Chapter Text
January 2017 — Montreal
Shane skates up to the face-off circle, heart beating out of his chest as he tries to guess whether Ilya will talk shit like he normally does, or if he'll glower at Shane like he sometimes does just to mix things up a bit.
Ilya does neither. He keeps his eyes down, silent as he has been for the entire game, waiting for the puck drop. Maybe Shane imagines it, but the lineman seems to hold for an extra second as if anticipating something from Ilya that he doesn't offer this time. Shane swallows. He loses the face-off.
Ilya is on the warpath tonight. Fast (he's always fast), brutal (he's always brutal), focused (he's always focused). It's probably fine. Shane fights to keep his eyes on the play, not Ilya, who keeps slamming J.J. into the boards like he's personally offending him for having the puck. He's really skirting the line of legal play.
If he didn't know better, Shane would guess that Ilya had lost badly at his last game. But Shane does know better, he knows Ilya had crushed Buffalo 4-0. Something else is bothering Ilya, and it's bothering him a lot, and Shane tells himself he has no idea what that something might be.
Instead of dwelling on what Shane definitely doesn't know anything about, he locks back into the game, stealing the puck from Marlow.
He has it for about three seconds before Ilya checks him, dashing off with Shane at his heels. Shane hasn't closed in before J.J. appears, and Ilya glances J.J.'s direction before throwing his weight toward him, and J.J. hits Ilya, hard, from the worst angle, and Ilya's body smashes into the glass before falling limp on the ice. Shane skids to a stop, stick dropping from his hands as he stares down at Ilya's body.
…Move.
Fucking move.
Do something.
J.J. is shouting, waving, and people come over to roll Ilya carefully onto his back. His lips are parted slightly, eyes closed. Shane sucks in a desperate breath when they snap a neck brace onto him. He must be alive, then. For a neck brace to matter. He's so still. He isn't moving. Move. Shane wants to shake him. Have Ilya snap at him for being an asshole after he made Shane a tuna melt and said his name and said stay…
"Ilya?" they ask.
They hold something under his nose, and Ilya jolts a little, eyelids fluttering. Shane lets out a noise, he doesn't know how loud, or what the noise was.
"Hey, man, you okay? Buddy?"
Shane pushes blindly at the arm coming around him, and finally shakes out of it enough to see Hayden watching him. Shane looks back at Ilya, whose eyes are falling shut every other second as they keep talking to him and making him stay awake.
"Fine," Shane says faintly, wishing he could follow Ilya off the ice, into the ambulance and to the hospital. Knowing there's no world where he could do that.
The game continues. Of course it does, players get injured and taken off the ice all the time. Well, not all the time, but it happens. Never to Shane, never to Ilya. Shane gets slammed into the boards by Marlow. He loses the puck, and takes two seconds too long to catch up before Marlow scores.
It finally ends. Finally. Shane is off the ice before anyone from his team. He's back in the dressing room hurling his gloves into his stall so he can grab his phone and search for some miraculous message, from Lily, probably, Shane, I'm okay, I'm fine now, it turned out to be nothing.
Lily hasn't texted.
And why would he? Why would he have texted Shane? They haven't spoken since November. The last text on the thread is from Shane: I'm here.
He goes to ESPN, every news outlet he's ever spoken to, Ilya's Instagram… Nothing. Ilya had posted a picture of a receipt for peanut butter Oreos, ground beef, Coke, and pickles. It has eight thousand likes. No caption. The post is from November, there's nothing more recent.
Shane realizes his team has come in, oddly quiet.
Shane's jaw clenches when he sees J.J.'s pale face. J.J. seems willing to stare Shane down. He looks shaken, but it was Ilya's fault. Shane could kill him. J.J.
And Ilya. Both of them. It was undeniably Ilya's fault. It was a weird move, because Ilya was in a weird mood, and it showed in his game. It showed in Shane's game, too. Shane could kill him.
"Shane, buddy."
There's Hayden in front of him again, mouth guard hanging from his lip. Shane looks down at his phone, stuck on the slide to power off screen, because Shane has been holding down the button. He drops it back into his stall.
"Hey, take off your gear at least," Hayden says, and Shane robotically obeys. No one else speaks. Hayden lowers his voice. "What's going on, man?"
"I…" Shane's mouth hangs open as he searches for words. "I… I don't…"
What could he even say? I left him in November because he said my name and it was the scariest word that's ever come from his mouth. The silence between them in the past three months had been filled with late night conversations with Rose – oh, Rose, Shane's actual girlfriend. So it hasn't felt quite like the empty chasm that opened between them in the months when Ilya had stopped talking to Shane after the Olympics.
"He'll be okay," Hayden says, though he isn't confident, and Shane just keeps staring at his face. "I'll watch the news, go shower. I'll get you if anything goes up."
Shane nods. It's generous, probably. Hayden hates Ilya more than anyone else on the Voyageurs. Except Shane, who supposedly hates Ilya even more. He wanders off toward the sound of water, stands under it for about twenty seconds, decides he's clean enough, and finds Hayden again in his towel. Hayden looks like he's dutifully refreshing ESPN. Shane is distantly grateful for him. Maybe Hayden would have been okay with it. If he knew Boston Lily was really Ilya. Fuck.
The room empties as Shane picks up his own phone again, moving through each site in a constant loop interspersed with scrolling back through the text thread with Lily - impersonal hookup logistics. I'm here. or Room 1882. Because Shane (and presumably Ilya as well) had always deleted anything that identified Ilya in his texts. Ilya did it all the time, teasing Shane with comments about his games in Boston, sending sexy, very masculine photos, telling Shane he wants to get hard in Shane's mouth.
He refreshes ESPN.
Hayden – oh, Hayden is still here – sits down on a bench in front of Shane.
"Wanna tell me what's going on?" he asks. Shane has heard him ask the twins that before, in that voice, when they're fighting, or if one of them is acting out. He's a good dad. He's watching Hayden's mouth form words. "We've seen guys taken off the ice before."
Shane shakes his head for too long. Looks for words he's allowed to say.
"Not… not one of my guys," he says. "Not out cold."
"He's…" Hayden exhales. "He's not one of your guys, Shane. He's on the other team. He's not your responsibility."
Shane takes a shaky breath. Hayden plants his hands on Shane's knees bracingly. Shane hadn't realized he'd sat down. He leans on his elbows, breathing out.
"We were rookies together. He's been there since…"
"I know, man. Me too."
Yes, Hayden was also a rookie with them. It isn't the same. Shane didn't know Hayden until they were both on the Voyageurs. Shane knew Ilya before they'd touched NHL ice.
"I didn't… I didn't think it could happen to one of us," Shane says haltingly. He squeezes his eyes shut. "Maybe that's why I freaked out. Could've been me."
That's a reasonable justification, probably. Maybe Hayden will buy it. Shane glances up at him. Hayden doesn't buy it. He doesn't press the issue, though. Shane shuts his eyes again, head hanging from his shoulders.
"Sure. Yeah, it could've been you," Hayden says. "But it wasn't. He was playing dirty tonight, he doesn't usually play like that. Well, not that much."
Shane shakes his head slowly.
"Any idea why?"
He just keeps shaking his head.
Hayden lets out a breath, then stands, pulling Shane up by his elbows, attempting eye contact that Shane doesn't particularly want to give him. Hayden doesn't try very hard.
"I'm gonna shower, you get dressed. You can come home and eat dinner with us."
Shane nods, though he hasn't heard anything Hayden's said. Hayden somehow knows this, and he thrusts Shane's suit into his arms.
By the time he gets back from the showers, Shane is dressed. Hayden dresses, and they leave together, Shane climbing into the front seat of Hayden's minivan and leaving his Jeep in the garage.
Something plays quietly on the radio, keeping the silence at bay. Hayden glances over at Shane when they stop at a light.
At the house, Jackie looks surprised to see Shane. He hasn't seen much of the Pikes lately, he's been too wrapped up in his new dating life. His relationship.
Oh, Rose. He should text her. Or at least mention that he wants to text her, so it won't be weird that he hasn't mentioned her all evening.
"I should text Rose," Shane announces. There. He'd done it. He picks up his phone again and refreshes all the sites. He really should text her. He likes her, likes talking to her best of all. It would help.
Shane can't eat everything Jackie made for dinner, and she tells him Hayden hadn't warned her Shane was coming. Shane apologizes again for his weird diet, and she brushes it off again.
Ilya shakes the thing off his finger, and more beeps start. Long beeps, which might not be good. He looks around him, the unfamiliar space of what might be a hospital. A man hurries in, speaking nonsense and putting the clamp back on Ilya's finger. Ilya stares at his mouth, trying to make out real words. He's dizzy, the room sways a bit.
"…Rozanov?" he says. Ilya blinks at him. Points at his own chest. The man speaks again, and Ilya shakes his head.
"What do you want?" he asks, then, "Where am I?"
The man holds up a finger to indicate Ilya should wait. He leaves the room. Ilya looks around himself, trying to find something familiar. There isn't anything, so he closes his eyes instead.
A long time passes before the man returns with a middle-aged woman in a tidy blouse and slacks. She smiles briefly, walking up and offering her hand.
"Hello Ilya," she says, and Ilya shakes her hand. "I'm Oksana, I'm here to translate for you."
"Oh," Ilya says. He frowns at the man who had spoken before. "He is speaking English then, yes?"
Oksana nods.
"You're not able to understand him?" she asks. She sounds Ukranian.
"No. Should I?"
Oksana tilts her head side to side.
"You suffered quite an injury on the ice. English may take a while to come back."
"Ice," Ilya echoes. Oksana's eyebrows lift.
"Ice hockey," she says. "Can you tell me the year?"
Ilya blinks at her. He can't. He glances around himself again, looking for some clue. There is a date on the hospital wrist band, and he reads it to her. She thanks him briefly, then speaks to the other man in English.
Oksana translates everything to Ilya as more people come in, looking at his eyes, asking what he remembers and what he doesn't (there isn't a good way to answer that one).
Ilya is tired, but they tell him he can't sleep for a while. Instead, they allow two people into the room. Ilya doesn't recognize either of them.
One introduces himself – via Oksana – as his coach. His ice hockey coach.
The other is a player, Cliff. They are friends. Ilya can't remember him. Cliff looks worried about it.
Cliff gives Ilya a phone, a gold chain with a crucifix, and a wallet. Cliff says something as Oksana helps Ilya with the clasp on the necklace.
"He doesn't think you're religious, but you never take the necklace off," Oksana tells him. Ilya nods, grateful for Cliff's presence.
Ilya can't remember the password to his phone, but his thumbprint works. The coach stays for a while, but eventually leaves after talking to the doctors.
Cliff helps him change his phone's language from English to Russian. Oksana suggests he look for what contacts he's texted or called the most.
There are plenty, and Cliff helpfully tells him which names are from the team, and which names he doesn't know. Lots of women's names, but only a few texts exchanged, dates, times, club names… Finally, they reach one Ilya has texted a lot over several years. There's a partially written text in the message box. Translated into Russian with the rest of his phone – Nothing to lose your shit over, just
"Oh... Jane," Cliff says, and Ilya doesn't need Oksana to translate that. Cliff's mouth is twisted oddly as he tries to find an explanation for Jane.
Ilya looks through the texts and is glad Cliff can't read Russian. Some of them are very explicit, always Ilya to Jane. The texts have weird gaps like pieces of their conversations had been deleted. Hopefully it was Jane responding positively to Ilya's advances.
"Jane might be your girlfriend," Oksana translates, and Ilya looks at Cliff with a frown.
"Might be?" he asks. Oksana repeats it in English. Cliff answers in a rambling, broken way, like he isn't quite sure how to answer the question.
"He's not sure because you have been very secretive about her," Oksana says. "You've been texting her for a long time and seem to like her, but he's never met her, and you still sleep with other women."
Ilya lowers his head to the pillows to stare at the ceiling. Cliff says something else, short and quiet.
"You could call her," Oksana says. Ilya looks at his phone again.
"I don't remember how to speak English," he says. Oksana points at herself, and Ilya huffs.
Jane hasn't called him.
Maybe she hasn't heard he was injured, but hockey is televised, surely she could have found out.
"Has anyone reported my injury?" Ilya asks Oksana without looking away from the unsent message. "In the news?"
"Yes, your coach left to announce that you had woken up and are recovering."
Ilya frowns, nodding. He can't get a read on Jane with all these missing texts. He doesn't know if she had even been interested, or if Ilya was just bothering her. He finds himself pressing the crucifix on his necklace between his forefinger and thumb.
"You don't have to call her if you don't want to," Oksana says.
"I know," Ilya responds, though it settles him more to know he isn't expected to have someone he could call other than his coach and Cliff. But he finds it weird, like something is missing. Like someone is missing. Does he not have anything outside hockey?
It's a long night before Ilya is released. His medication hasn't worn off completely, but he had been given a bottle of pills and several pages of instructions printed in English and Russian. Oksana gives him her business card, and says Ilya's coach had mentioned hiring a translator until Ilya is able to get his English back. She lives in Montreal, though, so they would need to find a translator in Boston.
Ilya is so disoriented by listening to English, he can't imagine waking up one day suddenly remembering how the language works. Oksana might translate for him forever. Or at least until Ilya goes back to Russia.
Cliff brings Ilya to a dull, unremarkable hotel. He speaks with the person at the front desk, showing them Ilya's ID card. They give Cliff a room key, and Ilya follows him to an elevator. Inside the suite that, apparently, Ilya has been staying in, Cliff gives Ilya a glass of water to take some pills, the page of Russian instructions spread in front of him. Ilya is tired of reading before the end of the first line.
Cliff sets his phone between them, and Ilya sees he'd opened a translating app. He starts speaking, and the app writes it out in English and Russian.
"Do you need anything? Anyone you need to call?"
Ilya looks at the Cyrillic words under the English. Cliff's thumb hovers over a button with a short English word. Ilya opens his mouth, and Cliff taps it, erasing his words.
"I just want to sleep," Ilya says. The app translates it. Cliff nods, and taps the button again.
"You can text me in Russian and I'll translate it," he says, in English, and Ilya reads it in Russian. He nods. Cliff clears the app. Ilya wonders if Cliff is Ilya's closest friend. There hadn't been much in their text thread. Some cocky shit-talking, a bit of logistical planning. Cliff knew Ilya wore a necklace all the time, but he doesn't know why. Ilya doesn't either. They probably see each other almost every day.
"Thank you," he says, after too long has passed.
"Seriously, Roz," Cliff says, and the app doesn't know how to translate the shortened version of Ilya's name. "Ilya."
Ilya sighs, putting his elbow on the table, leaning his head on it. He's tired of words. He gives Cliff a thumbs up. Cliff smiles.
"The rest of the team wants to check on you soon," Cliff continues. Ilya pretends to fall asleep, and Cliff laughs. "I'll tell them to wait. We're all here in the same hotel."
Cliff sticks around long enough for Ilya to get changed into comfortable sweats and get in bed.
"Call if you need anything. I'll be back in a couple hours," Cliff says, which the app on Ilya's phone translates for him. Ilya drops his head back against the pillows, letting his eyes close briefly.
"Thanks," he says again, holding his phone screen so Cliff can see it. Cliff gives him a tight smile, and leaves the room.
It's too quiet, so Ilya turns on the TV. It's too bright, so he puts the spare pillow over his face. Everything is a bit fuzzy around the edges; what they'd said is wrong with him – concussion, amnesia, bruising, but no broken bones somehow – it doesn't make much sense to him. They'll be home soon, and Ilya is staying behind to recover while his team travels to another game. Maybe there will be answers in Boston. Cliff said Jane is from Montreal.
By noon, Ilya has barely slept. He's achingly tired, but his head won't quiet long enough for him to rest. He picks up his phone, the screen blinding him briefly after having a pillow on his face for so long.
Ilya: Nothing to lose your shit over, just
Unsent. The last message was from Jane: I'm here.
November.
Ilya looks back at their texts, looking for one from Jane that isn't a room number or announcing her arrival. She's in Boston frequently, though not to visit him, he just happens to live there. He looks for photos, or jokes from her, or anything. Even his own texts are few and far between. He scrolls back forever, back through the years.
Bafflingly, the first text he'd sent to Jane: Hey Jane, see you in 2 weeks 😉 xo Lily
Had the phone translated his name in a strange way? Had he mistyped it?
Ilya turns off his phone screen. Sets it down on the nightstand. Shuts his eyes. The TV drones on in English. Ilya sighs heavily.
Cliff returns to Ilya's suite with lunch, and though Ilya is still nauseous from the medication, he's hungry enough to eat anyway.
"We're headed to the airport pretty soon," Cliff says to the app. "In about an hour."
"Okay," Ilya says. It doesn't need to be translated. He looks at the eggs and sausage on his plate, poking them around for a minute. "Will anyone else be left in Boston?"
Cliff's eyes lifts from the phone once he's read Ilya's words. He grimaces.
"Not that I know of," he says. "You should call Jane before we leave Montreal."
Ilya frowns.
"She hasn't called me," he says. "And she hasn't texted me in months."
"Really?"
He shrugs.
Cliff hesitates.
"I don't know, man. I see you texting her all the time."
"Not since November," Ilya says. Cliff looks surprised again.
"I've seen you text her since then," he says. Ilya shakes his head, holding up his phone. Nothing to lose your shit over, just
"What does that mean?" he asks. Ilya shrugs again. Oh, Cliff can't read the text at all. Cliff sighs. "You… you were kind of on a rampage. Last night. For a while, now."
Ilya shakes his head, confused. Cliff brushes his hand through his hair.
"Boiziau didn't hit you. You hit him."
"In hockey?"
"In the game, yeah. You were super pissed, nobody knew why."
"And you think calling Jane will help?" he asks. Cliff sighs again.
"Well, you're pretty private about your personal life, none of the guys know much about it. Jane might know what happened to get you so worked up."
"Okay," he says again. He doesn't think Jane will answer, nothing in their texts indicate they're even friendly with each other. They just hook up. Maybe just to prove a point, he takes out his phone and taps the call button on Jane's contact. He holds it up for Cliff to see it ringing.
It keeps ringing. And ringing. And ringing. The call ends before it goes to voicemail.
Cliff looks very disappointed. Ilya shrugs.
"Thought so," he says.
Shane stares at the red line in his call log. Lily, 1 minute ago.
He hadn't let it go to voicemail. He should maybe change his number completely, disconnect the line so it will never go to his voicemail if he doesn't see it in time to decline the call.
Ilya has amnesia, according to the media. He's awake, he's injured, but he's out of the hospital. Who is taking care of him? Is he by himself? Shane had shut himself in the bathroom in Rose's hotel room when his phone started ringing. She maybe hadn't seen the name on the screen, but it's weird. Weird weird weird. If he deletes the call record, he looks shady. If she sees the name Lily in his call record, he looks shady.
Ilya has amnesia, which means that he doesn't remember Shane. Shane is in Ilya's phone as Jane, and if Ilya is a man of his word (he is), then there's nothing in their texts that would identify Shane as being a man, let alone Shane Hollander.
They'd been meaning to stop, anyway.
This twisted, insane thing between them has to end, and what better time to let things fade than when Ilya doesn't know what he's missing, and Shane has a girlfriend that doesn't know he's gay.
Likes men. And women, like her. Probably not gay, not completely.
They'd been ignoring each other for months, anyway. Shane had left that day because it was getting too real, and Ilya had said Shane, like that, in that voice, and it was too comfortable as if they had any kind of relationship whatsoever, and Shane was the one to end it then. They'd stopped, and Shane met Rose, and Ilya—
Rose knocks, and Shane nearly drops his phone.
"Shane? You okay?" she asks.
"Fine," Shane croaks. He gets out of the tub. Rose is standing outside the bathroom, shoulder leaning against the wall in the way Ilya did so often when he wanted to look very casual and cool.
Lily, 9 minutes ago is still on his phone.
"Sorry. Being weird," Shane mutters, sneaking past her toward the couch. She catches his elbow before he gets past her.
"Shane," she says. Shane keeps his eyes down so it won't spill out of him. "Shane."
"Rozanov's injury really fucked me up," he says. This has been his story, the reason for him acting so weird around everyone. "It made me realize I could get hurt bad like that too."
Rose is quiet.
"Is that what's really going on?" she asks gently. Shane doesn't like when people speak gently to him. People that aren't Ilya, at least. He doesn't love it from Ilya either, but he knows Ilya never pities him.
"Yes," Shane says. Rose sighs, tugging him back to the couch.
"Sit," she says, pushing down on his shoulders like she could force him if he doesn't want to. He sits. "Who is Lily?"
Her voice isn't accusatory. It isn't jealous. If anything, Shane would say it sounds curious. Like she really wants to know who this person is and why Shane had gone and sat in her bathtub for ten minutes when Lily called.
When he doesn't respond, she changes tact.
"I get the feeling that maybe I'm not right for you," she says. Shane looks up at her then.
"What? You're perfect, you're–"
"I'm great, I know," she says with a warm smile. "It's just… I don't know, it doesn't seem like you're really… into me. Attracted to me."
Shane's eyes shift over to her shoulder, where her bra strap had slid over just enough to be seen under her shirt.
"It's okay, Shane. If that's not what you want. If I'm not…"
"It is what I—I think I like men," Shane cuts her off. His blood feels icy in his wrists and chest. He squeezes his eyes shut, surprised to feel his eyelashes are wet. He wants to crawl under the bed and stay there until Rose stops being here, listening to him.
"It's okay, Shane," she says softly. Her hand wraps around his wrist, and he swallows. "You're allowed to like men."
He shakes his head.
"Not in hockey."
"Is hockey that important?" she asks, but she sounds like she already knows the answer. He nods. She sighs sadly. "Yeah."
"Yeah," Shane says. Rose squeezes his arm, then lets go.
"Will you tell me who Lily is?" she asks again. Shane hesitates, but shakes his head again.
"Not my secret to tell," he says quietly, and Rose understands.
"Lily's a guy," she guesses, nodding when he doesn't answer. "Why did you hide in my bathtub?"
Shane lets out an involuntary laugh, something a little humorless and humiliated.
"We… broke up," Shane says. "It's just… weird. I haven't been talking to him at all, though, not since..."
"Ah," she says.
She doesn't question him further, she just brushes his hair back off his face a little.
"Did you just dump me?" Shane asks, to be sure. She laughs.
"Yes, I did. Sorry."
"I deserve it," he sighs. She tips his chin up.
"You don't," she says firmly. "You did nothing wrong, you were a great boyfriend. We're just… not compatible. Nothing wrong with that."
Shane huffs.
"Alright."
She draws him into her arms for a tight squeeze. He blinks away tears while she can't see his face.
"You can talk to me," she says. "About boys. About… whatever. Okay?"
"Okay," Shane says automatically. She pulls back, still clasping his arms.
"I mean it! Okay? Text me, please. Tell me everything. I'll text you too. We'll be best friends."
"You don't have to."
"I know I don't have to. I want to," Rose says. She cups his cheek in one hand, and Shane smiles.
"Okay," he says again, meaning it a little more this time.
They get breakfast together, as friends.
They can go wherever they like together, and the media and the fans love it. It's horribly easy, with her.
Alone in bed that night, Shane's stomach drops, because his phone chimes with a new text. Then another right after.
He'd set a special text tone for Lily's contact.
It's in Russian. Shane copies the text over to English. It doesn't make more sense this way.
Lily: Nothing to lose your shit over, just
Lily: Never sent that text to you. Do whatever you want with it.
Shane stares at the screen until it goes blurry, then dark.
Ilya is home.
It's a huge, almost impersonal penthouse apartment.
There's plenty to eat in the refrigerator, and a big, comfortable bed, and a big, luxurious shower. He goes there first as soon as Cliff drops him off. Cliff is a good friend. Ilya wonders if he was always a good friend, or if he is now because Ilya needs someone. Anyone.
With that thought, Ilya turns out all the lights in the bathroom and turns the water as hot as it will go, filling the bathroom with steam. He hisses when he steps into the shower, and quickly turns down the heat.
All he does is stand there for a while, until he's a little dizzy in space, disoriented in the steamy darkness. He shuts off the water, dries off, and goes to bed naked. There's a single hoop earring sitting on one nightstand. He wonders who it belongs to, if she knows it's missing. Maybe he hadn't even learned her name, or maybe she'd been one of the women he'd texted a club name and nothing else. Maybe he can text a picture of it to each one and see who replies. It isn't a particularly unique earring, but missing one earring is annoying, probably. Maybe whoever it was would come get it, and he could see another face before the team gets back in two days. She wouldn't speak Russian, though.
He opens his messages to Jane, the unsent text. He rolls his eyes at himself. Just send it.
He doesn't bother translating to English. She probably won't even read it. He sends it, followed with another, reasonably aloof text. He stares at the screen a while longer, watching for little dots to appear, if she'll respond. She doesn't.
No one else texts him. He'd seen the rest of his team on the flight back to Boston, and they'd all been friendly, but he doesn't know them anymore. He was team captain, but it had been passed to another guy while Ilya is out of commission. Ilya barely remembers the man's face now, let alone his name. Everything they said was in English, and the translator app got confused.
Ilya tries to go to sleep at a reasonable hour, he does, but his head is spinning trying to keep up with everything moving so fast around him, leaving him behind in the dust, not knowing what happened.
He flips through the apps on his phone, the new translator app Cliff had put on there, and the older one he'd apparently used for select words here and there, because he used to speak English.
He recognizes the Instagram logo, and opens it.
His photos are random, seemingly meaningless, never captioned. A receipt from the grocery store. A dusty drill sitting on a gleaming granite countertop. The view of a Vegas skyline in which his reflection is visible, and wearing half a tuxedo. That one has a lot of likes.
He follows quite a few accounts. Men he now recognizes as his teammates. Some of their wives or family members. Lots of beautiful women. Three brands that feel familiar. He looks at their profiles and finds pictures of himself amongst the posts.
He looks through posts he'd been tagged in, surprised to see a lot were shared with another man. Shane Hollander, the captain of the Montreal Voyageurs. Ilya had just played Montreal. Shane Hollander must've been there.
Without thinking, Ilya goes to Shane Hollander's profile, follows him, and opens a new message to him (in Russian):
ilyarozanov: So how did the game go?
He leaves it there, curious to see how his 'arch-rival' might react to being messaged by a player injured in their game. The other captain being injured, and by one of Hollander's guys.
Unsurprisingly, Hollander doesn't respond all night. Ilya looks at all of Hollander's photos, which takes about ten minutes. Mostly brand deals, a couple reposts of the official team's photos. Hollander is very striking, with big dark eyes usually carrying a bit of a flat expression and a smattering of freckles across his cheeks and nose. He looks young, younger than he apparently is, if he was a rookie at nineteen, the way Ilya was. It looks like they entered the league at the same time. Ilya wonders if they spoke, or if they hated each other as much as all these posts indicated.
Morning comes at last. Real morning, when people other than Ilya are awake. He wakes up around noon, surprised to find three texts on his phone.
Ryan Carmichael: Get better so we can beat some ass 🙏
Cliff: Missing our lead shit talker
Message from shanehollanderofficial
Ilya opens Instagram first. A message, in English, from Hollander:
shanehollanderofficial: How are you doing?
What a boring, nothing text. Ilya closes Instagram, switching to text his teammates back. He's maybe slightly less lonely than he was last night. It still aches to know his team is out there, playing without him. He had been told to stay off the ice even for practice for a while.
Ilya lets Shane Hollander stew for a little bit, making himself breakfast and wondering if he and Hollander give each other shit in the media, or if the whole thing was cooked up by the media to begin with.
As he eats, he opens his message thread with Jane again. She hasn't sent anything back since he'd texted her last night.
He returns to Instagram, looking at Hollander's profile picture. It's so boring, just a boring, expressionless headshot of him looking into the middle distance with his hair in a boring flop over his forehead, wearing a boring black shirt. Ilya wants to mess him up a little bit, just to see what would happen.
shanehollanderofficial: How are you doing?
ilyarozanov: 😵💫😵💫😵💫
shanehollanderofficial: The press said you have amnesia.
ilyarozanov: True.
shanehollanderofficial: How much do you remember?
ilyarozanov: I don't know
ilyarozanov: because of the amnesia.
shanehollanderofficial: Obviously. I meant… obviously you still know how to use a phone.
ilyarozanov: I remember how to walk and eat as well
shanehollanderofficial: You're impossible.
ilyarozanov: I don't remember how much I need to shit talk you
ilyarozanov: If I should hold a press conference to tell everyone it's your fault
shanehollanderofficial: It wasn't my fault.
ilyarozanov: Who was it then?
shanehollanderofficial: One of my guys.
shanehollanderofficial: Actually, that's not true. It was your fault.
ilyarozanov: Sure.
shanehollanderofficial: Not fucking with you. Watch the videos of it.
ilyarozanov: Where?
shanehollanderofficial: Here
Hollander sends a link, and Ilya opens the video on YouTube. The commentary is in English, but he watches himself, the jersey with his name on it, as he aggressively plows his way through the Montreal team. Slams Hollander into the boards like he'd insulted his mother. He winces when he sees the hit from Boiziau. It was his fault. Why had he done that?
Cliff told him he was playing differently. Ilya looks up other videos of himself playing to see how he normally plays. Another clip against Montreal comes up first, and he watches himself and Hollander bend over the face-off circle, his lips moving, Hollander glaring at the ice. What had he said? Even if Ilya could lip-read, he'd been speaking in English to Hollander.
shanehollanderofficial: Did you watch it?
Ilya returns to Instagram.
ilyarozanov: No
shanehollanderofficial: How badly are you injured?
shanehollanderofficial: JJ wants to know
ilyarozanov: Not that bad. Concussion, bruises
ilyarozanov: I don't know why I'm talking to you. Bored, I guess
shanehollanderofficial: I'm not too boring?
ilyarozanov: You are too boring. But I will be more bored if I stop
shanehollanderofficial: Sounds familiar
ilyarozanov: What does?
shanehollanderofficial: Nothing.
shanehollanderofficial: How long are you off the ice?
ilyarozanov: I don't know yet. Team had to leave today, and I'm waiting for them to get back
shanehollanderofficial: Any idea if you'll be at the ASG this year?
ilyarozanov: ASG?
shanehollanderofficial: All-Star Game
ilyarozanov: No. I don't know yet
shanehollanderofficial: I hope you can
ilyarozanov: Hoping to finish what Boiziau started?
shanehollanderofficial: Definitely not
shanehollanderofficial: Have you heard from your dad/brother?
Ilya frowns. No, he hasn't. He hadn't known he had a dad or a brother. Had they, like Jane, ignored the news? Do they not watch his games?
shanehollanderofficial: Sorry. You don't have to tell me
ilyarozanov: Where are they?
shanehollanderofficial: Moscow. Where you're from
ilyarozanov: I know I'm from Moscow
shanehollanderofficial: Well, they're both still there
Ilya stops messaging Hollander to go through his texts again, looking for a Russian name. He scrolls very far back before finding one, though not the one he was looking for.
Ilya: 🪩🕺🪩🕺🪩🕺?
Svetlana: Have fun 😘
Ilya: 😭
He frowns. Keeps scrolling.
Andrei: It didn't appear in Father's account. Resend to mine.
He reads back over the older texts.
Ilya: YOU have to do it. I didn't hire a stranger to take care of our father. ASSHOLE.
Andrei: Come back and do it yourself
Ilya: Give me back the money and I will
Andrei: He keeps asking for you. Call him
Older,
Ilya: Why is he calling me
Andrei: Win something and he'll stop
Older,
Andrei: Pregnant.
Ilya: Your wife or one of the mistresses
Older…
No wonder Ilya's brother hasn't called. He'll probably get all of Ilya's money if he dies. Ilya should make a will. Who would he give his money to?
shanehollanderofficial: Are you okay?
He swipes the notification away, but after a moment, goes back to Instagram. His texts are too sad.
ilyarozanov: Do you care?
shanehollanderofficial: Yes
shanehollanderofficial: A lot
shanehollanderofficial: Don't tell anyone
ilyarozanov: I will hold a press conference
shanehollanderofficial: Please don't
ilyarozanov: Ask me nicely
shanehollanderofficial: Please, Ilya. Don't. I'm serious.
Oh, that does something to him.
ilyarozanov: Ask me nicer
shanehollanderofficial: I don't know how
shanehollanderofficial: I am actually serious. Don't tell anyone we're talking
ilyarozanov: Why, will they combust?
shanehollanderofficial: Yeah
ilyarozanov: I have much to catch up on
shanehollanderofficial: Yes. Will your amnesia go away?
ilyarozanov: We don't know yet
shanehollanderofficial: Okay
ilyarozanov: What do I say to you on the ice
shanehollanderofficial: You talk a lot of shit
ilyarozanov: To you?
shanehollanderofficial: To everyone
ilyarozanov: What do I say to YOU?
shanehollanderofficial: Fuck. I don't know. A lot of things. I don't remember
ilyarozanov: Try
shanehollanderofficial: I need to go
ilyarozanov: Boring
Hollander stops replying. Just when he was getting fun to play with. Ilya stares at his screen for a while. He looks at the photos of Shane Hollander again. So boring. Why is he so boring? He's so pretty to look at. Ilya closes Instagram. Opens his photos app. Ilya has many more interesting photos of himself. He looks through them all, scrolling back through photos with his team, interspersed with the same random type of photos he posts on his Instagram. The waistband of a pair of boxers he doesn't own. A glass of what must be vodka, a half-smoked cigarette in it. A weird amount of photos from a construction site spread over a few years. Six decorative pillows piled on the floor.
And then he finds a folder of photos named 'Boring.' He frowns, opening it.
It's him with Hollander. Six nearly identical selfies, both of them in tuxedos. They were much younger and on a stage with bright lights reflected in their eyes. Hollander looks a bit pissed off. Ilya looks fairly pleased with himself. He also looks slightly off in a way he can't define. Ilya frowns, because he's seen that tuxedo before. The photos are much older than anything else on Ilya's phone.
Opening Instagram again, he scrolls back on his profile to his reflection in the window of a Vegas hotel. Yes, same shirt. Same hair. Same night. Why are these six selfies in their own folder, and why is the folder named 'Boring'? And–
Ilya scrolls back in his messages with Hollander:
ilyarozanov: I don't know why I'm talking to you. Bored, I guess
shanehollanderofficial: I'm not too boring?
ilyarozanov: You are too boring. But I will be more bored if I stop
shanehollanderofficial: Sounds familiar
ilyarozanov: What does?
shanehollanderofficial: Nothing.
shanehollanderofficial: How long are you off the ice?
Ilya messages Hollander again. Just one of the selfies, the one where Hollander looks the most pissed off, and Ilya looks the most pleased with himself.
He doesn't say anything with it, and watches for the message to say seen. Hollander opens it almost immediately.
He begins typing… he keeps typing forever, for minutes on end, and Ilya moves to do other things while he waits, because Hollander is boring.
shanehollanderofficial: You still have those?
ilyarozanov: Twenty minutes to say that
shanehollanderofficial: I didn't know those were real
ilyarozanov: Clearly they are
ilyarozanov: Do I call you boring a lot?
shanehollanderofficial: It's your favorite thing to call me, I think
ilyarozanov: This is not a good insult
shanehollanderofficial: No, it's not
ilyarozanov: What else do I call you?
shanehollanderofficial: Hollander. Mostly
ilyarozanov: And not mostly?
Another long, long pause before Hollander replies.
shanehollanderofficial: One time you called me Shane
ilyarozanov: Creative
shanehollanderofficial: Yeah
Ilya looks at Hollander's stupid pretty face with its pretty little freckles and he thinks about licking them.
shanehollanderofficial: I should have visited you in the hospital
ilyarozanov: I would not have visited you
shanehollanderofficial: Wow
ilyarozanov: I do not care if you have a concussion. I will win even easier than before
ilyarozanov: Boston beat Montreal
shanehollanderofficial: Barely
ilyarozanov: 3-1 is not barely
shanehollanderofficial: Just barely barely
ilyarozanov: That did not translate
shanehollanderofficial: You're using translate on texts?
ilyarozanov: Yes
shanehollanderofficial: How bad was the concussion?
shanehollanderofficial: You don't normally
ilyarozanov: I normally text you?
Hollander unsends the previous message. And the two above it.
ilyarozanov: Hollander.
shanehollanderofficial: Sorry
ilyarozanov: Shane.
shanehollanderofficial: Jesus fucking Christ Ilya
Hollander unsends that one too. Ilya is shocked to see Hollander suddenly block Ilya. His mouth falls open, staring at the blank page that used to hold their texts only from today.
He'd said you don't normally. He'd said Jesus fucking Christ Ilya, and one time you called me Shane. He hadn't once called Ilya Rozanov, like nearly everyone else has since Ilya woke up in the hospital.
Ilya is so fed up with not knowing anything. He creates a new account. Blank, no pictures anywhere, just to message Hollander again.
notilyarozanov: What the fuck??
shanehollanderofficial: FUCKING CHRIST ROZANOV
shanehollanderofficial: Did you make a new account??
notilyarozanov: Why the fuck did you BLOCK ME?
shanehollanderofficial: I'm freaking out I don't know what to do
notilyarozanov: Why the fuck are you freaking out?
shanehollanderofficial: I can't tell you
shanehollanderofficial: Which is part of why I'm freaking out
notilyarozanov: Boring boring boring boring boring. Fuck you. Unblock me.
shanehollanderofficial: Fine!
Ilya changes accounts, just to be sure Hollander had unblocked him. He doesn't delete the new account, just in case Hollander blocks him again.
ilyarozanov: Where are you?
shanehollanderofficial: Home
ilyarozanov: Call me
Ilya sends his phone number. A call chimes on his phone, but it through the app, not the actual phone.
ilyarozanov: Call me on the phone like an adult
shanehollanderofficial: Can't. Pick up, asshole.
Another call comes through Instagram, this time Ilya answers, holding the phone up to see Hollander's stupid face with his stupid freckles covered by stupid glasses.
"You wear glasses," Ilya says. Hollander looks blankly at him. Oh, he doesn't know Russian either. It was all translated by Ilya's phone.
Hollander says something. Ilya runs a hand over his face, grinding his teeth in frustration, he can't understand a word Hollander is saying, even though he's speaking slow enough for Ilya to hear each word clearly.
Ilya hangs up the call.
shanehollanderofficial: What happened to your English?
Ilya stares at the words in Cyrillic for a minute. He changes his phone's language back to English. He puts it back to Russian.
Instead of responding, Ilya resends the link Hollander had sent him of the hit he took in the game.
shanehollanderofficial: Will you go to the All-Star Game even if you can't play?
ilyarozanov: No. Why would I?
shanehollanderofficial: I need to see you
ilyarozanov: Come to Boston. I don't have plans
shanehollanderofficial: I can't
shanehollanderofficial: I have games, and even if I didn't, we can't be seen together off-ice
ilyarozanov: Why not?
shanehollanderofficial: We're rivals. It's a whole media thing
ilyarozanov: That is stupid. We don't have to do that off-ice
shanehollanderofficial: God I hate this
ilyarozanov: Come to Boston
shanehollanderofficial: I want to
Ilya sends him the address to his penthouse.
shanehollanderofficial: Even if I did, we don't speak the same language anymore
ilyarozanov: There is an app that Cliff uses
shanehollanderofficial: Marlow?
ilyarozanov: Probably
shanehollanderofficial: Okay
shanehollanderofficial: What is it called?
Ilya sends him the link. Then calls him again. Hollander picks up, still in his glasses, which reflect his screen so his eyes are hard to see until he shifts again and the glare slides away. They sit silently, looking at each other. Ilya taps his temple, indicating the glasses. Hollander rolls his eyes, and peels them off his face.
"No, no!" Ilya cries. "Put them back!"
Hollander must understand enough to obey. Ilya rests his cheek on his palm, just looking at Hollander through the screen.
"Come to Boston," he says again, knowing Hollander won't understand. Hollander looks so sad. Ilya doesn't understand what they are to each other, and why nobody knows. Hollander does, and he's not telling.
Hollander says something else. There's longing in his voice. Ilya doesn't understand. He doesn't know anything, he just knows that Hollander should have visited Ilya in the hospital, he should've been there when Ilya woke up, because someone that looks at Ilya the way Hollander does should matter more than some girl that never texted him back. Or a brother trying to bleed him dry.
Cliff doesn't even know Ilya and Hollander spoke outside games. It's a secret from everyone. Cliff said Ilya is private. Cliff knows about Jane, he knows more about Ilya than apparently anyone else, but he doesn't know about Hollander.
Ilya makes the video window smaller to text Hollander without ending the call.
ilyarozanov: Why did you not visit me in the hospital?
The message surprises Hollander, and his video shifts as he holds his phone to text back. Ilya watches his face crumple as he reads it.
shanehollanderofficial: I freaked out
ilyarozanov: For a whole day
ilyarozanov: Where did we text each other? Not on here
Hollander looks a little panicked for a second. He ends the call abruptly.
shanehollanderofficial: I promise I'll tell you everything
shanehollanderofficial: You have to go to the All-Star Game if you can physically get there
shanehollanderofficial: And you have to delete everything on this message thread. Unfollow me
ilyarozanov: This is insane
shanehollanderofficial: I know.
ilyarozanov: Fine
ilyarozanov: You have my phone number
ilyarozanov: But you had it already, didn't you
Hollander doesn't respond, but Ilya hadn't expected him to.
He has a suspicion. Something stupid. But it sounds like they've been very stupid, maybe since they met.
Shane is sweating bullets.
It's Tampa, but it's January, and Shane shouldn't be sweating this much.
Ilya is here… somewhere. Shane is loitering in the resort bar waiting for him to make an appearance. He'll get his room number, and they'll go there, and use the app to talk to each other, and it will be upsetting, maybe, but either Ilya will be understandably angry that Shane abandoned him, or… Shane can't come up with another option. Ilya will be angry. And he deserves to be.
And then Shane spots him, Ilya, in a bright red floral shirt unbuttoned down to his stomach, crucifix glinting on his chest. Shane feels like an idiot for ever thinking Ilya could mean nothing to him.
Ilya will be playing, Shane knows. Maybe not for the real season, but for this game, it's less pressure, and less risky for Ilya to be injured again.
Ilya will be playing on Shane's team.
He wants to play on a line with Ilya so badly it makes his teeth ache.
Ilya spots him, but doesn't come any closer. They keep looking at each other, interrupted by people passing between them, and Ilya's face is the same as it had been on their silent video call. Ilya breaks eye contact first, tapping his phone.
Shane's pocket buzzes. He pulls it out, realizing after it's in his hand that Ilya hadn't messaged him. He's calling.
Lily is calling. And Shane has given himself away. He looks up, finding Ilya already watching him, face set.
And he watches as Ilya turns and walks away.
Shane's chest squeezes so hard he can't breathe. He folds his arms on the bartop, letting his forehead down on them.
He stays there forever. Until his phone buzzes again. His head snaps up, and he sees a text notification.
Lily: 1217
It's good Ilya had left several minutes ago, because Shane dashes out after him in a way that would be obvious if anyone is watching.
He takes the stairs because the elevator was taking too long to arrive.
Finally, he finds Ilya's room. He knocks, and the door clicks open. Shane pushes inside, finding Ilya leaning against a wall, arms crossed, looking very Russian. Shane wants to touch him so badly he's ready to crawl out of his skin, or worse, beg for it.
"Ilya," Shane says, pulling out his phone. Ilya holds up a hand.
"I have been learning again," he says quietly, his accent exactly as Shane remembers it, but uncertain in his words like he had been years ago.
"I'm so sorry," Shane says, watching Ilya warily cross the room to sit on the edge of the bed. Shane dares to move closer. "I—we had to keep everything secret, or else I would have–"
"You are dating Rose Landry," Ilya says, like he'd practiced those words in that order. Shane shakes his head.
"No. I'm not. Not anymore," he says. Ilya watches him with those sharp eyes.
"Since when?"
"Since you called me. The first time," Shane says.
"Why," Ilya asks, which Shane takes to mean why are you not dating anymore?
"I'm—I think I might be gay," Shane stammers. Ilya frowns, tilting his head.
"You might be," he repeats. He looks at his phone, typing something in before looking up at Shane questioningly.
"I know you're… you like women too," Shane says, wishing his English was better so Ilya could follow more easily. "I'm not like that. I only like men."
Ilya types something into his phone again before saying,
"You broke up with her? Or she broke up with you?"
Shane sighs.
"She broke up with me. She figured it out."
Ilya points at Shane, and Shane nods.
"Not…" He gestures between them. "Just about me."
Ilya nods.
"I have had a lot of time to think. And watch videos playing hockey with you. I used to love playing hockey with you."
It sounds like Ilya had planned out what he wanted to say. Shane missed his voice so much.
"I have been a bad hockey player since you started dating Rose Landry," Ilya continues. "Because of how jealous I was. What gave me the right to be so jealous of Rose Landry, Hollander?"
Shane doesn't know how to answer. He sits in the chair facing the bed, folding his hands between his knees. Ilya continues watching him without much expression.
"We were…"
Fucking? Together? Lovers? Ew, no.
"We had a thing," Shane says. Ilya shakes his head.
"A 'thing,'" he says. He holds up a photo on his phone, a whole crate of Canada Dry sitting on his countertop where he'd once laid Shane out and rimmed him until he was wet enough to fuck.
"Why did you buy that much ginger ale?" Shane says faintly. He thinks he knows why. It feels presumptuous and cocky. "You hate ginger ale."
"Is from Canada. Montreal," Ilya says softly. "Because you do not like Boston Canada Dry. You said in interview last year. Is bad soda, I do not like it."
"Ilya," Shane breathes. He'll cry, he'll start crying if he keeps looking at Ilya's face.
"You text me during Sochi Olympics," Ilya continues. "And you left your underwear at my house."
"Sorry."
"So, Hollander. What is 'thing?' It was some little thing, yes? Not important? Six years of not-important little thing? Is why you left me for Rose Landry?"
"Fuck, Ilya, it–"
"What happened in November?" Ilya interrupts. Shane swallows.
"You called me Shane," he says, as if it explains anything. Ilya continues watching him.
"Shane," he says.
"And I freaked out. And left. And we didn't speak again until…" Shane sighs. "You messaged me."
"You do this often, 'freaked out,'" Ilya says. Shane huffs out half a laugh.
"Yes."
"You are doing now?"
"A little, yeah."
Ilya tosses his phone aside, moving up the bed, pausing only to kick off his shoes before leaning back against the pillows. He pats the bed beside him. Shane is there in seconds.
"Ilya."
"Shane," Ilya says, still watching him, his head tipped back against the headboard. "Why did you leave me alone?"
Shane shakes his head, shutting his eyes.
"I… I thought it would be better," he says, almost inaudibly. Ilya is looking at his lips, maybe to help him understand what words Shane is saying, but maybe… not. "Because… because we'd already broken up, kind of–"
"You left me," Ilya says, and Shane swallows, looking down at his hands. "Keep going."
"It had been awhile since we were… together. We always meant to stop at some point anyway, we just couldn't stay away from each other," Shane says. "And it felt like a good time to finally do it. Because only I would remember it ever happened, and I thought… I thought that would be easier for you."
"Was not easier," Ilya says. He draws his knees up to rest his arms on them, hooking his thumbs together.
"I got so anxious I kept puking. Before you messaged me on Instagram. I didn't know if you were hurt really badly," Shane admits. Ilya looks at him with his head tilted, and Shane mimes throwing up. Ilya's mouth forms a silent ah.
"You are not freaked out now," Ilya says, before, "Well, you are not leaving."
Shane looks at him.
"Shane," Ilya says, emphatically, like he's trying to prove something, looking straight into Shane's eyes. "It does not scare you now."
"Oh," Shane says. "You scared me worse when you got hit. So. It doesn't feel so… crazy, now."
Ilya nods for a moment, looking at the wall facing the bed.
"I left in November because it was too… real," Shane says, loud enough to be heard, but barely. "On your couch in your apartment in your lap. I liked being with you too much. I never wanted it to end."
It takes Ilya a moment to respond. He doesn't look at Shane when he speaks.
"Why should it end?"
"Because we can't stay hidden away in your apartment forever. We have to go out, we have to come here and be with everyone else while we play hockey."
"Why I cannot play hockey and like you together? I am not good at doing two things together?"
"Um," Shane says. "Homophobia."
"I know of homophobia, Shane," Ilya says dryly. "We can be friends. We can talk when we are not playing."
"No, because we have–"
"Rivalry, yes? Stupid fucking press rivalry that you and me don't care about?" Ilya says. Shane starts to speak, but Ilya continues. "Who the fuck cares if they find out we are not enemies?"
"We do," Shane hisses. "Because if they know we don't hate each other, they'll figure out we're–"
He stops, because he still doesn't have a word for what they were to each other. He knows what they weren't.
"How many friends you have in league?" Ilya asks. "If you have one, you can have two. We play on same team here, we prove to everyone that we can be friends."
"Ilya."
"Shane," Ilya returns, staring back at him. It's quiet a moment. "I come here with brain injury from your team. Is not crazy for us to have conversation."
"No. I guess not."
Shane's head falls back against the headboard. He can feel Ilya watching him.
"I want to kiss you so bad," he says.
"Thank God," Ilya murmurs, and takes Shane's jaw in hand to tip his face up. He hovers an inch away from Shane's mouth. "Is what you want?"
Shane closes the space between them, and Ilya kisses him, Shane pushes him back, climbs into his lap, tangling his fingers in Ilya's curls like he's touching them for the first time. So gentle, knowing Ilya's still injured.
"Fuck, Shane," Ilya breathes into Shane's mouth. "How can you leave me without this?"
"God," Shane says, horrified to see tears on Ilya's cheeks. He kisses them away. Ilya hauls Shane even closer, nosing across his jaw and kissing, licking, and biting Shane's neck. He gasps, pushing into Ilya's hands. "I want you to remember everything we did together."
"Tell me," Ilya growls into Shane's ear, and continues sucking lightly on Shane's shoulder. Shane's head falls back.
"Fuck. I can't. I can't, I don't–"
"What did we do for six years, Shane?"
"Eight," Shane hisses as Ilya bites him. "We didn't text at first. It was just when we saw each other."
Ilya sits back slightly to look darkly into Shane's face, one eyebrow raised.
"I had you for eight years and you thought I would not miss you?"
"I'm an idiot," Shane says, and Ilya makes a noise of agreement before kissing him again. "How's your head?"
"Is fine. My cock is problem," Ilya says, grinding up against Shane's ass. Shane kisses him.
"Will you be my right wing for the game?"
"Yes," Ilya hisses as he fumbles Shane's shorts open. Shane does the same with Ilya's jeans, and Ilya wraps his hand around them both. Shane groans loudly, and Ilya muffles it with his mouth. "Just this once."
"What?"
"You have to learn wing so I can be center," Ilya says with a grin. Shane scoffs.
"I can play wing."
"Not as good as me."
"Fuck off."
"Ah, so you will play wing tomorrow then? Prove to me how good you are?"
Shane kisses the smug smirk off his stupid face. Ilya laughs softly when Shane moves back, yanking Ilya's pants down so he can get Ilya's cock in his mouth. Ilya's fingers thread lightly through Shane's hair, not applying any pressure.
"Shane…," Ilya murmurs, and switches to Russian as he watches Shane suck him off, petting his hair, grabbing at his shoulders and arms as he gets closer. Shane had tried for years to forget this, with Ilya, and how good it was every single time, even when they were furious with each other. Nothing had ever made it not feel good to be together.
How Shane could ever have deluded himself into thinking it was only physical between them is baffling. From the first brush of Ilya's fingers over Shane's wrist, Shane had wanted him. He doesn't know when it started for Ilya, because they specifically don't talk about that kind of thing, except to embarrass each other a little bit. And then kiss it better if it stops being funny.
Ilya's thighs tense around Shane's shoulders, his hips lifting slightly as he sucks in a breath.
He continues in Russian, head tipped back, eyes closed as Shane takes him deep and swallows before lifting almost all the way off of him, then back down. Ilya lets out a strained noise that turns into a moan as he comes, and Shane stays where he is instead of moving out of the way like he normally does. Ilya always swallowed.
"Fuck," Ilya pants, fingers tightening in Shane's hair, pulling him back up to keep kissing. "God, I missed you."
Shane feels insane, that English had been knocked out of Ilya's head, but Shane stayed there. That Ilya hadn't gone more than a day without speaking to him, and that he knew everything they were to each other just from what Shane hadn't been able to take with him when he ran from Ilya's apartment.
"I can't pretend to hate you anymore," Shane murmurs into Ilya's mouth. "Everyone will know it's fake."
It's also terrifying, how much evidence was left behind when they're so careful to keep this hidden.
"I think is okay," Ilya says, a little lazily, his head tipped back to gaze up at Shane. "We will tell everyone of our secret friendship affair, ah?"
Shane laughs, stretching out beside him. Ilya gives Shane's cock a few slow pulls before holding his hand in front of Shane's mouth. He says a word in Russian, and Shane spits into his hand. It seems to be what Ilya asked him for.
"Should we tell them we were enemies until you were so scared when I was in hospital?" Ilya asks, lips against Shane's temple. "Or that we have been talking for years, talking shit even when no one was watching?"
"I can't really think clearly about a PR strategy right now," Shane mutters, squeezing Ilya's forearm as he gets closer, feeling the tendons flex and shift as he moves. Ilya hums.
"Maybe we say you ask me for advice," Ilya says smoothly, and Shane smacks him. Ilya laughs. "You want to know how I handle my stick so well."
"I can't believe you're already doing innuendo on, what, day five of speaking English?"
"Mm… what is innuendo?" Ilya asks. Shane gasps as Ilya jerks him off faster. "I already spoke English, I just forgot."
Ilya pulls himself away from Shane, and Shane makes an embarrassing sound of betrayal when Ilya's hand drops his cock. He doesn't have to wait long for Ilya to slide down the bed and suck Shane down to the root. Shane moans, thrusting up into his mouth. He bites his knuckles so anyone passing won't hear him begging for Rozanov to finish him off.
He'd almost forgotten how good Ilya is with his tongue. Almost. But it's been months without it, and as much as he loves Rose, sex with her is a poor substitute. He also doesn't want to be thinking about Rose when he finally comes down Ilya's throat.
With a passing kiss to Shane's inner thigh, Ilya moves back up to sprawl out next to Shane, arm over Shane's stomach.
"Was good?" Ilya asks, as if he doesn't know. Shane laughs breathlessly and grabs the back of his neck to pull Ilya in for another kiss. Ilya winces, fingers finding Shane's to loosen his grip. "Ah–"
"Sorry!"
"Is okay. Is just bruises," Ilya tells him, and leans in. He kisses Shane very tenderly. When they separate, Shane leans his forehead against Ilya's.
"Are you sure you can play tomorrow?"
"What, you want me to watch you show off?" Ilya says softly, the playful glimmer back in his eyes. Shane grins. "You want me to be, what, WAG for you now? You want fan?"
"No," Shane laughs, fingers creeping up Ilya's back under his shirt. "I want you to recover properly so I can fuck you more."
"I like that," Ilya says, rolling over onto his elbows above Shane, his crucifix dangling in the space between them. "But no. I am okay, doctor said I could play as long as I don't fight too much."
"You think you can keep yourself from mouthing off the whole game?"
"Mm, no…" Ilya bends for another kiss. Shane smiles, keeping his eyes closed when Ilya lifts. "But maybe someone will have to fight them for me."
"I'm not going to do that," Shane laughs, looking up at him. Ilya pretends to be offended.
"No? So you do hate me?"
"You're the worst," Shane says, and sits up enough to kiss him again. Ilya hums.
"You love it," he says, so close to the truth. Shane smiles too widely.
"Yeah. I do."