers together.

“She also said you have a party image.”

That made Ilya laugh, his stomach shaking. “A party image! Oh, yes: every night, I’m dancing on the podium at the clubs.”

“You're ridiculous”

“You like it.”

He did, but he wasn't about to tell Ilya that so he leaned over and kissed him instead. He'd meant it to be nothing, just a way to get the last word, so to speak, but Ilya splayed his hand across Shane's face and deepened the kiss.

They kissed for long moments, Ilya turning so he could push first Shane’s hoodie, then his t-shirt up and off him. He pressed sweet, closed mouth kisses down Shane’s still-bruised side. “I will kill Comeau.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “You already tried that, remember? You got a penalty for it.”

Ilya muttered something in Russian but went back to stripping Shane. He then fumbled in his pockets, coming up with a smaller version of the tube they kept upstairs.

“You’re carrying lube now?”

“Yes?”

Shane snorted, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable,” he half-laughed.

Ilya continued to search his pockets, then swore in Russian.

“What is it?”

“No condom: I’ll go get it.”

“No,” Shane blurted. Ilya looked startled and Shane could already feel himself turning red. “If you want. We could. Without.”

“Hmm, yeah?” Ilya asked, leaning back in for a filthy kiss. “Is that what you want?”

“Maybe.”

“I think you do. I think you want to feel me come inside you.”

“Jesus,” Shane muttered.

Ilya kept up a near-constant commentary while he fingered him open, shit about how he was going to fuck him and put a plug in before practice that was way hotter than Shane would ever admit out loud.

“Are—are you done?” he panted.

“Hmm, yes, I think so.” And with that he pushed into Shane, hands on his thighs to hold him open.

He absolutely couldn’t tell the difference in the feel of it, but he knew Ilya wasn’t wearing a condom and that made it ten times hotter. For Ilya as well he guessed, by the way his control kept slipping, fucking Shane hard enough to pull bitten-off moans from him.

“Okay?”

“Yes, fuck,” Shane panted. “Like that.”

Ilya gave up any pretence of holding back, fucking him up against the arm of the couch, one hand tight in his hair.

“Fuck, going to come in you.”

“Ye—yes.”

Shane could feel it. He could feel Ilya’s cock pulsing inside of him, everything getting wetter and hotter. He got his own hand on himself and came almost instantly, making a mess of them both.

“Fuck,” Ilya breathed against Shane’s lips, kissing his slack mouth. “Fuck that’s hot.”

They lay there longer than they normally would, kissing until Ilya was soft enough to slip out of him. He was sticky where he wasn’t usually sticky and whatever he was lying on—hopefully Ilya’s t-shirt—would need a very hot wash, but it had been worth it.

“Can’t do that on a road trip: the whole hotel will know.”

Shane blinked his eyes open. “I wasn’t loud?”

It came out more of a question than a statement.

“I am deaf. I need a—” Ilya made a vague gesture towards his ear.

“A hearing aid?”

“Yes! I need a hearing aid: you screamed.”

“I did not.”

“Did.”

“Did not.”

“Did.”

Shane bit the closest part of Ilya he could reach, which happened to be his ear. Ilya actually shrieked, which meant that Shane was laughing too hard to properly defend himself from the tickling attack that Ilya launched.

They stopped when they rolled off onto the floor, Ilya kicking the coffee table on the way down.

“You okay?” Shane demanded.

“Yes. Ow. Maybe we are too old for this.”

Shane propped himself up, looking down into Ilya’s blue eyes as he reached up and brushed his thumb along Shane’s jaw.

“I also talked about something else with my parents,” he admitted.

“Hmm?”

“I told them I didn’t want to look for a new apartment.”

“Well, that works.”

“It does?”

“Yes. I don’t want you to look for an apartment either.”

“Well, I guess that does work then,” Shane said with a smile, turning to place a kiss on the tip of Ilya’s thumb.

Chapter Text

Shane saw Ilya peel off first, the familiar flick of his stick toward the bench as his shift ended a half-second early. Shane stayed out one more stride because the puck was still loose and he was already wide. Then the play went the other way, sudden and sharp, bodies collapsing towards the middle. He cut back through traffic, legs burning, aware of skates crossing his path, a stick rapping his shin, a shoulder crowding his space. He caught a glimpse of the other player’s head down, eyes still tracking the puck, already turning away.

He clipped Shane. Not a hit, not really: just bad timing and too much speed. Shane’s edge went and his weight pitched forward before he could recover. His face hit the ice with a sickening crack. White burst behind his eyes, pain blooming hot and immediate, followed by warmth, fast and wet, flooding down over his mouth and chin. He pushed up to one knee, then both, bringing one inexplicably gloveless up uselessly as the ice beneath him streaked red. The whistle screamed and somewhere nearby someone was shouting, but Shane was still trying to get his bearings.

Hands were on him almost immediately, steering him toward the boards and through the open door. Shane let them, head tipped forward because that was easier than trying to look up. The tunnel swallowed the noise of the arena, sound dropping away into a dull roar behind him. Someone pressed a towel into his hands and he held it there, more out of instinct than instruction and it soaked through red almost instantly.

“Okay, easy,” a trainer said, voice calm and practiced. “Keep pressure.”

They stopped just inside the medical room. Shane caught his reflection in a mirror over a sink, dark hair plastered to his forehead, blood smeared liberally across his mouth and chin, dripping from his nose and a deep cut he couldn’t even feel down onto his jersey. His nose already looked wrong, swollen and crooked beneath the towel. He swallowed against a sharp, unpleasant pull behind his eyes.

“Oh,” he said faintly. He hadn’t realised it was that bad.

The trainer guided him toward the table. “Sit. We’re just going to take a look.”

“Wait,” Shane said, breath hitching as another wave of warmth spilled down his face. He adjusted the towel, pressing harder. “I’m fine. I’m not dizzy.”

“We still need to—”

“I need to go back to the bench,” Shane said, more urgently now. “Just for a minute. Please. I need to talk to them before they go back out.”

The trainer hesitated, eyes flicking to his face, assessing.

“Two minutes,” he said finally. “You don’t step on the ice.”

“Thank you.” Shane was already turning back towards the tunnel.

They walked him partway, the cold air biting at his damp jersey. The bench was chaos when he emerged, Ilya at the end, mid-argument with the head trainer, hands cutting sharp shapes through the air. Shane couldn’t hear the exact words, just see the intensity of them. The trainer stood his ground, palms up, shaking his head.

Then Ilya saw him.

His eyes went wide, the anger breaking open into something raw and startled. Shane stepped up, still clutching the towel to his face, blood seeping through it again. They met over the boards, close enough that Shane could see the tension in Ilya’s jaw.

“I’m fine,” Shane told him, low so only he could hear. “I promise.”

Ilya’s gaze flicked over him, hands tight on the rail. Shane shook his head. “It wasn’t dirty. Just bad timing.” He wasn’t 100% sure of that but sure enough. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he added

Ilya nodded, sharp and jerky, but he wasn’t doing a good job of hiding how upset he was. His hands were still clenched, knuckles white. Shane glanced past him and caught Marleau’s eye, holding it for a beat. Marleau gave a small nod back, already edging closer to Ilya’s shoulder.

A hand closed around Shane’s elbow. “Okay,” the trainer said. “That’s enough.”

Shane let himself be pulled back towards the tunnel, the cold air closing around him again. He really needed to call his parents.

He got back to the hotel at midnight, a trainer whose name he didn’t remember and was too tired to feel guilty about escorted him up to his room. He stood just inside the door for long enough to hear the elevator beep, then went down the corridor to Ilya’s room and knocked. Even in the low light his eyes were red. Shane took him into his arms, running a hand through his hair.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.” He sounded as congested as Shane did.

“I’m fine, it’s just a fracture,” Shane told him. The medical staff should have kept him up to date. He’d told them to call Ilya the second he’d come out of the CT scan.

“I know, Tom called me.”

“I’m fine,” he told him again, just in case it wasn’t clear. “I can play the game tomorrow.”

Ilya nodded, his face buried in the crook of Shane’s neck. “Did you eat?”

“Yeah, Tom brought me something at the hospital. Did you?”

Ilya shrugged.

Shane had no idea what a shrug could mean in this context. “Let’s go to bed, eh?”

Pulling away, Ilya turned slowly and started stripping, dropping his clothes haphazardly on a chair. Shane folded his quickly, going over and pulling down the heavy comforter and getting in, lying on his back, propped up by pillows. Ilya turned off the lights and crawled in, half on top of Shane with his head on his shoulder.

“Okay?” Shane asked.

Ilya hummed, pressing a hand against Shane’s side.

Columbus was brutal. Early in the first, Shane took a hit he normally would have absorbed and spun off. With the cage he went down awkwardly, Ilya there within a second.

“I’m fine!” Shane snapped.

On the power play, Ilya threaded the cross-ice feed, but Shane was half a step slow and the lane closed before he could get his stick on it. They lost 2–1.

The low hum of the plane on the way back made his headache worse. Laine, in the seat next to him, was watching a movie with his headphones on. In the row ahead Marleau and Ilya were asleep, a tuft of Ilya’s blonde curls just visible from around the side of the wide chair.

Shane closed his eyes but couldn’t sleep, his head a dull, inescapable pressure. It was a short flight, but Shane was more than ready to get off and get home. Ilya had driven them, as he usually did, but he was so quiet that he nearly offered to drive them back.

He was glad he hadn’t when he woke up with a start, the garage dim around them as Ilya turned off the engine.

“Shane?” he said, quietly.

“I’m awake.”

“I can make you pelmeni,” Ilya offered, picking up Shane’s bag while Shane was still climbing out of the car.

“The frozen dumplings you eat?”

“Yes, they’re good when you’re sick.”

“Oh, no. I can’t. I’ll just have some of the pasta I made yesterday.”

He followed Ilya into the house and up the stairs. Back-to-back games were part of the job, but for once he could understand so many of his teammates complained about them. He just wanted to sleep for ten hours, not get up at 07:30 to be prodded by the medical staff. He tried to remember the tape session they’d had yesterday on Detroit: they stacked the neutral zone for sure. Looking over at where Ilya was slowly eating what looked like a convenience store sandwich he decided to ask about it tomorrow instead. He followed Ilya up to bed and fell asleep before the lights were even out.

By the time he surfaced again he was aware only of light and pleasure, a dream blurring into reality as he thrust up into the heat of Ilya’s mouth.

“Fuck! Fuck, Ilya.” He sounded terrible, congested and raspy, but fuck he felt so good.

He put his hands into Ilya’s hair, digging his heels in so he could get the leverage he needed to fuck into Ilya’s mouth. He wasn’t going to last long but morning blowjobs were never about anything except getting off as quickly as possible before they had to go to the rink. Coming down Ilya’s throat was a pretty good start to the day and he lay there panting, watching through narrowed eyes as Ilya’s fucked into his own fist, his mouth open as he came all over Shane’s rucked up t-shirt.

“Good morning,” he said, pulling Ilya down so he could kiss his forehead.

“Morning,” Ilya mumbled, placing a soft kiss on Shane’s lips.

“Do we take our shoes off?” his mom asked from just inside the door.

“Yeah, there are some guest slippers,” Shane told them, pointing them out.

“Oh, these are from your apartment!” His dad sounded inexplicably pleased by the discovery.

“Where are you on the pain scale, honey?” his mom asked as she gave him a careful hug.

“Two, two-and-a-half,” Shane admitted, hugging his dad before leading them into the main living space. “It’s annoying more than anything.”

“You got used to the cage pretty fast: it barely made a dent in your passing this afternoon."

“Detroit thought they were playing dump-and-chase, grind-it-out hockey.”

“Well, more fool them. They spent sixty minutes chasing the puck,” his dad said, briefly pulling him in and kissing his head.

“Dad!” Shane complained, smoothing his hair down, but he knew he was smiling.

“Nice house!” His dad had stopped to peer out of the floor to ceiling windows and the massive garden beyond.

“Are the trainers being careful with you?” his mom asked, settling herself onto a bar stool. “Oh honey, do you have any tonic water? I’m so dry after the plane.”

“Yes and yes.”

“Where’s Rozanov?” his dad asked, coming over to the kitchen island.

“You can call him Ilya, and he’s got some PR thing to do this evening.”

“We were hoping to meet him.”

“Next time,” Shane reassured them.

“We’ve got some updates about your house, if you want to see some pictures?”

“That’d be great,” Shane told his dad, though he assumed his mom was the one with the pictures. He’d had to explain the concept of copy and paste to him the last time he’d asked him to do anything technology-based.

His mom walked him through build progress while his dad decided what to order. He couldn’t believe how quickly it was coming together: with any luck it would be finished and even decorated by the summer. His mom was the best project manager.

“You having salmon, Shane?” his dad asked.

“Yeah, on quinoa.”

“Okay, I’ll give them a call.”

Wandering down the hall slightly, his voice echoed as he made the order, Ilya’s address written on a scrap of paper in one hand.

“So,” his mom started, in a tone of voice that instantly made his heart speed up. “A coaching assistant mentioned that you and Ilya have been friends for a long time?”

Shane turned his glass around so the side with the most condensation was facing outwards. He’d known Ilya had told the team they’d been friends since they were rookies and he’d known that his mom would be talking to a lot of the staff, but somehow he’d missed this particular eventuality.

“Well, I mean. Yeah, we’ve played together a lot,” he hedged.

“That’s true,” she replied, her words slow. “But that’s very different from being friends.”

“Yeah, it is,” Shane agreed.

His mom sighed. “Please don’t use your media training on me, sweetie.”

“Sorry, Mom.”

“What are we apologising for?” His dad asked, coming to sit next to him.

“Nothing,” Shane replied quickly, hoping saying it out made it true. He could see his mom looking at him from the corner of his eye, but he just asked his dad how long the food would be and like that the conversation moved on.

The delivery came in the middle of a heated conversation about Montreal’s new defenceman: he was positive they were going to trade him in summer, his parents were sure they’d keep him just to save some face. They moved to the couch after they ate, ESPN on in the background while his mom showed him pictures of the house in Ottawa: looking so complete Shane felt he could drive up tomorrow and cook some burgers on the back porch as the cold night crept in.

His parents lingered over a coffee and Shane tried very hard to give the impression of being relaxed. Ilya was going to text when he was on his way back and he was pretty sure he hadn’t felt his phone vibrate.

Finally, when the clock on the kitchen wall was edging close to 9pm, his dad announced he was tired.

“You are?” his mom asked.

“Yes, it was a long day and I’m sure Shane is tired.”

“Yeah, a little,” Shane agreed.

His dad stood up and stretched, yawning loudly. His mom sighed and got up as well. “Okay then, we’ll leave you to it. Let us know what the doctors say about your nose. And get some Neosporin on that cut when it’s closed up: you don’t want it to scar.”

Shane said his goodbyes and locked the door behind them. He leaned his forehead against the cool wood as he checked his phone. There was one text from Ilya from ten minutes ago that just read: can I come home yet?

Yeah, come home, Shane sent back, then went down to the mud room to wait for him.

Chapter Text

The atmosphere in the locker room was sour. It felt like being back in the Metros when they'd lost a game, everyone full of ugliness Shane had never known how to reach. It was his fault this time as well.

Ilya had been quiet on the way to the rink. He’d been late up and hadn’t eaten breakfast—Shane had assumed he was just tired from the game and then having been out all evening, but now he was starting to wonder if he was ill. That was the only explanation for how badly he’d done in practice, missing pretty much everything Shane had sent his way.

He tried not to watch too obviously as Ilya disappeared into the showers. His gait was fine and his weight was about the same as it usually was in the middle of the season.

“What the fuck was that?” Marleau hissed at him in French, leaning over Shane’s cubby. He’d only taken off his skates, the sleeves haphazardly pushed up to reveal freckled forearms. Shane was down to his compression pants and top, one sock balled in his hand.

“I don’t know, he’s been in a shitty mood all morning.”

“Not that. Practice: what the fuck were you doing?”

Shane met his eyes head on, aware of Marleau’s size. “I was skating,” he said tightly.

“Listen, we don’t do that. When the captain is like this, we help him, not fucking show off!”

“Like what?” Shane asked, baffled. He’d been accused of showing off so often it didn’t even register as an insult any more. He was good: he couldn’t help that.

“He always brings everything to a game: everything. So when he can’t bring everything to practice, you simplify, you fucking help, you understand?”

“Yeah, I understand,” Shane agreed, mainly to get Marleau to back the fuck off.

“Good,” Marleau said, back in English. He took Shane’s stick and slotted it neatly into place and turned to take off his gear just as Ilya came out of the shower, a towel knotted around his waist and his hair dark with damp.

Shane watched him out of the corner of his eye as he began to get dressed.

“You showering?” Laine asked and Shane snapped his head around.

“Yeah,” he agreed, reaching for his other sock. Ilya was slowing down, likely having noticed that Shane wasn’t even undressed yet. He finished stripping and went to the showers, sluicing sweat and soap suds off in the hot water, someone laughing two stalls down.

When he got out Taz and Cade were chatting to Marley, Ilya nodding occasionally. Shane got dressed and threw his bag over his shoulder, his hair still dripping into his collar. He nodded goodbye to whoever caught his eye, Ilya standing and following him out.

“Your hair is still wet,” he told Shane, as if he hadn’t noticed.

“It’s a one minute walk to the car, I’ll be fine.”

Ilya didn’t reply, silent all the way as he drove from the rink to the river.

“What was up at practice?” Shane asked, scrolling through his phone without really looking.

Ilya shrugged one shoulder. “Tired.”

He’d seen Ilya tired—seen him when his knees gave way as he stood, sweat dripping into his eyes, but he’d never seen him miss a tape-to-tape outlet pass.

“I will be better for the game tomorrow,” he added, as if that was the thing Shane was worried about.

“I know,” he agreed.

Shane’s black eyes looked ugly, but he could pretty much breathe through his nose well enough that eating wasn’t such a chore. He’d eat after sorting out food for the week though: he hadn’t had a chance to do it yesterday with his parents there and it was nagging at him. His spreadsheet was on his laptop, but he could take notes on his phone and copy them over later. Starting with the chicken, he weighed each portion before putting it in tupperware to freeze. Rice came next. He opened a drawer, looking for the neon orange lid he used when washing his rice and caught Ilya standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring blankly at the line of tupperware along the side.

“Hey, want me to make you something?”

“No.”

He turned and opened the fridge and Shane went back to his rice. When he’d been young his grandma had made zosui for him when he’d been sick, using the last of the soup from nabe to cook the rice, adding some grated ginger and warning him to be careful because it was hot. Ki o tsukete, atsui yo!

Ilya got a pizza out of the back of the freezer, something with sausage on it, and flicked the oven on. Shane ran the numbers automatically, effort versus intake, and knew the pizza didn’t come close to meeting Ilya’s needs.

“Want a protein shake with that?” he offered.

“No, I want to eat real food.”

“I eat real food,” Shane replied, stung. The Metros had always joked about his birdfood, but Ilya had never mentioned it: none of the Raiders had.

“Not food for when sick, not food for when in pain.”

“I’m fine,” Shane insisted. He jumped at a sharp noise behind him, turning to see the oven off again, the pizza abandoned on the side and Ilya already heading towards the stairs.

Shane put the chicken in the fridge and the pizza back in its box and in the freezer before following Ilya upstairs. He was lying on the bed on his side, the light of his phone reflected on his face. Shane sat by his knees, but Ilya just kept scrolling.

“I can’t help if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“I’m fine,” Ilya replied, his tone making it clear he was parroting Shane.

He half turned, bringing a leg up and putting a hand on Ilya’s thigh. “Ilushenka,” he tried. “Please.”

Ilya sat up, pushing himself up to standing so fast his phone fell to the floor. “Nothing!” he snapped, throwing one arm out to one side. “Nothing is wrong. Except you have two black eyes and you don’t let me help! No, I can’t give you nice food; no, I can’t stay with you while your parents are here. I can’t come to the hospital with you, can’t even get on the fucking ice when you’re bleeding. Fuck!”

He dropped back against the wall, sliding down it as quickly as he’d stood, bent over with his head bowed, his breathing ragged. Shane was already moving, crouching next to him to place a hand over the vulnerable bend of his neck. He didn’t know what to say, what words would make everything better.

“I’m sorry,” he offered. “I didn’t know you were upset. I—I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t stay.”

“Shouldn’t stay where?”

“With me. You shouldn’t stay with me, you should get your own apartment.”

Shane hooked a hand into the bottom of Ilya’s sweatshirt, worrying at the ribbing along the edge. “I want to stay with you.”

Ilya shook his head. “I’m no good, don’t you see? Lazy and selfish.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

He got only silence in reply. “Come on,” he urged, easing Ilya up. Ilya went with him without resistance. Shane lay back on the bed and pulled him close, his weight a comfort against the idea that he might want Shane to leave.

Ilya buried his head in his shoulder, his breaths stirring as wetness gathered at Shane’s neck. He felt sick with sadness, like he could feel what Ilya felt, like their hearts were beating in the same painful rhythm. It made sense: he always knew where Ilya was on the ice, maybe he was learning to know where he was off it as well.

“Don’t go,” Ilya breathed.

“I won’t.”

Ilya was fine for the game. They lost, but not for lack of effort. Plenty of chances, but New York’s goalie was a brick wall. They clawed it back to one-all, pulled the goalie late, and watched it slide into their own empty net.

Media was predictable: there was something to be said for not being captain. No-one expected him to have an original thought in his head, though for once he wished he could go crash Ilya’s media, if for no other reason that to stop him being asked the same question about finishing plays six different ways. Thankfully Jen stopped them early, while Shane was just heading out to get iced.

Laine caught up with him in the corridor, falling into step at his shoulder. “How’s the captain?” he asked.

“Fine,” Shane replied, but Laine’s silence felt loaded.

“Next month I’ll have been playing for the Raiders for eight years.”

“Congratulations,” Shane told him, unsure why this was a conversation they were having.

Laine touched a hand to his arm and Shane stopped. “I don’t think Roz is fine.”

First Marleau then Laine: everyone was lining up to tell him he was fucking up this week. “You all know him better than me, I guess.”

“Will you listen to me or do you want to sulk some more?”

Shane opened his mouth then closed it. “I’m listening,” he allowed.

“It is depression, I think. He gets like this sometimes, but he can always play. You didn’t know?”

Shane shook his head, trying to place what Laine was saying with the Ilya he’d known all these years. Or not known, perhaps. “No, he’s always so—”

“Loud? Annoying?”

A laugh fell out of Shane before he could stop it. “Yeah,” he agreed. “That.”

Laine tilted his head, considering. “Not an easy thing. Not everyone could live with someone who struggles like that.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” Laine clapped him on the shoulder. “Need you to beat Cade at Fifa later.”

Shane turned the word over while the trainer iced the bridge of his nose. Depression was something for writers and artists—Van Gogh, battling to paint. Ilya was so bright, so full of energy and motion, it was hard to imagine him being so sad it would need a name. He’d have to Google it, find out the right things to say, how to help.

At the hotel, Laine made good on his threat. He claimed the biggest room, stole Taz’s PS4, and told Shane to bring Ilya along.

Ilya didn’t want to play, instead sitting on the floor in front of the seat Shane was on, leaning against Shane’s leg with one hand wrapped warm around his ankle. Cade was sitting on the sofa with Laine next to him, Cade leaning forward so that both of them would fit. He was also probably leaning forward in a desperate attempt to prevent Shane from trampling his team into dust, but that wasn’t going to happen.

He grinned as he scored again, Cade swearing at him while Laine laughed. “Kid, you’re playing Shane Hollander, did you think you would win?”

“Is there anything you’re bad at?” Cade asked, pressing X repeatedly in an effort to get the ball out of his own half.

“He is very bad at chirps,” Ilya offered. He wasn’t even watching the game, instead he had his eyes closed, his head resting against Shane’s knee.

“I’m not,” Shane countered. He scored again.

“What?” Cade yelled, standing up.

“That’s true, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Hollzy chirp anyone.” Laine leaned forward to peer around Cade.

“I called you old man last week!”

“Was that supposed to be a chirp?”

“Yes!”

On the screen Cade’s goalie flung himself left, a full second too early, leaving the right side of the net yawning open. Shane sent the ball to the right.

Chapter Text

Shane got his stitches out after practice. He’d asked Ilya if he’d wanted to come along, so he was sitting on a chair, refreshing Twitter with his cross in his mouth while Shane tried to stay still.

“Anything?” he asked, the second the doctor turned to put down his tweezers.

“Tampa Bay’s Lindström got pulled off the ice,” Ilya told him, without looking up from his phone.

“Sixty-two games, four goals, sixteen assists. Plus-eight. Plays twenty minutes a night, second PK unit, left shot. Starts more in the D-zone than O-zone. Clean first pass,” Shane paused then shook his head. “Can’t remember his first name.”

Both the doctor and Ilya looked up at him. “You are insane,” Ilya told him, but he sounded fond.

“Okay, looks good,” the doctor said—he was also smiling. “That scar is going to be pink for a while. Keep it clean. No picking. No scratching. If it splits open again, you’ll be playing in a cage.”

“Yes, Doc,” Shane replied.

He hopped off the table and followed Ilya out of the door. “Anyone from us?” he asked. Even with his back turned, he could tell Ilya was rolling his eyes.

“We are playoff team. We’re buying, not selling.”

Shane kept his hand on his phone anyway, waiting for the three-beat vibration of his mom’s ringtone. He’d spoken to her last night and she’d reassured him that Boston was still full of praise for him, but she hadn’t known about the Metros trading him either.

The whole team was still in the locker room, glued to their phones.

“Two minutes,” someone called, just as Shane zipped up his bag and sat down.

His phone buzzed with a text from JJ.

Everything okay?

Yeah, all good here. You?

Lost Simms yesterday

Sucks

Yeah

JJ sent the gif of Ilya kissing Shane’s helmet that he’d been using as a reaction to everything for the last month.

“Three o’clock,” Ilya announced, his voice commanding. “We stay.”

Taz leaned forward in his cubby, Cade going over and talking to him in a low voice.

Dan must have been standing just outside the door. He came in and clapped his hand twice, the room going quiet. “Okay, we have Lindström from Tampa Bay. He’ll be joining us for Buffalo tomorrow. That’s it, get out of here. Don’t you have homes to go to?”

A few people laughed or said yes, Coach, but everyone started to move, packing up or conferring with friends.

“Good,” Laine said. “Someone to clear the net front for me.”

“You tired, old man?” Ilya asked.

“Yes.”

Laine’s comment earned a snort from half the room, but Ilya only smiled and went back to packing up.

Shane had googled depression and a lot of the symptoms didn't match up. He'd taken notes on what to do anyway. He wasn’t supposed to try to fix anything, he needed to listen and not take it personally if Ilya was irritable. WebMD had also said professional help was a good idea, but they had team doctors so he was pretty sure that point was covered. The team seemed to know what to do: there had been a revolving door of teammates turning up to hang out, or bring Ilya some cheese covered bread that Ilya would complain wasn’t real Russian food, all the while tearing off pieces and dipping it into egg yolk before stuffing it into his mouth.

The other stuff had been harder. He couldn’t introduce Ilya to his parents, but he had gone into the trainer’s room, palms sweating, and asked if Ilya could ride along if Shane got taken to hospital again. Tom, the head trainer, was an affable guy with a sharp low fade and a habit of meeting your eyes when he spoke. Shane hadn’t been able to look at him while he’d asked. Tom had told Shane they could make Ilya his emergency contact and that had been that. He just needed a way to mention it to Ilya that wasn’t weird.

It was apparently Marleau’s turn to hang around, so he’d come back with them after practice and made himself comfortable on the floor. They were playing a card game Shane had never seen before: Ilya tossed down a six and tapped the table. Marleau frowned, then covered it with a queen.

Ilya’s phone rang about ten minutes into the game and he looked at it with a grimace that meant it was his brother.

“Shane, guard my cards,” he directed as he got up and walked down towards the den.

Shane nodded, still reading through Tampa’s game notes from last week.

“So, we’re going to Buffalo again tomorrow,” Marleau said. He was sitting on the floor on the far side of the couch, the coffee table askew to accommodate him.

“Uh-huh,” Shane agreed. It would make sense for Lindström to go second pair, moving Sebs down: better timing on wide exits and late trailers would open up again if Buffalo chased.

“Yeah, so the walls at the Marriott are pretty thin.”

Shane took a second to understand what he’d said. He looked over at Marleau, who was still shuffling his cards.

“You—” Shane couldn’t quite get a full breath. “You know?”

“Know what? That you get pretty loud? I mean yeah. We’ve been playing on the same team for over two months.”

Shane put his phone down and leaned forwards, the rug on the floor full of irregular shapes in grey and black.

“Hey, you okay?”

He could see a square and what he thought was a hexagon: he counted the sides, slow and steady. Ilya was there then, calling his name.

“Marley knows. The team—fuck.” Shane pressed his fingers against his eyes, bright lights sparking against his eyelids.

“Shane, sweetheart,” Ilya said, very close. “No-one knows anything dangerous, I promise.”

“Dangerous?” Shane half-laughed. “They know we fuck.”

“Maybe,” Ilya agreed, still calm. “Maybe not. They see us coming out of each other’s rooms, maybe we’re watching tape; they see me kiss you, well just hockey stuff, no big deal. They cover for us, but they don’t know.”

“God, it would just take one person to talk to the media and that would be fucking it. We’d never skate again.”

“Hey,” Marleau said, incredulous. “You think we’d do that to you?”

“Is okay Marley, I have this.”

“Okay, I’ll head out. Love you and your boy here.”

“We love you too.”

There was a brief impression of a hand on his head, then steps receding down towards the garage.

“See? The team don’t know: they don’t want to know.”

Shane scoffed. “Just because they’re jocks doesn’t make them fucking stupid.”

Ilya took a sharp breath in through his nose. “Did I say they were stupid? No, they’re smart. They see me do something that maybe gets too much attention so they do it too; they see something they can’t explain, they look the other way. Marley and Laine shut anything down in the locker room. Is as safe as we can be.”

“Fuck,” Shane leaned back and rubbed his hands over his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you knew. Metros must do the same for you, no? You had a bad day, they covered. This is the same, just—” Ilya shrugged. “Different reason.”

Maybe they had, but Shane had never seen any evidence of it.

“Marleau can’t be the only one who’s heard us fucking.”

“Yes, most likely, but no-one wants details. They see me with women for years; they see us play well on ice: that is the story they prefer.”

“Not Marleau.”

“No, not Marley and not Lainy either. They know me for a long time, they took care of my shit when I was a rookie. They are svoi. Ours. No—not ours like possession,” he threw up his hands. “Too much English: they would never tell.”

Shane believed him. He had to—he’d never be able to step inside the locker room again if he didn’t. He couldn’t even pretend he hadn’t noticed how easy the team was around them but now, knowing they knew but were only choosing to look away… He could make it easier. He could stop: no more helmet kisses; no more hands at the small of Ilya’s back. No more anything that needed covering.

Ilya came and sat next to him on the couch, pulling Shane down so that his head was against his shoulder. He ran a hand down his back and pushed it under his sweatshirt to rub a thumb back and forth over the ridge of Shane’s spine.

He's read that in order to support a partner with depression you couldn’t withdraw when they seemed distant: you had to continue to show affection, no matter what.

“Fuck, Marleau knows I’m loud.”

Ilya’s hand stopped its movements.

“What is it?” Shane added.

“And knows you’re my Montreal girl. I thought maybe you wouldn’t like the joke so I told him not to say.”

“Montreal girl,” Shane repeated.

“Loud Montreal girl.”

A sound that was something like a laugh escaped him: half-humiliation, half-humour. He turned so that the late-afternoon light was blocked out, surrounded by Ilya’s smell and warmth. They’d fucked the day before last: Ilya had eaten him out. He’d been loud then for sure. Ilya slipped his hand under his t-shirt and Shane shifted further up the couch.

“You want?” Ilya asked, his voice low.

Shane nodded and Ilya pushed his hand under his sweats and boxers to knead his ass. He was half hard when he turned his head for a kiss, Ilya rubbing a dry finger against his hole.

“You want me to fuck you?”

“No,” Shane shook his head. “I want to use my mouth on you.”

It had been over a week since he’d been able to suck Ilya’s dick, his fractured nose making breathing too difficult.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Ilya pushed up, taking Shane’s weight as he pushed down his sweats and underwear, pulling just one leg out and settling back down. Shane gave him one more kiss before moving down the couch. Ilya was only half-hard, the skin just under the head of his cock silky smooth under his tongue. Shane breathed deeply through his nose as Ilya got harder, moaning encouragement but keeping his hips still.

Shane pulled off him, wiping spit from his mouth.

“You can do it,” he said, his voice already beginning to rasp. “I’m fine, I can take it.”

“Okay,” Ilya agreed. “Put your hand under my thigh and squeeze if you need me to stop.”

With his right foot now planted on the couch and his knee bent, Ilya started to thrust into Shane’s mouth, his hand first gentle on his head, gradually tightening his grip on Shane’s hair as he became rougher.

Shane moaned and drooled around Ilya’s cock. It was so good he felt like he could come just from this, just from making Ilya lose control like this: all he had to do was concentrate on breathing and take it.

Ilya pulled him off at the last moment, dragging him up into a desperate kiss as he finished himself off with his hand. He pulled back, panting, pressing light kisses along Shane’s eyebrow.

“I wanted to swallow,” Shane complained and wow, he really did sound terrible.

“Mmm,” Ilya agreed. “And I wanted to kiss you. But we can do both.”

He brought his fingers to Shane’s mouth and Shane swallowed them automatically, moaning as Ilya spread the salty taste of his come across his tongue.

“Good, so good for me,” Ilya crooned, his praise running briefly into Russian. “Come on, on your knees: my turn to suck cock.”

Shane just moved as Ilya directed him—a touch on his knee or his ass—untill he was kneeling over him, his dick wet at the tip. At the insistence of the hands on his ass he moved his hips forward, pushing his cock into the perfect heat of Ilya’s mouth.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, bracing an arm on the back of the couch. “I’m not going to last long.”

Ilya hummed, which didn’t help at all. Shane thrust gently, more out of a desire to last for more than three seconds than any politeness. A wet finger against his hole made him drive his hips forward, harder than he’d meant to.

“Fuck!”

One, then two fingers pressed into him, pinning him between two points of pleasure. He lost some time then, fucking himself back onto Ilya’s thick fingers and forwards into his plush mouth. He was definitely loud when he came, bent over and panting against Ilya’s sweaty curls. Collapsing back on the coach, he couldn’t form the words to offer to help and Ilya wiped them both off with a t-shirt, before lying back with Shane and pulling him close.

Shane shifted closer, sliding a leg between Ilya’s and tucking his face into the hollow of his throat.

“I like it,” he told him, his voice muffled. “I like sucking your cock.”

“Yes, me too. I like sucking your cock and fucking you.”

“And—And I like being fucked.” He tipped his chin up so he could see him properly.

Ilya smoothed his thumb over Shane’s brow. “I’m glad.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Shane told him.

“Nothing at all,” Ilya agreed.

Chapter Text

Shane was up early, running a couple of kilometers on the machine downstairs then stretching so his hips wouldn’t seize up on the plane. He’d packed the night before, but unpacked it all just to double check. He added another pair of socks and swapped out one t-shirt for another. He hadn’t slept well; all the ways the team could slip up unspooling like a never-ending list every time he closed his eyes.

“Hey,” Ilya rasped from behind him, coming up to wrap his arms around his middle, his cheek warm against Shane’s neck.

“Hey,” Shane replied, folding the edge of his socks over each other.

“You had breakfast?”

“Not yet.”

“Come on then,” Ilya encouraged, letting go and swatting him on the ass before retreating.

Shane followed him into the kitchen, starting on a smoothie while Ilya made tea and porridge.

“Did you run?”

“Just jogged,” Shane replied, adding another banana.

“I heard the machine,” Ilya said, stirring his porridge with his back to Shane. “I came downstairs: you weren’t just jogging.”

“Then why did you ask?”

Ilya shrugged and Shane turned back to the side and switched on the blender, the sound filling the space between them. He poured out the resulting sludge into a tall glass and went to take it over to the dining table.

“You regret it, don’t you?” Ilya asked as he passed him.

“Regret what?”

“This—us. It’s too much trouble for you, too much stress.”

“No,” Shane said at once, horrified. He took in Ilya’s hunched shoulders, the way he was turned away. “No,” he repeated, setting the glass down on the counter and stepping in behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist.

Ilya was stiff at first but then turned and folded into him just as Shane was starting to think he’d made a mistake. He chewed on his lip, trying to get his words in order. “I don’t regret us. I really don’t. These few months have been—” he hesitated, not wanting to go too far. “They’ve been good. Better than good. I don’t regret them, I just. I don’t know, I wish things were different, that’s all.”

“Me too,” Ilya admitted, his voice thick. “Wish everything was better for you. Wish I was better for you.”

“What?” Shane pulled back, but Ilya wouldn’t look at him. “You’re a great boyfriend,” he told him, his heart beating hard enough he felt sick.

That got Ilya to look at him. “Boyfriend?” He sounded so hopeful that Shane had to pull him in close again.

“Yeah. If that’s okay?”

“Yes, is okay.” Ilya added something in Russian, placing a soft kiss at the corner of his eye.

“What did you say?”

“My boyfriend, my good one.”

“And in Russian?”

Ilya said the words slowly and Shane silently repeated them to himself as he drank his shake, as Ilya drove them to the rink, on the bus and then on the plane. Moy paren, moy khoroshiy. Moy paren, moy khoroshiy.

Lindström coasted over during warmups, his stick tucked awkwardly under one arm like he wasn’t sure where to put it.

“Hollander,” he said, voice low and careful.

Shane glanced over. “Yeah?”

There was a beat—Lindström looked faintly pained.

“I’ve been informed,” he said, very formally, “that I’m required to kiss your helmet.”

Shane blinked. “What?”

Lindström shifted his weight. “Told it is bad luck not to.”

From somewhere to Shane’s left, Marleau snorted.

“Oh my god,” Shane muttered.

Lindström leaned in, clearly wanting to get it over with, and pressed a quick, deeply awkward kiss to the side of Shane’s helmet before skating off.

Marleau, Ilya, Laine, and Cade all exploded into laughter. “I fucking hate you guys,” he told them. “Which one of you told him?”

“Not me,” Ilya claimed, still chuckling. The rest shook their heads but Shane wasn’t sure if he believed them.

Lindström took a defensive-zone shift late in the first, staying low instead of drifting. He absorbed the hit cleanly, shoulder checked once, and slipped a simple, flat pass into the middle. Two touches and the puck was out.

Shane turned and caught Ilya’s eye: that would do.

The game settled into a grind after that. Five-on-five was tight and ugly, Buffalo stacking the neutral zone and daring them to force it wide. The breakthrough finally came on the power play: Ilya dragging two defenders high, Shane slipping into the soft seam on the weak side. One clean touch, a quick snap through traffic, and the red light flared. They added another with the extra man late in the third: 2-1.

The second Lindström stepped into the showers Ilya cupped his hands around his mouth to shout. “Hey! Which one of you dipshits told the Swede about our most sacred of rituals?”

Taz, very hesitantly, put his hand up. “Was it a secret?” he asked.

“Taz, you idiot,” Laine interjected. “You can’t make a dude kiss another dude on his first day at the office.”

“We don’t work at an office?” Taz replied, a lilt at the end making it sound like he wasn’t sure.

Shane bit the inside of his lip in an effort not to laugh.

“Bad luck not to,” Sebs put in, apparently serious.

Taz pointed at Sebs. “Yes! Exactly! I had to tell him. You’ve got to have good luck for your first game. Anyway, he can help us win the—”

Everyone started yelling at the same time. “Don’t say it!”

“Bad luck!”

By the time Lindström came back in the room had quieted down, though Taz was still trying to find the owners of half the socks and the two foam rollers that had been thrown at him.

Ilya went past him towards the showers, a towel thrown casually over one shoulder. Shane resolutely stared at the floor and thought about nothing at all.

“You going to shower in your skates?” Laine asked.

With a start Shane started to unlace them. He knows, he knows, was all he could think.

“So we have to study Swedish in school in Finland,” Laine continued, conversationally. “I don’t speak it well but I understand a lot. You know Berntsson in New York?”

“Yeah: eighteen goals but eleven are on the power play. Doesn’t see much defensive ice.”

“You are way more petty than anyone gives you credit for, kid.”

Shane smiled as he peeled off his shin guards.

“So,” Laine continued. “Berntsson kept muttering about how he should have taken a dump before the game and eventually I had to say, you know maybe I don’t need to know the exact shade of your shit. My point being, do you think I should tell Lindström I speak Swedish?”

“Well,” Shane offered. “You can only tell him once.”

Laine laughed and clapped him on the back. “I like the way you think.”

Down in the den, Shane ran his finger over the tight ridge of his healing cut. Everyone had promised him it wouldn’t scar but he didn’t actually care either way. Upstairs he could hear faint music and possibly Russian lyrics coming from the shitty speaker Ilya connected to his phone sometimes. He really needed to buy him a new one.

“Yeah. Okay,” he agreed, pulling the lever at the side of the chair so that it opened up into a recliner.

“You need to post for Reebok next week for their Spring training push.”

“Okay.”

“And Under Armour wants two more stills before the end of the month.”

“Sure,” Shane said, putting his phone on speaker so he could make a note. He’d have to do it on their next two-day break: they had a six-day road-trip after that. “And Rolex?” he asked, catching sight of his bare wrist. His watch was upstairs in the ensuite.

“Nothing for now.”

He looked up at the cream ceiling of the den, as if he’d be able to see his mom’s expression. “Why?”

“Your current deal runs through August,” she explained. “They’ve decided not to extend past this term.”

Shane put his phone down on his lap.

“They’re not terminating,” his mom was saying. “It just won’t renew.”

“It’s because I lost the C.”

“You didn’t lose anything. You were transferred to a team where they expected you to fail and instead you increased their merchandise sales, their national broadcast slots, and their playoff odds.”

Shane said nothing. There was a tiny hole in the stitching along the inside edge of the armrest: he couldn’t fit his index finger in it, but it gave a little around his pinky.

“Do you want a letter in Boston?” his mom added.

“No.”

He couldn’t imagine anyone better than Ilya and Marleau to lead the team. He watched Ilya disappear sometimes to do media or into meetings and didn’t know how he’d ever managed at the Metros. He was starting to think maybe he hadn’t, maybe that had been part of the reason they’d jumped at the chance of a trade.

“Well, no-one’s talking about it so I won’t bring it up. And how do you feel about PR pushing the ‘best friends’ narrative? I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

“I’m not.”

“Good, they seem like a good team: I’m really proud of how you’ve integrated with them. Dad is too.”

“Yeah, they’re good guys.”

“Are you still okay rooming with Ilya?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“No need to ‘yes, Mom’ me, I’m allowed to check on my favorite child.”

“I’m your only child,” he pointed out, but his mom would be able to hear the smile in his voice.

“Well, we’re looking forward to you being in Montreal in two weeks.”

“I’m not. Shit, I mean—”

“I know what you mean, honey. I've already spoken to team services and we’ll have lunch in the hotel so you won’t need to leave.”

“A prisoner in my own country,” he tried to joke.

“It won’t be like this forever,” his mom replied, answering his anxiety instead of his joke.

“I know,” he said. I hope.

Ilya turned off his music, leaving only the low hum of the speaker on the coffee table in the abrupt quiet. "You done?" he asked.

“Yeah.” Shane sat down at the end of the couch, then looked over at where Ilya was lying and crawled up to flop down over him, burying his face between his side and the couch. “Rolex dropped me.”

“Fuck them.” Ilya ran his hand through Shane’s hair. “No need to worry: I will look after you, make sure you don’t starve.”

Shane huffed a laugh. It wasn’t like Ilya let him pay rent, so it wasn’t far off the truth. The rhythm of Ilya’s fingers in his hair was hypnotic. He closed his eyes and put a hand under Ilya’s t-shirt, just to feel his bare skin. They lay like that for a while, Shane half-dozing before the rumble of Ilya’s voice under his ear pulled him back to full consciousness.

“I was serious,” he said, quietly. “I want to be able to feed you sometimes.”

“Feed me what?”

“Good food: Russian food.”

Shane couldn’t break his diet, not when he was still on his old contract. He needed to be signed this summer. “Is there something you can make me that isn’t, I don’t know, isn’t dumplings?”

“Yes: Grechka. It is buckwheat with butter and salt. A little butter.”

He didn’t eat a whole lot of butter, he preferred olive oil or avocado for his fats. “Can I weigh it?”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed, curling over to kiss his ear. “Yes, you can weigh all of it. You will like it, I promise. My mother made it for me when I was little.”

Ilya never mentioned his mother. Was that an invitation to ask now? Shane had no idea, but maybe it was better to ask and then Ilya would just change the subject if he wanted to. And anyway, Shane wanted to know. “You don’t usually talk about her.”

Ilya was quiet for long enough that Shane doubted he would answer. “It is difficult.”

“Is she dead?”

“Yes.”

Fuck. He wished he wasn’t so bad at things like this. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“It just means I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Ilya shook his head, his hair rasping against the leather of the couch. “English is very stupid. Do you say this in French as well?”

“No, I’d say c’est dur, like ‘that’s difficult.’”

“Yes, less stupid then. And Japanese?”

“I don’t know the formal phrase. I think my grandparents might’ve said something like ‘that’s difficult’ or ‘you must be lonely now’.”

“Teach me the last one.”

“Sabishiku naru ne.”

Ilya repeated it, his accent horrible but endearing. “Now you have to learn some Russian.”

“Moy khoroshiy,” Shane said, probably fucking up the pronunciation. He couldn’t remember the boyfriend one.

There was no reply and when Shane looked up Ilya had his head tilted back, one hand covering his eyes. “Hey.” Shane pushed up onto one arm. “Hey, Ilya.”

Ilya shook his head, his throat working.

“Come here?” Shane asked. “Please?”

He didn’t move for a few seconds, but then he shuffled nearer and pressed his face into Shane’s shoulder. Shane kissed his hair, holding him close.

“Did I say it wrong?”

“No, it was perfect,” Ilya mumbled, his voice muffled against Shane’s sweatshirt. “You are good, moy khoroshiy. We are good.”

Chapter Text

The plane was dark except for the thin line of blue light along the aisle and the occasional flicker of a movie screen three rows up. Laine had folded himself into the seat beside him, headphones still on and mouth slightly open as he snored. The engines hummed low and steady under the floor, the vibration like something pressing at the back of his skull.

Shane had the tablet propped against the tray table, the same few shifts looping in silence. A hesitation at the line, a pass made half a beat too early, a backcheck where he’d angled instead of committing. They were ordinary plays, the kind that disappeared into the flow of a game. He’d still finished the week with points. The coaches weren’t worried, but he kept pausing on tiny frames: there was a sharper version of him hidden somewhere between those seconds, and if he could just find it, maybe their last three losses would be worth something.

He could do better, he just knew it.

His eyes were gritty by the time they landed, Ilya following him with his hand fisted in the back of Shane’s sweatshirt, still half-asleep. On the bus Ilya swore in Russian, the first thing he’d said since he’d woken up. Looking out the window with everyone else, Shane caught a glimpse of twenty or so people just outside the vehicle exit. All were dressed for the wet weather and a few held signs in gloved hands.

Merci pour les Coupes.

Tu nous manques

Shane turned away, his stomach churning. He’d somehow forgotten how intense Montreal had been: people had stopped him in the grocery store or while he was filling his car, talking to him about third line minutes.

He wanted to go into Provigo and hear the bilingual announcements, the comforting lilt of two languages soft on his ears. He wanted to go to his old apartment and wipe two and a half months of dust from everything, to sit on his couch and hear nothing but the tick of the kitchen clock. But fuck, he also wanted to go home. He wanted to be in Boston, in Ilya’s house, feet tangled together as he read and Ilya scrolled on his phone, laughing at Russian memes that made no sense even when he translated them. Did that make him the traitor people seemed to think he was? Had he betrayed those people who’d stood in the cold wind to thank him?

Someone at the back of the bus whistled loud and long. “You see that? Hey! Marley, they do the same for you when we go back to Minnesota?”

Marleau snorted. “Media still couldn’t spell my name after a year. So no.”

“C’est compliqué, Marleau. Trop de voyelles pour eux,” Shane said solemnly.

“English!” Half the bus shouted at him in weirdly beautiful unison.

Shane waited in the private dining room, scrolling through the team chat and watching the animal videos that Ilya often contributed. The table he was sitting at could seat eight, but only three places were set up for lunch, with way too many wine glasses between the white placemats. There was a soft knock at the door and a server came in, followed by his parents.

“I’ll be right back,” the server said.

His dad hugged him first, then his mom. “Let me look at you,” she said, leaning back with her hands framing his face. “Oh, that’s going to scar, isn’t it?”

“Mom,” Shane complained. “I’m a hockey player.”

“No, Ilya?” his dad asked.

“I’m not bringing my teammates to lunch,” Shane replied, putting some disbelief in his voice. “It’s been ages since I last saw you, anyway.”

“Yes, it’s difficult to get used to you not being just down the road,” his dad commented. He was also inspecting the wine glasses, taking the three smaller ones and moving them further down the table.

“We brought you two peanut butters,” his mom said, passing him a heavy tote bag.

“Great, thanks.” It had been disconcerting buying what he’d thought was regular Kraft Peanut Butter and discovering it tasted completely different. How could anyone fuck up peanut butter?

“Are you settling into the city?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s weird but good. People just say things to you and mean what they say? I don’t know, it’s kinda nice.”

“Less people asking about the power play?”

“None,” Shane corrected.

“None?” his mom repeated.

“Yeah, it's amazing. Even when I’m out with Ilya. People might nod and I’ve had a couple of requests from kids for signatures, but that’s it.”

“You go out together often?” his dad asked. He had a certain tone that meant it was his mom’s question but he’d been designated the one to ask it.

“Not really,” Shane replied, his heart beating double time.

“Who do you hang out with on the team then?”

That was an easier question and he smoothed his crumpled napkin out. “Marleau comes over a lot. Taz and Cade sometimes, and Laine and his wife are nice. Their kids too.”

“How old are they?”

“Oskari is 14 and Elias is 12.”

The server came back then with another soft knock, the door whispering over the business-ugly carpet. Shane ordered salmon as usual and his dad started a conversation about deck stain for the cottage that kept them going until the food arrived. It was always clear when his parents had chosen a subject to avoid with him. When he was a kid it had always been problems at school, then later the shitty parents at practice in Atom and then Novice. This time it was clearly playoffs, but they were all topics he was happy to avoid, so.

His dad paid the bill and they gathered their coats. Shane held on when his mom hugged him and she made a soft sound of surprise, holding him tight once more. He wished Ilya could have been here. His mom had always been so kind to his few friends when he’d brought them home. She couldn’t be Ilya’s mom but she was a mom, and maybe that would be something.

Shane spun clean out of a hit and walked their top pair in a tight arc, sliding a pass through a seam that barely existed, and for half a heartbeat the building made the wrong sound, a ripple of noise before it twisted back into boos as people remembered themselves.

On the bench there was never a gap on either side of him, even during TV timeouts. He hopped the boards after one shift and two rookies reached to pass him his water bottle at the same time, shoulders knocking. Just behind the glass near the bench, a cluster of black and gold jerseys were on their feet, banging mittened fists against the boards. Their homemade sign read OURS NOW. On a line change he glanced up at them and pressed his fist briefly to the glass in front of them. The cheer that came back was small compared to the rest of the arena, but he carried it with him as he swung back over the boards.

They won 4-2.

“They can’t have you back,” Ilya said, instead of his usual post-game good game, love you.

Shane leaned in. “They gave me to you,” he replied, then he was down the tunnel to the unfamiliar guest locker room and it was just another locker room. His team was here and he was determined to be grateful for that.

They were playing Rocket League which was dumb but fun. Ilya was still at the rink doing media but Hayden and JJ were on their way up.

“How are you an elite hockey player?” Shane asked in genuine confusion as Cade completely missed a stationary ball. Taz nearly fell off his chair laughing.

“This. Isn’t. Hockey,” Cade ground out as he drove his car up a wall and then just stayed there, wheels spinning uselessly.

“Jesus, kid. Give me that,” Laine said, holding out his hand for the controller.

“Fuck you, I’m going to destroy him.”

Shane held out his controller instead and Laine took it, immediately trundling toward Cade’s goal while Cade mashed every button at once.

A polite knock at the door meant Hayden and JJ had arrived and Shane got up to greet them, Taz having already scrambled off his chair to throw the door open. “Oh. Hi. Sorry, thought you were the Captain. Our Captain, I mean.”

Shane pulled Taz back from the door with a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, come in and don’t mind Taz.”

He hugged Hayden and JJ, who both looked a little worse for wear. Hayden’s shoulders were tight under his arms and JJ had a nasty bruise blooming on his jaw.

“We’re playing Rocket League,” Shane explained, probably unnecessarily. “Well, we’re watching Cade fail at Rocket League.”

“I hate you so much,” Cade put in.

“Enough to give him back?” JJ asked.

“No fucking way, finders keepers.”

“Can you guys not talk about me like that?” Shane half-complained.

“But the Captain says—” Taz started, cutting off with a squawk as Marleau stood up and pulled him down on the couch in one quick move, sitting down on his back.

“Er, anyway,” Shane continued, trying not to laugh: Taz was squirming and complaining he couldn’t breathe. “Have a seat.”

There wasn’t really enough room for all of them, even in Ilya’s suite, but Shane sat on the arm of the couch, tapping Taz’s ankle with one finger, while Hayden and JJ sat on the floor. Marleau let Taz up when he promised he’d go get them drinks and snacks from the bar and JJ picked up a controller, playing Marleau while Cade tried to get Laine to teach him Finnish swear words.

“Hollzy will help me out: how do you tell someone to fuck off in Japanese?”

“Otvali,” Shane told him.

“Otvali,” Cade repeated confidently. “Fuck you, old man.” He pointed at Laine. “Who needs Finnish when I speak Japanese?”

“That’s Russian,” Laine said flatly.

Hayden and JJ both turned to him. On the screen, Marleau stole the ball and started towards the goal.

“You speak Russian now?” JJ asked.

“Yeah,” Shane agreed. “I can say fuck off, idiot, goal, pass, shoot, and power play.”

Also other, less-hockey appropriate things. He glanced over to the wardrobe, where his bag was inside, sitting next to Ilya’s. He’d checked his phone a few minutes ago, sliding it half out of his pocket and glancing down while Cade was being loud, but there were no new texts.

Taz came back with diet coke for everyone else and a ginger ale for Shane. He drank it slowly in what he hoped was companionable silence with Hayden. He couldn’t talk about the game and last time Hayden had banned him from talking about hockey anyway.

“Did Ruby and Jade have a good birthday?” he eventually asked.

“Yeah,” Hayden smiled warmly at him. “Thanks for the drums. I mean, I hate you, but the girls love them.”

They’d been Ilya’s idea and, now that he thought about it, perhaps the suggestion hadn’t been purely altruistic.

When Ilya arrived Hayden was winning against Cade in Fifa. JJ was telling a story about the most beautiful woman he’d rescued from drowning the week before, with interjections from Hayden to explain it had been a puddle and that she hadn’t even given him her number.

Shane had Ilya’s keycard so he scrambled up when he heard his familiar knock.

“Heya,” Shane said as he opened the door, which meant don’t kiss me there are people here.

Ilya’s hair was all over the place and he was too pale. He’d taken a hard hit in the second from Comeau but the trainers had said his ribs were fine.

“You eaten?” he added, following him across the room.

Ilya hummed something that might have been agreement, flopping down on the couch next to Marleau. “Pike! Have you come to try to steal back your left-winger?”

Hayden rolled his eyes. “No, no. You made it very clear to Taylor who he belongs to.”

“Taz, pass me the room order menu,” Shane asked. He scanned it quickly, looking up to see Cade holding the phone receiver and Taz poised to dial.

“Tomato soup and grilled cheese,” he told them. “And gatorade. Orange.”

Cade’s polite, speaking-to-non-hockey-players voice was quiet and Marleau had paused the game.

“Okay,” Laine said, standing. “I’m off to bed.”

“Yeah,” Hayden agreed, also getting to his feet. “We’d better get back.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Shane offered.

“Tell your boys thanks for the two points,” Ilya called, just as the heavy hotel door closed behind them.

“He’s such an asshole,” JJ grouched. “How do you live with him?”

Shane shrugged, looking back down towards the corridor to see if there was any sign of Ilya’s food.

“Hopefully he’s less of a dick to you,” Hayden told Shane, squeezing his shoulder.

“No, yeah,” Shane agreed. He waved for a beat too long as the elevator doors slowly closed, then turned back to see a server heading down the corridor, Marleau waiting at Ilya's door.

Chapter Text

On their second day off they did nothing. Well, Ilya played Mario Kart and played Russian dance music while Shane threw a reaction ball against the gym wall for an hour, catching every wild bounce. His phone was flashing with notifications when he picked it up and he scrolled past Taz’s name—he’d probably sent an excitable text about playoffs filled with emojis—down to Hayden’s.

You got time to chat soonish?

Shane dithered. He wanted to speak to Hayden, and maybe say hi to the girls, but tomorrow they’d be in with Coach watching tape all day and then they’d be running lines and doing playoffs media.

No, sorry, he replied. Catch up soon though?

JJ had started a thread which he’d called ‘white people bullshit’ that he couldn’t read in the locker room because it made him laugh enough that he’d have to explain and just no. He’d been trying to make an effort with both of them after they’d come to hang out with the team in Montreal, so he opened their messages and tapped out:

Quebec outlet in media day before yesterday. Boston beat writer complimented me on how quickly I’d picked up French in Montreal.

JJ was clearly online and instantly sent back two crying laughing emojis. You speak good for an immigrant!

You’re so articulate, Shane replied, which got him more crying laughing emojis.

JJ sent another gif: this one was Taz and Cade both trying to give Shane his water bottle, the quality so shit it must have been filmed on a phone from half-way across the stadium.

Where are you getting these from??

Twitter

He shook his head and put his phone in his back pocket. In the shower he cursed as he hit his elbow on the soap rack. He'd gotten used to the massive shower in the ensuite with its double shower heads and enough room for the entire first line and a D pair.

By the time he came upstairs Ilya was lying on the largest section of the leather sofa, his phone on his chest and Svetlana’s voice spilling rapid-fire Russian into the room.

Shane went into the kitchen and leaned against the marble counter as he made himself a smoothie, adding half an avocado, spirulina and a measure of creatine. He opened the dishwasher but couldn’t see any sign of Ilya eating anything since breakfast, so he put the honey granola Ilya liked in a bowl with yogurt and berries, stirring in a measure of whey isolate and hoping he wouldn’t notice. He hated all of Shane’s ‘pencil shavings’, as he called them.

He heard his name as he passed Ilya his yogurt. “Sveta wants to speak to you,” Ilya said, holding out his phone.

Shane took it and set his smoothie on the coffee table, sitting on the couch in the small amount of space Ilya wasn’t taking up.

“Hi,” he said, still a little unsure about speaking to Svetlana on the phone, even though she insisted almost every time she called.

“Ah, Shane Hollander, who lives in my best friend’s house. Congratulations on top seed in the Eastern Conference. How does it feel to have missed out on the Presidents’ Trophy by two points?”

Shane smiled and put on his best talking-to reporters voice. “We’re proud of what we accomplished, but the regular season doesn’t mean anything now. Our focus is on Game 1.”

“And fuck Florida,” she replied.

“Exactly.”

“Ilya says your Russian is getting better.”

Shane lifted an arm so that Ilya, who’d changed sides of the couch and was now lying mostly on him, could put his head on his shoulder. “Well, I can say more than just hockey words now.”

“Tell me.”

“The bear drinks milk. Er, and the engineer is in the bathroom.”

“What the fuck has Ilya been teaching you? Put him back on: I need to yell at him.”

“No, no. It’s from an app. It’s cool, it’s like a game.”

“Tell me you can say something useful.”

“I'm Shane Hollander. I love—” he stopped. Surely sucking cock wasn’t the only thing he knew how to add to the end of that sentence? “Bathroom,” he decided on, and Svetlana yelled with laughter.

“Sucking cock,” Ilya muttered.

Shane swatted him on the ass.

“How is he?” Svetlana added. “He says he’s fine but he always does.”

He looked down at where Ilya was curled into him, his head half on Shane’s chest. “I don’t know,” he said, honestly.

“Well, let me tell you what you can’t do: you can’t punch him.”

Shane huffed out a laugh. “He’s not that annoying.”

“He can be. Maybe he'll be a petty piece of shit; maybe he’ll tell you he doesn’t deserve you and you should leave; maybe he will try to make you jealous. Whatever he does, you can’t punch him, okay?”

“I’m not going to punch him.”

Ilya tilted his head up at that, a frown pulling his eyebrows down. Shane dropped a kiss on his forehead and he lay back down again.

“Good. And you’ll need to make sure he eats during playoffs: he doesn’t feel like it sometimes so you’ll need to make him: emotional manipulation or sexual favours work best.”

“I’m not going to emotionally manipulate him!” Shane spluttered.

“Then it’s a good job you love sucking cock. Now,” she continued briskly. “If you let a bottom-six line score first in Game 1, you’ll spend the whole series chasing.”

Shane stared at the geometric prints on the wall for a second. God, he was just going to pretend that was a locker-room joke. “Yeah,” he managed. “We need to take the first two at home.”

“Your second pair is giving up the line too easily. Lindström is fine, but Sebs backs in too far.”

“He’s adjusting, we’re working on his gap control.”

“Good, now talk to me about F3 support.”

Shane did, taking his hand out of Ilya’s hair occasionally so he could sketch a play in the air. Ilya made a small sound of discontent each time, like his childhood dog had when he’d stopped petting him. Eventually Svetlana had to go to her yoga class, but she sounded genuinely regretful that she couldn’t continue talking to him about left versus right zone entry denial percentages. He promised to text her with up-to-date numbers after Game 1.

“Goodbye Shaynechka, make sure to look after my best friend.”

“I will. Goodbye Sveta.”

Shane was dying. He was hot and dizzy and his skin felt too tight for his body, fighting to keep his hips still as Ilya’s clever tongue wormed up beside the two fingers he had inside him.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his balls tight against his body. “Fuck, Ilya, please.”

Somehow Ilya’s tongue moved deeper, his fingers thick and touching everywhere, sending off sparks of pleasure that just seemed to build and build. Ilya withdrew his fingers an inch then pushed them back in. He put his mouth next to them and sucked, making Shane writhe against the bedsheets.

He needed another finger. He needed to be fucked, or for Ilya to somehow suck his cock while still forcing his tongue into his ass.

“Please,” he tried again.

Ilya bit down hard on the inside of his thigh and Shane lost any control he had, coming with a shout against the sheets.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya said, his voice thick.

His last name sent a shiver up his spine: a call back to their hookups, to all the times they’d fucked in hotel rooms in a stolen hour or two. Now they had all the time in the world.

“Fuck me,” Shane told him.

A warm hand ran over Shane’s back and down to his ass cheek, squeezing hard.

“You sure?”

“Yes, yes. Come on, fuck me, please,” he added in Russian and Ilya swore.

He shifted up over Shane, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. Shane had no idea if he’d made a mistake or not: the push of Ilya’s cock inside him was bad, good, bad: overwhelming in a way that wiped out all higher brain functions until he was just made of sensation. There was no way he was going to come again so quickly, but Ilya was pressing against his prostate with every hard thrust, pushing sounds out of Shane that made him glad they were at home and not on the road. Ilya was being loud as well, his hips snapping in the irregular rhythm that meant he was close.

When he came Shane bowed his back, desperate for everything he could give him.

Ilya did a semi-controlled fall onto his side, Shane rolling with him so his back was against his chest. Ilya finally muttered something in Russian that Shane was pretty sure meant something along the lines of holy shit.

“You alive?” he asked.

“No,” Ilya replied, his breath stirring the hairs on the back of Shane’s neck. “I’m dead. You killed me and now you have to go to the Raiders and say: I’m sorry, I killed the Captain with my asshole.”

“Shut up.”

“It was too good: too tight and too good and now the Captain is dead.”

“You’re such a fucking idiot.”

“Hold on,” Ilya told him, serious again. “I’m moving.”

Shane held his breath as Ilya, still half-hard, slid out of him. The sensation of jizz dripping out of him made him squirm: half-horror, half lust. He turned over to face Ilya who welcomed him with a kiss.

“Oh,” he said in a surprised voice. “You are losing something you need.”

Shane had no idea what he was talking about. He rolled onto his back, pulling Shane with him, and hooked Shane’s leg over his hip.

“Wha—” Shane started, but got no further as Ilya started to push his own come back into him, using just the tip of one finger. “Oh. Oh fuck.”

“Is that good?”

He could hear the smugness in Ilya’s voice but couldn’t think of a way to respond. It was cold and wet and absolutely disgusting and he didn’t want it to stop. He shifted his leg higher.

Ilya hummed. “Yes, I think you like that. I think I should push it all back inside you and put something in you to keep it all in.”

No, he thought, but his cock was thickening up again and he was pushing back against Ilya’s finger.

“Always need something of mine in your hole,” Ilya murmured before kissing Shane, open-mouthed and hot.

He felt sore and loose: exposed with the dark duvet kicked down to the bottom of the bed. Ilya urged him up so he was straddling him. “Come on, I know you’re more flexible than that,” Ilya told him, pushing down on the top of his thighs, spreading his legs wider.

Shane put his head down next to Ilya’s, pressing his face into the cool pillow. Ilya’s blinds were open. It was the middle of the day. Of course, they were also in a secure house on a private street and the only thing outside of the window was a high-fenced yard, but it didn’t feel private. He felt like he was on show—being shown off.

The pleasure built slowly in his gut, Ilya doing nothing more than gathering up the wetness down his thighs and pushing a finger just inside him now and then. His cock rubbed up against Ilya’s abs, Ilya’s dick soft against his stomach so soon after his own orgasm. Shane opened his legs wider, slipping down so he could get more friction.

“So eager for everyone to see you,” Ilya breathed in his ear. “You want people to know how desperate you are for this, hmm?”

“Fuck,” Shane gritted out and came messily all over Ilya’s stomach.

They showered together, kissing occasionally as they soaped themselves down. Ilya pulled the blinds down while Shane changed the bottom sheet, which had gotten the worst of the mess on it. Back in bed, Ilya settled under Shane’s arm, placing a brief kiss on the side of Shane’s chest. Turning his head, he brushed his mouth against Ilya’s curls then closed his eyes.

Another brush of lips against his chest and Shane bent to press his mouth into Ilya’s hair once more.

Ilya kissed his chest again.

“Stop it,” Shane said, laughter in his voice.

“Stop what?”

Shane brushed his lips into Ilya’s curls and got another in return.

“It’s my turn to have the last kiss,” Shane grouched, knowing he sounded ridiculous.

“Last kiss?”

“Yes: you kissed me last when we took our nap yesterday. Now it’s my turn.”

Ilya didn’t reply. Shane looked down at where he’d propped himself up on an elbow. His expression was blurred by the dim room, the shades pulled down, just letting in small shafts of light from their edges. He looked so serious that for a moment Shane thought he might be mad.

“Well in that case,” he said, then bent and placed a feather-light kiss on the tip of Shane’s nose. He let Shane have the last kiss, his eyes already closed as his breathing evened out into sleep.

Chapter Text

Shane was staying off the internet completely, having deleted Twitter and Instagram from his phone. Still, he hadn’t been able to avoid the whispers of inevitable after they’d destroyed Tampa Bay in four games. He’d spent his days off icing every part of his body and shovelling steamed chicken and whey isolate into his mouth at every opportunity, sleeping deep with Ilya curled up under his arm.

Toronto were playing like they were in the finals though. They were forcing him wide, closing lanes, and making Boston pay for every touch. Their signs were full of personal vitriol and Shane was glad to be back at the Garden, exhausted, where the crowd banged on the boards every time he skated past.

In the gym Tommy was leaning against one of the bikes behind the one Shane was on, one skate up on the rubber bench, telling some story about eating pussy on the bus that sounded like bullshit. Usually Marleau shut stupid shit like that down before it got this far, but he was off with the trainers and Ilya was on the treadmill, walking slow and staring at nothing, headphones in.

“Nah, Roz did it first,” Tommy went on, louder now, glancing over. “Hey, Captain! What was the name of that model you got caught with in the player’s lounge?”

Ilya pulled one earbud out, blinking like he’d just resurfaced. “What?”

“The model,” Tommy repeated, grinning. “In the player's lounge?”

“Don’t remember,” Ilya said flatly, already sliding his earphones back into place.

“I swear,” Tommy said, turning back to Sebs and Taz. “He was tongue deep in her when—”

“Tommy?” Laine said: he’d just come in from the hallway with a towel slung over his shoulder, half-dressed for warmups.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up, eh?”

Sebs, who’d been stretching on the mat, reached up and hauled Tommy backward into a loose headlock. “You just got told, man.”

Tommy spluttered protests, laughing. Shane put his head down and pumped his knees in a steady rhythm: up and down to the beat of his heart.

He had to keep to his forty seconds on the ice and trust the second line. Dan had talked to him about it earlier and he’d admitted those extra five seconds were him trying to hang high in the zone instead of getting off. Svetlana had said the same when he’d texted her about it, and they’d both clocked that Toronto’s top-line defenseman was overcommitting on backhand dekes.

Shane planned to make him regret that.

“Hollzy?” Laine asked, and Shane looked up. “You going somewhere fast?”

He was out of breath. He was out of breath and his heartbeat was tripping over itself like he was at the end of a third-shift. Shaking his head he got off the bike and tried not to stagger.

“Going to beat Toronto,” he joked and Taz laughed, bless him.

Laine gave him a long look and the treadmill behind him was quiet. After a beat Laine clapped him on the shoulder and Shane slipped into the bathroom where he splashed water on his face. Ilya came in behind him and Shane flicked a glance at the stalls; all the doors were open and empty.

“Okay?” Ilya asked.

“Yeah,” Shane agreed. They were never alone at the rink. They’d never talked about it but this was the first time in months they’d been alone outside of hotel rooms and Ilya’s house and Shane wasn’t sure what the rules were.

“Okay,” Ilya said again, and went back out again, the door swinging a few times before settling in its frame.

Shane didn’t hear the final horn. Only knew the crush of his team as they threw themselves into him, everyone holding each other up. They’d have to do this again in two days and already he was racing ahead to that future ice, to the Metros in Boston—the vulnerability of their neutral zone forecheck and how Mitty played deep in the crease towards the third shift.

All the ways they could win and all the ways they could lose piled on top of him as he made himself meet the defeated gaze of every one of Toronto’s team in the handshake line, the Garden singing hey, hey, goodbye at the top of their lungs.

Equipment guys were already collecting gloves when he sat down in his cubby. Media was bound to ask about Montreal and Shane went over his lines in his head: it’s a short turnaround, they’re a good team, we haven’t earned anything yet. Jen gave them a five minute countdown and then the reporters descended.

Shane smiled a closed-lip smile that he’d had to practice in the locker-room bathroom before he’d gotten drafted. Now he could call it up on demand. Media was thankfully predictable and Shane kept to his sound-bites, making sure to pay attention and meet the eyes of everyone who asked him a question.

The next time he was able to look over, Ilya was most of his way into a dark suit—his hair still damp from the shower. Shane put his hands on his thighs and relaxed his fingers, taking a deep breath in through his nose and out through his mouth.

They’d both been too tired for anything other than lazy post-nap blowjobs for the few weeks before, and then too tired for even that for the last three games. He wished they’d found the time to fuck though. He wanted to be wincing every time he sat down, Ilya glowing with smugness two cubbies over.

Fuck Tommy anyway: as if anyone could get away with having sex in the player’s lounge: they’d be fined for sure.

In the shower he soaped up, careful over the green-yellow bruises down his right side and darker, purple ones at his ankles. Sometimes someone called out a joke over the sound of the spray, but they left Shane alone, apparently noticing far faster than any other team he'd been on that he hated being spoken to when showering.

He got a lot of pats on the back on his way out, Cade coming over to thank him for his assist: weirdly formal. Everyone was in that no-sleep phase that felt almost like being drunk.

“No partying,” he told Taz and Sebs as he passed them, and got identical salutes in reply.

The parking garage was cool and quiet, Ilya’s Audi unlocking with a soft click. He got in the passenger side and opened his messages, replying to his parent’s embarrassingly heartfelt praise with thanks and some emojis. He got a text from Ilya saying he was on his way down just as the driver’s side door opened and he slid into the seat, a leather jacket over his suit shirt.

The door shut with a solid clunk and Ilya just sat there, his eyes closed.

“Hey,” Shane said, risking putting a hand on his leg.

“Hey,” Ilya replied, his eyes still closed.

“You want me to drive?”

“No, I’m good.”

He started the car and backed out. The security guard waved them through, then they were on the chaos of Causeway Street, people honking their horns at each other and at the spill of fans still outside. The traffic thinned once they were on Storrow Drive, the river dark on Shane’s right.

“I was just kissing her,” Ilya said.

“Who?” Shane asked, turning sharply in his seat.

“The model Tommy talked about. And it was a long time ago.”

Shane shrugged, ruling his thumb over the seam of the leather seat. “It’s no big deal.”

“And Tommy didn’t eat any pussy on the bus, either. He fell asleep on Seb’s leg once and drooled a lot. Marley said that was nearly the same thing.”

That sounded about right. He’d had to explain to more than one 19-year old how to use their washing machine, sending instruction manuals he’d downloaded from the internet to them via email, then fielding questions that were clearly answered in the manual. He could ask Ilya: he was sure he’d have better stories than Shane about his rookies, but when he looked over Ilya was pale in the wash of brake lights, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Shane turned to watch apartment buildings pass, counting down the exits until theirs.

“Fuck!” He slammed the fridge closed, leaning forward with his head against the cool surface of the door.

“What?” Ilya asked.

“I can’t even fucking count.”

Shane hit his head on the door twice, the small sharp pain enough to get him up and moving. He’d have to defrost some chicken and then weigh it out. Where the fuck were his scales?

“Can’t count what?”

Ilya had pasta in the fridge so at least he’d be in bed before 2am. “My fucking food portions. I was sure I had enough for this evening.”

He opened another drawer, closing it with a bang when no scales appeared.

“You can have some of mine.”

“No. I can’t.”

Ilya knew he couldn’t so how was offering helpful? Where the fuck had he put his scales? Ilya had some but they weren’t chef’s scales and were only accurate to two grams.

“Okay,” Ilya agreed in that tone he used sometimes when he thought something was bullshit. He took the kettle over to the tap to fill it.

Shane turned to the cupboards where he kept his dry pasta. “I have to be fucking signed in summer, you know that right?”

“You’re going to be signed.”

“You don’t know that.”

“And is weighing your dried pasta related?”

“Yes! Of course it’s fucking related! This is my regimen, okay? It helps me be the best I can be.”

“Okay,” Ilya said again.

“Goddamnit I’m trying to stay on the team!” He crouched down on the floor, his back to the solid weight of the kitchen island. Seven fucking games: seven fucking meals. It wasn’t a high number to count to.

Ilya sat down next to him, his legs stretched out against the grey tiles.

“You’re not going to get traded, but if you do, I’m a free agent too: I will come with you.”

Shane laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “Fuck you, don’t joke.” He rubbed his hands over his face and listened to the clock tick on the wall above him.

“Come on,” Ilya finally said, standing and offering a hand to Shane. “Come sit with me.”

He led them over to the couch and Shane slumped down next to him, the leather creaking. He had to do better than this: they only had two days until they played Montreal and he needed to ice his hips, watch their last two games, and get some fucking sleep.

“I’m hungry,” he admitted.

“Let me make you some of my pasta, yes? It has all the things you need, I promise.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. He was just so tired.

He closed his eyes, jerking awake what felt like only a second later when Ilya sat down next to him. He only had one, massive bowl—probably a serving bowl—pasta in a tomato sauce with what looked like grilled chicken mixed in. There was a thick layer of parmesan on top, already mostly melted.

Ilya took up a forkfull and held it out. Not the fork, but the food, like Shane was a child who needed to be fed. Shane swallowed hard. This wasn’t his food, it was Ilya’s. And he wasn’t even eating it, not really, Ilya was just letting him try some.

He leaned forward and took a bite. It tasted so good—his mouth flooding with saliva.

Ilya ate some himself then did the same thing, holding out his fork like it was the most natural thing in the world. They ate the whole bowl like that, quiet except for the sound of chewing and the heating system softly clicking on.

Chapter Text

Ilya had stick marks up his forearms and the vulnerable bones of his wrists were bruised dark. Shane rubbed arnica gently into his skin, the rasp of his arm hair pleasant under his fingers.

“I bruised my cock as well, you know,” Ilya said.

“Fuck off,” Shane laughed. “No you didn’t.”

“Think this would make good lube?”

“It’s a numbing cream.”

“Maybe it will mean you come less quickly.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Give me your other arm.”

The hotel room was dimly lit by two beside lamps, Ilya’s bag open at the ottoman at the end of the bed and an empty protein shake on the side table. Shane worked on Ilya’s right arm, pressing his thumb along the tight tendon all the way up to his elbow. Ilya hissed but didn’t pull away.

“You want to nap again?”

Shaking his head, he concentrated on not using too much pressure. “No, I’m going to shower then I’ll go down to say hi to my parents.”

“They won’t be mad you’re not having lunch with them?”

“No, they’re used to this: they know I need to keep my head in the game.”

Ilya hummed agreement, shifting a little against the pillows he was propped up against. “Speaking of head,” he said, adding a ridiculous eyebrow wiggle.

“Shut up,” Shane grouched, but he was smiling. “You’re too tired.”

Morning blowjobs had turned into morning handjobs, which had tapered out somewhere around game six of the last series.

Ilya lifted one shoulder in a brief shrug. “For me, maybe, but if you want I don’t mind.”

Shane took a second to parse that into something understandable: Ilya wasn’t usually so oblique. “Yeah, no. I’m good.”

Outside voices rose and then faded as a couple of people—probably teammates—passed by. The team had the whole floor to themselves, with the top line having suites. It seemed like such a waste for both he and Ilya to have a suite when they only ever used one, but he’d yet to think of a believable reason for sharing. Ilya had laughed when Shane had told him, then had spent an evening coming up with increasingly unhelpful reasons.

“No more,” Ilya winced, pulling his arm away. “You should get ready to see your parents: you smell like locker room.”

“Yeah, okay. You going to nap?”

Ilya hummed something that may have been yes, unlocking his phone and opening the cat game he’d downloaded on a roadtrip a month ago.

“You got any new cats?” Shane asked as he sorted out clean underwear and socks.

“Just one.”

Going around the bed, Shane dropped a kiss on Ilya’s curls before heading into the bathroom. His playoff beard was a few weeks old now, darker along his jaw where it filled in best. He hated it: it was itchy and it made him look more tired somehow, but he couldn’t even admit out loud that he hated it because he couldn’t hate any part of playoffs: he couldn’t hate any part of hockey.

He washed quickly, finishing the way the trainers liked it: turning the water cold for the last few seconds and standing there until his skin prickled.

By the time he came out of the bathroom Ilya was asleep, his phone next to him and one hand curled under his chin.

Out in the corridor, he passed Marleau who hooked two fingers into the back of Shane’s hoodie and gave it a quick tug as he went by. “You suck,” Shane told him, and Marleau snorted.

The elevator down was empty and Shane chewed absently on one of his hoodie strings until he spotted himself in the mirrored doors and stopped.

There was a family waiting in front of the elevator when it arrived at the lobby and Shane edged his way through their luggage and children, mumbling apologies to his feet. He wished that the NHL was big enough that they could book out the entire hotel instead of just a couple of floors. Raiders security was dotted around, casual in polo shirts and earpieces. Still, a couple of people did double-takes as he walked towards the sitting area where his parents were waiting.

“Don’t win!” Someone called as he walked past but Shane pretended he hadn’t heard.

His dad spotted him first, reaching forward to squeeze his mom’s hand to get her attention. They still held hands when they were walking. Had he ever held Ilya’s hand? He didn’t think so.

“Hey,” his mom said, pulling him in for a tight hug. “You look like someone dragged you through a hedge backwards,” she added, ruffling his too-long hair.

“Yeah,” Shane agreed, hugging his dad. “Haven’t had time to get it cut.” And Ilya liked it longer.

The hotel lobby was quiet for mid-morning, a few business travelers scattered across the low armchairs with coffee cups and laptops. Outside the tall windows the street was grey with spring rain. Shane’s parents had claimed a small table near the wall, his mom’s tablet open in front of her like she’d been studying tape.

“How you holding up?” his dad asked as they all sat down in the overstuffed chairs.

Shane shrugged. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t sound like a sound-bite.

“Montreal’s second line was slipping behind your D on the rush a little too easily.”

“We’ve got tape later: Coach is good with stuff like that.”

“You need to speak up when you see something they don’t though, honey.”

“I will, Mom.”

“I’ve already booked us into the Liberty for Wednesday.”

“I won’t be able to see you,” Shane warned them.

“We know, son-” his dad put an arm around his shoulder, gentle against his bruises. “You just concentrate on the game.”

He nodded. “How was the drive?”

“Everyone drives like an idiot once you hit the island.”

“Your mother was swearing in French and Japanese,” his dad told him.

“Come on Dad, what did she say?”

His dad had tried to learn Japanese to impress his mom when they first got together, but his pronunciation was so horrible that she’d banned him from ever trying to speak it in front of his grandparents.

“I’m not falling for that,” he replied with great dignity, and Shane shared a grin with his mom.

In the locker room the atmosphere was heavy with expectation, everyone caught up in their rituals and reassurances. Ilya didn’t seem to have any, other than sometimes touching a hand to where Shane knew his cross lay under his layers. Shane concentrated on taping his stick just right; lacing his skates to the right tension; his phone off and in his bag. He hadn’t heard from JJ or Hayden since the beginning of the series—they’d only exchanged the odd nod before the puck dropped.

The Bell was loud from warmups onwards and it never let up, every touch of the puck met with a wall of noise that seemed to press down on the ice. It had always buoyed him up in the past, pushing speed out of his aching muscles, but now it wasn’t for him.

Boston tied late, the third line making it happen when no-one else could, but the Metros got it back in the third off a messy rebound Shane couldn’t quite reach before it was shoveled away from the crease. Back in the impersonal cream of the guest locker room everyone was quiet, their towels over their heads.

Media was waiting just outside: better and worse in Montreal. Better because he missed speaking French; worse because no-one asked questions this stupid in Boston. How different does it feel playing in this building now? Is it strange being on the other bench? Did you say anything to Hayden after the game?

Game 4 was both uglier and stronger. The crowd was just as hostile but somehow that became its own motivation: the snarling, hate-filled faces behind the glass pulling a little more speed out of the first and second lines. Ilya scored on the power play late in the second, snapping one through traffic, and after that Boston locked it down. The last few minutes were nothing but blocked shots and clears off the glass. When the final horn went the Bell was almost quiet, seething with resentment. Ilya grinned at Shane from across the ice, blood on his teeth and sweat curling his hair dark.

Four hours after the final horn they were flying home, the smell of their last meal—dinner or midnight snack, Shane wasn’t sure anymore—still hanging in the recycled air.

Cade was crouched in the aisle, his hand on Shane’s seat arm to steady himself. They were sharing earbuds, quiet as they watched the Metros’ top pair work the puck up the boards on the breakout. Next to him Laine was watching a movie with the sound off, subtitles scrolling across the bottom of his tablet and in the aisle opposite Taz was inexplicably eating dry cereal out of a paper cup.

“I think Comeau is rushing the breakout a little,” Cade commented without looking away.

Shane paused the video. “No. Watch his right hand.”

Cade squinted but shook his head when Shane ran the video back. “He’s not gripping the stick,” Shane tapped the screen. “Something’s wrong with his wrist.”

He rewound first one clip then another until Cade whisper-yelled: “Yes! I see it. Fuck that’s subtle.”

“Show me,” Laine said with a sigh, pausing his movie and watching closely as Shane ran it back once more. “Got it, we’ll lean on him.”

Cade reached over Shane to Laine for a fist bump, then clapped Shane on the shoulder before heading back to his seat.

Shane moved onto the second D pair, looking up when Marleau shoved most of his face between the seats in front of him. “Hey, what are you doing, Holly? You trying to take our jobs?”

“Well,” Shane replied, guiding the video back a few seconds. “I am better at hockey than you.”

“Ah, ferme ta gueule, dude.”

Dude. Shane shook his head in mock disappointment. “Tabarnak, t’as appris ton français où, à Toronto?”

Marleau actually stood up, theatrically pushing up his sleeves. There was the sound of movement from the seat next to him and whatever he was going to say was cut off with a yelp. “Roz! What the fuck?”

“What did he do?” Laine asked.

“He bit me!”

Shane snorted in tandem with Laine.

“Not true,” Ilya said, his voice quietened by the bulk of the seats. “I would never do this.”

“You just fucking bit my leg! I bet there’s a mark.”

“Why are you dickheads being so loud?” Someone, possibly Wills, complained from further back.

Marleau did something out of sight that made Ilya call him an idiot in Russian. Laine went back to his movie and towards the back of the plane someone started snoring. Shane rewound the clip: Comeau’s right hand slipping on the stick again.

The only sound at morning skate was the sharp scrape of blades cutting into fresh ice. Pushing off from the boards, Shane felt the familiar give beneath his skates.

Tadaima, he told the rink in the quiet of his own head. I’m back.

Okaeri, came the answer he imagined. Welcome back.

JJ and Hayden were in a hotel somewhere, probably the Westin in the Seaport. His parents were at the Liberty. They liked the breakfast there and his dad would be doing the cryptic crossword in the Globe and Mail while his mom answered emails. He looked up at the empty stalls while he did a slow lap of the ice: his parents would sit near the benches later, wearing his name and Raiders colours.

By the time he stepped back onto the ice that night, the Garden was anything but quiet—instead loud in that tight, restless way that meant everyone in the building knew what this game was. The first period was frantic, Montreal threw everything forward, but Boston matched them calmly, taking advantage of every hesitation, every exhaustion-fueled mistake. Late in the second the power play went out and the building got louder, a rolling chant starting somewhere high in the balcony. Ilya dragged two defenders with him across the blue line and snapped one through traffic before Mitty ever set his feet. The red light flared and the sound that followed lifted the whole bench in a roar.

Shane endured the third period, the same as everyone else. Montreal pressed hard, throwing pucks from anywhere they could get a lane, bodies crashing the crease. Shane’s shifts blurred together: chip it out, change; tie someone up along the boards; clear the puck off the glass and chase it the length of the ice.

By the last thirty seconds the Garden was already on its feet. Towels spun white above the glass, the noise rising higher and higher until the clock hit zero. Shane caught sight of Hayden near the Montreal bench, standing motionless, then the ice was swarmed with black and gold jerseys and Shane opened his arms for Ilya and Marleau to crash into him.

They were conference champions. One more series to go.

Chapter Text

Shane ran his tongue over the cut on his inner cheek, the taste red and metallic. Ilya had one too, though his seemed worse, opening up every time he ate anything. Marleau had a bad ankle sprain that he was grimly playing through and they'd lost Tommy to a concussion in the first game of the series. Shane’s own ankle throbbed now he was standing still, even with his sneakers unlaced.

He had one of Ilya’s baseball caps on in an attempt to keep his unruly hair out of his eyes. He was going to have to get one of those dumb zigzag hair band things if it got any longer. Texting slowly with one hand, he pushed the other deep into the pockets of his sweats.

Think he took it from 44 along the wall. Crosscheck maybe. He said ribs

Yes, he looks tired and his English is shitty

There was a sixty second delay between the live feed Svetlana was watching and the faint questions Shane could hear from the corridor. They were winding down, or at least he hoped so.

He flicked to a message from Hayden—Rozanov looks like he got murdered along the wall, replying with a short he’s good thanks. You all doing okay?—before scrolling back to where Svetlana had already replied.

The altitude is going to suck in Denver

Yeah, we’ll take shorter shifts and we’ll have oxygen ready on the bench

Do that insane seam pass from the third again while you’re at it

Yes boss, Shane replied and got a laughing emoji and some hearts.

And look after my boy, yes?

Of course

There was the sound of footsteps then and Coach came out followed by Ilya, who was already shedding his jacket.

“You taking him to medical?” Coach asked.

“Yeah, we’re going now,” Shane replied, ignoring Ilya’s muttered I’m fine.

In the trainer’s room Shane tried not to hover while Nora pressed two fingers against the red, angry skin along Ilya’s ribs. He’d picked up Ilya’s jacket and had it draped across his lap to stop it wrinkling.

“Does that hurt?”

“Fuck,” Ilya hissed in Russian.

“He said ‘fuck’,” Shane told her.

Nora smiled at him. “Funnily enough that is the one Russian word I know.”

“Don’t swear in front of the lady,” Ilya told Shane.

Nora said something in Spanish that sounded rude and Ilya looked at her hopefully. “Does that mean I can go?” he asked.

“Absolutely not, I’m going to put ice on that: stay still and take these for the swelling.” She handed him two small pills.

“Can you give him anything for the pain?” Shane asked.

Nora gave him a quick smile as she went over to rummage in some drawers. “I’ll give him some ibuprofen and then another for him to take before the flight tomorrow.”

“I’m fine.”

“Please,” Shane replied, as please take your meds was beyond his language skills.

It worked anyway, Ilya taking his drugs with a little cone of water Nora gave him.

“Okay,” Nora said to Shane once Ilya had an ice pack strapped to his side. “Hop up, let’s have a look at that ankle.”

“It doesn't hurt,” Shane told her, but caved under her and Ilya’s combined looks of disbelief.

He sat on the table next to Ilya while she ran her fingers over the yellow-green bruise, pressing against the ligaments. The vinyl of the table squeaked under his weight and Ilya was a warm line up his right side.

“You loosening your skates on the bench?”

“Yes,” Shane said, just as Ilya said no. Nora looked between them, an eyebrow raised.

“I don’t always have time,” Shane explained.

“Well, it’s looking better. Come see me if it gets any worse.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

The days moved over him—light, dark, then light again—like sped-up footage from the nature shows his dad watched. His parents had flown out to Denver as well but he couldn't see them, couldn't even think about seeing them until after… just after. He only texted them to let them know he was okay, or to acknowledge that he'd seen his mom's razor sharp insights into who was injured and how.

In the fluorescent lights of the corridor, he adjusted his jacket then clasped his hands in front of him instead of adjusting Ilya's as well. Coach Dan was wearing a crisp blue suit, Shane was pretty sure he looked like he'd slept in his.

“You want to grab something after or get something at the hotel?” Shane asked, leaning his shoulder next to Ilya’s.

Ilya shrugged, head tilted back against the wall.

“They had pizza in the locker room,” Shane added.

“You'll have something too?”

“Yeah, I'll have some rice and something.”

“Deal,” Ilya agreed.

Jen came out of the media room just then, tapping away on her phone one-handed and beckoning them with the other. “We’re ready for you.”

In the low-ceiling room there were forty or so reporters in uncomfortable looking chairs, with cameras set up at the side and back of the room. Shane sat behind a long table beside Coach with Ilya on his other side. Jen adjusted the microphones until finally they seemed to be ready. In the short silence that followed Shane fiddled with his water bottle. They should choose who went first instead of everyone shifting in their seats like this was their first day as sports journalists.

“Coach,” someone at the back braved. “You come out of Denver with the split. How do you feel about where the group is at through four games?”

Dan had already drawn a breath to answer before the journalist had even finished speaking. It was one of the things Shane liked about him: he gave the impression that every question he was asked was not only a good question, but he'd already considered it.

“We knew this was going to be a long series. They’re a good team, we’re a good team. We liked our game in Game 3, tonight we didn’t manage the puck quite as well. But coming out of here tied, we’ll take that and get ready for Game 5.”

“Shane, it looked like Colorado closed the neutral zone a bit more tonight. Did that make entries harder for you guys?”

Shoving together hockey clichés was something he'd practiced at the dinner table with his parents since he was a kid, but he still tried to give a somewhat interesting answer.

“Yeah, they were tighter through the middle. We turned a few pucks over there that we normally handle better. That’s on us. We’ll clean that up.”

“You and Ilya seem to create chances almost every shift. How difficult is it for teams to defend that connection?”

Shane shrugged and very carefully didn’t glance at Ilya. He always forgot how often teammates who weren’t together looked at each other. “We’ve played on the same team for nearly six months. We just try to read off each other. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.”

“Ilya, how did you feel about the pace tonight? Colorado seemed to push pretty hard in the third.”

“They play fast in this building. Crowd gives them energy. We were little slow in some shifts. But series is two-two. That’s fine.”

The stop-start of Ilya’s English was a sure sign he was ready to fall face-first into the table with exhaustion.

“Did you feel the altitude at all in these games here?”

That was probably still directed at Ilya, but Shane jumped in. “It’s there, yeah. You keep shifts short. Both teams deal with it.”

“Game 5 back in Boston. How important is that one?”

“They’re all important,” Coach said, his voice strong and confident. “We’ll reset, get home, and get ready. That’s really it.”

“Shane, that play in Game 3 where you found Ilya across the slot: did you know he’d be there?”

Shane shrugged again. He tried to keep his shrugs to once per session, but he was just too tired. “I hoped.”

“Okay,” Jen said, stepping forward. “That’s it folks. Thank you so much.”

He had read somewhere that the body couldn’t remember pain, that those experiences faded with time. He could believe it: he was sure his legs had never been heavier, his feet pushing his skates through wet cement with every stride.

Wait. Wait. Now go.

His thighs burned, fire licking up from his calves.

Ilya was over the blue line and Shane matched his speed. He was so fast—it felt like they were the only ones on the ice, racing forwards, strides matched.

He’d done this before: the Metros had reached Game 7 in the finals last year. This was survivable.

Eyes forward, he felt the puck hit his stick where Ilya had slid it through a seam that hadn’t existed half a second ago.

His head pounded, eyes stinging with sweat.

The goalie was shifting his weight, settling for a shot from Ilya that would never come.

On the next stride forward Shane sent the puck snapping across the ice, into the bottom left of the net.

The horn went off, the Garden so loud Shane couldn’t hear Marleau or Cade over the wall of sound. Laine and Ilya joined them, half hugging, half holding each other up.

Over the boards. Four and a half minutes left on the clock. Taz handed him his water bottle and he drank and breathed, drank and breathed. Ilya was leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

“Okay?” he asked in Russian.

Ilya nodded. “Okay,” he agreed.

A minute and a half and an eternity later, his legs carried him over the boards at the Coach’s demand. The bottom-six had kept their one-goal lead and Colorado was pressing hard.

They cleared the zone over and over, like an endless play that stretched out every second into a screaming jumble of pain and concentration. They were called back to the bench by habit alone: there was no way to hear the coaches shouting for a line change or the tap of sticks against the bench.

Two minutes and ten.

Taz took a bad hit from behind and everyone found their energy, on their feet and shouting. Two trainers went out and Taz skated slowly off under his own power, his helmet dangling from one hand.

Shane and Ilya had their legs over the boards, waiting for their signal.

Ilya won the face-off. Cade to Laine then back to Cade and down to Shane. Three white jerseys coming towards him and Shane cut towards the goal line, the goalie drifting into the crease. Carrying the puck behind the net, Shane passed it back towards where he knew Ilya would be. He didn’t even see Ilya score: just saw the crowd leap high, felt Cade and Laine and Ilya crash into him, the smell of their sweat strong and familiar.

Back on the bench. Water and helmet taps.

A minute and fifty-five seconds.

Colorado pulled their goalie. Cade and Laine were still on the ice, Cade leaning on his stick on the blue line while Laine hovered lower in the zone, knees bent, stick flat on the ice to block the seam.

Behind the boards everyone was on their feet. Nothing got through to the net. Colorado swarmed, desperate and forceful. Shane was screaming with everyone else, one hand fisted into the back of Ilya’s jersey. Glass and out, clear, then change as Laine shot the puck down the ice, giving time for Sebs and Tommy to go over the boards.

One minute ten.

Sebs instantly hammered the puck down the ice, burning seconds. Then they were back and sticks clashed and struck, almost too fast to follow.

Forty seconds.

No change, too much traffic in the crease.

Twenty seconds.

Shane and Ilya both had their skates on the boards, ready to go over, leaning in the direction of the fast moving puck.

Ten.

The Garden was chanting.

Eight.

We want the Cup! We want the Cup! A roll of sound that rose and fell at every touch on the puck.

Five, four, the Garden screamed. Three, two.

Everyone had a leg over the boards, their sticks abandoned on the bench.

One.

Chapter Text

The Conn Smythe was heavier than it looked, the base making it awkward to heft above his head. Shane smiled for the cameras, shifting slightly to try to relieve some of the pressure on his ankle. He didn’t even hear the questions, just talked about teamwork and honour and hoped it was enough.

He skated back to the team where Laine pulled him to the middle of the scrum and Sebs appeared at his feet, deftly untying the laces of his left skate before retying them looser than before. His foot was still a hot ball of pain, but he probably wasn’t going to collapse now when skating around the rink with thirty-five pounds of Stanley Cup.

Taz, back on the ice without his gloves or helmet, bumped into his side and Marleau put an arm around Shane’s shoulders, pulling him close. Out on the ice, the Commissioner had finally stopped talking and Ilya looked every inch the Raiders’ captain, his curls falling over his forehead and his eyes bright as he lifted the Cup high. The Garden was a wall of sound. Whenever it seemed like they’d reached their peak, they found more volume from somewhere.

Ilya came around the rink and skated towards them, his eyes fixed only on Shane. There was too much in Ilya’s expression. Joy, obviously, but something else underneath it, raw and unguarded in a way Shane had never seen from him on the ice, like he’d forgotten that anyone was watching. For a terrible moment Shane thought Ilya was going to kiss him, but at the last second Ilya’s expression shuttered into something more publicly appropriate and Shane took the Cup from him so smoothly it was as if they’d practiced it.

He turned on his skates as easily as he would in the first shift of a game: clockwise around the rink, the cold bite of the air welcome against his overheated skin.

He’d paid for this: in time and effort, in pain and blood. It was worth it—he’d pay a thousand times the cost just to put his skates on the ice. And here he had the Stanley Cup in his hands, high above his head, arms extended and buoyed by the swell of the crowd. Boston was screaming themselves raw, on their feet, a blur of open mouths as he circled back and passed the Cup to Marleau. Marleau, who had tear tracks on his face. He mouthed merci, merci as he took it and Shane collapsed back into Ilya, their arms around each other’s shoulders as they watched the Cup move from person to person, from teammate to teammate.

There were more interviews and then pictures: crowding onto the ice, cheek by sweaty jowl with his teammates, Ilya sitting between his legs. Shane could feel him grinning even from behind. His parents came on the ice at some point. He hugged them, sweaty as he was, apologised for being sweaty, then hugged them again.

In the locker room music thudded against the walls and the floor was littered with gloves and tape, water bottles rolling underfoot. Shane drank champagne, let a trainer ice his ankle, showered and put on his suit. Someone shoved a chocolate protein shake in his hand and he drank that too, wincing at the sweetness. He didn’t know what he said to media, but it must have been okay as Jen hugged him after, barely coming up to his shoulder. She’d had her photo taken with the Cup in the locker room, smiling awkwardly and dwarfed by its size.

Ilya was wearing one of his many Prada suits along with a deep purple shirt that had a sheen to it in the light. It made him look both more tired and more handsome, like he should be reclining on a divan somewhere. Shane actually wasn’t 100% sure what a divan was, but he’d bet Ilya would look good on it.

Ilya, Shane, and Marleau were late going upstairs, all three of them having been snagged by the trainers for ice packs after media. A cheer went up when they walked in, and instantly a small child in a tiny championship hat barreled into Ilya, who made an oof sound, then laughed. “Where's your dad?” he asked.

Shane was pretty sure the pale blond boy was one of Lindström’s kids, but Lindström himself was nowhere to be seen among the tables laden with food and the crush of people, the room warm and close, everyone in ridiculous championship merch.

It was one o’clock in the morning when he finally found his parents, who were talking to Jen and her husband, his mom laughing at something, her hair shining under the low lights. He’d been caught by Coach, the GM, and the CEO while trying to make his way across the room. Then the rookies had decided they wanted selfies with him, as if he were a celebrity instead of the person who’d witnessed their burping competition two nights ago.

“Oh hi honey! You just missed Ilya,” his mom said, pulling him into a hug.

Shane tried not to stiffen too obviously.

“He okay?” he asked, which wasn’t even close to the question he actually wanted answered.

“Yeah,” his mom frowned at him. “He came over to introduce himself. Are his ribs still giving him trouble?”

“Did you see the trainers?” Jen interjected.

“Yeah, we both did.”

“How about we sit down?” his dad suggested. “Get you off that ankle.”

Shane shook his head—if he sat down he might not be able to get up again. “I’m good.”

Jen and her husband excused themselves, and Coach Dan appeared almost immediately with his wife and his very bored-looking daughter.

Shane spotted Ilya once or twice, mostly in the company of Marleau or Laine and Joanne. Laine’s kids were nowhere to be seen, but most of the children were gathered around the Cup, taking turns posing for photos while the Cup Keepers looked on. Every time someone opened the doors to go out onto the terrace, the street party down below could be heard, like an echo of the crowd when he’d scored that final goal.

God. They’d won the Cup.

It was another hour before Ilya finally appeared at his elbow, not there one second and then there the next, like one of those flipbooks he’d had as a kid.

“Mrs Hollander,” Ilya said, in a polite voice Shane had never heard from him before. “Can I steal your son, before he falls over?”

“Please, call me Yuna, and yes, he does look a little like he’s going to faceplant into the floor, doesn’t he?”

“Mom,” Shane complained.

There was a flurry of hugs that Ilya somehow got caught up in, while Shane said yes to whatever his parents asked him. Lunch tomorrow, possibly. They then ran the gauntlet of the room, drunk hockey hugs and back slaps contrasted with polite handshakes that involved too much eye contact.

The quiet of the elevator was the best thing that had ever happened to Shane, the space soft and contained. He wanted to live there. He leaned against Ilya’s shoulder and closed his eyes.

“You can’t sleep yet,” Ilya told him, adding something soft in Russian.

“Wake me up next season.”

Outside a line of black SUVs awaited them, the chaos of the street party still in full swing on Causeway, shouts and car horns echoing down to them. Someone from Ops asked him where they were going, and Shane was glad that Ilya knew their address. In the back of the car, he put his head against the cool leather of the seat and watched Ilya watch the scenery from the corner of his eye.

They didn’t often come through the front door and Shane stood for a moment, at a loss as to what to do without his slippers.

“You okay?” Ilya asked.

“Yeah, I just—” he made a gesture that he hoped encompassed the lack of slippers and the acquisition of the Stanley Cup.

Ilya stepped close and gave him a sweet kiss, his hand framing Shane’s jaw. Shane chased him when he pulled away, feeling the taut line of Ilya’s waist under his shirt. Ilya made a soft sound when his back hit the wall, Shane deepening the kiss into something filthy. He grabbed at Ilya’s clothing, overcome with greed. How had he gone without this for so long?

“Couch,” Ilya demanded, and they stumbled there together, kicking off their pants as they went. Tumbling onto the cushions together, Shane froze for a moment. “Your ribs.”

“If I can win the Stanley Cup I can fuck you.”

That made a lot of sense, so Shane just kissed him again, their combined aches and pains already forgotten.

He urged Ilya through his too-slow prep, grinding down on his fingers. It had been a while but he wanted the burn like he wanted the red raw marks Ilya’s beard would be making against his skin.

“Fuck,” he swore as llya finally pushed inside. “Fuck, you can mark me,” he realised.

“What?” Ilya asked, distracted.

“Season’s over.”

Ilya’s eyes were dark when he looked up, his biceps bunched either side of Shane’s head. He bent, very deliberately, and pressed an open mouthed bite against the hot skin of Shane’s pec. Arching up into it, Shane dragged his hands into his hair and pulled him closer, panting.

“Good?”

“More,” Shane demanded, still desperate for Ilya’s hands on him, his cock inside him.

Ilya obeyed, sucking one, two, then three hickies across his collar bone, his cock twitching inside Shane. He began to fuck him then, hard thrusts that punched sounds out of Shane, his cock smearing wetness against his abs.

“Again,” he said, and Ilya bit down at the juncture of his neck before kissing him, moaning deeply.

“Fuck,” Ilya gritted out. “I can’t last.”

Shane got a hand around his cock. “Yeah, come on,” he muttered. He bit his lip as he came hard, Ilya still above him.

“Wha—what?” he gasped.

Ilya grinned, suddenly much less out of breath than he'd been before. “I beat you.”

Shane let out an exhausted huff of laughter. “You fuck.”

Bending down to kiss him, Ilya began to thrust again, agonisingly slow. Shane’s eyelashes fluttered: he was making harsh panting noises, unsure, as always, if he liked this or just needed it. It felt like Ilya was dragging against every nerve ending he had, Shane’s cock twitching weakly with aftershocks of pleasure.

“We won together,” Ilya told him, the words punctuated by his slow thrusts. “Held up the cup together—everyone saw us.”

Shane wound his hands into Ilya’s hair, pulling him down so that his face was tucked up against his neck. “We won,” he agreed. “Come on-” he pressed a kiss to Ilya’s ear. “Come on, I want to feel it.”

It was easy to tell when Ilya was close: he panted open-mouthed as he lost control, pushing hard and fast into Shane. The grinding sore-pleasure of being fucked when he’d already come was overwhelming in the best way. He’d feel it tomorrow, sitting down in front of the cameras, knowing how fucked open he was: it was the best secret he’d ever had.

Ilya moaned long and deep, his cock pulsing inside Shane. It was such an intimate feeling: he was usually too far gone to notice. Breathing heavily, Ilya collapsed on top of him and Shane brought his legs down as slowly as possible, wincing as the blood began to rush back into his calves and feet.

“Hey-” Shane kissed the side of Ilya’s head. “You with me?”

Ilya didn’t reply and Shane let his hand rest between Ilya’s shoulder blades, feeling the uneven rise and fall of his breath. “Hey,” Shane said again. “Hey, you’re okay. Let’s go to bed, you need to sleep: we both do.”

“Sorry,” Ilya muttered, his head down as he pulled out of Shane and cast around for something to clean them both up.

Shane snagged the tissues from their place under the sofa and handed Ilya some. “It’s fine. We just need to sleep.”

“Media tomorrow,” Ilya reminded him, picking up Shane’s shirt off the floor and making a terrible attempt at folding it. Shane let him: he’d need to get it dry cleaned anyway.

“Yeah,” Shane dragged his fingers through his hair with a sigh. He really needed a hairband and a shave.

Ilya reached for him and pulled him to his feet, though Shane kept most of his weight off him. “Maybe you could wear something with a high-neck,” Ilya added.

“Oh, you absolute fucker,” Shane huffed.

They were still holding hands. He let go, then caught himself, lacing his fingers back through Ilya’s and leading him towards the stairs. Beards and bruises were a problem for tomorrow.

They’d won the Cup.

Chapter Text

Ilya was a lump under the soft navy duvet, the air chilled by the AC. He’d been in a bad mood the evening before, coming to bed so late Shane had already been half-asleep. In the corner of the room two suitcases lay open, one full of clothes and the other half-full with a massive stuffed giraffe; Ilya’s niece was going through a zoo animals phase.

“Hey,” Shane said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of Ilya’s ear: the only part of him visible.

“Too early."

“I know. I’ll text you when I land, okay?”

“Okay,” Ilya agreed, but he didn’t sound pleased about it.

“Okay,” Shane echoed, giving him another kiss on the side of his head. He should say something else, but what? Neither of them would know for sure if they’d be back in Boston until their contracts were signed They hadn’t talked about what they’d do if Shane was traded again: Ilya hadn’t wanted to hear it.

Down in the entranceway, the cool tile under his feet, Shane made sure to line up his slippers just right. His parents would be meeting him at the airport so Ops would pick him up. He still had ten minutes to kill, plenty of time to go back upstairs and… what? He’d said goodbye. Ilya had likely already fallen asleep again.

His phone buzzed with a text telling him his ride was out front.

“Nice suitcase,” his dad commented, leaning it back for a better look. It was the one he’d borrowed from Ilya on their first away game: overlapping cannons in gold and grey. He’d just kept it the way Ilya sometimes stole his hoodies.

“Yeah, thought I’d see if I could get us mobbed,” Shane joked.

“Good job this isn’t Montréal.”

Amen to that. He missed some things about Montreal: the assumption that he spoke French, for one. Also if he’d really wanted to talk about the third line’s forecheck with someone who wasn’t on his team, he’d just had to order something at Tim Hortons and wait five minutes.

“Flight okay?”

“Yeah, just early.”

“Well, you can sleep in the car: there’s been a crash on the 417.”

“Welcome home,” Shane muttered to himself.

It was usually a two hour drive to Smiths Falls, but the crash stretched it out to three. He didn’t sleep but he did put his head down for the last hour, the sun warm through the window, letting the familiar curves of the road rock him back and forth on the seat.

“Shane? We’re here.”

Shane opened his eyes, blinking a little in the bright summer light.

“Oh, shit,” he exclaimed, looking at the sheer windows of the house in front of him: his house. “The cottage,” he breathed.

“Yeah,” his dad was smiling, he could hear it in his voice but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. “If you’re too tired we can just head home, but I thought you’d want to see it.”

“Can we go in?”

“Of course, it’s your home, Son.”

Shane got out, turning in a full circle halfway up the steps. He hadn’t even noticed them coming through the security gate: he must have been more tired than he thought. There were some cameras here and there and a codepad on the front door. His dad tapped in the code while Shane used his sleeve to wipe at a few fingerprints on the edge of one of the windows. He was going to need a full-time window cleaner.

He wandered around, touching everything. His mom had unpacked almost everything from his Montreal apartment: his plain white plates and his favourite mug. Outside, he checked for privacy, directing his dad by text through the house. Mature trees screened the bedroom, tinted glass obscured almost everything and the nearest neighbours were distant smudges on the other side of the lake, the air quiet except for insects in the grass.

His phone buzzed in his pocket: you arrive okay?

Yeah, sorry. You heading to the airport?

He took a quick shot of the cottage and sent it. Ilya’s flight wouldn’t land until 8am the next morning, Moscow time.

Nice, came the reply.

Ilya would like the lake. Probably. He actually had no idea if Ilya could swim or not. He certainly had the physique for it, with his wide shoulders and powerful legs.

“You texting your mom?”

Shane startled hard enough that he fumbled his phone, nearly dropping it in the grass. “Er, no. Just Hayden.”

“You’ve done such a good job keeping in touch with him. You can bring anyone back to the house, you know? We’re always happy to meet your friends.”

“I know, Dad,” Shane said quickly. “Can we go back? I’m starving.”

“Sure, let’s pick up some food on the way.”

He loved his mom so much it physically hurt him to think about it too hard. But as they drew up to his parent’s house he dragged his feet, insisting to his dad he could carry his own suitcase, before admitting his ankle was killing him and maybe he couldn’t.

“Oh, why don’t you have crutches?” was the first thing she said when she opened the door.

“I don’t need them, I just need to rest it.”

He hugged her, already knowing what she was going to say next.

“And your hair! You’ll need to get that cut. This week, preferably. We have a video call with Adidas on Saturday.”

“I’m growing it.”

“It looks very rock and roll,” his dad told him, which was probably the most convincing argument he’d heard for having it cut, but he still wasn’t going to do it.

“Well, we’ll have to find some way to make it look a little tidier.”

“Go sit down,” his dad said, patting him on the shoulder. “I’ll get you something to drink.”

On the sofa, Shane put his feet up and a cushion behind his head. He could hear his parents having a conversation in the kitchen in the low tone that meant they were talking about him. He checked his phone but had no more texts from Ilya. He should be at the airport by now, probably already through security. He hoped not too many people were asking him for selfies or autographs.

A few minutes later his dad brought out a banana and a diet ginger ale on a little tray. There was a folded napkin under the banana.

“Thanks, dad.”

His mom came in with a cup of what smelt like extremely strong coffee and tucked herself into the recliner, one bare foot folded underneath her.

“Shane added actual cheese to the grocery cart,” his dad told her, as if confiding a secret.

Shane tensed. His mom kept a much closer eye on what he put into his body than his dad did.

“That’s great, sweetheart. Does that mean I’ll have to guard the dorayaki in the freezer from you?”

Rolling his eyes, Shane took a sip of his drink. “No, your sugar is safe from me.”

He hadn’t had dorayaki since minor hockey. He’d given one to a kid on his team who’d spat it out in disgust. Shane had gone home and told his mom he didn't like them any more.

“How was the cottage? Anything you want changed?”

Shane swallowed a fizzy mouthful of ginger ale. “It was amazing. You did a great job, Mom.”

His mom waved away the praise with one hand. “Good. You need somewhere of your own. You know you’re always welcome here, but if you want to spend some time at the cottage, you should.”

“We’ll miss you,” his dad added. “But we’ll survive.”

“Yeah. I mean I’ll stay here for a few days, but I’ll want to stay at the cottage as well. And Hayden has already invited me to Montréal the week after next.”

“How about Cliff? He’s Canadian, isn’t he?”

Shane snorted. “He’s from Hearst, he’d need three days and a passport to get here.”

“Ah, ça doit être du vrai français, alors,” his dad commented.

“Ouais, son français est scary bon,” Shane replied, his accent deliberately terrible. As expected, his dad gave him a betrayed look.

“Don’t butcher French in front of your father, honey.”

He caught his mom’s laughing eye and smiled. His dad’s family was from Eastern Ontario and had been French-speaking for generations, which was awesome, but also meant that the best way to annoy him was to pretend he’d forgotten the subjunctive.

His mom put her coffee cup down on a side table and Shane braced himself for the possibility of bad hockey news. “You didn’t say how your meeting with the GM went yesterday.”

“I did, I told you it went fine.”

“They want to sign you, honey.”

“But you don’t know that they will. No one does.”

“Well,” his dad said, leaning back against the sofa and curling an arm around Shane’s shoulders. “We’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed.”

Shane gave up on sleep at 5am and went down to the kitchen, getting some yogurt and fruit. Outside, light was feathering the horizon and he watched the shadows lighten as he ate. His phone was on silent, but he had a text from Hayden from a few minutes ago, a couple from Marleau and other members of the team, but nothing from Ilya.

He’d slept without Ilya occasionally over the last five months, but usually only when one of them had been kept up late. He’d always been able to turn over in the middle of the night to Ilya’s sleepy annoyed sound, pushing into his arms or putting his head on his shoulder. His old double bed was too soft and too cool in the low hum of the AC.

Just then his phone vibrated in his hand, Ilya’s profile picture filling the screen.

“Ilya?” he answered, ducking into the laundry room and closing the door behind him.

There was a silence on the other end of the phone. “Ilya?” he tried again, his heartbeat kicking up a notch.

“I didn’t expect you to answer.”

“Yeah, I was awake. You okay? You at your apartment?”

“Tired, but yes, I’m here. Why are you up so early?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted.

“Come onto video, I want to see you.”

Shane turned his phone around, running a hand through his messy hair. He was wearing some threadbare pajama pants with hockey sticks on and a Boston Raiders t-shirt that might have once belonged to Ilya.

“Hey,” he smiled, feeling unaccountably shy.

“Hey,” Ilya replied. He was so handsome, sitting against a background of a heavily patterned couch.

“Is that your apartment?” Shane asked.

IIya hummed his agreement.

“Show me around?”

“Maybe later. Tell me about your massive cottage.”

Shane sat down with his back to the dryer, the smell of lavender detergent filling the air as he talked about the size and privacy of the place, the small dock and the firepit on the back porch.

“There must be very big bugs.”

A laugh escaped Shane before he could stop it. He looked up at the ceiling, but he couldn't hear any movement.

“Yeah, I mean the mosquitoes are pretty annoying. I’ll put up a net for you though.”

Another silence, Ilya just watching him. “You’d want me to visit?”

Shane froze. Fuck, did he? How would he explain it? They were friends and teammates, maybe that would be enough.

“Never mind,” Ilya dismissed. “I have to go.”

“No!” Shane winced at the volume of his voice. “No, I just worry, you know? But yeah of course I want you to visit.”

This was so much harder over the phone. He could feel the thousands of miles between them in every one of Ilya’s pauses. Usually he’d be stroking Ilya’s hair, or feeling him breathe against him, but here there was only the static silence of a phone line.

“Are you going to see your dad later?”

“Yes. I will call his doctor soon."

“Do they do home visits there?”

“Not usually, but perhaps for my father.”

“He’s important, right?”

Ilya gave a half-shrug. “He was important once, and people remember that.”

“That’s good.”

Another one of those little shrugs that could mean anything. Honestly, Ilya’s father and brother sounded awful, but he couldn’t just say that.

“Tell me about your parents,” Ilya added. “Are they happy you’re back?”

That question was enough to make Shane want to pull him into a tight hug. “Yeah, my dad took me to the cottage and my mom fussed about my hair.”

“You can’t cut it,” Ilya stated, sounding very awake all of a sudden.

“I’m not going to.”

“Promise me.”

Shane traced a cross over his heart with his index finger. “I promise.”

Chapter Text

The cottage had been beautiful and quiet. Kind of lonely, really. He’d found himself wandering from room to room, like he’d forgotten what he was looking for.

He’d hoped that a change of scenery would help him sleep, but no. Five months of sleeping in the same bed as someone apparently outweighed more than two decades of sleeping alone.

Hayden’s house in Beaconsfield was only a two-hour drive from Rideau, but it felt completely different. After the cottage, the lack of privacy was startling. He could see into the neighbour’s yard while playing soccer with Jade and Ruby; could hear a mower running somewhere close by. The air smelled faintly of cut grass and something chemical, someone’s lawn treatment drifting over the fence.

“Hey,” Hayden said from behind him. “You’re up early. The baby keep you up?”

“No, no I’m fine.”

“Great, in that case you can help with the twins this morning.”

“Actually, I think I’m coming down with something.” Shane made a fairly pathetic coughing sound.

“You’re such an asshole, I don’t know why we’re friends.”

Feeding the twins was fun. He wasn’t great with kids overall but he’d known Ruby and Jade since they were learning to talk, so he generally let them lead the conversation and that seemed to work well.

“You know, Montreal is still acting like you won the Cup for them?” Hayden commented, as Shane wiped down the kitchen table, the wood still tacky with juice from the twins’ breakfast. “I can’t tell you how many times I saw clips of you at a children’s hospital on your Cup day.”

Shane didn’t know how he was supposed to respond to that. He hadn’t won it for them, because the Metros had traded him. He shrugged, noncommittal. “The hospital was good, actually. I always dread it ‘cause sick kids, you know? But it’s a nice place.”

“Yeah man. I hear you. Remember when we did that PR thing at MUHC? I went home to Jackie and just cried.”

“It’s rough when you have your own kids.”

Hayden hummed, passing him another placemat. “Hey, you know you can tell me anything, right?”

Shane looked down at the cloth he was holding. Did Hayden think he was mad about cleaning? “Sure,” he agreed, hoping he'd get more information.

“If, you know, that thing with Boston Lily didn’t work out. Or like, if there was a reason you don’t have a girlfriend or anything.”

That was the context he needed and he hated it. Why couldn’t everyone just mind their own fucking business?

“Yeah. You know I’m a hockey player, right?” It came out sounding less jokey than he’d meant it to.

“Sure, but—” Hayden stopped. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s been a crazy season, huh?”

“For sure,” Shane agreed. He’d managed to squeeze too much water out of the dishcloth so there was now a wet spot on the table, a cold drip running over his wrist.

“How’s living with Rozanov?”

“Good, yeah. He’s easy to live with.”

Hayden gave a disbelieving laugh. “You can’t tell me he doesn’t bring women home every two days. How do you get any sleep?”

“No—I mean—” Was he supposed to argue with that? It was probably better not to. “He doesn’t, like, at home,” he finished, lamely.

“Well, nice of him to keep it to hotel rooms, I guess.”

Ilya had fucked women in hotel rooms. A lot, if rumour was to be believed. He didn’t any more though: they’d agreed and being in different countries wasn’t going to change that. It was 11pm in Moscow. Ilya could be at a bar right now.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket: he had a good night message from Ilya with a little kissy face at the end. He put three kissy faces, his thumb hovering for a second before hitting send.

“Give me that,” Hayden said, taking the dishcloth off him and wiping down the last placemat. “Who you texting?”

Shane scrolled down his messages and opened a conversation at random.

“JJ wants us to go out to a restaurant someone he knows owns,” he told Hayden.

“Yes! You should,” Hayden said with more energy than was really necessary. “Go have a good time and say hi to JJ for me.”

Hayden was already halfway back to the kitchen, calling something to Jackie. JJ would be glad if he showed up. Shane stood there for a second, listening to the low hum of his friends’ voices, then headed upstairs for a shower.

Rose Landry was so easy to talk to. Half of him was enjoying the conversation but the other half was trying to work out the mechanics of it, trying to understand how it just flowed so naturally. Maybe it was because she was an actor? He could probably meet more actors if he wanted to.

He was nursing a beer, the deep buzz of conversation and occasional shout of laughter behind him. He had the excuse of driving back to Hayden’s, at least, so he didn’t need another. Sitting back in the booth, the seat slightly stuck to the back of his shirt as he debated ordering something to eat while Rose was in the bathroom. She’d said the fries were great but there was probably something less deep fried on the menu he could have.

“Hey,” a familiar voice said, and Shane craned his head around to see JJ leaning over the back of the booth.

“Hey, come sit down.”

“Nah, man. I don’t want to cramp your style. I just wanted to say congrats. I mean Rose Landry. What the fuck?!”

Shane stared at JJ while he translated that into something coherent. “Why would you sitting down stop me from speaking to Rose?”

JJ laughed, which was a sure sign Shane had misinterpreted something important, slapped a hand on his shoulder, and disappeared just as Rose slid back into the seat opposite.

“So, what did I miss?”

She was beautiful. And she was funny and easy to talk to, and had correct opinions on hockey. Shane put his beer down, turning it so the label faced outwards.

“You okay?” Rose added, because she was also just a nice person.

“Er, yeah,” Shane replied. He licked his lips. So this was a date, apparently: that’s what JJ had seen. “So, I mean. I don’t think you’d be interested even if I was. Which I’m not. Like. Flirting with you. Or anything,” He winced, hearing himself talk. This was not how normal people handled conversations. Rose’s manicured hands hovered in the upper half of his vision, her nails a vivid green.

“Oh. Okay, that’s good to know.”

“I mean. If you thought I was. You’re great and I’m having a good time but I’m—” he groped for a way to finish that sentence.

“No, hey—it’s fine.” She reached over the table and gave his hand a squeeze, her hand warm over his. “I’m glad you said something. And, you know, I hear friends are awesome.”

Shane dared to check her expression. She really didn’t seem mad. “Yeah,” he smiled. “Friends are amazing.”

He picked up his beer and took a sip. “So,” Rose began, spreading her arms wide. “What do friends of Shane Hollander talk about?”

He left Hayden’s the next day, saying goodbye to Jade and Ruby several times as they vied for the last hug. He’d tried to work out some way to continue the last kiss ritual with Ilya, but had just ended up staring blankly at his phone. It wasn’t like it was important, but he couldn’t think of a way to bring it up that didn’t sound dumb or desperate.

Ilya was busy with his family and Shane needed to support him by not being a distraction.

The drive back was uneventful and he took the opportunity to listen to an audiobook he’d bought on Russian grammar. He liked repeating the noun declensions aloud as it helped him remember them.

He stopped off at Loblaws, adding another thirty minutes to the drive, but he wanted to grill out tonight and he’d used the last of the steak his mom had stocked up on the week before.

Back at the cottage he paused in the middle of the driveway, the late afternoon heat rising off the concrete as he pulled out his vibrating phone, grocery bags in one hand. There were a handful of texts, a missed call from his mom and two missed calls from Marleau.

He hit call on Marleau’s number.

“Allô, ça va-tu ?”

“Yes, what the fuck,” Marleau replied, still in French. “I’ve been calling you. Have you seen Twitter?”

“No, my mom looks after my account.”

“Fuck me. Hold on.”

His phone buzzed. A picture had appeared of a mustard coloured booth in an upscale restaurant. Rose Landry was on one side, smiling softly with the light hitting her blonde curls just so. She had her hand on the table, covering Shane’s. Shane was smiling too, just a little.

It was a good picture. He was so fucked.

“Where did you see this?”

“Twitter, Reddit, TM-fucking-Z, where didn’t I see it. What the fuck? Roz at home, in shit up to his neck, and you’re hooking up with Rose fucking Landry?”

“I didn’t fucking hook up with her. Jesus. Do you think Ilya has seen this?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. What were you doing holding hands with the most famous actress in Hollywood?”

“She was at a bar I went to and we talked, that’s it. I told her I wasn’t interested.” He tapped the security code in and stepped inside, slamming the front door behind him.

“Fuck, okay. Go call him and tell him that.”

“I’m going.”

“Bon courage, mon frère.”

It was 5pm—midnight in Moscow. Seven thousand kilometres away, Ilya’s phone rang and rang.

“Fuck!” Shane swore, his phone gripped hard in his hand.

He crouched down, his back to the wall. He hadn't even taken his shoes off. His frozen steaks were still in the bottom of the shopping bag, slowly defrosting.

Looking at the photo again, he tried to imagine what Ilya would think when he saw it. It looked pretty innocent. Just two people holding hands across a table. Zooming in, it was clear that it was more Rose with her hand over his rather than any actual hand-holding. TMZ didn’t agree. The headline, when he found it, read Rose Landry spotted holding hands with NHL star Shane Hollander. He wanted to call up whoever had the byline and ask them if they knew what hand-holding was because this absolutely wasn’t it.

His phone buzzed. Rose’s profile picture was her and a female friend, both of them sticking their tongues out at the camera.

Sorry about the photo! I hope I haven’t gotten you in any trouble?

He stared at the message for a moment before replying. Not your fault

A quick google search told him the weather in Moscow was fourteen degrees, sunrise at 03:56. Ilya ran hot at night, he would have kicked the comforter off his feet, curled up with his hand tucked under his chin. Shane rang his number again, listening to it ring out.

He still needed to call his mom.

What if Ilya had seen it and was ignoring him? He downloaded Twitter onto his phone and spent the next thirty minutes hunting down the earliest post of the picture he could find. It seemed to have come from a private Rose Landry FB group, but the first tweet was at 7:36am that morning, so 2:36 in the afternoon in Moscow.

He put his head between his knees and counted to four over and over, breathing in and out.

Ilya would listen to him, he wouldn’t just want to break up. Unless of course Shane wasn’t signed in July, then what reason would Ilya have to stay together? He hadn’t ever mentioned wanting that in the five years before Shane had moved to Boston, so why would he want to continue if Shane wasn't in Boston any more?

He wanted to be a Boston Raider, not just because of Ilya. The team were the same hockey bros he’d played with all his life, but the difference was they treated him as a hockey bro too, not as a strange mascot they'd been saddled with. But because of Ilya, too. He wanted to play on his team, sleep in his bed, share his food and language and warmth—his body flush against his as he slept.

Fuck. Did Ilya even know that? Had he ever said it out loud? He was so fucking stupid. Ilya was going to look at that photo and think Shane was cheating on him, that he hadn’t spent the last two weeks not sleeping, miserably missing him.

He called Ilya again. He didn’t know what else to do.

Chapter Text

It was 2am when Ilya finally answered his phone.

“Shane? What is it?”

Shane put one hand over his eyes, pressing down until lights bloomed under his eyelids. The room smelled faintly of detergent, his t-shirt rough and twisted under his fingers.

“Ilyusha. Moy paren, moy khoroshiy,” he got out, his voice wavering.

“What is it? Are you okay?”

Taking a deep breath, Shane let it out slowly, the edge of the phone pressing hard into his cheek as he lay half-curled on the bed. “I went to a bar yesterday, or the day before, I don’t know. There was a famous actress, Rose Landry, you know?”

“I know her,” Ilya confirmed, sounding wary.

“Nothing happened. I told her I’d like to be friends and she—she just put her hand over mine on the table. That was it.”

“Okay, moy mal’chik. That’s okay, you did nothing wrong.”

“Someone took a fucking picture.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah,” Shane wiped his eyes. “Marleau called me, he was so mad.”

“He is a good friend.”

“You haven't seen the picture?”

“No, I was busy with lawyers all day. Vultures.”

He could hear Ilya's English improve with each sentence. It made Shane's heart clench in his chest to hear it.

“Come onto video, moy zayka,” Ilya added.

Shane wiped his arm across his eyes again before pressing the little camera icon, his fingers cold against the glass. Ilya's face filled the screen, his curls flat on one side and pillow creases on his cheek.

“Shaynechka,” he said, such emotion in his voice that Shane turned his head away.

“Sorry. I was panicking.”

“Where is this terrible picture?”

“Fucking everywhere. Reddit, Twitter, TMZ. It's probably in the group chat.”

A tiny frown appeared between Ilya's eyes, his gaze tracking up and down the phone as he searched for it. “It's not in the chat.”

“Marley sent it to me, one second.”

It didn't look as bad this time, Shane's smile was polite and Rose was only half leaning forward in her seat. He forwarded it then scrolled up through the group chat. There was no mention of the photo, but about ten hours back he found a slew of messages that had been deleted by Laine and Marleau.

“Ah yes,” Ilya said, sounding amused. “I see: you were hand-holding cheating on me.”

Shane tried a smile, but it didn't feel good on his face. “I'd never do that to you,” he told him, utterly serious.

“I know, my kitten. You are so good. It’s very late there,” he added in English. “You should go to sleep.”

“I'm fine. I can’t sleep without you anyway. I can’t sleep,” Shane continued in his childish Russian. “You are in Russia and I can’t sleep.”

Ilya's expression did something complicated, too many emotions to follow. “Do you want me to come back?”

“No,” Shane replied instantly and that complicated expression smoothed into something Shane had seen before: quickly hidden hurt. “I mean yeah, I do, but I know you have to look after your father.”

Ilya shrugged against the pillows piled behind him. “If you want me to come, I will.”

God, he did. So badly. He nodded, his throat too thick to reply.

“Okay, three or four days. I will text you once I buy my ticket.”

“Thanks,” Shane croaked.

“Turn your video off and close your eyes. I will tell you how evil lawyers are and you will fall asleep.”

Shane could see his phone. It was on the floor with his water bottle, next to a very uncomfortable neon yellow folding chair, his name written across the back in black tape.

“Sorry,” the woman in his personal space said, adjusting the hood of the jacket he was wearing.

It had been 3:36pm when he last checked the time, maybe ten minutes ago. Ilya had landed at 3:25. Shane had already told him he wouldn’t be able to pick him up at the airport, but he was at least supposed to be there to open his fucking door for him.

“Okay, great!” the director yelled. “Chin down a little, Shane. Good, hold it.”

His mom was standing just to the left of the main lights, deep in conversation with someone Shane had probably been introduced to at some point.

“A little more intensity, Shane.”

He’d never had any idea what that meant, so he always just thought about the last play he’d fucked up and that seemed to work.

“Perfect. Hold that!”

In the third of Game 7 he'd fucked up the turnover at the line. Too deep and making a play that hadn't been his to make.

“Good, good! A little to the left!”

Three hours of clothes racks, bright lights, and micromovements. And he was going to be fucking late.

“Okay, let’s take five.”

Over on his uncomfortable chair he was scrolling through messages before he’d even sat down. He had three of them: Landed. Got bags, looking for a taxi. Too much French.

I’m still at this fucking shoot, he sent back. Message me if you can’t work the keysafe

He hadn’t checked it before he’d left, assuming he’d be back with plenty of time before Ilya arrived. What if the cleaners hadn’t put the key back last time? Ilya would be stuck waiting on the step with his suitcases while Shane gave more intensity. He ran his hands through his carefully styled hair and counted to four.

“Hey, honey,” his mom asked from somewhere to the left. “You doing okay?”

“How long did they say this time?” he asked without looking up.

“Would you believe me if I told you five minutes?”

“Fuck!” Shane snapped, throwing himself back in the chair. “You said this would take two hours. I’ve been here four.”

His mom crouched down, putting a hand on his knee. “Come on, Shane. You’ve been doing these things for a long time, you know they often run over.”

Closing his eyes against the harsh lights, he wished he still carried around the noise cancelling headphones he’d worn as a child.

“You’ve been on edge all day,” she continued, her voice low. “Are you sure there’s nothing going on?”

“We’re ready for you,” an assistant said from a respectful meter and a half away.

Shane checked his phone once more then went over to the pristine white sofa, turning his head toward the lights and forcing his mouth into a slight smile.

He finally got home at ten past six, slamming shut the car door and taking the steps two at a time. A pair of Ilya’s sneakers were lined up in the entryway and there was a battered black suitcase just inside the kitchen. Ilya himself was asleep on the sofa, mouth open and snoring slightly. Sunlight had warmed the wooden floor and glinted golden off his hair.

Ilya was probably exhausted. Leaving him to sleep would be the kindest thing he could do.

He knelt down next to him, reaching over to trace the arch of an eyebrow. His lashes weren’t just blond, they were ginger, saffron, more colours than he could name.

Ilya stirred, blinking slowly back to awareness. “Shane,” he breathed, as if he couldn’t believe it.

Shane didn’t say anything, just leant over and pressed a kiss to the thin skin beside his right eye, then another against his lips. Ilya curled an arm around his bicep and urged him onto the sofa. Shane bent half over him, kissing him as he pushed his hands under Ilya’s t-shirt and palmed the warm skin underneath.

“Hey,” Ilya said, pulling back a little.

“Hey.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I just want—I mean, if you’re not too tired.”

“I’m not. Show me your bedroom.”

Shane didn’t bother with the blinds. He should, private property wasn’t 100% safe, but he just couldn’t bring himself to care. Fuck anyone who saw them.

They came together in a semi-controlled fall onto the bed, Shane trying to get Ilya’s pants off while Ilya kissed him and kissed him.

“Can you please get naked?” he asked, slightly pathetically.

Ilya grinned and began to throw off his clothes while Shane went for the lube.

“How do you want it?” Ilya asked, knee walking across the expanse of the bed. He should have looked ridiculous, but the sight of his semi-hard cock just made Shane’s stomach tighten.

Instead of answering he rolled onto his stomach and pushed up onto his haunches, his head down. He should have gone through the house and found some hip-height furniture he could be fucked over. Tomorrow, maybe.

“Fuck, you missed this,” Ilya told him, fingering him open with too much lube. It dripped on the sheets between Shane’s open legs, smeared shining along the inside of his thighs in the bright sunlight.

“Yeah,” Shane agreed, bringing his head down onto his folded arms so he could fuck himself back onto llya’s calloused fingers. “I’m ready.”

For once Ilya didn’t protest. One moment he was empty and the next Ilya was pushing in. They were both breathing harshly, Ilya’s fingers bruisingingly tight on his hips.

Come on, come on. He gritted his teeth: he wasn’t going to start begging yet. He arched his back instead, urging Ilya into him.

Ilya spat out some Russian, fuck and possibly tight. He felt huge, impossible, inside him. He ground back against Ilya, the rough texture of his pubic hair rubbing against his ass. Ilya groaned, his fingers tightening briefly.

“You trying to kill me, Hollander?”

“No. I’m trying to get you to fuck me.”

A hot hand in the centre of his back was all the warning he got before Ilya pulled back and snapped his hips forwards, pushing a high, urgent sound from Shane. He turned his head to one side, his forearms already damp with breath. He wanted Ilya to hear him, to know how good he was making him feel.

It was hard and fast and Shane couldn’t fathom how he’d gone two weeks without this, how he’d gone months without it before they’d lived together. There was no room in him for anything except Ilya: no panic, no expectations, no looping thoughts. He inched up the bed, Ilya’s hand wrapped in Shane’s growing-out hair. Those two points of contact were pulling him tight, pleasure winding down his spine.

“You close?” Ilya panted.

Shane couldn’t speak as he started to come, clenching down on Ilya’s cock. Ilya thrust in deep one last time, following Shane over the edge with a guttural groan. His hips jerked erratically, grinding against Shane's ass. Shane's cock throbbed untouched against the sheets, ropes of come soaking the fabric beneath him as his body shuddered, every muscle tightening around Ilya.

Ilya collapsed forward, his chest pressing into Shane's back, sweat-slick skin sliding together. He panted against Shane's shoulder, lips brushing damp hair as his arms wrapped around his waist, holding him close. Shane let out a shaky breath, his fingers digging into the mattress, savoring the fullness, the warmth of Ilya still buried deep.

For a moment, they stayed like that, breaths syncing as they evened out.

Slowly, Ilya pulled out, a wet slide that made Shane hiss at the sudden emptiness. Ilya rolled off to the side, tugging gently at Shane's hip until he flipped over.

"You good?" Ilya murmured, tracing a finger along his jaw.

Shane nodded. “I’m good.”

Ilya smiled and kissed him, then sat up and slid off the mattress, disappearing into the ensuite. Shane watched him move, admiring the flex of muscles in his back, his casual nudity. Ilya returned, kneeling between Shane's legs and wiping away the sticky trails with gentle strokes.

"Spread a bit," Ilya said softly, and Shane did, letting him clean his hole and thighs.

Once done, Ilya tossed the towel aside and crawled back onto the bed, pulling Shane into his arms. They tangled together, legs hooking, Ilya’s head resting on Shane’s chest. Ilya was warm and solid against him, his breath slow and even.

“Sorry, I didn’t ask about your dad or the flight or anything.” Shane’s voice came out quieter than he expected, his hand drifting up to rest in Ilya’s hair, still slightly damp at the roots.

“You asked me to fuck you, just as polite.”

Shane snorted, pushing lightly at Ilya’s side. “That’s not politeness.”

“Yes, you’re right. You are horny, desperate, easy—”

Shoving a pillow in his face, they wrestled for a few minutes until they ended up in the exact same position: Ilya curled up with his head over Shane’s heart.

“You okay?” Ilya asked. “You seemed… I don’t know. Like we were back in Game 3 in Denver.”

Shane traced a slow line up and down Ilya’s back, following the ridge of his spine. “I think about a lot of stuff, all the time, and when we-” he gestured between them- “It pushes everything far enough away that I can get a break.” He shook his head, his hair brushing against the pillow. “I’m explaining this badly. But thanks. Thank you for doing that for me.”

When he glanced down Ilya was looking at him with a soft expression. “You give me what I need as well.”

He wasn’t sure he had been, but he was going to try.

Chapter Text

Shane woke early, easing himself from Ilya’s arms. It was already fully light, the sun bright over the lake, the faint tang of mist in the air. He went out down the steps with his smoothie, a hand up to block out the sun.

The birds were incredibly loud. He could pick out song sparrows, robins, red-winged blackbirds, the weird creak of a common grackle nearby. His dad would probably be able to name every song he could hear, but Shane only remembered a handful with any kind of accuracy.

Back inside he gathered all his ingredients as quietly as possible. The deli he’d found downtown had stocked some of the things Google had promised made a proper Russian breakfast, but he hadn’t been able to find the pickles he’d seen Ilya eat, and the double-spouted teapot had been a total bust. He had black tea though, stirring it in a small pot on the stove while squinting at instructions on his phone.

“You feeding the first two lines?” Ilya asked from behind him.

Shane looked over his shoulder, glancing at Ilya’s muscled chest and low slung sweatpants before turning to the spread on the kitchen island. Maybe he hadn’t needed to cut so much bread.

“It’s just breakfast,” he replied, returning to his very black tea.

Coming up behind him, Ilya wrapped his arms around his waist, kissing an ear.

“Are you going to eat some pelmeni with me?”

“One,” Shane allowed, tipping the tea up to the light. It seemed distinctly gloopy.

Ilya took over, the strong smell of the tea curling into the familiar scent of breakfast in Boston. The pelmeni was good. Shane ate his slowly, concentrating on the texture and flavours in a bid to drown out the voice telling him he was going to have to compensate for it later.

Ilya looked tired, the light from the windows throwing the dark circles under his eyes into sharp relief.

“Did you get everything sorted with the power of attorney?”

“Hmm,” Ilya agreed, swallowing a mouthful of rye bread. “My step-mother will do it. It’s better, she is there all the time.”

“Was it complicated?”

“Yes, but only because the lawyer—not lawyer.”

“Notary?” Shane offered.

“Yes, that. He seemed to think he was paid for each page we signed.”

Picking up the tiny teapot he'd ordered off Amazon, Shane poured some tea into a cup to try. “Do you need to do anything else?”

“Just keep an eye on my brother.”

“Why?”

Ilya took another piece of toast, so dark it was almost black. “He said he will help,” he replied, before shoving most of it into his mouth: a hint even Shane could take that the conversation was over.

He took some of the dishes and put them on the side, ready to go into the dishwasher. Looking back at the still-tall pile of pelmeni and dried meats, he was willing to admit that maybe he’d gone a little overboard.

“I heard back about my contract,” Ilya told him, pushing his bar chair back with a scrape.

“Don’t tell me,” Shane warned, clenching a plate too hard. “Not yet.”

“Okay,” Ilya dropped a kiss onto his shoulder, giving his waist a squeeze before turning to help clear the table.

Ilya was in the shower when Shane’s mom called, a picture of him and his parents flashing up on the screen. He answered, already sick with anticipation. This could be it. Or she could be calling to see if he needed anything from the grocery store.

She was already one syllable into a sentence when he put the phone to his ear. “ —kay, I’ve got it: 8.5 million.”

“How long?” Shane interrupted.

“Seven years.”

Sinking into a crouch, he put a hand into his hair, pulling tight enough to ground him. Seven years.

“Shane?”

“Yeah. Yeah I’m here. Text me the details okay? I’ll come over tomorrow to talk about it.”

“Okay honey. You sure everything is okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks mom: you did great. See you tomorrow.”

He ended the call without looking, dropping his phone next to himself on the floor.

“Shane?” Ilya sounded worried, his footsteps coming closer. “You get your contract details?”

“Yeah.” He picked up his phone and slid it into his pocket. Fuck knew what his hair looked like right now. He licked suddenly-dry lips. “Seven years.”

“Me too. I got seven years.”

Shane grabbed handfuls of Ilya’s t-shirt, putting his head down on his shoulder. Ilya pulled him more fully into his arms.

Seven years.

The room was too warm. He tightened his grip on Ilya’s shirt, focusing on the feel of the fabric under his fingers, real and immediate.

When he was a child there had been a massive old oak tree in the back yard of his grand-mères house that had been struck by lightning. Split nearly in two, black wood had bordered living, new leaves unfurling every spring. He felt like that now, like he'd been sundered by something indelible, something he would grow around for the rest of his life.

“Are you happy?” Ilya asked.

“I’m—I don’t know,” Shane mumbled. “Do I have to move out?”

“No, not if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t. Is that okay? Can we just do that?”

“Do what, moy zayka?“

“Live together for the next seven years?”

“Yes,” Ilya replied, his thumb tracing circles in the small of Shane’s back. “More, if you want.”

More than seven years. He tried not to think about that nebulous time in the future when he couldn’t skate any more. But what if he couldn’t skate, but he could still live with Ilya? That was something he could imagine.

“Come sit down with me,” Ilya added, leading Shane down the two steps and into the living room.

“You’re on a work visa though right?” he asked, sitting then lying down as directed, half on top of Ilya.

Ilya shrugged. “Maybe Svetlana would help me.”

“Help you how?”

“Marry me. Just for citizenship.”

That was… that was terrible, actually. Like Ilya in the bar speaking to that woman, but a million times worse.

“Shane?”

“No. No, don’t do that. We can stay together without you marrying Svetlana, okay?”

“Okay.”

He put his hands under Ilya’s t-shirt, against the warmth of his heated skin. He half wanted to fuck—to be as close to Ilya as possible—but that wasn’t enough right now. Going up on one elbow, he reached out to trace a line down the side of Ilya’s face. Leaning forward, he placed a kiss to the soft skin next to Ilya’s eye, then another over his eyelid as his eyes fluttered shut.

“Shane,” Ilya whispered, reverent.

“Hey, I—,” Shane swallowed. “I love you. You don’t need to say it back. I just. That’s how I feel.”

Ilya put a hand over his eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu. I love you too,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

Shane pulled back slightly, the Russian landing a beat behind the English. “You do?”

“Yes. I do. So much.”

Blinking hard, Shane half moved to sit up before settling back down, one arm coming up over his eyes.

“Shaynechka? You good?”

“Yes,” he replied, his voice unsteady. “I’m good.”

“Fuck,” Shane said suddenly. “I told my parents I'd go over there tomorrow.”

He flipped one of the burgers a little too early, then nudged it back into place like he could undo it. The air was cool enough that the heat from the grill was comforting rather than the annoyance it would be in August.

“Is that bad?”

“I didn’t tell them you’re here. They’re bound to find out, I mean, we’re lucky no-one has dropped by yet.”

“I can stay upstairs or go out. They know I’m a teammate, it’s not such a big deal that I’m here even if they don’t meet me.”

Shane huffed out a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh.

“They’re not stupid.”

Ilya shrugged, his arms crossed over his chest. “No, but they are polite, yes? They won’t ask questions you don’t want to answer.”

“I think they might notice if we’re never in the same room together as them.”

Ilya leaned back against the railing, watching him instead of the grill. After a second he pushed off and stepped in closer, close enough that Shane had to shift his stance slightly to give him room.

Seven years. More, maybe. It felt even more unreal than the Cup.

“God we’re so fucked,” Shane said, pressing down on one of the burgers before catching himself and pulling his hand back. “Seven years, there’s no way we can keep this a secret for seven—however long.”

“We’re not the first gay hockey players,” Ilya said, reaching past him to steal a piece of salad from the tray. “We can’t be. If they managed, then we can too.”

“You're not gay.”

“Yes, I like both. But you are.” Ilya bumped his shoulder into Shane’s as he crunched a carrot baton. “You are, yes?”

“Yes? I think so? Does it really matter?”

Ilya just looked at him.

Shane glanced over, then away again, flipping another burger that definitely didn’t need flipping. These were going to be the most undercooked burgers in history. He didn’t need to worry about telling his parents because he was going to die of food poisoning.

“Yes, alright. I’m gay. Happy?”

“Very.”

The grill hissed quietly between them, the coals as bright as the sun, setting orange and red across the water.

“You don’t want to tell them?” Ilya asked.

“Absolutely not, no.”

Ilya reached for the tray again, slower this time, watching Shane instead of the food. “Because your mom will be disappointed?”

“Not disappointed.” Shane grabbed the edge of the grill with his free hand, then let go when the heat bit at his palm. He wiped his hand on the towel at his shoulder even though there was nothing on it. “Just… she tried so hard to make it easy for me and now I’m undoing all that.”

“She won’t be happy for you?”

“Yeah. I think she will. I hope she will.” He nudged one of the burgers sideways, lining it up with the others. “Can we talk about something else?”

Ilya didn’t answer straight away, just stepping in close behind him, his hand pressing briefly into Shane’s back before hooking his chin over his shoulder. “Of course, my bunny,” he agreed. “How much is your contract?”

Shane had to think about that for a moment, the first half of the conversation with his mom eclipsed by the second. “8.5 million. Why?”

“I got more money than you.”

“Fuck off,” Shane laughed, pushing him back a few steps.

Ilya darted in and plucked the spatula from Shane’s hand, as quick as he stole pucks. He spanked Shane on the ass with it while Shane was still looking at his empty hand.

“Hey! That’s for the meat.”

“I’m—what is the word? Tenderising! I’m tenderising you for later,” Ilya told him, hitting him on the ass again.

“Idiot,” Shane grinned wide enough that his face hurt. He had more than seven years, maybe forever with this asshole: an idea so bright he could barely look at it.

Ilya grinned back, taking a step down. Shane trailed him down a step, never breaking eye contact. They went down three more steps that way, until a tiny bunch of the muscles in Ilya’s thighs gave him away just before he turned and ran towards the lake, Shane only half a step behind. Ilya crowed, the spatula held high. He cut off with a sound of surprise as Shane tackled him to the damp grass.

Ilya took the opportunity to spank Shane again, making him snort. This was so stupid. They were both so stupid for each other.

After a few more struggles Shane got the spatula back, panting as wetness soaked into the back of his shirt.

“What’s that smell?” Ilya asked, slightly out of breath.

“Oh fuck, the burgers!” Shane realised, scrambling to his feet. Ilya’s laugh echoed upwards, following him as jogged back towards the cottage.

Chapter Text

Shane hummed an agreement to whatever Ilya had just said to him. He couldn’t even make out the words over the roaring nausea in his ears. This was a fucking awful idea. He would have turned around already if Ilya hadn’t given him sad eyes when he’d suggested it.

He parked and let Ilya squeeze his hand before getting out and walking up the front path. The garden was in full bloom, a riot of colour and scents in the hot, midday sun. The top of his dad’s head was visible through the big windows, the TV a blur of colour in the background. He’d said he was coming over today but hadn’t given a time—hadn’t mentioned Ilya.

The front door wasn’t locked. “Hey, it’s me!” he called.

“And me,” Ilya added quietly as they toed off their shoes in the entrance way.

“Oh, Shane.” His mom’s voice came from the study, getting closer. “Great. We can talk about—-Oh. Hello, Ilya.”

Shane said nothing through the short flurry of hellos and how are yous, following his mom into the living room and sitting down on the couch a respectable two inches from Ilya. Ilya was saying something about his flight or the cottage or hockey.

“I have something to tell you,” he interrupted, then got to watch his parents communicate through mind reading in real time.

“Okay, honey,” his mom said, opening her hands in an inviting gesture he’d seen a million times. Usually directed at some coach or agent who was about to be talked into whatever she wanted them to do.

He cleared his throat. He should have practised saying it out loud.

“I’m gay,” he managed, the words still feeling unreal. What if he wasn’t? What if this was just a phase that he’d grow out of? What if he was just gay for Ilya Rozanov?

There was only the slightest pause before his mom opened her mouth to reply, but it was deep enough for doubt to drop out from under him.

“Oh, sweetheart. That’s fine, isn’t it?” she asked, turning to his dad.

“Yes. It is absolutely fine. It changes nothing: we’re very proud of you and love you.”

“Of course we love you,” his mom confirmed.

Shane leaned forward, anxiety still pounding in his head. It was fine, they’d both said it was fine. Ilya’s hand, warm and heavy, curled around the back of his neck: it was one of those things he did on the bench and it always grounded him as the Garden thundered around them.

“Thank you for supporting our son—even though. I just mean, given… Russia.”

It took Shane a moment to realise that his dad was talking to Ilya.

“Given Russia?” Ilya repeated hesitantly, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

“Yes, with the—I mean the situation in Russia.”

Shane looked up to find Ilya looking at him the same way he did when someone used an incomprehensible idiom. “Dad, I’m telling you we’re together.”

Well, that was the reaction he’d been expecting from them: utter shock, as if he’d just said he was going to play goalie.

“Together?” his mom repeated.

“But, Ilya,” his dad said with an uncomfortable little laugh. “I mean, you’re well-known as a ladies man.”

“I like both,” Ilya told them.

“Well, that’s—” his dad looked at his mom. “That’s a surprise.”

His mom was slightly open-mouthed, one hand frozen half-way between her face and her lap.

“How long. I mean, if it’s okay to ask. How long have you been…?” His dad made a vague gesture.

“Six months,” Shane said, as Ilya said six years.

“Six years?” his mom echoed.

“They’re asking about us being in a relationship,” Shane told Ilya, who had taken his hand back and folded it in his lap.

“What did you think the question was?” his mom asked, sharp enough to make Shane want to close that two inches of space between him and Ilya.

“Well,” IIya started, and Shane closed his eyes. If he couldn’t see his parents’ reaction to whatever Ilya was about to say then maybe that would be better.

Ilya didn’t add anything though, but his mom had clearly understood.

“Oh. Since you were seventeen?”

“Eighteen,” Shane corrected, opening his eyes and wincing against the sudden light. The sun had inched down just enough to be reflected in one corner of the TV, still frozen on the game his dad had been watching.

“But—” Ilya started.

“Please stop explaining.”

Ilya sat back, as far away as he could get from where Shane was leaving forward, his elbows on his knees.

“And are you still—with the women?” his dad asked, apparently incapable of speaking in full sentences. Shane hated it, hated when people just trailed off and he was supposed to somehow guess the last three words in a sentence out of the whole of a fucking language.

“No,” Ilya replied, his voice small and formal. “No, we are exclusive.”

Great. So his dad thought Ilya was cheating on him. Before he could think of something to say to that, his mom stood up and left with a quick excuse me, the front door clicking quietly shut behind her.

Leaving Ilya with his dad was probably high on the list of things not to do when introducing your secret same-sex partner to your parents for the first time. But that said, if there was a list anywhere he wouldn’t know where to find it.

His mom was standing at the end of the steps that led to the double driveway. She was looking out over the narrow gravel road that led out to the rest of Smiths Falls proper, with its neat neighbourhoods and sprawling hypermarché.

He knew he’d fucked up, it was a just a question of how much. “I’m—I’m really sorry,” he started. “I know how difficult this makes things for you and I—”

“Oh no, you have nothing, nothing to apologise for.”

Shane nodded, his throat thick with tears. He’d promised himself on the drive over that no matter what happened, he wouldn’t cry.

“I know. I just—you do so much for me and I. I’m not—”

“Shhh,” his mom comforted, pulling him into an embrace, her head on his shoulder.

Sonomama de ii no yo, she whispered, almost too low to hear. You are good as you are. His mom never spoke Japanese to him. Even when he’d been little and said something in a mix of Japanese and English, she’d always replied in English. He didn’t know if he was supposed to hear it, so he just gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze before pulling back. They didn’t hug very often, but she always seemed just a little more fragile in his arms each time.

“Let’s go back in,” she suggested. “Save your boyfriend from your dad’s jokes.”

Your boyfriend. He couldn’t even tell what he felt, too full of the shaky fear that wouldn’t quite leave him, even with his parents’ blessing. It was still a burden. They’d still have to smile politely when people asked if their only son was seeing anyone, or married, or was thinking about children. They’d have to lie for him.

“Sure.”

She wiped at her eyes as they headed back up the steps, the wind picking up their hair as clouds rolled in from the east. Turning on the last step, she used the extra height to wipe her thumb under where Shane’s eyes were damp. “We need to come up with a plan,” she told him. “A few, in fact, depending on what and when anything is leaked.”

“Mom can you just—” he hesitated. “Can you just be mom for a moment?”

His mom’s face collapsed back into something like despair. Fuck, he was such a piece of shit. Ilya didn’t even have a fucking mom and this was how Shane was treating his. “I’m sorry,” he added. “That was a shitty thing to say.”

“No! No, honey-” she dabbed the edge of her cardigan where her mascara was starting to smear. “-I want you to say this to me whenever you need me to hear it, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Shane nodded. “Yeah, I can. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she replied, taking one of his hands in hers.

“Ilya doesn’t have a mom,” he blurted.

“Oh baby, I love you so much.”

Shane had no idea how that response was connected to Ilya, but his mom squeezed his hand before stepping back into the house, where he could hear Ilya’s deep voice and his dad’s measured replies.

Apart from Ilya commenting that it went well, the drive back was just as silent as the drive there. Shane didn't want to feel sorry for loving Ilya. He wanted to give him something, anything, something that showed how much he loved him, that everything they’d both given up to be in this relationship would be worth it.

As they pulled into the driveway and the car fell silent, Shane took a breath to speak.

“Maybe,” he started, fumbling with the seatbelt release. “Maybe you could tell someone, if you want to?”

When he looked up, Ilya was just looking back at him. “You want me to tell someone?”

“Only if you want to.”

“Sveta,” Ilya replied immediately. “I want to tell Sveta.”

“I thought you said she knew.”

“She knows, yes, but not because I told her.”

That made sense, actually. He also preferred to know things from people telling him directly than having to guess, even when he was 100% sure he’d guessed correctly.

“We can tell her together, if you want.”

They stepped out into the warm air, the synchronized double thud of the car doors echoing off the trees. Shane met him at the hood, reaching out to catch Ilya’s hand as they started up the steps. The porch light flickered on, unnecessary in the long hours of the summer days.

“Sounds good, but first I want to see your private ice rink.”

Shane laughed, swapping shoes for slippers in the entryway. “How the fuck do you know about that?”

Ilya didn’t reply, already in the main house and opening doors at random.

“Wait, did you watch that ESPN feature?”

“No.”

“You liar.” He was grinning when he came up behind Ilya and directed him towards the door on his left, which led down into the basement. “Which part was your favourite?" he added.

“Doing downward dog on the grass.”

Shane laughed again, the anxiety of the morning easing. “How the fuck do you know what the pose is called?”

Ilya shrugged, the bulk of his shoulders blocking out most of the light and cold seeping up the staircase. “Looked it up. Need to know what poses I can fuck you in.”

“You couldn’t—” He cut off with a surprised sound as Ilya stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned to kiss him, leaning up to do so.

“Where are your spare skates?”

Shane showed him where everything was, pointing out the skates he’d ordered in Ilya’s size with the steel he liked as casually as possible. Not casually enough, judging from the smile tucked into the corner of Ilya’s expressive mouth.

The rink itself wasn’t as big as the cameras had made it look on the documentary: just six meters by twelve—plastic boards up to waist height, with acrylic above. There was just one gate and the ice didn’t quite smell right, but coming down here was still a sure-fire way to quieten his mind.

They managed to skate about two strides before it turned into a race, both of them leaning hard into the three corners of the rink until they were back where they started. Ilya was bright-eyed, breathing easy. He was so beautiful.

“I could have my Cup day here,” Ilya mused, turning almost absent mindedly in a controlled circle.

That seemed a sad use of the day to Shane, with no-one to share it with except each other and the puck-marked boards. “It’s right at the end though, right? When we’re back in Boston?”

Ilya made a quiet noise of agreement, taking Shane’s hands and skating backwards, pulling him towards the centre of the tiny rink. The overhead lights were bright rectangles in the low ceiling, the single goal sitting slightly off to the right.

“It would be nice though,” Ilya said, tucking a piece of Shane’s hair behind his ear. “We could lift it here, together.”

Those last few seconds of Game 7 had taken on the unreal sheen of a dream in his memory, but the moment Ilya had handed him the weight of the Cup remained clear.

“You wanted to kiss me on the ice, didn’t you? When we won.”

Ilya put his head down on Shane’s shoulder, their hands still clasped. “Yes, but also no. I wanted to kiss you, so much. But no, because of course it is impossible.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. You can kiss me on this ice.”

He could. He did.

Chapter Text

Shane choked, saliva bubbling up around the insistent length of Ilya’s cock. Ilya didn’t react at all, except to maybe tighten his hands in Shane’s hair.

With a pillow under his upper back and his head on the low arm-rest, he was the perfect height for Ilya to fuck his throat. They were going to have to find something the same height in Boston.

Every time Shane’s throat spasmed his own cock twitched, rubbing hot and sticky against his stomach. He had one arm reached back to hold Ilya’s forearm, ready to squeeze if he needed air, but he never panicked like this, content with the snatches of breath he could suck in when Ilya pulled out.

It would have been meditative, almost, if it wasn’t also so fucking hot.

With a deep groan Ilya shoved his cock all the way in, his pubic hair grinding into Shane’s nose. Warm salt filled Shane’s mouth and he swallowed compulsively, his lungs burning. He didn’t feel Ilya move, but a large hand wrapped around his cock. Shane lost some time then, pleasure pulling him taut, caught between the dizzying feeling of Ilya stretching out his throat and the warm pressure on his cock.

When he next blinked Ilya was lying next to him, wiping his face with a damp cloth.

“Are you with me?” Ilya asked.

“Yeah,” Shane said, or tried to say—instead a breathy croak came out of his mouth.

Ilya’s eyes widened, the cloth hanging limp in one hand. He kissed Shane’s forehead and got up and went into the kitchen. He came back with a glass of water and Shane drank greedily.

“Better?” Ilya asked.

“Yeah,” Shane tried, but he still sounded awful.

Ilya’s expression collapsed in on itself. “I’m sorry, my love,” he said, something more nuanced about the emotion in his voice in his native language. “I hurt you.”

“No, I’m fine.”

Wincing, Ilya turned away slightly and Shane propped himself up on his elbows. “No, listen. It’s a good hurt.”

Ilya hummed, picking up the cloth again and going back to wiping Shane clean. He had a towel with him as well, fluffy and warm from the towel rack.

Shane reached up and placed a hand on Ilya’s cheek. “Like hockey bruises,” he added. “Something I can play through.”

“You’d play through a concussion if they let you.”

“No, I mean, I'd want to, but I’d listen if you told me not to.”

Ilya snorted. “You played the playoffs with a sprained ankle.”

“Look, you’re my emergency contact. They’d ask you if it was something serious.”

Having cleaned and dried Shane’s stomach and thighs, Ilya reached behind him and pulled the throw off the back of the sofa, covering both.

“You’re mine too.”

Shane blinked. When had Ilya done that? Perhaps they’d been each other’s contacts this whole time. “Okay?” he asked. He still sounded like he’d smoked two packs of cigarettes.

“Good hurt?” Ilya replied, his head tucked under Shane’s chin.

“The best.”

Shane was dressed and trying to pull as much of his hair as possible into a hair tie when the doorbell sounded. It wasn’t quite long enough yet, but he couldn’t find any of the zigzag hairbands he used. He was pretty sure Ilya had hidden them in an attempt to get him to wear his Boston baseball cap more often.

When he opened the door his mom stepped in, the delicate smell of her perfume drifting towards him as she changed into slippers.

“Hey, honey.”

“Hey,” Shane croaked.

His mom’s head shot up, her eyes wide and worried. “You sound awful! Are you sick?”

Shane froze, his face heating. He couldn’t say yes because he couldn’t be sick, not while he was ramping up to a full training schedule, but he also couldn’t say no because. Well. What other reason could he have? He let the silence sit until the realisation that he wasn’t going to offer an explanation became clear on his mom’s face.

“Well. As long as you’re not sick.”

“No,” Shane agreed in his terrible, throat-fucked voice. “I’m not sick.”

“Well, that’s good to know. Where’s Ilya?”

“In the shower.” Which was more evidence they’d been fucking. God, had Ilya cleaned the lounge well enough? He’d mostly been floating when Ilya had been cleaning up, still in a post-fucked daze. Why didn’t Canada have earthquakes? Or sinkholes: he’d give a year’s salary for a sinkhole right now.

He made his mom a coffee, making what he hoped were appropriate sounds of agreement while she went through his contract once again. She’d sign it later that day. Ilya’s agent would do the same: maybe already had.

Seven years. Seven years and his parents knew. He took her a coffee and tried to pay attention, nodding as she talked about social media responsibilities. Ilya came in just as they were finishing sponsorship stuff, wearing one of Shane’s flannel shirts over a Boston Raiders t-shirt.

“Hello, Ilya,” his mom said brightly—too brightly. She knew: she must know. “You look well.”

Coming down into the living area, Ilya returned Shane’s worried look. “Did something happen?” he asked in Russian.

“My mom knows I like sucking cock,” Shane replied.

Ilya missed the last step and nearly face-planted into the coffee table.

“Ilya, watch your step!” his mom exclaimed, while Shane swallowed a laugh. “Since when do you speak Russian?” she added to Shane, as Ilya sat next to him in a sprawl.

“I just speak a little.”

“He’s good. He’s learning fast,” Ilya told her.

Shane shifted through the Adidas contract his mom had given him. Would she be upset that he wasn't working on his Japanese? It seemed a betrayal of his heritage. But he wanted to learn Russian—he’d had no-one to speak Japanese with since his grandparents had died.

“I’m glad you’ve picked up a hobby,” his mom told him, her voice warm. “What can you say?”

Shane shrugged. “A lot of hockey stuff.”

“You’ll have to teach me how to swear in Russian, Ilya.”

Ilya’s smile was the one he wore on the ice when he took a faceoff. “With pleasure.”

“Is your contract signed?”

“Yes, my agent called this morning.”

“No trades?”

“Yes, no trades: same as Shane.”

“You said there were three things you wanted to get through today?” Shane said, bringing his mom’s attention back to him.

More money though, Ilya mouthed at him, the second his mom turned to her bag, bringing out yet more papers.

Shane gave him the middle finger.

“Shane!” his mom exclaimed, in tone that he knew well.

“Sorry, mom.”

Ilya snickered quietly.

“Well, what I wanted to talk to both of you about were the statements I’ve prepared. I have three options for you: no comment, limited comment, and coming out.”

Shane lost the first half of his mom’s next sentence, stuck on the unimaginable horror of coming out to everyone. To all the team. To the fans.

“—is exactly what it sounds like: We don’t comment on personal matters. Limited is confirmation, but emphasis on privacy and the job.”

“We don’t need a coming out one,” Shane said just as his mom was taking a breath to continue.

“Shane, sweetheart, we really need to—-”

“Send it to me,” Ilya cut in. “Sorry for interrupting, but I can check it.”

His mom glanced at Shane but he said nothing. She didn’t need his permission.

“Okay, thank you, Ilya.”

Trap bar deadlifts were far safer than the straight bar some of the guys used. Shane could hit 200kg with four reps, but Ilya was distracting him and he’d stopped at three, muscles straining as he placed the bar down on the mat.

Ilya had a bar across his back, elbows tucked down and back in almost perfect form. His hips went back as he squatted, his thighs parallel to the floor before he drove himself to his feet. He did four reps at 240kg, shaking a little on the last two.

Shane licked his lips. “Couldn’t make five today?”

Ilya looked over his shoulder and winked. “Watching my form for me?”

“No,” Shane lied, taking his phone out and swiping at random as Ilya went back in for another set.

240kg was a lot. Shane could do it, but he needed a few more seconds between reps.

“Who are you texting?” Ilya asked.

Shane glanced down and opened up the latest message.

“Rose.”

Ilya racked his bar with a clatter. “You said you weren’t interested?”

“Oh, yeah. But we’re still friends.”

He was pretty sure they were beginning to be friends, anyway. She was really good at texting and her messages were always interesting: full of anecdotes about her co-workers and opinions on Florida’s second line.

Ilya hadn’t moved, the swell of his shoulders and the sweat-matted hair at the back of his neck reflected in the mirror behind him.

Shane turned his phone around and offered it to him. He took it and scrolled through the messages. “She sounds nice,” he said, grudgingly. “She’s right about Florida's second line, they’ll be dangerous next year if they figure out how to finish those cycles.”

“Yeah, hopefully they’ll keep Johnson and he’ll continue to kill all their plays.”

Ilya grinned at him as he handed the phone back, stealing a kiss as he did so. Shane watched him go back to his weights and started doing split squats to distract himself. His voice was still a creaky shadow of what it should be: he could go another 24 hours without sucking Ilya’s cock. Probably.

They showered separately and met in the kitchen, Ilya poking through the freezer at all the types of dumplings in there.

“Marley wants to come over,” Ilya told him, his voice muffled.

“You told him you’re here?”

“You don’t want him to know?”

“No, yeah. It’s fine.” Hayden didn’t know. He was supposed to go to Montreal to start training with him in a few days. “Sure, I’ll text him the address.”

“He can stay here for a few days, yes? It’s not like he doesn’t know how loud you are.”

Shane came up beside him and knocked their shoulders together. “You’re loud.”

Ilya picked up a bag of pelmeni leaving the door to the freezer open. Shane stared at the mess of bags he’d left behind, dumplings layered on top of frozen vegetables and a pack of spirulina.

“You okay?” Ilya asked.

“Hayden thinks I’m training with him,” Shane told him, closing the door and leaving the mess.

“Why does he think that?”

Shane shrugged.

“Pike is very stupid, but I don’t think he’d make up a little fantasy world where you go back and train with your old team without a good reason.”

“Hayden isn’t stupid.”

“Shane.”

“He asked me if I was coming back to Montreal for training and I didn’t say no.”

“Okay, then you just need to tell him. Give me your phone, I’ll tell him.”

“No.” Shane did get out his phone though. Hey, about training. I think it’ll be too weird in Montreal. My mom has sorted out a coach here.

“Has she?” Ilya asked, reading over his shoulder.

“Yeah, she’s sent me a couple of options. You want to look through and see who you think looks best?”

“It’s not too late to be booking a coach?”

Shane grinned. “Don’t you know? We won the Stanley Cup this year.”

Ilya kissed his nose, then went back to the fridge, pulling out one of Shane’s pre-weighed meals. “You want this or you want me to make you some pasta or something?”

“I’ll have some pasta, thanks.” Going off-diet was worth it for the smile Ilya gave him. He’d just do a few more reps tomorrow.

His phone buzzed on the kitchen island, Hayden’s grinning face popping up. Sure, bud! That makes sense. How about I drive over and we can train together for a week or so?

“He wants to come here.”

Ilya made an impressive sound of disgust.

“What do you have against him, anyway?”

“He’s a Metro.”

“I was a Metro for five years: didn’t put you off.”

Ilya didn’t reply, looking through cupboards until he found the steamer. He filled the kettle and flicked it on. He was clenching his jaw, ever so slightly.

“You’re not—” It was ridiculous, but he’d seen enough of it by now to recognize it. “You’re not jealous of Hayden?”

“No! Of course not.” Ilya put the steamer on the burner, clattering six frozen dumplings into it. “You never dated Pike.” Shane let that hang. “Did you?” Ilya added.

“No,” Shane laughed, faintly horrified. “Jesus, no! He’s my best friend.”

“I’m your best friend,”’ Ilya sulked.

“Isn’t Marley your best friend?”

“After you,” Ilya told him, completely sincere.

Shane had to go over and kiss him, slipping his hands under his t-shirt.

“Fine, Pike can come over.” Ilya allowed, pulling back but staying close enough that Shane could see the stars of lighter blue in his eyes. “He gave you to me, after all.”

“He did,” Shane confirmed with a smile. “They did: I’m yours now.”

“And I’m yours.”

Chapter Text

Shane didn’t hear the creak of the door, or footsteps on the stairs leading down into the gym. It was only a muffled curse that made him open his eyes, Marleau’s shadow retreating behind him. Shane was too far gone though and he gripped Ilya’s hair hard, holding him tightly as he came down his throat.

“Fuck,” he swore as Ilya pulled off. His face was flushed and his hand sticky.

“So hot,” Ilya said, wiping his hand on his t-shirt.

“No, Marleau saw us.”

“Ah.”

He’d known it was a bad idea when Ilya had started kissing his shoulder but he’d just wanted it, the same way he always did and it wasn’t like Marleau hadn't heard them before.

“Shane?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. We need to apologise.”

He was fine: it wasn’t any more humiliating that being told to quiet down when they were on the road, so there was that. Also there was the hot frisson of lust he’d felt when he realised they’d been seen that he had no plans on examining.

“He’s seen worse,” Ilya said, giving Shane a quick kiss as he got up. “Shower?”

“Yeah,” Shane agreed, pulling his sweats up as he stood.

By the time Shane made it up to the kitchen, skin still damp from the shower, Marleau was the same as he always was laughing and arguing about something with Ilya.

“Fuck you, that doesn’t count!” Ilya said, pushing at Marleau’s shoulder.

“Were you or were you not fucking in public?”

“Not! Private gym is not public!”

“What’s going on?” Shane asked, nausea beginning to pool in his stomach.

“A bet,” Ilya explained. “Marley thinks I owe him money which I do not.”

“What’s the bet?”

“We think eventually you idiots are going to get caught somewhere,” Marleau said, casual as he swiped through his phone with one hand.

Shane leant on the kitchen island, pushing his arm hard against the sharp edge of the marble. “Who’s we?”

“Just Laine and Marleau,” Ilya said, the laughter falling off his face as he took a step across the kitchen. “Shane,” he added, but Shane was already out of the kitchen and out the door—down the steps and towards the lake.

Ilya had been talking about him to people. How the fuck was this ever going to be a secret if Ilya was telling half the fucking team that Shane liked cock?

He kicked a stone off the pier, where it skimmed the water for a second before disappearing into the blue depths. Hayden would be there this afternoon. He hadn’t even decided if he was going to tell him or not and Ilya had a fucking betting pool going.

The steps behind him weren’t Ilya’s. Marleau sat on the pier next to Shane, his slides hanging precariously on his feet as he swung them over the water. In a sleeveless t-shirt and a cap he looked like an extra from a douchy buddy movie. Shane threw another stone then sat down next to him.

“Roz had a shitty rookie year,” Marleau started, looking out over the hazed blue of the lake.

They always spoke French when it was just the two of them, despite the hundred dollar fine they were slapped with whenever they were caught by someone else in the team. The betting pool on him and Ilya was likely a lot more than that. Shane didn't reply, turning over a stick between two fingers, the bark smearing against his skin.

“He had a lot of stuff going on and like, Russia is so fucking different and he didn't really speak English. At least not well enough to be okay in the locker room. And he was so fucking good. Just so fast. So people thought, you know, here's some snotty kid who thinks he's better than us.

“I'd been traded from Minnesota the season before and like, yeah I speak English, but it's still my second language, and America is just weird sometimes. And, well. Let's just say our dads are cut from the same cloth.

“So yeah, we hung out a lot. We didn't talk much but we could play PlayStation and watch TV. And we could talk hockey, of course. “

Shane leaned back slightly, which took him just close enough to brush his shoulder against Marleau’s.

“I don't know what I'm saying. Just. He's my best friend. He's been my best friend for six years. He's going to tell me stuff. Especially about the guy he's in love with.”

“We’re supposed to be keeping this to ourselves.”

“This is ourselves. Lainey and I are your friends, no? Unless you think we’d sell you out to TMZ?”

Shane shook his head. He didn’t think that. “It doesn’t bother you?” he asked.

“What doesn’t bother me?”

“You know,” he gestured back over his shoulder, towards the cottage.

Marleau snorted. “Real helpful, Holly.”

Shane huffed. “Knowing stuff about me and Ilya.”

Marleau tipped his head back, his eyes closed against the sun. “When Roz started talking about you,” he went on, “I was like: nah, don’t need to hear that.”

Shane’s stomach dipped a little. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Didn’t want it in my ear.”

“And now?”

Marleau glanced at him, like the answer was obvious. “Now it’s just the same as anything.”

“Same as what?”

“Same as the rookies talking shit about who they pulled, same as Tommy’s imaginary supermodel girlfriend.”

Shane huffed a laugh.

Marleau pressed his shoulder briefly against Shane’s. “It’s all the same shit, man.”

“It doesn't bother you at all?”

“No.”

“But you know what guys say in locker rooms.”

“Not in ours,” Marleau cut in.

Shane glanced up.

Marleau shrugged again, easy. “Look, I’m not going to let anyone tell me what to think, let alone some third liner who gets half my ice time. You’re my guy,” he added, like it was nothing. “He’s my guy. That’s it.”

Shane swallowed. “Yeah.”

Marleau leaned forward, knocking his shoulder into Shane’s. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Then stop being weird about it.”

“Fuck off.”

“I mean, I’d rather not see it again.”

“Fuck off.”

After lunch Shane went down to the boathouse, where he began scrubbing moss off the crumbling wooden floorboards. He’d been meaning to do it since he arrived, and maybe Hayden would want to see inside. The zoning laws this close to the lake were a nightmare so he’d just opted to keep the old structure when he’d been having the cottage built.

Hayden was due in an hour. He’d sent a text an hour and change ago, letting Shane know he was on his way. He’d said to put a beer in the fridge for him.

Sweat stuck Shane’s t-shirt to his back, two points on his legs itching where mosquitos had ignored his liberal use of bug spray. He swirled his sponge in the bucket of water he’d brought out, bits of moss floating to the top.

He was just so sick of telling people things. Yes, he was Canadian; yes, he spoke French; actually his mom was Japanese; no, she'd grown up here; no, he didn't really speak much Japanese. He'd spent his whole life explaining himself and his best friend would be here in less than an hour and he was going to have to do it again.

The door creaked open—a sound straight out of a horror movie—and Ilya appeared, curls haloed by the sunlight.

“You going to hide in here until season starts?”

“Yes,” Shane replied, scrubbing hard enough that some of the wood came away, crumbling into a spongy mess.

“You don’t want to see Pike?”

“I don’t want to tell him.”

Ilya came over and sat on the bench next to where Shane was kneeling. “You think he’ll be a dick about it?”

“No, I just. I don’t want to tell him.” He sounded like a whiny child, but it was the truth.

Ilya seemed to sit with that, tipping his head back against the wall. Shane kept cleaning.

“I can tell him, if you want?” he finally offered.

God, that was so tempting. He sat back on his heels, surveying his progress. There was a foot square of wood that was slightly less mossy than the rest. It also lacked wood in some places where there had previously been wood.

“No,” he said, standing. “I’ll do it.”

Despite his dread, his first feeling when seeing Hayden was a rush of affection so strong that tears pricked at his eyes. He’d spent most of the last five years with him, sharing rooms when they were rookies, living in each other’s pockets.

“Hey man,” he said, going in for a hug that he hung onto for longer than he usually would.

Hayden didn’t comment when he pulled back, only giving Shane a soft smile. “Hey, you going to show me around your new massive crash pad?”

“Yeah, come in.”

Ilya and Marleau were on the ice in the basement rink, messing around with two pucks. Ilya had dragged Marleau down there twenty minutes earlier with a promise of beating him at a corner challenge. With the door closed, you could barely hear them, just the faint reverberation when one of them hit the boards.

Hayden took a coke when Shane offered a drink, making awed sounds as Shane gave him a quick tour.

“Marleau and Rozanov still here?”

“Yeah, they’re down on the ice,” Shane said as he sat down on a bar stool and put a hand out to indicate where Hayden should sit, like this was a fucking interview something. He shoved his hands under his thighs to stop him doing anything even more stupid with them.

“So,” he started. “How’s Jackie?”

Hayden was looking at him with the slightly wide-eyed expression he got when Shane was being weird but he was going with it.

“She’s good, bud.”

“And the kids?”

“Great. You good?”

“Yeah-” Shane’s hands escaped confinement to rub over his face and into his hair. “-I just. I wanted to tell you something.”

“Sure, buddy.”

Hayden looked perfectly relaxed, one ankle propped up on the opposite knee and his arm resting on the island. Shane placed his right arm on the cold marble as well. Maybe if looked chill he might start to feel it.

“So,” he started. “So I think you know this already but I’ve just got to tell you.”

There was a short silence where Hayden just looked at him. “Okay,” Hayden finally agreed. “You can tell me anything.”

Shane leaned forward, putting his hands on his knees. “Okay,” he echoed. “So I’m gay. And I think you know, but I just wanted to tell you.”

Which was a lie, he didn’t want to tell anyone that, but that wasn’t something you could say to your best friend.

“I’m glad you told me, and you know I support you 100%.”

No-one had supported him when they thought he was straight. It wasn’t a fair thought and Shane took in a deep breath, pushing it away. “Cool. Thanks.”

“So that thing with your movie star really wasn’t a thing then?”

“Really no. We’re friends though.”

“That’s cool.”

He could hear Malreau’s heavy tread on the stairs, followed by what sounded like a herd of elephants but as likely Ilya just instigating a race. They burst into the hallway with Marleau swearing at Ilya in French, Ilya grinning as he came into the kitchen space. Shane already knew what he was going to do. He should stop him, it would take only a look and Ilya would understand, but he didn’t want to. He was a shitty friend, but he didn’t know what else to do.

Ilya came up to where he was perched on a bar stool and kissed him, slow but sweet. Shane’s heartbeat thundered in his ears as he pulled back; Marleau was saying something but Hayden was staring at them.

Hayden closed his open mouth and chuckled, sounding kind of forced. “Ha ha, guys. You got me.”

Ilya looked down at Shane. “You didn’t tell him,” he stated.

“Actually he did: I know he’s gay,” Hayden bristled. “There’s no need to be a dick about it.”

“I'm not,” Ilya countered. “Then you'll be cool with our relationship, no?”

Shane has his head down, turned towards the warm bulk of Ilya's shoulder. Seven years. He loved him so much.

“Roz didn’t tell me either,” Marleau announced, dragging out a bar stool with an unholy screech.

“You know why,” Ilya replied, but Shane could hear the question in it.

“I know, brother. We’re good.”

“Didn't tell you what?” Hayden asked, sounding aggrieved.

“Roz just told you, dude. They're been fucking since they were rookies, going steady now though.”

In the ensuing silence Shane finally looked up. Marleau had helped himself to a banana from the fruit bowl, taking a massive bite of it, and Hayden was staring between all three of them with a puzzled smile, like he was waiting for the rest of the joke. Only Ilya seemed serious, leaning in to kiss Shane's forehead, watching Hayden with a cold look Shane had never seen from him before.

“That okay with you, Pike?” he asked, quiet and calm.

Hayden looked over at Shane, but Shane couldn’t meet his eyes and just nodded, hoping that was confirmation enough.

“Yeah,” Hayden said, sounding as bewildered as Shane’s Dad had. “Yeah, that’s cool.”

“Cool,” Ilya replied in his Captain voice. “Let’s grab a beer and we can talk about training schedules.”

Marleau took the cue instantly, leaning back precariously on his stool to open the fridge. Shane stood to head outside, where colourful lounge chairs were waiting for them, warm in the sun. He took a deep breath of the air, full of the smell of green growing things and the calm lake beyond. Ilya was just behind him, one hand steady at the small of his back. Shane reached back and caught it in his own.

Chapter Text

The mid-August evening was warm, bugs throwing themselves to their deaths against the UV lamps his dad had set up earlier. Ilya and Hayden had helped, but Marleau had been oddly quiet, sitting on his phone at the far end of the deck.

“Hey, you taking a break?” his mom asked as she sat on the recliner next to him.

His dad was showing Ilya something down by the shoreline and Hayden and Marleau were kicking the ball around, shouting indistinctly and gesturing to a makeshift goal made out of hoodies and a plant pot.

“Yeah, enjoying the quiet,” Shane replied with a smile, right as Marleau whooped in triumph.

His mom snorted before taking a sip of her wine. His parents had brought over hamburgers and hotdogs for the grill in a massive cooler, along with enough salad for a whole hockey team. The demolished remains were on the kitchen side, waiting for him and Ilya to scrape plates and load the dishwasher.

“Ilya mentioned something while we were cooking earlier.”

“Hmm?” Shane hummed. He was pretty sure something had bitten him on the back of his leg.

“He said it was nice that you weren’t weighing your portions while you’re here.”

Shane stopped breathing, but only for a second. Fuck, he should have told Ilya not to mention it, but then he’d have had to explain why and that would have just invited more questions.

“Honey, we talked about this,” his mom continued. “You agreed that it wasn’t necessary, that your diet was fine.”

“That was with Lauren,” Shane countered.

“And if we asked Boston’s Head Nutritionalist? What do you think she’d say?”

Shane itched at his bite, digging his short fingernails in. He was always first to get fucking bitten, no matter how much bug spray he wore.

“Shane, please sweetheart,” his mom said, trying to catch his eye. “I worry about you enough, I don’t want to be worrying about you fainting in the middle of the ice because you’re restricting your food.”

“It’s not about—” he cut himself off.

What was the point? She’d never believe him. No-one understood how much work he had to put into being the best he could be. He was the best because he trained so hard, because he understood his body and what it needed.

“If you want me to find you someone to talk to…”

“No! I mean, I don’t need it. I won’t use the scales if it worries you.”

“I think it worries Ilya too.”

Shane looked down and his hands. There was a little blood under the nails of his right hand: he must have caught himself.

His dad and Ilya had moved from the shoreline to the trees. He was sure Ilya was getting a tour of the local bird life, complete with nest guides. Marleau was now lying on the grass, his hands laced over his stomach. He was talking to Hayden, who was sitting nearby, their expressions hard to make out in the gathering dusk.

“Cliff seems nice,” his mom said. She was looking out towards the water and she’d finished her wine at some point.

“Yeah, he’s a good guy.”

“How long has he known about you two?”

“I don’t know, mom. A while?”

He didn’t even know why the question made him uncomfortable. Maybe just the idea of people knowing.

“Well, I’m glad your teammates support you.”

“Two of them,” Shane corrected her.

Hayden got to his feet and bounded over, Marleau heading around the cottage. His dad and Ilya had disappeared around the front a few minutes ago: he hoped Ilya wasn’t too bored.

"Who won?" his mom asked as Hayden sat down on the end of her recliner.

“Defintely not a winning kind of game,” Hayden replied.

“So Marley won,” Shane summarised.

“Hey, dude. Harsh.”

His parents went home not long after that and Marley, Hayden, and Shane cleaned up, while Ilya enthusiastically told them everything about Great Blue Herons he’d learned, arms held wide as he showed them their wing span.

The gym they trained at was huge, mostly mats with racks and racks of weights and Olympic bars. The trainer his mom had recommended was new to Shane, but had bro-hugged Marleau the second he’d seen him. Chris Davidson was apparently well-known in Ottawa: he was certainly unbothered by having a handful of NHL stars on his roster.

“Rozanov! That’s not the weight I gave you,” Chris said, striding across the mat to a guilty-looking Ilya.

They’d started early so the late morning rush hadn’t arrived yet and they had the place mostly to themselves. Marleau was lifting his Chris-approved weights and Hayden was stretched out on the mat next to Shane, done with his reps for the day.

Across the room Ilya said something to Chris that made him laugh, the sound booming in the huge space. Ilya went down into a back squat, his weights balanced perfectly against his shoulders. His quadriceps bulged with effort, straining the edges of his terrible turquoise gym shorts. They’d fucked the night before, but this morning they’d been up early to get to the rink in time.

Hayden was heading home that afternoon. Maybe he could convince Marleau to go out for a walk or something so they could fuck in the living room. Sex in a bed was fine, great even, but the sofa was the perfect height to—

Hayden cleared his throat.

Shane had been holding his hamstring stretch for way too long and he quickly unhooked his foot from his resistance band, swapping it to the left.

“I’m still stuck on the fact you’ve been together the whole time I’ve known you,” Hayden commented, lying down and twisting to the right at the waist.

The gym was nearly empty, but Shane sent a quick glance around anyway. “Well, not—” he started, not sure how to phrase it, or even if he really wanted to specify exactly what they’d been doing with each other.

The look Hayden was giving him said he knew already. “Yeah, yeah. Fuck friends or whatever.”

“Never say that again,” Shane implored.

“Boston Lily!” Hayden continued, ignoring Shane. “It’s so obvious in hindsight.”

They’d spoken about it a couple of times over the last week, Hayden so clearly careful about what he said that it was difficult to be annoyed about the questions.

“You going to tell JJ?” he added.

Shane shook his head, tossing the resistance band to the side and copying Hayden, twisting his spine to the right and breathing into the stretch. “Nope.”

“He’s your friend, Shane. He’d support you.”

“He hates Ilya.”

“Well, I hated him and I support you,” Hayden said, his voice light.

Shane turned the other way, facing away from Hayden and towards the racks on the other side of the room. At eye level, tiny hairs and dust were visible on the surface of the bright blue mat.

“Look,” Hayden continued from behind him. “I didn’t know him. I mean, he’s got a pretty sharp sense of humour, but it’s clear how he feels about you.”

“You’ve gotten along pretty well with Marley,” Shane said, sitting up and crossing his legs.

Hayden rolled his eyes, but took the hint. “He’s so chill. Does he like kids? I bet he’d be an awesome babysitter.”

“Yeah,” Marleau said, collapsing in a sweaty heap on the mat. “I love kids. Why? You offering, Pike?”

Hayden spluttered a laugh, replying something about not being the one to carry them.

Shane missed Boston. He’d also missed his home and his friends and his parents, but he wanted to go back to his team. He’d always been desperate to get back to hockey after the summer, but he didn’t think he’d ever been so desperate to get back to his team before.

Reaching out, he flicked Marleau’s earlobe as hard as he could.

Marleau screeched, causing the few people in the gym to look over at them. Hayden raised his eyebrows high as Marleau dived forward, getting Shane around the waist. Shane rolled with it, trapping Marleau’s arms under himself as he got in two more good hard flicks of the same ear, Marleau fighting to free his hands and telling him he was a bastard in French.

“You dipshit,” Hayden told Marleau, fondly. “You’re so fucked.”

It was late when Ilya’s phone buzzed with a text to say that Marleau had landed in Boston. Their own flight was booked for a week tomorrow, just in time for Ilya to have his cup day.

The humidity had lifted as the sun had set, and the fire Shane had carefully banked and set flickered orange and red against the deep navy of the sky.

His parents had been over for lunch, his dad making terrible jokes that only Ilya had found funny. He’d tried to convince Ilya to stop encouraging him, but Ilya was adamant that the tenth knock knock joke was as funny as the first.

“Your parents are kind,” Ilya commented, his head in Shane’s lap and his eyes closed. “They love you very much.”

“Yeah, I know I‘m lucky.” Shane tilted his head back, looking up at the stars that were starting to appear, the brightest first. “My mom is talking about stepping back a little, maybe getting another agent. Or she said it might be a good idea if we had the same agent.”

“Yes, I should get an American agent.”

“You don’t have an American agent?”

He brushed his fingers through Ilya’s hair, the silky texture familiar. He’d enjoyed having Hayden and Marleau over more than he’d expected to, but it was good to have Ilya to himself again.

Ilya shrugged, turning so he faced the fire, his hands tucked under his chin. “Just my Russian agent. Good old Boris.”

“Then yeah, maybe we should have the same agent.”

“Is it okay? Your mom not being your agent anymore?”

“Yeah. I guess. It’s a change, but also we don’t talk about other stuff so much any more and—I don’t miss it, because she’s been my agent for so long—but I do something think about what it would be like if we just talked about, I don’t know, the weather or whatever.”

“You want to talk about the weather with your mother?”

“Shut up,” Shane groused, tugging lightly at the curls just behind his ear. Every time he looked up, there were more stars. He wished he knew the names of some of them. “What did you talk about with your mother?”

Ilya was quiet enough that Shane was sure he’d made a mistake by asking, but he took a deep breath, his shoulders moving against Shane’s thigh, and let it out slowly.

“Nothing and everything. She was my best friend.”

“Did she look like you?”

“Yes, very much.”

The fire popped loudly, a hail of sparks jumping into the darkness. “Tell me something else about her,” Shane asked.

“She was from Arkhangelsk,” Ilya started, his voice low. “Which is on the White Sea. It is beautiful and very cold. I remember singing prayers with her in church, trying to remember the words because I couldn’t hold the prayer book in my mittens. My clothes always smelt of wood smoke when we got back to Moscow and my father—-” Ilya moved one hand from under his chin, wrapping it around the opposite shoulder, as if he were cold. “He didn’t like it. He would curl his lip and tell my mother to make sure all my clothes were clean before school.”

“Did he like your mother?”

“No.”

Shane didn’t have anything to say to that. He snagged the corner of a throw from the end of the bench and tucked it around Ilya, noting the cool skin of his arms.

“Did she skate?” he asked.

“Hmm, yes. She bought me my first skates. I didn’t like it the first time I got on the ice: it was fast and the other children were so much bigger. But I could see how much she liked it, holding my hand and skating in circles around the outdoor rink, so I told her I loved it and wanted to go back.”

“You weren’t lying: you love it now.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed, turning back so that he was looking up at Shane. “And I love you.”

“Ya tebya tozhe lyublyu.”